Cry of the Newborn

by James Barclay

  The rain of fire was unceasing. From high up on the tree-lined slopes of Lubjek's Defile, the flaming arrows and stones fell. The jaws of the trap snapping on the helpless Conquord army below. The air was hot and full of the screams of men, women and horses. Smoke was filling the narrow path at the bottom of the defile and floating up to obscure the trees behind which the Tsardon were so effectively hidden.

  Onager stones whistled down. Smeared in burning pitch, they crashed down all around him, exploding on the valley slopes either side and thundering into his legions. The stones shattered shield and bone, drove gashes in his defensive lines and battered wagons to flaming fragments.

  'Hold!' he shouted. 'Hold.'

  At either end of the column, his cavalry were chasing up the slopes and into the trees, riding hard at the unseen enemy. Arrows rained down from thousands of bows, rattling on shields and finding every chink in the wall. Jorganesh could feel the fear in his army. They would not hold for long.

  A burning arrow thudded into his horse's neck. The animal reared and screamed. Jorganesh was pitched off backwards, cracking his lower back onto the sun-baked ground. He rolled aside. Hands grabbed at his shoulders and weapon belt, dragging him further from the stamping animal. She bolted away up the slope, turned a right angle and fled back towards the head of the column.

  He was dragged to his feet and taken inside the shield wall among scared but determined triarii infantrymen. A blood-streaked face was thrust into his own. Master of Sword, Tord Parnforst from the 17th ala, the Bahkir Thunder, yelled at him in the deafening roar.

  'We have to get out of here, General.' A flaming stone splintered the defence just to their right. Both men ducked. Fire spattered out through the triarii. A dismembered arm thudded against Jorganesh's helmet, splashing blood down his face and dropping at his feet. A ripple of anxiety that ran away through the infantry. 'We're being taken apart.'

  'The defile is ten miles long,' Jorganesh shouted back, spitting blood from his mouth. 'We'll be slaughtered if we try and run. We have to give the cavalry time to quiet the artillery.'

  'We must attack upslope.' Parnforst gestured away into the wooded sides of the defile. A rattle of arrows on the shield wall. A renewed roar from their right. 'In maniple order.'

  'I—.'

  'Sir, you cannot hold us here. The hastati will break before long.'

  Jorganesh stared at him, knowing he was right. Lubjek's Defile was always going to be a gamble but one he had been forced to take, against all their better judgements. When word had reached them from Gestern of the force approaching through Atreska, he had disengaged from his enemies and force-marched his soldiers back along the border with Kark.

  Time was against them and in the open, the steppe cavalry were a menace he could barely contain. Lubjek's Defile had offered a chance to gain respite from the enemy riders and take four days off their journey back to Gestern. None of his scouts had seen the danger coming. And now he was stuck in the centre of the valley, his army stretched out over three miles.

  To run would be to sacrifice artillery and the injured. To stand risked a rout on to the enemy swords. To attack uncoordinated carried a similar death sentence.

  'General. Please.'

  Jorganesh nodded. 'Form them up. Get runners down the lines.

  Alternate maniples left and right. Keep the wall solid front and rear. We all move together on my signal.'

  Parnforst grinned. 'We'll take them.' He turned to bellow for volunteer messengers.

  Jorganesh stooped and picked up a damaged shield from a dead citizen. He whispered a short prayer for her continued cycle while he loosened it from her arm. The whistling of onager rounds and the whine of arrows surrounded them. He waited for the dread crump, trying to count the impacts. Twenty, thirty, it was hard to tell.

  He pushed through the crowded, sweating knots of fear that surrounded him. He shouted for strength and solidarity, promised them revenge and victory. Holding the shield high and right, he ran back down his lines, shouting for centurions to form their maniples up. He meant to make it back to the head of the column, pick up another horse and lead the advance himself.

  'I need a horse,' he said to a member of the extraordinarii come to protect him.

  Heedless of his own safety, he ran part way up the side of the defile. He had to see what was going on further down the line. He had to know the army was together. Above him, he saw his cavalrymen hunting in packs, further and further up. Forty and fifty yards up where the sides grew steep and rocky and the trees began to grow out at angles. He could neither see nor hear if they were finding targets, such was the noise from the valley floor.

  Finding a vantage point where he was at least partially hidden from above, Jorganesh turned and gazed down at the disaster unfolding below him. He could see a clear mile and more down the defile before it turned a right hand bend and out of sight. The floor of the valley was a sea of shields glinting in the sun that scoured through the clouds of smoke overhead. Coils of black and grey spiralled into the air from the most recent impacts and he saw myriad tracers of arrows crossing the sky. Onager stones followed them, crunching down on to his army or burying themselves amongst the rocks either side.

  The army was a rippling, moving snake. He could see the passage of his orders passing down it, the maniples switching to adjusted formations. He nodded, impressed. Under the weight of fire, still there was discipline. The sound of his army straining for order rose to him and he knew they would not fail him. But there were so many

  bodies down there. So much blackened death smeared across the valley floor. How many thousands were already gone from his four legions?

  He made to move back down but something caught his eye higher up the slope, beyond his cavalry. He could see movement low to the ground. The undergrowth was rippling, sleek shapes moving within it.

  'What is that?' he whispered.

  There was sound, too. He could just begin to start making it out. And by the time the cavalry horses above him had started to rear and bolt he was sprinting back down to the army.

  'Brace!' he roared. 'Brace! Shields to the ground. Blades low. Crouch, crouch!'

  They couldn't hope to hear him and the message wouldn't get through the long, line miles out of his sight. All he could do was hope that his centurions saw what he had before it was too late.

  Charging back down the slope, legion cavalry tried to control scared horses through a mass of animals biting and snapping at their fetlocks. In amongst the incessant fall of arrow and stone, the first of the dogs broke from the undergrowth and crashed into poorly prepared infantry. They bit, barked and scratched on their way deep into the army. They were small, ferocious hunting dogs. Lithe and vicious.

  The sound of collision echoed up the valley, the army descending into chaos. Jorganesh punched his shield out into the face of a snarling animal. Slicing his sword through its gut with his gladius. The next barrelled straight into his feet, knocking him off balance. He slashed out sideways, catching its hind quarters. The dog yelped and turned. A second gladius drove down behind its neck.

  Jorganesh climbed to his feet again. Panic was everywhere. Citizens were burning, fighting hand to hand with animals, for God's sake. Here and there, his cavalry swept past, those that could striking out, trying to drive them away.

  'Hold position!' he called. A futile shout in the tumult.

  He looked around him for Parnforst but the Master was nowhere to be seen. There were breaks in the defensive line as far as he could see. Dogs lay skewered on the end of sarissas. Men wore gashes on their faces and hands where the tide had rolled across them. Fighting still continued unabated. More and more of the dogs rushed down the slope and into the Conquord troops, searching out prey.

  Jorganesh turned to face the slope, standing with hastati of the 42nd Estorean, the Golden Lions.

  'With me, Lions. Let them break over us.'

  But there was renewed shouting all around them. And he could sense the terror in it. The Ts
ardon were coming. A forest of spears sailed down the slopes at them. Heavy, short-range shafts that punched through shield and armour. Down the sides of the valley flooded the enemy, cries of death and victory on their lips. As far as he could see in either direction, the tree-line disgorged their foe, chasing the last of the dogs before them.

  Thousands of them. Thousands. Surely there were not this many in the south. Surely the kingdom did not have this many warriors at its behest.

  'Stand! Stand!' called Jorganesh, his shield once more ahead of him, in the front line with the rawest of his troops, giving them the belief to stay.

  Regrouped Conquord cavalry was galloping along the lower slopes of the valley to his left. Tsardon bodies tumbled and twisted, struck by arrows fired from the saddle or by those in the terribly thin Conquord line with the wit to string their bows. Legion standards still flew proud along the column, muster points for the fearful.

  The Tsardon broke across them, a wave of steel and muscle. It was like the old days of Tsardon attack except this time, their massed undisciplined charge would not stall on a forest of pikes or sarissas. It would not meet the implacable triplex acies. Jorganesh's column was only ten ranks wide and attacked from both sides.

  Jorganesh took a first impact full on his shield, feeling the damaged wood and metal give just a little. His gladius licked out from behind it, stabbing deep into Tsardon flesh. The enemy fell back and three more took his place. There were hands dragging at the shield, blades whispering through the air above his head. He ran his blade across his vision, slicing through knuckle, hearing the howls of agony. To his right, a hastati fell under the weight of enemies. Jorganesh stabbed out sideways, taking one in the back, He slashed up, biting into another's face.

  Left, the line fractured and broke. There were Tsardon in amongst them. Bowmen were cut down where they stood with no time to loose another shaft. He backed away. Tsardon followed him. The deep-tanned oval faces of steppe warriors glared at him. Brown-eyed and black-haired they were, with fearless expressions speaking of the insult of their invasion by the Conquord and their determination to see it broken. A blade thudded into his right-hand side. He partially deflected it but his armour was dented, knocking the wind from him. He pushed his shield out hard, striking one in the face. The Tsardon's nose splintered, driving bone up into his skull and killing him.

  The roar was everywhere. A hurricane around him. He could barely see another Conquord citizen but still they fought. He could hear them shouting, struggling and dying. Tsardon still poured down the valley sides. His eyes were clouded with blood and his nose was full of the stench of the enemy. He clubbed left, right and ahead. He kept his shield moving, searching for men to stand by him.

  Horses galloped past. Tsardon were cut away in a swathe.

  'Hold position!' he shouted into the moment's breathing space.

  But the hastati were not schooled for this. They ran into the space the cavalry had given them, frightened by the fighting at their backs. They broke up the defile chasing down Tsardon and were being picked off, one by one.

  Jorganesh bellowed for order and for his standard. The pressure was enormous. Into the hole rushed the Tsardon. Still the arrows came from behind him. Still they took down the enemy. Jorganesh clashed blades with a Tsardon, forcing him back. The man tripped over a root and fell. The general struck out and took him in the throat.

  Another blade came at him. He ducked and raised his shield, deflecting it. There was fighting right behind him. He glanced over his shoulder. Not long now. He roared his fury. His gladius came overhead with everything he had and carved deep into the neck of an enemy who had thought to kill him. He dragged it clear, paced back and opened his shield to the left, knocking another down. Jorganesh stamped on him on his way to a third, stabbing him under his guard. A blade thundered into his shield, knocking him backwards.

  He found himself looking down his line for a heartbeat. They were lost. Tsardon were covering the valley floor. He saw a standard topple and fall and heard the Tsardon exult. Hastati fled to nowhere. Principes in a tight circle fought hard. Triarii still stood five deep but the press on them was overwhelming. Cavalry ran the flanks, trying to drive the enemy away but with every pass their numbers dwindled.

  Jorganesh called for a rally around him. His standard bearer still stood by him but he was otherwise isolated. Men fought their way towards him. He kept his shield close and his sword tucked in, defending against the blows that came at him. The Tsardon had picked him out. Their sentors demanded his blood. Beneath him, the ground was slick with blood and treacherous with the bodies of his army. It would be the same along all three miles of Conquord troops. They had to regroup. Had to stand tall.

  'To the triarii,' he called to any that could hear.

  He had about twenty hastati around him. Citizens destined for honour, should they live. Those that had stood while their comrades fled. He dashed his shield into the back of a Tsardon who had just struck down an infantryman. He speared his sword into the back of his neck and ran over him, back down the line. Left and right his hastati hacked, stabbed and pushed. But there were Tsardon everywhere. They ran hard into the small standard-bearing unit, desperate to bring it and the general down.

  Jorganesh called for strength and for power. A blade from nowhere splintered the top of his shield and bit down into his arm. He grunted at the pain and lashed out with the broken shield, feeling it strike flesh. Tsardon rushed into a gap between him and the triarii. In front of his eyes the world was a forest of blades and bodies.

  He heard someone calling his name from ahead. Parnforst. Still alive. Then there was still hope. Jorganesh drove on. His blade took another Tsardon in the lower back. He brought the remnants of his shield in front of him, ducked his head and ran headlong, shouting his hastati with him. But at his left, a young man took a sword in the gut and tumbled into him. Right, his guardsman was felled by a blow at his legs.

  'General Jorganesh!'

  Parnforst's face was close, so close. Jorganesh felt an exquisite pain in his hip and his right leg failed him. He dropped to his knees, slashing as he went down. The Tsardon couldn't get his blade in front of him fast enough. Something connected with the back of his skull and catapulted him forward. He was lying on his shield. He tried to roll onto his back.

  'Jorganesh!'

  Fainter now. Above him and around him, legs and bodies and sky. He saw the standard of the Golden Lions break and fall. He heard the shouts of the enemy. All he could see were the backs of his few men trying to surround him. He tried to call for them to run. To get word to Gestern. He tried to rise but something was pinning him back. He felt faint and grasped on to his consciousness.

  Jorganesh.

  Perhaps no one had said it. Or perhaps Parnforst was being dragged away so distant was the call. He coughed and tasted salt. Someone stood above him. Tsardon. One of so many. He prayed for the life of the Advocate and begged for the mercy of God.

  Pain. Brief pain.

  Chapter 52

  848th cycle of God, 11th day of Solasfall 15th year of the true Ascendancy

  Thirty days and the sense of loss had not diminished. The light of life had failed on the twenty-fifth day of solasrise and it would not return. People still carried on, of course. But everything about them was changed, inside and out. The blessed had become the cursed.

  Hesther Naravny opened the shutters on another day of uncertainty and anxiety. So empty. Devoid of laughter. Of all the elements that Westfallen once had. Now no more than a garrison town full of grey and scowling faces. Did they blame the Ascendancy? Probably. But there was a steadfast refusal to show it.

  Hesther turned away from the shutters and walked out of her room and into the vast emptiness of the villa. She still fancied she could hear echoes of the young Ascendants in its deepest corners. She still expected to hear Ardol Kessian's voice booming out from the library or the dining room. Or floating above the sound of the fountains. But in reality, it was just the sound o
f her sandals on marble that reached her. Strange how none of the Echelon seemed to find each other any more. It had seemed so effortless before but Kessian's death had broken the rope that bound them and they were all lost in the same space.

  Nothing gladdened her heart any more. Not even the sounds of the five youngsters that could easily be the next strand of the true Ascendancy. They were almost seven years old now and developing well. Andreas had been taking their training and consequently they didn't feel Kessian's loss so acutely as the emerged had done. And the current babes in arms would never know his smile and his strength. Such a tragedy. Perhaps when they were old enough, Kessian could

  be spoken of with the warmth of love rather than the bitterness of loss.

  Hesther gathered her courage to her and walked out into West-fallen to make her daily pilgrimage to the House of Masks. It was a ritual that gave her the will to carry on another day with the burden she now bore as Mother of the Ascendancy. It was not a long walk but ever it renewed her sadness and forced questions into her mind.

  The sounds of sawing, hammering and the shouts of men rang around the town's periphery. Everywhere she looked, there was new construction under the keen eyes of Vasselis and Harkov. All of it ugly though she cared little for the aesthetics either way. Not when the necessity of it all shouted at her far louder, questioning everything she had believed in all her life.

  Out beyond the boundaries of the town, five watchtowers overlooked every land approach to Westfallen. They stuck up from the landscape like accusing fingers, their dark wooden structures strong and practical. Each could house bolt-firers and twenty archers if they had to, so Harkov had said. If only it had ended there. But such was the perceived threat that Vasselis had ordered Westfallen be encased by wood and stone.