Cry of the Newborn (89 page)

'Unlatch the ladders,' he said. 'Ready the grapples.'

Marines knelt to the quick-release ties that held the ladders in place along the gangway. Others held the ends of grapples designed to keep the corsair fast against the enemy.

'Sixty and closing,' said Iliev. 'Prepare for impact. Stroke steady.'

The sudden strain of impact was enormous but expecting it was half the battle. Conquord scientists had struggled for years to construct a bracket that dispersed the recoil forces through the hull without shattering it.

The corsair hummed across the wavecaps. His oarsmen didn't falter and didn't slow. The speed energised every nerve and muscle in Iliev's body. He'd seen action off Tundarra, Dornos and Bahkir and he never tired of the fight. He was born to this. Born to the sea and the sword.

The first Tsardon shout was away to port and by the time the alarm had begun to spread in earnest, he was inside his target's arc of light. He saw guards running to the rail. He heard shouts and the bell rang out the attack. Ten yards. He crouched and grabbed the stern rail.

'Oars!' he shouted.

They were raised off the water and shipped. Oarsmen spun to face forwards, gripping the leather stays that would stop them tumbling forwards.

'Brace and use it. Now.'

The corsair's spike skewered the trireme's hull just above the waterline, driving into its haft and boring a jagged, splintered hole bigger than a man's skull through its planking. The impact shuddered back through the ship. Timbers screeched and protested. The Tsardon vessel was shunted sideways across the water.

Iliev strained hard against the rail, a growl dragging itself from his mouth. He felt his muscles bunch and tense. And at the moment of release, the entire squad was up. The ladders thumped against the side of the ship. Marines swarmed up followed by the oarsmen. Another shudder through the trireme signified squad IX at the bow. Iliev barked at his men to move faster. Up on the deck, fighting had begun. Arrows struck the corsair from another enemy ship close by.

'Move, move,' Iliev yelled as he scrambled up, last as protocol demanded.

He raced up the ladder, leaving behind his grapple, men who had turned to their bows to return fire. The Ocenii were spreading out along the deck. Already, Tsardon were dead by their hand. The confusion was spreading through the ship. Sleepy crewmen would be woken into chaos. He needed them kept where they were.

'Secure the hatches! Let's use their fires. I want this ship on the ocean floor.'

The second squad were scaling the bow. He saw the anchor rope chopped away. He turned away, heading for the aft hatch. He glanced across to the second ship, to which this one was lashed. It was coming to order quickly. They would have to work fast. Up on the aft deck, a marine thrust his gladius through the defence of the steersman before turning his attention to wrecking the tiller.

Iliev reached the hatch. 'Keep seven topside against the sister-ship defence. Twenty with me. The rest of you, back to the corsair. We're going to need a quick escape.'

Fire flared in the night sky. Iliev looked left. A sheet of flame was licking up the mast of a Tsardon trireme. He bared his teeth. Now the whole Tsardon fleet would know they were attacked. Here was where it began. He led twenty down the hatch into the confused gloom of the Tsardon oar deck. The odd lantern was still alight. Running footsteps behind him.

Iliev jumped down the bottom two steps and ducked. A sword flashed over his head and embedded itself in the steps. He spun on his back heel and stabbed upwards. His gladius found flesh. He dragged the blade down, twisting it out of the man's groin. Blood flushed on to the deck. A second blade jabbed above Iliev's head, finishing the man through his throat. His squad was thumping to the deck around him, going forward.

Iliev came to his feet. 'Wrecking team, get to work. Leave me an escape. Let's move.'

He swung around the stairs and headed for the curtained-off quarters aft. Arrows sang through a gap in the cloth, taking one of his men in the chest. Iliev swore and moved faster, two marines right behind him. He grabbed a knife from his belt, tore the rough woollen curtain aside and flung the weapon down the exposed way, hearing a shout of warning.

'Go, go.'

The Ocenii made it a hail of knives flashing past his ears, keeping the enemy heads down. They ran in after the volley. Left and right of a split piece of decking, bed rolls were scattered. Tsardon were still coming to their feet, groggy from sleep and drink. Iliev took dead centre, giving his men the room to spread into the space either side of him. It was cramped and low. He ran at a crouch, gladius and a second knife held in front of him.

Tsardon came at them. He blocked a blow and punched the enemy in the face with the hilt of his sword. Iliev moved up. The quarters were filled with the sounds of clashing blades and the shouts of men. More arrows came from the gloom ahead, one striking a Tsardon in the back of the head. Iliev punched out with his knife, feeling the blade slice into his enemy's arm. Others of the squad moved up on his left. Behind, the wrecking team was already at work. He could smell smoke.

'Pushing back,' ordered Iliev.

He spun a kick into the side of wounded man's head and watched him rock back. Iliev planted the foot and thrust forwards. His gladius drove in under the Tsardon's ribs, dropping him where he stood. The enemy crew were beginning to panic. Flame flared garish light on their faces and cast the Ocenii into yet deeper shadow. Iliev dropped to his haunches and swept his foot through the ankles of his next foe. He tripped sideways.

The heat began to rise. The trapped were ready to break. Smoke was filling the enclosed space. The line of Ocenii made an initial rush forwards, forcing the Tsardon oarsmen into a reflexive move back. He had no idea how many of them were back there. Thirty or forty, at least. They were shouting and bunching ahead, scared by the fires they could see taking firm hold.

'Back and up,' he ordered.

The Ocenii withdrew fast. Iliev backed past the last of the wreckers sprinkling light oil on the central decking, feeding the flames and obscuring their retreat. The smoke was choking and clogging. Arrows flitted through the smoke. Iliev lost another man.

'Go, up.'

The Tsardon broke. Iliev flew up the ladder, arms hauling him to the deck. A ring of Ocenii stood around the hatch, gladius and flask in hand. The last of his people was dragged up, a deep cut in his ankle. Oil and a torch were thrown down on the enemy crew first to the ladder. The hatch was slammed shut. Two Ocenii bent to nail it down.

Iliev scanned the ship. The mast was alight, the sail consumed by thick black smoke and harsh yellow flame. Men from VII and IX were firing across to the sister ship, keeping the crew from the platform that bound them together and on which three catapults sat. To the bow, the forward hatch belched smoke and flame. And along the length of the deck, the Ocenii held sway. The bodies of the Tsardon outnumbered those of his fallen, five to one. Below his feet, the screaming was starting and smoke edged up through the planks.

'Back to the corsair!' he yelled.

He ran to the ladders, waving his squad to him. One after the other, they slid forwards down the rungs, thumping into their oar and balance positions. His grapple men had been at work widening the ramming spike hole, deepening it to below the water line. Arrows began to fly from the sister ship and from another portside that was moving into position. Iliev ducked down below the rail. Three men to
go.

Across the platform, he could see Tsardon working feverishly at the bolts that held their ship to the stricken vessel which was beginning to list. It had been a textbook assault. The change of angle would make the bolts harder to shift, pinning them into soft wood. Soon, the only way would be to hack them clear.

The last man reached the ladders. He slid down one and rocked it back to place in position between the oarsmen.

'Ready for release,' said Iliev.

'Ready, sir.'

'Clear.'

Iliev took a step back and jumped at the ladder, riding it down to slap into the gangway.

'Let go grapples. Oarsmen backwater. This ship is coming down on top of us.'

And indeed it was. Sea water was sluicing through the holes forward and aft and settling quickly in the base of the hull. The counterbalancing of the sister ship wasn't enough and the list was growing by the moment. Iliev held the tiller steady. The oarsmen pushed, forcing the spike out of the trireme. Marines stood at the bow keeping it down to ease the exit.

'Clear water.'

Iliev leant hard on the tiller. Marines ran astern to lift the spike. Arrows flicked into the water around them. The corsair moved up the flank of the ship, chasing squad IX to open sea. The Trierarch looked back. Flame and smoke gouted from every oar hole. The deck was one sheet of fire, reaching high into the night sky and burning away the mist. It was unstable, falling quickly on its starboard side. Catapults slid from the platform across the burning deck and smashed through the rail on their way to the ocean floor.

'Stroke forty at first opportunity,' ordered Iliev. 'Let's clear this bastard. Target two at four hundred yards north. Good job, Ocenii. Ocetarus smiles on us.'

Rounding the bow, he could see that the enemy couldn't release the platform from the sister ship. He saw men chopping with axes, hacking with swords, desperate to free themselves. The target trireme began to go down. Steam scorched into the sky. The platform ripped free at last, shearing down through the hull of the sister ship, tearing a massive hole that exposed oar deck and keel timbers. Helpless to do anything else, the crew jumped into the frothing waters.

'Two for one,' said Iliev and his men cheered.

But behind them, the Tsardon had seen the heavy Conquord warships rowing from dock. The gargantuan siege galleys were moving into range. Their smaller sisters were already firing. Iliev saw a bireme of the Ocetanas hit with three consecutive stones. Its hull and mast were smashed, one stone shearing through the oar deck.

He commended the bodies of the dead to Ocetarus and turned for the looming new target. There was much work still to do.

Chapter 71

848th
cycle
of
God,
11th
day
of
Dusasrise 15th
year
of
the
true
Ascendancy

Herine Del Aglios looked down over Estorr, across its harbour and out into the mists that hid the sea from her. The Omniscient brought the dusas mists every year. This year, though, there was a malice in their coming. She stared at the flags flying from both harbour forts, wanting them to be lowered but knowing that would not be the case. Kester Isle was compromised. The Tsardon were sailing almost unhindered along her coasts.

She doubted they would bother landing until they were within sight of their prize. Perhaps they would be yet more confident than that and beat her harbour defences and take on the legions in the heart of the Conquord. And practically the first they would know of it would be when the artillery began to fire.

Herine chewed her bottom lip. She had put in place all that she could. The Tirronean Sea north of Estorr was still hers. Reports had the rebel Atreskan fleet scattered or sunk. Every available legionary was on or nearing the Neratharnese border. The Caraducian and Estorean coastlines were alive with her soldiers, who would move with the Tsardon fleet.

But still she was blind. Communication was slow, even by bird or ship. The beacon flags did not provide for update, only absolutes of victory or defeat. And across the sea, there lay her most troublesome unknowable. Gestern. She did not know if Katrin Mardov held the Tsardon at her borders or if Roberto had come to her aid. God-embrace-her but she had no certainty that he was still alive. Nor whether Jhered had found him and whether the Ascendants were still in the Exchequer's care.

'Oh Roberto,' she whispered. 'What will you do?'

It was in times like these when, despite all her confidence in her favourite son, she found it hard to have real faith. When all those on whom she relied so easily in peaceful days became feeble mortals in the dark dreams and visions that plagued her day and night.

'It is the waiting that saps the will most, is it not?'

Herine turned from the balcony and looked back through the grand gallery, past the paintings, tapestries and statues from around the Conquord to see the speaker. She forced a smile onto her face.

'Chancellor Koroyan,' she said. 'Come to minister to my troubled mind?'

'How else could I serve the Conquord better?' asked the Chancellor, walking forward gracefully.

She wore a formal toga, slashed Conquord green and covered with the rich, leaf-work embroidery of her office. Her sandals hissed over the bare stone and her eyes sparkled like the jewels in her tiara. Despite the breeze pushing into the open front of the gallery, she wore no stola or cloak over her bare arms. An impressive sight as always. Herine reminded herself to be on her guard.

'The city is quiet,' said Herine, turning back to her view.

The dusas sun was breaking through grey cloud as the morning chill began to lift. The bustle of Estorr was subdued. It was an uncomfortable atmosphere and added to the disquiet that had gripped every quarter. The unshakeable belief in the strength of the legions had been seriously eroded. Uncertainty had replaced complacency and overconfidence.

'But you are not surprised, surely?' asked the Chancellor, coming to her side.

'Naturally not. Even I will admit to having misgivings from time to time, Felice.'

'That's not unnatural. The Omniscient is angry. His head is turned from us and the mists are shrouding our enemies from us.'

Herine snorted. 'Oh, Felice. I could respect you so much more if you weren't so pompous.'

The Chancellor's expression was as cold as the day outside.

'Don't look like that,' said Herine. 'Listen to yourself. You're creating fear where there should be none.'

'Surely, my Advocate, you would agree that were the Omniscient behind us in our fight against the Tsardon, He would have forbidden the mists to fall. Instead, He aids their progress towards us. Hastens our doom.'

Herine shook her head. 'No, I would not agree. The dusas mists are a yearly meteorological phenomenon that our scientists explained a long time ago. The timing of the war is unfortunate and the Tsardon have been quick to capitalise on their advantages. But it will turn. The Ocetanas will break out. Neratharn will hold until Roberto arrives. We will win.'

'God is punishing us for your harbouring of the Ascendant abomination,' said the Chancellor. 'Only if you denounce them will the Conquord be saved.'

Herine felt anger building inside her twinned with a frustration that threatened to overcome her.

'And instead of preaching belief and calm, you peddle these fears and drive anxiety through the citizens of Estorr and god knows how far into the outlands. Why must you act so divisively?'

'Because faith in the Omniscient is not a thing to be called upon at our convenience. We either believe, or we do not. Perhaps you should ask yourself on which side you stand, my Advocate. Though it is not a question one would normally have to direct at the living embodiment of God on earth, is it?'

'You are treading a very, very fine line, Felice. Look down before you fall.' Herine gestured out at the city and its splendour.
‘I
am on the side of saving the lives of as many of my citizens as I can. We have been down this road before. If I can stop the Tsardon destroying all that we have built over so many centuries, I will. If the Ascendants are part of that, I am happy to employ them.'

'And in saving their bodies, you will lose their hearts.' The Chancellor moved away a pace.
‘I
hear what they say because I move among them.'

'You stoke their fears for your own ends,' said Herine. 'And believe me, it will be to your detriment when the war is done and the reckoning comes. Don't push me, Felice. Religion is evolutionary. I think it's time you went back to the Principal House and considered where your future lies. Thank you for easing my troubles, by the way.'

The Chancellor's glance radiated hate. She made to turn but the sound of horns in the harbour stopped her. She rejoined Herine at the balcony. They waited for the tones that would indicate attack but none came. Instead, the horns sounded the stand-down and three ships moved sedately into the calm waters inside the harbour walls. Two sailed in while the third was clearly in trouble and under oar. Her mast was gone, snapped about halfway up and there was damage to the deck and gunwale.

Even at their distance, Herine could make out the large deep blue flag that fluttered from mast and stern of the lead boat to indicate who was aboard. Beside her, Koroyan froze. Herine saw her face harden to a vicious contempt.

'Your accuser is paying a call,' said Herine. 'Surprised to see him, are you?'

'The movements of Arvan Vasselis are no longer my concern,' said the Chancellor. 'You made that abundantly clear.'

'I thought I had,' said Herine. 'But remind me. The legion of the Armour of God under Horst Vennegoor. Their orders were to secure the coast north of the Karals, am I right?'

The Chancellor inclined her head warily.

'I thought so. Presumably he lost his map or is unsure of north and south.'

'My Advocate?'

'It's just that my last reports had him marching south at upwards of twenty-five miles a day, heading deep into Caraduk. Towards Westfallen, perhaps.'

'Herine, I can assure you that—'

'And he would have reached there, let's guess, about twelve to fourteen days ago, I'd say. Just about the amount of time it would take to sail from Westfallen to Estorr, if you were forced to run.'

'My Advocate, if you are accusing me of—'

'Oh, do be quiet. Your protestations are so tiresome. You might hear what the citizens of Estorr say, Chancellor Koroyan. And I am sure they reinforce everything you wish them to. But I see and hear
everything.
And I never forget disobedience or betrayal. I will go and welcome Marshal Defender Vasselis and whoever it is he has brought with him to my capital. And if I see just one of your Readers or legionaries on the dockside, if I hear just one comment about his faith, I will have you arrested.' She waved a hand at Felice. 'Enjoy your afternoon.'

'Back port oars, starboard forty stroke.'

Iliev dragged the tiller towards him and the corsair slewed hard to port. The Tsardon trireme emerged from the smoke of a blazing Conquord bireme heading straight for them. Enemy arrows peppered the water and thudded into the gunwales.

'Back starboard oars. Port thirty stroke.'

Their discipline made him proud. The enemy thought they had his squad. They weren't even going to get close. He pushed the tiller away hard, turning starboard and driving away from the trireme at a steep angle. His crew were tired, pushed beyond any notion of normal limits. And still they responded to him.

Dawn was breaking, casting a cool luminescence through the mist that swirled at sea level and climbed high into the sky. There were fires and smoke in every direction. Burning wreckage was strewn across the ocean. His marines stood in the stern, keeping the damaged, bent spike above the water. In three engagements he had lost seven oarsmen and two marines. Not critical yet but he needed to find another squad before he made a final assault.

It was so difficult to gauge the success of the breakout. His squad were several miles north of the dock, shadowing a flotilla of twenty tri- and biremes trying to clear the siege and make way towards Estorr harbour. Their goal was ten days away under regular sail and oar. Ten days was three too many in Iliev's opinion. The Ocetanas would have to find new strength from somewhere. As for his squad, they would hitch a ride with whoever they could.

The battle had raged throughout the night. The early skirmishes had been easy. Surprise had been complete. The Tsardon had never seen the Ocenii squadron before but they knew all about them now. Thirty corsairs had ranged to the northern fringes of the Isle to devastating effect until the Tsardon, some of them, had begun to learn. Then, stones were heaved onto vessels spiked to their prey. Barrels of flaming oil were poured down ladders. And every enemy crewman had bow and sword in hand by the time the squads reached deck.

To a large extent, though, the damage had been done in the first hour. Now it was a case of securing the flotillas and making headway up the Tirronean, there to find what they would. Iliev was with the western ships, heading directly to Estorr. Others travelled with the eastern ships, rowing the coast of Gestern, where it was rumoured a Tsardon army waited to board.