Last Battle of the Icemark
Thirrin now placed the boy securely into Havoc’s high war-saddle, and, keeping a tight hold of the reins, she led him towards the gate of the palace precinct. Sensing an impromptu victory parade, the commander of the palace guard ordered his men to fall in, and soon they were emerging into the streets, where the waiting population broke into spontaneous acclamation at the sight of the little Emperor riding the Barbarian Queen’s warhorse.
For more than two hours they paraded through the streets, showing themselves to the people and giving a focus for the joy and relief they felt at the defeat of the Hordes and the saving of the city.
Her Vampiric Majesty had established her headquarters deep in the Great Forest, in the same complex of caves where Oskan Witchfather had lived as a boy. She’d even made her temporary throne-room in the very cavern he’d used as his home and main shelter before he’d met and married the young woman who was destined to become the Queen of the Icemark. She almost smiled in a wicked enjoyment of the situation, but then became serious again as she thought through the battle she’d just been engaged in. Her squadrons had taken a severe beating, but even so, they’d fought with distinction and had destroyed many of the hideous Ice Demons that made up the bulk of the invading army. Of course, technically the Vampires had lost the battle, and the invaders had taken Frostmarris and established control over the plain. But they hadn’t been expecting any form of resistance, and Her Vampiric Majesty just knew they were reeling with shock.
But now it was imperative that she got a message through to Oskan Witchfather and let him know what was happening. Only he could confront Medea, and the creature she had with her, with any degree of equality. The werewolf relay had been knocked out, so other means of sending word had been devised. But in the meantime, she could enjoy herself attacking the lumbering Ice Demons, and doing her best to thwart their plans.
She sat back in her chair and stretched luxuriously. She hadn’t felt so alive in years, if such a term could be applied to the Undead. Thanks to the hideous Medea, she felt that she had a purpose and a reason to exist for the first time since the Vampire King had fallen. With Queen Thirrin absent from the kingdom and completely unaware of the invasion, it was Her Vampiric Majesty’s job as ally to defend the land and people and, if possible, defeat the enemy.
The evacuation of non-combatants had been chaotic, she had to admit. But once the last child and screeching matron had been flown to safety in the Great Forest, the battle for Frostmarris had truly begun. Oh, and how glorious that had been! Medea and the truly horrendous thing she’d brought with her couldn’t understand why their psychic weaponry had so little effect against the Vampires. Her Vampiric Majesty allowed herself a small laugh. Obviously the child, Medea, didn’t know that the existence of the Undead in the natural realms was maintained by pure magic. Well, now she did! They may not actually wield magic as a weapon, but their very presence in the world depended upon an incredibly powerful form of enchantment that made every Vampire more than familiar with psychic power.
And as for the Arc-Adept . . . well, the Vampire Queen had never known such depths of depravity and evil. To be expected, she supposed, but even so, there were limits to what even her own evil would consider doing. But he . . . he would attack the Goddess herself, if he could.
She smiled to herself. It was odd, but at one time she would have found such undiluted malevolence wonderfully admirable, whereas now she found it merely irritating and even boring. How times had changed since Thirrin had become Queen of the Icemark!
A polite cough interrupted Her Vampiric Majesty’s thoughts and she turned to see Lugosi, her chamberlain, waiting quietly.
“Well?” she asked imperiously.
“Forgive me for disturbing you, Your Majesty, but the volunteers are waiting.”
“Ah, yes. Send them in.”
Lugosi bowed himself out of the Presence and after a few moments he returned with three Vampire warriors, who prostrated themselves before the throne that had been transported from The-Land-of-the-Ghosts.
“Oh, please, do get up,” said the Vampire Queen, her voice suddenly tinged with an odd note that sounded almost like respect and sadness. “I hope you’re all fully aware of what lies before you?”
One of the warriors stepped forward and bowed. “We are, Your Majesty.”
“And yet you accept the mission, despite knowing the outcome?”
“We do, Ma’am.”
Her Vampiric Majesty gazed at her subjects in puzzlement. “Why?” she asked simply.
The Vampire soldier looked at the floor. “Ma’am, I . . . we . . . we’ve all existed for many lives of humans. In my own case I myself have been one of the Undead for almost a thousand years, and the burden has grown heavy, especially knowing that only violent destruction will bring release. But all of us are agreed that being destroyed in an attempt to save the city of Frostmarris and its people is a more . . . acceptable way to go.”
“But how will that make your passing any easier?” the Vampire Queen asked, her voice almost wistful as she tried to understand. “You know that once you’re beyond the protective power of the Vampire army, you’re almost guaranteed to be ripped apart by the psychic abilities of the witch Medea and the one she calls her grandfather. You even know that in reality you’ll be nothing more than a decoy to distract attention away from the party of werewolves who’ll be the real messengers taking news of the invasion to Oskan Witchfather. So how can such a futile mission and your certain destruction be a comfort?”
The Vampire soldiers looked almost embarrassed, and there was much whispering and nodding before their spokesman finally said to the Queen, “Ma’am . . . forgive us, but we’ve all heard about the visit of Prince Charlemagne and the message he brought you.”
The Vampire Queen hung her head, and remained silent for so long the soldiers thought she hadn’t heard, but then she finally looked at them. “What of it?”
“Ma’am, we know His Vampiric Majesty survives in spirit. We know that it’s possible for even the Undead to acquire a soul.”
There it was again. Her people were positively obsessed with a desire to acquire souls. At times she was convinced Vampiric purity was being well and truly sullied, but somehow she found it difficult to be overly concerned about that.
“Ah, I see. And you think that your willing self-sacrifice for the people of Frostmarris will in some way endow you with spirits.”
“Yes, Ma’am.”
“And is this a general belief throughout the Vampiric host?”
“Yes, Ma’am.”
The Vampire Queen almost laughed derisively at the naiveté of the warrior mind. Did they really think that hundreds of years of murder, destruction and depravity could be expunged by one single act of goodness? Her eyes glinted and she opened her mouth to pour scorn on their stupidity, but something stopped her. Every single one of her soldiers could be destroyed in this war at any time, and who was she to deny them whatever comfort they could find as they faced the depraved monsters of Medea’s army? Let them keep their belief; let them have their hopes. For herself, she believed that His Vampiric Majesty was an amazing exception to an otherwise unassailable law of the Multiverse: the physically mortal had immortal souls, the physically immortal had nothing.
She sat back in her throne and smiled at her soldiers. “I’m sure your act will be noted by . . . whatever powers there may be.”
The Vampires returned her smile and turned to embrace each other, as though the Queen’s acceptance of what they’d said somehow made it more valid.
The flight of Vampires fell from the sky, their wings torn to rags by the blast of psychic energy. Three of the party of six were already destroyed, their heads torn from their shoulders and their status as Undead negated.
The remaining three fell uncontrollably. One crashed into a tree, his body impaled on the sharp stakes of broken branches, another disintegrated on impact with the ground, and the third landed in a fountaining shower of mud as he fell into the shal
lows of a small mountain lake. The collision smashed the winter ice and drove him deep into the silts that lined the bottom.
The psychic blast had hit the party of Vampires just as soon as they were beyond the collective protection of their army, and they died in the knowledge that they were nothing more than a distraction, a decoy that would allow the real messengers to slip through unnoticed.
The party of six werewolves moved with speedy silence across the land now, blending with the shadows of the night and making less noise than the gentle icy breeze that breathed across the route leading to the south and the border with the Polypontus. As they ran, the howling of the magically recreated werewolf relay sounded, sending the army of Allies campaigning in the empire its false message that all was well. The six creatures snarled with silent hatred as they heard the deceiving call, but ran on unflaggingly; they couldn’t send a vocal warning to Queen Thirrin and Oskan Witchfather themselves, not only because they’d attract the attention of the enemy, but also because the chain of relay stations that would be needed to send on their call had been destroyed. All they could do was keep running, and hope to deliver their message in person. Medea, and the creature that shared command of her army, were probably still scanning the skies for more Vampire squadrons, and the Wolf-folk knew that they must be far away before the evil pair even thought of turning their attention to the ground.
The night wore on and the werewolves continued their flight south. They covered huge distances, taking secret routes over wold and dale, and even below ground, through cave systems that led them quickly beneath hills standing between themselves and the border. Desperation increased their speed dramatically, and as the winter dawn began to lighten the eastern sky, the mountain range known as the Dancing Maidens came into view, the snows on its rounded peaks blushing pink in the glorious sunrise.
With their target, and safety, in sight, the werewolves spurred themselves on to even greater speed, and soon they began to climb the foothills that led to the pass. But the creatures were wily, and suspecting that the Polypontian border would be watched, they veered off the path and headed for the mountain peaks. They’d take the least suspected route into the empire, a route where blizzard and intense cold would kill any ordinary mortal. The evil witch Medea would never think of watching the heights.
Within two hours the Wolf-folk were nearing the tops of the mountains, and soon they’d be able to look down into the Polypontus itself. They whimpered with excitement and relief, and allowed themselves a rest for the first time on their mission. The eldest of their number, a grey-pelted female who’d commanded the citadel guard in Frostmarris before it was destroyed, stretched and smiled.
“I think we’ve made it. We’re sa—” Suddenly her words were cut off as she disappeared beneath a crushing fall of wing and scale, talon and fang.
Ice Demons were falling from the sky, their huge wings beating on the air and sending up a blinding fog of powdery snow. Immediately the werewolves formed themselves into a fighting phalanx and charged the creatures that were tearing their comrade to pieces. The fight was ferocious and swift; blood cascaded over the pristine brilliance of the snows as the demons immediately ripped two of the five remaining Wolf-folk to gory rags of flesh.
The werewolves fell back, snarling defiance, as the monstrous creatures beat their huge wings and screamed. Command of the messengers now fell to Garstang Flesh-eater and he quickly evaluated an almost hopeless situation.
“Right, youngster, slip down that way, through the boulders,” he said to the smallest and nimblest of the werewolves. “Me and Scar-muzzle here will keep them busy while you escape down into the Polypontus. Don’t argue, just go, the message must get through!”
Without another word the youngest of the party scrambled off, and didn’t turn to watch as his comrades attacked the Ice Demons again. He heard howling and snarling as the two werewolves fought with economy and intelligence, throwing huge boulders with a devastating accuracy that crippled one of the demons by breaking its wings. But not even the Wolf-folk could stand against the insane ferocity of the creatures of the Darkness, and soon they fell in a welter of blood and smashed bone.
The youngster continued to tumble and scramble through the icy boulders towards the border with the Polypontus. All had gone quiet behind him, but he didn’t dare stop to see what was happening. He could now see the empire below him, the snowy foothills bathed in brilliant sunshine that was almost blindingly bright. He could even make out herds of grazing beasts of some sort, moving across the land as they looked for food. He was almost there! In less than half an hour he’d be safe! He ran on, suppressing an almost unbearable need to whimper with excitement.
He was so distracted that when the strange thud in his back came he hardly noticed it. But at the same time two long and glittering talons seemed to grow from his chest, and he looked down at himself in puzzlement. It was only when the Ice-Demon lifted him from the ground and he was carried high into the air that the agony enveloped him in a raging fire. But it soon ended when he was torn apart.
The demon dropped his corpse and flew back into the Icemark, but the werewolf’s head bounced down the mountainside in a wild careering journey that sent it soaring and rolling down the steep, snowy gradients, until it came to rest at last, a few metres inside the border of the Polypontus. For a moment, the young werewolf’s eyes flickered open and the mouth worked, but then darkness descended and all movement stopped.
After another four hours of unbroken concentration Oskan finally stopped working. The wounded were still being brought in to lie in the ragged tatters of their own broken bodies, but the Witchfather knew he could do no more to help. There was every possibility he’d do more harm than good if he continued trying, so he ordered his watch of healers to stand down, and a second shift of witches and a few of the better doctors took over.
His attempts to wash away the blood and filth of the operating theatre met, as usual, with only partial success. But he dressed in clean clothes and splashed himself with the cologne he kept for just such emergencies in his personal travelling chest. Smelling faintly of blood, and strongly of roses, he then set out for the palace.
The field infirmary was pitched beyond the walls of Romula, and the palace precinct was deep inside the governmental district of the city, but despite this he decided to walk. It may take him an hour or so, but he needed to blow away the stench and horror of the operating theatre. As usual, no one seemed to recognise or even see him as he made his way over the battlefield. Part of his mystery as a warlock that had its uses. He needed time to clear his mind and compose himself for the official victory feast in the palace.
By this time the moon was rising over the battlemented walls of the city, washing the hideous sight of so many broken corpses in the beauty of silver light. Oskan could also see looters systematically working their way through the dead, robbing them of anything of worth. Rings, coins, even boots and blood-soaked clothing would be taken by the poor of the city, who needed to seize every opportunity that came their way just to survive. To them, the battle was the biggest windfall they’d had in years, and thanks to the tragedy of such wholesale slaughter, many of their number could now hope to survive the Polypontian winter.
Oskan entered the broken southern gates of Romula, and made his way quietly through the mounds of dead that marked the point where Cressida and the Allies had defended the barricade blocking the Eppian Way. Nearby, starving dogs were fighting noisily over the corpses, and huge packs of them swarmed around the massive bodies of the fallen Tri-Horns.
Oskan stared resolutely ahead, his mind refreshing itself in one of the gentler circles of the Spirit Realms as he walked. But even so, his senses were alert in the physical world too, and when one of the shadowy looters thought the slender, well-dressed figure would make better pickings than the dead, the man found himself hanging on a thread of nothing, his feet dangling a foot or so from the ground. He was then brought round to stare into the seemingly bottomless eye
s of the Witchfather, who smiled with all the warmth of a glacier.
“Your dagger would look better in its sheath, friend,” he said quietly. And when the looter was foolish enough to try to stab him, even the icy smile disappeared, and the man was drawn in deeper to the black eternal eyes.
“Shall I show you something, friend? Shall I show you what forever without hope looks like?”
The man hung limply, and then began to shudder as his mind filled with an unending despair and limitless fear. Only when he began to scream did the Witchfather release him, and he fell to the ground in a tangle of limbs and rags. For a moment, Oskan watched the man grovelling in the blood and filth of the battlefield, and then slowly his eyes refocused, and human compassion and warmth briefly returned.
“Here, buy yourself some amnesia,” he said, and dropped a gold coin into the hand that was convulsively clutching and flexing in the air.
He turned and walked away, but now the aura of his power swirled around him like a threat of storms, and the dogs and looters scrambled away as he approached. He reached the gates of the palace precinct without further incident, but when the palace guard tried to question his right to enter, Oskan found his temper wasn’t up to explanations, and the gates burst open. The soldiers fell back before the creature that advanced across the lawns of the precinct, a black shadow seeming to gather about it as it walked.
A large figure that had been drawn by some instinct to take a breather from the victory feast watched the encroaching shadow and then loped down the marble steps of the palace and across the lawns, until it stood just behind the retreating line of the palace guard.
Suddenly it threw back its head and howled. The soldiers stopped dead, as did the advancing figure. “Oskan Witchfather, have you forgotten your allies and friends; have you forgotten those who love you and those you love?” Grishmak called into the night.