'What choice do you think you have given me?' said Jhered, anger in his eyes. 'I cannot go back to the Advocate and report a clean slate. Think about it. Not only are they a weapon, they are a gale through the fabric of the Conquord. People will be frightened of them. God-around-us, so was I when I saw what they could do. And there are five-year-olds and babes in arms even now who could be the next. How can we not be involved? When you came to me you must have known what could happen.'
Vasselis sighed. 'I know. I know. But you always hope, don't you?'
'Look, Arvan, this is better than you could possibly have hoped for when I arrived here, believe me. I'm still going to have to consult more widely about the theological implications. I'm still not convinced it's not heresy. But one thing more than anything else has given me pause for thought. While you and your Echelon might be criminals under God, your Ascendants are not. And because you are their protector, at least for now, I feel honour-bound to stand with you. And I am confident the Advocacy will agree with me, and that means the Order will be kept from you.'
'Thank you, Paul,' said Vasselis. 'Thank you.'
'Don't take it as acceptance, because it is far from that. Some day in the future, there will be a case to answer. For now, don't go far and make sure your Ascendants do not leave Westfallen. Life has changed for all of you.'
Chapter 26
848th cycle of God, 58th day of Genasfall 15th year of the true Ascendancy
The fords at Scintarit had become a major irritation to General Gesteris. The season of genastro was deep into its fall. Warmth had given way to oppressive heat and the Tsardon were not to be moved or lured. Almost thirty days since the first skirmishes and he had not been able to draw his enemy into a pitched battle.
Scintarit was a broad, marshy plain through which the bedrock pushed in a multitude of places, sometimes in flat slabs above the level of grass and sod, and at others like fingers reaching for the sky and soaring hundreds of feet into the air. It was bleak and windswept even in the heat, which did little to burn off the moisture underfoot. The water table was very high and it made marching, riding and drawing wagons problematic.
And slicing across the centre of the plain in long slow curves was the River Tarit. It was fed by underground courses that rose at the base of the Halorians, a huge range of mountains that bestrode the north east of Tsard, and was bolstered by the magnificent Halor falls during the wet seasons. The river was never less than a quarter-mile wide. It was held in by steep, rocky banks that were impassable to wagons along practically the whole of its course through the plain and into the staggering Gorge of Kings seventy miles away to the south.
The Tsardon had destroyed the two bridges that had spanned the river north and south but they could do nothing about the triumvirate of fords in the centre of the plain. Treacherous, slippery expanses of smooth, moss-covered rock between one and three feet below the surface. Each was wide enough only for a single column to approach and cross. But such was the care with which that had to be attempted that defenders would have their pick of helpless targets.
The tactical importance of the plain could not be underestimated. Ceding it to the Tsardon would leave them unhindered access over easy ground all the way to the Atreskan and Goslander borders. And a Conquord victory would open the central heartland of Tsard, and bring ultimate triumph and the fall of the Tsardon capital of Khuran a huge step closer.
So it was that while Del Aglios and Atarkis north, and Jorganesh south, took their smaller armies into striking positions on Tsard's flanks, occupying good numbers of the enemy while they did, Gesteris held and pushed the centre with the largest single army ever despatched from the Conquord. Over eighty thousand citizens facing an enemy perhaps sixty thousand strong.
His was the glory of command, but his was the task of greatest difficulty and risk. Naturally a cautious man, he was only too aware of the pivotal role his army represented. Conquord territories had been stripped of large numbers of men and women to build what he saw before him each morning at dawn. They were an experienced force but cumbersome to command even with the chain he had established.
Logistical problems were huge, and not the least of them was the necessity to make camp around five miles from the banks of the River Tarit. It ate into every day's marching and deployment. Gesteris typically roused his army three hours before dawn and occasionally earlier in an effort to gain surprise. But the Tsardon picketing and forward scouting either side of the river was comprehensive and defensive units could be mobilised quickly to block any potential strike.
So, the sixty days had seen little more than cavalry charges, quick raids and some pickets destroyed, only to be rebuilt almost as quickly. Most of the time, as had been the nature of this war, the two sides marched out to stare at each other across the water in lines spreading over five miles to cover the fords. And at the end of each day they were marched back as the sun fell behind the Tarit Plateau.
Both sides knew the other could not afford rash moves that might lead to defeat. And for their part the Tsardon were entirely happy to wait. They knew that even should they be attacked by flanking Conquord armies, their numbers would be great enough, along with forces from elsewhere in their country, to be comfortable. They also knew that without Gesteris, Khuran would never fall. It was stalemate and it drained the morale of the Conquord army, who wanted little more than to see their families and their homes again.
Gesteris rose to the same routine as he always did on campaign. The reveille in the camp shattered the calm of dreams. The shouts of centurion and master mixed with the neigh of horse and the thunder of tens of thousands of citizens dragging themselves from their bedrolls.
He lay in the dark and listened for a few moments before his aides came in with lanterns and breakfast. He ate while he dressed. In the half light of the wicks, he examined his reflection in the mirror, noting the sheen of his polished armour, the clean dark green of his clothes and the deep grey of his cloak, embroidered with the Estorean crest and bounded in root motifs.
He smoothed down his similarly grey hair and stretched the skin of his face with a hand to remind him of his youth, three decades gone now he was in his fifties. Finally, he secured his green-plumed helmet, chin strap tucking in with familiar tightness.
Gesteris's force was separated into three, one to march to each ford. Latterly, he had
separated the camps to make the
march more efficient and had kept himself attached to the centre of the three, nominally with the
2nd
legion, the Bear Claws of Estorr. However, movement among the three was fluid and he placed light infantry and cavalry in heavy concentrations on the flanks for quick dispersal to another location, feinting to push the left or right ford. It was the nearest he had come to forcing a critical breach and triggering the battle he craved.
He walked through his troops and cavalry, wishing them luck for the coming day and sharing prayers with the Speaker on the lawn outside her tent. He walked tall and proud, letting the belief that they would soon force battle and win the day sweep from him in waves. And inside he didn't doubt it would happen. It was the when that bothered him, and whether he would be forced to send messengers to the flanks, telling them to camp and hold for him. He didn't want that. It would shame him.
Gesteris inspected a maniple of the
30th
ala, the Firedragons from Gosland, and a cataphract of his own legion. He mounted his horse, signalled the horns to sound and led the triarii from the principal gate. It was an efficient and unspectacular march along route seven, which was currently the least churned on the approaches to the water's edge, though the mud was still ankle-deep in places.
Firmer ground was marked and flagged across the marsh. His engineers had laid temporary stone and hardwood roads on all exits to the camp and out along every route for a mile at least. The retreat routes were clear and pristine, unused should the worst occur and they be forced to fall back to defend the heavily fortified camps.
Everything correct, everything in its place. All that was missing was the fight and he was running out of time and ideas. He knew he wasn't as imaginative as some of the younger generals. He heard mutterings, or at least thought he did. But he'd see the moment. He always had in the past. And his return to Estorr would be triumphant once again.
The army had deployed in a deep triplex acies formation covering the centre ford by mid-morning. Peace descended after the barrage of the march. Thirty thousand soldiers and cavalry stood with barely a sound to mark their presence bar the whinny of a horse, the flap of strap and cloth in the wind, the snap of a standard against its pole and the chink of metal on metal.
In front of them across the river, the Tsardon stood in a mass, their heavy complement of archers and crossbowmen forward most as always and their poor catapults drawn up close to the ford. There was barely even a shout or a taunt any more. It was a scene replicated left and right. Between the armies, flagmen and riders waited for orders.
Gesteris looked up at the sky before urging his horse into its slow, daily walk along the front of his lines. There was not a cloud in sight and the sun was hot, mocking his impotence to act. His Master of Horse, Dina Kell, accompanied him. An aggressive cavalrywoman, he had felt her silent discontent grow by the day and her suggestions were leaning towards excessive risk for questionable gain. Nevertheless, he respected her skill and experience. He would not have another commanding his cavalry.
The only thing he wished he'd done at the outset was build artillery towers on the river bank. That might have given his scorpions and ballistae the height to reach the enemy. Too late to try it out now. By the time they'd finished construction, he would have had to force his way across the fords.
Something caught his eye in the southern sky, away towards the
Gorge of Kings. Like a stain in the heavens, a dark smudge on blue canvas. He frowned. There was nothing down there. The land was dry but the way south and east was impassable for an army along the eastern side of the gorge. Hundreds of miles of deep clefts, sharp rocks and crags sprinkled with coarse heather, fit only for the most tenacious of goats.
He pointed. 'Master Kell, tell me what you see over there.'
Kell's deep brown eyes gazed out from under her plumed helmet. 'Dust in the air,' she said, her voice thick with her Tundarran accent. 'Probably reinforcements coming up from the Toursan Lakelands.' She shrugged. 'It won't be a large force. Jorganesh has most of them tied down, doesn't he?'
'So we are told,' said Gesteris. 'Do we have scouts down there?'
'Not at present,' said Kell. 'There's no crossing now the bridge is down. But I can have riders despatched.'
'Do so.'
He looked at the dust cloud again. So hard to gauge how distant it was or how large. Gesteris wasn't sure why but he didn't share Kell's confidence in the likely meagre size of the reinforcements. Under the shimmering heat haze accuracy was all but impossible.
He stopped his horse, reached round and fetched a map from his saddle bags. He unfolded it and squared the drawings with what he could see in the distance. The sides of the gorge reared high into the sky, tumbling east into the rocky terrain that, with the Toursan Lakelands, secured his southern flank. The river's course meandered for fifty miles, becoming arrow-straight for the last twenty before it fell into the gorge. Arrow straight.
Gesteris squinted, trying to place the dust, which would already give an inaccurate position of the reinforcements, the scale of difference dependent on the wind strength at the gorge mouth. The direction of the breeze where he stood was almost directly north, meaning the dust would probably be in advance of whoever was creating it. But it might then identify their lateral position more accurately.
He gripped his reins tight, trying not to betray sudden fear. He wanted to fetch out his magnifier too, but that would draw unwanted attention to the problem.
'Get those scouts down there now,' he hissed at Kell. 'And tell them to take care. The Tsardon are this side of the Tarit.'
The raids had continued and the Conquord did nothing but take more of his defence to bolster the clearly struggling armies in Tsard. He had manned as many of the border forts as he could and cycled his troops among them to keep the raiders guessing where they could safely cross into Atreska. But it did little except delay the inevitable.
Now, in his hand he held the message he knew he would receive from the Advocate, and he read it with disdain. His refusal to attend the Games had been greeted with fury and threats. His stewardship hung by a thread and Herine Del Aglios was looking for the final reason to have him replaced.
'But why should I care when my people are dying and my cities are burning?'
'My Lord?' his aide sounded startled.
'Sorry, Megan,' Marshal Yuran said to her. 'Thinking aloud.'
She was sitting behind him, reading the petitions of the day. He knew what they would contain and had risen to walk on to a balcony in his castle to stare down with deepening dismay at the state of Haroq City. It had begun with the populations of border towns beginning to trickle in behind the city walls, many bringing with them tales of Tsardon atrocities. But equally many had brought ultimatums such as the one he had heard from Praetor Gorsal at Gull's Ford. Too many of them exhorted him to abandon the Conquord and declare independence.
For them it was a simple choice. The Tsardon way or death. For him it was considerably more complex. Conquord troops were all across his lands, whether marching to or from the battlefronts, on defensive or assessment duties. Rebellions across Atreska took up as much of his time. His senior advisers were all Estoreans, loyal to the Advocate. And for his part, he still clung to the belief that the Conquord would triumph in Tsard quickly and the promises made by the Advocate would come to pass.
Yet he understood the desperation of his people and he saw in their eyes, the accusation that he was impotent to help. It hurt him, cut him to the quick. He had sold them the glory of the Conquord and so far it had led to little but fear and death for too many.
He really believed he was doing everything that he could. He had sent patrols to the Tsardon border and they had scored some fine victories. But it seemed that raiders were deeper into his country than he had guessed and there were not enough troops to cover everywhere they might strike. The Tsardon ability to hit almost anywhere they chose was spreading panic to all parts of Atreska. Surely they were working with the rebels. And when the population of Haroq had reached bursting point and he had to house refugees outside the walls, the rioting had started.
The city's citizens had joined with the displaced and marched to the castle in their thousands to demand action. They had wanted more soldiers in the field and an ultimatum sent to Estorr concerning their loyalty if the Conquord failed to protect them as the constitution decreed.
Yuran had seen the leaders of the popular movement and had explained to them all that he could. He had urged them to remain faithful and to pray to whichever gods they chose to see them through this time. He had said how it looked dark but that victory was at hand in Tsard and this was to be the penultimate campaigning season.
He had pacified them for the time being but when food became short with too many fields and farms empty, patience had run out. Demonstration had become looting and he had been forced to send out the Haroq guard to quell the trouble. Martial law was in place. A curfew from dusk 'til dawn kept trouble to a minimum but each day he saw fires in new parts of the city and heard the muted shouts of mobs.
Slowly but surely, civil law was disintegrating in Haroq City and even the Order of the Omniscient could not keep their faithful from taking up arms.
'What can I do?' he asked. 'I am threatened with dismissal as Marshal Defender. But my title insists that I do my job rather than fawn to the Advocate at games which mock every hungry child in my country and sneer at every drop of blood spilt by innocents working their fields on the Tsardon borders.'