Cry of the Newborn

by James Barclay

  He pushed her away and she fell on top of her blade. He lifted a trembling hand in front of his face and saw the deep lines that covered it. It was like looking at Father Kessian's. He felt exhausted, barely able to stand. He felt so old. Worse than ever before. He turned his head and found Mirron staring at him. The moment their eyes met she began to scream again.

  'Don't,' he said, trying to shout her down, but his voice was tired and broken.

  He dragged himself over to her on his hands and knees. She quietened. There was blood between her legs and her eyes were red from crying, her face wet. Grief washed over him, threatened to overwhelm him. She was hurt. In pain. And she hated him.

  'What have I done?' he whispered.

  He moved to her head and touched her face. She flinched and glared at him with such venom that his eyes filled with tears.

  'Please, Mirron,' he said. 'I'm sorry. I'm sorry.'

  'Sorry?' She spat in his face, the spittle running down his cheek. 'Murderer. Murderer!'

  There were voices down below and getting louder, closer. Mirron was yelling the word over and over. Gorian felt a deep terror and had to gasp for breath. Menas was dead. Mirron was hurt. He had to run. He had to hide. He was spent and scared. He looked around. Across the stream there were more trees. If he could dredge up one more effort he could get away. Until the problems had gone and they forgave him. In his mind, he saw Father Kessian beckoning him towards them, showing him the way to salvation.

  He dragged himself through the water and half ran, half stumbled away, Mirron's voice in his ears.

  Chapter 65

  848th cycle of God, 41st day of Solasfall 15th year of the true Ascendancy

  There was a smattering of snow on the frozen ground. Flakes were swirling in the air and the day was darkening to late afternoon gloom. Very fitting. Westfallen was silent. There was no chattering in the forum. The wind mourned around the stockade and whistled though slat and onager arm. The Caraducian flag snapped at its mast.

  Arvan Vasselis stared out over the fields before the town and stood a little straighter. The Armour of God was approaching. A full legion of five thousand infantry and cavalry. Oxen pulled wagons, catapults and bolt-firers. The standards and pennants of the Omniscient fluttered from a hundred staffs.

  And at their head, Horst Vennegoor, Prime Sword of the Omniscient. He had come to finish the job he had started back when genastro still warmed the earth and Ardol Kessian still lived. Caraducian guard and levium warrior watched the assembly. Their expressions were impassive beneath their helmets though their hands gripped spear shafts tight.

  Vasselis watched the legion come to a halt and the tented encampment begin to go up. Like Lotheris before him, Vennegoor came forward with a few guards to speak. But unlike Lotheris, he had the strength to destroy Westfallen in a few hours. And he knew it.

  it's late, my warriors are tired and I have no wish to enter into discourse with you, Vasselis,' said Vennegoor without preamble. 'The situation is simple. At dawn tomorrow, you will hand yourself into my custody along with all surviving members of the Ascendancy Echelon. I have no fight with your levium or your guard. They are free to ride away. If you do not hand yourself over, I will destroy this pretty little town you have ruined with this ugly and feeble defence. And I will kill every man, woman and child within it. I will slaughter every sheep, cow, dog and cat. ' He turned his horse and rode away.

  'Can he do it?' asked Hesther, standing next to Vasselis. 'Can we defend against that many?'

  'No,' replied Harkov. 'This is overwhelming. Beyond our worst expectations. All we can do is make a stand and pray for a miracle.'

  Vasselis stared at the Armour of God. 'What is heroism, do you think?' he asked.

  He felt an uncomfortable clash of emotions and thoughts run through him. He turned from the enemy and looked over Westfallen. The jewel of Caraduk reduced to a miserable sham existence. Its people walking with the hunched bearing of the condemned. Still, at times, disbelieving of the chasm of change in their circumstances. Vasselis shook his head. If he let it, the anger and injustice would consume him.

  'It is never turning your back on your beliefs. It is about dying for the things you believe in if that is what you must do. It is about standing tall in the face of evil.'

  'Or is that a romantic view of an ideal, Captain Harkov?' Vasselis said. 'This is wrong, you know.'

  He looked at Hesther and saw in her eyes the fear that had gripped the town. And it would get worse. Most of them hadn't even seen what it was that was ranged against them.

  'What is wrong, Arvan?' she asked.

  'How long have you got?' he said.

  'Come on, Arvan, that's not like you. We're here because we have no choice. If you're about to take responsibility for what will happen I am going to get very angry. You are not to blame. The Order, the Chancellor, are.'

  Vasselis's mind cleared. 'Let me tell you what heroism is, and what it isn't. It isn't about presiding over a massacre because you are too stubborn to turn from your path. It isn't about letting your citizens die because you are confused into thinking that all they are is the place in which they live. Heroism is recognising that the right way to save all those you love, to remain true to your beliefs, isn't necessarily by your skill with a sword. It is in understanding that the stone on which you stand does not define you or those you love. And that you can protect them all without spilling a drop of blood.'

  Hesther was shaking her head. 'No, Arvan, no. You are not riding out there to be murdered by that bastard. I won't let you. Westfallen won't let you. We might all be scared but we will all stand with you until the end.'

  'I know,' said Vasselis. 'But that wouldn't make me a hero either. I don't believe in heroic failure as this will surely be. I don't believe failure to be heroic. This is about survival of work and ideas. Achieve that and we are all heroes. And who said anything about riding out there anyway? You misunderstand me, Mother Naravny. I have no desire to die tomorrow.'

  He looked out over the bay and his ships bobbing at anchor.

  Horst Vennegoor stood on the dockside gazing out over the empty, silent bay. He had dreamed of planting his feet right here while the flames of Westfallen's burning buildings and its heretics warmed his back. And while the blood of Arvan Vasselis dried on his hands. 'My Lord Prime?'

  Vennegoor turned to his centurion. 'And?'

  'No one, my Prime. The shelves are empty, too. They've left nothing.'

  Vennegoor nodded and looked back down at the letter that Vasselis had left him. Sailed for the heart of the Conquord, it said. To where the Order cannot touch those it seeks to persecute.

  'How wrong you are, Vasselis,' said Vennegoor. 'Not even the Advocate can keep you from the judgement of the Omniscient.'

  'And now it's time for you to go, all of you. I still have work to do here.'

  'But for the Advocate's order paper, you would be complicit in helping these heretics escape, Captain Harkov,' said Vennegoor. 'Consider yourself marked and watched.'

  'As you wish,' said Harkov.

  'This isn't over,' said Vennegoor. 'It will never be over. When they return, so will we. And not you nor the Advocate will be able to save them.'

  Roberto opened his eyes. Dahnishev was sitting in front of him.

  'How do you feel?' whispered the surgeon as if not daring to speak aloud.

  'I feel—'

  Roberto clamped a hand to his chest and sat bolt upright. There was no pain. He could feel no wound beneath his shirt. ‘I dreamt about Shakarov.' 'It was no dream,' said another voice.

  'What's he doing here,' said Roberto refusing to acknowledge Jhered.

  ‘I will not give you the glib answer,' said Dahnishev. 'Look at me, Roberto.'

  'What's going on?' Roberto felt lost and confused, the two things he hated most.

  'Shakarov was here. He tried to kill you. He should have succeeded.'

  Roberto shook his head. 'That wasn't his intent. He came to talk. It got out of hand.'r />
  'I'll say it did.' Dahnishev laid a hand on Roberto's. 'You should be dead. He stabbed you at the base of a lung. He ripped veins and arteries. If you didn't choke on your own blood you should have bled to death.'

  Roberto tensed and leaned away from Dahnishev, feeling a cool fear seep into him.

  'What have you done to me?'

  'It was the single most incredible thing I have ever seen,' said Dahnishev. 'That boy put you back together just by placing his hands on you and using his mind. He stitched you back to life from the inside out. Roberto. There isn't even a scar.'

  There were other people in the tent. Davarov, Neristus, Herides. Roberto looked inside his shirt and touched where he knew the blade had driven into him. There was the smallest tender spot but otherwise not a mark.

  'Is this true?' he said.

  'You were dying,' said Davarov. 'We couldn't let that happen.'

  'If it was my time to return to the embrace of God, you had no right to change that,' said Roberto. 'It's not natural.'

  'It is,' said Jhered quietly. 'It is as natural as the morning sun.'

  'How can you stand here and say that? You. The Exchequer.'

  'Because I have opened my eyes. Like Surgeon Dahnishev has. You assume the Ascendants to be an affront to God and I understand that. It is exactly what I thought. But they are not an affront to God, they are a gift from God. And you are blessed because the ability to save your life was at hand.'

  Roberto frowned and looked round the assembled senior team. That they were with Jhered was obvious.

  'What else can it be?' asked Dahnishev. 'It was not your time to return to God because it was He who made these Ascendants available. As saviours. Can you think of the effect your death would have had on the army? Can you think of the effect it will have that you still live and are ready to ride right now?'

  'They will think me invincible,' said Roberto and he couldn't deny the excitement beginning to course through him.

  'You survived the plague and a dagger to the heart,' said Jhered. 'You are God's most blessed, most loved. Think what this does for the Advocate's rule when word spreads. Surely she is as the scriptures say, the embodiment of God on this earth.'

  'And God has released these Ascendants, this gift, into your care,' said Davarov. 'Not to Gesteris, who is missing. Not to Jorganesh, who is dead. But to you. You who still maraud as a free army and are the best chance of beating the Tsardon. Give them up for trial when you get to Estorr if you must but as-God-surrounds-us Roberto, you must use them to win the war first.'

  'And you think I can persuade the army of this?' said Roberto.

  'They are already talking about it. The rumours of your survival are rife. Show your face and the job is as good as done,' said Davarov.

  'But they are mavericks, a weapon beyond the scriptures. The Order condemns them as heretic'

  'With all respect due to Ellas Lennart, this is war.' said Neristus. 'Who cares?'

  Roberto eyed Jhered and a smile crawled on to his lips despite the misgivings he felt. 'Who indeed?'

  Mirron's screams had brought them to her. Kastenas had rushed from her horse to cover her with her cloak. Kovan had hacked away the roots holding her arms and she'd sat up and buried herself in his arms, sobbing without end.

  Kovan had called for Gorian, dared him to come and face his death but there had been only the answering silence. It was a while before he had seen Menas, lying still on the ground. Kastenas had touched her, rolled her over on to her back and recoiled. She looked again and vomited, having to kneel to compose herself.

  Kovan had demanded Jhered be brought back here. Kastenas had left at a gallop and Kovan had held Mirron the whole time until the Exchequer had arrived. Others were with him. Cavalry from the army. Jhered had studied Menas and seen Mirron on to a horse and away back to the camp. And then he had stalked around the stream and the trees either side, roaring for Gorian to show himself.

  So certain was he that Gorian was there, that he had hidden close by, that he stayed until night touched the sky. He even offered him mercy and help with what he had done. That was when his anger had burned out.

  For a brief time, Gorian thought he might do as Jhered ordered. But the whole time the cavalry searched and found nothing he stayed hidden far beyond their capacity to see. And though he wanted so much to show himself and run to Jhered, be forgiven and be embraced back into the Ascendants, there was a stronger part of his mind that told him it would be otherwise. That this time no promise he could make would be enough. He knew what he had done and for all that his guilt threatened to swamp him, they would not see his remorse. He would be cast out.

  By the time Jhered had left and the sound of his horse had thumped away to echoes and nothing, Gorian knew what he must do. He broke the circuit with the broad beech tree to which he had joined and fell to the ground from its lower branches, unable to move for a moment.

  He still found time to be satisfied with his Work. He had hidden in full sight of the scene of his crimes. At one stage, Jhered had even stood beneath him to demand he approach. Father Kessian had always said that they would find answers in their times of greatest need and so it had proved again.

  The thought had occurred to him that it should be simple to develop the effect of their skin taking on the appearance of the energy with which they worked across their whole bodies. And it was. He'd hidden his clothes in the bole of the same tree, covered them with leaves and then hauled himself into its boughs. He opened its life map circuit and set himself within it, letting the tree's energy flow over his, disguising him more surely than shadow ever could. And it took so little effort, even replenished him a little. His earlier work had left him seriously fatigued, though, and being forced to remain still for so long had been difficult. That and dealing with the pain in his bladder and through his groin.

  He started to uncover his clothes. He was cold and the air was chilling fast. A tear fell down his face and soon he. was crying hard. He'd lost everything. His brothers, Mirron, poor Mirron, and everything he belonged to. All gone. Alone here on a plateau in an invaded country he had nothing to call his own and nowhere to go.

  Gorian belted on his tunic and pulled his boots over his feet. He rubbed at his arms. The tree had kept him warm during the day but his fur cloak was back in the campsite. He doubted it was still there but he had nothing to lose by checking. He let his senses probe ahead. There was no one hidden in the trees and no one waiting by the camp site. His pack and furs were where he had left them but everything else was gone.

  He bent to pick them up but straightened and turned instead. Kovan walked into the half-light, an arrow nocked in a tensed bow.

  'Paul said you'd make the same mistake but not even I thought you were that stupid. He said you'd come back to this camp and I would have stayed here all night to make good on my bet. Now that's twenty denarius you owe me as well.'

  'As well as what?'

  'Shut up, Gorian. Shut up and sit down.' 'Or what?' he smiled.

  Kovan marched in until he was only two yards away. He held the bow rock steady and there was a determination in his eyes that made Gorian wary.

  'Menas is dead because she wouldn't strike you. Don't make the mistake of thinking I have any such problem. In fact, the only reason you are not already lying with this arrow in your neck is that the others begged Jhered for your life.'

  'Did they?' Gorian felt a rush of love and hope. He would be forgiven after all.

  'And I listen to what my friends want. And I listen to what my commander says. And I act upon it. I hate it but I act upon it.'

  'So you are here to bring me back?'

  'Back' Kovan gaped. 'You are surely as cracked as Mirron says you are. As I always knew you to be. Back. Don't make me laugh. You are alive and that is more than you deserve. You have your pack and your cloak and that is more than you deserve too. You are a murderer and you are a rapist. They don't want you dead but they never want to see or hear of you ever again. Roberto has order
ed any of his army to kill you on sight. Paul Jhered will set the levium on your tail. There is no place in Caraduk or the Conquord where you will ever be welcome. You are nothing. Outcast. Banished. You'll die out here.'

  Gorian studied Kovan for a moment, wondering if he could get to him like he did Menas but concluding he could not. He did not have the strength. He knew Vasselis was lying anyway. They would not hate him for long.

  'Finished?' he asked.

  'Why did you do it?' asked Kovan. 'What possessed you?'

  'You never really understood, did you, soldier-boy? The Ascendancy is more important than me or Mirron alone. It must grow to achieve its destiny. It will be the dominant force in this world and I have a responsibility to ensure the seed is sown in the most fertile place for that to happen.' He spread his hands. 'I'm sorry I hurt Mirron but she will understand one day. She's very young in mind. I am older, wiser.'

  'No, Gorian, you are insane. Your talent does not put you above honour, decency and the law.'

  Gorian laughed. 'Listen to you, Vasselis. You speak from an age long dead.'

  'Maybe I do,' said Kovan, walking towards him once more, the bow still aimed at his throat. 'But it is only honour that is keeping you alive right now. And let me assure you of one thing. If you ever come close to Mirron again. If you try to harm her, threaten her or even speak to her ever again, I will kill you.'

  'You don't have the balls,' said Gorian.

  Kovan whipped his bow up. The arrowhead raked across Gorian's cheek and nose, just missing his left eye. Gorian staggered back clutching his face. The pain was extraordinary. And there was blood. He balled his fists.

  'Uh-uh,' said Kovan, his bow trained and steady once again. 'Don't test me.'