Last Battle of the Icemark (24 page)

Alexandros, as Consort, was the only man present, and knelt on the floor by her side, but the rest all squatted on a semicircle of low divans that faced Erinor's high-backed chair.

“The march on Romula begins tomorrow,” she suddenly barked without any preamble or delay.

A murmur rose up from the generals. Here it was at last! Here was the moment when the power of the empire would be finally taken, and placed in the hand of Erinor of Artemesion. “May the Goddess smile on the task that lies ahead,” said Commander Ariadne, the army's second-in-command.

“She does,” said Erinor with quiet certainty. “And when we've won, the new Artemesion Empire will have been created.”

Spontaneous applause broke out from the generals and councillors, and Erinor smiled. “But there's something more you should know.” The yurt fell silent as all caught the portentous note in the Basilea's tone. “The assault will be led by Commander Ariadne.”

The shocked silence was the closest that any of the generals dared come to open dissent and disapproval. Then at last, the second-in-command herself drew fearful breath and asked: “But why, my Basilea? This will be the crowning glory of your whole campaign, perhaps even of your entire time here on earth.”

Erinor regarded her in stony silence until Ariadne almost squirmed and writhed under the cold scrutiny. “And that's why my self-denial will be exactly the right act of sacrifice to the Goddess,” she finally said.

Understanding nods were now exchanged between the
generals. Here was a fitting reason for Erinor's absence from the assault. Every soldier in the army would approve of such a towering act of self-denial, and would know that only their Basilea had the strength to make such a sacrifice to the Goddess. Their victory was now even more assured.

“May I request that the Basilea reviews the army before it embarks upon its historic invasion of the Polypontian heartland, and that she ask the Goddess to guide us in our war?” Ariadne asked quietly.

Erinor looked at her second-in-command, understanding her petition perfectly. This would be the first campaign in which she would be the sole tactician and strategist. Even though there would be many seasoned heads to consult, the ultimate and final decision would be hers, and the thought was overwhelming. “You needn't be afraid, Ariadne. The Goddess will guide you; the walls of Romula will crumble, and the defenders will lay down their arms.”

Ariadne bowed her head in acknowledgement of the Goddess's bounty, but couldn't ignore the nagging fear that whispered failure in her mind's ear. Just then, almost as though confirming her dread, a distant mutter of thunder rolled over the sky, and the steady hiss of rain sounded beyond the walls of the yurt.

All of the commanders' heads turned to listen; rain could be the enemy of a marching army, especially if it turned the roads to mud and literally dampened the morale of the soldiers under drenching sheets that soaked uniforms to the skin and heralded illness.

Erinor sat back in her high-backed chair and offered a prayer to the Goddess, requesting perfect marching weather and the removal of any obstacles that may stop them reaching the
walls of Romula in less than a week. But the Basilea's corrupt and debased interpretation of the Mother caused the supplications to reach no divine ear and receive no such blessings.

The rains settled in for almost ten solid days, and they turned the empire's once well-maintained roads into quagmires; they soaked through the thickest and most waterproof layers covering the yurts and drenched every soldier to the skin. Foodstuffs, blankets, even boots rotted in the downpour, and the normally brilliantly polished weapons became rusty no matter how often they were cleaned.

In such conditions the march on Romula was impossible, and the Hordes settled down to wait for better weather while their Basilea raged and roared through the camp, hanging anyone who caught her maddened eye and demanding a witch-hunt to find out who it was who'd earned the anger of the Goddess, never believing that it might be herself.

Through all of this Cronus had quietly watched from his icy pinnacle in the Darkness. The fact that the attack on Romula had been delayed by the rains concerned him not at all. The Icemark and her Allies were now committed to invading the Polypontus, and, once their armies had crossed the borders, his invasion of the Physical Realms would be uncontested. Surprise would be complete, and he would have established control over the entire country before anyone knew what was happening. So would begin the building of a new empire whose core and centre would be the Darkness; so would begin the first move in a war that would ultimately challenge the Goddess Herself for the right to rule Creation.

But one more piece needed to be put in place before the glorious jigsaw of his plans was truly complete. He would
succeed anyway, no matter what happened, but he felt he owed it to the overall elegant effect of his strategy to try and convince Oskan Witchfather to join with him and Medea in establishing the New Order. Besides, it had to be admitted that everything would be so much
easier
if his son would join them.

What a truly magnificent triumvirate they would make, and how pleasing in its symmetry that three members of one diabolical family should rule the Physical and Spiritual Realms. He, Cronus, would of course be the senior partner within the ruling trinity, while Medea, who was still not aware of the true scale of his plans, would be a very junior contributor indeed. He had almost completed the moulding of her thoughts and attitudes, but in one area she remained stubborn. No matter what Cronus did to alter her mindset, she retained a love for her father.

But Oskan . . . Oskan had a potential whose range and power nobody really understood. With him on board, limits really wouldn't apply. But as yet, neither he nor Medea were aware that they were simply pawns in the game he controlled. Oh, how he loved his ability to manipulate the worlds around him. Not only simple-minded Barbarian queens, but even those of his own blood. Medea really had no idea that her grandfather had
orchestrated
her battles with her father as a means of testing both their abilities, and he'd found the results most informative.

All that remained to be done now was to convince Oskan to finally accept his true heritage within the Darkness. And Cronus was convinced that his son wouldn't be able to finally resist the call of true evil when he fully understood exactly what was on offer.

*   *   *

Sharley felt nervous. In fact, he was close to panicking as he waited with Mekhmet and Kirimin in the small room next to the comfortable family apartments that he'd known for years. He told himself he was being ridiculous; he was, after all, only waiting to see his dad for the first time since he'd rescued them from the Magical Realms! But then the memory of the blackened skeleton that had erupted in the sky above them on the Plain of Desolation, came back in vivid clarity and he shuddered. He now knew that his dad had fought Medea, and that she had lured them into the Magical Realms and kept them trapped. After his initial shock, he was hardly surprised. His sister had hated him since they were children, so this attempt to kill him was just one more in a long line of her attempts on his life.

His and his friends' survival was entirely due to his dad, who despite his terrible injuries had managed to rescue them and bring them all home. But somehow Sharley couldn't get the image of that smoking skull out of his head, or the way its empty eye sockets had turned on them and seemed to glow, as though it could still see and was excited by its find!

Sharley knew that his dad had been magically regenerated in the cave beneath the citadel, but somehow he couldn't quite believe that his dreadful wounds could have been healed completely. Surely there'd be at least some scarring; surely he'd be disfigured in some way?

Mekhmet reached over and squeezed his hand, understanding how he felt perfectly. “No matter what he looks like, he's still your dad,” he said. “And a brave man.”

Sharley nodded. “I know, but how can I . . . how can I
even touch him when . . .” his voice trailed away.

“Well, I won't flinch from him,” said Kirimin. The Witchfather's always been my favourite adult human. I remember when I was a little cub and meeting him for the first time, he understood perfectly that a smile would look like a snarl to a Snow Leopard, so instead he blinked slowly and purred, just like a cat. Of course as I grew older I learned all about human facial expressions, but I've never forgotten that first meeting. He was . . . kind.”

“You're talking about him as though he's dead!” said Mekhmet. “He's not; he's only injured, and we should all be adult enough by now to see through the disfigurement and look on the man beneath.”

Suddenly the door to the sitting room opened, and all three leaped to their feet as though stung. They glared almost fearfully at the opening space, and breathed a sigh of relief when a neatly dressed chamberlain they all knew stepped out. “Ah, there you are! The Queen and Witchfather were wondering where you'd got to.”

“We didn't like to just barge in unannounced,” Sharley explained.

The chamberlain looked puzzled. “Why not? You always have before.”

“Yes, but it's different now—”

“Are they there, Ranulph?” Thirrin's voice interrupted. “What are they dithering about?”

“I'm not sure, ma'am,” he answered. Then, turning back to the friends, he added: “Well, come on!”

They followed him into the living room in single file and stood in silence, as close to the door as they could. Thirrin was sitting next to the fireplace in her third-best dress, determined
to be as normal as possible before the demands of the coming war had her wearing armour for weeks on end. She was talking to someone in a high-backed settle that was turned away from them.

“Well, come in!” she said when she saw them. Sharley had already been reunited with his mother earlier, and his ribs still felt bruised from the mighty hugs she'd given him. There was also something about motherly kisses that made your hair stand up in odd tufts, which no amount of brushing and wet combs would tame.

“They're here, Oskan,” she said to the settle, and the wood creaked as a tall figure stood up. For a moment he paused as he poked the fire, and then he turned to face them.

They all gasped aloud. He was perfect! In fact, he looked younger, with no grey hair or wrinkles. “Well, about time,” he said, smiling broadly. “It's not every day you get burned to a crisp rescuing people, so it's nice when they finally find a space in their busy lives to come and see you.”

“Dad . . . Dad, you were burned black. You were a skeleton!”

“Yes, but I'm not now.”

“But how?”

“I'm a healer and a Warlock,” he answered simply, as though that explained everything. Which of course, it did.

Kirimin leaped forward, almost knocking the Witchfather into the fire, and licked him vigorously, her thunderous purrs filling the room. “Kiri, this face is still quite new and tender, please leave some of it on my skull!”

She sat back and let out a crashing roar of joy that rattled the windows and had the werewolf and housecarle guards pouring through the doors, ready for battle.

“It's all right, it's all right!” Thirrin called as the soldiers stormed in. “It's only Princess Kirimin greeting the Witchfather.”

Mekhmet joined in the pandemonium by calling aloud a prayer in his own language which proclaimed that there was no God but the One and mighty was his Messenger, and then he salaamed deeply and grinned hugely.

Only Sharley continued to stare at his father in silence. Then at last he said, “I thought you were as good as dead.”

“So I was,” said Oskan. “But the Goddess allowed me to be healed. Obviously I have other tasks to perform in my life before I'm called home to the Summer Lands.”

“I see,” said Sharley. Then, stepping forward, he took his father's hand and inspected the smooth, youthful skin before holding it briefly to his cheek. “Thanks for rescuing us, Dad,” he said simply, and smiled.

“That's all right, Charlemagne. I'd fight an entire Darkness of sorcerers for you, if I had to.”

“Good. Greetings over,” said Thirrin briskly into the silence that followed. “Now, while I have you all here, can you please do something about that Imp you brought with you? He's causing chaos in the palace kitchens.”

Almost on cue, a sudden rattle of wings sounded on the air and the object of discussion flew in. “Where have you been? I've been looking everywhere!”

Kirimin sighed wearily. “I'm sorry, but I don't think anyone can control him.”

“Oh, I think I could,” said Oskan darkly.

Pious gave a squeak of alarm. “Oh, no! It's that warlock!”

“One moment, my little bundle of chaos,” the Witchfather said commandingly as the Imp prepared to flee. “I want to
know exactly why you allowed yourself to be transported here when I rescued Charlemagne and Co.”

“Well, actually I didn't ‘allow' any such thing. It was purely accidental. One moment I was taking a well-earned siesta in one of the Prince's saddlebags, and the next thing I knew, I was in the Icemark with pandemonium erupting all around me!”

“I see,” said Oskan quietly. “So you claim that you were a reluctant stowaway.”

“Absolutely.”

“All right. I'll accept your story for now. But I think it only fair to warn you that if I suspect, even for one moment, that you're acting as an . . . 
agent
for a certain sorceress, or for anyone else, then you can expect to die slowly and horribly. Do I make myself clear?”

“As the finest crystal, oh Powerful One,” said Pious, managing to bow ingratiatingly as he hovered in mid-air.

Oskan then turned his full magical attention on the Imp and held him in an unblinking stare that seemed to paralyse the small demon as he probed deep into his head. “Your brain and mind are as devious and as twisted as I would expect from one of your ilk; yet I detect no malice towards my son or his friends. In fact, I'm surprised to see a stirring of emotion deep in your dark little psyche. Could it be, creature of the night, that you even feel the first glimmerings of friendship for our children?”