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 commanders 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.'
Yuran moved back to the table and picked up his wine. It was cold outside and the fires around the hall struggled to keep the chill from the air. There had been the first solid snowfalls of dusas these past two days and conditions out in the field were only going to get worse.
'This is a bad country in which to battle in the ice and frost,' said Yuran. 'The plains channel howling winds across the fields, the snow drifts so deep it could cover this castle and the temperature can drop enough to freeze the blood in a man's body. Your men and mine lodge in tents near Neratharn. The enemy has superior structures. They have the supply of the Conquord behind them. We have barely enough to feed ourselves, meal to meal. We have taken too much time to marshal ourselves. If they hold out for ten days, they can beat us.'
'The battle will not last ten days,' said Rensaark. 'They are outnumbered three to one at least. They will barely last a day against us.'
Yuran shook his head. 'They have heart and hope still. And they will know by now some of what has been happening to the south. They will soon know that bastard Del Aglios is marching to help them. Marching through my country with nothing to slow him bar the weather.'
'He will have nothing but the bodies of his citizens to bury,' said Rensaark. 'And he will have no choice but to chase us all the way to Estorr. A city that will be ours already. They have lost and they know it.'
'And this new weapon. These children who can bring down mountains? You don't deny they are a threat.'
'Indeed not. But unless they can fly, they cannot help the Conquord at Neratharn either. Relax, Thomal. Take a bath or something. Soon, the threat of the Conquord will be gone forever and we can forge a new peace with independent states. Just as it used to be. And you will be the hub of it all. King Yuran, backed by the might of King Khuran, need never fear invasion again.'
Yuran took his leave of Rensaark and walked back to his private rooms in the castle. As always, what he said was so plausible. But there was a flaw if only he knew where to uncover it. And the nagging doubt remained that Rensaark was playing him for an imbecile, using him to expand Tsard.
Yuran ordered water to be brought in for a bath before sinking into his favourite leather chair to soak up the warmth of the grand open fire in his hearth. Presently, he heard his servant arrive and he moved though to the baths to prepare. He frowned on seeing the kitchen lad who had pushed in the heavy, wheeled urn to mix his bath. He was older than most of them for a start, but thin and rather bedraggled. Like someone had starved him and rolled him in mud before letting him attend his king-in-waiting.
'A bit old for this task, aren't you?' he said. 'And a mess, too. Am I running out of kitchen boys?'
'No, my Lord,' said the lad. He turned, his head bowed. 'I am sorry if I give you offence. None was intended.'
Yuran waved his hand. He had more important matters to consider. 'Just mix my bath. The rosemary essence tonight, I think.'
'I had to speak with you,' blurted the youngster suddenly.
Yuran sighed. 'If you are petitioning for food, I have none. If you want to join the legions, report to the master-at-arms at the basilica. Now, finish your job and go before I have the guards drag you out.'
'No,' he said, and Yuran was so surprised he let him speak on. 'Because I need a place to hide and you need a defence against the rise of the Conquord, whether the Tsardon defeat them or not. You are alone and adrift. So am I. And there is a power coming to this world that you cannot deflect with mere swords.'
'And I suppose you can, is that right?' Yuran's hand had strayed to the hilt of his gladius. 'I have enjoyed our talk but you are out of time, whoever you are.'
'Who am I?'
The boy raised his head and Yuran moved backwards, transfixed. Under his dirty blond hair, the boy smiled and a sweep of warm green flowed across his eyes, settling to a neutral grey. Yuran's gaze dropped to the column of water the boy supported on one outstretched palm with no vessel to contain it. He pointed vaguely but no words would come.
'Don't be afraid,' said the boy. 'Let them fight. Let dusas pass. Bide your time and hide me. And one day it will be you and I who rule this world. Not today. Not this year. Perhaps not in ten years. But one day. All you have to do is trust me.'
Yuran felt as if he were choking. There was a thumping in his head and a tremor in his limbs. He groped for a wall and leaned heavily against it. The Tsardon with the dread in their eyes had all spoken the truth. And here stood one of them now. A boy who could make a mountain fall.
'Who are you?' he managed.
The boy smiled again. 'I am the one who sees the truth. I am Gorian Westfallen and I am humbly at your service, Marshal Yuran.'