The Cry of the Icemark - By Stuart Hill Page 0,144

but in the end she decided he was beneath her dignity and she ignored him.

“The wine’s good, Maggie,” said Olememnon, raising a flask that had stood by his feet. “Here, have some. You, too, Tharaman, find a bowl.”

A servant brought an extra cup and a bowl and soon all three were drinking deeply. “Not too much,” Elemnestra said, placing her hand over her consort’s. “You must have a clear head tomorrow, I want no … injuries because you’re wine-fuddled.”

He smiled at her affectionately and, despite her protests, kissed her cheek. “I’ll be fine, we’re eating soon, and I intend to scoff enough to soak up a barrel of booze.”

By the time the food arrived, the hall had filled up with warriors of all three races, though the numbers were noticeably fewer as most of the army was on guard, patrolling the barricades down on the plain. As promised, Olememnon ate an enormous amount, beaten only by Tharaman-Thar, who ate an entire ox, bones and all. He sat with a hugely distended belly, groaning slightly, but still found enough room to lap up another three bowls of wine, after which he started to purr loudly.

“Such a pity that grape bushes won’t grow in the snows,” he said sadly. “I’d be more than happy to set up a wine yard on the Icesheets.”

“Vines, Tharaman, grape bushes are called vines,” said Maggie in his best teacher’s voice.

“Vines, then. Are you sure there’s no hardy variety that could stand the cold?”

“Certain.”

“You’ll have to set up an importing company, Maggie,” said Oskan. “You’d make a comfortable living out of Tharaman alone.”

“Perhaps I will. My fortune would soon be made.”

“Not from Olememnon, it wouldn’t,” said Elemnestra. “He’s had more than enough and he’s about to go to bed.”

“Is he?” asked Olememnon in surprise.

“Yes,” his wife answered and, taking his hand, she bowed to Thirrin and Tharaman, ignored Maggie and Oskan, and walked from the hall. Olememnon waved and smiled as he was led off, and Tharaman muttered into his bowl as he lapped his wine.

“What was that?” Thirrin asked him.

“I said, that woman’s about as much fun as a toothache. And she treats Olememnon like a servant.”

“Oh, I don’t think he minds too much. In fact, I think he’s as happy as any man in the land,” she answered.

“I can’t imagine why,” said Tharaman, licking the last drops from his bowl.

“Can’t you? I’d have thought it was pretty obvious. They love each other.”

“Oh, that! Yes, well, I dare say they do, but that’s no reason to treat him like he can’t think for himself.”

“It’s just her way of showing she cares,” said Thirrin. “Oskan, you should get some sleep now. It’s going to be a very long day tomorrow.”

Scipio Bellorum again followed the progress of the battle through his telescopic monoculum. As usual, his army was following his orders to the letter and was attacking the defenses at three different points over a two-mile front. They’d been fighting for more than an hour now, and he thought he could detect a weakening of the central assault just as he had instructed. He smiled and turned his monoculum to the left and then to the right wing of the attack, and noted with pleasure that their fighting rate had increased.

For the next two hours the central assault continued to weaken, while the left and right wings gradually increased the pressure on the defenders and, as Bellorum had hoped, Thirrin sent more and more of her best troops from the center to the wings in an attempt to strengthen them.

“There’s my good little tactician,” he murmured as he watched the housecarls and Hypolitan infantry hurrying to the threatened sections of the defenses. “Commanders Anthonius and Hadrian, prepare your troops and wait for my orders!” he snapped crisply to the group of staff officers who clustered nearby. The two men saluted and hurried off.

“Now, where is that devil-woman and her mounted archers? I’m waiting for you, my dear. Everything is ready.”

The battle raged on, more and more Polypontian troops pouring in to maintain the pressure on the wings, and more and more of the allies’ best fighters in the center being drawn off to help.

Just three units of housecarls remained at the point where the Empire’s attack was apparently failing, along with ten thousand inexperienced soldiers of the fyrd. More than enough to hold off the Polypontian assault, which seemed to be fading with every passing minute. But the old housecarl commander was uncomfortable about the situation. He was