The Icemark Chronicles: The Cry of the Icemark (44 page)

S
cipio Bellorum arrived the next morning. By this time the Polypontian camp had been established, with streets of tents laid out in their usual grid pattern and every regiment in its allotted place. Wherever the general campaigned, the encampment was always set out in the same way. The routine was also always identical, with half of the army arriving first to establish its position and beat off any resistance. Some units would then man defensive outposts in case the enemy was suicidal enough to attempt an attack, and the rest would parade in their finest to welcome the general, who arrived once everything was ready.

So it was that Bellorum himself led the second half of the army into camp as usual, riding among his staff officers and making himself immediately identifiable as the only one without an elaborately plumed hat, his close-cropped gray hair glinting like steel in the spring sunshine. His armor was gilded and etched with intricate patterns of ferns and birds in flight, but his boots were the plain black of a cavalry trooper. This was the general’s trademark, a mixing of the flamboyant and the ordinary.

The cheering from the soldiers who lined the central road of the tent city was enthusiastic and genuine. This was the man whose tactics had saved countless Polypontian lives in the Empire’s wars. Every soldier loved a general who made his life easier and safer. But it was also sensible to give a full and proper show of your appreciation when the general arrived in camp. His eyes were sharp and he was a stickler for detail; a sloppy turnout could mean twenty lashes, and any lack of enthusiasm for his leadership could mean your regiment found itself in the most dangerous part of the battle or storming the most strongly held walls.

He had a precise memory, too. Once, during a particularly difficult campaign in the hot lands of the southern Empire, a soldier had been a little slow in saluting as Bellorum rode past. Nothing happened until the battle had been won and the campaign victoriously completed, then Bellorum gave the exact regiment, rank, and personal insignia of the soldier and inquired whether he’d survived the wars. When he was told that he had, the general had him paraded in front of his unit and he was whipped, demoted, and transferred to another regiment.

Bellorum’s reputation preceded him with a threat of the strictest possible discipline and a promise of the greatest obtainable victory. He was loved and feared in almost equal measure by his men, but fear had the edge. It was said his soldiers would do anything for him. It was also said that they wouldn’t dare do otherwise.

After inspecting the regiments, he dismissed them, but not before he’d had two men flogged for their poor turnout and rewarded three others with promotion for their gallantry during the winter campaign. He dismounted and walked slowly across to his tent, which was pitched, as usual, on the edge of
the camp facing the enemy position. His staff officers clustered around him like eager and frightened children, but Commander Titus Aurelius seemed the most worried.

Bellorum entered his tent, sat at the table that stood in the center of the richly carpeted floor, then raised the index finger of his right hand. Immediately the canvas wall that looked out over the plain toward Frostmarris was drawn up and they all scrutinized their latest target.

“The capital of the Icemark, gentlemen. When it falls, the land is ours.” He spoke quietly, in a tone that suggested he was about to laugh. “Commander Aurelius. I hear that you met with resistance when establishing the camp.”

“Yes, sir. Mounted archers, women. Shockingly fine shots.”

“Casualties?”

“Three thousand, sir. Two thousand musketeers, one thousand pike. Oh, and a military band.”

“Well, we can’t have that, can we? We’ll have to see what we can do to put a stop to them.”

“Yes, sir.”

“What were their casualty figures?”

“Er, none, sir.”

“None?”

“That’s right, sir,” Commander Aurelius replied, a faint dew of sweat making his upper lip shine.

“I see. What action was taken against them?”

“The muskets returned fire, but they skipped out of range, as it were.”

“Then skipped back in again to kill more of my men?”

“Yes, sir.”

“No cavalry was sent in pursuit?”

“Their shooting rate was phenomenal, and I didn’t want to risk any more men than was necessary.”

“Very commendable, Commander Aurelius. So what
exactly
finally drove them from the field?”

“Er … they seemed to run out of arrows, sir.”

“So, lack of ammunition was more effective than any of our highly trained soldiers. Is that right, Commander?”

Aurelius looked supremely uncomfortable but eventually said, “They wouldn’t have dared to attack us if we’d been dug into proper positions. They took advantage of the fact that we weren’t ready for them.”

“Well, well, what a revolutionary concept. An enemy that takes advantage of an army’s weaknesses. Whatever next? Perhaps they’ll even try to kill us. What shall we do?” The general’s voice was light and playful, but the officers around the table had fallen completely silent. None of them wanted to distract Bellorum’s attention from Commander Aurelius; after all, he might recall some of
their
shortcomings.

Bellorum stood up and, motioning his staff officers to remain seated, he strolled to the open wall of the tent and looked out at Frostmarris riding like a huge stone ship on a sea of brilliant wildflowers. “Perhaps I’m being a little unfair, Aurelius. We all of us know that these people are as tough as boiled leather. Our casualties in taking the cities of the Icemark have never been higher, and no sieges have ever been so long and drawn out. And here on this plain we’re not facing a half-trained militia, but a Royal Army of the House of Strong-in-the-Arm. What an incredible addition they’ll make to the ranks of the Imperial forces, once we’ve killed their Queen, of course.”

The staff officers visibly relaxed as the general seemed to have forgiven the casualty rate of the previous day. “I’ve ordered an additional four full-sized armies to be sent from the Polypontus.” He turned and smiled at the murmurs that
greeted this statement. “Oh yes, I know. Three Imperial armies are usually more than enough to conquer new territory, no matter how large. But I’m afraid, gentlemen, that this little land has already stretched us to capacity. So watch and learn; a good general is never too proud to acknowledge the strength of the enemy. The Icemark has been underestimated by our tacticians and logistical experts, but I will put that right.”

He walked back to the table and sat down. “With this in mind, I intend to open proceedings tomorrow with a full-scale assault by the Red Army, with the Black Army in support.” He waited quietly until the burst of conversation died down. “Now, I know this is a little unconventional and that the White and Blue armies usually deepen their experience of warfare in these opening assaults,
but,
as I’ve already said, these people are tough, and I, for one, am completely resolved not to underestimate them. The Reds have the experience necessary to face such martial ability. And be aware of this, gentlemen: I want to be through those outer defenses by tomorrow evening and besieging the walls of Frostmarris itself by nightfall. And you, Commander Aurelius, will lead the first assault.”

The commander saluted briskly. “It will be an honor, General.”

“I’m
so
glad you see it that way,” Bellorum replied smoothly. Then he said, “Right, down to reports. What can you tell me about their dispositions?”

Maps and charts were quickly laid out on the table, and Aurelius stood up to point out details. “Well, sir, they have their artillery positioned at several points around their perimeter. Nothing to worry about, just primitive ballistas and trebuchets, and they have their housecarls and units of the
fyrd positioned equally around the defensive embankments. There is one odd thing, though. Our scouts have reported seeing giant leopards on the defenses, too. They must be tame, because they seem to be completely unrestrained, and the largest of them all is the constant companion of the young Queen.”

“Giant leopards, eh? Well, I shouldn’t imagine they’ll be fighting tomorrow. Perhaps when we’ve captured the city, we can send some to the Imperial Zoo,” Bellorum said, smiling softly as his officers laughed.

At dawn Thirrin and Tharaman-Thar led their dismounted cavalry down to the defenses out on the plain. The streets of Frostmarris had been alive with the noises of preparation: shouted orders, tramping feet, the clink of weapons and armor. Many of the housecarls seemed almost happy — elated, even — laughing and joking as though they were off on some exciting trip. But Thirrin felt sick with fear and kept her voice low whenever she spoke, in case she betrayed herself with a quaver or tremble.

She and Tharaman had left Oskan and Maggiore in the courtyard of the citadel, and she’d even allowed herself to hug them both, her face set in the rigid mask of martial resolve. Oskan had held her hand for a few seconds longer than was strictly necessary, and she had to steel herself not to snatch it back in front of her soldiers. But then they’d turned and marched away through the streets.

Tharaman sensed her emotional turmoil and said quietly, “Don’t be fooled by this excitement the housecarls are showing. They’re just relieved to be doing something after waiting and training for so long. If any allowed themselves time to think, they’d probably be terrified.”

Thirrin merely nodded in reply but ran her hands deep into his thick fur.

“I suppose they’re following the age-old trick of mentally running through training drills and remembering the commands of attack. I know it always calms me down,” the Thar went on.

“Do you need to?” she asked incredulously.

“Oh yes. Anyone who goes into battle without fear must either be froth-at-the-mouth mad or drunk as a troll.”

Thirrin grinned despite herself. “And are you running through your drills now?”

“Close ranks; brace for onset; wheel your battle to the right; wheel your battle to the left; advance; stand; withdraw.
I know them all by heart.”

“You old fraud,” she said, and laughed, all of her tension blissfully melting away as the sound of her laughter raised itself over the rooftops and rippled through the streets.

The nearby soldiers spontaneously beat swords and axes on their shields in acknowledgment of the lucky omen, and cheers rose from the troopers and leopards of her dismounted cavalry.

Once down on the plain, Thirrin and Tharaman led their regiment to where they’d calculated the first attack would begin. The white Wolffolk, under the command of their huge leader, were already in position and greeted the arrival of the Queen with a tumbling cacophony of howls. Thirrin smiled in acknowledgment and looked out toward the Empire’s camp. Something was obviously about to happen: Bugles could just be heard, and huge blocks of soldiers were milling around in a chaos that Thirrin knew was meticulously organized.

After a few moments a small party of Polypontian horsemen rode out carrying a flag of truce, and the defenders waited
quietly as they approached. Their dark red uniforms glittered in the brilliant sunshine, so that the Imperial troops looked like droplets of blood trickling over the wildflowers of the plain. When they were within earshot of the palisades they stopped, and a single horseman rode a few paces farther forward. Two buglers then sounded a fanfare, and as they fell silent the powerful voice of the Imperial herald rose into the air.

“In the name of the Emperor Tristus Angellius Lycurnum of the House of Cicero, I bring now the terms of your surrender as designated by General Scipio Bellorum of the Imperial armies. You will lay down your arms and submit to the will of the Empire and give into our keeping Thirrin Lindenshield, styled ‘Queen’ of this insignificant land. The slavery of your independence is at an end, and the freedom of your servitude to the Empire has begun. Accept now your fate and your warriors will be allowed to fight in the Emperor’s future wars, and your people will live as citizens within his newly made borders. But if you refuse these terms, you will die, your lands will be razed, and your people enslaved, and the name of the Icemark will be wiped from the face of the earth forever.”

The herald fell silent and waited with quiet arrogance for the reply. Thirrin looked around her until she saw the smallest, dirtiest drummer boy. She beckoned to him, and when he stamped to attention before her, she stooped and whispered in his ear. He saluted and turned to face the herald.

“My Queen says she won’t waste her voice on you, but tells me to deliver this reply.” He paused dramatically, stuck his thumb to his nose, and blew a very loud raspberry.

The herald nodded once, curtly, and the horsemen turned around and trotted back to their lines. The formalities over, the fighting could begin.

All movement in the enemy camp had ceased as the regiments had taken up their positions and were waiting quietly for orders. Then, suddenly, several teams of horses burst away and galloped across the plain toward the city.

The battle for Frostmarris had finally begun. Thirrin drew a deep breath and they all waited grimly. As the enemy horsemen approached, it was clear that they were hauling cannons. Thirrin ordered her artillery to stop them from establishing a new battery position, and immediately her ballistas fired a volley of giant steel bolts into the Polypontian gun teams. The rockapults followed, with a bombardment of graded rocks that were flung high into the air before arcing downward to smash into the gun carriages. The bombardment continued for ten minutes or so until their captains ordered a cessation. Before the cannons could fire a single shot, they’d been destroyed, and a huge cheer erupted from the defenders.

But they didn’t have long to celebrate; Scipio Bellorum ordered the experienced troops of the Red Army to advance, and they came on singing. Musket, pike, and shield-bearers marched forward in vast numbers. Longbow men from the East Riding of the Icemark waited until the enemy was within four hundred yards of the first defensive embankment before loosing a hail of arrows. They fell from the sky like hundreds of hawks stooping on their prey, and the Empire soldiers dropped in appalling numbers. But still they advanced and still they sang, never wavering despite the added assault from the ballistas and rockapults. Their drums rattled out a stirring rhythm and shrill pipes set the pace. At their head an officer in a hugely plumed hat raised his sword, and the musket lines halted — they were in range at last, and they presented arms and fired a salvo. The first casualties of the defenders fell as the solid lead musket balls smashed into their lines. But the enemy
had little time to celebrate as the shooting rate of the Icemark’s archers increased and they concentrated particularly on the musketeers.