She doubted they would bother landing until they were within sight of their prize. Perhaps they would be yet more confident than that and beat her harbour defences and take on the legions in the heart of the Conquord. And practically the first they would know of it would be when the artillery began to fire.
Herine chewed her bottom lip. She had put in place all that she could. The Tirronean Sea north of Estorr was still hers. Reports had the rebel Atreskan fleet scattered or sunk. Every available legionary was on or nearing the Neratharnese border. The Caraducian and Estorean coastlines were alive with her soldiers, who would move with the Tsardon fleet.
But still she was blind. Communication was slow, even by bird or ship. The beacon flags did not provide for update, only absolutes of victory or defeat. And across the sea, there lay her most troublesome unknowable. Gestern. She did not know if Katrin Mardov held the Tsardon at her borders or if Roberto had come to her aid. God-embrace-her but she had no certainty that he was still alive. Nor whether Jhered had found him and whether the Ascendants were still in the Exchequer's care.
'Oh Roberto,' she whispered. 'What will you do?'
It was in times like these when, despite all her confidence in her favourite son, she found it hard to have real faith. When all those on whom she relied so easily in peaceful days became feeble mortals in the dark dreams and visions that plagued her day and night.
'It is the waiting that saps the will most, is it not?'
Herine turned from the balcony and looked back through the grand gallery, past the paintings, tapestries and statues from around the Conquord to see the speaker. She forced a smile onto her face.
'Chancellor Koroyan,' she said. 'Come to minister to my troubled mind?'
'How else could I serve the Conquord better?' asked the Chancellor, walking forward gracefully.
She wore a formal toga, slashed Conquord green and covered with the rich, leaf-work embroidery of her office. Her sandals hissed over the bare stone and her eyes sparkled like the jewels in her tiara. Despite the breeze pushing into the open front of the gallery, she wore no stola or cloak over her bare arms. An impressive sight as always. Herine reminded herself to be on her guard.
'The city is quiet,' said Herine, turning back to her view.
The dusas sun was breaking through grey cloud as the morning chill began to lift. The bustle of Estorr was subdued. It was an uncomfortable atmosphere and added to the disquiet that had gripped every quarter. The unshakeable belief in the strength of the legions had been seriously eroded. Uncertainty had replaced complacency and overconfidence.
'But you are not surprised, surely?' asked the Chancellor, coming to her side.
'Naturally not. Even I will admit to having misgivings from time to time, Felice.'
'That's not unnatural. The Omniscient is angry. His head is turned from us and the mists are shrouding our enemies from us.'
Herine snorted. 'Oh, Felice. I could respect you so much more if you weren't so pompous.'
The Chancellor's expression was as cold as the day outside.
'Don't look like that,' said Herine. 'Listen to yourself. You're creating fear where there should be none.'
'Surely, my Advocate, you would agree that were the Omniscient behind us in our fight against the Tsardon, He would have forbidden the mists to fall. Instead, He aids their progress towards us. Hastens our doom.'
Herine shook her head. 'No, I would not agree. The dusas mists are a yearly meteorological phenomenon that our scientists explained a long time ago. The timing of the war is unfortunate and the Tsardon have been quick to capitalise on their advantages. But it will turn. The Ocetanas will break out. Neratharn will hold until Roberto arrives. We will win.'
'God is punishing us for your harbouring of the Ascendant abomination,' said the Chancellor. 'Only if you denounce them will the Conquord be saved.'
Herine felt anger building inside her twinned with a frustration that threatened to overcome her.
'And instead of preaching belief and calm, you peddle these fears and drive anxiety through the citizens of Estorr and god knows how far into the outlands. Why must you act so divisively?'
'Because faith in the Omniscient is not a thing to be called upon at our convenience. We either believe, or we do not. Perhaps you should ask yourself on which side you stand, my Advocate. Though it is not a question one would normally have to direct at the living embodiment of God on earth, is it?'
'You are treading a very, very fine line, Felice. Look down before you fall.' Herine gestured out at the city and its splendour. ‘I am on the side of saving the lives of as many of my citizens as I can. We have been down this road before. If I can stop the Tsardon destroying all that we have built over so many centuries, I will. If the Ascendants are part of that, I am happy to employ them.'
'And in saving their bodies, you will lose their hearts.' The Chancellor moved away a pace. ‘I hear what they say because I move among them.'
'You stoke their fears for your own ends,' said Herine. 'And believe me, it will be to your detriment when the war is done and the reckoning comes. Don't push me, Felice. Religion is evolutionary. I think it's time you went back to the Principal House and considered where your future lies. Thank you for easing my troubles, by the way.'
The Chancellor's glance radiated hate. She made to turn but the sound of horns in the harbour stopped her. She rejoined Herine at the balcony. They waited for the tones that would indicate attack but none came. Instead, the horns sounded the stand-down and three ships moved sedately into the calm waters inside the harbour walls. Two sailed in while the third was clearly in trouble and under oar. Her mast was gone, snapped about halfway up and there was damage to the deck and gunwale.
Even at their distance, Herine could make out the large deep blue flag that fluttered from mast and stern of the lead boat to indicate who was aboard. Beside her, Koroyan froze. Herine saw her face harden to a vicious contempt.
'Your accuser is paying a call,' said Herine. 'Surprised to see him, are you?'
'The movements of Arvan Vasselis are no longer my concern,' said the Chancellor. 'You made that abundantly clear.'
'I thought I had,' said Herine. 'But remind me. The legion of the Armour of God under Horst Vennegoor. Their orders were to secure the coast north of the Karals, am I right?'
The Chancellor inclined her head warily.
'I thought so. Presumably he lost his map or is unsure of north and south.'
'My Advocate?'
'It's just that my last reports had him marching south at upwards of twenty-five miles a day, heading deep into Caraduk. Towards Westfallen, perhaps.'
'Herine, I can assure you that—'
'And he would have reached there, let's guess, about twelve to fourteen days ago, I'd say. Just about the amount of time it would take to sail from Westfallen to Estorr, if you were forced to run.'
'My Advocate, if you are accusing me of—'
'Oh, do be quiet. Your protestations are so tiresome. You might hear what the citizens of Estorr say, Chancellor Koroyan. And I am sure they reinforce everything you wish them to. But I see and hear everything. And I never forget disobedience or betrayal. I will go and welcome Marshal Defender Vasselis and whoever it is he has brought with him to my capital. And if I see just one of your Readers or legionaries on the dockside, if I hear just one comment about his faith, I will have you arrested.' She waved a hand at Felice. 'Enjoy your afternoon.'
'Back port oars, starboard forty stroke.'
Iliev dragged the tiller towards him and the corsair slewed hard to port. The Tsardon trireme emerged from the smoke of a blazing Conquord bireme heading straight for them. Enemy arrows peppered the water and thudded into the gunwales.
'Back starboard oars. Port thirty stroke.'
Their discipline made him proud. The enemy thought they had his squad. They weren't even going to get close. He pushed the tiller away hard, turning starboard and driving away from the trireme at a steep angle. His crew were tired,
pushed beyond any notion of normal limits. And still they responded to him.
Dawn was breaking, casting a cool luminescence through the mist that swirled at sea level and climbed high into the sky. There were fires and smoke in every direction. Burning wreckage was strewn across the ocean. His marines stood in the stern, keeping the damaged, bent spike above the water. In three engagements he had lost seven oarsmen and two marines. Not critical yet but he needed to find another squad before he made a final assault.
It was so difficult to gauge the success of the breakout. His squad were several miles north of the dock, shadowing a flotilla of twenty tri- and biremes trying to clear the siege and make way towards Estorr harbour. Their goal was ten days away under regular sail and oar. Ten days was three too many in Iliev's opinion. The Ocetanas would have to find new strength from somewhere. As for his squad, they would hitch a ride with whoever they could.
The battle had raged throughout the night. The early skirmishes had been easy. Surprise had been complete. The Tsardon had never seen the Ocenii squadron before but they knew all about them now. Thirty corsairs had ranged to the northern fringes of the Isle to devastating effect until the Tsardon, some of them, had begun to learn. Then, stones were heaved onto vessels spiked to their prey. Barrels of flaming oil were poured down ladders. And every enemy crewman had bow and sword in hand by the time the squads reached deck.
To a large extent, though, the damage had been done in the first hour. Now it was a case of securing the flotillas and making headway up the Tirronean, there to find what they would. Iliev was with the western ships, heading directly to Estorr. Others travelled with the eastern ships, rowing the coast of Gestern, where it was rumoured a Tsardon army waited to board.
Behind him, the enemy trireme was coming about. They were a fresh crew, moved in from the north of the siege arc. They moved quickly and surely across the easy swell. Iliev cursed under his breath. They would catch the flotilla easily. He couldn't afford that. These crews needed rest and clear water.
He looked down at his crew, stroking at twenty to keep pace with the rearmost Conquord trireme. The mist was thinning a little, giving him a view of most of the twenty. To the east of his position, more of the Ocenii squadron could just be seen, presumably shadowing other vessels of the Ocetanas. West, the sight he had hoped for edged out of the haze, angling towards him. Squad IX, whom he had feared sunk and lost.
'Seven, we're going around one more time. Nine will be with us. Will you pull for me?'
'Never doubt it, Trierarch,' said the stroke oarsman.
Iliev nodded. 'Thank you, Gunnarsson. Stroke at thirty, let's build some speed.'
He backed the tiller, taking them into a long sweeping turn and close enough to signal his intentions to squad IX. He wanted damage enough to slow the enemy, that was all.
'We are not boarding, marines. Stow weapons, this is about balance and pace. Keep the spike from dragging.'
'Sir.'
The Tsardon trireme saw them coming. Archers appeared on deck. The scorpion crews readied. Iliev saw groups of men bow and stern, ready for the anticipated ram. This was going to be interesting. Iliev could see the strain on the faces of his squad, the stress in their muscles and the many small cuts opening to spill fresh blood down their arms and legs.
'Easy thirty,' said Iliev. 'Coming about.'
The two corsairs crossed in front of the enemy, pulling at fifteen knots now. Iliev's squad cruised down their port side just out of arrow range. The scorpions fired. He watched the bolt in its shallow arc. Distance was good, direction not so. The shaft fell into the sea well adrift of them. They stroked on to fifty yards distance behind the trireme. Squad IX would have turned earlier, losing themselves in the mist, executing a move that would bring them in towards the enemy bow.
He pushed the tiller away, bringing the corsair about. The Tsardon increased their stroke rate. He could hear the dull thud of drums. They were at twenty, perhaps twenty-two. Closing in on the stern of the target, Iliev saw for the first time the flaw in the Tsardon ship design.
The outrigger for the top row of oarsmen was just a little too wide. The sweeping arc of the stern from the waterline to the tiller just a little too broad. He pushed the tiller out, adjusting their heading.
'Trust me,' he said. 'And just be ready to back the moment we strike. Forty stroke. A quick sprint, seven, it'll be all over soon.'
The corsair picked up speed. Two of the marines moved down the gangway, settling the bow. Iliev saw squad IX move back across the enemy and make a tight turn towards the trireme's port bow. Iliev was shielded from stone and bolt. Tsardon were clustering at the narrow stern and away down the port deck, trying to get angles on him to fire. They began a turn to port. The drum beats increased.
'Too late for that,' said Iliev. He adjusted their heading. 'Prepare for impact. We're going to be riding up.'
He smiled down at his oarsmen. They had their backs to the target. Not one tried to turn. Discipline, order, victory. Arrows began to fall. Iliev gritted his teeth. Two marines answered back. A shaft took one of his oarsmen clean through the back, sending him slumping forwards. A marine dived to his position, bringing the oar up and dragging the body back. Not quickly enough to prevent a clash of blades along the starboard rank. Iliev pushed the tiller out, countering the sudden slowing and turn. In the next stroke, the corsair struck.
'Brace!'
Marines charged back along the gangway. The momentum of the corsair drove it part way up the Tsardon tiller. It was a stout, strong pole but not designed to withstand such an angle of pressure. Iliev felt it crack and break beneath his hull. The corsair slapped back to the waves, the spike dragging through the stern planking.
'Back,' shouted Iliev.
The trireme shuddered and moved to starboard. Squad IX had struck. Iliev's corsair retreated. 'Clear water.'
More arrows. Shafts struck oar and arm. Iliev swung them about.
'Stroke forty at first opportunity. Let's go, seven. Job done.'
The corsair hastened away from the trireme. Iliev could see
Tsardons leaning out, trying to assess the damage. They'd have another tiller but fitting it would take a day.
More enemies were coming from the south. Sails clogged the horizon where the mist gave way. In amongst them, Conquord sails indicated the scale of the breakout. For them, it was down to individual skill and their orders to slow and break up the enemy fleet. For Iliev and Ocenii squad VII, the long night's work was over.
He took them beyond the reach of enemy missiles and back to the flotilla. The Cirandon's Pride was with them. He made for the Caraducian flagship, already thinking of laying out flat on her deck while her crew winched his corsair up to hang beneath her stern, between tiller and hull.
'Stroke twenty-five,' he said. 'Stand down marines. Let's get some rest and commend our dead.'
Thomal Yuran, the erstwhile Marshal Defender of Atreska, was now its de facto king. It was the only thought that could still bring anything approaching a smile to his face. He refused to sit on the throne; it was like committing a fraud against what remained of his loyal populace. And most of them seemed to be resident in Haroq City. It was the only place that had seen no combat, barring the altercation with the Gatherers. Barely thirty-five days ago now and it seemed like ancient history.
Days in which he had struggled with his decision, and his country had become exactly the battleground he had feared. And even that had seemed unlikely in the immediate aftermath of the repatriation. So much joy in Haroq that fed out to the countryside. People chanting his name and imploring him to rule them as king of a new nation. The flags of old Atreska flew proudly. Even the beacons had been extinguished inside his borders.
There had been a full five days of celebration when everything Sentor Rensaark, now Prosentor Rensaark, had promised him came true. Then the Tsardon army, bolstered by legions of their new Atreskan allies, had marched west. So complete had been the transformation that the Tsardon commander
s had been able to divert greater numbers south to Gestern. It had been a time when Yuran could see the end of the Conquord and a new power-base grow, with him as its fulcrum.
A time now as dim a memory as his last sight of Paul Jhered. The man still haunted him. He was still out there and the reports of his actions, or rather the actions of those in his care, were terrifying if they were to be believed. Yuran was a superstitious man. He was also one able to read the truth in a man's eyes and found himself unable to dismiss all the stories he had been told.
Atreska was in flames. West, south and north, palls of smoke caught the eye in dozens of places. And whether it was Tsardon raiding and retribution for supposed misdemeanours or the actions of the resistance that had so slowed the main advance, was a moot point. The result was that there would be precious little of his country left when the war was over; and he was left hoping rather than assuming that the Tsardon would prevail. Certainties were fast becoming mere possibilities to his mind. Practically his only solace was that he had sent Megan away. At least she would be safe, whoever won the war. A Conquord loyalist the Tsardon dare not touch.
'You worry too much,' said Rensaark, still seated at the dining table.
'Do I?' Yuran turned from the balcony windows, catching his reflection in a mirror. He had aged. Grey hair, sunken lustreless eyes and sagging skin were hardly attractions for Megan should they ever see one another again.
'In every war there are reverses,' said Rensaark.
'My country is in ashes. All but one of my neighbours is now my enemy. And it is not certain that our joint forces will breach the defences at Neratharn. God-surround-me but look how long it has taken us to beat a path through our own territory.'
'And that is why we are allied,' said Rensaark. He was dressed in fine clothes. A tunic of spun Tundarran weave, a jerkin of Karku furs, and gold-threaded sandals. The riches of the Conquord might have been fading for the ordinary citizen but they were not lost on Tsard's senior military. 'We knew there would be resistance. It may have taken longer than we wished but it has been overcome.'
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