A Shout for the Dead (81 page)

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 position.

'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.

Iliev rolled away. His men were at the aft hatch. A taper was at the fuse of a flask of naphtha. The hatch was hauled away. Down went the flask. There was a whoosh as the flask shattered and spread flame across the oar deck. Animal squealing filled the air.

'Rats!' shouted a nailsman.

'Shit,' said Iliev, breaking into a run back towards the corsair. 'Nail them down. Get off, get off. Plague ship. Move!' He ran to the rail. The oarsmen sat ready.

'Push away. Plague ship. Stand off five yards, we'll come to you.' Iliev turned. Kashilli struck down at the deck. A rat was smeared beneath his hammer.

'Off,' he yelled. 'Now. Off the ship. Corsair to starboard. Drop weapons you can't swim with. Go. Kash, go.'

Ocenii squad seven ran for the rails and hurled themselves over the side. Multiple splashes greeted his ears. Iliev checked them all over the side. A few rats had made it to the deck. Most were perishing in the fires below but by no means all. From the oar holes they spilled, desperate to escape the flames. And he heard the keening wails of men. Dead men. A desperate sound dredging at his heart.

'May Ocetarus take you to his breast. Rest now.'

Iliev ran to the stern and dived over the side. The water was freezing. The sun took a long time to warm the waters in the deeps. Iliev swam away ten strokes before turning and tucking his weapons back into his belt, treading water as he watched. Squad seven all swam back, clearing the stern of the ship and to escape the rats.

He could see the corsair curve away from the burning trireme and head back in to pick up the squad. Only two were on the oars. The other two stood with bows, shooting into the water. Behind, the other two enemy triremes were well ablaze. But on the deck of one, an Ocenii squad had been caught by the rats. Iliev could see them carving and stamping. And all he could do was pray no one was bitten. He cursed himself for a fool that he had missed the possibility.

Three ships alone, heading directly for Estorr harbour. Never an invasion force. The conclusion should have been obvious.

Iliev heard voices behind him. He turned in the water. The
Ocetarus
was nearing. He had been seen. A scrambling net was dropped down the side. Oars were positioned for use as hand- and footholds. Iliev swam to his ship and hurried up on to deck, waving away the towel he was offered.

He ran to the bow. Mission accomplished but at what cost? The three plague ships would never make port but every squad man would have to be minutely examined. Any scratch, any bite and they would be quarantined. Any confirmed plague and their fate was sealed. No sailor would infect his mates. A weighted belt was the quickest way to the bosom of Ocetarus, glory in the deeps.

'Admiral?'

'Yes Captain.'

The captain joined him at the bow, looking over the spike at the corsairs picking up marines from the water. Iliev saw Kashilli surge aboard, hearing him whoop his pleasure at the fight. The hammer was still in his hand.

'You'll need to see this but you won't like it.'

Iliev turned and took the magnifier from his captain's hand. 'Step away, Captain. I haven't been checked for bites yet. Where am I looking?'

'South south east. On the water.'

Iliev put the magnifier to his eye and looked. His search was brief. 'Oh dear Ocetarus save us and keep us.'

The sea was thick with sails. Hundreds of them. He lowered the magnifier.

'Flag the fleet. Relate position, speed and direction. Every ship is to come off station. Ignore every other vessel. The dead are sailing for Estorr.'

Chapter Fifty-Six

859th cycle of God, 5th day of
Genasfall

There were many reasons why General Davarov might have shivered when he saw the border fortifications on the Neratharn-Atreska border between the Gaws mountain range and Lake lyre. The grand border walls and fort Atreskans called the Jewelled Barrier. It could have been that the steady stream of refugees he'd travelled past on the way here had resolved itself into a desperate clamouring camp outside the fortifications while those inside tried to process all who wanted passage. And he knew there were many thousands more to come.

It might have been that on his journey here from Tharuby, the reports from his trackers and scouts had made for increasingly depressing reading. The enemy strength had grown steadily. Scattered forces had been caught by the relentless march. The Tsardon had raided far and wide, taking town garrisons, stealing artillery and, latterly, harvesting any able bodied man or woman who had stood before them with sword, hoe or pitch fork.

It might have been that this place represented the last real hope of stopping the growing Tsardon and dead army from sweeping south to Estotr by land. And though it was a mighty structure, it was in reality, a very thin line against an enemy that to his knowledge, no one had yet been able to dent, let alone turn away.

Davarov had been present when much of the barrier was going up. It was twenty-five miles long, starting from the lake edge and finishing high up in the foothills of the Gaws themselves. Fifty feet high and forty feet thick. Able to take artillery at any point. Ramparts and battlements were an archer's dream. Oil runs could cover almost the entire face of the wall in flame.

It was a statement from its roots to the tip of its flagpoles. It was a dazzling white, scrubbed every week. And in its centre, the triple gates reared up inside a single gate fort that contained a killing ground that sent shivers through the backs of Conquord greats when they rode beneath it.

Davarov loved the gate fort. Though technically on Neratharn territory, it was built to Atreskan design. Animal carvings adorned its towers. Atreskan heroes decorated its concrete walls, alcoves and gates. The words across the gate frames were oaths of loyalty to the great country, the jewel of the Conquord. It was the gateway to the old Conquord and a welcome to the new.

Flags flew from its turrets and from two hundred masts set along the walls either side. The engineers had said that no artillery could breach gate or walls. Davarov never truly entertained the prospect that this boast would be put to the test. For what it was worth, he agreed with them.

Yet none of this was why he shivered when he approached. Memories were more powerful for Davarov than any present reality. And his memories would forever be of the forced march across Atreska a decade ago. The darkest time in the Conquord's history when only the strength of Roberto Del Aglios's will kept his army going and persuaded them they could turn the Tsardon back, send them scurrying back to their holes.

Davarov had never thought that he might return here knowing he had to fight. Looking at the rolling plains covered in the desperate mass of frightened people, he could recall so vividly the ruin of the land that had come in the wake of the Tsardon forces. The exhausted Conquord forces had marched the last few hundred yards across frozen ground covered in blood and bodies and the discarded detritus of men. And so he shivered at the prospect and wished the world was other than it was.

Cartoganev had ridden on ahead and had been at the Jewelled Barrier for half a day, assessing the incumbent strength and talking to the senior soldiers about exactly what they faced. The arrival of Davarov and his legions on their staggered march had raised the hopes of those marooned outside and the great main gates were opened to accept them. Cheering saw them through into the vast staging area behind and the gates swung shut on the displaced and the hopeless.

Davarov handed over control of the legions to his masters of sword and horse. He watched the beginning of their march away to their camp grounds and trotted away up one of the long concrete slopes leading to the walls and fort. Cartoganev would be in the administrative buildings on the ground but Davarov wanted to make a quick assessment himself before getting accurate numbers.

Taking salutes from everyone he passed, Davarov walked to the highest point of the barrier, the artillery platform above the gate fort. It was more than half empty. There was space for thirty onagers here. Only ten stood facing into Atreska and four of them were in pieces. Far away to the east, dust covered the horizon. Enemies and refugees moving towards him. Thousand upon thousand. For all those they had managed to turn back to run into the great plains, too many had chosen to take the risk of hanging on to the cloaks of the legions.