Cry of the Newborn

by James Barclay

  It had been a fierce battle. He'd spent days trying to break their flanks but his steppe cavalry had met withering arrow fire from deep positions across the river, or been hampered by woodland in which the Conquord legions could break up their charges. Every feint he made was matched by a reserve force he guessed numbered four thousand. Now it was time to push straight through the centre.

  The border itself was marked by a wide bridge over which sat a menacing concrete-and-stone structure. A flat roof housed thirty heavy onagers in three ranks. Turrets held bolt-firers. So far, he'd kept out of their way. Not any more.

  The day had dawned cold and the rain had continued to fall as it had for three days. Today, though, it had been made colder by a high wind that had blown up overnight from the Tirronean Sea. He had wanted the enemy to see what was ranged against them as dawn broke. Let them fear him before he launched the assault. And when the first Conquord onager had fired at his front line, he had charged with everything he had. Four thousand cavalry backed by light infantry had swept across the shallows and engaged the archers and infantry in the woodland.

  His warriors flooded towards the fortifications, the pike blocks and shield walls. The enemy could see what he planned and their onagers were directed at the ground between his infantry lines and artillery, trying to keep them back. He ordered them forward anyway. Seventy catapults, most of them taken from the Conquord and refitted for travel to the south, dragged by pairs of oxen and pushed by crews of twelve.

  Conflict at the front was savage. The Conquord legions were skilled and desperate to fight for every inch he took. Tsardon blood was thick on the ground, bodies dragged away by the hundred. Enemy sarissas were a forest in front of his warriors. The damned legion discipline was embedded and unbreakable. Triarii were mixed with the hastati in front of his warriors, he was certain.

  Kreysun ran along the back of his lines and in front of the reserve that roared and chanted them on. He was an old-fashioned commander, not given to the ways of the legions he faced whose commanders hid on their horses, far from blade and arrow.

  'Keep them moving backwards. I need the room behind.'

  His sentors acknowledged him. More troops were fed in from the standing reserve. Noise redoubled. The clattering of weaponry and the roar of opposing forces colliding anew slapped in his ears.

  The prosentor watched for a time, seeing the defenders standing firm. The sarissas of the phalanx dripped with the blood of the Tsardon yet still shone in the weak sunlight. Onager arms thudded. Stones flew overhead. Kreysun followed their progress, watched them tear up the ground less than twenty yards in front of his catapults and well behind the standing reserve.

  His artillery was still out of range. He had to get inside the enemy arc of fire. There was time to cover the ground while they reloaded. He sprinted away from the fighting line, his bodyguard with him. He reached the artillery just before the next stones ploughed troughs in the earth and threw mud forty yards back, spattering hard into his back.

  'Faster.' He beckoned them on. 'Put your damn shoulders in harder. The less time you spend in the kill zone the less of you will die! Move.'

  He ran through them, shouting encouragement, demanding effort and speed. In truth, he knew they were giving him all they could but it seemed so tortuously slow. And up on the fortifications, the defenders knew they were coming. The thirty onager arms cranked back once more but this time they waited.

  Kreysun had no choice. He watched while his crews walked on. The moment they passed the first stone half-buried in the earth, the catapults fired again. Two- and three-talent stones rolled lazily in their arcs. There was a whistling in the air. The balls struck. Most of them short but two found their targets.

  The first grounded between the ox pair, gouging the inside flanks of both to the bone as it shattered the yoke and frame. The animals died instantly. The second crashed full into the front of its target, splintering the arm and blasting through the base of the wagon and down through the rear axle. The whole structure bounced and split from the impact, men thrown aside, tumbling away. Splinters of wood filled the air, slashing and whispering through flesh.

  'Move, move. Twenty yards more.'

  Kreysun walked with them. Their courage had to hold. Victory would be today and these men held the key. He watched the Conquord onager arms winding back. He could see the activity on the roof of the fort. It was ordered and calm. The carefully rounded balls flew straight, true and far. Their height advantage gave them increased range.

  The multiple thud sounded again. The air was filled with the whining and whistling. Behind the catapults, his crews hunched reflexively against impact and prayed for fortune. The stones approached. The impact shook the ground, hurling earth high into the air. Screams filled his ears, along with the crunching of wood crushed by rock.

  Prosentor Kreysun did not look round. He was staring into the sky beyond the falling stones. The wind blew to a gale across him, right to left, and was getting stronger by the moment. At the same time, the temperature was falling though the day was on the rise. But this was not what sent the fear through him. There were clouds moving swiftly across the sky. Heavy and laden with snow.

  The words of the cowards he had executed for desertion came back to him. They had spoken of a Conquord magic that could bring down mountains and break solid rock. One that diverted water and caused roots to spring from the earth. He had ignored them as the pleas of men desperate to avoid the slicing blade. Laughed in their faces as they were bled into the fire.

  Perhaps he should not have laughed. The clouds banked and built above his army, darkening the sky with unnatural speed. Clouds that moved against the wind. The first flakes of snow stung his face, whipped by a gale that stank of evil.

  Chapter 67

  848th cycle of God, 2nd day of Dusasrise 15th year of the true Ascendancy

  'A few days ago, you were robbed of your chance to revenge yourselves on the Tsardon. And I know how many of you were scared by what you saw.'

  Roberto rode slowly up and down the front of his army, ranged three hundred yards either side of him and four hundred yards away from him. Just a hundred yards behind him, a curtain of snow was falling under the direction of the Ascendants. They could hear the howl of the gale that drove it. But here, the light rain still fell under a stiff breeze. It was bizarre and it was unnatural and the army had approached it warily.

  'I know because I was scared along with you. Well, today it's your turn.'

  The roar washed over Roberto, building as his words were passed back over the army. He prayed Arducius was right about the noise of the gale behind the snow curtain. He held up his hands.

  'Most of you have met these children now. They are different from us but they are not evil. They are a gift from God. The fact that I sit here before you bears witness to this.'

  Another wave of noise. Roberto punched the air.

  'When I give the signal, the horns will sound and you will charge. You all have your orders. The curtain will fall and the snow and wind will cease. Do not falter. Do not take prisoners. Today, we fight to save our Conquord. Today, the blow we strike will drag the heart from our enemies. You are my army, my pride. Show them what that means.'

  Roberto unsheathed his sword and held it high. The tip caught the

  sun. He swept it down and the sky filled with the sound of battle horns.

  The battle raged on but the attention of both armies had wavered. The blizzard was so thick a man could barely see the enemy in front of him, and casualties from friendly strikes were rising. Onager stones still whistled across the sky but now Prosentor Kreysun's artillery was answering. And they were finding their targets.

  Kreysun ran back through his onager wagons and towards the front line. Soldiers loomed out of the blizzard in front of him. A flight of stones screamed overhead. Death would come to people unseen. He heard impacts on the fortifications in front of him.

  Ragged cheers reached him on the gale that washed across the
battle front. He found the back of the lines and a sentor straining to see anything other than vague shapes and shadows five yards ahead.

  'You must keep them pressing in the centre,' he shouted. 'Get word to the flanks to hold steady.'

  'Yes, Prosentor.'

  The battle was not controllable. He couldn't disengage. The damage from enemy onager on withdrawal would be too great. He had to push for victory. Beneath his feet, as he advanced further forward into the waiting lines, the trampled snow was smeared with blood.

  The stench of fighting and dying filled his nose. The heat from thousands of men packed together reached him. The cries of triumph, rage and agony mingled together with the extraordinary din of weapons. He wanted to see the fort. He needed to know it was damaged.

  He elbowed his way into the press. In front of him, and above the roiling greyed-out mass of the battlefront, a dark shape loomed out of the blizzard. It was too far away to see anything but a suggestion of its form.

  'Damn this storm,' he said.

  He looked up. The sky was dense with flakes scattering in the gale. The Conquord catapults thudded into their rests. More death to fall from the sky. A new sound came from the left. A whining half-lost in the din that filled his world. A scorpion bolt slewed through his men, spearing two and slicing the arm from another. Soldiers spilled away from it. He ran to the wounded.

  'Get me stretchers, get me help,' he roared

  A hand clutched at his. He looked down on one soldier. The bolt had taken his left leg off below the hip. Blood was gorging into the snow.

  'Don't waste them on me, Commander,' he said.

  'Nothing is wasted,' said Kreysun. 'Die a hero of the kingdom.'

  His own catapults answered. Stones screamed close by as if mourning the newest losses. He heard them impact the fort and he stood up, straining to see. A rumbling sound echoed back to him. He began to move forwards again. Undeniably, he saw large shapes tumbling against the backdrop of the fort. The building was starting to fall.

  'Yes.'

  The cheer met him next and he felt the energy surge through his men. He ran for the battlefront to oversee the push to victory. The sky whined again. He frowned. It was too soon to be Gestern's answering fire. Stones and bolts smashed into the reserve and the rear of his forward infantry, gouging left to right along the field. The damage was high and frightening. His warriors rippled and bunched forwards. Ahead, new anxiety fed into the line.

  'Keep fighting. You have them.'

  The Prosentor looked left. The blizzard was obscuring everything. The missiles had to have come from that way. He blinked. His eyes were playing tricks on him. There were shapes in the mist. Thousands of shapes. And the snow was beginning to abate.

  'Oh, no,' he breathed. He turned and bellowed for defence.

  Roberto led the charge with his extraordinarii, plunging through the curtain of snow in the wake of the first artillery rounds. He found himself in another place. Snow lay thick on the ground, blown into drifts around the edge of the Work. A wind strong enough to pluck him from his saddle howled around his ears. Visibility was almost nothing.

  His horse tensed and stopped, paced backwards and threatened to rear. He fought to keep it calm. Behind him, the army was coming. He must have cut quite a figure with his horse stamping and snorting but it wasn't quite what he had in mind.

  'Come on, Arducius. You must have heard the horns.'

  His horse took a pace forwards. The snow was thinning rapidly, the battleground ahead of him lightened. The wind fell away to nothing. Sun bored through the weakening cloudbank. 'Well done, lad.'

  His army saw their quarry, roared the Conquord war cry and ran into battle. Roberto rode swiftly along the front of his light infantry. 'Javelins!' he shouted.

  Hundreds of short spears flew out over his head, dropping into a Tsardon army turning in disorder and disbelief at the enemy racing into its flanks. Roberto kept on riding left. The first of his light infantry was past him, oval shields held out in front, second spears at the ready. At the centurion's command they released.

  This time, the quicker Tsardon had shields to bear but still the missiles reaped great reward in the undefended. In the next few strides, the light infantry were engaged. Simultaneously, half of Elise's cavalry swept south across the river to counter the threat of the steppe riders already grouping for riposte.

  Roberto watched it begin to unfold. His army tramped onto snow covered ground. The formation was as solid as it was beautiful. The front was twenty maniples wide, presenting a line of two hundred shields. Flanking cavalry rode at both ends. The Conquord anthem was shouted from every mouth. Behind the hastati, his archers jogged forwards. Principes and triarii were in their wake and the magnificent Rovan Neristus and his crews hurled stones ahead of them.

  Roberto watched the next volley drop. Tsardon scattered from the impacts. Men were hurled into the air or ploughed into the ground, broken and twisted. Two enemy catapults were struck, sending smashed timbers cart-wheeling across the snow. And amidst it all, the Tsardon commanders toiled for order, attacked now on two fronts. Their army was large, far larger than Roberto's and Gestern's defence combined but the advantage was with the defenders.

  The light infantry disengaged and ran back through the hastati. Enemy archers had turned to fire after them.

  'Wall!' he ordered.

  The command rippled through the maniples. Shields snapped into place above heads, the legionaries answering their centurions' calls. The hastati struck, bursting through the fragmented Tsardon flank defence and in their midst, an unmistakeable figure.

  'Davarov,' said Roberto. 'Big Atreskan bastard, what are you doing?'

  Jhered helped the Ascendants to their feet and waved away the offered help from their cavalry guard. The ten of them had stood with the horses a respectful distance away during the Work. Arducius looked very tired. His black hair was limp and dull and the backs of his hands were wrinkled. The crowsfeet were deep when he smiled. Mirron and Ossacer who had been amplifiers of the energies Arducius directed had not used so much of themselves. Both were able to stand unaided while their brother leaned hard on the Exchequer.

  They were gathered on a bluff above the battlefield and no more than three hundred yards from the northern edge of the Conquord lines. The guard post had been cleared by scouts the night before and Jhered had moved the Ascendants up under cover of darkness. They had been able to work carefully and efficiently over the course of the hours before dawn to create the parameters and scale of the Work. It had paid off handsomely.

  Jhered could not keep the smile from his face. He hugged all three of them to him while the din of pitched battle rolled up the sides of the rise towards them.

  . 'Well done, well done.' He rubbed Ossacer's head. 'And you killed no one.'

  Ossacer pulled away a little.

  'Yes, but people are dying as a result.'

  'Ossacer, please,' said Arducius. 'People would have died anyway. This is a battle. What we did was give our people, our citizens, the best chance. If the Tsardon do not choose to run, that is their fault and not ours.'

  Jhered could see Ossacer didn't believe what he said. He turned to Mirron.

  'Are you all right?'

  She looked up at him and shrugged. The nod came later.

  'Didn't think so,' he said. 'Come on, let's get you back behind the lines. I expect Dahnishev could use you, young Ossacer.'

  'An Ascendant's work is never done,' said Ossacer.

  Jhered ushered them towards the waiting cavalry and horses and looked down on the battle below them. The Conquord legions had gained huge ground in the first moments of the attack. Down towards the river and the fort, he could see the Tsardon in all sorts of trouble. Kastenas was fighting across the river on the borders of the woodland and he could see Roberto pacing up and down behind the hastati.

  Up towards Jhered's position, the hastati and principes had crashed over the first of the enemy onagers like a wave. The bodies of crews were l
ying in puddles and smears of blood on the snow. Ahead, the reserve further along the original battlefront were organising fast and moving back to counter the threat. Neristus and the Gesternan defenders were throwing heavy stones into the bulk of the Tsardon army, causing awful damage.

  And way back to the Tsardon camp, those few who had been left on guard could just be seen standing and watching. Fearful and uncertain. Yet, for all the Conquord's advantage of surprise, the Tsardon had the greater numbers by far. Tens of thousands of men fighting or ready to fight. The Conquord a moving wall of shield and steel. The Tsardon desperately trying to drag themselves to cohesion. It came down to whether the enemy could recompose and bring fresh soldiers to bear quickly enough. The day was not yet won.

  Davarov ran in with the front rank of the hastati and could feel the confidence they drew from his presence. With his shield a blazing red against the deep Conquord green of his legionaries and his plumed helmet standing higher than the plain crests of his citizens, he was surely a target for every Tsardon. That was just the way he liked it.

  Without a pause he led them into the barely prepared enemy defence. Soldiers who, scant moments ago, couldn't see through the blizzard to their foe a hundred yards away now found themselves surrounded. Davarov ordered shields high and braced himself against the impact, half-crouching and leaning forward.

  He felt the Tsardon give and heard the surge of noise. He took another pace, drove his shield out and left and stabbed ahead with his gladius. The blade pierced leather armour and plunged deep. Davarov growled pleasure at the blood that burst over his hilt and across his glove. The Tsardon buckled and fell forwards. Davarov deflected his body to the left with his shield.

  'This is my country,' he muttered and then raised his voice in a scream that carried clear over his maniple. 'This is my country!'