Iliev rolled away. His men were at the aft hatch. A taper was at the fuse of a flask of naphtha. The hatch was hauled away. Down went the flask. There was a whoosh as the flask shattered and spread flame across the oar deck. Animal squealing filled the air.
'Rats!' shouted a nailsman.
'Shit,' said Iliev, breaking into a run back towards the corsair. 'Nail them down. Get off, get off. Plague ship. Move!' He ran to the rail. The oarsmen sat ready.
'Push away. Plague ship. Stand off five yards, we'll come to you.' Iliev turned. Kashilli struck down at the deck. A rat was smeared beneath his hammer.
'Off,' he yelled. 'Now. Off the ship. Corsair to starboard. Drop weapons you can't swim with. Go. Kash, go.'
Ocenii squad seven ran for the rails and hurled themselves over the side. Multiple splashes greeted his ears. Iliev checked them all over the side. A few rats had made it to the deck. Most were perishing in the fires below but by no means all. From the oar holes they spilled, desperate to escape the flames. And he heard the keening wails of men. Dead men. A desperate sound dredging at his heart.
'May Ocetarus take you to his breast. Rest now.'
Iliev ran to the stern and dived over the side. The water was freezing. The sun took a long time to warm the waters in the deeps. Iliev swam away ten strokes before turning and tucking his weapons back into his belt, treading water as he watched. Squad seven all swam back, clearing the stern of the ship and to escape the rats.
He could see the corsair curve away from the burning trireme and head back in to pick up the squad. Only two were on the oars. The other two stood with bows, shooting into the water. Behind, the other two enemy triremes were well ablaze. But on the deck of one, an Ocenii squad had been caught by the rats. Iliev could see them carving and stamping. And all he could do was pray no one was bitten. He cursed himself for a fool that he had missed the possibility.
Three ships alone, heading directly for Estorr harbour. Never an invasion force. The conclusion should have been obvious.
Iliev heard voices behind him. He turned in the water. The Ocetarus was nearing. He had been seen. A scrambling net was dropped down the side. Oars were positioned for use as hand- and footholds. Iliev swam to his ship and hurried up on to deck, waving away the towel he was offered.
He ran to the bow. Mission accomplished but at what cost? The three plague ships would never make port but every squad man would have to be minutely examined. Any scratch, any bite and they would be quarantined. Any confirmed plague and their fate was sealed. No sailor would infect his mates. A weighted belt was the quickest way to the bosom of Ocetarus, glory in the deeps.
'Admiral?'
'Yes Captain.'
The captain joined him at the bow, looking over the spike at the corsairs picking up marines from the water. Iliev saw Kashilli surge aboard, hearing him whoop his pleasure at the fight. The hammer was still in his hand.
'You'll need to see this but you won't like it.'
Iliev turned and took the magnifier from his captain's hand. 'Step away, Captain. I haven't been checked for bites yet. Where am I looking?'
'South south east. On the water.'
Iliev put the magnifier to his eye and looked. His search was brief. 'Oh dear Ocetarus save us and keep us.'
The sea was thick with sails. Hundreds of them. He lowered the magnifier.
'Flag the fleet. Relate position, speed and direction. Every ship is to come off station. Ignore every other vessel. The dead are sailing for Estorr.'
Chapter Fifty-Six
859th cycle of God, 5th day of Genasfall
There were many reasons why General Davarov might have shivered when he saw the border fortifications on the Neratharn-Atreska border between the Gaws mountain range and Lake lyre. The grand border walls and fort Atreskans called the Jewelled Barrier. It could have been that the steady stream of refugees he'd travelled past on the way here had resolved itself into a desperate clamouring camp outside the fortifications while those inside tried to process all who wanted passage. And he knew there were many thousands more to come.
It might have been that on his journey here from Tharuby, the reports from his trackers and scouts had made for increasingly depressing reading. The enemy strength had grown steadily. Scattered forces had been caught by the relentless march. The Tsardon had raided far and wide, taking town garrisons, stealing artillery and, latterly, harvesting any able bodied man or woman who had stood before them with sword, hoe or pitch fork.
It might have been that this place represented the last real hope of stopping the growing Tsardon and dead army from sweeping south to Estotr by land. And though it was a mighty structure, it was in reality, a very thin line against an enemy that to his knowledge, no one had yet been able to dent, let alone turn away.
Davarov had been present when much of the barrier was going up. It was twenty-five miles long, starting from the lake edge and finishing high up in the foothills of the Gaws themselves. Fifty feet high and forty feet thick. Able to take artillery at any point. Ramparts and battlements were an archer's dream. Oil runs could cover almost the entire face of the wall in flame.
It was a statement from its roots to the tip of its flagpoles. It was a dazzling white, scrubbed every week. And in its centre, the triple gates reared up inside a single gate fort that contained a killing ground that sent shivers through the backs of Conquord greats when they rode beneath it.
Davarov loved the gate fort. Though technically on Neratharn territory, it was built to Atreskan design. Animal carvings adorned its towers. Atreskan heroes decorated its concrete walls, alcoves and gates. The words across the gate frames were oaths of loyalty to the great country, the jewel of the Conquord. It was the gateway to the old Conquord and a welcome to the new.
Flags flew from its turrets and from two hundred masts set along the walls either side. The engineers had said that no artillery could breach gate or walls. Davarov never truly entertained the prospect that this boast would be put to the test. For what it was worth, he agreed with them.
Yet none of this was why he shivered when he approached. Memories were more powerful for Davarov than any present reality. And his memories would forever be of the forced march across Atreska a decade ago. The darkest time in the Conquord's history when only the strength of Roberto Del Aglios's will kept his army going and persuaded them they could turn the Tsardon back, send them scurrying back to their holes.
Davarov had never thought that he might return here knowing he had to fight. Looking at the rolling plains covered in the desperate mass of frightened people, he could recall so vividly the ruin of the land that had come in the wake of the Tsardon forces. The exhausted Conquord forces had marched the last few hundred yards across frozen ground covered in blood and bodies and the discarded detritus of men. And so he shivered at the prospect and wished the world was other than it was.
Cartoganev had ridden on ahead and had been at the Jewelled Barrier for half a day, assessing the incumbent strength and talking to the senior soldiers about exactly what they faced. The arrival of Davarov and his legions on their staggered march had raised the hopes of those marooned outside and the great main gates were opened to accept them. Cheering saw them through into the vast staging area behind and the gates swung shut on the displaced and the hopeless.
Davarov handed over control of the legions to his masters of sword and horse. He watched the beginning of their march away to their camp grounds and trotted away up one of the long concrete slopes leading to the walls and fort. Cartoganev would be in the administrative buildings on the ground but Davarov wanted to make a quick assessment himself before getting accurate numbers.
Taking salutes from everyone he passed, Davarov walked to the highest point of the barrier, the artillery platform above the gate fort. It was more than half empty. There was space for thirty onagers here. Only ten stood facing into Atreska and four of them were in pieces. Far away to the east, dust covered the horizon. Enemies and refugees moving towards him.
Thousand upon thousand. For all those they had managed to turn back to run into the great plains, too many had chosen to take the risk of hanging on to the cloaks of the legions.
Davarov turned a slow circle. The barrier walls and their flag masts were resplendent in the afternoon sun. The whitewash reflected brightly out over Atreska and the metal and wooden rails were clean and polished. Guards patrolled as far as he could see in either direction. Carts rattled along the roads built atop the walls, moving supplies, water and ammunition between watch towers. Concrete slopes led up to the walls every half a mile. All were busy with traffic. And in perhaps half of the positions available, artillery stood.
Behind the walls on Neratharnese territory, the vast cleared land stretched away out of sight. Along the length of the wall and for some four miles back into Neratharn, the land was managed to accommodate legion tents. Permanent buildings, barracks, administration, baths, cells, storerooms, stables and forges were away about a mile behind the walls. Directly beneath the walls, there was nothing. Cleared for troops, cavalry and artillery.
Davarov could see line upon line of tents. A temporary city was growing up. But the vast majority were refugees; the displaced with nowhere else to go, waiting to be found new places to live until the war was over. He saw legion standards in a concentration to his left, away to the south-west. And towards them marched his legions. Yet the ground should have been thick with soldiers. The sound of horses and hammers should have been a brutal assault on his ears this long after mobilisation was declared.
Davarov scowled and began to make his way to the administration centre.
'Where the hell is everybody?'
The business of making the Jewelled Barrier ready was moving at a pace Davarov could respect. People ebbed and flowed about him, intent on their tasks, scurrying hither and thither. There appeared to be urgency but no anxiety. Refugees would have brought myriad horror stories with them but it was only the idle hand that shook in fear.
Down on the ground,' he crossed the main road that led through the gates and away through the camps and into Neratharn. He walked quickly to the two-storey structure which formed the hub of the permanent structures. Very pretty it was too. Built on the lines of a classic Estorean villa, it boasted colonnaded entrances, formal gardens and even a fountain. He presumed water was fed from Lake lyre. He raised his eyebrows and blew out his cheeks. That must have been a pipe system long in the laying.
Guards at the walls to the compound thumped right fists into their chests. Davarov responded in kind, swept off his red-plumed helmet and strode into the cool of the villa. It was plain inside. The practical hand of the soldier had prevailed over the creative voice of the artist. The floor was bare stone, the walls likewise. Doors were heavy plain wood and the busts of military heroes were looking out from alcoves. Davarov approved. He wasn't one for fuss. Not in a military building.
He was directed to an open set of double doors on his left. They let in to a tactical room built for the purpose. Open shutters let in the light of the day and illuminated walls were covered with rosters and maps. Sloped tables carried more information, pinned down with miniature standards. The centre of the room was dominated by a huge table with a hole in its centre big enough to accommodate three men.
Upon it was a relief map of the Jewelled Barrier and the approaches from Neratharn and Atreska. Every single building was included. Tent symbols covered open areas. Rivers were marked and each hill and rise was to scale. Soldiers and civilians worked on the map, adding tentage and legion standard markers, pushing artillery into position. Around the walls, figures were written and rewritten as new information came in about troop and refugee numbers.
The door guard called attention and every one of the thirty plus in the room turned to Davarov. Cartoganev was at the table. He saluted and smiled but both were brief.
'We've got a problem, haven't we?' said Davarov, striding in and waving everyone back to their tasks. 'This place is crowded but not with soldiers.'
Cartoganev nodded. 'None are coming from Tundarra and Dornos. The Phaskareen too have turned their backs.'
'Gosland?' Davarov contained himself until he heard everything.
'Rumours of trouble up there but the Bear Claws are on station. Other Gosland legions are extracting themselves from Dornos still. They can guard our backs but nothing more.'
'Neratharn?'
'Full complement already here. The Avarnese are marching to the Estorean coast.'
'So what we have here is all we're going to get,' said Davarov.
'It looks that way.'
'And where is all the artillery?'
'Hasfort, for the most part,' said Cartoganev. 'It should be on its way. Most of it will reach us before the Tsardon and dead get here. That's about ten days from now.'
'Dare I ask about the Ascendants?'
'No word. I am told the sky and the Gaws are scanned for birds and flag messages constantly but so far, nothing. We can assume they will be sent here because Estorr will have worked out by now where the focus of the attack will come.' Cartoganev shrugged. 'We just don't know when.'
'Beautiful,' said Davarov. 'But we can only worry about what we have, not what we don't. We have a maximum of ten days before the enemy reach us. Let's get to work.'
Herine Del Aglios didn't say much to anyone and hadn't done for four days. She kept herself in her rooms, refusing entrance to anyone barring Vasselis and Tuline, both of whom were beginning to feel the strain of her undeniably failing leadership. So it was that Vasselis met the full Council of Speakers alone.
The sun blessed Estorr but it was a joyless warmth. With the siege in its fifth day, tempers inside the palace complex were shortening. Rationing had been harsh from day one, despite the apparent bounty all could see around them. Vasselis had no choice because he had no idea how long they would have to sit it out. At least in front of him was a chance to negotiate.
They sat in the palace itself, in one of the Advocate's favourite reception chambers. At the highest point of the palace, it was flooded with light and filled with images of Estorr's glory. Vasselis had chosen here because he wanted Herine to talk with the Council. Tuline was with her now, trying to convince her it was a sound idea. Vasselis did not trust to hope.
‘I am pleased you have chosen to come,' he said once all five of them were seated around a circular table bathed in warm sunshine from open shutters surrounding them.
'The bounty of your table is somewhat lacking,' said Winds.
'Perhaps if you had come here on the first day rather than the fifth, I might have been able to spare you something. As it is ...'
Earth smiled indulgently, it is a situation simple to ease.'
in your mind, I am sure that is true,' said Vasselis.
Earth sniffed. 'Does perfume run short too?'
'No, my Lord Earth, merely water for bathing. We have plenty to drink and enough to eat for some considerable time.'
'But this is surely a ridiculous circumstance to have brought upon ourselves,' said Oceans. 'The Armour of God impelled to lay siege to the palace of the Advocate? How have we allowed ourselves to reach this state?'
‘I suspect there are two schools of thought on that subject,' said Vasselis carefully. 'But we aren't hete to debate that. All we have to find is a resolution to the crisis. We all acknowledge it is disastrous to Estorr and the Conquord that it should continue. Mistakes have been made on both sides, we must come to a compromise that allows us to get on with the business of saving the Conquord from invasion. And Estorr must be evacuated.'
'Mistakes?' Fire leaned across the table. She was an imposing woman, very much in the mould of the late Chancellor. Narrow-faced, with eyes that sunk through a man like a dagger through flesh. 'Mass murder has been committed by order of the Advocate and conducted by the Ascendants in this palace. She and they must be handed over to us for trial in public court. That is our position and it will not change.'
Vasselis spread his hands and let a smile
play on his lips, ‘I expected nothing less of you, of course. But you must expect me to say that I cannot accede to that demand. If a trial is to be conducted it must be by due process, not under duress as would be the case currently. Lift the siege and we will discuss the situation in open forum.'
Winds shook his head. 'We do not need to negotiate and you are in no position to demand that we do. Hand over the guilty or the siege will stand.'
'Let's not become aggressive,' said Vasselis. 'None inside this palace wished for the recent events to have taken place. The murders of innocents within and without these walls. The death of Felice Koroyan. None of us is blameless.'
'There is no stain on our hands,' said Winds.
'The siege cannot continue,' said Vasselis. 'You risk the whole of Estorr. You know what is coming.'
'We know the rumours shouted by the lone madman in the harbour. Easy enough to quell the citizens' fears on that score. And we know the lies an Ascendant will tell to save his skin. Really, Marshal, this will not do.' Earth was shaking his head. 'How many new ships were commissioned in the wake of the Tsardon invasion? Are we to believe that some fleet of the dead is about to enter Estorr harbour and therefore that our navy is incompetent to act in our defence? They are an arm of the Advocacy and the flags they fly and the words they pass are designed for a single purpose.
'But we are in charge of the hearts of the citizens of Estorr. And they are not as timid as you think, and nor are their minds so feeble as you would hope.'
Vasselis straightened. 'You are seriously telling me that you do not believe the Conquord to be under threat? And you are telling our people that the rumours of the dead walking are lies we have concocted to keep them in line? Every day the city remains populated, the risk increases. You must believe that. Maintain the siege if you must but please get the citizens out of the city. The dead are coming.'
A Shout for the Dead Page 57