A Shout for the Dead (72 page)

They'll be able to join with the first force in a day should they wish.'

'The only good news is that unless they abandon the Tsardon living, they'll have to slow down.'

'Thank the Omniscient for the Tsardon, right?' said Cartoganev, eyes sparkling.

Davarov chuckled.

'They're the best ally we have until we reach the border.' He turned to his legates. 'Refugees and food?'

There was a shuffling of parchments and the lead spoke up.

'Our attempts to record the name and origin of every man, woman and child who has joined the main exodus is ongoing. We have recorded thirty-five thousand names and more join every day. We suspect there are upwards of forty-five thousand displaced people marching with us. We have managed to persuade some to turn back but most are simply too scared. Why would they march where the army does not?'

'But the great plains are vast and we know the dead have not deviated,' said Davarov. 'We can't feed or water this many, can we?'

The legate shook his head. Davarov felt for him. He'd enlisted a small army of acting administrators to help him but still he barely slept. He had sprouted grey hairs and he was only thirty-seven.

'We haven't a hope of doing so. We've looked at operating feeding stations but we cannot buy or requisition enough supplies to make the slightest dent. People are having to fend for themselves.'

'How?'

The legate shook his head again.
‘I
don't know. All we can do is advise them not to travel with us when we take their names. We tell them we have no food, water or medical supplies. We are saying that the central plains are the safest place with the enemy moving towards Neratharn. We are not getting that message through. And we have another problem. Disease.'

Davarov sighed. It had just been a matter of time.

'The last thing we want is people dropping dead of hunger, thirst or disease and then rising again.' He kneaded his temples, feeling the pressure going. 'Any thoughts?'

'One,' said Cartoganev. 'From everything we've seen so far, the dead awakened are almost exclusively soldiers. We've seen no real evidence that ordinary citizens are being targeted in significant numbers. Even so, disease could spread to the army. How about delaying tactics?'

'I don't think so. The artillery is too far away now. Turning it would be a waste. I still say that we must range everything we have at them on the walls of the Jewelled Barrier. If they come through that, then we have our field tactics to try. By that time, I'll be happy to try anything.'

Davarov smiled but didn't feel an
y warmth from it. He knew what
he should do but it was as unpalatable
as trying to reduce the dead to
ashes to stop them. He needed M
egan Hanev with him but the new
Marshal Defender would almost certai
nly not return to Atreska until
this trouble was done. That left
him as the most senior Conquord
loyal confirmed alive.

'Praetor Juliov, anything to add?'

The praetor was pale. She was a timid woman and the very rumour of marching dead had terrified her. The arrival of Davarov and tens of thousands of refugees had merely confirmed her fears and she had let her town slip away from her.

'Every ship is gone,' she said. 'Stolen or hired for murderous rates. No one brings in fish. Food stocks are very low. Many have fled west. I cannot help you.'

Davarov cleared his throat. 'I see. But try this. Talk to your people. Make them see because it is the truth. The fight is moving west. The dead do not cover much of our great country and they can be skirted easily. If your citizens run, then make it be east into the plains. Go yourself. I promise you it is the best place for you.'

Juliov nodded. 'I'll try.'

'It's all I ever ask.'

'So, General, orders?' Cartoganev gathered his papers
. Davarov sighed. 'Who would be
me?' 'Ah, but who would you otherwise be?'

'Good point. Roberto Del Aglios, I think. Then I'd be wearing a toga and standing in a Sirranean tree-house or whatever they are, talking wood and treaties.'

'But you're not.'

'No, I'm not. So this is what we must do. The army must make all speed to Neratharn now. I want at least four days to prepare. We will force-march. The refugees must be broken up if we can make it happen. This is where you come in Cartoganev. Cavalry can't operate on the battlefields to come. You need to keep up your information gathering but I want you to find volunteer units
...
a hundred strong at best, to offer to take refugees away into the plains. The legates can help you carve up the followers as best we can. Any that choose to stay must know they are not going to be protected any more. We cannot wait for them.

'We aren't going to be able to support them anywhere else. They'll go if they're made to feel protected. What do you say?'

Cartoganev shrugged. 'Orders are orders.'

Davarov nodded. 'That they are.'

But even as the meeting broke up, Davarov wondered whether his abandonment of his people was really the way to save them, or an act of self-preservation. One thing was sure, he wasn't going to sleep well that night.

Chapter Fifty

859th cycle of God, 53rd day of Genasrise

The winds and the tides had been kind to Prime Sea Lord, Admiral Karl Iliev. His oarsmen had worked hard when the breeze had slackened at all and he had made an average nine knots on the journey south to Kester Isle. He was so much happier on the sea. Too long in port made him nauseous. Out here, the mind was free to think in a way that was impossible in a stuffy office on the Hill. But he still couldn't get the cries of young Harkov from his mind. He heard them on the breeze, the mouths of gulls and in the creak of timbers.

The
Ocetarus,
flagship of the fleet, was in supreme working order. A marker against which every other vessel in the Ocetanas needed to feel measured. He had received confirmation of the orders he had sent out on leaving Estorr harbour and that meant his flag- and bird-lines were working at acceptable efficiency. He had seen no unidentified vessels and was encouraged that the patrol pattern of the fleet in the eastern sea was apparently very tight. No ship carrying the dead would pass the Ocetanas while he remained on deck.

Iliev stood in the prow as he always did on approaching the Isle. The Lances of Ocetarus had slid by to the north, great spears of rock reaching high into the sky, magnificent natural monuments to the glory of the god of the sea. The one true god. Ahead of him, the bleak rock walls of the Isle rose from the morning mists and sea spray. Waves were beating hard against its base.

Through his magnifier, Iliev could see the dual flags of Conquord and navy flying from every watch tower. Welcoming him home. Home. The palace and city of the Isle. The miles of rock-hewn corridor. The bleak beauty and the peace. The battering of the elements that were like the kiss of life itself. And from where he would order the salvation of the Conquord before heading out to sea once more, this time as Squadron Leader of the Ocenii.

By midday and with the Isle towering above him, casting its shadow across the ocean, his joy at first sight had disappeared, replaced by nagging anxiety. No bells had sounded to mark his approach. The flag of the sea lords had not been unfurled to hang from the sea gates, heralding his presence. It meant no one was on the forward towers. No one was standing in the artillery shelters north and looking out to sea. And no one had been through the western sea gates in four hours.

That could not be right. Harkov's words resounded in his head. He gripped the prow rail hard, pushing back a shiver. No one could take Kester Isle. No invasion force no matter how large could hope to fly its flags on her towers. It was impossible. Unless, of course, the gates were opened because the harbour masters thought they were admitting friends. Iliev strode to the stern to stand by the tiller man.

'Lower sail. Oars to ready. Steady fifteen stroke. Oar master, when you are ready. Execute.'

'Yes, my Lord.'

'Tiller, nudge us out a way. Let's come at the sea gate head on.'

The tiller man nodded and moved the tiller away from him. The ship began to turn. Riggers swarmed across the deck. The sail descended and was tied against the mast. A grim silence fell across the ship. Eyes roved over the mass of rock dominating their horizon. Nothing moved. Not even a bird could be seen flitting about the eddies. The sound of sea on rock and beneath the hull rang loud.

Iliev turned his body to watch the northern tip of the Isle go by, revealing to them the first western sea gate and harbour. Inside the wall, the masts of ships could be seen, bobbing in the swell. Glancing upwards, he could feel the quiet. This close, two hundred yards from the Isle, they should be able to hear shouts from inside, the sound of work in the dry docks and there should have been traffic in and out of the gates.

Iliev glanced back at the tiller man. He was looking nervous. He licked dry lips.

'Keep a steady hand,' said Iliev. 'Turn in. Gently now.'

The sea gate was standing open when they breasted the edge of the harbour wall. Four spiked corsairs were tied up along the north wall. Two biremes were with them. He could see no one on board. Inside the dock, deep in the bedrock of the Isle, all was night. No lights could be seen pushing back the darkness.

The
Ocetarus
came about and moved towards the harbour. Iliev stayed by the tiller. Riggers and Ocenii squad marines moved to the prow.

'Tell me what you see,' called Iliev. 'Oars slowing, ten stroke.' 'What has happened, my Lord?' asked the tiller man. 'Prepare yourself, son,' said Iliev. 'Nothing good can explain this silence.'

Down on the deck, lanterns were being lit. The ship moved slowly past the harbour walls and into the relative calm within. The dark gates loomed above them. Set into the rock walls, the double iron gates pointed out to sea. Great works of Conquord engineering designed to withstand the fiercest bombardment. But they weren't fully open.

'There's a sail up inside,' shouted one of the marines at the prow. 'Trireme. Identification not possible, sir.' 'A sail up? Are you sure?' 'Yes, my Lord. No doubt.' Iliev pondered a moment. 'Take us in,' he said. 'My Lord?'

it's all right, son. Set us at our regular berth. Prow first. And listen for my orders.' 'Yes, my Lord.'

Iliev set off along the length of the ship. 'Ocenii, to the prow. Armed and ready. All of you, keep your eyes open. Assume anything that moves is an enemy. Where's my aide and where are my knives?'

'Coming, my Lord.'

A man detached himself from the group at the prow and hurried down the fore steps and out of sight. Iliev joined Ocenii marines as the ship moved under the rock wall and through the gates. Squad seven. His squad. Their corsair was suspended under the stern between tiller and timbers. All triremes sailed with a squad now. All had been adapted to carry the fast assault craft. How glad he was that he had his men with him.

'Trierarch Kashilli.'

'Yes, skipper.'

The huge Ocenii marine turned to him. Dark-skinned and tattooed, he loomed over them all. His hair was jet black and he kept it tied and braided at the nape of his neck. A single ring was through his left nostril. Iliev didn't approve of jewellery but Kashilli was a proven marine and he didn't interfere with the personal superstitions of his best killers.

'Disembark and hold passage four south. Check the lift status.'

'Yes, skipper,' he said. His large brown eyes studied Iliev. 'You think the dead are here, don't you?'

'What else is there to think? Just remember what I told you about Jhered's encounters. If a man does not respond. If he is dull of face, appears injured or diseased, then he is our enemy. Move to disable. Legs, heads and arms. Tell the squad.'

'Done, skipper.'

'And pass this word also. If the Isle is taken, we must raise the quarantine flags. If I fall, take it on. Someone has to make it to all the towers across the Isle.'

Kashilli turned back and began barking instructions to the squad while weapons were checked and strapped on. Thirty-six men ready to retake their home for the whole of the Ocetanas. Iliev's aide reappeared with his light leather breastplate, dual short swords and knife belt.

'Is there naphtha aboard?' Iliev asked.

'Only in the bellows and pipes, my lord. Nothing hand held.' 'We'll bring as much back as we can. Kashilli, you hear that?' 'Aye, skipper. It's in the dry stores first level above the docks. We'll liberate it.'

'Good.' Iliev raised his voice. 'Crew of the
Ocetarus.
Be ready to leave fast on my order or the order of any Ocenii, should I fall. Ready the bellows, keep the pipes trained on the dockside. Let no one on board you suspect is no longer your friend. Ocenii, to me.'