“Alexandros!” She sheathed her sword. “Must you sit in darkness? I might have killed you!”
He bowed deeply. “As a man of the Hypolitan, I realise that this may happen at any time.”
Erinor glanced at him sharply, but his face was completely impassive. In truth, she wasn’t sure what she’d do if she thought her Consort was showing a ‘rebellious insubordination to the Rule of Law,’ as the statute books put it. She’d been with Alexandros now for twenty years and she truly wondered if she could bring herself to kill him, even if he were to openly preach revolution against the rule of women.
“You’ve eaten?” she asked.
“In the male mess-tent, earlier,” he confirmed.
“In that case we’ll turn in. It’s going to be a full day tomorrow.”
Her Consort remained standing, his eyes on the ground.
“All right, what is it?” she asked, immediately recognising the mute request for discussion.
“The Shock Troops of the Dragon Regiment are under-equipped. They’re short of ammunition for crossbows. If they’re to perform adequately in the coming battle they’ll need supplying.”
Erinor removed her quilted winter coat and let it drop, knowing that Alexandros would pick it up and store it in its proper chest. “Very well. Anything else?”
“Some in the same regiment lack body armour. I realise they’re only men and therefore expendable. But the longer they survive, the greater their effectiveness.”
“True,” Erinor agreed. “Talk to the quartermistress.”
Alexandros bowed, at the same time neatly gathering the Basilea’s coat and packing it away. He then helped his wife remove her felt boots.
“Ah, that’s better,” she said with relief. “My feet haven’t seen daylight in twelve hours.”
“You’ll be in the saddle for longer than that when we fight the Imperial army.”
“Will I, now?” the Basilea replied, interested to see just how much of the coming battle’s tactics and strategies he was aware of.
“Well, I presume you’ll be leading the Sacred Regiment rather than the phalanx of Tri-Horns. They’re too slow – fine for siege warfare or as the anvil of a battlefield assault, but you prefer to be the hammer.”
She laughed affectionately. “I do at that, and you’re right, I’ll probably be in the saddle from dawn till well after dusk. Oh well, that’s the joy of conquest and command.”
Alexandros watched her for a moment, assessing her mood. She seemed happy to talk, so he decided to try and gather some more information. “And after the victory, I suppose we must prepare for the assault on the Polypontian capital?”
“Of course,” she answered, quirking her eyebrow to show him that she knew perfectly well he was milking her for facts and figures. “But I won’t be leading it.”
Her Consort dropped the tray of drinking vessels he’d been tidying to give his hands something to do in the Basilea’s presence. Fortunately they were bronze, and simply bounced over the thick carpets, and he quickly gathered them together. “You won’t be leading the assault?”
“No,” she replied, enjoying his shock. “I’ve decided to forgo the glory as a sacrifice to the Great Goddess. Ever since breaking out of the homelands of Artemesion I’ve led the Hordes in victory after victory. Too much success for one commander can lead to overconfidence. The Goddess hates such human arrogance, so Ariadne will lead the assault on the capital.”
“Does she have the necessary experience?”
“Are you doubting my judgement?” Erinor suddenly snapped, her voice like a whip-crack in the quiet yurt.
Alexandros, already on the carpet to collect the fallen goblets, bowed his head to the ground. “Such disloyal and misguided thoughts had never entered my head, your Eminence. And I beg forgiveness that my demeanour should cause you to believe that they had.”
Erinor left him prone at her feet for a few moments while he relearned his role and position as her Consort. As the premier couple amongst the Hypolitan they reflected their society perfectly. Like all men, Alexandros was there to serve his spouse and comfort her as she saw fit. Like all men, his comfort and shelter depended entirely upon his wife, and like all men he had no rights to property or representation within either law or government. In fact, if Hypolitan edict was followed to the letter, no man owned anything at all, including the clothes he wore or even his own body. Once married he was entirely the property of his wife, and before marriage he belonged to his mother or his next nearest female relative.
“I hope your head isn’t wearing out my carpet,” Erinor finally said lightly, to show that he was forgiven.
“No, your Eminence,” said Alexandros, jumping to his feet. He was aware that the Basilea was now joking, but he’d never smiled in his wife’s company before, and would be shocked at the idea of doing so now.
“Good. I’m tired. You may prepare the bed. Oh, and this time, make sure you warm my side properly.”
Her Consort bowed low and went immediately to prepare the sleeping quarters.
Far off within the depths of the Darkness, the Arc-Adept Cronus analysed what he had just witnessed. There were times when the Basilea thought for herself, and the results were rarely good. But as he scrutinised Erinor’s decision to sacrifice her command of the attack on Romula he could find little in the way of difficulties. After all, the Polypontian Empire was on the brink of collapse, and even with the help of the Icemark and its allies it was unlikely to survive.
But at base its survival or destruction was of little real interest to the Arc-Adept; the war for the empire was purely a diversion, a decoy that was designed only to draw Oskan and his witches away from the Icemark, so that he, Cronus, could begin the invasion of the Physical Realms. Of course, he could simply have begun his invasion at some other point on the physical globe. But the Icemark was a perfect place to establish the first bridgehead of his occupation. Not only was it close to the agreeable Land-of-the-Ghosts, but the presence of Oskan and his witches had saturated the atmosphere with psychic power. Power that could be utilised to evil ends by the most brilliant Arc-Adept in all Creation.
His strategies really were flawless, and so far everything was going perfectly to plan.
* * *
Olememnon crept into the bedroom as quietly as several pints of beer and a huge steak pie would allow. He’d spent most of the evening with Grishmak and Tharaman, and though the Thar had been quieter than usual, the werewolf King had been his normal boisterous self, and, as always, had managed to persuade the Consort of the Basilea to eat and drink far too much.
Olememnon groped through the darkened room, hiccupping gently and trying to navigate his way to where he thought he remembered the bed had been the night before. The amount of beer he’d drunk suddenly made him supremely confident, and he strode out with determination and walked into a chair, barking his shins painfully.
For the next few seconds he hopped around in slow circles, holding first one leg and then the other as he whispered obscenities to himself. But eventually the pain subsided, and he set out for where he believed the bed to be with undiminished determination.
“Oh, for goodness’ sake, it’s over here, Ollie!” said a voice from a point directly behind him.
“Eh? Oh! Are you still awake, my love?”
“Well, I wasn’t,” said Olympia, the Basilea of the Icemark Hypolitan, “but twenty stones of beer-steeped warrior staggering around your bedroom tends to wake you up.”
“My most profound apologies, Ma’am,” Ollie replied with deep formality. “I was . . . I was discussing tactics with the Thar and King Grishmak.”
“Oh, yes. I’m sure you were,” said Olympia with deep scepticism. “And what gems of military genius did you come up with?”
“Ah, well! They were truly brilliant . . . but unfortunately, they seem to have temporarily slipped my mind,” he replied, sitting on the edge of the bed and wrestling with his boots. “But when they return, the world of military tact
ics will be astounded.”
“Undoubtedly,” said Olympia, lighting a candle and squinting at her Consort as he finally managed to remove his last boot and throw it into the farthest corner. “How was Tharaman?”
“A little quiet, actually,” Ollie replied. “There’s still no news of Kirimin or the princes.”
“No. As if we haven’t enough to worry about with the Hypolitan of Artemesion destroying the world, now two of our best commanders are distracted by the fact their children are missing!”
“Four of our best commanders are distracted, if you count Krisafitsa and Oskan.”
“Yes . . . yes. I suppose so. Have you seen the Witchfather recently?”
“No, he’s too busy preparing the medical units for the upcoming campaign, or searching the Magical Realms for the kids.”
Olympia sighed, her mind suddenly overloaded by the stresses of the pending war. “Ollie, do you . . . do you ever feel guilty?”
“About what?”
“About the fact that it’s Hypolitan who are causing this war?”
“No. It might be Hypolitan causing the war, but it’s not our Hypolitan, is it?”
“I suppose not, but we share a culture.”
Ollie, having finally managed to peel off his clothes, leaped into the bed with an ecstatic sigh. “I wouldn’t be too sure about the culture thing either. Some reports coming in from the Polypontus suggest we’re dealing with some very backward types here. You know, expendable males used as shock troops, no rights for men in either law or administration, that sort of thing.”
“Yes, I know. But let’s face it, some of our more . . . old-fashioned citizens might think that a good thing. I’ve even heard one or two talking about the purity of Hypolitan culture being preserved by the Artemesion tribes.”
Ollie put his hands behind his head and gazed contemplatively at the ceiling. “You’ll always get nutters and fanatics in any society, but most of us realise things are better than they were.”
“Yes, I suppose so,” Olympia agreed. “But if Thirrin and the rest hear comments about cultural purity too often, they might start doubting our loyalty.”
“Surely not; they’ll know it’s only the rantings of a few fundamentalist loonies.”
“You’re probably right, but perhaps the time’s right for purging the ranks of some of these unsavoury types.”
Ollie sat up and tried to focus his beer-fuddled eyes. “Olympia, Basilea of the Northern Hypolitan, do you really want to be remembered as the first leader of your people in more than half a millennium who ignored their rights as citizens and inflicted punishment without due process of the law?”
She held his gaze for a few moments and then sighed. “No. No, I don’t. But even so, there are elements that need watching.”
“There are always elements that need watching. But in the meantime I have a steak pie and too much beer to sleep off.” With that he fell immediately asleep.
Olympia looked at him for a few seconds, caught between annoyance and amusement. Then she covered him up, snuffed the candle and snuggled up to what felt and sounded like a hibernating greyling bear.
CHAPTER 12
Cressida helped herself to wine and lay back in her chair. She was tired after spending several hours training in the lists, but at last she had a little time for herself, and she chose to spend it with Eodred and Howler.
Her brother’s quarters were always so much more ‘lived-in’ than her own. The floor was littered with pieces of armour, old belts and discarded lacings, and the place smelt like a housecarle’s armpit after a day spent fighting in the hot sunshine. But somehow she felt comfortable here. Her own rooms were gleamingly clean, and as tidy as an ironed shirt; in fact, if they’d been anything other than spotless the chamberlains would have been in serious trouble, and she wouldn’t have been able to relax until order had been restored. But Eodred’s and Howler’s room was different. Perhaps it was precisely because it was the complete opposite of her own space that she could relax so completely. She didn’t have to worry about keeping up with the expected standards of the Crown Princess, and could wind down in the company of two fellow warriors who had no interest whatsoever in etiquette or the correct procedures of court life.
“So you think we’ll be ready to march in a month or so?” Eodred said, lying back on his bed and stretching luxuriously as he slowly thought things through.
“Yes,” Cressida replied, focusing her mind on the conversation. “About five weeks, in fact.”
“How far then to Romula?” asked Howler.
“I’m a bit sketchy on that, I’m afraid. But a week or so of steady marching, I should think.”
“Hmm, the latest relay reports say that Erinor and her Hordes are about to invade the Polypontian heartlands,” said Howler, scratching his chin thoughtfully. “General Andronicus is trying to stop her with a scratch army cobbled together from remnants and garrison troops, but nobody thinks he’s got a chance.”
“I shouldn’t think he has,” Cressida said, sipping her wine. “Though Andronicus is more than competent according to all the intelligence we have, and if his supplies were better and he’d had time to train his troops, then I think Erinor might have got a shock.”
“Really?” said Eodred, sitting up. “Could he have stopped her?”
“I didn’t say that. The Hordes are brilliantly ferocious and, some believe, unstoppable. But I think it would have taken more than one battle to settle the matter. Don’t forget that Andronicus was second only to Bellorum in the Imperial military hierarchy. In fact, we’re told that his was the loudest voice in the Senate against invading the Icemark, and he led the peace faction that wanted to recall Bellorum when the war dragged on longer than anyone thought.”
“Shrewd, then,” said Howler.
“Very.”
“So what’ll happen?” asked Eodred.
“With a bit of luck, Andronicus will slow Erinor down, perhaps even hurt her enough to stop her for a while, and so give us a better chance to establish ourselves before she’s ready to march again.”
“And what about these Tri-Horns?” Eodred went on. “Are they as unstoppable as everyone claims?”
Cressida shrugged. “Who knows? We can only judge by the reports we receive, and they suggest the animals are virtually indestructible. But no one here’s actually witnessed them in action. Even the refugee Polypontian officer the werewolves brought north from the border has no idea. To be honest, I don’t think he’s actually seen any active service, just admin and supply and that sort of thing; useful for details about logistics, but no good when it comes to the sharp edge of the fighting.”
Howler paced the room, suddenly restless. “It’s a shame we can’t go in and bring someone out!”
“What do you mean?” asked Cressida.
“You know, a small raiding party to seek out and capture a Polypontian officer with experience of fighting Erinor.”
“I see your point, but it’s too risky. They’d need to go to the front line to get someone with the relevant knowledge, and striking so deep into unknown territory and then getting out again, undetected, would be nigh on impossible,” said Cressida briskly. “And not only that, but if they fell into the hands of the Hordes then all chance of taking them by surprise would be lost. Erinor mustn’t know we’re coming. By all accounts she’s a brilliant tactician and strategist; if she finds out that we’re on the way she’ll be ready for us.”
“I suppose so,” Howler reluctantly agreed. “But without information we’re fighting blind.”
Cressida shrugged. “We’ll just have to be as adaptable as the enemy, then. Until the empire began to fragment they were just a scatter of mountain tribes bickering amongst themselves. It took someone with vision and power to stop them attacking each other and teach them to fight together. Erinor forced them to adapt to new circumstances, and now we have to adapt to her.”
The sound of marching feet, roaring voices and galloping hooves percolated faintly th
rough the shutters that were closed against the weather of a late Icemark autumn. “Someone’s busy learning to adapt right now,” said Eodred, climbing to his feet and opening the window so that a blast of freezing air howled around the room. “Not many of us are used to campaigning in the winter weather. Still, it’ll be warmer in the Polypontus . . . slightly.”
Down on the plain that surrounded the city of Frostmarris, Tharaman-Thar and Krisafitsa-Tharina watched as a division of the cavalry put a contingent of infantry through its paces. Already there’d been several light falls of snow and the frozen land was covered in a ragged blanket of white. In the distance the Great Forest roared and howled as an icy wind found a voice in the naked branches of the trees, and an ominously grey sky threatened more snow before the end of the day.
“Does she really need to do this now?” Tharaman asked cantankerously. “We were at it all day yesterday and things got so . . . vigorous almost half the infantry and upwards of thirty cavalry ended up in the infirmary!”
“Don’t exaggerate, dearest,” said Krisafitsa calmly. “It was much less than a quarter of the foot-soldiers, and only fifteen cavalry.”
Tharaman humphed moodily, then added: “Yes, and five of those were Snow Leopards! That just proves how violent it was; it takes pretty energetic war-gaming to put our warriors in the hospital.”
“You know she’s desperate to get the army battle-ready, and keep them that way. And besides, she needs to distract herself. Sharley’s still missing and she’s afraid.”
“And we’re not, I suppose.”
“Well, of course we are, my dear,” she answered quietly. “That fact is made abundantly clear by your complaints about Thirrin. I don’t think I’ve ever heard you say a word against her until now.”
Tharaman lowered his head. “I’m tired, Krisa, we’ve a war to fight – an invasion, no less – and all I can do is wonder where our daughter has got to. How can I concentrate when one of our cubs is lost on the Plain of Desolation?”
“No more than I can. But we must, Tharaman. This new threat from the south could destroy the Icemark and the Hypolitan, our friends and allies. We can do nothing to help Kirimin and the boys now. We can only trust that Oskan traces them and brings them home safely.”