Cry of the Newborn (87 page)

Normally, it was a time of year Kortonius loved. Born on the shores of the Tirronean Sea in a tiny fishing village north of Port Roulent, he was a proud Caraducian sailor. He had watched the mists roll in and out ever since he was a small child. It was a fascination that had never left him.

There was a calm about the Isle and the sea when dusas called. The Quietening, the Ocetanas called it. When the bulk of the fleet was docked in the great caverns that arched beneath the plateau and the crews could rest in the city, spend time with their families and give thanks to sea Gods that would cause the Chancellor to boil over in pious rage.

But not this dusas. The timing of the invasion, if such it really was, could not be worse. The normal duties of the navy were stretching and tiring enough. They were based on the capacity to stand down in stages over dusas. Kortonius had done what he could. Much of the Ocenii squadron was in the Isle, as were over half of his battleships.

The scout ships and fast-attack triremes, though, were still out there. Forced to patrol the north of the Tirronean against the threat of the renegade Atreskan navy; required to patrol the entire eastern and western seas boards, particularly Estorr; and with a rolling blockade across the south of the Isle. Never mind the trouble in Gorneon's Bay and the Tundarran coast.

Too many ships at sea for too long a time. Yet, if the Gesternan reports were accurate, the Tsardon had sailed from the Bay of Harryn. A brave move with the storms that assaulted the southern tip of Gestern at the turn of the season. He would match them. No one seriously believed the reports of the fleet's size.

Kortonius turned away from his balcony and drained the last of his sweet herb tea. His breakfast was settling well in his prodigious gut and it was time for the constitutional the damn surgeon demanded to relieve his arteries. He laced up leather boots over his bare legs and hung a fur cloak about his shoulders. He smoothed down the front of his toga, slashed blue and gold in the colours of the Ocetanas. Finally, he pulled his pointless plumed helmet over his head. At least it would keep the sleet off his white hair, what little of it was left.

He walked out of his rooms and along the arched and colonnaded passageway that bordered the great hall, the floor of which was three storeys below. At the end of the passageway, he opened the doors to the western ramparts and let the freezing air flood his lungs. The sleet was falling hard and the mist had closed in more than ever. The Isle wasn't quiet. Too many guards, too many lookouts and too much readiness among the artillery crews covering the rock.

War. God-around-him but he used to love it. Now it was an irritation to the routine of his middle-age.

He strode outside. Below him to the right, the south courtyards and gardens of the palace, were full of busts, columns, fountains and flags. And to the left, the Tirronean Sea and the shrouded coast of Gestern. He looked down over rock and terrace. At the edge of his vision, he could see the water spray against the base of the Isle, but the view was dominated by the mist, deepened by the steady fall of sleet on this still day.

Today, he would do what the surgeon said he must every day and walk all the way to the watch tower at the far end of the ramparts. On his way he took salutes, nodded at senior civilian staff and stopped for the odd conversation with others taking the air. There was a certain sort that actively enjoyed the weather on the Isle and he could respect them for it. A life on the coast meant a love of it and an awe of the sea and the elements that never quite faded.

Halfway up the stairs, he regretted his earlier determination to do the surgeon's bidding. He felt hot, his face flushed. He paused regularly on the long, spiral climb of three hundred steps, emerging barely in a state to take the surprised salutes of the watch crew. One of them pulled a chair up for him and he sank into it gratefully.

'Thank you,' he said. 'A brave move and a welcome one.'

'Health does not recognise rank, Admiral. We all ail from time to time.'

Kortonius chuckled through his wheezing, his heart just beginning to calm. 'You are a born diplomat, young woman. I am merely overweight.'

The three lookouts all found their magnifiers requiring close attention. Kortonius couldn't see over the edge of the wall from his seat. The watchtower was narrow up here. Only room for eight or so people. It held a small iron stove under a fluted cover on its landward side as well as a pair of chairs. A bell and a flag pole marked its centre.

Kortonius stood and moved to the seaward edge. 'A thankless task on a day like today.'

The legionary woman opened her mouth to speak but a bell sounded away towards the southern end of the isle. Its urgent tone was picked up by others, the sound getting louder. Whatever it was that had been seen by the remote towers, it was coming closer.

Kortonius's heart thrashed anew in his chest. He moved to a spare magnifier, set on a pole at head height and put his eye to it. The mist obscured everything down at sea level and away to the south.

'Flags are going up,' said one of the watchers.

Kortonius swung the magnifier to the nearest tower to the south. The red flag was flying, the watchers pointing south. He could see a rider galloping along the cliff path towards the palace. He moved the magnifier back out to sea. There were shapes in the mist, and every passing heartbeat chilled him more and more.

The water was crowded with masts, hulls and oars. Looming out of the mist, moving serenely into view. Biremes, triremes, warships and finally, huge artillery galleys. Rumoured to have over as many as two thousand oarsmen, over ten times the crew of an attack trireme. Great, ponderous vessels. Siege ships.

'Where's my blockade? What happened to my blockade.'

Evaded or sunk without a trace. The major part of the southern defence was already gone. The din of the bell sounded over his head. The red flag unfurled.

'Ocetarus save us,' he muttered. 'How did they get this close without us knowing.'

'Admiral?'

He shook his head to clear it. 'Order the exodus, method one. I want every ship crewed and out on the water. Get the sea gates open. Get the Ocenii among them. Signal the fleet north. Messages to Gestern and Estorr. Go, go.'

Two of them left, one had to stay to ring the bell. Kortonius stared at the Tsardon fleet rowing towards them, ships fading and growing from the roiling mist. He couldn't take his eyes from the siege galleys. Two of them now, lumbering up the sound. They couldn't take the Isle. Could they?

Perhaps they could. Already, they were too near the sea gates for comfort. And if they could blockade the harbours before his ships were at sea in enough numbers, the battle would be over before it had begun.

He yelled down the steps for the watch team to run faster.

Chapter 69

848th
cycle
of
God,
2nd
day
of
Dusasrise 15th
year
of
the
true
Ascendancy

In the end, led by Davarov and the Atreskans, it had descended in to massacre. It had been as distasteful as it had been necessary. Roberto nor the Gesternans wanted thousands of Tsardon prisoners. And he was not prepared to chase more than he had to through Atreska.

He still had much of his cavalry and light infantry in the field despite the fact that the light was beginning to fade. They were herding the fleeing remnants of the Tsardon army to the east, hoping they took the only option Roberto would leave open and returned to their home country. A few survivors taking stories of witchcraft and devils back to Tsard could do considerable good besides removing them from the war.

The rest of his army was celebrating victory, clearing the battlefield or working with the Order ministry to return the Estorean dead to the earth. Tsardon dead would be burned this time. Roberto would not allow their collection this far into Conquord lands and the risk of disease was too great.

Jhered rode with him to the Gesternan encampment a couple of miles behind the border fort, leaving the Ascendants with his army. Roberto chuckled, feeling his exhaustion lift. Jhered turned to him, a cut he had sustained protecting Mirron livid on his cheek in the light of lanterns carried by his extraordinarii.

'What is it?' asked the Exchequer.

'Just musing on the change of the army mind,' said Roberto. 'Five days ago, any of them would have killed Ossacer for laying hands on them. Just before we left, I heard someone complaining that they weren't getting the right treatment because the lad is tired and resting. And the lascivious glance at Mirron has become the fatherly

arm. There's hardly one amongst them that would see her harmed. Her work on the Tsardon onagers will live long in the memory.'

Jhered nodded. 'And what about Ellas and the rest of the Order ministry?'

Roberto blew out his cheeks. 'That is a longer road. But even he cannot deny the number of his flock saved by the intervention of the Ascendants today. But he still fears them.'

'And what about your mind, General?'

'I have to be honest with you, Paul, I still struggle with it. And when they pause to think, the army will struggle with it too.' Roberto fought for the right words. 'I can see the force for good in them. For now. But their power is only going to grow. And when they reach full adulthood, who is going to control them then? Look at Gorian. I fear what he might do. Perhaps they will all go his way and believe that no one should guide them. They are only fourteen and they can crack hillsides and bring gales at their command. Sorry, I'm babbling but you know what I'm trying to say.'

'I understand more than anyone. We don't have a frame of reference for them, for what they are and where they might go. And the conflict with the scriptures and the beliefs of the Omniscient are there for all to see. All we can do is guide them and pray they only ever use their abilities for the good of us all. And remember, however powerful they are, they are just flesh and blood. Don't mistake their power for immortality.'

'It's a comforting thought, I suppose,' said Roberto. 'But I still don't understand your decision to let Gorian go. You said yourself he should burn. Instead he's not even been punished. It's like he's been forgiven.'

'You're wrong there,' said Jhered. 'The four of them have a bond closer than mere love. They have barely spent an hour apart from each other since they were born. Go and talk to Arducius. He'll tell you what it is they've really done.'

Roberto wasn't sure it would make any difference. The boy might still be alive and so remained a danger. They rode the rest of the way to the Gesternan border headquarters in silence. The road was littered with the injured and displaced. Exhausted and frightened soldiers and citizens watched them pass. Dirt and despair were everywhere despite the victory and songs that echoed into the night sky. Roberto's intervention had been a stroke of true fortune and the shock of their escape from defeat was settling on them.

The headquarters was set in a small village that was submerged in a city of tents, paddocks and temporary wooden structures. They were met by guards and shown to the tiny basilica that headed the likewise small forum. Inside, the wind-blown structure was warmed by open fires and lit by lantern and brazier. And there stood a welcome surprise.

'Marshal Mardov,' said Roberto. He embraced her and kissed her forehead but his smile died on his lips. 'Your presence is not to join the victory celebrations, is it?'

Mardov shook her head and looked across at Jhered. 'Well, well, Paul. Seems you were right after all.'

'I have my moments,' said Jhered. 'What's wrong?'

Mardov looked as tired as any of them. She ushered them to a table on which was pinned a map of Gestern, its borders and the Tirronean Sea. On it were marked arrows and figures. Roberto didn't like the concentrations along the west coast and near Kester Isle.

'We've had a stunning victory here,' said Mardov. 'But it only delays the inevitable.'

Roberto felt like he had been slapped around the face. 'Not true, Katrin. This victory has given us real hope for the first time since early solasfall. We've taken thirty thousand out of the game. And you can feel the morale in my army.'

'And we have the Ascendants,' said Jhered. 'Don't discount their influence. Not now they're proven.'

'If they are, it hardly matters. Neither they nor you, Roberto, can be in two places at once.' Katrin pointed to the map. 'The Tsardon over-ran border defences to the east eight days ago. We couldn't reinforce from here and we couldn't release anyone from the defence to chase them. We've been able to track them and they are moving fast, using the highways. There's no one to stop them, Roberto. Ten thousand of them and more, the same that destroyed Jorganesh, I think.'

'They're heading for the coast?' asked Jhered.

'Portbrial,' said Mardov. 'They'll be there in ten days, no more.'

Roberto looked at Jhered, who shrugged.

'Then you have to chase them now. Hope the Portbrial and Skiona defences can hold them up,' said Roberto. He stopped and felt a chill pass through him. He looked again at the marks on the Tirronean Sea. 'Where's the Tsardon fleet?'

'We had a flagged message from the on-station ships all the way from Kester Isle. The Tsardon are already there,' she whispered, glancing about her to make sure none overheard who shouldn't. 'Five hundred sails.'

'Five hu—' Roberto's mind reeled.

'The Ocetanas can't stop them all. The crossed flag has been flying, they are blockaded. By the time the Tsardon army reaches the coast, their fleet will be waiting to take them to Estorr. We're already too late.'

'We can't think like that,' said Jhered. 'Roberto, I warned you this might happen. We can counter them.'

Roberto looked round at him, thoughts clamouring through his head, images of Estorr in flames livid before his eyes.

'Even if they weren't blockaded, Kortonius has three hundred sails at best under the Isle.' Jhered stared down at the map. 'We have to get men across the sea, beat them to Estorr if we can't stop them in Gestern.'

'What with?' asked Katrin. 'We don't have the ships to make a difference.'

'And you must turn north, Roberto,' said Jhered. 'Neratharn must have relief.'

'Why, so we can retake the ruins of Estorr from the Tsardon?' spat Roberto, the hated despair gripping him. 'So we can pick up my mother's body and return it to the earth?'

'Yes, if that's all we can do,' said Jhered. The Exchequer's eyes were wide. 'We can only do what the Omniscient grants us. The Conquord can survive without Estorr. It can survive—'

'—without its current Advocate,' finished Roberto.

Jhered let his head drop slightly. 'Yes,' he said quietly. 'Should it come to that.'

The silence around the table was painful. Roberto searched the map for answers. He felt sick.

'Does she know what's happening?' he asked.

'The signal will have reached Estorr as it has reached us. And we will send word on the Tsardon army heading for the coast.'

'It hardly matters,' said Roberto. 'She won't leave anyway.' He smiled while the tears built up behind his eyes. 'Stubborn, my mother. I used to believe it was one of her great strengths.'

'And so it remains,' said Jhered.

Roberto held up his hand, stopping Jhered's next words. 'I never thought I'd hear myself say this, Paul. Never thought I'd be putting my faith in three fourteen-year-olds and a taxman, even a senior taxman. One sail against hundreds.' He gripped Jhered's shoulders. 'Save Estorr, save my mother.'

The Quietening had been shattered by the desperate, savage sounds of war. Multiple impacts rumbled and echoed through the caverns of Kester Isle. Oarsmen, sailors and marines thronged the passageways from the underground crew barracks, heading for the docks.

Karl Iliev, Trierarch of Ocenii squad VII and overall Squadron Commander thumped the gunwale of his spiked corsair in frustration and stepped back on to the wall. The sea gates were closed against the assault. To row out into the harbour now would be suicide, even for the Ocetanas elite.

Through the grilles he saw the end of the few Conquord vessels that had managed to put to sea before the Tsardon fleet forced the closure of the sea gates. Curse the mist. Curse Ocetarus for his capricious will. And curse them all for their complacency.

Iliev gripped the bars on the gate and prayed for the cycles of those about to be lost. Eight sails against ten times that number crowded around the outer harbour walls. He shuddered to guess how many more were hidden by the mist.

One bireme had not even made it to open water. Struck amidships by a stone aimed at the harbour defences and fallen short. Splintered timbers and corpses floating on the surface were all that remained.

Iliev's frustration was shot through with enormous pride. How hard the few fought. No thought of attempting escape. He could see hand-to-hand fighting on three enemy galleys. A Conquord bireme thundered its ramming spike into the rear quarter of a Tsardon trireme to the roars of the helpless watchers. Enemy oars splintered, marines swarmed over the bow and on to the stricken ship. But more, many more enemies were coming to the fight. And elsewhere, the navy was being overwhelmed.

In an area of open water, three corsairs of the Ocenii squadron powered across the ocean. Iliev prayed. It was not enough. The arc of target ships fired. Massive twin-hulled siege galleys standing well offshore launched three-talent stones. Triremes and biremes, fired bolts and smaller stones.

Stripped for maximum speed, the low, open corsairs had no defence. The leading squad took a stone at the bow. The impact catapulted the stern into the sky, flinging men into the water. The wrecked hull slapped down, keel up, after them, sinking fast. The others took hits from multiple projectiles, battering oar, man and craft.

Immediately, the siege galley began to move in. The next volley of stones from those already on station rattled into the gate and the emplacements surrounding it. The impacts reverberated through the cavernous dock. Iliev heard the answering fire and the screams of the injured and dying. There was a rending of metal. A heavy onager crashed into the water before the gates in a hail of rock. Freezing water washed through the grilles, soaking him from head to foot.

He spun on his heel and roared his impotence at the waiting crews. There were more than forty vessels trapped inside. Triremes, assault galleys, corsairs. It would be the same in all four docks.

'We're like rats!' He searched the faces staring back at him for a spark of inspiration. 'The tenth, twelfth and twentieth squads are gone. The
Brial's Dawn
is sinking. Her sister ships are swamped. Our marines are dying. Will we let these land slaves show us our business? Will we?'

'No!' The answering call echoed across rock and still water.

'Will we let our fallen Ocetanas go unavenged?'

'No!'

'Captains of the fleet, Trierarchs of the Ocenii to me. And someone get me Admiral Kortonius. We're getting out of here.'

Kortonius had returned to the palace and ordered his aides to bring messages to him at the western hall. Designed to view the glory of the Ocetanas during solastro festivals, the western hall was an opulent reminder of times now under mortal threat.

Paintings of great victories adorned the walls. Statues and sculptures on plinths depicted famous generals, the ships that had helped forge the reputation of the Ocetanas, and the god of all sailors. Kortonius bowed to Ocetarus. The powerful body, carved with fish scales and carrying the classically stylised head of flowing hair, large eyes and crown of starfish loomed over him. How they needed his blessing right now.

Out on the viewing stage, Kortonius gazed down at the unthinkable. He rested heavily on the ornate balustrade. His hands gripped hard to the carved motifs of interwoven seaweed and eels. Through the mist, part burned away by the endless flaming rounds from his defensive artillery, he saw the immensity of the western flank of the Tsardon fleet. Onager arms thudded. Rocks hurtled into the blank walls of Kester Isle. He felt the distant rumble of the impacts. Splinters and shards of stone whipped away to fall on the shore.

Directly below him, some five hundred feet down, a catapult position took a direct hit. Wood and metal was smashed and bent. Braces snapped. The entire turret swung outwards, hanging for a moment before shearing from its last stays and plummeting down towards one of his blockaded harbours.

The Ocetanas artillery answered, without risk now the last of his vessels was burning and sinking in the midst of the enemy. Burning stones were loaded onto every cup. The missiles arced out from sixty platforms set high and low in the western cliff face. He watched them streaking the sky with their smoke and falling away down almost out of sight in the remaining mist to the ocean below. Trails crisscrossed and flame blazed or guttered. He strained to see.

Plumes of water leaped up to snatch at the air before falling back. Too many missed their targets. It was so difficult. The Tsardon were moving in a long circle taking them fast across the face of the Isle and then away out of range. They were well spaced and understood the angles and spread of fire they faced.

Even so, they suffered. Three stones ploughed into the deck of one of the massive siege galleys. He saw fire drag from bow to stern and the forward mast shudder and fracture. It fell across the deck, destroying rail and weapon. A fourth stone thundered into the vessel amidships, smashing a hole the size of his body and plunging through the massed ranks of oarsmen. The ship began to list and he heard the shouts of triumph waft up to him on air that was thick with the scent of pitch.