His runners, riders and flagmen were waiting. His standard stood tall.
'I want all information relayed more quickly than you've ever done it before. I want updates from the fords and I want them accurate and comprehensive. Don't let me down.' He nodded at their acknowledgements. 'Good. Be ready.'
A battering noise swept across the plain. The Tsardon on both fronts clashed weapons against shields, voiced their battle cries and moved to the attack. There was going to be no squaring up at short distance. No baiting, no prolonged exchange of arrows and crossbow bolts. There was to be no tactical advance.
Gesteris felt the thrill course through him.
'Phalanx set. Archers ready,' he called, the orders relayed by flag to the field. 'Cavalry to respond at will.'
The Tsardon were marching hard. Cavalry moved at a slow trot either side of them, champing to be set free to gallop. Down to his left, Master Kell deployed a cataphract in front of a detachment of horse archers, ordering them to angle in to the enemy right-hand and hold for the order to charge.
Behind the hastati swords and sarissas, archers stood with arrows in the ground at their feet, bows strung and ready. On came the Tsardon, into arrow range, meaning to hit the Conquord armies hard and fast. Gesteris glanced behind and to his left. It was the same situation across the near ford and, he assumed, at the two out of sight.
Orders rang out. Arrows flew in clouds, hammering into the Tsardon ranks. Gesteris saw men stumble and fall, helmets spring from heads, and arms and legs jerk back under strike. They did not falter. Tsardon crossbow bolts and shafts answered from behind their front lines, rattling into the hastati shields but it was not a concerted barrage, inaccurate on the move.
The Tsardon were within fifty yards when their cavalry charged. Around half of it as far as Gesteris could see. It was an extraordinary sight. Three thousand horses and riders thundering on. Sweat steamed from hides and the mud churned and spat from beneath hooves. They drove hard around the flanks of their infantry, undaunted by the arrows directed against them.
Horse and sword commanders reacted quickly. Kell's cataphracts levelled their lances and moved to counter, armour glinting in the sunlight. Across the flanks, gladius maniples closed their shields into fighting order and waited for the wave to break across them. And in the centre, the dual phalanx crouched and angled their sarissas into a forest of deadly spikes.
Arrows came over their heads in volley after volley. The noise reached an incredible crescendo. Conquord forces bellowed to bolster their courage, yelling in the faces of the enemy, who held a tight line even as they raced in the last few yards. Gesteris heard the sounds of multiple artillery weapons firing behind him.
Cavalry and infantry collided and thunder rolled across the plain. Horses bucked, swung sideways or ploughed ahead. Riders hacked and slashed. On the fringes, more were galloping in. At the centre, his cataphracts drove a wedge, allowing horse archers to fire over their heads. Riders and horses died in their dozens. The sound of screams was terrible, equine louder than human. Blood was a mist in the air, clouding in the intense heat generated by the battle. Kell fed in more units, giving others the chance to withdraw, reform, wheel and come in again. The violence of the conflict was shocking even to a seasoned general like Gesteris and he knew it couldn't be kept up for too long.
The relative contrast in the infantry lines was startling. The initial collision had been signified by a rippling back of the Conquord forces followed by an immediate steadying. In the centre, phalanxes faced each other in a grinding conflict that would barely move all day. But that was not where the day would be won or lost. Out on the infantry flanks, both of which Gesteris could see by standing on his saddle, the fighting was fierce. Javelins and arrows still fired overhead, cutting down soldiers on both sides.
Down on the fighting line, the Conquord held close order against the wider stances of the Tsardon warriors. His soldiers used their tall rectangular shields as battering tools, thumping them forward, opening them up to allow the stab or slash and closing again, giving the target little time to strike back. The Tsardon were more lightly armoured than his. Their metal-banded leather allowed them quicker movement than the scale, breastplate and helmet of the Conquord. Wood and hide shields were effective blockers and their swords, carrying a slight curve, were longer and better for the slash.
Gesteris watched on. 'Keep them holding,' he said. 'Wear them down. Drain them.'
Flags responded to his words. Riders were flying along the back of the lines, carrying messages. He dropped back into his saddle and took a longer look at the fords. Archers in wide arcs were firing on
the fords themselves. Onager rounds soared high to crash down into the river. Spouts of water were flung high into the air. Scorpions thudded. And down on the front, on the banks of the river and out of his eye line, his soldiers held a solid line with sarissa, gladius and shield wall deployed in defence.
He let the scene, the energy and the deafening row roll over him. He felt that curious moment of peace he always experienced when battle was joined. Neither side had broken, neither could be said to be winning the conflict. The battle had settled. It was now that the master general could make the moves to win the day. Dimly, he thought he could hear the bark of dogs.
Gazing out, Gesteris saw the cavalry forces begin to separate with the initial clashes done. Here was where it would happen. The steppe cavalry held the morale of the Tsardon in their hands, he was sure of it. And to expose just one flank would be a devastating blow. He kicked the flanks of his horse and, with his extraordinarii behind him, rode in search of Master Kell.
The splendour of the games impressed even Herine Del Aglios. And as Advocate, and Advocate's daughter, she had seen them often enough. The official opening of ten days of games was blessed with beautiful warm sunshine across Estorr. It bathed the principal arena, sending the shadows of columns, arches and flags over the concrete oval track and the sanded inner field.
Herine had ridden in her chariot at the head of the palace cavalcade through the Victory Gates. She had paraded along the processional drive and past the Gardens of the Advocates, where her predecessors' statues were decked with flowers. Crowds lined the route. Above them, painted banners related the story of the rise of the Conquord in images, the names of heroes blazing out from their borders of classic root motif. She had taken their applause and their cheers, seen the lines of ist legion guard keeping order and waved graciously and gratefully back.
In the gardens as she passed, qualifying for the arena finals was in its fourth day. Stands had been built around temporary courts and crowds had flocked to see the best the Conquord had left to offer display their skill with sword, spear, arrow and javelin. But so many were absent on campaign or, in Jhered's case, on more solitary service.
Elsewhere, runners competed in sprints and endurance qualifying races; horses and riders were going through their paces over jumps and in displays of close control; chariot racers tore around the oval at the north end of the gardens; and teams from all corners of the Conquord tackled the obstacle courses which would be replicated in the arena later in the games.
Everything was in its place. The Advocacy scientists had promised displays unsurpassed, the traditional and the modern. On the last day, the arena floor would be cleared and the scale model of the Tirronean Sea surrounding Kester Isle would be built and flooded. Nothing in Herine's experience came close to the spectacle of the reconstruction of the Siege of Kester Isle, back in the 63 3rd cycle, just before the fall of Gestern.
The sheer feat of engineering required to produce model miniatures of ships, the castle and artillery never ceased to amaze her, though she had seen it unfold half a dozen times since her childhood.
She climbed the stairs to the grand balcony at the first level of the arena and stepped out on to the deep green carpet that ran around the plush throne at its centre. Chancellor Felice Koroyan was already in her seat, along with the Speakers of Winds, Seas and Earth. And to the
right, sat her inner sanctum of sponsors and two of her children; Adranis, her son of seventeen and Tuline, her daughter of fourteen. The latter looked grumpy and no doubt would rather have been anywhere else. Adranis, on the other hand, gazed out at the spectacle in unabashed wonder.
Herine walked forward and sixty thousand citizens roared and chanted her name. She breathed it in, certain now that her decision to hold the games was absolutely the right one. How could anyone doubt that the desire to relive past glories still burned bright in her people. How could it be a waste of time and funds when it brought everyone to such passion and energy.
The chanting continued. Fists punched the air, scarves waved, their multiple colours a dazzling display and a fitting opening. The fervour washed over her and she closed her eyes while the power swept through her. It was worth all the organisational pain just for this. She opened her eyes and raised her hands. The audience quietened and she spoke loud, her voice carrying clear across the bowl, echoing from the precisely carved architecture.
'Citizens of the Conquord of Estorea, welcome to the glory of your world. The glory we shall celebrate in these, the greatest games ever seen!'
Cheers erupted around the arena, the noise staggering and marvellous.
'Everything we have built has been by our own hands and through the blood and toil of our legions, who even now work to make our Conquord ever greater. In these next ten days, you will see wonders from a dozen countries. You will see the finest athletes, riders and warriors compete for the coveted Gilded Leaves of the Conquord. You will see the strongest teams ever assembled vie for the champion's trophy, the Golden Lances of Ocetarus. And you will see acted out for you the greatest victories the Conquord has ever won.
'Watch, my citizens, and know that your work, your sacrifice and your wills are what make our Conquord great. And that through you, we will become greater and greater.
'Let the Games begin!'
Fanfares rang out, all but drowned by the renewed cheering and chanting. Herine stepped back to her chair, waved to all corners and sat down. The noise bounced around the arena, uplifting and energising. With the first athletes taking the arena, the tumult began to subside and Herine felt a touch on her arm. She turned to her left and smiled at Chancellor Koroyan.
'A stirring speech, Herine,' she said. 'And a crowd desperate for entertainment. The drudgery of war has sapped the will of the citizenry and even the Order cannot hold them all up. These games are a master stroke and we will preach the glory of the Omniscient to a revitalised people. I thank you on behalf of us all.'
Herine was taken aback by the admission as well as the gushing enthusiasm. Quite uncharacteristic. There was surely an agenda behind it.
'Well, thank you, Felice,' said Herine. 'I am heartened by your approval.'
'What other response could I give? I can feel the people as if they have found new life. And the glory of the Conquord is the glory of God.'
'Let's hope the games live up to their billing.' 'It makes it all the more surprising then that Exchequer Jhered is not by your side, lending his support as I do.' Herine kept her expression carefully neutral.
'The affairs of the Gatherers cannot stop even for games such as this. The Games celebrate glory but we are still at war. Taxes have to be collected.'
'And the word of God has to be spread through the Conquord and into our new territory as a matter of urgency. But still we have made the effort to bring a senior delegation to the Games. The citizens need to see us. They need to see the Gatherers too.'
'Are you sure?' asked Herine, piqued. 'Most people would welcome the absence of the levium. They are hardly a force loved throughout the Conquord.'
'And the Order has its opponents—'
'—diminishing daily—'
'—but if we are to be accepted as the force for good we undoubtedly are, then we must be seen to be beneficent. Able to enjoy the pursuits of the ordinary citizen. After all, if we do not understand the people, how can we lead them?'
'The Gatherers do not seek to be spiritual guides,' said Herine shortly. 'Perhaps we should enjoy the fact that we are here and not be concerned with those who are not.'
Koroyan smiled indulgently. She was wearing her robes of state, a deep ochre toga over which was placed a sash of gilt-edged Conquord green. Twined in her hair was a circlet of gold, of woven roots, closed at her forehead with a spray of leaves. It gave her a proud look and powerful appearance in which she revelled.
'It's just that I had heard that when he left Estorr it was in poor humour.'
Herine eyed her. 'Perhaps because he was annoyed his duties would stop him challenging for the Gilded Leaves in swordsmanship.'
'Perhaps so. Though I had heard it was as a result of a discussion with you when he voiced his opposition to the Games. That it was an exclusion rather than a necessity driven by his duties.' Herine said nothing. Koroyan pressed further. 'And such odd travelling companions too, I understand. Harkov of the palace guard and D'Allinnius your chief scientist. The latter would surely be of more use to you here, don't you think?'
'Lord Jhered requested those companions for his trip and I agreed,' said Herine.
'But still ... an odd delegation to collect a levy. Is there trouble in Caraduk? I understand that was where he was headed.'
'You understand a great deal, Felice. And not all of it should you be concerned with. Have your Speakers in Caraduk reported any problems?'
'They have not.'
'Then there is your answer,' said Herine.
'But Caraduk always concerns me. Information from some of its more remote corners is difficult to come by. Almost as if it is desired that I should not hear what goes on.'
Herine laughed but knew it was unconvincing. 'And what might go on that would worry you in such a loyal state as Caraduk?'
'What indeed.'
The two women's eyes met and held. Below, the quarter finals of the chariot racing had begun to the roars of the crowd. Herine turned to watch, aware that Koroyan had not shifted her gaze.
Chapter 28
848th cycle of God, 1st day of Solasrise 15th year of the true Ascendancy
Master Kell watched the horse archers of the 9th ala, the Rogue Spears of Atreska, drive in behind a break forged by the second cataphract, attached to the 2nd legion. Her legion, the Bear Claws of Estorr. They poured arrows over the steppe cavalry who were in temporary disarray, trying to gather themselves for retreat and reform.
'Signal the first heavy!' she yelled at her flagman. 'Let's force that breach.'
Flags whirled and dipped, three in unison. The cavalry watchers relayed the information to her first cataphract, drawn from the 34th ala, Tundarran Thunder. They gathered and charged, riding hard for the centre of their infantry flank defence. Simultaneously, the Rogue Spear archers wheeled and galloped away, the Claws hard on their heels, escaping being dragged too far into the belly of the steppe cavalry.
The enemy had no respite. The first cataphract slammed into the part-broken line, driving it further back. And in their wake, the archers came in again to down disoriented riders and cripple horses. It was a textbook assault and the Tsardon were weakening.
Back behind the infantry, Gesteris was feeding maniples of principes into the left-hand infantry lines, forcing the Tsardon to retreat. And while the right was tasked to hold and skirmish, the left made inexorable progress. She felt so alive. The sun was past its zenith but still baked down hard, sapping the strength of any whose morale was weakening.
Beneath their heavier armour, she knew the Conquord legions would be suffering but the evidence of their superiority would see
them stand all day. Gesteris had been careful to cycle his hastati as best he could and the tactic was beginning to pay off. The phalanxes held easily. Very few casualties on either side. But anxiety was eating slowly into the Tsardon ranks. News of the slow push filtered across their lines. If the flank broke under pressure, the Conquord would be in behind.
'Time to make it h
appen,' said Kell. She turned her horse and spurred the mare towards the commander of the left flank maniples. 'Keep them backing off,' she ordered her second. 'I'll be back.'
She rode through units of resting cavalry, congratulating and demanding more effort to ensure the day was won. Across the back of the lines she went, with the noise of battle rolling over her and around her. Behind her, the fords were being held comfortably enough though casualties were high on both sides with the narrow battlefronts concentrating the fighting.
'Nunan!' she shouted, voice loud in the din.
She could see the Bear Claws' Master of Sword in the thick of his command. He was standing forward of the triarii, sending in maniples of the principes in response to Gesteris's flagged orders. His green-plumed helmet marked him out though his armour, polished and shining that morning, was covered in mud and blood.
'Nunan!'
He didn't hear her until she was practically on top of him. His sharp-featured face was spattered with filth. 'You're a long way from home.'
This close to the battle they were yelling at each other. A hundred yards away, the two lines had engaged again. The clashing of weapons and shields thudded around her head, a noise she was able to blank out when she rode into battle herself.
'We can win this here and now.' She leant out of her saddle as he approached and lowered her voice a little. 'We can break the steppe left and be in behind them. But I need your help and I need you to back me up with Gesteris.'
'You don't think he'll see it himself?'
'You heard him, he only wanted gentle pressure and wearing down. He's too cautious and it's too hot for your infantry on the front. It could turn the other way. I can make sure it doesn't. You in?'
Nunan scratched some mud from his face. 'Well, I don't want to cook in my armour any longer than I have to.'
Cry of the Newborn Page 33