Cry of the Newborn (67 page)

Gorsal's face hardened. 'No, indeed. Those with no respect deserve little else.'

Nunan stood and held out a hand for Gorsal. 'That was for Tsardon ears. We know what happened here.'

Gorsal took the hand a little reluctantly and hauled herself to her feet. 'How?'

'A citizen of yours passed through our camp last night. Han Jesson.'

'Han? They were looking for him. He killed the sentor.'

'So he said. He's beyond them now but he won't succeed in his search for his family. Tsard will claim him.'

'Poor man. It would be a blessing,' said Gorsal.

Nunan nodded and strode back out towards the forum. The legion was gathering. Cavalry were at its borders and Tsardon prisoners were herded and penned in its centre. He raised his gladius.

'Victory!'

The answering roar rolled on long, more relief than triumph. Nunan held up his hands for quiet and felt a flash of nerves. Was this how a general felt? He had never addressed this many people before. Legionaries, cavalry, enemies, ordinary citizens.

'People of Gull's Ford. You have tasted the reality of allegiance with Tsard. You have experienced their diplomacy. Burning, kidnap, murder and execution. Any who feel their lives are better under Tsardon control, the border is that way.'

He jerked his thumb behind him. In front of him, his legionaries laughed and cheered.

'This land belongs to the Conquord. Go back to your homes, take down the flags they made you unfurl and take up arms against the common enemy.' He pointed at the Tsardon, perhaps forty of them, standing dishevelled and beaten. 'There they stand. Your so-called liberators. Men who use women as shields to save their own pathetic lives. Men who would rather be hiding behind their mother's skirts than face their foe with courage.

'The people of this town were subjected to decimation. So shall you be treated. And the rest shall be released to these people's mercy. I will be praying as we march to destroy your armies that they find they have none for you. Revenge, prepare to march.'

Roberto rode out of the principal gate shadowed by thirty of his extraordinarii. Behind him, the abuse rained down on those gathered in front of the gates and surrounded by Elise's cavalry. Taunts and threats which Roberto had no desire to quell. Every man and woman who had chosen to leave his army was another scratch across his heart. But among the almost seven hundred,
seven hundred,
who had chosen to return to fight in Atreska, none had wounded him more than Goran Shakarov.

The former Master of Sword of the
15
th Ala, the God's Arrows, stood with all the others. Stripped of sword and armour, stripped of all rights as a Conquord soldier. Roberto still couldn't believe it. The Atreskans stood and formed into ranks as he approached, Shakarov at their head. Behind Roberto, the taunts began to die down on the packed ramparts; everyone strained to hear what their General said.

'There is no honour in what you do,' he said. 'There is no sense in such foolish action. None of you have considered the future and now none of you have a future. When the Conquord retakes Atreska, your part will not be acknowledged. You think you go to protect your homes and families? You do not. You go to fuel the fires of rebellion, whether you wish it or no.

'That I have not labelled you deserters is a gift to you, granted only because you
have all served me well in battl
e. But your decision marks a lack of faith in the Conquord that I can neither forgive, nor forget.

'To those among you harbouring joy that you can return to what you think is an independent Atreska, I wish you nothing but death at the hands of the Conquord's loyals. To those of you going to stand alone in front of their homes against the tide of Tsard that comes before the cleansing of the Conquord, I say this. From myth and legend of ancient kingdoms and empires come many sayings that resonate even today. One is particularly pertinent: there are no tears shed by the mother of a coward.

'And who is he who returns home before the battle is done? I hope you are shunned by your families as I shun you now. If you should die, I would not miss one beat of sleep. Your shame will bear you down with a weight you can never hope to shake.' He stared at Shakarov.

'You mean nothing to me now or ever. I do not know you.'

The big Atreskan met his gaze but there was no regret in his eyes.

'One day we will shake hands as friends again, General,' he said. 'We do not disrespect you. But there are times when loyalty to our country must come above loyalty to the leaders we love. Do not leave us with hate.'

Roberto's despair threatened to overwhelm him. He wanted nothing more than to beg Shakarov to stay. To bring the passion of these people four square behind the Conquord. A passion that could sweep the Tsardon aside. But behind him, he sensed a new trust. A new belief. And he would do anything to nurture it.

He kept his head steady, turned his horse and rode back to the camp to the cheers of his army. He didn't pause until he had reached his tent, where he dismounted, swept inside and threw his helmet across the space. Herides stooped and picked it up to place it on its stand.

'Out,' said Roberto. 'Find me Davarov and Kastenas.'

They had followed him from the gates and at the sound of their names ducked into the tent even as Herides scurried out. Roberto slumped on to his cot and put his head in his hands. Tears were threatening. Tears and rage. He could afford neither.

'You did what had to be done,' said Elise.

'Spare me your damned understanding,' he snapped. 'It is a failure.

A failure of my leadership and a failure of the Conquord system.' He raised his head. 'Sorry, Elise, that was unworthy.'

She said nothing but nodded acknowledgement. Davarov was struggling with Shakarov's decision.

'They have betrayed us, like Yuran has,' he said. 'You should have had them all killed.'

'But there's the rub. They believe they are going back to save their country from Tsard and the rebels. Do you really believe Shakarov a traitor?' Roberto pushed himself up from his cot and went to a table set with wine and goblets. He filled three and handed them round.

'At every turn, the curse on this army strengthens,' he said. 'But never did I think my own soldiers would turn against me in such numbers. It will not be allowed to happen again. How many are we now?'

'Desertions have been high these last days,' said Elise. 'But today you still command in excess of eleven thousand.'
‘I
came to Tsard with almost twenty.'

'But those that remain will follow you anywhere,' said Davarov. 'You've felt the mood.'

'It has been the only blessing these last days,' said Roberto. 'There have to be changes to the way we operate. I can't have Atreskan and Estorean lining up as separate legions. Not now. Davarov, I'm placing you in charge of all the infantry. Elise, you have all the cavalry. Pick your personal command teams well. We will drill together on the march to Gestern. Forget those who have gone. We've wasted too much time. Thirty miles a day from here to Gestern or we won't have a Conquord to save when we get there. And when we do, we will fall on the Tsardon with a violence they will not survive. We are the fist of God and His punch levels mountains.'

Dawn's light was growing and the Karku would be back soon. The snow had not let up and the wind howled into and around the cleft. They were all awake now and waiting. Mirron felt low this morning. She was sitting apart, her hands playing in the flames of the fire. She let the tongues lick up her fingers and warm her. There was comfort in the chaotic energies. They were hypnotic too and she had to take care not to let the fire reach her clothes.

'Here. Something to warm your insides, too.'

Mirron looked up. It was Menas. She was holding a steaming tin mug. Mirron didn't really need it but it wasn't Menas's fault she didn't understand. She took a hand from the fire and accepted the drink.

'Thank you,' she said. 'Want to sit down?' Menas smiled. 'I'd like that very much.'

Mirron shifted along the log a little way. She sipped her drink. It was sweet herbs and tasted great on a freezing evening. 'What's your real name?' asked Mirron. 'You already know it,' said Menas.

'No, your first name. The one the Exchequer never calls you.' Menas laughed. 'He does sometimes. When he thinks no one else can hear. It's Erith.'

'Pleased to meet you, Erith Menas.' 'And you Mirron . . . ?'

'Well it depends,' said Mirron. 'My mother is Gwythen Terol but my Ascendancy name is Westfallen. All of us are the same.'

Menas smiled. 'And which do you prefer?'

'Westfallen,' she said. 'It reminds me of home.'

Mirron looked away in case a tear fell. Menas was quiet but she was watching. Mirron felt a hand on her shoulder.

'It seems so far, doesn't it?' she said.

'Every time I open my eyes, I don't believe what I'm seeing,' said Mirron. 'Just for a moment. It's the best bit of the day. The only bit when I can fool myself I'm still at home.'

Menas knew she was going to break and hugged her to her chest.

'I'm sorry,' Mirron said. 'I'm sorry.'

'What for?' asked Menas. 'I'm just amazed it's taken you so long. Let it out,'

'It's not right.' Her voice was muffled by Menas's cloak. The smell of wool was strong in her nostrils. 'I shouldn't be here. This isn't how my life was supposed to be.'

'Shhh. I know. It's hard but not even you have power over your own destiny. None of us do.'

'You do,' said Mirron. 'You decided to join the Gatherers. You chose your own path.'

Mirron pushed away and wiped at her eyes. Menas smoothed loose hair back behind her ear.

'And you think the path I chose was a frozen mountain pass in Kark?'

'No.' Mirron laughed.
‘I
see what you mean.' 'And these?' Menas touched the scars on her face.
‘I
didn't chose these either.'

'How did you get them?'

Menas smiled though it didn't touch her eyes. 'Not everyone wants to pay their taxes. Look, Mirron—'

'Are you all right over there?' It was Gorian.

'Yes, thank you,' said Menas. 'Nothing you can understand. This is woman talk.'

She winked at Mirron, who laughed again. 'It's so easy for them. It's like some big adventure.'

‘I
think it might be harder,' said Menas. 'That's what they want you to think but their fears take them in the quiet of the night. Don't let them fool you. At least you can admit your feelings.'

'It doesn't seem to help much.'

'Believe me, it does,' said Menas. 'Look, Mirron, it's hard for a woman in the wilds. Even a legion woman. Most men will assume weakness in you in their arrogance. So you need to see through it and be able to prove yourself. You can do it with your ability. I do it with my bow and my sword and with the crest I bear. But it's a long time earned.'

'That isn't fair. The Advocate is a woman.'

'No, it isn't, and yes, she is. And she had to earn her respect harder than any male Advocate, believe me. And some men will never believe we should attain positions of influence and responsibility because they say we can't deal with the pressure. They conveniently forget that countless men crumble under pressure and point at those few women who have done the same. Like the Chancellor. Hardly a role model for anyone.'

Mirron felt the chill of memory through her.

'Sorry,' said Menas.
‘I
shouldn't have said that.'

'It's all right, Erith. I understand what you mean. Don't worry. I'll try and be more like the Advocate. Or you.'

Menas blushed. 'Oh, I'm not so great.'

‘I
think you are. I'm glad you're here.'

'Well, that's down to a man so I suppose there are exceptions. The Exchequer understands more than we all think he does.'

is he really as good as all the stories Kovan tells?'

i expect so,' said Menas. 'And for all he can be rude and brutish sometimes, he's staking his reputation and his life on what you can do. He believes in you and that is a powerful thing to have on your side.'

Mirron stared out at Jhered, who was talking to Kovan and going over some sword moves.

‘I
wonder if he'll ever admit it?' she said. 'What's that?' asked Menas. 'Nothing. Nothing at all.'

Chapter 56

848th cycle of God, 20th day of
Solasfall 15th year of the true Ascendancy

There were paths through the mountains. Jhered had always suspected it but the Karku concealed them from any unschooled eye. He didn't much care. Just to be inside, away from the deepening freeze, and to hear the Ascendants begin to relax was enough.

And while they rode or led their mules under lantern-light, deep into the mountainsides, he knew they were travelling fast. The crow could not fly straighter towards the Tsardon border. Their three Karku guides, like the entire race, were an enigma. The metal and minerals they discovered and mined with such skill were at the root of their trading power and their diplomatic strength and yet they were clearly uncomfortable below the ground.

'I will not believe they are a race of claustrophobes,' whispered Menas.

Her voice echoed loud in the passage they travelled. It was wide enough for two mules abreast and would probably have taken a small cart. Its ceiling was only a few inches above Jhered's head as he rode but then he would be a giant among the Karku. The passage was rough-cut but smoothed by the movement of people and animals over the ages since it had been made. For the most part it was unadorned but periodically, they'd seen paintings or symbols etched into the rock, depicting sun, mountain, tree and water.

Ahead of them, one of the Karku turned. Jhered tried to recall his name. Harban-Qvist, that was it. The first name a given, the second a traditional tribal identifier.

'You think us all miners, cave rats desiring to exist in the confines of the living mountain,' he said, irritated. Menas tensed. 'Is every man in your Conquord a soldier?'