Last Battle of the Icemark
Erinor regarded her in stony silence until Ariadne almost squirmed and writhed under the cold scrutiny. “And that’s why my self-denial will be exactly the right act of sacrifice to the Goddess,” she finally said.
Understanding nods were now exchanged between the generals. Here was a fitting reason for Erinor’s absence from the assault. Every soldier in the army would approve of such a towering act of self-denial, and would know that only their Basilea had the strength to make such a sacrifice to the Goddess. Their victory was now even more assured.
“May I request that the Basilea reviews the army before it embarks upon its historic invasion of the Polypontian heartland, and that she ask the Goddess to guide us in our war?” Ariadne asked quietly.
Erinor looked at her second-in-command, understanding her petition perfectly. This would be the first campaign in which she would be the sole tactician and strategist. Even though there would be many seasoned heads to consult, the ultimate and final decision would be hers, and the thought was overwhelming. “You needn’t be afraid, Ariadne. The Goddess will guide you; the walls of Romula will crumble, and the defenders will lay down their arms.”
Ariadne bowed her head in acknowledgement of the Goddess’s bounty, but couldn’t ignore the nagging fear that whispered failure in her mind’s ear. Just then, almost as though confirming her dread, a distant mutter of thunder rolled over the sky, and the steady hiss of rain sounded beyond the walls of the yurt.
All of the commanders’ heads turned to listen; rain could be the enemy of a marching army, especially if it turned the roads to mud and literally dampened the morale of the soldiers under drenching sheets that soaked uniforms to the skin and heralded illness.
Erinor sat back in her high-backed chair and offered a prayer to the Goddess, requesting perfect marching weather and the removal of any obstacles that may stop them reaching the walls of Romula in less than a week. But the Basilea’s corrupt and debased interpretation of the Mother caused the supplications to reach no divine ear and receive no such blessings.
The rains settled in for almost ten solid days, and they turned the empire’s once well-maintained roads into quagmires; they soaked through the thickest and most waterproof layers covering the yurts and drenched every soldier to the skin. Foodstuffs, blankets, even boots rotted in the downpour, and the normally brilliantly polished weapons became rusty no matter how often they were cleaned.
In such conditions the march on Romula was impossible, and the Hordes settled down to wait for better weather while their Basilea raged and roared through the camp, hanging anyone who caught her maddened eye and demanding a witch-hunt to find out who it was who’d earned the anger of the Goddess, never believing that it might be herself.
Through all of this Cronus had quietly watched from his icy pinnacle in the Darkness. The fact that the attack on Romula had been delayed by the rains concerned him not at all. The Icemark and her Allies were now committed to invading the Polypontus, and, once their armies had crossed the borders, his invasion of the Physical Realms would be uncontested. Surprise would be complete, and he would have established control over the entire country before anyone knew what was happening. So would begin the building of a new empire whose core and centre would be the Darkness; so would begin the first move in a war that would ultimately challenge the Goddess Herself for the right to rule Creation.
But one more piece needed to be put in place before the glorious jigsaw of his plans was truly complete. He would succeed anyway, no matter what happened, but he felt he owed it to the overall elegant effect of his strategy to try and convince Oskan Witchfather to join with him and Medea in establishing the New Order. Besides, it had to be admitted that everything would be so much easier if his son would join them.
What a truly magnificent triumvirate they would make, and how pleasing in its symmetry that three members of one diabolical family should rule the Physical and Spiritual Realms. He, Cronus, would of course be the senior partner within the ruling trinity, while Medea, who was still not aware of the true scale of his plans, would be a very junior contributor indeed. He had almost completed the moulding of her thoughts and attitudes, but in one area she remained stubborn. No matter what Cronus did to alter her mindset, she retained a love for her father.
But Oskan . . . Oskan had a potential whose range and power nobody really understood. With him on board, limits really wouldn’t apply. But as yet, neither he nor Medea were aware that they were simply pawns in the game he controlled. Oh, how he loved his ability to manipulate the worlds around him. Not only simple-minded Barbarian queens, but even those of his own blood. Medea really had no idea that her grandfather had orchestrated her battles with her father as a means of testing both their abilities, and he’d found the results most informative.
All that remained to be done now was to convince Oskan to finally accept his true heritage within the Darkness. And Cronus was convinced that his son wouldn’t be able to finally resist the call of true evil when he fully understood exactly what was on offer.
* * *
Sharley felt nervous. In fact, he was close to panicking as he waited with Mekhmet and Kirimin in the small room next to the comfortable family apartments that he’d known for years. He told himself he was being ridiculous; he was, after all, only waiting to see his dad for the first time since he’d rescued them from the Magical Realms! But then the memory of the blackened skeleton that had erupted in the sky above them on the Plain of Desolation, came back in vivid clarity and he shuddered. He now knew that his dad had fought Medea, and that she had lured them into the Magical Realms and kept them trapped. After his initial shock, he was hardly surprised. His sister had hated him since they were children, so this attempt to kill him was just one more in a long line of her attempts on his life.
His and his friends’ survival was entirely due to his dad, who despite his terrible injuries had managed to rescue them and bring them all home. But somehow Sharley couldn’t get the image of that smoking skull out of his head, or the way its empty eye sockets had turned on them and seemed to glow, as though it could still see and was excited by its find!
Sharley knew that his dad had been magically regenerated in the cave beneath the citadel, but somehow he couldn’t quite believe that his dreadful wounds could have been healed completely. Surely there’d be at least some scarring; surely he’d be disfigured in some way?
Mekhmet reached over and squeezed his hand, understanding how he felt perfectly. “No matter what he looks like, he’s still your dad,” he said. “And a brave man.”
Sharley nodded. “I know, but how can I . . . how can I even touch him when . . .” his voice trailed away.
“Well, I won’t flinch from him,” said Kirimin. The Witchfather’s always been my favourite adult human. I remember when I was a little cub and meeting him for the first time, he understood perfectly that a smile would look like a snarl to a Snow Leopard, so instead he blinked slowly and purred, just like a cat. Of course as I grew older I learned all about human facial expressions, but I’ve never forgotten that first meeting. He was . . . kind.”
“You’re talking about him as though he’s dead!” said Mekhmet. “He’s not; he’s only injured, and we should all be adult enough by now to see through the disfigurement and look on the man beneath.”
Suddenly the door to the sitting room opened, and all three leaped to their feet as though stung. They glared almost fearfully at the opening space, and breathed a sigh of relief when a neatly dressed chamberlain they all knew stepped out. “Ah, there you are! The Queen and Witchfather were wondering where you’d got to.”
“We didn’t like to just barge in unannounced,” Sharley explained.
The chamberlain looked puzzled. “Why not? You always have before.”
“Yes, but it’s different now—”
“Are they there, Ranulph?” Thirrin’s voice interrupted. “What are they dithering about?”
“I’m not sure, ma’am,” he answered. Then, turnin
g back to the friends, he added: “Well, come on!”
They followed him into the living room in single file and stood in silence, as close to the door as they could. Thirrin was sitting next to the fireplace in her third-best dress, determined to be as normal as possible before the demands of the coming war had her wearing armour for weeks on end. She was talking to someone in a high-backed settle that was turned away from them.
“Well, come in!” she said when she saw them. Sharley had already been reunited with his mother earlier, and his ribs still felt bruised from the mighty hugs she’d given him. There was also something about motherly kisses that made your hair stand up in odd tufts, which no amount of brushing and wet combs would tame.
“They’re here, Oskan,” she said to the settle, and the wood creaked as a tall figure stood up. For a moment he paused as he poked the fire, and then he turned to face them.
They all gasped aloud. He was perfect! In fact, he looked younger, with no grey hair or wrinkles. “Well, about time,” he said, smiling broadly. “It’s not every day you get burned to a crisp rescuing people, so it’s nice when they finally find a space in their busy lives to come and see you.”
“Dad . . . Dad, you were burned black. You were a skeleton!”
“Yes, but I’m not now.”
“But how?”
“I’m a healer and a Warlock,” he answered simply, as though that explained everything. Which of course, it did.
Kirimin leaped forward, almost knocking the Witchfather into the fire, and licked him vigorously, her thunderous purrs filling the room. “Kiri, this face is still quite new and tender, please leave some of it on my skull!”
She sat back and let out a crashing roar of joy that rattled the windows and had the werewolf and housecarle guards pouring through the doors, ready for battle.
“It’s all right, it’s all right!” Thirrin called as the soldiers stormed in. “It’s only Princess Kirimin greeting the Witchfather.”
Mekhmet joined in the pandemonium by calling aloud a prayer in his own language which proclaimed that there was no God but the One and mighty was his Messenger, and then he salaamed deeply and grinned hugely.
Only Sharley continued to stare at his father in silence. Then at last he said, “I thought you were as good as dead.”
“So I was,” said Oskan. “But the Goddess allowed me to be healed. Obviously I have other tasks to perform in my life before I’m called home to the Summer Lands.”
“I see,” said Sharley. Then, stepping forward, he took his father’s hand and inspected the smooth, youthful skin before holding it briefly to his cheek. “Thanks for rescuing us, Dad,” he said simply, and smiled.
“That’s all right, Charlemagne. I’d fight an entire Darkness of sorcerers for you, if I had to.”
“Good. Greetings over,” said Thirrin briskly into the silence that followed. “Now, while I have you all here, can you please do something about that Imp you brought with you? He’s causing chaos in the palace kitchens.”
Almost on cue, a sudden rattle of wings sounded on the air and the object of discussion flew in. “Where have you been? I’ve been looking everywhere!”
Kirimin sighed wearily. “I’m sorry, but I don’t think anyone can control him.”
“Oh, I think I could,” said Oskan darkly.
Pious gave a squeak of alarm. “Oh, no! It’s that warlock!”
“One moment, my little bundle of chaos,” the Witchfather said commandingly as the Imp prepared to flee. “I want to know exactly why you allowed yourself to be transported here when I rescued Charlemagne and Co.”
“Well, actually I didn’t ‘allow’ any such thing. It was purely accidental. One moment I was taking a well-earned siesta in one of the Prince’s saddlebags, and the next thing I knew, I was in the Icemark with pandemonium erupting all around me!”
“I see,” said Oskan quietly. “So you claim that you were a reluctant stowaway.”
“Absolutely.”
“All right. I’ll accept your story for now. But I think it only fair to warn you that if I suspect, even for one moment, that you’re acting as an . . . agent for a certain sorceress, or for anyone else, then you can expect to die slowly and horribly. Do I make myself clear?”
“As the finest crystal, oh Powerful One,” said Pious, managing to bow ingratiatingly as he hovered in mid-air.
Oskan then turned his full magical attention on the Imp and held him in an unblinking stare that seemed to paralyse the small demon as he probed deep into his head. “Your brain and mind are as devious and as twisted as I would expect from one of your ilk; yet I detect no malice towards my son or his friends. In fact, I’m surprised to see a stirring of emotion deep in your dark little psyche. Could it be, creature of the night, that you even feel the first glimmerings of friendship for our children?”
“Witchfather, as a demon, I hardly know what I feel,” Pious answered uncomfortably. “As you can no doubt appreciate, affinity and empathy have never been high on my list of priorities.”
“Indeed,” Oskan replied, and smiled. “Welcome to the world of humanity, my dear little Imp, and be prepared for a ride of the most extreme emotional turmoil.”
For a moment Pious gazed at the Witchfather, but then he was seized by a terrible panic attack as the full implication of what he’d been told hit him. With a squeak of pure terror he shot away, and the crash of breaking glass filled the room as the Imp flew off through the window, allowing the cold, snow-scented wind to howl around the room.
“Do we have a glazier in the citadel?” Thirrin asked resignedly.
Medea woke slowly, her mind gradually expanding to fill the physical limitations of her body, but then extending beyond mere flesh and blood to explore the world around her. She’d been dormant for several days, allowing her body and powers to regenerate fully as she lay as still and quiet as the dead on the table of ice she’d conjured.
But if her body had been quiet while it repaired itself, her mind had been working feverishly as she sought a means of gaining revenge and destroying Oskan. Her grandfather had said that she was “missing the obvious” and that she only worked within the “small and petty”. This had scarred her deeply. She was desperate to impress Cronus with her abilities, both psychic and intellectual. Her father had already rejected her when he’d exiled her to the Darkness, and the thought that Cronus thought her less than brilliant was more than she could bear. She’d spent hours thinking things through with meticulous care before she’d entered her healing sleep. But she’d reached no obvious conclusion.
She scanned the Darkness around her, observing and absorbing the terrifying beauty of its icy wastes. A full moon like a deformed skull glowered over the tundra of frozen souls, and a low howling moaned monotonously, almost as though a wind was blowing over the frigid wilderness. But the desolate sound had nothing to do with the movement of air; it was the ‘spirit of ghosts’, a phenomenon quite unique to the Darkness, where the very essence of the many millions who’d died trying to enter the evil realm escaped from their captivity and wandered in torment over the wastes.
“So many lost souls,” said Medea to herself. Shuddering at the thought of such desolate helplessness, she began to examine her body as it lay quietly on the ice table. The healing process was now complete, and her powers were completely restored. But she knew at last that the time had almost come to escape the limitations of puny physicality. If her form had been expressed in pure spirit, then her father would have been unable to destroy her magical Gifts. If a brain did not physically exist, it could hardly be damaged. Such freedom from the physical would be so liberating.
Her grandfather was the perfect example of ‘body-less existence’; his form was conjured from the ectoplasm of light and shadow, and he built a body from whatever materials were to hand. This gave him a physical form that he could use whenever it suited him.
Medea knew that once she’d shed her body, her powers would manifest purely in spirit and so could never be
damaged again. By the time her plan was put into action, she would need to have made this transition from physical being to spiritual, but somehow she wasn’t yet quite ready to take this step. Her subconscious mind felt a need to hang on to the past that her real body represented. As much as she hated the memory of her old life in the Icemark, it was also there that she’d spent time with her father as he’d taught her how to use her fledgling talents as an Adept. It was there, and then, that Oskan had loved her.
But all of this was hidden deep in the shadows of her mind, and as she hung in the ether she cleared her thoughts and finally descended through the Bone Fortress and entered her body. Its limitations were stifling and more than a little disgusting; it was rather like forcing her arms and legs into a tight rubber suit that’d been lubricated with someone else’s cold and sticky mucus. Shuddering, she positioned her consciousness behind her eyes and between her ears, and then forced her eyelids up. She opened her mouth and drew the breath that was needed to keep the thing living, and she coughed to clear tubes and passages.
At last she stood up and stretched. The sense of disgust was beginning to fade as she grew used to her body again, and her thoughts quickly returned to her plans for inflicting death and mayhem on her family.
The Vampire Queen sat alone in her throne room. She often found the incessant chatter of the courtiers wearing; despite their immortality they seemed endlessly fascinated by the petty and ephemeral, and would talk for hours about the weather, fashion and the latest scandals. Better to suffer the loneliness of the cold throne room than endure the isolation to be found within the crowds of facile courtiers.
Time passed without acknowledgement from Her Vampiric Majesty; untouched by the needs of a living body, she could sit for days in the shadows of the palace. Only Lugosi, her loyal chamberlain, ensured that she remembered to feed the few needs of the corpse that contained her personality, and she would step out into the long night of a northern winter and fly in search of a victim. But when she came back to the Blood Palace, she would spend a few brief moments with her courtiers, before dismissing them and returning to the shadows and grief of her throne room.