Cry of the Newborn

by James Barclay

  'Are we seasoned campaigners or raw recruits frightened at the scattered idols of a people who fall back ahead of us? Are we one under a God who embraces us all under sky and over stone or a fractured mass that follows every sign as if it was gospel? No one will die at the head of this valley. No one will die as a result of any of these trinkets littering our path. I will prove it to you.'

  He dismounted and walked to the totem which had brought the cavalry to a temporary halt. It was a low stone tower built around a wooden stake. The stake held the single, twisted horn of a mountain ram in its cleft and the whole was splashed with its blood. It was the second they had passed but was of a larger scale, a greater warning. It read that the beast of the mountains would fall on those who attained their peak, that the rocks would tumble and the blood would run.

  Roberto lashed a boot at it, scattering pebble, stone and stake. The horn bounced from the wall behind it and skittered down the slope.

  'It is as fragile in construction as it is in invested threat,' he shouted. 'Blades. At my shoulder. March!'

  He led them to the head of the valley, spreading his arms at the emptiness he found there and smiling down at the thousands who followed him. He heard cheers way back from those who could see little but his silhouette. He inclined his head and turned back to look out at the vista afforded him.

  Conflict was close. To the north, the forest of Sirrane ran up the foothills of a low mountain range. South, the head of the valley on which he stood revealed itself as a long, unbroken ridge towering hundreds, thousand of feet in places above the floor of the narrow, tree-studded and river-run plain laid out below him. Across that plain, perhaps six miles away, the Tsardon camp rested on the lower slopes of a range of snow capped peaks. The range was cracked by passes and eventually fell away south at the farthest reaches of his vision to be replaced by gentler hills and rises. North, the line was unbroken up to and through the border of Sirrane.

  Behind him, the army was coming to a halt. He was happy to stand there, alive and unmolested while he made his admittedly simple decisions. The Tsardon camp was well placed. They knew he would not attempt to march through Sirrane, hence the northern route was closed. The camp guarded all three of the easily visible passes and overlooked an army marching for the southern hills.

  Up in the sky, clouds obscured the early afternoon sun. There was no sense in marching much further today. He walked back down to the cavalry and took the reins of his horse from an aide. He mounted up and spoke to the Blade's Master of Horse.

  'Down slope and hard right. Three miles south and break for camp. Have a colour party and engineers ahead with you for marking the boundaries. Delay only means empty stomachs.'

  'Yes sir.'

  'Go,' he said and kicked his heels into the flanks of his horse, goading it into a trot down the mud and rock slope to where the tributary burst from below ground. 'Blade's Master of Sword!' He roared. 'Where are you, Davarov?'

  'Sir,' came back the reply from the mass of men and women crammed into the narrowing valley sides.

  'Deploy your light infantry between us and the enemy during camp build. There will be cavalry with you. You won't be troubled but showing intent never hurts.' A smile touched his lips. 'And you could use the practice, eh?'

  'Might I remind my General that in the last games, the Blades infantry were the swiftest at the exercise you give us tonight?' Around him, citizens cheered. 'And if we need practice, what does that say about the infantries of the Arrows, Fists and Hawks!'

  The cheering got louder, mixed with laughter.

  'It means you are all slack after a dusas where you exercised only your hips and wrists,' said Roberto, clapping his hands. 'Now march. The cavalry escapes you.'

  He rode back up the path and took his horse to one side to watch his army pass, encouraging every citizen that caught his eye, assuring them that each pace brought them closer to honour.

  His head buzzed with excitement. Battle was close.

  The camp was complete before nightfall and fires scratched at the twilight sky. Smells of cooking came from a dozen directions. The engineers had found a slightly raised plateau almost directly opposite the Tsardon. A stream ran at its base and the ground was firm for pitching tents and hammering in the stockade panels.

  While the bulk of legionaries and cavalry saw to equipment and horses, carpenters and smiths worked under the direction of engineers to repair the damage to wagons resulting from a tough day's march. The surgeons too were doing brisk business on bites, blisters, sprains, twists and the odd break. The camp felt confident, loud with chatter, song and activity.

  Across the plain, the Tsardon had chosen not to attack, exactly as Roberto expected. He'd long ordered the Blades back into camp and now just a few riders prowled the open spaces between the picket lines, ready to give early warning of any raid or full blown attack. Roberto was sure they would suffer neither.

  He dined in his tent along with all his senior commanders that evening. Scouts weren't expected through the camp gates until the early hours and he was in the mood for a little relaxation and speculation in advance of any concrete information they brought him.

  He raised his silver goblet, embossed with the Del Aglios crest and etched with the family prayer. They were almost the first words he had learned as a boy.

  When the world is dark, there is always light for us

  When the flood waters rise, there is always ground for us

  When the mountain falls, there is always shelter for us

  When the enemy strikes, there is always a shield for us

  When God's embrace surrounds us, we need never be afraid.

  'Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to your new home. For the next few days, at least.'

  They drank and the army's Order Speaker, Ellas Lennart, led the prayer.

  'May the arms of God be forever around this army as it performs His work in His name. May each of us be kept safe in His embrace.' 'So it shall be as dawn lightens the sky,' they responded. 'Thank you, Ellas,' said Roberto. 'Eat, eat.'

  The low table around which they lounged was stocked with smoked meats, bread and sweet sauces, hot and cold. Flagons of wine and water stood in three places. Plates were filled in silence, all of them waiting for him to begin the debate. He was happy to oblige.

  'We have options,' he said. 'You know them, I know them. So tell me the mind of a Tsardon commander this evening.'

  'We are the invading force,' said Elise Kastenas, the 8th legion Master of Horse. She was a Caraducian from the heart of the northern plains, and born to ride. Short and powerful, she was a career soldier and bore the scars of her battles proudly on her long, striking face. 'They should want to keep us at arm's length indefinitely. But they are a curious enemy in some regards and we have been able to draw them out on a regular basis these past five years. A march towards them will prove too much temptation.'

  'I agree,' said Goran Shakarov, Master of Sword for the God's Arrows. He was a great barrel-chested Atreskan with heavy features and black hair that hung almost to his waist. 'They are a proud people and our presence here on their land as invaders is an insult. I've lived next to them all my life. They aren't waiting for us to tire of war and melt away like ice under the solastro sun. They want to drive us out of their country.' He smiled, showing off broken teeth. 'I know how they feel.'

  Tomas Engaard was shaking his head. The ioth's Tundarran Master of Horse was tall, blond and imposing. He was a fine archer from the saddle, the best Roberto had ever seen.

  'I don't see how you can say that. It might have been the case three years ago but we've seen them cede ground to us on a regular basis over the last four or five seasons. There's two possible reasons for that and both should worry us. First, they are learning from us and we're going to find it increasingly difficult to draw them out on our own terms. Second, they might be deliberately bringing us in. What concerns me is that the eastern front is facing a stone wall again this year if our intelligence is correct. And tha
t means we have significant Tsardon forces behind us. We are more reliant than ever on General Gesteris keeping them busy.'

  'I don't think we can afford to worry about being cut off, Tomas,' said Roberto. 'I hear what you say but our enemy is ahead of us. Gesteris is not going to fold, let's be realistic. If we can defeat those before us, we can circle round and deliver the decisive blow.'

  'What I'm saying is that if they continue to fall deeper back into the hinterland, chasing will leave us ever more isolated.'

  'Which is why I want to know the mind of their commander,' said Roberto. 'They have camped and let us catch them. For what it's worth I don't think they'll be packing up and falling any further back. They want to fight us now. The question is, will they meet us on the plain and if they won't, where will they line up and can we force their hand? Should we, for instance, break camp and false march south?'

  'Not as first play,' said Davarov of the Blades. His voice was hoarse from habitual shouting on top of a heavy cold. 'We have a sound position here. Excellent all-round vision and no chance of a surprise at our backs. Let's get across there and see if they'll join us on the flat.'

  'Would you?' Ben Rekeros, a native Estorean, was well into his fifties and would retire from his position as the 10th legion's Master of Sword at the end of this campaign. He was a man of few but weighted words and Roberto respected him enormously for his brain as well as his leadership and muscle. 'Think I'd just draw up on the slopes below their camp if I was them and see if we'll break on their phalanxes or wait down range of their archers.'

  'But this is where it doesn't work like we expect,' said Elise. 'I don't agree they're drawing us in, and I don't think they have the patience to match march with us to gain best tactical advantage. They've never shown that sort of will before. They need a victory early in the season and they've stopped here because they can deploy against us. It may not happen tomorrow but I bet a day's pay we'll be at them on this field and nowhere else.'

  'Mind what I say,' said Tomas. 'Even if they don't move, they can hold us up here for as long as their patience holds out. That's maybe all they want to do.'

  'So you're saying you're wrong?' Roberto was smiling.

  'No, General, I'm saying that while I concede that they may not want to draw us any deeper into their lands, they may still be planning on isolating us from help. We are already far further advanced than the eastern front. I say again, they are learning from us. They won't just charge down the hill at us.'

  Roberto drained his wine and refilled his goblet with water to wash down the rather dry bread and tough meat.

  'Do we have a contract to hunt Sirrane for game?' he said.

  'Quartermaster says so,' said Shakarov.

  'Then I wish he would shoot us something fresh. This animal is way past its best.' A light laugh greeted his words. 'Right, thank you for your thoughts. Unless our scouts bring me very surprising news, I suggest you all assume the camp stays for tomorrow at least. We will march in battle formation all the way and see how close we can get before I order triplex acies deployment. I will not provoke assault at this stage. Tomas, I don't quite agree with you. I don't think delay is in their thoughts. Neither, Elise, do I think they'll rush out at us the moment we get within taunting distance.

  'So, a nice easy day.' He chewed on a mouthful of bread, his teeth cracking a seed. 'By the way, now is the time to bring up any problems. I don't want to hear them at dawn.'

  None of them had the chance to say anything. The sound of spears being snapped to attention was followed by a soldier ducking inside the tent and sweeping off his helmet.

  'Yes, centurion,' said Roberto.

  'Conquord rider from General Gesteris and the eastern front, my Lord,' said the centurion, a man of the 10th legion by his insignia. 'He assures me it is important.' He was holding a satchel.

  'I have no doubt,' said Roberto. 'Bring it here.'

  The centurion hurried across the tent, handed over the satchel and departed with a smart salute.

  'One of yours, Ben Rekeros,' said Roberto, nodding at the centurion's receding figure even as he broke the Conquord seal on the satchel.

  'Yes, General, and a fine one, if a little nervous in the face of his seniors. He'll do well, should he live past the hastati.'

  Roberto retrieved a sheaf of papers from the satchel. They were tied with string and on top of them was a content and summary sheet written in Gesteris's flowing hand. He scanned the top sheet and felt a warmth spreading through him.

  'This message was sent from the approach to the fords at Scintarit. How far away is that, do you think?'

  Davarov scratched his head. 'Messenger service could get here in six days with river passage, riding at night and fresh horses for onward transport the whole way. It's the best part of four hundred miles, I'd say.'

  'Then they have been as quick delivering this as they can,' said Roberto, impressed despite himself having checked the date of the message. 'It seems we are behind the game, growing fat where others' sword-arm muscle is toned. General Gesteris engaged the Tsardon seven days ago. Let's hope he is already victorious.'

  'Does that change anything?' asked Tomas.

  'Only in my heart,' said Roberto, 'I hate not being first into conflict. Makes me want to rip the head off the nearest Tsardon. Lucky there are so many about, isn't it?'

  Chapter 21

  848th cycle of God, 9th day of Genasfall 15th year of the true Ascendancy

  The horns sounding at dawn were all but drowned out by the rain drumming on the tents. A weather front had swept over the ridge behind them in the middle of the night and while the winds died quickly, the cloud remained and the camp had taken a soaking for four hours straight.

  Shouts rang around the camp, driving citizens from their beds. Rain set discordant music on thousands of helmets, shields and breastplates. Roberto was already up, his aide strapping on his armour. It shone in the lanternlight and he nodded approval. Beneath the polished metal covering head, chest, forearms and shins, his Conquord green clothes had been pressed and stitched with the prayer of victory first uttered at the Battle of Reeth's Pass two hundred years before. A battle that had been decisive in the fall of Tundarra to the Conquord and one in which the Del Aglios family had risen to prominence.

  He raised his arms while his gladius, in its scrollwork scabbard, was belted on. His cloak, black and slashed green and carrying the Conquord crest, was fastened at his right shoulder.

  'Thank you, Garrelites,' he said.

  The young hastati inclined his head and slapped his left fist to his right shoulder.

  'Will we fight today, General?' he asked.

  Roberto smiled at him. 'How many times have you asked me that? And what do I always reply?' He clapped Garrelites on the shoulder and pointed to his bow, which stood in its protective leather in a stand.

  'That if you were a betting man, you'd say that we wouldn't be fighting, just standing and shouting, sir.'

  'Well, there you go,' said Roberto. He took the bow and strode out of the tent. 'Get to your maniple, Garrelites and remember not to get yourself killed. I need someone to buckle on my breastplate of a morning.'

  'You always say that, too, General.'

  Roberto laughed. 'Get going.'

  The noise of the army coming to order was deafening close to, a wave breaking around him, harsh under the rain and lowering dark cloud. Roberto added his voice to the tumult.

  '15th horse, why are you not mounted!' he bellowed. 'Where is my marching order? Hawks and Fists, you are slack this morning. It is a lovely day for a fight. And why is it that my armour is the only one from which the rain shies? Did we all run out of polish last night? Let's have you. Archers, keep those bows stowed. Conquord, we are marching. This will be an ordered deployment. I want those Tsardon pissing down their legs at our very advance!'

  The wide streets of the camp were designed with formation in mind. The site of each tent meant that the maniples formed up in precise marching order. Quickl
y, the streets filled. Spears and pikes bristled in the air. The thrumming of rain on metal helmets increased in volume. From the paddocks, cavalry were mounting up. Horses, sensing the anxiety and tension in the air, stamped and snorted. Roberto's horse was brought to him and he stowed his bow behind the saddle before swinging smoothly aboard, giving himself a more elevated view of his fighting force.

  The mass of voices was quietening now, leaving the air clear for centurions and masters to drag their citizens into tight formation. Roberto nodded. Their work over dusas had been most worthwhile. Over sixteen thousand infantry and two thousand cavalry, ceaselessly drilled in marching and deployment. Legions in competition with each other, cavalry detachments engaged in races and flanking games.

  Roberto trotted to a mound of earth built for him by the principal gate. His flagmen stood on it, waiting for him. Turning his horse, he could see the army ready. It had been a decent assembly, given the torrential rain.

  'Right, let's have them. Signal the gates.'

  'Yes, sir.'

  Flags, green and red quartered, swept up to the vertical, moved out thirty degrees, paused and swept down. On all four gates, the signal had been awaited. Orders were given. The hinged gates were dragged aside. Reinforced bridging was laid across the ditch and the army began to move. It would be the first sight the Tsardon had had this genastro of a Conquord force in battle order.

  Roberto loved this moment. Fear and excitement in the faces of his hastati, weary experience in those of his triarii. The overwhelming feeling of energy of an army primed to fight. And the sound. It would always send shivers through his body. The rhythm of feet on the march, the rumble of thousands of hoofs on solid ground. Sound that spoke of unstoppable power.

  The three infantry columns marched out of their respective gates, principal centre, right and left while the cavalry exited via the tenth gate at the rear of the camp, wheeling left or right depending on their flank position. From above, it would look like four great, dark snakes issuing from the belly of a scaled beast. He trusted the image was no less unsettling from across the plain.