Last Battle of the Icemark (41 page)

Andronicus, watching the struggle, suddenly smiled. Drawing breath, he bellowed an order. “THE PIKE REGIMENTS AND HOUSECARLES WILL ADVANCE!”

For a moment all seemed to fall still in the massive crescendo of killing and fighting, and then someone laughed. Others joined in as the tension suddenly broke and the soldiers of the Alliance gave way to hysteria. Advance? It was all they could do not to be swept aside and trampled!

Then, slowly, a lone housecarle began the familiar chant: “OUT! Out! Out! OUT! Out! Out! OUT! Out! Out!” It soon spread through the ranks of Icemark soldiers, but then the Polypontians took it up too, spitting out the simple syllable with venom and force:

“OUT! Out! Out! OUT! Out! Out! OUT! Out! Out!”

Now the impossible seemed to be happening. The line was beginning to hold, the seemingly unstoppable buckling and bending was slowing, and the Alliance soldiers began to heave back against the massive, inexorable weight of the Tri-Horns. Slowly, slowly, the line began to hold, and the towering beasts seemed to waver as the razor steel of the spear heads continued to drive at them, cutting through their heavy surcoats of leather and gouging deep into their thick hides. Their small, hating, stupid eyes saw the werewolves and human soldiers swarming over them, and the forest of pikes still waiting to swing down into the engage position, and suddenly they stopped, immovable as gigantic boulders.

Erinor sensed the impossible. The enemy infantry were gaining the advantage! All around her werewolves and human warriors were attacking the howdahs and inflicting terrible
heavy losses, and five Tri-Horns had actually been brought down and killed! Never had she known such carnage inflicted on her forces. But her military brain was without equal, and, quickly assessing the situation, she knew the Tri-Horns would break if she didn't regain control by ordering a withdrawal.

For the first time in her glorious rise to power, Erinor finally made the decision and gave the order to retreat. Slowly, ponderously, the huge beasts turned about and withdrew. But even as they retreated, another Tri-Horn was felled, and disappeared under a swirling mass of werewolf and Red Eye soldiers.

Erinor was incensed and mortified. Never in her entire military career had she been forced to withdraw from an engagement. This was a personal defeat at the hands of the hated Polypontians, and all around her on the battlefield the soldiers of the Hordes were watching. She knew she must act quickly or lose her iron control over her soldiers. Raising her hand, she gave the signal for the elite female regiments to support the Shock Troops that were struggling against Thirrin and the cavalry of the Icesheets. There must be no more withdrawals!

Her hopes now lay with the small band of soldiers carrying the wooden stretcher, packed with barrels, which she'd sent off towards the Barbarian Queen's position right at the beginning of the battle. If they were still alive, they must be very close to their target by now. Quickly she scanned the line of battle before her, but the heaving masses of struggling warriors revealed nothing. The band of soldiers may already be dead, or they may be still fighting their way through the throng towards the Queen. Erinor could only watch and hope.

*   *   *

All of the men who'd set out on the mission had been killed, but others had taken their places as they struggled to deliver their barrels to the target. The honour of Artemesion was at stake, and even in the midst of the fighting, they knew that the battle wasn't going well. Unless they reached the objective, the unthinkable could happen and the war be lost.

All around them werewolves, Snow Leopards and human cavalry fought with a controlled ferocity that equalled that of the Hordes themselves. But the men's task of reaching the Queen was made simpler by the fact that she led her cavalry from the front, accompanied by her bodyguard of Ukpik werewolves, and also by Tharaman-Thar of the Snow Leopards and his Tharina, Krisafitsa. All they needed to do was to find the place where the fighting was at its most ferocious, and there the target would be.

The sway and sweep of the battle bore the men and their burden along. Two more fell, and two others took their places. Their escort of female archers shot and shot again, bringing down as many who threatened their mission as they could. On they fought, and on, until at last, just ahead, a brilliant figure of light appeared, with hair of fire, riding a great horse that fought like a creature of nightmares, lashing out with hooves that were shod in gleaming iron, crushing heads and smashing limbs. The figure wielded a sword that struck and struck again like fire made steel, and her green eyes blazed with an intensity the men had only ever seen before in the face of Erinor herself.

The female archers cried out in triumph, and immediately surrounded the men and their burden while they set it down and prepared. The world fought and died around them as the
men uncovered the barrels and lit torches; they were now ready.

Suddenly the Queen herself burst towards them, and with her came Snow Leopards and werewolves. The men raised their torches, and, breaking open the lids of the barrels, drove them deep into the precious cargo of gunpowder that had been saved from the magazines of so many fallen fortresses.

The explosion swept across the field like a scythe of fire, felling all before it, friend and foe alike. The ear-bursting boom echoed into the sky, and the shockwave travelled on and on, killing, maiming, ending all hope, destroying victory, ending the war.

Now a deathly quiet fell, as the bloom of flame rolled itself up into the sky and disappeared in a shroud of black smoke. It was a quiet of such intensity that the gentle sigh of the wind over the grass of the plain could clearly be heard, and all surviving eyes turned to look to where the blood and tangled carnage stained the already death-polluted land. Who had fallen? Who was killed? How had the balance changed?

Only Erinor knew the answer, and, standing in her howdah, she let out a shriek of triumph that echoed over the battlefield. Now her Tri-Horn turned and paced towards the epicentre of the destruction. There lay the body of the fallen Barbarian Queen, and Erinor would defile it where it lay amongst the fallen Ukpik bodyguard and the shattered corpses of Tharaman-Thar and his Tharina.

To the rear of the lines Oskan Witchfather stood at the entrance to the hospital tent and felt a glittering blade of fear drive itself deep into his heart. With a gasp he fell to his
knees, and then looked up to watch as the rolling ball of flame rose into the sky.

“THIRRIN!!!”

C
HAPTER
28

C
ronus filled the chamber in the citadel of Frostmarris with shadow and presence. Medea watched him silently, trying to gauge his mood before she spoke. Then, no longer able to keep quiet, she suddenly asked, “Can I assume that the Great Forest is secured now, and that we control the entirety of the Icemark?”

Cronus rose from his chair and went to stand next to the fireplace, the ice crystals that swirled around him like a cloak hissing and spitting as they came into contact with the flames. “Yes, Granddaughter,” he finally replied and turned to face her fully. “We reached the cave complex where Her Vampiric Majesty had her headquarters, and the fighting was vicious. Even so, the Ice Demons managed to break through their lines and capture the place, but there was no sign of the Vampire Queen, nor of the majority of her surviving squadrons.”

“Then who exactly were you fighting?”

“A few Vampires, but mainly tree-soldiers of the Holly and Oak Kings. But there was a strange atmosphere about the Undead warriors who stood against us.” He paused as he marshalled his thoughts. “I can only describe them as a ‘suicide
squad'; they were ready to be destroyed, in fact they seemed almost eager. And when they died I detected the passing of a . . . 
soul.”

Medea snorted. “The Undead don't have souls!”

“These did, unmistakeably.”

She puzzled over the anomaly for a few seconds, then shrugged, dismissing it as unimportant. “So where's the Vampire Queen?”

“Still at large . . . somewhere. We can expect an attack at any time, and from any quarter.”

“Oh,
wonderful!”
Medea spat bitterly. “At least when she was in the Great Forest we knew where she was!”

“Calm yourself, Granddaughter, please,” said Cronus as he crossed to his chair and sat down again. “Consider this. Her Vampiric Majesty has been reduced to the role of a terrorist. The pride of her squadrons has been broken, and she's no doubt skulking in some dank and hideous hideaway with neither comfort nor dignity.”

“The Vampire Queen creates her own dignity. You could sit her in a cesspit and cover her in dung, and she'd still have more regality than an entire roomful of emperors!”

“Perhaps, but the fact remains that her power base is destroyed and she can no longer fight with any degree of effectiveness—”

Almost on cue, a sudden explosion of roof tiles and plaster interrupted the confident flow of his words, and the room was filled with hideous shrieking as five gigantic bats smashed through the ceiling. All was chaos as flames belched from the fireplace, where small barrels of pitch had been thrown into the blaze, and Medea found herself flying through the air and finally landing with a jarring thud. The Vampires' attacks
were becoming so common now, she half expected them every time she and her grandfather were sitting quietly in the citadel.

Cronus appeared out of the smoke and helped her to her feet. “A nuisance raid. We may have to expect this. I'll go and lead the defence.”

Medea watched him leave, then quickly crossed to the window and looked out over the city, where formations of giant bats swooped down over the rooftops and then disappeared from view as they dropped down into the streets. Soon the sounds of fighting rose up into the air as the Vampires metamorphosed into their human forms and attacked the Ice Demon garrison.

If such attacks continued they might have to review their tactics. Nothing must stop their plans! The new World Order must be established. But she was beginning to worry about how easy it was going to be.

Far away on the plains to the south of Romula, the battle against Erinor and her Hordes raged on. Many had fallen when Shock Troops had set off a crude bomb, but in the broken and bloody chaos around the point where the gunpowder had exploded, a mighty form stirred. A fierce and untamed consciousness fought its way back to the surface of its mind again and the fire of amber glowed on the world as Tharaman opened his eyes. He remembered! He remembered everything, with a terrible clarity.

Slowly he raised his head and turned to look at Krisafitsa, who lay in a broken heap nearby. With a huge effort he climbed to his feet and forced himself to walk to where she lay. He opened his mouth and drew in her scent, but
everything was overlaid with the acrid stench of gunpowder and he could smell no life. Gently he began to clean her face, which was blackened by flame and smoke, but then he gave up and lay down beside her. He would mourn his mate in the dignity of silence, and allow his own life to ebb away so that he may join her in the Fields of Everlasting Ice.

But then some deep instinct stirred, and he became aware of a movement. Slowly he raised his head and saw a truly enormous Tri-Horn bearing down on where they lay.

“Erinor,” he said aloud. “No doubt coming to triumph over the fallen.” And he laid his head wearily down again. But then a surge of defiance rose up within him, and he looked around quickly. There was nothing he could do for his mate now. But the Basilea of the Hordes would not defile the body of Thirrin, the greatest warrior the world had ever known! Only treachery and gunpowder had been able to kill her. But she was light enough to carry away, and Tharaman was determined that she should be buried in the manner of her people, sealed in a mound on the Plain of Frostmarris.

Quickly he climbed to his feet, and found the pain of his injuries miraculously sloughing away as purpose filled him to the brim. He then turned to Krisafitsa, and after licking her face, and promising he would return to be with her, he walked to where Thirrin lay beside her dead horse.

He stopped then to marvel at how untouched by the explosion she seemed, and finding it impossible to believe she could be dead, he began to draw in her scent . . . but then a sudden bellow reminded him of Erinor's approach and he turned to face her. The Basilea's Tri-Horn advanced alone, and she stood in her howdah, her face eager as she searched for her enemy's body.

“Come no further. You will not have the body of Thirrin Freer Strong-in-the Arm Lindenshield. She will lie with her ancestors,” said Tharaman steadily.

“Stand aside, animal; as victor I claim her body as the spoils of war.”

“I am aware of no victory for your Hordes, Madam. Look around you; the battle continues.”

“Defiance only. The Alliance knows their Queen is dead, and when I display her body, your pathetic little army will lay down its arms and die.”

“Oh, I think not,” Tharaman replied. “If I were you, I'd go now before rumour of our leader's death reaches all of our warriors; there'll be no escape for you then, only destruction and mayhem as they wreak their revenge.”

Erinor smiled coldly. “Your war is lost; capitulate now to the invincible!”

“Willingly,” the Thar of the Snow Leopards said. “Exactly where is this ‘invincible' chap; or should I say ‘chap-ess'?”

Erinor shook her head impatiently. “You have made your choice, so die!” She drove the sharpened steel goad into the hide of her giant Tri-Horn, and with a bellow the creature surged forward.

Tharaman reared up and roared mightily, his voice blasting high into the air. Then he leaped at the beast, fastening himself to its face, his claws digging deep into its thick hide and raking huge bloody trenches across its snout.

The Tri-Horn bellowed, and with a convulsive heave it threw the Snow Leopard off. Erinor laughed and urged her beast on, but the Thar then reared again, and his mighty paws struck at the beast, knocking its head to the left and the right. It staggered to a standstill, and Tharaman then locked his
forepaws around its horns. Bracing himself against the earth, he twisted its head with all his might.

Erinor seized her bow and loosed arrow after arrow into the Snow Leopard's body, but he seemed unaware of their bite as he wrestled with the huge Tri-Horn.

For a moment Oskan almost blacked out, but then he swam to the surface of consciousness again. Thirrin dead! Then how could he live? Without her, how could he resist the terrible call of the Darkness? Without her, he too must die, and follow her quickly into the Spirit Realms.

But no! No! There was no sign! She hadn't passed! She was still here in the Physical Realms. But injured, unconscious. Quickly Oskan sent his Eye questing over the field of battle to where she lay beside her mutilated horse. At first he hardly dared look, but then he saw she was unmarked. At the last moment, some instinct must have made her duck down behind her shield, and it had taken the full brunt of the blast, shattering on impact, but miraculously protecting her. Havoc, her horse, must have reared and turned too, absorbing the explosion, and saving his mistress. Not one hair of her head was singed, while all about lay in broken ruin. Oskan shouted aloud in triumph, but then his Eye became aware of a titanic struggle.

Tharaman-Thar and a truly gigantic Tri-Horn were locked in battle. The Thar was fighting to fell the beast by twisting its head and neck down to the ground, while the Tri-Horn was trying to lift the giant Snow Leopard and throw him aside. Oskan immediately knew the battle was being fought to save Thirrin. Only once had he been allowed to kill in the first war against Bellorum, and as a result he'd been burned to a
blackened skeleton, and only the mercy of the Goddess had restored him.

Even so, to save Thirrin he would have risked all, but he knew he had other tasks to perform that went beyond considerations for himself, or even Thirrin. He had to live; he had to remain healthy for the struggle that was yet to come. He watched as Tharaman was borne backwards, his hugely-clawed feet digging for purchase in the grass-trampled ground, all of the muscles in his mighty back bunched and knotted as he fought to fell the beast. The Snow Leopard roared, and roared again, and miraculously the Tri-Horn was stopped in its tracks.

Then Oskan watched as a powerful-looking woman shot three arrows, in quick succession, deep into the Snow Leopard's back. His once-beautiful coat was already blackened and burned by the explosion, and now huge slicks of blood were spreading across the surface of his fur, like wine soaking into fine linen. Tharaman roared again, and with a convulsive explosion of strength he forced the creature's head round, and further round, to an impossible angle. His back feet scrabbled for purchase, and once again he heaved with all his might, until at last there came a cracking, tearing sound, like a tree trunk snapping in a hurricane, as the Tri-Horn's neck broke, severing bone, muscle and spinal cord as cleanly as a blade.

The beast fell like a landslide, and Tharaman stood, head hanging low, his flanks heaving, and blood dripping from his pelt. Slowly he raised his head and roared into the sky, then he slowly sank to the ground and lay still.

Oskan breathed a deep sigh of relief, but then, as his Eye watched, a woman stepped from the wreckage of the Tri-Horn. She was obviously unhurt, and, though powerfully
built, she walked with the light step of a dancer, or a deadly killer. In one hand she held a long cavalry sabre, and in the other a spear, and with an air of single-minded deliberation, she headed for where Thirrin lay beside the body of her dead horse.

The Barbarian Queen had to be dead. No human being could have survived such an explosion! But even so, she, Erinor of the Artemesion Hordes, would make doubly sure she could be counted amongst the fallen by burying her spear deep in her chest, and then she would proclaim the death of Thirrin Lindenshield to all the world, and finally assume her Goddess-given right as Empress of the new Artemesion Empire!

Oskan watched Erinor approach, and gathered himself to strike. He had no choice; the woman he loved lay helpless before a mad-minded killer! If the world ended because of his actions, if he died a blackened corpse in an eternity of torment, then so be it! He wouldn't let his wife be killed when she had no chance of defending herself. He opened his mind, gathering the power to strike from the very air around him. But then something made him stop, a small inkling of an idea that entered his head from some unknown point, and instead he turned to Thirrin. If only he could wake her! Quickly he dived into her mind, and found only darkness. Desperately he searched through the stilled functions of her brain, and then at last found the tiny spark that was the mighty Thirrin Freer Strong-in-the-Arm Lindenshield, and guided it back to its seat within the recesses of her mind.

“Wake up!” he called desperately. “Wake up, and defend yourself!”

A tiny flicker creased her eyelids, and her breathing
deepened, but Erinor was getting closer, a small smile playing about her lips as she hefted her spear and prepared to strike.

“Wake up!” Oskan called again. “Or are you happy to be skewered where you lay, like some helpless fawn!”

Thirrin's eyes shot open. “I'm no helpless fawn! I'm a ravening lion!” She leaped to her feet, sword in hand.

Erinor stopped in her tracks, her eyes widening. This was the woman who'd inflicted the only defeat her Hordes had suffered; this was the woman who was a rival to her claim as the greatest general and warrior that the world had ever seen! For the briefest moment, the two stared at each other, then Erinor gave a wild and mighty war cry and struck a savage blow with her spear. Thirrin parried the blow, knocked up the striking sabre, and then ran her sword through Erinor's chest. For a moment the two women stood almost nose to nose.