But before she could move, her sister sent a blast of lightning roaring and crackling across the Great Hall and it struck her with a huge explosion. Medea let out a great shriek of laughter; she had no doubts or qualms about killing Cressida. Just like the rest of her family, she’d always hated her. But Medea’s laughter abruptly stopped in mid-peal as she suddenly realised that Cressida was still standing, completely unscathed.
“NO!” she raged, and sent bolt after bolt against her hated sister, but still she stood, unaffected and smiling gently.
“Medea, let me introduce you to an old friend of mine,” Cressida said as she strolled unhurriedly across the floor. “This is my favourite mace. I must have killed dozens with it in the last few wars . . . oh, and I’ve also caved in the heads of several Ice Demons with it just now.”
“Why aren’t you dead?” Medea raged, ignoring her sister’s words entirely. “Why aren’t you incinerated?”
Cressida smiled. “Oh, that; Dad tells me I’m immune to magic, so that means you can’t do anything to me, apart from fight me physically, that is. I tell you what . . . I’ll take you on with one hand behind my back, and I’ll let you choose weapons . . .”
Medea gave a shriek and turned to run. But with the complete ruthlessness of the veteran she was, Cressida smashed her a crushing blow with the mace, breaking her shoulder, her collarbone and several of her ribs. Like a rag doll in a high wind she was sent cartwheeling across the palace floor until she struck a huge ice table and lay still.
Now that the enemy was rendered useless, Cressida remembered her father, and hurried over to the blackened remains that still smoked gently on the icy floor of the palace. The stench of burned flesh was overpowering, and she stepped back in grief and horror, convinced she was looking at a corpse.
But then the blackened skull that had been a face turned to her, and she watched as the charred skeleton climbed to its feet. She was mesmerised, torn between revulsion and a deep sorrowing compassion for her hideously injured father. But as she watched through a distorting river of tears, the figure raised its hand. Medea was struggling to rise again.
Cressida drew her sword, but Oskan held her back and bowed his head as he opened himself once more to the Darkness. Immediately his frame was filled to the brim with a snapping, crackling surge of power, and with a guttural cry he drove it at Medea.
It hit her like an avalanche, destroying her defences and smashing her back against the walls of her palace. For a moment she was pinned to the ice, but then she slipped slowly to the floor and lay still.
“Forgive me, Medea,” he whispered. Only he knew that he was asking her pardon for failing to guide her properly along the Paths of Light when she’d still been a little girl.
She wasn’t dead, and he knew he’d only partially damaged her powers, but there was nothing more he could do. The laws of the Cosmos prevented him from killing her. Terrible consequences could arise from such an act, consequences he wasn’t prepared to allow. Besides, he was too badly injured, and he only had sufficient reserves of strength left to rescue Sharley and his friends.
Cressida hurried forward to help him, but he waved her away. With a supreme effort he raised his hands above his head, gathered Cressida, her werewolves and housecarles and then drove into the sky, bursting through the roof of the Bone Fortress like a shooting star. Scanning the Plain of Desolation he quickly found what he wanted. Medea could no longer mask them.
The roar of the Witchfather’s arrival above them made Sharley, Mekhmet and Kirimin leap to their feet. But the silken hiss of scimitars being drawn and the warning snarls of Kirimin were suddenly stifled as Oskan gathered them together, horses and all, and wrenched them back to the Icemark.
They erupted into the Great Hall of the citadel just as dinner was being served. Tables were heaved aside, housecarles shouted, werewolves howled, dogs barked, and over it all Thirrin’s voice rose in power and joy. “Put up your weapons! Put up your weapons! The Witchfather has brought them home!”
At last silence descended, and everyone gazed at the tangled heap of boys, horses, Snow Leopard, werewolves, housecarles, Crown Princess and a gently smoking skeleton.
Thirrin was the first to shake herself free of the shock of their sudden appearance, and she stepped forward, gazing at the wreck and tangle before her. Her youngest son was home! Her little Sharley was safe, and so were his friends.
She laughed aloud for joy, but then suddenly stopped as her eyes came to rest on the hideously charred skeleton. “Oskan!”
The blackened skull turned to look at her. “Thirrin, I can use the Darkness! I can use the Darkness!” it croaked.
CHAPTER 16
Cressida sat in the chamber of the High Command busying herself with details, to distract herself from worrying about her father. When they’d first got back to the Icemark from the Magical Realms, Oskan had remained conscious just long enough to give directions about his care. But then he’d collapsed into a coma and been removed to the cave where his burned body had been magically regenerated in the last war against the Polypontus. Cressida’s mind was eminently practical, and she knew full well that there was nothing she could do to help Oskan recover from his terrible injuries, so she’d decided to grill Andronicus about arrangements for the upcoming invasion of the Polypontus.
“So, your son will rendezvous with us just south of the Dancing Maidens,” stated Cressida in brisk tones.
“Yes,” Andronicus confirmed distractedly as he helped himself to another fruit pie. “I do hope your mother will allow me to take a few recipes along when we march south.”
“General, concentrate!” came the snappy reply. “I’m trying to finalise details here.”
“Yes, yes, quite.” Andronicus agreed and tried to look suitably martial and efficient.
The other places around the huge table were empty. Grishmak, Tharaman and the others had made good their escape as soon as Thirrin had closed the earlier meeting, but Andronicus just hadn’t been fast enough and the Crown Princess had swept down on him before he could slip away.
“Now, am I right in saying that he’s been leading a resistance movement against the northward advance of Erinor and her Hordes?”
“Yes, that’s right,” Andronicus confirmed, trying to sound efficient through a mouthful of pastry. “We agreed that I should lead a body of men into exile where they could recover, regroup and re-equip, while he did all he could to slow down the enemy. With the help of the werewolf relay, communications between us have been swift and it’s thanks to him that we know so much of Erinor’s movements.”
Cressida nodded and made copious notes while Andronicus surveyed the sorry wreckage of the refreshment table. Grishmak, Olememnon and Tharaman had left very little that was worth salvaging, but his Polypontian efficiency had so far unearthed two pies and a fruit tart. But now it really did look as though there was nothing left but crumbs, and a few jam tarts, with suspiciously large teeth-marks, that had been sampled and then thrown aside.
With a sigh, Andronicus turned his full attention to the irritatingly exacting Crown Princess, who was speed-reading her notes. “Now, I take it he’s fully aware of rendezvous times and places, and that he’s familiar with his future role in the invading army?”
The general considered pointing out that all of these details had already been discussed ad nauseam, in the earlier meeting with the Queen, but quickly abandoned the idea. Cressida was the sort of young woman who took careful and painstaking delight in informing people that they had appalling faults, but could never accept criticism herself. She’d told him only that morning that her mother had spent literally days going over plans that had already been studied and discussed, and had then insisted on this detailed re-examination. The irony of the situation was completely lost on her.
“General, are you listening to me?”
Andronicus jumped and sat up. “Erm . . .yes, yes, of course.”
“Then what did I just ask you?”
Feeling like
a naughty schoolboy he racked his brains. “Erm . . . you wanted to know if Leonidas knew where we were meeting, and at what time.”
“Leonidas? Is that your son’s name? It doesn’t sound Polypontian.”
“No, it’s Hellenic. His mother was a Hellene, and fortunately for him he takes after her, rather then me,” Andronicus replied, patting his enormous belly and smiling contentedly.
“Was a Hellene?”
“Yes, she died in childbirth. I never remarried . . . nobody could ever replace her; nobody could even come close . . .” His voice trailed away sadly, and Cressida gazed at him, puzzled by the response she felt for someone she’d never known.
“Was she beautiful?”
“As a moonlit night; as a summer dawn. And Leonidas is a mirror of her.”
“Good looking, then.”
Andronicus gave a bark of laughter. “Every young Polypontian lady who ever meets him begins a campaign to win him. But none ever have.”
“Why not?”
“Well, he may have his mother’s looks, but he has his old dad’s inability with the opposite sex. Put him within fifty metres of a young woman and he suddenly acquires feet that belong to somebody else and a tongue that’s never even heard of language. He stutters and staggers and spends most of his time an interesting shade of red.”
“And this man has command of an army?”
“Oh, that’s different. There are very few women in the Polypontian forces, and the few female soldiers he’s met from the Icemark he treats in exactly the same way as his men,” Andronicus explained. “No. I think it’s only when he meets women in a social context that he has difficulties.”
“I see,” said Cressida, and valiantly resisted an almost overwhelming desire to ask more about Leonidas. “Now, back to details. How many soldiers does he have under his command?”
“Well, circumstances dictate that they fight in small autonomous units, using hit and run tactics, but as an approximation, I’d say he has over thirty thousand men altogether.”
“Good, good,” said Cressida, scribbling furiously. “And does he have any other names?”
“I’m sorry?” said the general, confused by the sudden change in the direction of the questions.
“Leonidas. Does he have any other names?”
“Erm . . . yes, yes of course. He’s known as Leonidas Apollodorus Andronicus. When he was a boy everyone called him Leo, and as his name suggests he was brave as a little lion. But put him anywhere near a girl, even at that age, and he became as daft and as timid as a kitten.”
“He should have had sisters. He wouldn’t have been afraid of women then.”
“Yes, he should. His mother always said she wanted a large family. But it wasn’t to be,” said Andronicus sadly.
“You ought to have married again,” said Cressida in her practical mode. “It’s not too late even now – Uncle Ollie . . . I mean Olememnon of the Hypolitan married the Basilea when he was positively ancient.”
“As opposed to just old and decrepit like myself?”
Cressida smiled, acknowledging her faux pas. “I’ll keep an eye out for someone; there are quite a few eligible ladies at court. Baroness Hildegard, for example. She has a small comfortable castle near the Dancing Maidens, and her kitchens are famous throughout the South Riding. Ideal for a man of such culinary tastes as yours.”
The general mustered his resources like the brilliant tactician he was, and changed the subject smoothly. “I tell you what, shall we continue this over lunch? I’m supposed to be meeting Tharaman, Grishmak and Olememnon in the Great Hall, and I’m sure there’s still lots you need to finalise with them.”
Cressida sighed. Men just didn’t have the stamina needed for true organisational flair. “I suppose beer and wine will be involved.”
“Well, we are talking about lunch here.”
“Fine,” she agreed, putting away her pens and notes. “I’d more or less got everything I wanted anyway.”
Medea was aware that her magic was damaged, but it would recover given time. Her eyeball, where the shard of lightning had pierced her skull, was healing only slowly, trickling thick mucus down her cheek like sticky tears. And her brain was desperately trying to find new pathways that would allow what Abilities she still had to be used. It was obvious she’d need to become ‘dormant’ for a while and allow her body to repair itself properly. Ironically, when she was fully healed she’d be stronger than she had been before Oskan had attacked her. In fact, her defeat in the battle with her father had been very useful; things had been put into a proper perspective. She’d been forced to face the fact that beneath the hatred and need for revenge, she still loved Oskan Witchfather. And now she was almost convinced that, knowing such a weakness existed in her psyche, she could eradicate it once and for all.
In the meantime, all she required was to be left alone and given the peace in which to recover from her injuries. She sighed and stretched, preparing her body for the long healing sleep that would add the final touches to her regeneration. When she was completely healed one of her first tasks would be to thaw another soul from the tundra to act as a handmaid. Annoyingly Orla had managed to die in her clash with Cressida, her spirit ripped apart by the huge levels of magic that had seethed through the atmosphere.
A distant echo of footsteps interrupted her thoughts, and she waited quietly for her long-expected visitor to appear. Eventually the figure of her grandfather emerged from the shadows and she turned to watch as he drew nearer.
“Elegant,” he said, in reference to the velvet eye-patch that covered her injuries. “And do you have a patch for your damaged brain?”
“That’s healing. I’ll be stronger than ever in less than a month.”
As her grandfather drew closer, Medea hurriedly stood and stepped to one side, and he sat in her great chair and turned his blank, crushing gaze on her. “True, you will be stronger. But will it be enough?”
“To defeat my father? Undoubtedly.”
“You’ve always underestimated Oskan, Medea. Make sure you’re not doing it again.”
“No. This time I’ve got it right. You can’t fight someone almost to the death without getting an accurate feel for their abilities.”
“Normally I’d agree with you, but the Witchfather is different. No one else has ever been able to call on the Power of the Darkness as he did in his battle with you, and then resist being consumed by it. He should have been destroyed, or become possessed by it.” His lips drew back over his pointed teeth. “Consider yourself; you’re completely submerged and saturated in the Darkness. You’re part of its fabric, and every bit of you is made up of its hate and evil. But the Witchfather can use the evil power of the domain at will, and then walk away completely untouched by it.”
“And that is his weakness,” snapped Medea. “He uses it as a resource, whereas I am the Darkness.”
“No, you are one small part of it; the Darkness would continue without your unimportant contribution, but you would die without its presence in your life.”
“What do you mean? I existed before the Darkness came into my life.”
“Yes, but now it’s consumed you. You need it like the creatures of the Physical Realms need oxygen or water. And that’s your weakness.”
“All who dwell in the Darkness are the same,” she answered, unconcerned.
“Do you think so?” her grandfather asked quietly. “Haven’t you realised yet that the greatest Adepts exist with it, whereas the weakest live on it, or even because of it.”
“But I’m one of the greatest Adepts there’s ever been!” Medea cried proudly. “I survived an all-out attack by Oskan Witchfather, and I almost killed him!”
“Yes, but he survived. My son is hampered by goodness, by emotions and by his refusal to answer completely the call of the Darkness, and yet still you couldn’t defeat him.” Cronus stood up, and a swirl of icy particles eddied around him like a cloak. “There’s a fatal weakness in you, Medea. You can’t see beyond yo
ur own arrogance and emotions. Even now your mind deals only with the small-scale and petty; why try to kill only your father when entire populations could be destroyed? The obvious still hasn’t occurred to you, has it?”
His deep and dreadful eyes regarded her for a moment, and then he turned and walked away, the shadows coalescing and scuttling after him as they were drawn to his negative power.
Medea watched him go in puzzlement. “But what do you mean, Grandfather? What do you mean?”
Thirrin wasn’t magical at all – she hadn’t even the slightest latent tendency towards a Gift of any sort – but she was a creature of instinct, and some deep visceral feeling had drawn her to this vigil in the cellar above Oskan’s cave. The torch she held flared and smoked fitfully, and she considered calling a housecarle or werewolf guard to bring another, but she eventually decided that she preferred that no one knew where she was.
She’d been waiting for over an hour so far, and though she wouldn’t admit, even to herself, exactly what she was waiting for, she’d made sure that she had a complete set of Oskan’s clothing with her, as well as a flask of brandy.
Eventually she found an old crate to sit on and occupied herself running over the marching order of the army that would set out in two days’ time. She and Andronicus had agreed that for the sake of Polypontian morale his regiments should be at the head of the line. After all, in effect they were the remnants of several defeated armies that had been forced into exile, and if they were tagged on to the end of the marching line, this idea would be reinforced amongst the soldiers. No, for the empire troops to be truly effective members of the invasion force, they had to believe themselves to be an integral part of it.
Thirrin smiled as she thought back over her meetings with the Polypontian general. At first they’d been frosty, formal affairs, but eventually Andronicus’ natural exuberance and friendliness had broken down her reserves and she’d even begun to acknowledge to herself that she quite liked him. He really wasn’t that bad, for a Polypontian.