Cry of the Newborn (22 page)

'The fact that I stand here today demonstrates that she has given that acceptance. But it is conditional. To calm your fears, I can also confirm that the Order knows nothing, and for now at least, I can keep them from here as I have done for twenty years. But the Advocacy will come here to investigate and we can do nothing but answer all their questions with complete honesty. The eyes of the Advocate are on Westfallen and we must not fail now. Nothing must be hidden and none of us must speak ill of the Ascendancy in which we are all so steeped.'

Vasselis waited while the citizens digested what was going to descend on them.

'This town and all its people have been a haven of peace and tranquillity for those lucky enough to live and visit, for hundreds of years. But for now at least, that peace will be shattered. I know many of you will go back to your homes and be saddened, thinking the life you love is gone. And perhaps it has. But the measure of the truly great, the truly courageous, is the ability to grow in the face of adversity and change. To make a life better than the one left behind.

'And as I look about me today, I see greatness and courage in every single one of you. I am proud to count you among my people. I am proud to call you my friends.' The cheers began. 'Stand with me. Stand with the Ascendancy. Together we will become legend!'

Chapter 18

848th cycle of God, 30th day of
Genasrise 15th year of the true Ascendancy

Genastro had been late on the ground in Tsard. And, following a deep, harsh dusas, where hypothermia had been the biggest killer in the legions camping in the occupied territories, the fresh season of growth was most welcome when it eventually arrived.

Roberto Del Aglios and the two legions and two alae under his command had been more fortunate than most. Making up half of the north-eastern front, they had been given leave to camp in the outer reaches of Sirrane, the great kingdom of wood and mountains that swept along the north of Tsard.

For Roberto, it had been a double benefit over the hundred and fifty days since the conditions dictated an end to hostilities. His mother was desperate to secure a formal alliance with Sirrane. Even now, Conquord diplomats ventured deep into the closed forest lands. Roberto played his part, maintaining a disciplined camp, foraging only in the area of forest granted to him and burning the minimum of timber.

As a result, food was sufficient and his armies were content enough. Desertion rates were low and morale reasonable. No one was happy to be marooned for dusas on campaign and there was no doubt that in Roberto's experience, Tsard was the bleakest terrain he had ever seen once the snow and ice came.

He had his discipline problems through the quiet days. Boredom was a dangerous demon and in an army of over sixteen thousand men and women, spread like disease. Drills and organised inter-manipular and inter-legion games were his most successful weapons, in addition to ensuring he rotated the foraging teams to give everyone a taste of the hunt. But arguments between lovers, over the Sirranean

whores that walked the camp, shares of food and drink, card games . . . anything on a cold night sparked fights and insubordination.

And while Roberto had the reputation of an understanding general, he would not tolerate indiscipline. He had executed three men and two women for serious breaches and those deaths weighed heavily on him. But in a campaigning army of this size, he had to make an example or face mutiny. In years gone by, loyalty to a general was enough. But the Tsardon campaigns had been going on for five years and patience among those who had left their families to farm in their stead was growing thin.

This last dusas had been a busy one for the administrators. Roberto had been visited by a senior delegation of the Gatherers to assess manpower, morale and discuss planning for the genastro campaign. Paul Jhered himself had visited the huge legion encampments some two hundred miles inside Tsard from the eastern border of Atreska. It was where the Tsardon armies had been particularly aggressive during the last campaigning season and where progress remained tortuously slow. The southern front legions camped by the borders of Kark had also suffered, but more at the hands of raiders from the steppes who targeted supply lines and ambushed marching columns.

Roberto was of the opinion that he and his fellow generals needed no reinforcement. Rather, they needed to be utterly certain the eastern front would remain firm so that the northern and southern armies could advance far enough into Tsard to close the pincers.

His aim was to secure the southern border of Sirrane far enough east to stand directly above the Bay of Harryn, which lay the best part of a thousand miles south. Ambitious but achievable and one brick in a year's campaign that ought to see the Tsardon broken and pushed back into their heartlands, fastnesses and strongholds. Surrender would then be a realistic outcome and they could all go home.

It was the message he had been giving his soldiers and cavalry ever since the Gatherers had left him. They took back his thoughts about doubling the guard on all supply lines and manning every one of the nearly two hundred border forts that were the defence against Tsardon incursion into Atreska and Gosland. He had been disturbed to hear that one in three were no more than empty shells. And one thing guaranteed to sap morale, particularly among the Atreskan alae under his command, was word from their countrymen that the raids were unabated and the civil war still simmering.

Communication between the fronts had gathered pace the moment the snows began to melt. The massive campaigning force, twenty Conquord legions and sixteen alae numbering in total close on one hundred and twenty thousand citizens, had begun drilling into fighting order and fitness at the same time. Roberto loved this time of the year. Energy and belief surged through his soldiers and cavalry. Each man and woman believed that this year would see their last on campaign. Each dreamt of a return to the lives the Conquord offered them in return for their service in the legions.

For Roberto, he would swap his armour and gladius for the toga and rod of high political office. He wasn't sure how much he was looking forward to it but such was the destiny of the Advocate's eldest son. She wanted him home. Perhaps that was why he was reluctant to give up the soldier's life. Thirty-eight he might be but she would mother him like he was ten, schooling him in the vagaries of political life. She meant well but it could be so patronising.

Roberto shook his head and blew out his cheeks. He ran a hand through his close-cropped black hair and pushed himself up from his desk, taking the paper the Conquord messenger had delivered to him. He turned to look into the mirror set up in the right-hand corner of his command tent, which sat in the middle of the camp. One valuable piece of advice his mother had given him was to be aware of his appearance at all times. Five years on campaign in Tsard made no difference to that advice. Legion commanders had to be in control, had to set the standard for discipline and that began with his personal bearing.

The man who stared back at him was clean-shaven and heavy-framed. Deep blue eyes shone out of a face red from the battering of wind, snow and ice. He wore a white knee-length tunic slashed Advocacy green and cinched at the waist with a leather belt buckled with the Del Aglios crest - a rearing white horse with crossed spears beneath its front legs. His dark green leggings ended in hobnail boots, capped in shining steel.

He nodded, satisfied. Undress uniform was acceptable enough for the orders of the day. He unhooked his fur-lined and hooded black cloak from the stand on which his beautifully polished and pressed dress uniform hung, and slung it around his neck, fastening it with a Del Aglios brooch.

Roberto smoothed his hair, spun on his heel and strode out of his tent, pausing to take in the fresh, cool air of an early genastro morning in Tsard. Before him was a sight he would never have tired of seeing.

To his left, the staggering forest of Sirrane. With evergreen and new growth thrusting through the canopy, it rolled away higher and higher, up slopes still hung heavy with snow. No one really knew the full scale of the forests or mountains. Conquord agents had been two thousand miles along its southern edge and had not reached its end. Could it really be as deep north to south. Its heart was the dominating peak of Gor Nassos, at best estimate in excess of thirty thousand feet high. On a clear day the snow-capped and awesome peak could be seen from hundreds of miles distant, thrusting above the tree line.

The rumour was that the Sirranean capital city was at its feet, on the banks of a crystal blue lake but no one still alive had travelled that far. Sirrane was a nation of secrets that would be kept so long as the forest stood. No thought had ever been given by the Conquord to wage conquest war against it. Legions would be swallowed up in the dense depths of the forest, never to be seen again.

And for their part, the Sirraneans had never shown any desire to expand beyond the outer boughs. They were born, lived and died in the forest, and were rarely seen more than a few miles from their homes. None had ever visited the Conquord. Roberto found them fascinating. Accepting of other countries, trading with them, but diplomacy was as far as it went. As to their culture, it remained like their political and economic systems, an enigma. If he had his way, his first job as a Conquord politician would be as emissary to Sirrane.

Roberto let his gaze travel left to right over their intended destination for this campaigning season. It was a beautiful but worrying landscape for a general. Beyond the plateau on which they had camped, the land fell away quickly before racing away across an undulating plain that had been the scene of their last battle the previous season. A victory that had gladdened their hearts for dusas.

Beyond the plain, the Tsardon hinterland reverted to its characteristic features. Sharp inclines, steep-sided valleys and river courses winding through treacherous rock-faced gorges, all carved out by the hand of God. Crags and rock towers studded the landscape like sentinels, daring invaders to continue.

Hard terrain for marching, let alone fighting. Roberto knew he would have to work hard to gain the ground advantage when they made fresh contact with the ferocious and worthy Tsardon armies.

Looking out over Tsard, its predominant green washed with the purple and blue of early heather flowers, he felt a pang of regret that this stunning landscape would soon be stained red with the blood of thousands of men and women. It would be littered with bodies too numerous to bury and scattered with broken leather and steel for local scavengers to dart out and take once the armies had moved on. All because the King of Tsard would not hear the wisdom of Conquord unity under the Advocate. How many more lives were still to be lost before they surrendered?

Roberto acknowledged the salutes of his tent guards and strode out into the camp. It was a larger, more permanent version of a marching camp. Inside the tall, quadruple-gated wooden stockades, paved roads divided the camp into its constituent parts.

His engineers had done a sound job. Guttering and drainage had been a primary concern, with raised wooden platforms a few inches above ground on which all the tents were pitched. Only the paddocks stood on the thawing earth and the churned mud beneath the horses' hoofs testified to the master engineer's wisdom.

His cavalry, elite of the legions, were billeted close to him, along with his command staff. Legionaries and engineers circled him in order of age and experience; the triarii nearest to him, the hastati on the outer edge by the fortifications and in between them, the principes. Textbook. But then with the Conquord legions, it always was. There was no other way. Discipline, order, victory.

He walked past the legion and alae standards planted outside the command quarters, snapping in the fresh breeze. Emotive banners of veteran fighting forces. The 8th
and 10th
Estorean regulars, known by their legionaries as the Screaming Hawks and the Hammer Fists respectively. And the 21st
and 25th
Atreskan alae, cavalry-dominated and going by the names of God's Arrows and Haroq's Blades.

Ducking under the loose tent flap, he was greeted with the multiple scrape of chairs, shouts for attention and the thumps of left fist striking right shoulder.

'At ease,' he acknowledged. 'Sit, sit.' Roberto made for the angled table on which were pinned the quartermaster's numbers, the best maps they had of the surrounding area and details of the path already travelled. He brandished his messenger papers.

'Dusas is officially over.' There was a short cheer, though the twenty assembled in front of him already knew it. 'We strike camp at the earliest opportunity, which I have deemed will be in seven days. You all know what you and your centurions must do to get your citizens into battle trim. Here are your additional orders.

'The Arrows and Blades, I want your mounted scouts in the field from today onwards. I want settlements visited, provisions secured and best routes plotted. We are all aware of the potential for ambush. Get as much information from the locals as you can. Pay them well; my mother's war chest is deep indeed.' A chuckle. 'I want scouts four days ahead of us at all times on the march and I want messages daily. I will not be surprised by encounter with the enemy. I trust that is clear.' He waited for the relevant masters of horse to confirm.

'Good. Hawks, your scouts will travel the eaves of Sirrane. I will not be flanked. Distance and messaging as with my alae. Fists, your scouts will mark our rear and maintain communications with the eastern front. Supply will be difficult and I will not tolerate interruptions due to information negligence on your part. Agreed? Excellent.

'Master of Engineers, Rovan Neristus. We're rolling. We have just spent dusas next to the best source of timber in the world. I trust our supply contracts are in place. If not, you have seven days. Don't come to me on the march telling me a scorpion or wagon must be abandoned due to lack of raw materials or you will find yourself fighting with the hastati.'

The pigeon-framed engineer scowled at him. 'I am sure the hastati would be proud to have me with them, Roberto.'

'Let's pray we don't have to find out. Again, you have leave to pay. Quartermasters have my accounts. Remember, all of you, that we are not at war with Sirrane and our aim is never to be so. You will not take liberties. Except perhaps with their whores.'

Another chuckle. He held up his hands.

'Two pieces of news for you. One good, one not so. While we are not receiving reinforcements, the eastern front will benefit from four new legions. They are going to be raised from Avarn, Neratharn, Morasia and Bahkir who are all underrepresented on this campaign.

Conscription is already underway but we cannot expect them into the fight until solasfall at best. That, my Atreskan friends, means that your country is not suffering any more drain from its fields and businesses.

'But before you get too happy, I have to tell you that while the messenger service and the supply lines from Gosland and Atreska are being strengthened, both by late genasfall, the border forts will not be. I have been given no reason but I suspect it is money and available bodies.'

There was a single voice of dissent and Roberto nodded.

'I know, Goran, I know. But this is the reality. We must use it as a spur to win decisive victories early in the campaign to force raiders at our backs to join the armies in front of us.

'Make no mistake, we will win this campaign this year. We all want to see our homes again. Mind your discipline, mind your troop morale. I will not hesitate to remove command from those who demonstrate their inability to perform in the field. In the last five years, none of you have failed me. See that it remains that way. Dismissed.'

Thomal Yuran, Marshal Defender of Atreska, sat in the throne room of the principal castle in Haroq City, now called the basilica since their accession to the Estorean Conquord. The former King of Atreska was long dead, preferring to be executed rather than bend knee to the Advocate. Yuran had thought himself the rightful if fortunate successor and he had been honoured to be the first unfettered Marshal Defender of the province. Now he was not so sure.

Genastro had brought precious little in the way of warmth to his heart and bones and a brooding anger had settled on him since his frustrating visit to the Advocate the previous dusas. The freezing temperatures that had swept across the Conquord and into Tsard had matched his mood and the wait for a reaction to his demands and the investigation into his province's finances had been interminable.