Cry of the Newborn

by James Barclay

  His military commanders had confirmed with him that much of his country's defence was scattered along the Tsardon border with reserves camped on the central plains. From the dust cloud in the hot solastro sky, it was clear that the enemy had not been stopped by his outer defences. And his latest scouts reported that five hundred steppe cavalry were approaching, presumably to demand his surrender.

  He had pulled back every legionary he could to defend the city and the lakelands to the south-east that let into the River Teel. It was his only escape, his only defensible supply line and he would exact a heavy price before conceding it. Haroq was a difficult city to take, as the Conquord had discovered a decade ago. So it would be again. He had seven thousand in two reduced legions at his disposal. With courage, luck and skill, they could hold out until reinforcements arrived from the outlying regions of Atreska, and from Neratharn and Estorea, Phaskar and Avarn.

  But he questioned whether there truly was the will to stand against what was reportedly a force in excess of thirty thousand. Gosland could be facing a similar-sized army, which would bypass Del Aglios's last known position. Gestern, assuming Jorganesh still stood, might have some sort of chance of bringing enough defence to bear.

  There was panic in the city. Food was rationed, space to lay your head was at a premium. And while some refugees had managed to bring a good deal of their possessions with them, those he saw walking in now had little more then the clothes they wore. How would he care for them all? Everywhere, the old shrines had been rebuilt or reopened as native Atreskans sought solace in their old gods and spirits. Everywhere he looked, it appeared that the ways of the Conquord were being deserted.

  'See what your policies have brought us,' he said to the Estorean consul, Safinn, who was standing by him.

  He was wearing his formal toga, slashed with the green of the Conquord, and had adopted a proud bearing for the good of the citizens of Haroq. But beneath the veneer, Yuran could feel his fear, just as he could feel that of all the Conquord dignitaries and the handful of Gatherers trapped in the city. None would be allowed to leave until the conflict was resolved, one way or another.

  'You have no words for me, do you?' Yuran chuckled and shook his head. He was hot under his polished armour and plumed helmet but he would not now be seen out of it until battle was done. 'And you cannot deny what every citizen in my city can see and what every refugee running through the gates below our feet fears. Never mind the handful of riders approaching. Under that great cloud of dust on our horizon march tens of thousands of Tsardon infantry and cavalry. Just think, Safinn, that your rulers in Estorr don't yet know they are invaded. Not until my carrier birds reach them.

  'They will sit and drink their wine and delight at their fortune while you and I die on these walls. Uncomfortable, isn't it? Where is your confidence in your might now, eh?'

  'Gesteris's legions will reform and regroup. They were scattered, not slaughtered, and the Tsardon are naive if they believe they have broken the Conquord with a single victory. Hold your walls, Marshal, and help will come from every direction.'

  Yuran stared at the consul whose own gaze was fixed steadfastly on the approaching dust cloud.

  'As that dust cloud covers the sun so you close your eyes to reality,' he said. 'Have you not listened to the legionaries who have staggered through the gates, bloodied and beaten? Scattered, they most certainly were. And taken prisoner in huge numbers. How many are there out there with the will or the wit to reform for another fight against an enemy who beat them so comprehensively?

  'You have never stood under the weight of battle and you have surely never tasted the crushing bitterness of total defeat. I have. And it has taken me years to build the courage to stand as I do now. You are a fool, Safinn. You were born one and you will die one. Watch and learn.'

  When the sun reached its zenith and the heat became all but unbearable, Yuran moved into the shade of the gatehouse. Men, women, children and broken soldiers still streamed through the gates. His city militia and the ist Haroq ala, the Stone Warriors, marshalled them on their approach.

  Close now, no more than an hour away, the Tsardon cavalry rode on. They were flanked by his own cavalry and riding under a flag of parley, just as he had expected. He gave the order for the refugees to be sent around to the eastern portal and felt the satisfying, deep clang as the huge iron gates closed under his feet and the portcullis rattled into position.

  He signalled his flag of parley to be flown from the gatehouse and he walked out on to the balcony over which an awning was stretched to keep the heat at bay. How incongruous it was. The balcony was beautifully carved, depicting victory celebrations from the accession to the Conquord. It had been designed as a stage from which to welcome dignitaries and allies from across the empire. Now he stood to await the vanguard of an invading army who would see it cast to the ground forty feet below.

  Archers stood along the length of the gatehouse and stretched away around the walls. From turrets studding the walls at intervals of three hundred feet, ballistae, onagers and double-springed scorpion bolt-throwers were in position and ready to fire. None would do so without his express order. He knew the Tsardon. Some demonstration of superiority was likely. He would not be goaded and his artillerymen and archers were under no illusion as to the costs of independent retaliation.

  'You have never seen an enemy this close, have you, Safinn?' Yuran found in himself a streak of contempt he hadn't known he possessed. 'I can smell your fear. Like shit festering in the heat. Pathetic. Nowhere to run, is there? Nothing to do but face your enemy and defeat him, or pray for your God to deliver you a quick death. After all, what will the Tsardon do to the emissaries of their mortal enemy?

  'I should show you the scar across my back. Inflicted by the same gladius I now wear at my waist. An inch lower and I would not be standing here.' He let his breath play over the consul's face. 'Inflicted by an Estorean intent on excising my kidneys.'

  'What is the point you are trying to make?' asked Safinn, his body already shaking.

  'That your days of comfortable luxury are long, long past. That you will have to be the man that your Advocate thinks you to be. I am the Marshal Defender here but you are the Advocacy's most senior dignitary. Do you have it in you to face your enemy down much as I did a decade ago? And are you prepared to pay the ultimate price, as I was?'

  'I will do what my Advocate expects,' said Safinn.

  'We'll see very soon, won't we?'

  The Tsardon steppe cavalry rode up in disciplined order and deployed with an expert precision that Yuran could respect. He hadn't seen steppe cavalry in a long time. Their skills had clearly not diminished. They finished with six riders in the centre within shouting distance of the balcony. The rest were ranged in a wide arc around them. Bows were in the hands of one in every two. The others held pennanted lance blades upright.

  In the centre, Yuran saw the sentor who led the cavalry. He was flanked by bowmen. The sixth rider carried the parley flag; white and yellow halves divided by a diagonal slash. The sentor did not dismount. He scanned the balcony and the walls left and right. Yuran could see the slight smile on his face.

  At the same time, he became aware of a silence spreading across the city. Voices stilled as word was passed that the Tsardon were at the walls. Outside, where most could not see, the enemy waited. Their destiny was about to be decided. There would be few that believed any other outcome than war was possible. The silence was scared, laden with inescapable fate.

  'I presume I address Marshal Defender Yuran, ruler of the kingdom of Atreska,' said the sentor, speaking in common Tsardon.

  'You do,' said Yuran, choosing to respond in kind. Safinn's discomfort was justification enough. 'I would have your name, sentor.'

  'Rensaark,' he replied. 'Adjutant to the King of Tsard, his Highness, King Khuran. And by my presence here you know he will long remain king.'

  'That remains to be seen,' said Yuran. 'One victory does not complete a war.'

&n
bsp; 'Your parley flag,' said Rensaark, indicating the cloth that hung from the front of the balcony. 'It is that of Atreska, is it not? A sign of your past.'

  'The Conquord does not believe in the parley,' said Yuran. 'No,' said Rensaark. 'And this man at your right hand. A Conquord man?'

  'The consul. Safinn of Estorea.'

  'I am not at parley with the Conquord,' said Rensaark.

  He muttered a couple of words Yuran could not catch and made a small hand gesture. One of his guards had nocked a shaft and loosed it faster than Yuran could truly follow. The arrow struck Safinn in the throat, driving up into his mouth. Safinn groped at the shaft, his mouth open, disgorging blood. He could not speak. His tongue was pierced by the arrow head. He stared at Yuran, pleading as he fell to his knees.

  'The ultimate price,' said Yuran. 'May your God embrace you.'

  Safinn fell on to his side, hands clutching uselessly at his throat, choking on blood, wood and metal. Yuran held up both his hands against retaliation by his people.

  'Then talk to Atreska,' he said. 'What is it you want to say that I would want to hear?'

  Rensaark inclined his head. 'But let us not shout our words at each other. Meet me at your gate. Let us talk like civilised men.'

  'Are you sure that is what we are?'

  'Hear me and know it,' said Rensaark.

  Chapter 40

  848th cycle of God, 25th day of Solasrise 15th year of the true Ascendancy

  They sat alone across a simple table in the gatehouse guard room. Both were unarmed. Some food and water had been brought in. The Tsardon stood by their horses in front of the gate, which was open in deference, though filled with heavy Atreskan infantry. Rensaark had not wanted a guard with him.

  'If I do not walk from these gates at nightfall, the Tsardon army will tear down the walls to retrieve my body. Where then would you be?' he had said.

  Yuran had said nothing for a long time and Rensaark was happy for the silence.

  'Do you know how long it has been since I didn't hear the sound of a horse? Either beneath me or stamping in the paddock in the night. I haven't felt the chill inside thick strong stone like this for many days.'

  'It's a city that is difficult to take,' said Yuran, a little confused by what he was hearing.

  'Only been done once,' said Rensaark.

  'The Conquord legions are a formidable enemy.'

  Rensaark smiled. 'Maybe once but the Tsardon are more so. We warned them as we have been warning you these past years. Do not fight us. We are too strong.'

  'Sentor, I would hate to think you were toying with me because of some misplaced belief in the inevitability of your victory,' said Yuran. 'You have come here to talk with me. Make your demands.'

  'Marshal, I understand the conflicts that rage inside you,' said Rensaark.

  'Really?' Yuran raised his eyebrows. ‘I was not aware I had any that were so obvious.'

  'Ten years ago, we would have met as friends, trading partners. Tsard was no threat to you.'

  'Of course you weren't,' said Yuran sharply. 'You needed us as a buffer against the Conquord. Until the Conquord attacked us, our history was littered with border conflict. Estorea didn't finance the building of every fort, did they?'

  'You exaggerate,' said Rensaark.

  'You have a short memory,' said Yuran. 'But I hardly think you have come here to debate our history.'

  Rensaark shrugged. 'In a way I have. The fact that I have not marched in here to demand your surrender has everything to do with our history. Our relations have not always been smooth but we have never been at open war either. And we would not be now but the Conquord has attacked us rather than extend the hand of friendship. A hand we would have taken to our hearts.

  'What choice did we have but to fight back against all of the Conquord? You don't think it hurts us to raid your lands to make our point?'

  'Don't take me for a fool,' said Yuran. 'I have seen the results of your pain. Stolen people. Burned villages. Decapitated bodies. Burned Readers and Speakers. You have turned more cruelty on my people than the Conquord ever did.'

  Rensaark's expression hardened. 'Because you ignored our emissaries and our pleas to talk.'

  'What choice did I have? We are at war with you. Atreska is part of the Conquord. I was forbidden to speak by the consul.'

  'Well he is not here now.' Rensaark's voice was a growl. 'And I am talking to you as an Atreskan. The Conquord must be stopped. This reckless expansion threatens us all. If Tsard does not stand, where will its eye turn next. Sirrane? Kark?'

  'All that you see is war,' said Yuran, keeping his voice measured. 'Yes, I am unhappy that Atreska is on the front line but if Tsard is defeated, I am closer to the heart of the Conquord. And that heart beats in peace, and wealth and security for its citizens. No one in Phaskar, Caraduk or Bahkir has to wonder if raiders will ride to burn their crops. For all I fought the Conquord a decade ago, our accession to it brought a fledgling stability to my country that we had never experienced before. A stability that Tsard has undermined ever since.'

  'Because Estorea decided to make your borders the new battle-front,' said Rensaark. 'Against the wishes of many of your people and opposed by Tsard. Where is that fledgling stability now? It is dead in its nest. Where is the defence now that your campaigning armies are beaten? Where do you think the next battle will be fought?'

  Yuran let his gaze drop. Rensaark was right. How brief peace had been in reality.

  'Have your people really benefited from accession to the Conquord? Their religion, our religion, is suppressed. They are taxed so heavily they can barely feed themselves and their young men and women are conscripted into the legions. And for what? To feed the ego of your Advocate and her desire to preside over the greatest empire this world has ever seen. This is personal ambition.'

  Yuran shook his head. 'No. You have never met her. I have. And for all her faults and blindness, her desire is truly in providing peace and comfort for her subjects. She understands the necessity of war to achieve that goal.'

  'As she understands the need to subjugate her conquered territories,' said Rensaark. 'Marshal, I know your desire. And I know it matches the will of your people. I talk to them. There are villages all over your country flying the flag of independence. We bear you no malice. We merely want to give you back what you crave. Your freedom to rule your own people.'

  Yuran gazed into Rensaark's hard face. The sentor had struck to the very core of his dreams and he knew it.

  'There are over thirty thousand marching to Haroq,' said Rensaark. 'We have no desire to spill the blood of one more Atreskan. Help us. Help Tsard return this world to its natural balance. Help us break the Conquord.'

  Yuran sighed and rubbed his hands over his face. 'This is very difficult,' he said. 'I need time to think.'

  'There is little to think about bar protecting your people, keeping them from the ravages of a war that should not be fought on their lands. But it will be if you refuse me now. My generals are not in the mood to pause and debate.'

  'You must give me some time,' said Yuran.

  His heart was racing. He felt like he was being torn down the centre of his skull. A headache was building. An enemy that wanted to sack his city he could understand. But this . . . He studied Rensaark, wondering if his words were sweetened lies or honest assessment.

  'You have a day,' said Rensaark. 'And in that time I will show you why you should trust us. This is not invasion, it is liberation. I will prove it to you.'

  Yuran watched him ride away with his cavalry and walked in silence back to his castle, wondering if he lived in a city he could defend or in a prison, awaiting his execution.

  Throughout the rest of that day, he wrestled with his choices. How could he turn from the Conquord now, after a decade of investment in all it stood for? How could he abandon them when to stand shoulder to shoulder would make him a hero in Estorea? How could he not, knowing that to stand against the Tsardon would see his fields run red with the b
lood of his own people? Rensaark could so easily be lying. The war could be fought on his doorstep whatever decision he made now. He could merely be trading one governing empire for another. Hemmed in by people on both sides who made almost identical promises about the long-term future of Atreska, he had nowhere to go. He was alone. He cursed the fact that he had sent Megan away. She would have been able to clear the paths in his mind for him. But now she might be sailing to the heart of a new enemy.

  Outside in the gathering dusk the city was calm. He had reopened all four gates for refugees and had stood down the bulk of his army from the walls. When the Tsardon cavalry had ridden away, there had been no general call to arms. It gave them some little hope but underneath it was confusion. A hiatus. Because the enemy would be in sight the next day. They were still coming.

  Yuran felt unable to do any more. They would have to wait like he did for Rensaark to make good on his promise if he intended to do so. But even he was unprepared for the scale of the Tsardon gesture.

  He was woken at first light and hurried to the walls in a carriage while the citizens of Haroq City cheered and chanted his name. No one would tell him what his talk with Rensaark was supposed to have secured. They all assumed he knew and he was too long a politician to disabuse them of such notions. Perhaps it wasn't anything to do with the Tsardon at all. Perhaps the Conquord legions were approaching to keep his city safe.

  When he reached the balcony, he gazed out on a sea of Atreskan soldiers and cavalry. Rensaark was with them and more were marching up all the time. They cheered when they saw him. Legion banners waved. Fists punched the air. A wave of emotion broke over him and it was all he could do to stop a tear falling from his eye. He ran from the balcony, ordered the gate opened and went out to meet them personally. Rensaark dismounted and met him in front of his people.

  'We mean you no harm,' said the sentor. 'Here is my proof. Join with us. Win back your independence.'