The Cry of the Icemark - By Stuart Hill Page 0,141

as over and over they bawled out a fighting chant: “Thirrin-Thar, Thirrin-Thar, Thirrin-Thar.”

Beneath their feet the ground was slick with blood. Several housecarls fell, to be hacked where they lay, but the tide was slowly turning and the experienced warriors of the Red Army were being pushed back. Thirrin continued to fight from the Thar’s shoulders, hacking and chopping at the enemy as he struck out with the devastating power of his paws or dropped forward to use his enormous teeth.

After another hour of fighting, the allies regained the crest of the first embankment. Before them the enemy still swarmed and still pushed on, singing their war anthems. But their numbers were much reduced. Out on the plain, the supporting Black Army seemed to be preparing to join in, but they didn’t move forward, and now that the Hypolitan archers had a clear firing platform, they began again to rain arrows down on the Empire’s troops. The enemy was taking terrible losses, but still they came on, until finally their commanding officer raised his sword and they started to withdraw in good order.

The archers, and now the ballistas and rockapults, continued to bombard them, and when the defenders turned their attention to the Black Army, the enemy finally conceded the field and retreated, their drums and fife still playing bravely.

Thirrin climbed slowly down from Tharaman’s shoulders and hugged him in relief and elation as they watched the enemy march back to their camp. But when she looked out at the dead and dying, tears ran down her face. “We can’t take losses like that again, Tharaman.”

“Neither can they, my dear. Neither can they,” he answered wearily, cleaning the blood from his huge paws. “And I can assure you they won’t risk it again, either. If they’re anything like the Ice Trolls, they would have expected us to fold under the ferocity of their first attack, and as we didn’t, they’ll show us much more respect in the future. From now on, General Bellorum will show prudence and no doubt display some of his brilliant tactical skills.”

“Then we’d better be ready for him, Tharaman.”

Scipio Bellorum followed the progress of the battle through his telescopic monocular. He was still seething with anger about the destruction of his cannon by what Commander Aurelius had called “primitive artillery,” but he was sure he would be revenged by a swift victory for his Red Army. He could clearly see his troops advancing in their usual overwhelming surge, and he could also see the young Queen standing among her troops on the first embankment. This surprised him at first, but then he remembered he was dealing with a barbaric race of people who expected their leaders to stand with them in battle. He was also amazed to see quite so many of the reported giant leopards, as well as one or two other creatures that looked like hideously deformed bears, standing among the defenders, but he couldn’t quite bring himself to believe they would fight. And if the barbaric Queen really thought that troops of the Empire could be intimidated by wild animals, then she had a shocking lesson to learn.

The roar of onset reached his ears a second after he saw it happen through his monocular. And immediately he was forced to revise his belief that the animals wouldn’t fight.

“How absolutely marvelous,” he said aloud. “What a wonderful addition they will be to the Imperial army.”

For the next three hours he watched the battle, impatient for his troops to deliver the knockout blow that would send the defenders streaming back to their city. But it never happened. He was about to give the order to send in the Black Army, the towering elite of his entire force, but something stopped him. As he watched the defenders forcing his troops back down onto the plain, he had the sudden premonition that if he committed his support units, they, too, would be defeated, and such a loss would be too much for his men’s morale. Better by far to withdraw and prepare for battle the next day. He considered himself a patient man, and he was quite prepared to whittle away at the Icemark’s strength until they were ripe for the final blow. He gave the order to pull back, his face a careful mask of unconcern.

He almost believed himself, but not quite. A niggling doubt on the very edge of his conscious mind continued to annoy him even as he mounted his horse and prepared to