It would take an army to threaten the Advocate and all those within the walls.
And the Armour of God was massed outside. Whether this was brinkmanship or genuine threat wasn't clear. But it was certainly ugly, and it was certainly a siege.
Vasselis was in the state rooms. He seemed to spend a lot of his time there now. The view over the Victory Gates was peerless, though how hollow that title was now after what had happened in their shadow. The space within had been converted to an administration area for the rationing of food and water and he had placed himself in charge of this delicate area.
Estorr was lost. The Advocacy had no control. The Order was in charge. The citizenry had not reappeared at the gates to vent their rage at what had occurred. Fear saw to that. But they had taken their anger out all over the city. Rioting went unchecked for three days before the Order had stepped in this morning to direct the people into less damaging protest and action. But they hadn't begun the evacuation Vasselis had begged them to organise. They still didn't, or wouldn't, believe and the citizens were in their thrall.
He and Gesteris had watched from the high rooms of the palace as every business and enterprise close to the Advocacy went up in flames. The Advocate's few supporters in the city had been driven out, had run to the Hill or been killed. It was no more than a witch hunt and they had been powerless to stop it.
Only in the hours immediately following the disastrous Work had any loyals been into the city proper. With Herine incapable or unwilling to make any more decisions, the military minds had stepped in and brought to the Hill everything they could think of and easily find. Provisions, weapons, vulnerable people, city guard. Every single empty vessel the palace possessed had been filled with water. Because as Gesteris had correctly predicted, on this first afternoon of genasfall, the water supply to the palace was cut off.
In the Academy, all was quiet. The Ascendants had not emerged from there since the fateful evening. Petrevius and Mina were inconsolable. Yola was defiant and Vasselis did not like the echoes he saw in her. Hesther was furious with Herine for what she had ordered, and confused by how it had gone so spectacularly wrong. Vasselis knew how she felt.
In the whole damned mess, the only continuing blessing was that the quarantine flags were still hidden from the citizenry. Their anger had no edge of panic. The rioters' fires had been extinguished and the Order had imposed itself effectively if not even-handedly or indeed in the right direction. Vasselis was uncomfortably aware that could change at any moment. What the reaction would be he shuddered to think.
The doors opened behind him and eight heads turned to see the Advocate walk shakily into the room, supported by Tuline. Both of them looked exhausted. Herine looked very ill and despite his anger, Vasselis felt worried by that. The seven administrators bent their heads back to their plans and rotas. Vasselis waited for the two women to walk around the grand table and up the step to the balcony.
is there anyone here who still supports me?'
Herine's voice was rasping, her breath wheezing. Her eyes were bloodshot and there was a tremor to her body most evident in her fingers and lips. Tuline's eyes echoed her desperation and helplessness.
'God-surround-me, Herine, look at you,' said Vasselis.
He cast around and saw a chair. He dragged it to the balcony edge but Herine waved it away.
'I am not a total invalid, Arvan,' she said. 'Well?'
There was still strength in her eyes but it was fading. Vasselis sighed. She had aged a decade in three days and the ramifications of her orders lay upon her like a blanket of stone.
'What do you want me to say, Herine? Everyone within these walls still believes in the Advocacy and they will fight to the last to preserve it from destruction by the Order.'
'That isn't quite what I asked you, is it?'
'It's the best answer you're going to get right now.'
Herine looked away but nodded her acceptance. Vasselis could still find no sympathy inside himself for her. He was surprised by that but could not deny it. He was sure he should have been stronger in his defence but in the cold light of day, she had gone against every tenet of her own rule. The Advocate had attacked her own people. And though she would never have wished for the results of that decision, she had made it and had to face the consequences. She had ignored her advisers.
'I am lost,' she said quite suddenly. She felt for the chair and sat in it, Tuline helping her down. 'I cannot survive this, Arvan. It is over.'
'I think that is a gteat assumption, my Advocate,' he said. 'A hard blow, yes, but your achievements outweigh your mistakes.'
'Do they? Do they really? And what do you suppose my legacy will be when the history of my rule is written? That I held back the Tsardon tide, brought Dornos, Atreska and Bahkir into the Conquord? That I presided over the greatest growth of wealth the Conquotd had ever seen? Or that I, Herine Del Aglios, lost my grip and slaughtered hundreds outside the gates of my own house. That I embraced those that the majority of my people and the rulers of my faith knew to be evil and that I unleashed that evil on them in petty revenge.'
Herine looked so thin, sitting there. Her vitality was gone. Her face was hollow and the dark patches under her eyes reached down into her cheeks.
'I do not deserve to rule this great Conquord,' she said. The tears began to fall down her cheeks. 'I am not worthy of the love of my citizens. I am not worthy of any who yet stand beside me.'
Vasselis knelt before her, putting his arms on those of the chair in which she sat.
'Yes, you have done wrong,' he said. 'Is that what you want to hear? You have made a monumental mistake and the citizens of this city are angry and bitter and denounce your name. This is a setback of enormous proportions. But you are Herine Del Aglios. The Advocate of the Estorean Conquord. And you will not, no, may not, give up.
'Out there beyond the walls they choose not to believe it but we know the threat approaching the Conquord. We know his name and we must not buckle. We must not let our guard slip again. Your sons are out there defending all of this. You, the Order, the citizens of this city and the whole Conquord. And though I might be furious with you, Herine. Though I might not even know how I feel about you today, you are still my Advocate. And I, Arvan Vasselis, stand with the Advocacy and I will not turn away. I will not.'
Herine put a hand on his cheek. His beard was thick on his jaw, it needed trimming.
'Dear Arvan. Never flinching. Always facing. Why are you not sitting on the throne?'
'Because I have no line of succession. And because I am sworn to the Del Aglios dynasty. I have no desire to rule the Conquord.'
'But you have ability. Your people in Caraduk love you. The Conquord would love you too.'
'It will never happen. Roberto will follow you and if I am still alive, I will swear my oath to him too.'
Herine smiled. 'I wish my son were here.'
Vasselis stood up, biting his tongue from agreeing with her. He walked away a few paces. Tuline followed him.
'God-embrace-me, but I am glad she has you,' said Vasselis. 'You have the Del Aglios strength within you and I didn't always feel that way.'
Tuline was beautiful in her mother's image. Pearl-white toga, hair gathered and pinned on her head, decorated with threads of gold and revealing her delicate swan neck. Her eyes sparkled with passion. Even now at the edge of the precipice, she chose to maintain the aura of authority and that was no easy act. Inside, she must be crushed.
'You must help her,' said Tuline 'I don't like the way she speaks sometimes. Just now even. It's like someone else is inhabiting her body.'
Vasselis glanced at Herine. She was gazing out over the edge of the balcony, her chin just above the ledge. She wouldn't be able to see much. Probably just as well.
'What would you have me do?' he asked and gestured out beyond the walls. 'Look at this. This is where power lies if they choose to use it.'
Tuline looked. Two legions of the Armour of God were surrounding the palace. Th
ey could see infantry and cavalry on the apron. Artillery stood further down the processional road. Archers were gathered behind the front lines. It was in every way, allowing for the constrictions of space, a classic deployment. Horst Vennegoor knew his battles well. He had fought in many and lost none with the Conquord legions.
'They should be out there defending the Conquord from its enemies,' said Tuline.
Vasselis sighed. Something else he'd been doing a great deal of lately. 'Tuline, that is precisely what they believe they are doing.'
The Ocetarus made good headway with a strong wind at their stern. On the deck, Kashilli was taking the Ocenii squad through their paces with a curious array of weapons. Gone were gladius and short sword or long knife. Gone were bucklers and round shields. In their place, sledgehammers, blacksmith's hammers, wood axes and two executioner's blades from the Ocetarus palace museum.
When the dead had eventually fallen, Iliev had ordered them all burned in the gardens. The huge pyre had thrown a choking black cloud of ash into the air, smudging the sky and visible for hundreds of miles in every direction. It gave credence to the quarantine flags flying from every post and he hoped it sent a signal to enemies that they were far from finished. One day, he would be back to declare the Isle clear. One day, when all the dead were gracing the bottom of the ocean.
Iliev had joined with three other triremes patrolling the northern tip of the Isle, and the Lances of Ocetarus. Flags and birds brought news of Tsardon sails along hundreds of miles of Gesternan coastline. Refugees were sailing in large numbers from Byscar still and each boat had to be checked and cleared for passage to the east coast of Estorea or further south to Caraduk.
The net was tight but it was stretched. Iliev was aware that a single large fleet might pierce the defence but he was also confident that his signalling would give him enough warning. Standing orders and positions around key harbours on the western edge of the Tirronean Sea were well known. He was in the hands of his Trierarchs and captains now.
The Ocetanas led the quartet of boats, all of which had the spiked corsairs of the Ocenii squadron slung at their sterns, in pursuit of three trireme sails. They were closing fast. The skippers of the target vessels were making poor use of the wind and he could see the dip and raise of oars fighting the sail. They looked like ships under the control of the incompetent. And as far as Iliev was concerned, that made them enemies. Dead enemies.
They were a mile ahead. Decision time. The flagship had the pipe and bellows fitted to her stern to disgorge naphtha onto enemy vessels. But their supply was limited. Iliev didn't want to waste it on scattered enemies with the spectre of a fleet of the dead still looming large in his mind. On the other hand, an experiment to investigate the reaction of the dead to fire on board might prove invaluable.
Iliev looked down the deck. Kashilli roared with laughter. He had a sledgehammer in his hands and battered it into the barricade they'd built from old timbers and two empty barrels. The hammer went straight through. Kashilli grunted his satisfaction.
'Bring me some dead, skipper,' he called, seeing Iliev watching.
Decision made. Iliev turned to the flagship's captain.
'Signal the patrol. Ocenii to the water. Triremes to stand off. And let's keep our bellows ready, eh? Just in case.'
'Yes, Admiral.'
'Kashilli! Squad seven to the stern. Gentle swell, marines to the tiller. Spike up.'
'Seven!' bellowed Kashilli, his voice carrying to the birds flying high overhead. 'You heard the skipper. Move.'
Ocenii squad seven hefted weapons and ran to the stern. Sailors on the corsair's fastenings released ropes and braced against tackle gearing.
'Straight on,' said Iliev. 'Starting positions, don't dip the spike.'
Iliev watched them swarm down the ladder and onto the corsair that rocked gently between its ropes. Iliev turned to the sailors taking the strain on deck.
'Easy descent on my order.'
'Yes, Admiral.'
Iliev nodded at the captain and went last down the ladder, taking
his place with the marines in the stern, his hands already on the tiller. 'Lower away.'
The spiked corsair slid smoothly towards the water. The arm of the ship's tiller swept away to Iliev's right, the captain already turning to give them escape away to starboard the moment they hit the water. All oars were at the vertical, ready for deployment. Tried and tested, they could do this at fifteen knots, under full oar speed.
The boat hit the water. The bow line was loosened. Hands gripped the stern hooks of the trireme. The corsair's bow swung out. The stern line was loosened.
'Ready starboard oars. Let's get out of the wake.'
Hands pulled the corsair out from the stern of the trireme.
'Starboard oars. Down, and dip, single stroke. Let go the ship.'
The corsair swung away from the hull, past the tiller and out into open water. Iliev held the tiller in.
'All oars dip. Moving to thirty stroke easy. Let's get to work.'
The crew of the flagship cheered them on as they powered past it and away after the dead ships. Iliev had time to rest on two thoughts as they closed the gap hard and fast, his crew fresh and pulling hard. First, that three dead ships alone was a curious thing to find, given what they thought they knew about how the dead were held together and the strength of the mass. And second, that live Ocenii action had become a rare beast.
'Forty stroke if you can fancy it. Been a long time, eh, seven?'
'We hear you, skipper.'
Kashilli led the marines down the centre of the corsair, setting the spike lower in the water, balancing the hull and facilitating raw speed. The huge soldier roared on the oarsmen. Taunting their laxity, sneering at their pace.
'Too much rest and the flab flaps under your arms, you bastards. Look at you. I could do better on my own. Come on, give me your oars.'
They responded, the strokeman driving them towards the forty stroke.
'First one on deck gets a free crack at Kashilli, the man with technique so poor he can sink a single scull on a mill pond.'
A cheer went up. Kashilli's laughter carried across the open water. Iliev aimed the corsair at the frontmost vessel.
'Minimum fuss on contact,' he said. 'Secure the hatches. Remove the deckhands. Flame and smoke. Meanwhile, enjoy the fight, seven. We're back in the water.'
Another cheer. The corsair hummed over the water, chopping through the slight swell. The oars dipped, pulled, rose and returned. Ahead, the dead ships were making no more than five knots. Sails spilled wind, oars clashed and interfered. It was a pathetic display. Maybe the dead could still fight. Iliev was happy that at least they couldn't claim to be mariners. The corsair was making in excess of twenty knots now and was still increasing speed.
'Hear that, skipper?'
'Hear what, Kash?'
'Exactly. No pace drum. No wonder, skipper.'.
Iliev shook his head. Seven's corsair drew alongside and past the hindmost enemy trireme. Iliev and the marines scanned the deck. Underhanded. Tiller and a sprinkling of deckhands. And none of them looked at the Ocenii powering past them. Every oar was in the water. An unknown number of dead would be gathered below decks, waiting for landfall.
Iliev turned and signalled the corsair of squad three, indicating they attack this vessel. Beyond the second, similarly crewed trireme, he signalled in squads nine and eleven.
'Our turn next, seven. Concentrate. Oars, we are fifty strokes out and closing. Stern impact. You know the drill. I'll count us in. Ready Kashilli?'
‘I was born ready, skipper.'
'Born stupid,' said an oarsman.
'Hey, who stands up and who breaks their back driving this tub?' asked Kashilli. 'Me, stupid?'
The six marines punched the air.
'Steady and quiet now,' said Iliev. 'Here we go.'
The corsair hummed on. Iliev steered away and round, bringing the ramming spike to bear on the stern quarter, just aft of the last oar po
sition.
'Final approach,' said Iliev. 'Counting from ten. Tapers alight. Marines to the ropes. Ladders free. Five and down. Crouch, marines. Brace, brace. Two, one.'
Iliev dropped to his haunches and gripped the guide ropes. Oars came out of the water. The corsair slammed into the hull of the enemy trireme. Kashilli was up an instant later, using the momentum. A ladder slapped against the hull. Hammer in one hand, he raced up and jumped onto the deck. Iliev heard him challenging the dead to bring him down if they could.
'Go. Let's get up there. I want this turned round before they even know they are hit.'
Marines and oarsmen stormed up the ladder. A second ladder struck the enemy hull. Four oarsmen would remain. Keeping dead from the gaping hole the spike had bored in the hull, keeping the corsair balanced and water flowing into the enemy ship. Iliev, last up the ladder as always, took hand axe and blacksmith's hammer from his belt.
Across the far side of the ship, Kashilli smashed his hammer into the face of a dead sailor. The man was hurled backwards and down. Kashilli cycled the hammer, a twig in his hands, took two paces and crushed the man's hips and spine. Blood spouted up. Deck timbers groaned beneath the blow.
Teams were running fore and aft, clearing paths to the hatches. Iliev ran forward, overtaking the fire and nail team, joining the weaponsmen. A Gesternan sailor came at him, clothes just so many rags but his insignia still on his chest, in his hands a boathook. His face was a mass of small scars like scratches. Puncture wounds covered his hands and neck.
Iliev watched him pull back the hook to swing. He darted in and slapped his hammer into the man's temple. The dead sprawled forwards. Iliev jumped and landed knees first in the man's back, hearing ribs break beneath his weight. Iliev chopped his axe down at the man's legs and lower spine. Three quick blows and his legs stopped moving.
A Shout for the Dead Page 56
