Neither she nor any citizen in Gull's Ford wanted any part in it. Whoever held sway in Haroq City was of complete indifference to most of them, people who had not even seen the realities of battle during Atreska's fall to the Conquord five years back. They had welcomed the Reader of the Order of Omniscience easily enough and for his part he had proved a sound counsellor and a fine teacher. Many had converted. Those that didn't found their differences respected.
The calls that had brought her to the forum had an edge of urgency. There were riders, about twenty of them at first count. Tsardon from the Tarit Plain, where the steppe cavalry kept up a strong presence in the face of the Conquord's fortifications along the Atreskan and Goslander borders. They all dismounted at her approach and she smiled as she recognised their leader.
'Sentor Rensaark,' she said in an Atreskan dialect they both spoke fluently. 'It's a long way for a ride on a hot solas day.'
'We are camping not far from here,' said the sentor, a gruff man with cold eyes.
He and all his men were garbed in light wools. Scale armour was bound to their saddles. Swords were strapped to their sides. 'Trading?' she asked.
Rensaark shook his head. 'Speaking,' he said.
'I understood the border to be closed to those not trading,' she said. 'How did you get past?'
'A little money can make men blind,' he said.
'So speak,' she said. 'May I offer you a drink? Or at least shelter from the heat for your men and horses while we talk.'
'Thank you. Very gracious.'
'It is the only way to treat friends,' she said.
'Yes,' said the sentor stiffly.
They moved back into the relative cool of the basilica. Gorsal showed him to her office and had watered wine brought in, along with oranges and rare beef. Rensaark was uncomfortable. He licked his lips often and a frown was stamped on his face as if he was remembering something unpleasant. Gorsal didn't know what to expect but found herself a little nervous as she invited him to say what he had come to say.
'These are difficult times,' said Rensaark. 'We have seen old allies turn against us and the Conquord reach out its fist to swat others. But even in the midst of conquest, Atreska has remained our friend. Marshal Yuran is a great man, keen to maintain his allegiance with our king but his eye is drawn by the promise of Conquord riches.'
'There are many in Atreska who share his view but take more direct action than mere verbal protest,' said Gorsal.
'I know. And we are grateful. For five years we have hoped for rebellion. We have helped where we can but have had to look to our own security and armies. Gosland is like a stranger to us now. Their rulers may as well have been born in togas, sitting on columns, so lost are they to the Conquord. But Atreska, we thought, was not. Now we are not so sure.'
'The civil war still thrives,' said Gorsal. 'We do not want war with Tsard. We've had peace for too long.'
Rensaark nodded. 'But you do not wish to dismiss the Conquord either.'
'Trade is good,' admitted Gorsal.
'The time has come to make a choice.' Rensaark's tone was as cold as his eyes. 'Estorea is building armies along the Gosland and Atreskan borders, the like of which they have never assembled before. Their best generals are in command. Their finest legions lead the muster. Not thirty miles from here, the Bear Claws have slaughtered true Atreskans who got in their way. You cannot have failed to see the smoke on your horizon. In the face of their own faith they are burning the bodies of those who oppose them.
'They are coming to war with Tsard, and Atreska must chose its allegiance and its loyalty. There can be no split. Not any more.'
Gorsal swallowed, feeling prickly with anxiety. 'What do you mean? We deny you nothing. We are your friends and always will be. But Haroq City is where our rulers make their laws. I am a loyal Atreskan. I will abide by them.'
'It is a respectful position and one I understand,' said Rensaark. He rose. 'It is in friendship that I give you this warning, praetor. The moment any Conquord soldier places his foot on our soil, we are at war. And that war will include Atreska. None of you will be safe, despite their promises. All will suffer in this pointless conflict. And I will do what I am ordered.'
'I don't understand,' said Gorsal.
Rensaark was at the door. 'It is not too late. Atreska must rise up against the folly marching across its lands. You must turn from the Conquord. They have not the strength to beat us. Stop them from trying. We cannot talk to Yuran; we cannot gain access to him. You can. You are his subjects and he must hear you. Please, Lena, make him see. Before war makes evil out of us all.'
Gorsal stared at the door for an age after he was gone, trying to calm her heart and the shaking in her hands.
Ardol Kessian sat on a grassy slope with Arducius, the vista of Westfallen laid out below them. It was impossible to feel old on a day like today. Golden corn swaying in a light sea-breeze. The orchards packed with ripe citrus and rich colour. The herds of sheep and cattle grazing contentedly or pigs slumbering in the shade. And the vibrant sounds of children's laughter mingled with the distant wash of waves on the shore, the clank of hammer on steel and nail, the sawing of blade on wood.
The young Ascendant was sitting with Kessian under a parasol which shielded them from the worst of the sun's blanket heat. A pitcher of water was at their feet and a half-eaten plate of fruit lay between them. School was over for the day, but for the Ascendants learning was not.
'What do you feel when you test the sky, Arducius?' asked Kessian.
Arducius was a supreme Wind Harker already and not yet nine. Almost as accurate as Kessian himself, he had shown the aptitude from a very early age. Kessian would always remember the first moments fondly. Arducius had not known how to communicate what he felt in the weather and the climate as it modulated around him. It caused him to react in absurdly practical ways. Walking out in his rain leathers on a hot solas day. That was before he worked out the difference in time between his sensing of a weather front and its arrival. Kessian chuckled.
'What's funny?' asked Arducius.
‘I was just thinking about you strolling the streets, sweating in your leather cape and staring at the sky, wondering why it was blue.'
Arducius laughed too, a peal that made heads rise to see. 'They used to say to me, "rain tomorrow, is it?"'
'And you'd get angry and claim it would be today. At five you could look so furious.'
'And you all laughed at me,' said Arducius.
Kessian ruffled his hair. 'Still, they don't laugh now, do they?'
'No,' agreed Arducius. 'Most of them look at me, at all of us, like they are expecting something.'
'Well, they are. We all are.'
And there it was. Eight years old and brilliant in their individual talents. But of the rest . . . the multiple abilities, the elemental manipulation. Not a sign. The Echelon had studied and dissected every one of the elder Gorian's writings, looking for cracks in his theories. They could find none. But the weight was growing in his mind that they were just theories. No concrete evidence existed anywhere.
The questions were beginning to be asked. Whether these four of the ninth strand of the Ascendancy were really the first. Whether the waiting was set to go on. Every day, Kessian prayed to be allowed to live to see it happen and every day he could feel God tugging him harder towards a return to the earth. He had no belief that the recent births into the potential tenth strand would amount to anything. Others were carrying children now. He would not live to see any of them grow to maturity. He was one hundred and forty now and he felt it with every creak of his bones and every missed beat of his heart.
'Are you all right, Father Kessian?' asked Arducius.
Kessian forced a smile. 'Yes, of course. Now, back to your lesson. What do you feel? Tell me.'
'I feel the wind as if it is passing through my head and body,' said Arducius. 'I can smell a drop of rain that has fallen three hundred miles away, carried here on the breeze. I can feel high into the air to
see when the temperature will fall or rise. I can feel the thickness of cloud and tell you how much rain will fall from it. I can look at the surface of the sea and know a storm is coming.' Arducius shrugged. 'Like always. Just like you.'
There was a note of despondency in Arducius's voice and Kessian couldn't blame him. The weight of expectation was growing on their young shoulders. And it would be nothing when compared to the wave of disappointment that would sweep over them if they did not meet those expectations.
'I'm sorry, Arducius,' said Kessian.
'What for?'
'That this has proved to be your fate.'
Arducius frowned. 'Yes but loads of us in Westfallen have had abilities.'
'But none so well attuned from such an early age. And none on whom have been pinned such hopes.' Kessian sighed. 'It was unfair of us to expect and assume. Though of course, there is still time. Much time.'
Arducius stared at him, his expression revealing his uncertainty before he spoke. 'But we are better than all the others at our age. Even you, right?'
Kessian nodded. 'Oh yes, yes, you are.'
A child will always give you hope and Kessian clung gratefully to this tendril. Down below them, Gorian was sitting with Gwythen Terol, two Herd Masters together. Gorian was learning the biology of a cow in minute detail. As ever, the animal calmed when he approached. And like always with him, and only him, the rest of the herd were gathered like an audience, chewing and staring. The animals knew.
But what did they know and why on God's earth was it that he couldn't make his charges take the next step? It had to be soon. It had to be.
Chapter 5
843rd cycle of God, 35th day of Solasrise
10th year of the true Ascendancy
The pall of smoke was thickening over Gull's Ford. Flames from two dozen fires intensified the heat of the day. A heat haze shimmered across the south of the town and through it more raiders were riding in hard, their figures silhouetted against burning crops.
In the centre of the main street, the garrison commander was trying to organise terrified volunteer militia into some semblance of order. They were hopelessly outnumbered, poorly equipped and barely trained. But still they formed into a four-deep defensive rank with their few pikes bristling to the front. Behind them, a handful of archers stood with hunting bows ready.
Han Jesson shook his head. Pitiful. Almost pointless. He had half a mind to urge them to run and hide, save themselves if they could. But they represented just a little more time for others to spare themselves and his urge for self-preservation overcame his pity.
The north side of the town was lost. Houses were burning all the way down to the river. He could still hear the sounds of fighting but the raiders were cleaning up there, driving farm animals back to the north-east. Now they were turning their attentions to the centre of the settlement. He had two choices. He could either stay hidden in his house and risk it being burned around him or run south with his family, hoping to be ignored until he reached the stables where they kept their cart and horses.
He stepped from the window and looked into the gloom of his house and shop. His heart was thrashing in his chest. He couldn't focus his mind beyond his fears. He didn't know what to do for the best.
In the corner of the shop, his wife comforted their young son. The
attack had come without warning, the raiders bursting from the woods a half mile distant as the sun reached its zenith. The noise of the screaming and panic had chilled his heart and sent his boy into a shivering fit. Poor Hanson was only five. He shouldn't have to face this terror.
He stared into his wife's eyes. Kari was imploring him to do something. Stacked all around him were the trappings of his business. Amphorae, pots, plates, vases, goblets, artworks. All designed, fired and hand-painted on the premises. To abandon it was the ruin of a life's work. To stay was to risk being burned alive.
There was more noise out in the street. He could hear the sound of approaching horses. People were running blindly away towards the south. How could this be? They were over three days from the border with Tsard. He assumed that was where the raiders were coming from. He rubbed his fingers in his eyes and pressed himself against the cracked open shutter to get a view of the end of the street. He'd waited too long. It was too late to run now.
'We'll be all right here,' he said. 'We'll be fine. Just stay back there and keep your heads down.'
'Han, what is happening?' Kari's voice was pleading.
'The militia can't stop them. People are running. We'll be safe here, I promise.'
His words sounded hollow in his head. He felt a dry, bitter feeling in the pit of his stomach and his eyes kept on misting over with tears.
The raiders attacked the fragile line of pikes. He saw them wheel broadside on. There had to be over fifty of them. Arrows thudded into the defending line. Men fell. Some writhed and screamed. A few arrows answered. Maybe two horsemen were hit on the move. The enemy horse archers turned again and fired another volley. This time, the pike line broke at its left-hand edge. Other riders drove into the fracture, swords carving downwards. Blood misted into the air. The defending archers turned and ran.
The sound of hoofs on the cobbles rang out loud against the buildings either side of the street. Jesson ducked away as the first of the riders clattered past. Right in front of his house, a man he knew was cut down, body thudding into the wall. Blood sprayed onto the cobbles and sightless eyes bored into his.
He staggered back, a hand across his mouth. Nausea swept through him. He gagged, breathing in huge gasps.
'Oh dear God the Omniscient, preserve us your servants,' he muttered. 'We throw ourselves on your mercy.'
'He has turned away from us,' hissed Kari. 'Don't waste your time talking to God. Bend your mind to saving your family.'
Jesson felt the shame cascade through him. He moved towards them, mind starting to clear. Outside, the sound of horses was diminished for the moment though he could still hear running feet, shouts of fear and alarm and the shattering of thin timber further up the street to the north.
'We're in the right place,' he said, crouching in front of them and stroking his son's hair. 'If they pass by, we are safe from prying eyes. If they set a fire, we can escape back or front from here, out through the stock room and studio if we have to. We have our valuables with us. God will watch over us.' This last said staring into Kari's eyes, needing her to believe him.
'So all we can do is wait, is that it?'
'I am no fighter,' said Han. 'This is where we belong.'
There was a heavy thud from the adjoining shop. Through the wall, they could hear foreign voices and a dragging as of wood on stone. And unmistakeably, there was the crackle of flame.
'We will burn in here,' said Kari, desperate. 'Why didn't we run when the first attack came?'
He couldn't face her gaze. He straightened and backed away. 'We have to defend what is ours.'
'What with? You didn't take us out because you were too scared to move. And now we are trapped. Will your God save us from flame and blade?'
The shutters burst inwards, showering wood into the shop. The face of a raider was framed in the light, ringed by smoke and flame from across the street. He nodded in satisfaction, called behind him and hauled himself up and through the opening. Another two raiders beat down the wide front doors. Kari screamed and hugged Hanson to her. Han stepped in front of her. It was all he had left to do.
He raised his hands to fend them off.
'Leave them alone,' he said, voice trembling.
They didn't even pause. Dressed in light armour and riding cloaks they tramped across the short distance. One backhanded him across the side of the head and he fell into another's grip. He felt faint, the stench of sweat and oiled leather in his nostrils. He struggled but he was caught solid. The point of a blade in his side stilled him.
A raider leant down and barked an order into Kari's face. She was still screaming. He shouted the same words again and when
she made no move, dragged the boy from her grasp and into the waiting arms of another.
'It'll be all right,' managed Han. 'Keep calm.' He felt tears on his cheeks. 'Please don't hurt my family,' he said. 'Please.'
The raider only dug the swordpoint in a little harder. His comrade slapped Kari once across the cheek to stop her screaming for her son. He took her face in one gauntleted hand and turned it left and right, grunting appreciatively.
'Let her go,' said Han, struggling anew. 'Take your hands off her, Tsardon bastard.'
The swordpoint broke his skin and edged in just a little way. The pain was extraordinary. Hot blood coursed down his side.
The raider grabbed Kari's dress at the neck, surely meaning to tear it away but instead he stood up, dragging her with him. He pushed her in front of him.
'Han help me!' she began to scream again. 'Help us!'
But Han couldn't move against the sword point. He watched helpless as his son and wife were herded from the shop and out into the street. Abruptly, the sword point was gone from his side. He spun in the raider's grasp, the Tsardon pushing him back. He glared into the trail-hardened face, bunched his fists and charged, yelling for his family.
The raider laughed and the pommel of his sword collided with Han's temple.
It was a full day's ride to Gull's Ford from Haroq City, the capital of Atreska. He had left his team poring over Atreska's books in fine detail before confirming the tax levy for the half-year. He should be with them. Atreska had been a member of the Estorean Conquord for less than six years and remained a difficult province.
The tax reporting system was inefficient and in the remote north and along the Gosland and Tsardon borders, significant resistance remained. The Atreskan collectors were happy to hinder where they could and as a result, Jhered had over five hundred Gatherers setting up and enforcing the admittedly complex system amidst the simmering civil war.
Cry of the Newborn Page 5
