Cry of the Newborn (91 page)

Chapter 72

848th
cycle
of
God,
16th
day
of
Dusasrise 15th
year
of
the
true
Ascendancy

Under his eye-patch the itch had begun again. The scar was infuriating, ever more so as the weather got colder. The discharge, he wouldn't think of it as tears, froze and pushed at the sides of the wound. He let his hand trail down the length of it, all the way around his right cheek and to the hinge of his jaws.

The surgeon had called it luck. The Tsardon blade, filthy with Scintarit mud, had glanced rather than hit him full force. If it had, he would have been dead rather than standing here, one of the few survivors of the rout. Yet, as he looked out over the defences to the sea of enemies assembled in front of him, he wondered whether it wouldn't have been better to have died. To preside over one defeat was hard enough to bear. Two was reason enough for suicide. And defeat it would surely be.

The bird from Gestern had cheered the senior team and given great heart to the legions massed to defend but the reality was out there for all to see. Roberto was four days away and that was two days too many. They had so nearly done it. The legions adrift in Atreska picking away at the advancing Tsardon and rebel forces. They had bought the defenders time to reinforce and build. To bring up every piece of artillery they could find and repair, arm every citizen strong enough to stand and drill the legions to new heights of discipline. They had even built a highway-class road running north to south along the back of the permanent defensive structures, to hasten movement. Everything was in place except the force of arms he knew he would need.

From the southernmost shore of Lake lyre to the sheer faces of the Gaws, the Neratharnese border with Atreska was just nineteen miles

long. The highway crossing point was heavily fortified and much of the land south impassable to an army. Some great geological event of the ancient past had showered fields of rock down from the Gaws to lie as silent traps for wheel, hoof and ankle. Lookout posts and forts punctuated the length of the border and he would staff them all, though the likelihood of major incursion on this ground was unlikely.

But it still left him an area of friendly ground, almost two miles long, to defend. He had an armoured gate across the highway, with artillery platforms, oil and rock runs, archer positions and secure staging for cavalry or infantry. He had two other forts a mile apart and he had the Atreskan civil strife of the last decade to thank for the fact they still stood and were maintained. None of it, though, had been built to counter what he faced this cold, crisp dawn.

He gazed south along the line of his defence. He was proud of what had been built in the short time they had been afforded, much of it before he had arrived and assumed control. The open spaces between the two forts and the highway gate had been blocked by a wall of stone and wood. The whole had been sealed with concrete. It had a rampart for archers and was lined with artillery platforms. But it would not stand up to a concerted barrage.

Immediately behind the wall stood every other onager he had at his disposal, a hundred pieces grouped in tens. And behind them would stand the lines of artillery and cavalry currently housed in the stockade, corrals and tented encampments a few hundred yards away.

None of it would be enough. He had twenty-five thousand regular legion infantry and cavalry at his disposal. Three thousand levium would maraud around the north of Lake lyre and undertake flanking actions. And he had two or three thousand farmers and potters from the Neratharn hinterland. Brave but doomed.

He looked to the east from his position atop the highway gate. It was hard to believe. He had been surprised by the sheer weight of numbers at Scintarit. Here, it was the level of the betrayal. He had clung to the hope, despite all the fragmented reports coming out of Atreska, that the Conquord alae would remain true. This morning was the final evidence that Yuran and his bastard traitors held complete sway among the Atreskan people.

Throughout the vast army ranged in front of him were dense pockets of men wearing Conquord armour and weapons. Enough of the artillery he'd seen through his magnifier was Conquord-made to give him a sick feeling in his stomach. But it was the faces of men and women he recognised and that had fought for him that lodged like cancer in his gut. His loyals were going to die under the sweep of weapons forged in the Conquord. It fed his brooding rage.

He opened his eyepatch to let the cold air wash over the wound for a moment. The cold was stunning on the raw flesh that was smeared with balms against infection and irritation. He blew out his cheeks, enjoying the sensation as it worked through his face down the crack of his cheek and into the stiffness of his jaw.

'General Gesteris?'

He turned, letting the eyepatch fall. In front of him stood a messenger dressed in furs and, by the sweat on his face and the smell that surrounded him, fresh off a horse.

'Yes,' said Gesteris.

He adjusted the strap on his new green-plumed helmet and smoothed his fur-trimmed cloak down with his gloved hands. His armour was his own, beaten back into shape and polished to a sparkle. He needed everyone to see the remaining scars in the shine and know that it represented the rebirth of a hope that he didn't share.

'Appros Harin reports enemy staging complete, sir. He advises they will attack imminently.'

Gesteris managed a smile. 'He is a diligent soldier but he is not asking you to deliver me surprising news, is he?'

The messenger looked at the ground. Gesteris found that a lot these days. He had never been a man to draw envious glances. Now he drew none at all but for morbid fascination and sympathy. He had no time for either.

'Did he give you a renewed estimate of numbers?'

'His estimate now stands at fifty thousand, General.'

Gesteris nodded. 'In line with my assumptions. You can get back to him safely?'

'Yes, sir.'

'He is to act independently but not to attack until the enemy are committed against our walls. Go quickly.'

The messenger slapped his right fist into his chest and ran back through the gate guards and away. Gesteris watched him go. He turned back to the enemy. They were drawn up much as he was. Archers and artillery to the fore, infantry in attendance to build on any breach. And cavalry nowhere to be seen. No doubt what they had was patrolling their flanks and supply lines.

There were men and catapults as far as he could see to the south and all the way to the lake's edge north. Through his magnifier he had counted five distinct ranks of infantry. No doubt there was a mobile reserve too. Once again, Gesteris thought about sending out riders to try and take down some of the artillery and again he dismissed it. The weight of archers would overwhelm any force he could muster. It was the worst of all worlds. Their doom was standing less than half a mile away and all they could do was watch it come.

Gesteris frowned, becoming aware of a sound floating to him on the still, cold air. They were singing. It was something he hadn't heard before. Not harsh anthems of imminent victory, the ones that stirred the blood and energised the body, but something altogether more melodious. The bass rumble of tens of thousands of voices rolled across the open space. It raised the hairs on the back of Gesteris's neck and swam through him like the ambling power of an ocean.

It was a song of melancholy and of loss. He could understand none of the words but the emotion was as plain as a written script before his eyes. It came to him then why they sang, and why every man and woman in his defence listened without thought of raising a song of their own in response.

'They think they're going to lose,' said one of the gate guards, against the haunting, beautiful dirge.

'No,' said Gesteris. 'They know they are going to win but they know the cost too. Like so many of us, so many of them won't be going home.'

Roberto was in no mood for a pause to dispense succour though he felt the pressure of his Atreskan friends to do so. Their country had been destroyed. The level of devastation had taken them all by surprise. On their march south to Gestern, they had travelled routes ignored by the Tsardon. On the way to Neratharn along the highway all they saw was ruin.

Burned-out towns and villages; evidence of crops and livestock

taken by force; the bodies of men, women and children littering the roadside and anywhere his scouts and foragers travelled. Some had died under the blades of one or other opposing force. Others had frozen. Some of the youngest had plainly starved, left nothing by an army desperate to fill its stomach.

The highway was intermittently clogged with refugees travelling to Byscar. Everyone of them was as desperate an innocent as the next. And Roberto knew that he could not take in a single one of them. The army had replenished supplies at Gestern but there would be no more until the battle was done. It had reopened the tensions between Atreskans and Estoreans.

Roberto was walking his horse at the head of the column to show solidarity with his infantry, who were being marched at a murderous pace. On the highway, he wanted thirty-five miles in a day. Only just possible with the snow and ice beginning to build. He would have made promises about demobilisation and sending his people home but for too many in his army, there would be no home to go to. Morale among the Atreskans was understandably low.

'Just a gesture,' said Davarov. 'Make my people understand you care.'

'If they don't know it by now, they never will,' said Roberto. 'And I hardly think that scooping a hungry child into my arms is a cure for our ills. I can't afford the deflection in our focus and I certainly can't afford the loss to our stores. And, Davarov, I have already had to issue warnings about giving food and blankets to people begging at the stockade at night. I need you to enforce those warnings among your people. I am tired of having to post so many guards at the walls. There is a bigger world in trouble out there.'

'Don't lecture me about the greater good, Roberto,' said Davarov. The big Atreskan master's face was turned away. Roberto knew how hard he fought to contain his frustration. 'These are the people we are supposed to be saving.'

'Do you think that the look on every orphan's face doesn't cut me to the bone? Do you not think that I crave to help these people? Grant me some respect. But stop to help one and we are morally bound to help them all. It is not in our gift to choose. What is in our control is whether to continue the pace of our march and carry out the Advocate's orders.

'We are going to be hungry, cold and tired enough when we get there, without giving up the things that keep us alive. And when we do get there, I pray that there is a battle still left to fight. More than that, I pray that we are in a condition to fight it. I cannot let anything get in the way of that chance.'

'You are condemning people to death.'

Roberto nodded. 'That's right, I am. And when you're general you can live with the shit decisions instead of me.'

Davarov turned away but Roberto called him back. 'General,' he said.

'Yes,' said Roberto, i am. And since we are being formal, let me remind you that I didn't dismiss you. Neither did I ask for your opinion. I understand your concerns but like it or not, there is a greater good to serve. I need you, Davarov. More than ever. Don't turn from me now. Tell your people what must be done and remind them that should anyone choose to break my rules, they will find themselves joining the refugees and their ration shared among those able to follow my orders. I trust I make myself clear.'

The two men stared at each other, Davarov unwilling to back down, Roberto refusing to let the man reach his heart.

'Dismissed,' said the General.

In the open sea the mist was a barely remembered dream. Above them, the sky was an angry grey. Snow was coming and the wind whipping up under the clouds was going to make it an uncomfortable day's passage. Already the swell was six feet and was set to worsen.

Iliev checked the condition of his injured squadmen before heading up on deck to join the others who, with no room below, had all been forced to sleep topside. Patonius had rigged up a makeshift shelter from sail canvas but the nights were very cold and the barrel fires had been put out when the ship began to pitch and yaw. But the Ocenii squadron was bred tough and he heard not a whimper of complaint from any of his men.

'At least it'll slow the enemy down too,' said Patonius, coming to his side on the starboard rail where he was looking out at the assembled Ocetanas fleet.

'Let's hope it hit them two days ago or we'll not catch them.'

'Don't be so sure, Karl,' said Patonius.

'We've been clearing barely seven knots without sail.'

Iliev put his back to the rail and looked at the red-faced skipper.

Like him, she was bare-armed, defying the cold in a plain woollen tunic and sandals. Her hair had been freshly cropped and her face still alive with the memories of the run from the Isle.

'We're chasing, what, a hundred sails at least,' he said. 'Fresh crews, fit from the journey out of the Bay of Harryn and undamaged by battle. I'm surprised you want to catch them.'

'Well, I suppose we could come about and try and dodge the two hundred or so that are chasing us. Any preferences?'

Iliev chuckled. 'They'd be surprised to see us looming up on the horizon. But I don't think the Advocate would thank us for it.'

'Probably not.' Patonius stared past Iliev at the fleet. 'Any more news on stragglers?'

'We're a credible size. Seven Ocenii corsairs, ninety triremes, forty assault galleys. I'd love to see more sailing up behind us. I'd love to hear the songs rolling across the ocean but we can't rely on it.'

'We aren't enough, are we? Not with the numbers coming from the east,' said Patonius. 'And we can't stop them getting into Estorr harbour before us. They're looking to you for a solution, you know that.'

'I'm no Admiral,' said Iliev quietly. 'I'm a glorified marine.'

'None of the fleet flagships made it,' said Patonius. 'You're the highest ranking officer of the Ocetanas able to walk a deck.'

‘I
know,' said Iliev. 'And you wonder why I feel uncomfortable.'

'I've heard crews and other skippers. You're the man they're looking to. You masterminded the breakout.'

'And we lost almost half of our ships.'

'We gave ourselves a chance,' said Patonius. 'It's all any us want.'

'And that's what you call this, is it? We're a day behind at best. Estorr is only five away if the weather holds. You've done the sums like I have. You know me, Patonius, I live for bad odds. But this . . .' He shrugged. 'We aren't going to catch them.'

'But if the weather really broke . . . We're far better sailors than them in bad weather. Far better.'

'We'll pray to Ocetarus but . . .' He smiled and spread his hands. 'We can't rely on a miracle. And we all know the typical weather patterns in the mid-Tirronean. What is it?'

'Nothing.' Patonius had a rueful look on her face. 'Just been struck by an unfortunate irony, that's all.'

'Care to elaborate?'

'Maybe another day.'

'Any time in the next five days is good,' said Iliev. 'After that, I might be busy.'

He listened to the drums. The heartbeat of the ship. He felt the draw of the oars. The prow dipped into a wave . Water showered the deck. He stared at the horizon, wondering if the smudges he could see there were really enemy sails or just dust shadows on his eyes. So distant.

'Ocetarus's heart, Patonius, can't this ship go any faster?'

Ossacer sat in his darkness and waited for an end to his confusion. It was the first time for ages he'd had the space and peace to contemplate, the way he liked to. He hadn't said much to anyone in the days since they'd set sail from Kirriev Harbour. Kovan and Arducius were so excited at the prospect of reaching Estorr they'd forgotten what it was really all about. All they saw were palaces, aqueducts and grand colonnades. Ossacer thought they might be too late to see all that.

He sat and wondered why he felt apart from them like Mirron did. He heard her crying in the quiet of her cabin every night when she was alone. When the bravado of sunlight was gone and the memories of Gorian ran unhindered through her mind. And he still couldn't work out whether she hated him or missed him.

When he reached out with his mind to see her body map it was jumbled and confused. Not like Jhered's, full of purpose and clear like a lantern in the night. He supposed he was seeing the emotions in Mirron but whatever they were, they undermined her strength of being.

It was then that his mind cleared. Strength came from understanding and belief in oneself. It had nothing to do with the needs of others. Only when you had inner calm could you truly be of service the way the Omniscient demanded.

Ossacer levered himself off his bed and let his mind guide him. The faint, loose energies in the air showed him his path to the blank slab set in even darker shadow that was the cabin door. Beyond it, the open hatch up the aft stairs was a blaze of clashing life and power. The rolling dense cloud he could sense held huge potential and Ardu would be loving how it felt. He was the one who could really mould it into something de
structive. But he shouldn't want
to. That was the problem.

He climbed the ladder and felt the cold on his face. It was invigorating, laced with life. His senses read it and passed the information to the map in his mind. In the lazily shifting trails that everything from a bird to a ship through the water left for him when it moved, he traced the maps of his friends. Kovan, Arducius and Jhered were standing together halfway down to his left. Port, so the skipper kept on telling them.

Arducius flowed towards him as soon as he sensed him coming. His aura was bright and confident. Ossacer was so jealous of him sometimes. Despite his brittle bones, he was so certain and assured.

'Ossie, why didn't you say? I'd have come and helped you.'

'I am quite capable of helping myself,' said Ossacer, immediately irritated by the assumption of helplessness. 'Anyway, what am I supposed to do, send you a message?'

'I know but it's tiring for you to tune into the trails all the time.'

'One day, Ardu, as you are so fond of saying, you won't be there. I've always been able to help myself anyway.'

'All right,' he said, his head flushing with the calm browns that meant he was backing off an argument. 'I just . . . you know.'

'Yes, I know,' said Ossacer. 'I'm sorry too.'

'I didn't say I was . . .'

Ossacer raised his eyebrows. 'I need to talk to the Exchequer.'

'I'm all ears for you, Ossacer,' said Jhered, helping him to a firm grip on the rail. 'What do you need?'

Ossacer looked down and saw the dark lines of the oars in the livid coloured life of the ocean. He felt anxious. His heart began to thud and the words he had been forming deserted him.

'I can't.' He gripped the rail harder. 'It isn't right. I don't. I can't do it any more. I won't.'

Jhered knelt in front of him and Ossacer saw the concern in the lines that made up his face. 'Calm down, young man. Take your time. Tell me what's wrong.'

Ossacer nodded. 'We have to be true to ourselves. We can only do the Work we were put here to do. What you expect us to do next, I can't. I won't. The Omniscient gave life to me to help and heal people. Not to kill them.'

Jhered leant back a little. 'We've been through this. What happened on the plateau was a mistake, an accident. No one wanted it to go that far. And now, what I ask you to do doesn't kill.'

'Mirron killed with her fire. And the gale and the snow . . . the Work with the sea and the sky you want us to do next, it helps one lot of people to kill another. I won't do it any more. I can't.'

He could see Jhered battling with anger. His whole outline tautened, its colours at once a dense purple that cleared to a calmer blue-hued brown a moment later.

'Ossacer, I hope you aren't saying what I think you're saying. Everything you love is under threat. You three Ascendants have the unique opportunity of saving the Conquord and at the same time proving your right to exist to the doubters and those who would brand you heretic. What more justification can there be for the actions I ask you to take?'

Ossacer felt his face flush red and the tears threaten. 'People will always hate us if all we do is demonstrate how easily we can kill or call storms and violence in the elements. Who will ever truly trust us? I can't live knowing there are so many people unsure if we should live or die.'

'And can you live knowing that because you refused to act, that the Echelon, your parents, everyone in Westfallen was killed?'

'That's unfair,' said Kovan. His support was unexpected but welcome. 'You cannot make him responsible for that. The Tsardon invasion was caused by an overstretch of our armies and the defeat at Scintarit. Blame the Advocate if you must blame anyone.'