Cry of the Newborn (88 page)

It still wasn't enough. The Tsardon knew they could maintain the barrage for as long as their rounds held out. They didn't want to take the Isle but to render it helpless for long enough that those ships continuing north were well out of the Ocetanas' ability to catch them. In a day or so, they would have achieved their goal.

More Tsardon stone rattled against the Isle. Kortonius turned away, a pain in his side that reached up to his chest. A pity his surgeon couldn't prescribe him something as simple as a walk to take the cause away. A messenger was running along the colonnaded central mosaic to where he stood. He was out of breath, no doubt sent from the docks.

'Admiral,' he said, bowing.

'What is it?'

'Commander Iliev requests audience at the north-west dock at your earliest convenience. He says to tell you that he has had an idea for you to approve. He wants you to speak to the navy.'

Kortonius smiled. A fine sailor, Iliev. And a man whose ideas were always worth hearing. To the haunting echoes of onagers cranking and firing, he made his way to the lift platforms that would take him down to the dock.

Chapter 70

848th
cycle
of
God,
3rd
day
of
Dusasrise 15th
year
of
the
true
Ascendancy

‘I
wonder what's happened to Gorian?' asked Mirron. Arducius squeezed Ossacer's hand to stop him saying something stupid. She looked round at them where they waited in the general's tent. 'Well, don't you?'

Arducius nodded. Try as he might, he couldn't keep Gorian out of his mind and his heart. The guilt was growing. It was worst when they were left alone to think.

'What are we doing here anyway?' asked Ossacer.

'Waiting for orders,' said Kovan from the map table.

'Can't he just give them to the Exchequer?'

'Perhaps he wants us to hear it first hand, Ossie,' said Kovan. 'He's in charge. He can do what he wants.'

Ossacer shrugged. 'We're wasting time. We should be going back to Kirriev Harbour if it's all so urgent and desperate.'

'Doing it wrong is worse than not doing it at all,' said Kovan.

Arducius smiled, i think you've spent too much time with Paul Jhered. You're beginning to sound like him.'

Kovan just returned to his study of the map, after a glance at Mirron. Arducius thought he understood. He felt the same way, sort of.

'Are any of you going to answer me?' asked Mirron. 'He's our brother. He—'

'Yes, I'll answer you,' said Kovan, he turned and walked towards her. i wonder what's happened. And whenever I do, I hope that he's dying slowly. That the cuts I gave him are infected and are killing him. That the stench of his slowly rotting body is his last memory. That the Tsardon have found him and are using him
like he used you. He's a rapist and he's a murderer. He's no one's brother.'

The slap reported around the tent. Arducius winced and Kovan put his hand to his stinging cheek.

'And you still can't get him from your mind. After all he did to you. What's wrong with you?' Kovan's eyes were full of tears. 'He's gone. I'm here.'

The tent flap moved and Jhered came in with General Del Aglios. 'We all right in here?' asked Jhered. 'Ask her,' said Kovan.

Jhered sighed. 'Later. When we're underway.'

He looked to the general who strode into the middle of the tent.

'Right, gather where I can see you.' Del Aglios clicked his fingers. 'Quickly, quickly.'

Arducius stood in front of him and the others either side of him. The general looked them over. He was a daunting figure this close. Uniform perfect and armour shining even after so many days in the field. His green plumed helmet was proud on his head and his cloak was trimmed with the colours of his family. Arducius saw him as if for the first time, feeling his authority. They were in the presence of greatness and fame. Two of the most powerful men in the Conquord talking to them almost as equals.

'You'd be dead already if it was not for the belief of this man,' said Del Aglios, indicating Jhered. 'Remember that and remember to do exactly as he says. Sounds like an old story, does it? Well, that's because it works. Discipline, order, victory. I don't know who you really are or what it is that you possess. You may be a gift, you may not. All I know is that it worries me, my army and every right-minded person walking God's earth. But right now, I also understand that we have our Conquord to save and that we must use every weapon we possess. We do not have the luxury of consideration or moral debate. Not just yet.

'We are pressed on two fronts and do not have the forces in place on land or sea to defend either of them successfully. We, my army and you, have to make the difference. It's best you know this now because for all the work you think you have done, it is for nothing if we falter now.

'I go to relieve the Neratharn border, marching my army through the dusas snows to keep the northern approaches safe. And to you, I entrust the survival of our capital city and our Advocate. There is no job of greater importance. You cannot, you will not, fail. Signal your victory with the golden sun banners from the beacon masts. Give us reason to fight on. And when I am victorious, I will respond.'

He nodded and a grudging smile spread across his face.

'Any questions?'

Kovan came to attention and slapped his right fist into his chest. Arducius dug an elbow into Ossacer's ribs as the blind boy read the salute in the trails and threatened to laugh. Kovan managed to ignore him.

'General Del Aglios, I hope you will excuse me but the Exchequer bade me ask you what it is that you do after battle?'

Del Aglios laughed and looked round at Jhered. 'Did he, indeed? He was giving his talk about facing and recognising fear, no doubt. Yes . . . you were by no means the first one to hear it. Well I'll tell you. The lives of thousands hang on the accuracy and wit of my orders and tactics. It is a fact to strike even the bravest with nerves. And when I return to my tent and look back on what might have gone wrong, those nerves get the better of me and I vomit my stomach dry.

'Now let me ask a question of one of you. Arducius. Tell me why you freed Gorian rather than burning him. I consider it forgiveness.'

'Forgiveness?' said Arducius. 'No. We have punished him in the worst way we can. We have left him alone.'

There was nothing to hear but the lapping of water on hull in any of the four docks. There were no lanterns, barring the tiny lights that lit the walkways. Karl Illiev wanted the Ocetanas as adjusted to the night as they could be. He walked among them. Every one was smeared in charcoal-based paint as were the decks, mast, oars and hulls of every ship. It would wash away soon enough but by then it wouldn't matter. Deck-mounted scorpions had been covered with black canvas but all were primed and ready. The sea-gate mechanisms had been oiled.

Outside, the Tsardon fleet was standing out of onager range. Lights blazed from a hundred points in a wide arc around the dock. The barrage of the first day had wrought significant damage on both sides, but in the end the Tsardon had been forced to relent. Kester Isle had an inexhaustible supply of ammunition and despite losing many emplacements was still more than capable of destroying the fleet should they move too close for long.

Instead, the Tsardon had decided to sit it out, knowing they outnumbered the Conquord vessels trapped in the four docks. Signals from the fleet at distance and from the observation decks topside whenever the mist slackened indicated the enemy's intentions. At least a quarter of their fleet, now known to be in excess of seven hundred sails, had continued sailing north. Ocetanas followed them but, outnumbered, were not engaging. Others would move south to intercept but the bald fact was that the Conquord did not have enough ships at sea to counter them. Not yet, anyway.

'The fate of every Ocetanas out there in the Tirronean Sea is in our hands. The vengeance for every Ocetanas taken by the Tsardon these past two days is ours to dispense. The sanctity of the Isle and the harbour at Estorr are ours to protect.'

Every eye was on Iliev. His torso was covered with blackened light leather, leaving his long powerful limbs bare and free to row, climb and fight. His shaved head bore the dark blue skullcap of the Ocenii but even its emblem was covered tonight. His gladius was at his hip, its scabbard and hilt wrapped in dark cloth.

'You all know your roles. Do not deviate. The sea at night is unforgiving, the enemy are numerous. Ocenii, be ready. Ours is the task of the battering ram. Those of you tempted to turn back to help, do not. The fleet must break out to muster.' He glanced down at the hourglass that sat on the dock master's stone table by the sea gates. The last grains were bunched to drain away. 'For Ocetarus, for our dead, for the Conquord.'

The hourglass emptied. Iliev nodded at the Ocetanas. 'The gates,' he said and ran for his corsair, his sandals whispering over the stone.

The corsair sat low in the water, its heavy spike balanced by the Ocenii marines at its stern. They were the ballast and the balance. A team of six that ran the gangway between the thirty oarsmen that powered the assault craft across the water. It was the marines that set the ramming angle and cruising attitude, using their weight to maximise sea conditions beneath the hull. One mistake and the spike could ram too high, or dip below the waves and swamp the deck. Only the best were drafted to the corsairs.

Iliev took the tiller and looked along his ship. Ocenii squad VII. All ready to die for him. 'Take us into the channel,' he said.

The corsair slid away from the dockside, joining the other of the front rank pair. Eight squads were in his dock, lined up while the sea gates opened. The ponderous movement was mesmerising. The reinforced steel grids made tiny eddies on the surface of the water while the crews wound the oiled mechanisms, ratchets unlatched.

Iliev commended his body to the sea and his heart to Ocetarus. Around him, the marines leaned against the aft rail, keeping the spike raised. With the slightest of clangs, the gates nestled into their open positions. There was no need for more words. Iliev pointed one gloved finger to the open sea and the Ocenii moved.

The corsairs were hidden from casual view by the outer harbour walls. Iliev indicated quiet running while they negotiated the wreckage of ships and artillery that still floated on the surface. In the deeps below, the eyes of the Ocetanas gone to their rest would be on them. It was nothing to trouble a trireme but a corsair's bow could dip if snagged.

Iliev looked along the coast and growled in his throat. The damage to the Isle's defences was more severe than he had thought. Smashed artillery littered the rocks at its base. Metal hinges glimmered in the faint starlight while broken timbers and frayed rope nudged the shoreline, flotsam from the barrage.

He glanced back. The eight corsairs were all out of the gate and the first of the attack biremes was ready. Clustered in the gloom behind, the rest would be ordered for action. Now the Tsardon would know the fury of the Ocetanas.

'Go,' he said.

It was four hundred yards, no more, to the first Tsardon vessel. Their arc stretched away out of sight, north and south, where the lights on their decks were lost to distance, darkness and mist. The Ocenii turned north-west, gathering just beyond the harbour walls, a line of spikes aimed at vulnerable wooden hulls. Out came the first bireme into the harbour. Iliev's hand rose and fell. The Ocenii dipped their oars.

Acceleration was smooth and quick. The thirty blades moved as one. Stroke, lift, return, dip, stroke. Iliev could feel the wind begin to caress his skin. He narrowed his eyes and focused on their target. A pair of triremes, lashed together to hold heavy onagers and defending a siege galley.

The marines began to move forward as the prow rose, keeping the maximum hull area against the water and the oars at the perfect angle. The Tsardon in their ships had made a grave mistake. Whatever guards they had would not be able to see beyond the pools of light cast by their lanterns and torches. If their ears were as blunted as their eyes, they would not know the Ocenii were on them until the first spikes were five strokes from their hulls.

Below him the sea ran a slight swell. His oarsmen drove their blades through the water at a forty rate. With a following wind, they could achieve speeds in excess of twenty knots over a short sprint. That was what he asked for now. To his starboard, squad IX rowed for the bow of the target. Two hundred yards to go.

'Not one arrow on this deck. Not one marine down before Tsardon blood is spilled. Stroke up. Forty-five.'

Oars strained against the water. Wood creaked, sounding like explosions to his ears across the silence of the water. How long before a lookout heard them, he wondered. How long before the bells started to ring. He could see the Tsardon trireme clearly now. Lanterns were hung in six places along its length, casting light fifteen yards across the water. Guards stood by each one, other men walked the length of the vessel. It was ferociously painted, as they all were. Homages to gods, beasts and the sea's elements adorned the hull. They were bright reds, greens and blues. At the prow, the spike was decorated as a ram's head. Soon to see nothing but the pit of the ocean.