through the trees and rose into the sky like a banner of sound streaming in the wind. Immediately his leopards answered him, and the great noise sent crows and ravens for miles around climbing the skies in their thousands.
23
Frostmarris lay on the plain before them, pristine in its blanket of snow. The white Wolffolk who’d drawn Thirrin’s sleigh during her journey to the northern lands were now acting as scouts and had been sent ahead to confirm that the city really was unoccupied, while the cavalry stayed hidden under the eaves of the forest. The werewolves had been gone for more than an hour, and Thirrin was beginning to consider sending out riders when a distance-thin howling sounded through the freezing air.
“What are they saying?” Thirrin asked Oskan impatiently, but he raised his hand to silence her while he concentrated.
At last he said, “Frostmarris is unoccupied by any living human people.”
“What does that mean?” Thirrin snapped.
He shrugged. “I’m only reporting their exact phrasing. But I suppose they mean there are no soldiers of the Empire in occupation.”
Tharaman-Thar stood sniffing the breeze that blew directly from Frostmarris, and after a moment said, “The city smells empty. I smell no human people, no horses, no dog-friends or cat-companions. Only rats and mice and the smaller creatures. Frostmarris is waiting to be reoccupied.”
Thirrin nodded. “Then mount up. My capital awaits.”
The cavalry swung out onto the plain in a double column of horse and leopard. The troopers rode smartly, their lances raised and pennants snapping in the wind, as Thirrin and the Thar stepped out with an awesome presence. Just behind them Jenny trotted along, twitching her woolly-warmer-covered ears and occasionally giving a little hiccupping bray that was quickly cut short when Oskan sharply tugged the reins.
Their pace soon ate up the distance between the forest and the city, and as they approached the main gates the tension rose. The setting sun made a fire of the great bronze Solstice Bell that hung above the barbican. Thirrin leaned forward in her saddle — only the greatest restraint stopped her from galloping ahead. Suddenly Grinelda, Leader of the white Wolffolk, appeared in the gateway, and throwing back her head she howled in greeting. The cavalry quickly climbed the winding track that led to the huge portcullis, where they reined to a halt.
The gates stood wide open, and a cold wind blasted through the long entrance tunnel, bringing with it a surprising lack of scents. Normally, the city would have smelled, or rather reeked, of wood smoke, dung, cattle, horses, baking bread, roasting meat, beer, and general humanity. But now it only breathed the breath of winter: snow and ice and emptiness.
Oskan looked at Thirrin, expecting a long rousing speech about reclaiming her rights and the symbolism of Frostmarris reoccupied. But instead she looked pale, and after staring along the tunnel for a while she said quietly, “Come on. Let’s go in.”
The rattle of iron-shod hooves on the cobblestones echoed around them as they emerged into the main thoroughfare. The streets looked the cleanest Oskan had ever seen them, under their unsullied blanket of snow. Only the almost humanlike paw prints of the Wolffolk scouts marked it in places, clearly showing where they’d searched through the buildings and streets for any sign of occupation. But all was empty.
Thirrin led the cavalry along the slowly climbing main street to the citadel. Here, too, the main gates stood open. She dismounted to walk across the wide courtyard, leading her horse. Then she turned and barked out orders to her commanders, who scurried off to stable horses, check barrack blocks, and post sentries on the walls of city and citadel. Then she walked to the double doors of the Great Hall and, followed by Oskan and Tharaman-Thar, she pushed them open and strode inside.
After the brilliance of the bright winter day, the hall seemed as black as night. Slowly their eyes adjusted and the huge, dark, cavernlike space became clear. The hammer-beam roof was still hung with its ancient battle standards, and at the far end the massive oaken throne still stood on its dais.
Thirrin strode forward, her boots ringing loud on the flagstones, and headed for the throne. On reaching the dais she quickly climbed it, and with an unconscious sense of ceremony, she sat down.
“Bring me light and life into this darkness!” Her voice boomed into the hall, and the space filled with scurrying soldiers and servants who lit the torches that lined the walls. One group