Cry of the Newborn

by James Barclay

  Kell's deep brown eyes gazed out from under her plumed helmet. 'Dust in the air,' she said, her voice thick with her Tundarran accent. 'Probably reinforcements coming up from the Toursan Lakelands.' She shrugged. 'It won't be a large force. Jorganesh has most of them tied down, doesn't he?'

  'So we are told,' said Gesteris. 'Do we have scouts down there?'

  'Not at present,' said Kell. 'There's no crossing now the bridge is down. But I can have riders despatched.'

  'Do so.'

  He looked at the dust cloud again. So hard to gauge how distant it was or how large. Gesteris wasn't sure why but he didn't share Kell's confidence in the likely meagre size of the reinforcements. Under the shimmering heat haze accuracy was all but impossible.

  He stopped his horse, reached round and fetched a map from his saddle bags. He unfolded it and squared the drawings with what he could see in the distance. The sides of the gorge reared high into the sky, tumbling east into the rocky terrain that, with the Toursan Lakelands, secured his southern flank. The river's course meandered for fifty miles, becoming arrow-straight for the last twenty before it fell into the gorge. Arrow straight.

  Gesteris squinted, trying to place the dust, which would already give an inaccurate position of the reinforcements, the scale of difference dependent on the wind strength at the gorge mouth. The direction of the breeze where he stood was almost directly north, meaning the dust would probably be in advance of whoever was creating it. But it might then identify their lateral position more accurately.

  He gripped his reins tight, trying not to betray sudden fear. He wanted to fetch out his magnifier too, but that would draw unwanted attention to the problem.

  'Get those scouts down there now,' he hissed at Kell. 'And tell them to take care. The Tsardon are this side of the Tarit.'

  The raids had continued and the Conquord did nothing but take more of his defence to bolster the clearly struggling armies in Tsard. He had manned as many of the border forts as he could and cycled his troops among them to keep the raiders guessing where they could safely cross into Atreska. But it did little except delay the inevitable.

  Now, in his hand he held the message he knew he would receive from the Advocate, and he read it with disdain. His refusal to attend the Games had been greeted with fury and threats. His stewardship hung by a thread and Herine Del Aglios was looking for the final reason to have him replaced.

  'But why should I care when my people are dying and my cities are burning?'

  'My Lord?' his aide sounded startled.

  'Sorry, Megan,' Marshal Yuran said to her. 'Thinking aloud.'

  She was sitting behind him, reading the petitions of the day. He knew what they would contain and had risen to walk on to a balcony in his castle to stare down with deepening dismay at the state of Haroq City. It had begun with the populations of border towns beginning to trickle in behind the city walls, many bringing with them tales of Tsardon atrocities. But equally many had brought ultimatums such as the one he had heard from Praetor Gorsal at Gull's Ford. Too many of them exhorted him to abandon the Conquord and declare independence.

  For them it was a simple choice. The Tsardon way or death. For him it was considerably more complex. Conquord troops were all across his lands, whether marching to or from the battlefronts, on defensive or assessment duties. Rebellions across Atreska took up as much of his time. His senior advisers were all Estoreans, loyal to the Advocate. And for his part, he still clung to the belief that the Conquord would triumph in Tsard quickly and the promises made by the Advocate would come to pass.

  Yet he understood the desperation of his people and he saw in their eyes, the accusation that he was impotent to help. It hurt him, cut him to the quick. He had sold them the glory of the Conquord and so far it had led to little but fear and death for too many.

  He really believed he was doing everything that he could. He had sent patrols to the Tsardon border and they had scored some fine victories. But it seemed that raiders were deeper into his country than he had guessed and there were not enough troops to cover everywhere they might strike. The Tsardon ability to hit almost anywhere they chose was spreading panic to all parts of Atreska. Surely they were working with the rebels. And when the population of Haroq had reached bursting point and he had to house refugees outside the walls, the rioting had started.

  The city's citizens had joined with the displaced and marched to the castle in their thousands to demand action. They had wanted more soldiers in the field and an ultimatum sent to Estorr concerning their loyalty if the Conquord failed to protect them as the constitution decreed.

  Yuran had seen the leaders of the popular movement and had explained to them all that he could. He had urged them to remain faithful and to pray to whichever gods they chose to see them through this time. He had said how it looked dark but that victory was at hand in Tsard and this was to be the penultimate campaigning season.

  He had pacified them for the time being but when food became short with too many fields and farms empty, patience had run out. Demonstration had become looting and he had been forced to send out the Haroq guard to quell the trouble. Martial law was in place. A curfew from dusk 'til dawn kept trouble to a minimum but each day he saw fires in new parts of the city and heard the muted shouts of mobs.

  Slowly but surely, civil law was disintegrating in Haroq City and even the Order of the Omniscient could not keep their faithful from taking up arms.

  'What can I do?' he asked. 'I am threatened with dismissal as Marshal Defender. But my title insists that I do my job rather than fawn to the Advocate at games which mock every hungry child in my country and sneer at every drop of blood spilt by innocents working their fields on the Tsardon borders.'

  'You must do right by your people,' said Megan softly, unsure whether she was requested to respond. 'Which is what you do now.'

  'Small comfort when those people I am sworn to defend turn on me and each other. The cells are full of agitators, many of them Tsardon sympathisers and they have dragged the heart from the city like they have from its farmlands. But they don't understand the implications of returning to independence. If we did, Atreska would become a battleground and I will die before I see that happen.' 'Can I speak freely, Marshal?' asked Megan.

  'Please. Any solution is better than the mess I can see from here.' He sighed.

  There was a pall of smoke hanging over the north of the city, scene of the latest unrest. The streets were quiet now, the early afternoon sun sapping the will of even the most fervent protestor. But it was another blot. Another memory among witnesses of Yuran's Conquord troops putting down revolt by force of arms in their capital city. It could not go on.

  'It is time to take greater risks in defence of Atreska. Do what Estorea would do. Conscript every refugee. Arm them and train them and take them out to defend their country. Give them a purpose. And in so doing you will remove the impetus to riot. Take the money from the levy to pay for it. The Exchequer will respect the necessity.'

  'Really? Exchequer Jhered is a notably difficult man to negotiate with.'

  'What do you care, Marshal Yuran?' Megan blushed. 'Forgive me but if you are to be removed, the burden of taxation will no longer be on your shoulders. If the Tsardon succeed in their intent, the result is the same. And if you succeed, the people will be foursquare behind you and the Conquord will not be able to replace you and remain credible. You will be a hero, even more so than now. And your negotiations on the levy will be from a position of great strength.'

  Yuran looked at her, feeling as if the sun had broken through the cloud to warm his face. Whether it would solve the Tsardon and rebel problem or not was very much dubious. But it would most certainly solve the civil unrest in his city and relieve the pressure on its inhabitants. Perhaps elsewhere too. Normal life could return. And most crucially, it would buy him time. Precious time.

  'Bring me the leader of the city guard and the general of the legion defence. By the Gods of Atreska's glorious past, girl, tha
t is a plan worth pursuing. Why did it not occur to me before?'

  'Sometimes we do not see that which is closest to us,' said Megan, trying hard not to be delighted at her success. .

  'Thank you for having the courage to speak out,' said Yuran. 'We might get out of this mess yet and if we do, I will see you rewarded.

  Now go. There is a great deal to be done if we are to save Atreska from all-out civil war.'

  The lookouts had seen them coming this time but it was clear the Tsardon had no desire for the element of surprise. This was the third raid. Everyone in Gull's Ford knew what it meant and was ready. The meeting in the basilica had been long and bitter at times but ultimately, the desire to live and work in the place of their choosing outweighed any other consideration.

  Praetor Lena Gorsal walked out to where the Tsardon would enter the town and waited. She watched them pass the outer farms and drop their speed to a trot and then to a walk. They had been seen and, more importantly, they would have seen the shrines to Juni, the Atreskan god of fertility. This was the season of heat and harvest and Juni was in her pomp, basking in the glory of her creations across the land.

  Gorsal stood under the blue sky and beating sun, the flag of parley idling above her head. Her administrators and magistrates stood with her. All wore the clothes of solastro, none were armed though they blocked the road.

  The Tsardon approached, confident enough to keep their swords sheathed. Pennants fluttered from fifty or so spear tips in the force of approaching a hundred and fifty. Because of the heat, they were lightly armoured for riding. Bows were slung unstrung across their backs. Their horses looked fit if tired from a morning's ride.

  Their leader dismounted when they had come to within twenty yards, six guards at his shoulders. Gorsal was glad it was him again though he strutted as if lord of all he saw.

  'Praetor Gorsal,' he said, bowing minutely.

  'Senior Rensaark,' she acknowledged, recalling his rank which was similar to a centurion.

  'You are still here,' he said in heavily accented Estorean. 'I respect that. I presume therefore that you were successful in your pleas to your Marshal. Unless, that is, you desire death.'

  'Neither,' said Gorsal and she indicated the parley flag and noticed Rensaark scowl and stiffen. 'Hear me if you have any respect for me.'

  Rensaark shrugged for her to continue.

  'Our pleas and demands to Marshal Defender Yuran were turned aside. Your statement which we relayed to him was laughed away.

  But we are a town with no desire to die for those who refuse to protect us in our homes and offer us vague sanctuary in tented encampments in Haroq City.

  'We want to live here in Gull's Ford, in peace. We want to trade with our neighbours, be they Conquord, Atreskan, Karku or Tsardon. A simple life with simple demands. So we have come to a decision.'

  She turned and raised her hands towards the settlement, beckoning with her fingers. On every rooftop in Gull's Ford stood a flagpole and at each one, stood a citizen armed with a bow. At her signal, flags were unfurled. Gold and white halves on the diagonal with a golden sun on the white half, a white sun on the gold half.

  They were the flags of the old Atreskan monarchy.

  She turned back to Rensaark. 'We no longer consider ourselves allied to the Conquord. In this small enclave we are independent, a reformation of the old Atreska. You have seen the shrines that the Order would destroy standing proud in our fields once more. And now you have seen our flags. We are of one mind here and so it is up to you, Sentor of Tsard. Slaughter us or trade with us. Return to how we were or be our enemies forever. What say you?'

  Rensaark stared at the flags then back down at Gorsal. He barked a command that made her flinch. His men dismounted and began walking their horses towards her. Rensaark's face broke into a wide smile, showing off broken, rotten teeth.

  'Fear is at an end for you and friendship with the Kingdom of Tsard can begin again. By your step, the death of the Conquord begins. This day is history. This day is victory without blood. '

  He held out his hands, palms up. Swallowing her revulsion for the man's past deeds, she laid hers upon his. The deal was done. Destiny was set.

  Chapter 27

  848th cycle of God, 1st day of Solasrise 15th year of the true Ascendancy

  They marched out four hours before dawn and their songs and prayers shattered the peace of the night. General Gesteris was at the head of his army, marching south to meet the new threat. He had begun it, bellowing out an Estorean anthem that had been taken up first by his extraordinarii and passed quickly through the columns of soldiers and cavalry under his command.

  The sound sent a shiver though him. Thirty thousand voices lifted in praise of their country, their Conquord.

  Estorea, Estorea,

  The jewel of the world,

  How great the march, how great the fight,

  How great the Conquord might.

  Each one of us is all of us,

  Each one of us fights true,

  Our enemies will bow their heads,

  The Conquord grows anew.

  So fill your heart for love of God,

  Tor Advocate, for me

  For Estorea as one true heart

  Will sing their victory.

  Fires were burning in the Tsardon camps to the east and across the river to the north. The answering chants, when they came into earshot, had set up a cacophony that had bounced across the plain. Gesteris was uplifted. The first skirmishes would be settled by word and song. And he did not underestimate their importance.

  Gesteris was surprised but content that the Tsardons had forced the fight. Presumably, it meant that the flanking Conquord forces were progressing well but whatever the reason, he had had to respond to a breathtaking move by his adversary.

  There was another army coming up the eastern side of the River Tarit. They had retained scouts all along the southern marches but not at the gorge head since the bridges had come down. Gesteris wasn't sure whether their original destruction had been an elaborate ruse or not but he respected the move nonetheless. What embarrassed him was that he had exhibited neither the wit nor the imagination to execute it himself.

  The Tsardon had laid a pontoon bridge sixty miles south, taking it slowly and working only when the armies were facing across the river. They'd moved new forces up from the centre, avoiding Jorganesh and Del Aglios, and staged them in a dark camp on dryer ground where woodland grew up the outer slopes of the gorge.

  With two days to redeploy his forces following confirmation of the new threat, Gesteris had met with the command teams of all three armies. Now, on the third morning, he was ready. The Conquord citizens were going to have their fight at last. He was split four ways, with the heaviest weight on his right and under his command. It was a gamble. He had to break the Tsardon army on his side of the Tarit quickly and hope his depleted forces at the fords would hold.

  To the right, the problems were significant. Fifteen thousand foot warriors were marching, backed by four thousand archers and, critically, six thousand of the awesome steppe cavalry. Gesteris had drawn off all the cataphracts from the three armies, set them with light infantry and two thirds of the horse archers and placed them at his flanks. In the centre, he was operating two phalanxes and meant to break through around the flanks using hastati swordsmen to force the pace. Principes and triarii under local command would to be used as shock troops to back the front line.

  Gesteris didn't like fighting on fronts at right angles to each other and he'd separated his force from those at the fords by a mile. If the enemy broke through, he should have time to bolster the rear and clear a retreat to the camps.

  Approaching his marks, and with the morning sun beginning to build heat under a thin layer of cloud, he could survey the Tsardon forces. They advanced in their battle line, making an imposing spectacle. Over a width in excess of a thousand yards, they moved quickly across the plain, flowing around fingers of rock. The crump of their feet sounded the
rhythm for their songs.

  Cavalry rode wide on both flanks, their order impressive even from a distance of well over a mile. Gesteris's words to Master Kell, who was in command of all cavalry on this battlefront, had been well chosen. These were not recent conscripts. The steppe cavalry hailed from the lands north and east, on the borders with Sirrane and the rocky lands just north of Kark. They were well-trained, funded by rich lords, and a worthy enemy for the Conquord. One day, they would make an ally he would be proud to command.

  Gesteris watched units of his horse archers and light infantry in the field ahead, deterring attack on the column by Tsardon forces. Skirmishes had been joined on four occasions already, signalling the intent of both sides to fight hard on the day. So far, the Conquord had come out on top. His horse archers were better skilled and on faster, fresher horses.

  He signalled the right wheel and the army began to deploy in exemplary order. In an hour, his formation was complete and his skirmishers were back on the flanks or behind his lines. The Tsardon continued to close, upping their pace, while on the far bank of the river, attack was imminent.

  Gesteris saw flags communicating orders and heard the rumble of foot and hoof as his commanders moved to their initial positions. He rode down the front of his line, shouting over the taunts of the advancing enemy. This was not the time for grand speeches. This was the time to be seen and to bring courage to those in the front line who had never experienced battle before.

  'Strength!' he called. 'You are the Conquord. Fight hard, win well. Never take a backward step.'

  He repeated his words along the line, taking the cheers of his soldiers and the salutes of his cavalry. They were ready. He rode around the right-hand edge of his army and galloped to his viewing position. It was not a great one. The land was flat but at least he was on bedrock, unlike the majority of his troops. That was a problem that would only worsen, though at least the enemy would be suffering the same way