'Take triarii from the northern reserve. Four maniples from the Haroq's Blades. Back it up with principes of the Hawks. You need to break through around their flank. Cavalry will protect you. Get into the artillery then get out.'
Davarov smiled and began to move off.
'And Davarov,' said Roberto. 'If you must go with them, try not to die, all right?'
'Today isn't my day to die,' said Davarov.
He ran along the back of the line. It was solid and confident. Neristus's stolen onagers fired in response, their own burning stones making smoke trails in the air. He prayed each one crushed a dozen Tsardon. Approaching the northern end, he could hear the ferocity of the fighting. Cavalry were running the flanks, keeping each other
from engaging the infantry. Both sides desired the breakthrough. Only one had real belief.
Davarov barked his favoured Atreskan centurions to him. 'Maniples to me. Bring your support principes maniples for reserve and flank defence. Move, move.'
He moved on up the line, searching out the flank cavalry commander. Another Atreskan, nominally of the Haroq's Blades. He was studying the ragged edge of the battle where the two horseborne forces fenced with each other, looking for a gap, any small advantage they could exploit. Onager rounds dragged scratches in the cloudy sky, plunging down ten yards ahead of the Conquord artillery. Too close.
'Captain Cartoganev.'
'Master Davarov.' Cartoganev looked down the nose flute of his helmet. 'What is it? I'm a busy man.'
'And about to get busier,' growled Davarov. 'We're going after the artillery. I need you to keep the steppe away from my infantry.'
'It's what I was created to do,' said Cartoganev.
'Funny.'
'Not at all. I am stretched here, Master Davarov.'
'Then let's see them broken. If we can move up our weapons, we can do that.' Davarov shrugged and smiled. He could hear the maniples moving to order behind him. 'It's Roberto's order. What can you do, eh?'
Cartoganev stared over his head and grumbled in his throat. 'Leave it with me. Do what you have to but make it quick or we'll lose this flank.'
Davarov bowed. 'Just a little opening is all I need.' Cartoganev turned and bellowed orders.
Mirron could feel it coming together inside her body. She could taste the warmth of the pitch fires and the energies of the earth filled her. She created the energy map of fire in her mind, huge and amplified. Now she must project that map onto the wood and rope of the Tsardon artillery. Onto the new fuel. It was so much easier when it was right ahead of her but this time, she must channel it along the natural lines of the air. It was going to be tiring. She took a deep breath and pushed out. Heat washed over her face.
She concentrated harder, aware that she was smouldering. She moved her left hand out towards the pitch fires. Their chaotic lines danced for her. So beautiful. She teased open a break in the first firelines and with her body holding it open, she pushed out harder. The created fire map fled away across the sky, smoke trailing from clear air. All she needed was one link and for the rest, it would be like knocking over a line of dominoes.
Somewhere near her, Jhered was speaking but it wasn't to her.
'This way,' said Jhered to the Tsardon running at him. 'Your chance to make every tax-evader happy.'
He moved left slightly, covering Mirron from their sight for as long as he could. How they had seen him he had no idea, but they must have been circling for hours to dodge the cavalry. Chances are, they were the relief for the guard post come to see if their comrades had escaped. It was an error not to have seen the possibility.
'I need help here!' he shouted over his shoulder, where only dust hung in the air. Pointless. The noise of the battle below was too great. The Tsardon spread out around him. Two had bows strung, four held their slightly curved swords and oval shields. 'Oh, shit.'
The bowmen fired. Jhered ducked. Both shafts missed high, sailing over the bluff and lost. He stood again. The Tsardon had stopped. Hardly a surprise. The bowmen bent their weapons again. This time one of the shafts slammed into his shield, the other into the ground. He glanced behind him. Mirron was lost in her Work. Jhered really only had one choice. He ran straight at them.
Keeping his head and body inside his shield he roared determination, covering the thirty-yard gap at speed. The bowmen flexed and released, flexed and released. One arrow parted his plume. Another bounced from his shield. A third bit into the earth at his feet. He made for the middle of the six. He wanted them all around him, concentrating on him, giving Mirron the maximum time to work and escape.
The Tsardon stood their ground, expecting him to pull up to strike. He had no such intention. He barrelled straight into the central pair, battering them down. He fell, half-twisted and rolled on to his back, scrambling to his feet even as they turned to face him. He was up fast. By his feet was a groggy Tsardon. Jhered stamped on his neck and launched himself back at the four standing. His shield clattered into an enemy's. His gladius thumped into another. He ducked a flailing blow, feeling it shear across his defence, splintering the finish.
He backed off a pace. The bowmen had swords now. Behind him, the surviving Tsardon was getting to his feet. He butted his shield forward again. His target dodged aside, striking out with his blade. Its tip scored across the Conquord emblem. Sparks flew. Jhered backed off again, moving left this time, bringing the fifth enemy into view. All of them had their backs to Mirron now. He took a glance behind him. The edge of the bluff was at his heels. The Tsardon spread into an arc.
'Which one of you is good enough to take me, eh?' He hefted his gladius. 'Well?'
They rushed him.
Prosentor Kreysun could feel the wheel turning in his favour. Never mind that the other Conquord force had managed to approach without him seeing. Never mind the evil gale that had blinded his men. He had so many warriors. And now he was pushing back on the border defence; the new front was steadying though still just on the retreat, and his onagers were finding their targets.
Conquord rounds from the fort exploded into the ground around him, obliterating men and splashing their fire across the little snow that still remained. He turned to his crews, forty at least.
'Faster. Let's give it back to them. I want these bastards running back into the hinterland.'
He marched to the lines of onagers. All of them were turned to the east now and moving forward in steps, trying to get the range of the Conquord's pieces. Pitch fires glowed hot and his engineers worked feverishly to get stones covered and lit while the arms of the catapults cranked back.
Heat came from nowhere, like a hot gust across the steppes when solastro was at its height. He frowned. Perhaps the fires were hotter than he thought though he wasn't standing that close. Kreysun saw it all happen but he still didn't believe it. Engineers backed away from a pitch fire glowing far too hot. Flame was spilling over the iron barrel, gouts of orange shooting into the air, coiling and jabbing down at clothing and shield. He saw men begin to smoulder. He saw hair singe and shield blacken.
'Korl spare us,' he whispered.
A wide tongue of fire lashed out from the barrel and engulfed the onager. The crew turned and ran. The heat was immense, stopping him in his tracks, leaving him able only to stare. The fires burned through rope, enveloped the arm and wheels, took the support frame and weakened the hinges. It would be so much ash in no time. He took a pace backwards. One after another, his pitch fires blossomed to bring the onager into their destructive embrace.
'Put them out!' He began to run amongst them. 'Put them out.'
But his crews barely heeded him. Most of them were running, their backs already indistinct in the choking smoke of dozens of fires.
Kovan jumped from his horse and ran past Mirron's crouched form. Ahead, Lord Jhered took a battering blow on his shield and his legs half-buckled. His gladius stabbed out but missed its target. The sword blows rained in again. Four men stood around him, two bodies lay on the ground. Jhered blocked one, took another two on his shield and the fourth missed his left leg by a whisker.
Jhered surged upright again, forcing the enemies back. But they were strong and there was only going to be one outcome to the fight. They spread just a little and he couldn't hope to defend against them all this time. Kovan wouldn't make it. He shouted but they didn't hear him. Ten yards away and it might as well have been ten miles.
There was only one thing he could do to distract them. He threw his gladius and prayed. The blade tipped end over end. Ahead a Tsardon raised his sword for a fatal blow. Kovan's gladius speared into his back knocking him forward off his feet. The others paused a fraction of a heartbeat. It was enough. Jhered thumped his shield into an open body and rammed his gladius into the throat of another.
Two left, one of them winded. Kovan snatched a curved blade from the first body he passed, feeling its unfamiliar weight and balance. He took it in both hands and swept it through the legs of one of the enemy. The man pitched back, screaming. Jhered punched his shield again and again into the last man, driving him to the ground where he finished him through the heart. Kovan stabbed the Tsardon blade through the stomach of the other, leaving the sword quivering.
He straightened and wiped a trembling hand across his mouth. Jhered was in front of him, handing him his own sword back and smiling.
'Just in time, young Vasselis, thank you.' He clapped a hand on Kovan's shoulder. 'It's a good job you're in love with Mirron, isn't it?'
Kovan felt himself blush. 'I don't—'
'No one comes back to save the taxman, boy.'
Jhered laughed and led the way to Mirron. She was lying on her side now, breathing heavily. Kovan knelt by her and stroked her lank hair.
'It's all right, Mirron, I'm here.'
She clutched at his arms. 'I did it. I stopped the fire stones.' 'And so much more,' said Jhered.
Kovan followed Jhered's gaze down on to the battle. The enemy onagers were burning. All of them. Black smoke clouded the sky and Tsardon were running in all directions. Behind, there was a great roar from the Conquord lines as word was passed. The legions surged. Down below them, cavalry galloped hard into their counterparts, forcing a slight hole. And into it poured Conquord troops, led by a man with a red shield.
'That's—'
'Davarov,' said Jhered. 'Come on. Kovan, get her up. Time we were leaving.'
Roberto signalled the artillery to advance and he galloped across the back of the line, spreading the word of the destruction of the Tsardon weapons. They had done it. The Ascendants. He didn't know how, and right now he didn't much care. This was the moment and with Davarov probably aware his targets were already gone, the Atreskan master would be able to put his maniples to different use.
'Commit to the lines,' ordered Roberto as he passed. 'Principes to the front. Let's break them.'
He urged his horse to the north end. A critical break here and the Tsardon were lost. He watched Cartoganev's cataphract break up a charge by the steppe cavalry. Horse archers thundered along in their wake, filling the air. A sword detachment rode into the skirmish, forcing the enemy to turn to regroup.
He looked behind him. 'Come on Rovan, let's have those arms swinging.'
He needed the stones to fall without reply. From the fort they still fell trailing smoke and flame but there were not enough of them to shiver the Tsardon morale. Roberto reached the right flank perimeter. Principes were adding to the weight. Down amongst them,
Davarov led his maniples into the gap the cavalry had forged. Tsardon were turning to cut them off.
'Archers, shoot behind the front line. Do it.'
The order was passed. Arrows flew in high arcs, falling out of sight. The right edge rippled and moved forward again. Just a yard but a big advance.
'They're turning,' he yelled at his centurions, to anyone who could hear him. 'They're turning.'
Rovan Neristus's stones scoured the grey sky. Roberto watched them go. He saw them plunge into the centre of the Tsardon reserve where it was grouping to defend. Where they thought they were safe.
'Not any more,' said Roberto. 'Not any more.'
The Conquord legions closed their shields under command of their centurions. Flags dropped, horns sounded afresh. They rushed the weakening line. Discipline. Order. Victory.
Somewhere out there, he could have sworn he heard Davarov shouting the self same words. Roberto smiled. Perhaps, just perhaps, they could save the Conquord after all.
Admiral Gaius Kortonius, Prime Sea Lord of the Ocetanas, breathed the cold sea air that blew across the Kester Isle plateau from the north west, bringing with it the first ice of dusas. The signs of the season were everywhere. From the sleet that had been falling on and off for five days; to the roar of the Ocetanas Palace hypocausts; and the sea mist that clung to the rocks and obscured the sea beyond two hundred yards.