Last Battle of the Icemark
The cold forever night of the Darkness stretched as far as Medea’s psychic eye could see. The light of the moon reflected from the white tundra of frozen souls and touched rank upon rank of twisted, gigantic and hideous monsters. The Ice Demons were a truly appalling sight, and under rigid mind-control they made a formidable fighting force.
“An army of armies, Granddaughter,” an unexpected voice suddenly said beside her.
Medea leaped sideways, but recovered quickly enough to answer Cronus with some semblance of control. “An army of conquering armies, Grandfather.”
“Yes,” he agreed. “More Ice Demon regiments are marching in from the outlying reaches of the Darkness, and within a week we will be ready for invasion.”
“If the Physical Realms knew of the danger they’re in, the entire structure and fabric of human society would collapse in terror,” said Medea happily. “To think there are even cultures that believed the mighty Cronus was imprisoned in the Darkness, and that the Goddess could prevent him from entering the world of mortals! How stupidly naïve!”
“Yes indeed, Granddaughter,” said Cronus with quiet menace. “But soon the people of the Icemark will find out exactly how wrong they were, when they die in their countless thousands. And after that the population of the entire world will be forced into changing its views. Millions will perish, and those that survive will envy them!”
Medea shuddered with evil anticipation. Soon she would be joint ruler over a new world order, and then let her family see if they could escape her wrath.
“Sister’s coming home,” she thought happily to herself.
Erinor watched as the messenger thundered through the camp towards her. Dust rose from the horse’s hooves in choking clouds; the rains had finally stopped, and the bitingly cold winds had helped to dry the clinging mud. Even this far south, she’d had to break the ice in her washing bowl that morning. Such domestic details would normally have been dealt with by Alexandros, but since she’d sacrificed her Consort to the Goddess to secure final victory in the war, she’d had to cope with such inconveniences herself. Of course she could have replaced him with a body servant of some sort, but that would hardly have been in keeping with the spirit of the sacrifice. The point was, his loss had to hurt, and the difficulties of dealing with domestic issues served to remind her of that loss.
The messenger’s horse was now close enough for her to see the rider’s features clearly. No one she knew, she thought dismissively, and waited quietly. The horse slid to a stop in a flurry of flying stones and dust, and then the young woman flung herself from the saddle, dropped to one knee and presented the small leather case that contained letters and battle plans from Ariadne, the commander of the Hordes in the field.
Erinor took the case without a word and returned to her yurt. This was another effect of the sacrifices she’d made to the Goddess in the hope of victory; she’d denied herself the glory of finally taking the city of Romula, and now she was reduced to waiting for the reports that Ariadne sent twice daily so that she could keep abreast of events! Sometimes it was almost more than she could bear, and twice she’d dressed herself in her armour and prepared to ride north and join her army. But at the last moment, common sense had prevailed, and she’d returned instead to the huge map that filled the floor of her yurt, and moved the markers that represented the opposing forces instead. She had made the offering to the Goddess, and even to attempt to take it back would be the most terrible blasphemy.
With a frustrated sigh, Erinor broke the seal on the document case and took out the papers. Quickly she scanned the contents, and immediately began to move the markers on the map again. Ariadne’s advanced party of engineers had met resistance at the Bright Water River, and had been repelled. Obviously Erinor would need to send a covering force of Shock Troops and archers to secure a crossing and construct the requisite number of pontoon bridges.
Erinor shrugged. At this point in the war, the enemy’s resistance was of little consequence; the best they could hope to do was to slow down the Hordes’ advance, which, at best, meant her soldiers’ arrival before the walls of Romula would be delayed by a day or two. Of course if the enemy had had enough numbers to truly contest the crossing of the Bright Water River, the results could have been very different, and the campaign could have ground to a halt and even foundered. It was only by the grace of the Goddess that the Polypontians were scattered, broken and badly supplied. The beneficial effects of the sacrifices Erinor had made could be seen in this alone.
The killing of the Basilea’s Consort was enough to win any war, especially if that Consort was Alexandros, and especially if he’d been loved as deeply as Erinor had loved him. For a brief moment she allowed the grief and sense of loss to submerge her, but then she straightened her spine and refused to accept the presence of the tears that slowly coursed down her face. Alexandros had been expendable, like all males; in fact, by being offered in sacrifice to the Goddess, he’d reached the highest pinnacle of honour possible for any man, and in this way his name would be remembered forever.
Telling herself that she was cheered and comforted by this thought, Erinor continued to adjust the markers on her campaign map, and tried to ignore the mournful howling of the wind around the empty streets of the camp. As Basilea, she was above any superstitious nonsense that might have heard the voices of ghosts in the wind, but as a mortal woman she couldn’t help turning to look over her shoulder when a powerful gust rose to a shriek and rattled the walls of her yurt. For a moment she shuddered. It felt almost as though some great power that had been guiding her actions, and clearing her way of obstacles, was about to abandon her and leave her to her fate. But then she frowned and shook her head, as though to empty it of such superstitious nonsense.
CHAPTER 22
The camp stretched along the road, creating a city of tents that was illuminated by thousands of cooking fires. Sentries patrolled the perimeter and guarded the horse lines and baggage train, but overall the huge settlement was amazingly quiet as most of the army of the Icemark and its allies rested after the long and arduous march.
Thirrin slept soundly in the narrow bed hidden in the shadows at the rear of her campaign tent, completely exhausted by the demands of the day. And Oskan sat nearby in a canvas-backed chair, his eyes closed and his mind open as he listened to the sounds of the night.
Strange psychic voices had been calling to the Witchfather since early that morning, echoing through the ether and falling directly into his mind, and it’d soon become clear that no one else could hear them, including his witches.
He stood and opened a portal into the Magical Realms. The voices continued to call, wordless mind-notes of summons and invitation that echoed through the sky and filled his psychic ear to the brim.
He knew the calls came from Cronus and Medea, and as a result all of his psychic shields and defences were at their highest levels. He couldn’t even begin to guess why they were calling him, and dangerously he’d allowed his curiosity to override his natural caution.
He rose up into the air and then zoomed in on the Darkness. In a matter of seconds he’d pinpointed the calling voices to Medea’s Bone Fortress. Quickly he scanned all around for signs of traps and then hovered above the turreted roof of his daughter’s home.
He could clearly see that all Ice Demons had been banished from the area; in fact, the livid white tundra of the Darkness seemed even more barren and lifeless than usual. All the signs were that Cronus and Medea genuinely wanted a summit, and considering that the Icemark was completely distracted by its upcoming war with Erinor, Oskan knew he couldn’t afford to ignore their call.
He sent out a reply to announce his arrival, then slowly descended towards the fortress. As he sank through the many layers of the multi-tiered building, he became aware that Cronus and Medea were waiting for him in a completely new area of the structure, conjured from the ether just for their meeting.
He emerged in an enormously wide and long space with a hammer-beam ro
of, the supports and spars of which seemed to be made entirely of long, sweeping thigh bones. Oskan scanned the space, which was steeped in areas of light and deep shadow. He soon found Cronus and Medea waiting quietly in the middle of the wide floor, and was immediately aware that his daughter had discarded her mortal body of flesh, and had constructed a new shell for her spirit. But it was Cronus who held his attention.
He couldn’t remember if he’d ever actually set eyes on his father before, apart from in an earlier vision sent by his Gift of the Sight. But if he had, it must have been when he was a very little boy, before the Arc-Adept had finally left his mother to bring him up alone.
Nevertheless, this . . . man undoubtedly was his father. He wasn’t aware of ever having been in the same physical space as him before, even though he’d felt his towering presence many times in the ether. But to actually stand before him as he was now doing, and to look upon his face, was an overwhelming experience. Emotions chased each other around his mind as he stood in silence, but Oskan’s expression betrayed nothing.
“Welcome, Oskan Witchfather,” Cronus said in quiet and refined tones. “Or should I say, perhaps, ‘welcome, my Son’?”
“Should you? I’m not sure. Biologically speaking, it can’t be denied that you’re my father,” he replied. “But in every other way, you are nothing to me but an enemy.”
“Oh, come now, can we not set aside our difficulties and talk to each other with at least a measure of civility?”
“Possibly,” Oskan replied. “But that very much depends on the subject matter.”
“Ah, I see you’re a man of my own stamp. Not for you the niceties of formality; we’re of that kind who need to get down to business immediately.”
“Yes. So tell me, why have you called me here?”
“Because Medea and myself have a proposition to put to you,” Cronus said, and for the first time since arriving, Oskan turned his full attention on his daughter.
“Ah, Medea. I see you’ve fully recovered from your injuries.”
She strengthened the shields that hid her mind and all its workings, and smiled. “Yes, Father. No one can physically hurt me now.”
“No,” Oskan agreed. “But your spirit remains vulnerable.”
She recoiled from the open threat, but ignored the emotional pain that lanced through her. “It’s well defended,” she replied evenly.
“Perhaps a little less sparring, and more business?” Cronus said. “That was your expressed preference, was it not?”
“Yes. So what is this proposition?”
“That you join with us.”
“For what purpose?”
“For the joint purposes of eternal rule and limitless power,” said Cronus, interested that Oskan hadn’t rejected the idea out of hand.
“Oh, really? But isn’t that the exclusive right of the Goddess?”
Cronus was pleased that they’d already managed to sidestep the issue of the pending invasion of the Physical Realms. “Indeed, yes, for the present. But perhaps a new power, a new alliance, could challenge Her position.”
Oskan gazed in wonder on the . . . thing that was his father. Even now, after aeons of exile, he still plotted and planned to attack the heavens again. “And you and Medea are that alliance?”
“Yes, but three is such a good number, don’t you think?”
“And you, Medea, do you think this . . . venture possible?”
Her father’s tone made it obvious what he thought of the plan, but she answered with enthusiasm. “Yes, completely. Easily! Between us, Grandfather and myself could sweep aside all Divine opposition and establish a new order of such—”
“Then why do you need me?”
“Need you? NEED YOU?” Cronus’s harsh voice cut through the icy atmosphere. “My dear boy, please don’t think that this offer of an alliance is anything other than an act of mercy on our part. When we come to power everything will be swept aside and destroyed; everything that weak-minded, small-scoped, petty being that dares to call Herself Goddess ever created will be expunged! We will begin again, and this time the basis of the universe will be the purity of evil, rather than the faint-hearted simpering of love!”
Cronus’s voice echoed about the wide hall, and his white face was contorted into a rictus of pure rage. But then he seemed to relax, and his voice became soft and reasonable again. “But you, my dear Oskan, you are family, and as such I . . . we have decided to offer you the chance to join with us in a towering triumvirate of eternal power.”
“Well, thank you very much, I’m sure,” the Witchfather answered lightly. “But to be honest, I think you’ve underestimated the opposition. Something that you were guilty of before.”
“I was guilty of nothing but a slight miscalculation!” Cronus snapped. Again Oskan watched him with undiluted fascination. How could such a supremely powerful entity be so blind? In any other circumstances that were much less dangerous and potentially catastrophic, such an inability to understand the true nature of Creation and its Creator might be almost endearing.
Then, incredibly, the Witchfather suddenly felt a spark of affection for the unspeakable abomination that stood before him, but he quickly reminded himself of all the pain and suffering that Cronus had inflicted on the world.
“A slight miscalculation, you say?” Oskan eventually went on. “Well, I’m afraid you’re guilty of much the same again. Nothing would, or could, ever induce me to form an alliance with such depraved creatures as my beloved father and daughter! If you have nothing else to offer or add, we must consider this brief summit at an end!”
“Consider well before you reject me, Witchfather!” Cronus snarled, his black eyes sparking for a moment. “The offer will not be made again!”
“Good, then it will save me the effort of rejecting it again.”
The Arc-Adept drew a cloak of shadow and ice around him, and his voice fell to a low threatening growl. “Had we agreed truce terms before we finalised the details of this meeting?”
Oskan smiled coldly. “No. But please, if you feel you can pierce my defences, you’re more than welcome to try.”
Suddenly the entire room was obliterated as a blinding, searing explosion of plasma engulfed the Bone Fortress. Cronus and his granddaughter stood within their jointly conjured shield of protection and waited for the smoke and falling debris to clear. The only sound was the wind gently moaning over the tundra, and Medea tried to look unconcerned as she scanned the slowly dissipating smoke for her father.
Then the last billows and wisps were blown away and Oskan emerged unscathed. “Well, how entertaining; you blew up your granddaughter’s home, Cronus. I suppose one can expect little else from the psychic scum of the universe,” he said quietly.
And then, with a wave of his hand, he conjured the entire Bone Fortress back into existence.
“Father!” Medea suddenly called, but then fell silent as he turned to her, and she regained control.
Oskan nodded decisively, as though she’d added something more.
Cronus said nothing, his face impassive as he gazed at his son, and after a few more moments of silence Oskan rose up through the charred floors of the Fortress. Anger burned within him, and he burst through the roof like a destroying comet.
He shouted loud and long, venting his frustration into the sky of the Darkness, his voice echoing over the wide frozen wastes of the tundra of souls. He had left much more behind him than a ludicrous offer of alliance in a doomed campaign against the Goddess – he’d finally left behind his daughter and the father he’d never had a chance to know. Somewhere in the deepest depths of his mind he’d somehow hoped to reach them, to reason with them, but now he was finally forced to accept they were beyond redemption.
Now would be the time to use the weapon of knowledge against them, but why should Cronus and his renegade daughter rob him of his life? There was still a chance of defeating them without the need to destroy himself, if only he could control the full Power of the Darkness without being
corrupted by it. For the sake of his family, he was determined to find a way.
Ariadne gazed over the land to the towering walls and defences of Romula. Thousands of Polypontian cavalry units could be seen streaming back to the capital city, as their hopeless campaign to stop the Hordes’ advance had finally collapsed. The Tri-Horn squadrons had crossed the Bright Water River two days before, pushing back the Polypontian defenders and holding a foothold on the northern bank while the engineers had then built the dozens of pontoon bridges needed to allow the massive army to cross.
After that it was simplicity itself. The Imperial cavalry had continued to harass the advance, but they were about as effective as a mosquito against a charging bull, and within forty-eight hours the supreme prize of Romula itself had appeared on the horizon. Ariadne knew that this was the defining moment of her career. No longer would she be a footnote to the military brilliance of the Basilea herself. No longer would she be just one more name amongst the lists of the High Command, who had simply facilitated the tactics and strategies of Erinor. She would be counted as a great commander in her own right: Ariadne Minotaurus, the Conqueror of Romula!
Taking a deep breath, she looked ahead to the walls, and raising her hand, gave the order to advance. There was no need to set up siege lines, pitch camp or dig defences. The city was weak, and just waiting to fall. Her only interest lay in how long it would take it to finally die. To achieve true greatness and everlasting fame, she needed to be in control of the city within twenty-four hours.
With a rumbling roar her Tri-Horn stepped out across the plain, and the creature’s strange rolling gait made her feel as though she was aboard a ship that was bearing down on a port city she intended to raid. “The prize is before us! Seize it! Destroy it! Wipe it from the land!” The huge deep-throated war-horns of the southern Hypolitan now boomed on the air, filling the world with their threat and their power.