A Shout for the Dead (15 page)

'Isn't that just personal pride?'

'Probably,' said Jhered. He tapped his chest above his heart. 'But in here, I feel a pang whenever I think about it. I haven't given it my best and that sits badly.'

'But if this man is already dead
...'

'It doesn't matter. Like you said, pride. But what if they are still alive out there and wanting rescue? I don't make promises lightly.' Mirron understood. He could see it in her eyes. 'Why did you ask, Mirron? Really?'

'Because I worry about you,' she said. 'It's the law of averages. How many more times can you put yourself in harm's way before you fall?'

Jhered laughed. 'I'm the Exchequer of the Gatherers, Mirron, not your father.'

'But I wish you were.'

Jhered stared at his shoes while the wind rattled the mast lines and snapped the sail canvas.

'So do I,' he said and put a hand to her cheek.
‘I
couldn't ask for better.'

The new Marshal Defender of Atreska, Megan Hanev, had endured the worst fifty days of her life and from the look on General Davarov's face, the situation was not about to improve. An endless procession of misery, that's what her tour of Atreska had been. Unadulterated desperation and poverty. She had seen the ruin of lives, the ruin of her country.

She barely recognised it. Only Haroq City had remained largely intact. Outside of the capital, farmland was weed-grown when it should be prepared for seed or showing the first of the spring crops; the roads were similarly overgrown, imperial highways cracked and ill-maintained, local roads gone to ruin, no more than mud and wagon ruts; and in the towns and cities, basilicas were rubble, forums defaced and broken up for their stone. Houses of Masks were burned and defiled.

Everything the Conquord had built in Atreska had been systematically destroyed or plundered. It would take another decade to put it to rights. Megan seriously wondered if there was the will to do so. Refugees travelled north, south and west to try and find better lives in other Conquord territories now the borders were open again. Many had even chosen Tsard to the east. She didn't blame them.

But they blamed her. Or rather the Conquord for abandoning them while the Tsardon occupation force, for such it had been despite Yuran's protestations, raped the country. What depressed Megan the most was the manner in which those who remained had returned to a bare subsistence way of life. It was out of necessity of course but it had made them insular and aggressive, prepared to fight their own to keep what they understood to be theirs.

And now, like the turning of a great wheel, the Conquord was back, attempting to impose order and reinstitute the systems that had begun to make Atreska work before the war. She could see the resentment in the eyes of her citizens and didn't really know how to placate them.

Megan had sat at more meetings than she had had hours' sleep and listened to pleas for assistance and succour. Yet when she suggested that the Conquord forces and administrators moving thtough the country would provide just that, she was often shouted down. They couldn't explain what they really wanted. Megan knew, just as she knew they could never have it. Ten years of misrule really should have demonstrated how independence, or what they thought of as independence, was not the way forward.

And now here she was at a principal border crossing into Tsard and about to hear something else she didn't want to. The Advocate had been bleak in her assessment of Megan's task. And accurate, as it turned out. She had a penchant for exaggeration, did Herine Del Aglios, but when it came to affairs of state, she was always, always right on the mark.

'General Davarov,' she said, walking the short distance from her carriage to the barrel-chested Atreskan hero.

He was one of the key figures in the victory at Neratharn that had finally broken the Tsardon advance. A man who would live on in history when his cycle was complete and he returned to the earth. A man of whom statues and busts were already made and standing in the corridors of Conquord power. She felt in awe of him and he knew it. He stood proud before the border fortress gate under the flag of the Conquord, the rearing white horse over crossed spears. His armour shone in the sunlight and his dark blue, green-trimmed cloak blew gently in the wind.

'My Marshal,' he said, slapping his right arm into his chest. 'I trust your journey was at least reasonable under the circumstances.'

'None of the last fifty days has been reasonable, General,' said Megan. 'But it's good to see a friendly face in welcome. I've been rather used to scowls and frowns of late.'

Davarov chuckled briefly, a sound that bounced from the stone of the fort.

'Friendly faces often bring the worst of news. I am sorry to report this is the case today. Come with me, if you will.'

Megan nodded and Davarov marched inside. The fort was small, one of many in varying poor states of repair spread along the exposed Atreskan border north and south of a mountain range which provided a natural barrier. It was a basic circular construction with its inners divided between barracks, administration and rough armoury facilities. Cellars had been dug for storage. Weeds sprouted from cracks in the walls inside and out. The general took her up a spiral stair to the roof. It was concrete and supported by heavy timbers. Solid enough but cracked and poorly maintained.

There were battlements up here, archer positions and small artillery pieces. But these forts were all largely watch emplacements, not designed to hold off a major invasion as much as to provide staging for attacks into Tsard. To that end, the building was reduced to a folly.

'We've got almost eight hundred miles of border,' said Davarov in answer to her question. 'When the Conquord first came, one fort was built every ten miles or so along the stretches most at risk of invasion. I've travelled the border personally and this piece of dressed-up rubble is among the best we have left. Most of the others, and there were over seventy of them, have been taken apart, stone by stone. We're rebuilding but we won't be quick enough.' 'Quick enough for what?'

'Ah,' said Davarov. 'That's what I want to show you.'

Davarov led the way across the roof to the eastern wall. In the bright sunlight of a clear genas day, the view was glorious. Tsard was a country of staggering contrasts. Megan could see distant mountains, rolling plains and forest. Nearer at hand, the old highway ran off towards a line of crags behind which smoke blotted the purity of the sky. Quite a lot of smoke. Her heart fell. This sort of thing she had seen before.

'What is that?' she asked, expecting exactly the answer she received.

'That is a Tsardon army. It isn't huge. Twelve thousand, cavalry and infantry. Light on artillery which is a little odd but I presume they want to be able to move fairly quickly. They're about six miles from the border. Arrived here three days ago. I knew you were heading this way so I thought you might like to see for yourself.'

'You sound like you're describing a travelling fair,' said Megan. Her heart was thumping.

'No sense in being over-dramatic,' said Davarov.

'Over-dramatic?
There's an invasion force on our doorstep. How much more dramatic can we get?'

Davarov looked about him. His guards were all staring out at Tsard, ignoring their Marshal's outburst. He smiled a little indulgently. How old must he be? Mid-forties, certainly. And world-wise.

'If there's one thing Roberto Del Aglios taught me it is that the only time to get really excited is when the sword actually enters your flesh. Until then, the only option is restraint in one form or another. If I panic, every citizen under my command does the same. So do their families, the local tradesmen, bloody hell even the dogs and cats. You get my meaning.'

Megan nodded, finding his calm suddenly very reassuring. 'Do you still hear from Roberto?'

'Probably not as much news as you do, being a Marshal Defender these days.' Davarov's eyes twinkled. 'Still chasing the chalice of a Sirranean alliance last time I heard. I hope he succeeds. We could do with allies like them just about now.'

Megan looked back to the smoking fires of the Tsardon camp. 'But you don't think there's imminent danger of a sword entering your flesh, though?'

Another chuckle. 'From the last recruit I bawled out for having a smudge on his helmet, yes, every day. From the Tsardon, well, no, but then again if they decided to march, I'd only have two hours to reflect on the poor quality of my judgement.'

'But that's why you're here, though, isn't it? And that's why you brought all this lot with you?'

Megan indicated back over her shoulder. Behind her, Davarov's legions were encamped. Around nine thousand in all and representing much of the force that should be policing Atreska in the service of the Gatherers. Davarov had the good grace to look embarrassed.

'I wanted to get messages to you but your itinerary wasn't being communicated to me too well. I've riders all over Atreska trying to track you down.'

'So, General, what is your judgement?'

'They're waiting.'

'What for?'

'That I do not know. If they'd marched straight in they'd be close to Haroq by now so it's a bizarre decision. But their camp has permanency about it.'

'You're sure they mean to invade?' Megan hadn't wanted to ask. The question sounded stupid in her ears.

'We're the only enemy within four hundred miles so I'd have to say, yes. But this could be just a show of strength and a demonstration of future intent.'

'But you don't think so.'

'No. Even with my legions here, we are outnumbered and I don't have anyone else to call on. What I don't understand is that there are not enough out there to make inroads all the way to Neratharn. I know there's trouble down south on the Karku border so this could be a two-pronged attack. The fact is, if they know they can push us back, they can walk in whenever they feel like it. Whenever they get the word or whatever it is they're waiting for.'

'More troops?'

'I know it seems the obvious thing but our scouts don't see anything coming.'

'So what are you going to do?' Megan was a little confused. 'These soldiers are expensive to keep sitting here if they aren't going to invade.

We need them inland. There's plenty of trouble at our backs, let alone ahead of us.'

Davarov's expression cooled, the twinkle in his eyes gone. 'They are legion soldiers and cavalry and they are here to fight and defend. That is what they will do. I cannot walk away from here leaving the gate wide open, my Marshal. Are you suggesting I should?'

'No, no,' said Megan. 'But how long will you have to wait here?'

'Well I can go and ask the Tsardon if and when they intend to invade, if you like.' Davarov spread his hands wide. 'I have no choice but to wait and track them and repel them if necessary. I hope it doesn't come to that. In the meantime, I need you to try and find me reinforcements, a steady supply line and approve my messages back to Estorr. In the end, I expect they are just testing our resolve and reaction to an attack. That means we have to appear strong and determined. If not, we can expect them back in greater numbers.'

Megan paused and looked at Davarov. She didn't know the general all that well but she saw in him something she had not seen before.

'You're confused about something. What is it?' she asked.

'You noticed. Looking back at what I've told you today, I'm not surprised. It's inconsistent, I know. The point is that this is behaviour unlike any invading army I have ever seen or read about. This isn't a sport, it's about winning with minimal casualties. It's like they want us to gather our forces to make it a fair fight and that is plainly ridiculous. That is why I'm confused. Half of me wonders what would happen if I
did
turn round and march away ten miles. Would they still attack? Or would they just sit there? It doesn't make sense. Why, as-God-warms-the-earth, when they marched all this way did they pitch camp and wait?'

'Whatever you decide to do, I will support your decision,' said Megan.

'Whatever I decide to do, no Tsardon is setting foot in my country. That I promise.'

Chapter Twelve

859th cycle of God, 18th day of
Genasrise

Mirron felt ill. It wasn't sea sickness. It had been coming on for days. Growing in intensity, an indefinable sense of ill-being was surrounding her. She kept it to herself at first, attempting to dismiss it as anxiety over her son. Quite understandable and only natural. But it wasn't that. As soon as the river journey to Ceskas began, she knew.

Everywhere, the glory of God shone through. Early genastro was so wonderful. Growth and new life filled the senses and warmed the core of her body and mind. The earth awoke and heralded the beginning of a new cycle blessed by God. It was a time when Mirron had no desire to temper the clamour that rushed through her every moment of every day. But this cycle, the taste was sour.