Cry of the Newborn

by James Barclay

  'You don't feel that you'll be able to dictate what you want because of the power you have?'

  She frowned. 'I don't understand.'

  Jhered raised his eyebrows. She really hadn't considered it. She was only fourteen, he supposed. Still, she should have been more aware. He already knew his skill with a sword would take him high in the Advocacy well before he was her age.

  'Do you see yourselves as separate from the rest of the Conquord?' he asked, an idea sparking.

  'We're citizens of the Conquord,' said Arducius. Jhered noted how Mirron and Gorian looked at him and Ossacer squeezed his forearm. 'And the Conquord will find tasks for us if it wants us. Or we will choose for ourselves. Either way, the right decision would be to let us develop the next generation of Ascendants.'

  'In your image?'

  'What other image is there?' said Gorian.

  'We are only as separate from the Conquord as any farmer or fisherman in Westfallen. We will serve if drafted, we may volunteer if the wars are still going on. When the time comes, God will show us the right path,' said Arducius.

  'You really think you would be asked to don armour and march with the hastati?' Jhered was amused at the image.

  'No,' said Ossacer. 'We would be doctors and veterinarians. That is where our skills would lie on the battlefield.'

  'Really? Nothing more? Gorian, what do you think?'

  Gorian shrugged. 'Ossacer is right. Mostly. But perhaps we can have other effects too. We can stop or start the rain too. And we can make the wind blow. Maybe our generals would want that in preference to our skills with injuries.'

  Jhered nodded. 'I agree,' he said. 'And do you think that is how you should be used? Gorian?'

  'No, of course not,' said Gorian. 'We are different. We should master our own futures. Do what we want to do.'

  There it was. The others looked askance at him and, if it was possible, leaned away from him. Gorian had already begun to see where his powers could lead him. And for Jhered, the spectre of their manipulation by a general seeking much greater power for himself. The others still swallowed the limited view offered them by the Echelon. A view for which Jhered had respect. But in Gorian there was a brief exhibition of the problems they would inevitably face when these young minds all began to stretch. And they clearly could not see the danger.

  'So,' he said, 'you've answered my first question about how you approached me, haven't I? You three disagree with him. But is he not the more realistic one?'

  Arducius was shaking his head. 'We must only use what we have to do God's work. That is in healing and creating growth, not in making a field slippery for the feet of our soldiers.'

  'Oh Arducius, you don't understand,' said Gorian. 'We could make it rain when our armies charged because then the enemy's arrows would not fly straight and true. And we could direct the lightning against our enemy's armour to save the lives of our own people. I thought you all liked Kovan. At least I listen to him.'

  'Always so clever, Gorian,' said Arducius. 'I don't know why you don't just leave since you know it all already.'

  'Why do you say that? I listen and I learn. Don't be jealous just because you don't do what I do.'

  'I am happy not to do what you do,' snapped Arducius. 'Who'd want to have your mind?'

  'Stop it,' said Mirron. 'You're embarrassing me.'

  She looked up at Jhered, her cheeks red and her eyes moist. Ossacer was once again hanging his head.

  'I don't want to do my work in a war,' he whispered.

  Jhered's heart missed a beat and he fought the urge to place a comforting hand on the boy's shoulder. Arducius was already there.

  'It will be as God wills it, Ossie,' he said.

  Jhered watched them. The three closing ranks and Gorian apart, confident in himself. They were a fascinating quartet. Jhered wasn't sure what he'd learned. In so many ways they were just young people like any others running the streets of the Conquord. In others, they understood the weight of their talents. And one of them had begun to understand their potential for power and influence too.

  They chattered in ever widening circles while the afternoon waned to a glorious fiery dusk. When Jhered rose to leave, he knew he would spend the night awake, trying to decipher how he felt about these children. He thanked them all for their time and patience and began to walk down to the gate. 'Exchequer Jhered?'

  He turned. Arducius was standing, the others grouped around him. 'Yes, Arducius.'

  'We are not evil. We didn't ask for the abilities we have but we were born with them. All we can do is make the best we can of them and see that we live out our lives as God would wish. Don't call in the Order. We would burn and we don't deserve that.'

  Jhered nodded curtly and spun on his heel. He took a long walk on the beach before going back to his rooms in Vasselis's villa.

  Vasselis rode with Jhered to the top of the rise where, ten days before, they had looked down on the tranquillity of Westfallen. And for his part, the Marshal was happy that tranquillity remained intact for however brief a period. It was the fiftieth day of genasfall though it was hard to distinguish the blistering heat from a day in the middle of solastro.

  Vasselis had ridden out without any of his guard. There was no danger here and Jhered's levium were an honourable legion, professional and exemplary. He felt safe in their company, no matter the current relationship between the two old friends. D'Allinnius and Harkov had been respectful guests and had made new friends among those they were investigating. Vasselis respected both of them for their objectivity and their delicacy.

  'You are going to ask me what I'm going to say to Herine Del Aglios aren't you?' asked Jhered as they approached their parting. Vasselis was staying in Westfallen for the time being.

  'Of course. I'm bound to.'

  'It's going to be the question on the lips of every single citizen in Westfallen, isn't it?'

  'Don't play with me, Paul. That's beneath you.'

  Jhered reined in and motioned everyone else to carry on. Vasselis stopped with him, trying to read his expression and failing.

  'It had always been my plan to think on all I had seen and heard, and then review all I had written on my way back to Estorr. To take the views of my team and discuss every single item of evidence. And I will still do that. But I'm equally aware that to leave you with no notion of my thoughts is tantamount to cruelty against the whole of that—' He gestured back towards Westfallen '—extraordinary little town of yours. I can see why you love it, by the way.'

  'Thank you for your concern,' said Vasselis. 'You really should be building your villa there.'

  'You'll understand why I think that a poor decision at the moment,' said Jhered.

  'Your loss,' said Vasselis.

  Jhered wiped a gauntleted finger under his nose. 'Arvan, I will say these things to you and you can interpret them as you will for your people. I am not going to go home and announce what I have found to the Order. If I have my way, the Chancellor will be kept out of this for as long as is practicable.

  'But I can see no way the Advocacy can leave these people under your control. Your love of them has kept you from seeing the truth. They are a weapon. Dangerous if they fall under the wrong influence.'

  Vasselis started. 'They're just children, learning the boundaries of their abilities.'

  'How distant are those boundaries, have you asked yourself that? Gorian already sees destructive potential and I'll wager he's experimented, hasn't he?' Vasselis couldn't hide the truth from his face. 'I thought so. They need control and the Echelon doesn't know how to exercise it.'

  'You mean military control,' said Vasselis. 'Paul, don't do this. They are vulnerable children. They need the security Westfallen gives them. Don't take that away from them.'

  'What choice do you think you have given me?' said Jhered, anger in his eyes. 'I cannot go back to the Advocate and report a clean slate. Think about it. Not only are they a weapon, they are a gale through the fabric of the Conquord. People will be frighten
ed of them. God-around-us, so was I when I saw what they could do. And there are five-year-olds and babes in arms even now who could be the next. How can we not be involved? When you came to me you must have known what could happen.'

  Vasselis sighed. 'I know. I know. But you always hope, don't you?'

  'Look, Arvan, this is better than you could possibly have hoped for when I arrived here, believe me. I'm still going to have to consult more widely about the theological implications. I'm still not convinced it's not heresy. But one thing more than anything else has given me pause for thought. While you and your Echelon might be criminals under God, your Ascendants are not. And because you are their protector, at least for now, I feel honour-bound to stand with you. And I am confident the Advocacy will agree with me, and that means the Order will be kept from you.'

  'Thank you, Paul,' said Vasselis. 'Thank you.'

  'Don't take it as acceptance, because it is far from that. Some day in the future, there will be a case to answer. For now, don't go far and make sure your Ascendants do not leave Westfallen. Life has changed for all of you.'

  Chapter 26

  848th cycle of God, 58th day of Genasfall 15th year of the true Ascendancy

  The fords at Scintarit had become a major irritation to General Gesteris. The season of genastro was deep into its fall. Warmth had given way to oppressive heat and the Tsardon were not to be moved or lured. Almost thirty days since the first skirmishes and he had not been able to draw his enemy into a pitched battle.

  Scintarit was a broad, marshy plain through which the bedrock pushed in a multitude of places, sometimes in flat slabs above the level of grass and sod, and at others like fingers reaching for the sky and soaring hundreds of feet into the air. It was bleak and windswept even in the heat, which did little to burn off the moisture underfoot. The water table was very high and it made marching, riding and drawing wagons problematic.

  And slicing across the centre of the plain in long slow curves was the River Tarit. It was fed by underground courses that rose at the base of the Halorians, a huge range of mountains that bestrode the north east of Tsard, and was bolstered by the magnificent Halor falls during the wet seasons. The river was never less than a quarter-mile wide. It was held in by steep, rocky banks that were impassable to wagons along practically the whole of its course through the plain and into the staggering Gorge of Kings seventy miles away to the south.

  The Tsardon had destroyed the two bridges that had spanned the river north and south but they could do nothing about the triumvirate of fords in the centre of the plain. Treacherous, slippery expanses of smooth, moss-covered rock between one and three feet below the surface. Each was wide enough only for a single column to approach and cross. But such was the care with which that had to be attempted that defenders would have their pick of helpless targets.

  The tactical importance of the plain could not be underestimated. Ceding it to the Tsardon would leave them unhindered access over easy ground all the way to the Atreskan and Goslander borders. And a Conquord victory would open the central heartland of Tsard, and bring ultimate triumph and the fall of the Tsardon capital of Khuran a huge step closer.

  So it was that while Del Aglios and Atarkis north, and Jorganesh south, took their smaller armies into striking positions on Tsard's flanks, occupying good numbers of the enemy while they did, Gesteris held and pushed the centre with the largest single army ever despatched from the Conquord. Over eighty thousand citizens facing an enemy perhaps sixty thousand strong.

  His was the glory of command, but his was the task of greatest difficulty and risk. Naturally a cautious man, he was only too aware of the pivotal role his army represented. Conquord territories had been stripped of large numbers of men and women to build what he saw before him each morning at dawn. They were an experienced force but cumbersome to command even with the chain he had established.

  Logistical problems were huge, and not the least of them was the necessity to make camp around five miles from the banks of the River Tarit. It ate into every day's marching and deployment. Gesteris typically roused his army three hours before dawn and occasionally earlier in an effort to gain surprise. But the Tsardon picketing and forward scouting either side of the river was comprehensive and defensive units could be mobilised quickly to block any potential strike.

  So, the sixty days had seen little more than cavalry charges, quick raids and some pickets destroyed, only to be rebuilt almost as quickly. Most of the time, as had been the nature of this war, the two sides marched out to stare at each other across the water in lines spreading over five miles to cover the fords. And at the end of each day they were marched back as the sun fell behind the Tarit Plateau.

  Both sides knew the other could not afford rash moves that might lead to defeat. And for their part the Tsardon were entirely happy to wait. They knew that even should they be attacked by flanking Conquord armies, their numbers would be great enough, along with forces from elsewhere in their country, to be comfortable. They also knew that without Gesteris, Khuran would never fall. It was stalemate and it drained the morale of the Conquord army, who wanted little more than to see their families and their homes again.

  Gesteris rose to the same routine as he always did on campaign. The reveille in the camp shattered the calm of dreams. The shouts of centurion and master mixed with the neigh of horse and the thunder of tens of thousands of citizens dragging themselves from their bedrolls.

  He lay in the dark and listened for a few moments before his aides came in with lanterns and breakfast. He ate while he dressed. In the half light of the wicks, he examined his reflection in the mirror, noting the sheen of his polished armour, the clean dark green of his clothes and the deep grey of his cloak, embroidered with the Estorean crest and bounded in root motifs.

  He smoothed down his similarly grey hair and stretched the skin of his face with a hand to remind him of his youth, three decades gone now he was in his fifties. Finally, he secured his green-plumed helmet, chin strap tucking in with familiar tightness.

  Gesteris's force was separated into three, one to march to each ford. Latterly, he had separated the camps to make the march more efficient and had kept himself attached to the centre of the three, nominally with the 2nd legion, the Bear Claws of Estorr. However, movement among the three was fluid and he placed light infantry and cavalry in heavy concentrations on the flanks for quick dispersal to another location, feinting to push the left or right ford. It was the nearest he had come to forcing a critical breach and triggering the battle he craved.

  He walked through his troops and cavalry, wishing them luck for the coming day and sharing prayers with the Speaker on the lawn outside her tent. He walked tall and proud, letting the belief that they would soon force battle and win the day sweep from him in waves. And inside he didn't doubt it would happen. It was the when that bothered him, and whether he would be forced to send messengers to the flanks, telling them to camp and hold for him. He didn't want that. It would shame him.

  Gesteris inspected a maniple of the 30th ala, the Firedragons from Gosland, and a cataphract of his own legion. He mounted his horse, signalled the horns to sound and led the triarii from the principal gate. It was an efficient and unspectacular march along route seven, which was currently the least churned on the approaches to the water's edge, though the mud was still ankle-deep in places.

  Firmer ground was marked and flagged across the marsh. His engineers had laid temporary stone and hardwood roads on all exits to the camp and out along every route for a mile at least. The retreat routes were clear and pristine, unused should the worst occur and they be forced to fall back to defend the heavily fortified camps.

  Everything correct, everything in its place. All that was missing was the fight and he was running out of time and ideas. He knew he wasn't as imaginative as some of the younger generals. He heard mutterings, or at least thought he did. But he'd see the moment. He always had in the past. And his return to Estorr would be triumphant once again.
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br />   The army had deployed in a deep triplex acies formation covering the centre ford by mid-morning. Peace descended after the barrage of the march. Thirty thousand soldiers and cavalry stood with barely a sound to mark their presence bar the whinny of a horse, the flap of strap and cloth in the wind, the snap of a standard against its pole and the chink of metal on metal.

  In front of them across the river, the Tsardon stood in a mass, their heavy complement of archers and crossbowmen forward most as always and their poor catapults drawn up close to the ford. There was barely even a shout or a taunt any more. It was a scene replicated left and right. Between the armies, flagmen and riders waited for orders.

  Gesteris looked up at the sky before urging his horse into its slow, daily walk along the front of his lines. There was not a cloud in sight and the sun was hot, mocking his impotence to act. His Master of Horse, Dina Kell, accompanied him. An aggressive cavalrywoman, he had felt her silent discontent grow by the day and her suggestions were leaning towards excessive risk for questionable gain. Nevertheless, he respected her skill and experience. He would not have another commanding his cavalry.

  The only thing he wished he'd done at the outset was build artillery towers on the river bank. That might have given his scorpions and ballistae the height to reach the enemy. Too late to try it out now. By the time they'd finished construction, he would have had to force his way across the fords.

  Something caught his eye in the southern sky, away towards the

  Gorge of Kings. Like a stain in the heavens, a dark smudge on blue canvas. He frowned. There was nothing down there. The land was dry but the way south and east was impassable for an army along the eastern side of the gorge. Hundreds of miles of deep clefts, sharp rocks and crags sprinkled with coarse heather, fit only for the most tenacious of goats.

  He pointed. 'Master Kell, tell me what you see over there.'