The Icemark Chronicles: The Cry of the Icemark (27 page)

“Don’t worry. The country folk and peasants have their ways. It’s only the elite of society who forget.”

“Then I’ll see they remember from now on,” Thirrin answered forcibly.

They rode on in silence, watching as the border drew steadily nearer. The pass was now clearly visible, yawning before them like an open wound. Thirrin shuddered and immediately hoped none of her escort had noticed. They mustn’t see she was afraid. But she needn’t have worried. All of her soldiers were too busy with their own fears to notice anyone else’s.

After less than an hour the path climbed sharply, and after a struggle with the horses they stood on the very threshold of the
pass. The peaks of the Wolfrocks towered to either side, stark and snowcapped against the brilliant blue of the sky. And before them the pass opened. It was wide enough to allow a troop of twenty cavalry to ride abreast, and the path wound out of sight beyond spurs and outcrops that jutted from the flanks of the mountains. Good country for an ambush, Thirrin thought, but rather than risk her intentions being misread by anyone, she ordered all weapons to be sheathed.

The werewolves now stepped forward and, throwing back their heads, they let out a collective howl that echoed and reechoed among the rocks. The horses shied and neighed, but the troopers kept them under control. All eyes were on the pass before them. Now was the time for treachery if it was destined to happen. But Thirrin, sensing this was on the minds of her escort, immediately spurred forward into the pass and signaled the buglers to sound the fanfare of the Royal House of the Icemark. Her presence now announced to all, she led the way along the path.

Within a few yards of entering the pass, the mouth behind them was lost to view. Narrow walls of rock loomed over them, and each boulder seemed to hide a watcher. Every now and then small stones would slither down the rock face as though dislodged by something, and the wind that had begun to moan among the outcrops seemed to mask harsh voices.

After a few minutes, dark flying shapes appeared in the sky above the escort. It was difficult to judge exactly how large they were, but they seemed too big for birds. Thirrin beckoned over the captain of the Wolffolk and asked what they were.

“Vampires, Madam,” he answered, confirming her fears. “Vampires in their shape-shifted form. They’re just watching how things are progressing, and no doubt keeping Their Vampiric Majesties informed.”

“No doubt,” Thirrin agreed.

Occasionally one of the shapes flew low enough for its leathery wings and bat face to be clearly seen, but mainly they stayed high above the escort like a collection of black clouds.

Several of the soldiers reported shapes, sensed on the edge of sight, flitting around the rocks but disappearing as soon as they stared directly at them.

Oskan shrugged when he heard this. “Who can be surprised that there are ghosts in The-Land-of-the-Ghosts?”

About halfway through the pass, a huge Rock Troll rolled into view, slumping from an outcrop like a small landslide and blocking the route. Thirrin called a halt and signaled furiously to her troops when they started to draw swords and form a shield-wall. Reluctantly they sheathed their weapons and waited. The troll roared and, hefting a massive boulder, it strode forward. But in quick response the werewolves formed a solid phalanx and advanced on it, howling and snarling fiercely. For a moment the troll watched them come on through small stupid eyes before sullenly dropping its boulder and climbing back onto the outcrop, where it seemed to melt back into the rock. The captain of the Wolffolk guard beckoned Thirrin on, and she led her small troop forward.

There were no more incidents of this sort, and they quickly trotted through the pass. After about an hour they reached the far end quite unexpectedly. Rounding a spur of rock, the view suddenly opened up like a huge and dramatic window on a land of dense pine forest and rocky hills that flowed down from the Wolfrocks to the hazy distance. Even though it was winter, the spicy aroma of the pines reached them, mingling with the cold scent of snow to create an exhilarating perfume that lifted all their spirits.

But fear quickly descended on them again when they
noticed a rocky watchtower, tall and black, standing on a high bluff overlooking the pass. Most of the flying vampires wheeled off to circle the tower before landing to perch on its battlements like giant black birds.

Once again the troop of werewolves threw back their heads and howled before setting foot into The-Land-of-the-Ghosts, and Thirrin likewise signaled her buglers to sound her royal fanfare. With a sense of finality she urged her horse forward, and entered the land whose rulers had been the bitterest enemies of the Icemark for centuries.

M
aggiore Totus had spent a good part of his time since Thirrin and Oskan had left making sure the people of Frostmarris were settled in comfortably. Wherever possible they’d been housed within the Hypolitan city, but there was no way to squeeze the entire population from one very large settlement into the walls of a much smaller one, especially when the original population was still living there.

An overspill camp had been built just outside the walls, and Maggiore himself had supervised its construction, making sure that the streets were wide enough and that enough latrines had been dug, and appointing citizens to the task of clearing away garbage. He moaned and groaned about the work to anyone who’d listen, but secretly he relished it. It was almost like designing and building an entire new city from scratch, allowing him to test several theories he’d developed over the years, and he was very pleased to say that most of his ideas had worked.

There’d been one or two disasters. Nobody had wanted to join the district choirs, which he’d started as a means of quickly encouraging and developing a community spirit in the new
settlement. And in the end he was quite philosophical when a football league spontaneously sprang up between the districts. But then he’d realized that the overspill camp was beginning to function like a city in its own right, and he became positively joyful when several shops sprang up.

But now the camp had begun to run itself, with several citizens being appointed as a committee to supervise the various functions, and Maggiore had resigned his post as city planner. For a while he’d busied himself finding space for the huge numbers of people that were beginning to flock to the city in answer to the calling of the fyrd. But the army had soon taken that in hand, and several new districts had been added to his overspill camp.

At one point he’d begun to wish he’d gone with Thirrin; after all, he was the one with the experience of life and the correct manners needed for diplomatic missions. But deep down he knew he’d never have been able to stand the cold of a winter’s journey in the Icemark. Even in the Hypolitan city, sitting next to a blazing hearth, he felt cold, so he was almost certain a journey in the wilds would have killed him. Besides, he’d lately found a project that had finally engaged his clever mind.

He was now sitting in his room with the shutters firmly closed on the snowstorm that was howling over the city. His fire was banked high with logs, and a glass of wine was close at hand while he put the last notes he’d taken into order. Primplepuss was curled up comfortably on his knee, and he absentmindedly stroked her as his pen scribbled across the page. When the war was over, he hoped to be able to write his notes up into a scholarly work on the origins of the Hypolitan. Not that anyone would read it, he supposed, but at least it kept
his mind active and ready for when the Queen returned from The-Land-of-the-Ghosts and the spring thaw allowed the war to continue.

He was waiting now for Thirrin’s uncle, Olememnon, to arrive. With his help Maggiore had been compiling the notes he needed for his history, and so far he’d been a fascinating source of information, on top of which Maggiore found he enjoyed the huge man’s quiet company. He had a dry sense of humor, and his deep and gentle voice could say the most outrageous things with such a sense of seriousness that it often took Maggiore several seconds to realize what he’d said. Also, as the Basilea’s consort, Olememnon had the highest status of any man in the province, and apart from fighting in the Icemark’s wars he had no other duties, so he’d been a brilliant ally in hunting down State papers and manuscripts to help in their research. No door was locked to him, no archive out of bounds, so Maggiore only had to mention that he had the approval of Olememnon and all objections melted away.

So far, the little scholar’s studies had confirmed what was generally known, that the Hypolitan were not originally from the north. Today, he hoped to get to the more interesting bits of his investigations and find out exactly where on the Southern Continent this fascinating people had first come from. Maggiore was just savoring the idea of the investigation when a gentle knock sounded at his door.

“Come!” he called in his best schoolmaster’s voice, and the door opened.

Into the room stepped one of the biggest men Maggiore had ever known. Olememnon was even taller than King Redrought had been, and was easily as broad, and yet his shaven face gave him the appearance of an overgrown boy. To
Maggiore, whose own scholar’s beard almost reached his waist, a clean-shaven man was still an odd sight, especially since all the men in every other part of the Icemark grew beards as soon as they could. This was just one more difference between the Hypolitan and the other citizens of the Icemark.

The big man smiled in greeting, his face and eyes lighting up as he strode forward.

“Ah, Olememnon! Sit down, sit down. A glass of wine?” Maggiore asked, pouring the drink before getting an answer. “Are you ready for our little chat? Have you remembered any folktales and legends I haven’t recorded yet?”

“I’m not sure. Perhaps. It depends what you want to hear,” Olememnon answered, his deep, soft voice filling Maggiore’s large chamber to capacity.

“Well, let me see,” the little scholar said, picking up his notes and balancing his spectoculums on the end of his nose. “Ah yes! We were about to discuss the
genesis
of the Hypolitan. The land of their origin and the reason for their migration.”

“Well, that’s easy. War, and a need to escape a power that wouldn’t let us live as we wanted,” said Olememnon, sipping his drink and settling back into his creaking chair. Primplepuss had looked up when the huge man came into the room, and now hopped down from Maggiore and walked across the floor to take up residence on the new lap. Perhaps there was something about the Basilea’s consort that reminded her of another special man who’d filled a room in the same way, and this was her way of honoring his memory. Olememnon stroked her as soon as she settled onto his lap, and to the accompaniment of her purring, looked expectantly across at Maggiore, who waited with pen poised.

“Fine, fine. Well, tell me what you know from the beginning,
while I take notes,” said Maggiore, who knew the big man was a natural storyteller.

“Well, now, let’s see …” began Olememnon. “The Hypolitan once lived in the mountains of the Southern Continent, many hundreds of years ago. They were, even then, a fierce people who lived by hunting and fighting. But the other people around respected them and learned to revere the Great Mother Goddess, sending offerings to the warrior-priestesses who served her in her mountaintop shrines.”

“Aha!” said Maggiore as he scribbled away. Some of his guesses had been right. In his own land there had been legends of warrior women who had served the Goddess of the Moon.

“For many generations life was good for the Hypolitan, but then a threat of war arose, and a great movement of people came from the east. Their armies were huge, and after many battles the Hypolitan retreated to the sanctuary of their mountain shrines.

“Our soldiers fought a long and bitter war but knew they couldn’t win. The enemy was massive and sent army after army against our strongholds. But the Basilea of the day, Queen Athenestra, devised a plan. When the Blessed Moon was dark, the warrior-priestesses and the fighting men would carve a wide swathe through the besieging armies to allow our people to escape to other lands and find peace again.

“And this they duly did, taking the enemy by surprise and bursting through their lines. So began a great trek, taking us through many nations, until at last we came to lands we felt were home. This country had mountains and winters as fierce as those we had known in our citadels built in the clouds.

“The land was, of course, the Icemark. But here the people were the strongest we’d met since the war with the eastern
invaders. We fought long and hard, never winning, never losing, neither side able to gain the final victory. Until at last the King of that time, who was called Theobad, called for a truce, and after long talks agreement was reached. Queen Athenestra would acknowledge the King of the Icemark as her overlord, and we, in return, would be allowed to stay in the lands we now hold. And ever since that day, the Hypolitan have been loyal subjects of the Icemark and her greatest ally in times of war.”