The Icemark Chronicles: The Cry of the Icemark (38 page)

Oskan dropped to his knees and bowed his head. “Will I be strong enough?”

The old woman sniffed. “The Goddess chose you — she’s never wrong. Now I’m going in; it’s cold.” And with that she turned and walked off toward the city.

“I think we’ve been dismissed,” Thirrin said, bending to help Oskan to his feet. “Come on, I can hear some cheese and a hunk of bread calling.”

The warlock’s eyes lit up. “With pickled onions!”

“You’ll have to fight me for them first.” Thirrin raised her hand to Grinelda and her sleigh team, who trotted over the snow and waited while she and Oskan climbed aboard.

As the sleigh made its way toward the city gates with its escort of Snow Leopards, Thirrin waved to the cheering crowds while she and Oskan discussed the possibility of vegetable stew for supper that night and tried not to drool too noticeably.

The banquet was a “celebration of vegetables and winter-stored fruits,” as Maggiore put it. Some of the housecarl officers at the top table looked a little put out when meat failed to appear, but after the beer and wine servers had been around a few times they started to cheer up. Even so, one or two of them gazed enviously at the mounds of raw flesh that the Snow Leopard soldiers and the Wolffolk were eating down in the main body of the hall, and one much-scarred veteran of King Redrought’s wars found himself watching every mouthful that Tharaman-Thar delicately selected from the wide bowl set on the table before him.

Thirrin had wondered how the leopards would react to a feast with humans, but she needn’t have worried. After an initial wariness, the soldiers down in the hall soon realized the huge cats were warriors like themselves, and they were soon swapping boasts about their battle exploits and listening to tales about war with the Ice Trolls in the lands far to the north.

She’d also worried about the mix of brute strength and alcohol and had privately hoped that the leopards wouldn’t like beer or wine, but they’d literally lapped it up and had begun
joining in with the housecarls’ more lusty songs, or simply sat purring loudly so that the hall rumbled like a benevolent thunderstorm.

Of course, not all of the soldiers, whether leopard or human, could sit in the Great Hall, but huge bonfires had been lit in the palace courtyard, and tables had been set around them so that many of the soldiers who were not on guard duty could join in the feasting.

Thirrin was quite aware that the banquet was not just a State occasion designed to welcome her as Queen back to her domain but also an ideal way of introducing the new allies to her army and its officers. She had to admit that talking leopards would be more than a bit beyond the experience of her people, but so far the initial introductions were going well. She’d noted that there were at least three phases in her people’s reaction to Tharaman-Thar and his soldiers: fear at first, closely followed by amazement and wonder, and then a sort of pride of ownership as the humans vied with one another to prove that they knew the leopards better than anyone else. She’d yet to see any examples of complete familiarity, but that was hardly surprising. Given time she was sure her resourceful subjects would begin to show it.

Basilea Elemnestra was discussing tactics with Tharaman-Thar while her consort Olememnon was trying some Hypolitan jokes on Taradan, who’d been invaluable as a bridge between the two peoples in the first hour or so of the meetings. A sudden shout of laughter proved that human and cat shared the same sense of humor. Taradan then told a joke that was so rude Thirrin felt herself blushing as he reached the punch line, but Olememnon’s huge booming laugh distracted attention from her, so no one noticed.

“My Lady, exactly how do you propose to integrate the Thar’s army into our tactics?” Elemnestra asked.

Relieved to be on familiar ground, Thirrin answered, “Tharaman and I have been discussing this on the journey from the Icesheets, and we’ve decided on some ideas we’ll be trying out over the next few days.”

“Would you assess them as cavalry or infantry?”

“Cavalry,” Thirrin answered firmly. But neither she nor Tharaman would be drawn out any further on the subject.

Over the next few days, Thirrin’s head spun as she attended meetings and training sessions and discussed logistics and troop movements. Hardly an hour passed when she wasn’t involved in one military problem or another, from overseeing the construction of new ballistas to the best method of transporting rockapults. But overall, the training was running with a precision that was almost faultless.

Then, one fine crisp morning, she and the Thar rode out of the city and onto the wide plain. Already waiting were the Snow Leopard army and a large contingent of the best cavalry selected from regiments of both the Icemark and the Hypolitan. The troopers had wisely led their horses to stand at a wide distance downwind of the leopards, but even so, many were shying and whickering nervously.

Thirrin, as usual, was being drawn in her sleigh by her werewolf guard, but when she and Tharaman had reached a point equidistant from the two blocs of warriors, she climbed out and sent it back to the city.

The young Queen gave a signal, and a squire led out her charger. She walked slowly to greet him, calling his name and reassuring him as he walked over the snow. When he reached
her, she took the reins from the squire, and the huge stallion nuzzled her. After she’d fed him an apple, she led him over to Tharaman-Thar, who quietly watched their approach.

“So these are the creatures you call horses,” the King of the Leopards said. “They seem unsteady and easily frightened to me.”

Stroking the proudly arching neck of her horse, Thirrin said, “This is Osdred, my charger. The cavalry of the Icemark broke the massed ranks of the werewolves at the Battle of the Wolfrocks and has driven the Corsairs back into the sea. But, yes, horses can be easily frightened and sometimes easily driven off. A trained cavalry mount is a different thing, though. Wait, I’ll show you….” She climbed nimbly into the saddle and, standing in the stirrups, she drew her sword and gave the war shout of the House of Strong-in-the-Arm. Immediately the stallion screamed a fierce challenge and reared, lashing out with its forelegs.

The Thar nodded slowly, but said nothing.

“Growl at him, challenge him,” Thirrin called. “Pretend to attack him.”

Tharaman roared deafeningly and reared up on his hind legs. The stallion leaped forward, snorting, and fearlessly followed Thirrin’s commands as she wheeled in close to the Snow Leopard, whirling around him and feinting thrusts and hacks with her saber.

She drew back and waited for the Thar’s reaction. He sat in thought for a moment, before saying, “A strange beast of contradictions. Gentle warriors: eaters of grass and yet the hearts of hunters. Let me see what else horses can do.”

Thirrin nodded, then cantered back to the regiment of cavalry, who had watched the first meeting of horse and Snow
Leopard with interest. She gave a sudden great shout and the troopers swept forward in a charge, across the snows to where the leopards stood waiting. Holding their line, the giant cats roared as the cavalry approached, but then at the last moment the horses turned aside, following Thirrin’s pointing saber as she led them in a long, swerving arc back to where the Thar sat apart, quietly watching.

“Enough,” said the King of the Leopards. “Your horses are warriors indeed, and I and my army will be proud to call your cavalry comrades.”

Thirrin nodded and smiled, then she dismounted and began to discuss training methods with the Thar.

For the rest of the day each trooper’s mount was introduced to the leopards and, under instruction from Thirrin, the huge cats breathed into the nostrils of the horses in a display of friendship. Then, as the short winter day was drawing to a close, she began to put her plan into action, creating a line of cavalry that alternated between horse and cat across a wide line. Any enemy they charged would face a deadly combination of lance, saber, tooth, and claw.

As the sun stained the snow a vivid crimson, Thirrin and the Thar urged forward the first canter of the new cavalry. Gradually they raised the pace until they were thundering across the snows at full gallop, the Snow Leopards letting out a strange coughing bark of challenge and the horses neighing, while the troopers sang the paean, or battle song, of the Icemark.

Thirrin laughed aloud for joy. “We’ll destroy them with our noise if nothing else,” she called to Tharaman, who thundered beside her.

“Let’s hope not,” he called back. “I prefer it when the enemy puts up a fight!”

Later, as the moon rose over the frozen land, a mixed column of horse and leopard trotted smartly back to the city: cats and humans, absorbed in singing marching songs and oblivious to the people who lined the road up to the citadel, watching them pass in admiration and hope.

T
he Imperial meteorologists had promised at least a week of quiet weather, and as Scipio Bellorum had threatened them with twenty lashes for every day of inaccuracy, he was inclined to believe them. Certainly the weather was good now, even glorious, with high blue skies and a crisp frost. Perfect riding weather.

Behind him marched twenty thousand cavalry and eighty thousand infantry made up of pikemen, shield-bearers, and musket regiments. In addition to this he had a battery of one hundred cannons and an entire rabble of engineers, carpenters, and the usual camp followers. This time there would be no mistakes. The debacle of the earlier invasion had been one of the very few defeats any Imperial army had suffered since he’d taken command of the military twenty years ago, and he was determined that there wouldn’t be another.

His spies had reliably informed him that there was no defending army in the region, and that the nearest large town had only a rabble militia to defend it. The decision was therefore simple. He would take the settlement and use it as base camp for the coming campaign. His highly trained and
superbly equipped Imperial troops would breach the walls and secure the town within two days, three at the most, after which the supply caravans could start moving in and they would be ready to begin the war proper with the spring thaw.

He rode at complete ease, hand on hip, highly polished boots resting in gilded stirrups. Despite the cold he wore no hat on his closely cropped head of gray hair, believing that the men should be able to recognize their commander easily. But not one of his soldiers could ever have mistaken his slight, whiplash-hard figure for anyone else. This man with the light blue eyes and thin hawklike nose had led them to victory after victory. And this same man had hanged some of them, whipped them, and sold them into slavery if he thought they’d given less than their very best. This was Scipio Bellorum, Commander of the Imperial armies, and no one — not even the Emperor himself— would deny him anything he wanted if it was within his power to give it.

As it happened, Bellorum’s estimate for the fall of the town of Inglesby was over a week off. The militia and townsfolk had kept them out for ten days, despite the fact that the guns had breached the walls in more than six places. He watched now as the latest attack force came streaming back from one of the breaches. This was the third time in as many hours that the defenders had repulsed his soldiers, and he was beginning to lose his temper.

Added to this, the weather had turned for the worse more than three days ago, and in a rare act of rashness Bellorum had lost a large contingent of troops he’d sent on a mission to garrison the capital, Frostmarris. They’d been caught in a blizzard, and the general who was noted for his good luck had lost his gamble. Usually he ensured that all points were secured before he
advanced farther, but the road was open and the prize was too much of a temptation. If he could have taken the city without a blow being struck in anger, the war would have been as good as over.

But for once he’d failed, and to add to his anger, the temperatures had plummeted and it had begun to blizzard, making the besiegers’ camp a place of frostbite and death. It was now imperative that the town of Inglesby be taken, not only to satisfy Polypontian honor but for the sake of survival. If they didn’t get under more substantial cover than Empire-issue canvas, they’d all die of the extraordinary cold.

“Colonel Marcellus, your regiment, I think,” Bellorum said as the Imperial troops streamed back from the walls of the town. His voice was as cutting as the wind that scythed across the frozen land, and the shivering of the men within earshot had more cause than mere cold.

One of the officers standing in the small knot behind him shuffled forward. “Yes, sir. But they’re at a disadvantage not knowing the layout of the streets, and the defending housecarls are as tough as frozen leather.”

“Tougher than Imperial troops?” the general asked quietly.

“Well, no, sir. But the defenders are fighting for their homes and their loved ones; that alone gives them an added incentive.”

“Colonel Marcellus, our incentives include living to see the spring and not being hanged for lack of military fervor. You will now regroup your regiment and personally lead it back into the city. You will not retreat. I expect to see you again either as a corpse or as victorious commander at the head of his adoring troops. Do you understand?”