Last Battle of the Icemark

  Then, with the speed of a loosed arrow, the creature charged, crashing over the rocky ground with a clumsy, lumbering power that took all three friends by surprise. Both boys screamed in alarm and leaped into the attack. But Kirimin was its target, and it ignored them even when they drove their lances deep into its flanks.

  Kirimin rose up on her hind legs, roaring, and was smashed backwards into an outcrop of rocks as the creature’s momentum drove it forward. She hit the ground with a jarring force, curled into a tight ball and rolled into a boulder. Immediately she uncurled, and leaped through the air in a ferocious explosion of tooth and claw. She landed on the creature’s enormous head and seemed to freeze in position, sinking her fangs deep into its flesh.

  The elephanta staggered in a half circle, roaring and trying to dislodge her by shaking its head and smashing it on the ground. Mekhmet and Sharley had now drawn their second lances, and, crying out the war cries of the Desert Kingdom and the Icemark, they charged. Suleiman dodged the thrashing tusks and Sharley drove his lance deep into the thing’s chest, while Mekhmet rammed his into its neck just behind the wide sails of its ear.

  The elephanta trumpeted and reared up on its thick hind legs, still shaking its head as Kirimin continued to maul its face. Then at last, with a mighty convulsion, she was dislodged and flew through the air, to land with a crash on a wide area of broken scree.

  The horses now moved in shoulder to shoulder, and, drawing their last remaining lances, the boys charged. The creature crashed forward from its mighty height, and the boys stood in their saddles as the wide belly rushed down on them. The lances were driven deep by the elephanta’s own massive weight, and it roared in agony, its headlong earthward crash stalling for a moment and allowing the horses to gallop clear.

  They circled and drew their scimitars. “Mekhmet, check on Kiri, and get her away to safety. I’ll try and hold the thing off for as long as possible!”

  “Don’t be stupid! You can’t hold it and get away. You’ll be killed!”

  As the boys spoke urgently, the huge creature suddenly let out another roar of agony and began to stagger almost blindly around the clearing. “I don’t think it’s as dangerous as it was. We’ve weakened it,” said Sharley.

  But before they could say anything else, a spitting, raging lightning bolt of fury slammed into the creature. Kirimin’s huge paws boxed the monster’s head with mighty swinging blows that sent it staggering backwards, huge bloody gouges opening up in its thick hide as her razor claws bit deep.

  The horses now charged, driving close as the boys whirled and struck at the creature with their swords. Then once again Kirimin jumped at the thing’s head, swarming around to cling beneath its face-tail while her powerful hind legs drove again and again into its throat, her long deadly claws slicing deep into the flesh. With a roar of rage and agony the thing reared up again. Sharley and Mekhmet drove their scimitars to the hilt into its exposed belly. But then a cascading deluge of steaming blood drenched them, and they looked up to see its throat gaping wide.

  Kirimin moved nimbly away, and the boys turned their horses and withdrew to watch as the giant monster swayed, probing at the cavernous wound in its throat with its strange face-tail. Its eyes rolled, and huge gouts of blood erupted skywards until at last it pitched forward slowly, like a falling column, and crashed to the ground. A deep silence settled over the clearing, broken only by the gasps of the three friends.

  “Dinner, I think, is served,” said Sharley, his voice shaking with exhaustion.

  “Do you really think it’s edible?” asked Kirimin.

  “Yes, I should think so. Hack off some of that rump, or a steak from the ribs, and I bet it’ll roast up nicely.”

  But before any of them could move, the creature began to shimmer like a mirage conjured by the heat of the desert, and as they all watched, its huge, solid bulk slowly faded away to nothing.

  “Well, that more than suggests it was magically conjured. It’s as if you can meet your worst nightmares here,” said Sharley quietly.

  “Yes, but who conjured it?” Mekhmet replied.

  A rustle of wings announced the return of Pious. “You killed it! You killed an elephanta!” said the Imp in agitated amazement. “No one’s ever done that before!”

  “Well, no one did this time, either,” said Kirimin. “There were three of us.”

  “Five, counting the horses,” said Sharley.

  “True,” the Snow Leopard agreed.

  “Yes, but you killed an elephanta!” Pious squeaked again in awe.

  “Did you expect us to die?” Sharley asked interestedly.

  “Quite frankly, yes, I did,” Pious replied.

  “You seem almost disappointed.”

  “No, no, I can assure you not,” the Imp said, nervously eyeing Sharley’s drawn scimitar. “My tone is affected only by awe at your fighting prowess.”

  “It’s strange that the monster appeared almost immediately after you gave the warning,” said Sharley conversationally. “Nothing to do with you luring it to where you knew we were resting, I suppose?”

  “Nothing whatsoever. Indeed, it could even be argued that I saved your lives by giving you warning. On the Plain of Desolation the difference between life and death can be a matter of the merest seconds.”

  “Really?” Sharley asked with interest, and swung his scimitar in a glittering arc in the vicinity of the Imp’s head.

  “If you’ll excuse me, I think I’ll take a nap,” said Pious nervously. “The atmosphere has become a little charged around here.” He flew off to hide in the dense swirl of mist that was once again rapidly closing over the scene of the battle.

  Orla stood back in the shadows and watched as her mistress quietly seethed. Fear of being found by Medea and punished had driven her back to the Bone Fortress before she’d even been missed. And now she watched in quiet trepidation as the Adept ranted.

  “If I didn’t know better, I could believe my little brother had the Goddess on his side. But the very fact that I’ve managed to trap them on the Plain of Desolation proves that the forces of so-called good have no interest in what happens to their creation, as usual.” She paused and drummed her fingers on the arm of her great chair. “Even so, something must be helping them. How else could they have done it? How else could they kill a giant elephant, of all things? I mean, it should’ve been able to wipe out an entire squadron of cavalry and at least ten Snow Leopards!”

  The Witch of the Dark Power waited quietly, and then when Medea sat wearily back into the chair-that-was-almost-a-throne she shuffled forward and coughed politely. “Perhaps I can suggest an answer, mistress.”

  Medea looked up moodily. “You? What do you know? I’m the second greatest Adept in all Creation and even I don’t know how they did it!”

  “Friendship, mistress . . . and love,” the witch said simply.

  “Friendship? What do you mean?”

  “Willing self-sacrifice. It’s a powerful weapon against evil magic such as yours, mistress,” Orla explained patiently. “Anyone who risks their own life to save others weakens Dark Power.”

  Medea thought about this for a moment, a deep frown on her face, then her features cleared. “Of course, you’re right! So that’s how they did it! My revolting little brother told his pathetic friends to save themselves while he fended the creature off. Hah! And what should have been embarrassing bravado saved their skins!”

  “Exactly, mistress,” said Orla.

  As far as Medea was concerned, this act of bravery was just one skinny runt on a horse the size of an underfed deer holding off an elephanta! Stupid! Ridiculous!

  She seethed quietly for a few more minutes, but eventually she began to calm down and think rationally. There was still hope of death and mayhem; after all, for altruism to save them from magic, the kids would have to know about it and use it as a weapon. But they obviously had no idea that they’d killed the huge monster because Sharley had decided to play the hero and let his friends escape.
In fact they probably thought their victory had everything to do with their prowess as warriors and nothing else.

  Medea laughed happily. All she had to do was conjure some sort of trap that wouldn’t allow the stupid idiots to even consider sacrificing themselves. She could hit them with a huge bolt of plasma that would incinerate them where they stood – but on second thoughts, that might warn the ever-alert Cronus as to what she was planning, and she didn’t dare do that. No, all she had to do was keep them in so much danger they wouldn’t have time to do anything stupidly noble.

  Simple really. Now all she had to do was think of a scenario . . .

  Cronus drew on the Power of the Darkness, giving his mind the strength it needed to cross the border between his domain and the Physical Realms. For a moment the interstices resisted his probing, but soon they began to yield, and finally he was able to tear through the membrane and emerge into the sky of a bright autumnal day in the Polypontus.

  Below him lay the battle formation of the Hordes, like a huge schematic plan of Erinor’s tactics. They were advancing on a walled city that was defended by a garrison under the command of what appeared to be an experienced officer. But Cronus could clearly see that he was hampered by poor supplies and a demoralised fighting force. It should be a fairly simple matter to capture the city; all he had to do was manipulate Erinor’s simple warrior mind, and victory would be theirs . . . and his.

  Quickly he found the Basilea. At first, flesh, blood and bone resisted him, but gradually Cronus gained control of her mind and body, and soon he was looking at the world through Erinor’s eyes. It was now just a matter of time before the city fell, giving the Icemark even more reason to intervene. And then, once the land was empty of its army of humans, Snow Leopards and werewolves, it would be simplicity itself to invade. Providing, of course, Oskan and his hideous White Witches were distracted elsewhere.

  The wide front of the Tri-Horns’ phalanx advanced ponderously across the plain. There were over five hundred of the huge beasts, many of them roaring like gigantic lions and rumbling like distant storms as they stepped heavily forward. Each one was as high and as broad as a house, and their immense heads, with the three horns that gave them their name, hung low from their massive shoulders and jutted forward like formidable battering rams. Tri-Horns were definitely not built for speed, but they were enormously strong and virtually unstoppable once they’d begun their advance, and any target could expect to be annihilated.

  Basilea Erinor and Cronus watched the slow approach of the city impatiently from her position high on the lead Tri-Horn’s back, where she sat in the traditional fighting platform or ‘howdah’, avidly studying the defences as they drew nearer. The whitewashed battlements, curtain walls and towers gleamed like quartz against the pristine blue of the sky, dazzling the attackers and giving the impression of impregnability. They’d all been built in the heyday of the empire’s powers and were truly awesome, but in these times of Imperial decline the garrison was at less than a third of the strength needed to defend the city, and their supplies of weaponry and munitions were almost exhausted.

  Erinor’s eye was made to follow the ebb and flow of the battle for the walls, and something told her it was exactly the right time to send in reinforcements. Ever since she’d first had the idea to break out of Artemesion and attack the Polypontian Empire it was almost as though there was something in her head, guiding her actions and telling her what to do. But being the great and arrogant warrior she was, she simply attributed this to a highly developed tactical instinct.

  The Shock Troops of the male regiments were almost exhausted, having completed their task of ‘softening up’ the defenders. Probably less than a quarter of their numbers would have survived to this point, but like all men, they were expendable. Her conscience wasn’t troubled by this: they were well trained and equipped, and had been given the signal honour of opening the battle. And there would always be others to take their places; the male animal was really quite superfluous to civilisation’s needs, and by fighting and dying for their Basilea they at least partly justified their existence. True Hypolitan society had always been organised in this way: men were useful tools that could be discarded once their usefulness was over, and for the Shock Troops, that point had just about been reached. Soon the elite female regiments would go in and continue the battle for the walls. A useful diversion while she, Erinor, led the Tri-Horn assault on the main gates. She laughed aloud in pure excitement and elation as they closed in on the latest victim of her lightning campaign.

  Her animal groaned, rumbled deeply and began to sidle, threatening to collide with its neighbour in the phalanx and disrupt the line. Quickly Erinor snatched up her goad and dug its spike deep into the thick hide of her mount until it redressed its position and plodded on. They were evil-tempered beasts with no sense of loyalty, and they’d kill their riders as happily as the enemy. They only served the Hypolitan at all because of strict training and iron control that involved using hot, razor-sharp goads and a constant threat of death.

  Some might argue that the beasts reflected the society they served perfectly, but Erinor didn’t care about any of that; like the men of the Shock Regiments, the animals were useful tools, and now, as the walls of the city approached, she gave the command and the phalanx of Tri-Horns formed itself into a fighting arrow with the Basilea at its point.

  From the walls, the defenders watched the approach of the war-beasts with dread. They’d been used against three cities in the province just south of the Hypolitan heartland already, and all of them had fallen. What chance had they with an under-strength garrison that was desperately trying to defend the walls against the almost suicidal ferocity of the Shock Troops, and which would soon be called upon to protect the main gates from the Tri-Horn attack? Surrender wasn’t an option: the Basilea wiped out the citizens of every settlement she took, and then repopulated it with her own people. Fighting for every inch of land kept her army in tip-top battle condition.

  The garrison commander had had the foresight to evacuate the non-combatants, so he only had himself and his soldiers to worry about, but this was cold comfort as he watched the Tri-Horns approach the gates. He snapped an order, and the few cannon he had left were loaded with chain and grape shot. He only had enough powder for precisely three salvoes, so every one had to count. He couldn’t risk solid shot, even though a seven-pound cannonball was about the only thing that would bring down a Tri-Horn; he just didn’t have enough cannon, powder or ammunition to make any impression on the hideous beasts that were bearing down on him. At least with grape shot he could take out as many Hypolitan as possible, and maybe he’d injure some of the Tri-Horn enough to render them hors de combat.

  The cannon all roared at once, and Erinor watched as the fighting howdah of one of the Tri-Horns erupted into splinters. All of the six Hypolitan soldiers it was carrying were killed, and she screamed in rage and hurled abuse at the defenders, but there were no other casualties and the advance continued.

  The beasts began to bellow, as they always did when they neared their target, and immediately the cannon answered, sending an explosion of broken metal and chains smashing into the phalanx. Once again the Basilea looked about her; several of her soldiers were dead or wounded, but not enough to have a significant effect on the advance. Some of the Tri-Horns were also bloodied, but the injuries were superficial, protected as they were by their massively thick hides, and also by leather and canvas surcoats that draped over their backs and almost reached the ground to either side of them. Their heads needed no such protection, being naturally armoured with the three horns and with a wide ‘ruff’ of bone and hide that protected their skulls and their necks.

  They were almost close enough now to begin their charge, and Erinor stood in the howdah and yelled the order. The Tri-Horns bellowed and surged forward at a fast walking pace which powered the phalanx along like a living avalanche. The cannon roared again and one of the beasts fell, a chance shard of metal piercing its eye
and brain. Two others stumbled over the fallen animal, dislodging their howdahs, but they scrambled to their heavy feet again and continued with the charge.

  The Basilea now fitted an arrow to the string of a longbow, and on her word a dense flight of arrows rained down on the city’s walls. Many of the defenders fell, but now Erinor and her Hordes squatted down in their howdahs and braced themselves for impact. The Tri-Horns were thundering down towards the hugely thick and tall gates. Erinor screamed in elation and hatred; another city of the empire was about to die!

  With a splintering, groaning crash her animal smashed into the portal, which was made of the trunks of entire trees, all roughly dressed and pinned together with long steel bolts. For a moment the gates resisted, while the defenders rained arrows, musket fire and rocks down on the phalanx. Erinor and her soldiers replied with their deadly longbows and javelins, but then, with a massive heave, her Tri-Horn was through. The gates fell with a booming crash, crushing dozens of soldiers who’d braced them with great spars of wood.

  Nearby, a section of the wall next to the gatehouse began to crumble, then fell with a booming rumble as three Tri-Horns, working in unison, forced their way through. Another breach was made as four of the huge beasts burst through the stonework. Then walls crumbled and fell seemingly everywhere as more and more of the Tri-Horns, working in teams, rammed the masonry.

  The defenders retreated before them, the superb Polypontian discipline holding in the face of unstoppable power as ranks of musketeers fought skirmishing retreats, and shield-bearers risked all to scale the mighty legs of the beasts and fight hand-to-hand with the soldiers in the howdahs.