“Actually, I believe I did.” Kyrbysh considered for a moment. “I think we should fall back to the second line, send a runner to General Walkyr to tell him what we’re doing, and ask it he wants to consider shortening our lines still farther. If we get started now, we can probably pull the guns back without too much trouble.”
And, he very carefully did not say out loud, considering the six miles or so between their present position and Walkyr’s office, if we’ve already started the guns moving before our runner gets to Walkyr and he can get a message back to us, it’ll be far too dangerous to turn them back around and risk getting our artillery caught by a sudden heretic rush while we’re trying to re-emplace it.
“I’m thinkin’ that’s a very good point, Colonel Kyrbysh,” Zahmsyn said dryly, an unusual gleam of amusement lighting his eye. “In fact, I’m thinking we’d best get right on that. Immediately.”
“So do I, Colonel Zahmsyn.” Kyrbysh smiled. “So do I.”
* * *
“Too bad they were smart enough to pull back after all, Your Grace.” Brigadier Zhorj Maiksyn grimaced.
“Now, now, Zhorj.” Duke Eastshare’s tone was gently reproving. “You know these people really aren’t Kaitswyrth.” They stood atop what had been the outermost parapet of the Fort Tairys position in the foothills southwest of the fortress. It was just under three miles to the next earthen berm, which said quite a lot about how ambitious Walkyr’s plans had been, and he studied the inner works through his double-glass while they spoke. “And fair’s fair. They never expected to get hit from both sides simultaneously.”
“Well, with all due respect, Your Grace, they damned well should’ve considered it when they laid out this abortion.” Maiksyn shook his head in disgust. “It’s not just too damned big to hold with the troops they’ve got, most of it’s in the wrong damned place, and half—hell, two-thirds!—of the outer works can be dominated by artillery in the hills.”
“True.” Eastshare lowered his double-glass to smile at his senior field commander. “On the other hand, you’ve been thinking about modern artillery for years now; these people’ve never even seen a new model piece. Hard to blame them for thinking in terms of obsolete monsters like the ones in their own positions.”
Maiksyn glowered some more. He’d started as an engineer himself, and he was clearly disinclined to make any concessions where the stupidity of the rebels’ engineers were concerned.
“At any rate,” the duke continued in a grimmer tone, “the outer works don’t matter and never did. But that innermost ring around the fort itself could be a pain. I think they’ll at least try to hold the third line, but that won’t last for long. Then we’ll be up against entrenchments they’ve got almost enough men to man. And once we get past them, we’re up against the original fortifications, because there’s no way around them. Unlike the rest of this—‘abortion,’ you called it, wasn’t it?—the fort’s actually in the right spot to defend what needs to be defended. Worse, whoever designed it knew what he was doing and we’ll be pushing them back into it. If they had any sense, that’s where they’d be already!”
“Can’t, Your Grace,” Maiksyn countered respectfully. Eastshare cocked an eyebrow at him, and the brigadier shrugged. “Caught betwixt and between is what they are. Too many men to squeeze into the original fort; too few to hold the entrenchments outside it. They try to pull everybody back inside, they’ll be like sardines in a jar, and us putting angle-gun shells and mortar rounds right in amongst ’em. Don’t think they’d like that above half.”
Eastshare nodded slowly. Maiksyn might well be right, although he still anticipated a nasty tussle. If there was time, Colonel Raimahn’s Glacierheart miners would undoubtedly prove their worth, but if it took that long, even Harless might get here in time to raise the siege.
“Well, in that case I suppose we’d best get the artillery up. We’ll start by seeing how serious they are about holding the second line. And I think, if we can convince them not to, we might be able to get the four-inchers up on those hills east of the fort.” The duke smiled thinly. “The men who designed that fort didn’t know new model artillery was coming, either. They never imagined that someone might actually be able to get guns up there … or that they’d have the range to reach the walls if somebody did manage it. I think we should see about taking advantage of that, don’t you?”
“Aye, Your Grace. That I do.”
“I think we’ll use the Sixth for security on the guns. One battalion should be more than enough against anything this lot might get up to. We’ll use the Fifth to man the front line, and Lutaylo’s other three battalions will form our reserve.”
“Sounds reasonable,” Maiksyn said. “Might want a company or two of young Tymyns’ cavalry in reserve, too.” He hawked and spat on the ground. “Don’t think much of this Syngyltyn, but I suppose even he might get up to mischief if the crack he’s in is deep enough.”
“So he might,” Eastshare agreed. “All right, I’ll leave all of that in your hands, Zhorj. But please tell Colonel Makyn I’ll be sending Lywys to make contact with General Wyllys and I want a squad of his scout snipers to make sure he gets there safely. It’ll probably be another hour or two before he’s ready to go, but since they’ve pulled back and left us these lovely, mucky hillsides and lizard paths, we might as well make use of them. Which is why I also want Lywys and his keepers to keep an eye out for likely semaphore positions along the way.”
“Aye, Your Grace,” the brigadier repeated, and Eastshare nodded in satisfaction. First Brigade was Makyn’s command, and the duke had never been inclined to snatch the reins out of a perfectly competent subordinate’s hands.
“In that case,” he started down the muddy face of the abandoned earthwork towards his horse, “it’s all yours. I’ll expect a progress report in a few hours.”
“Aye, you’ll have it.”
“I know I will, Zhorj.” Eastshare paused to smile. “It just eases my mind to hear my own voice saying it.”
* * *
“They shouldn’t’ve pulled back so quickly,” Father Naiklos Vahnhain growled. “We shouldn’t’ve given up the outer works without at least some fight—not after spending so much effort building them!”
He and Lairays Walkyr sat in the general’s office as darkness closed down, sharing a pot of something the cooks called tea. They’d run out of hot chocolate months ago, and the last of the real tea had gone the same way shortly before word of the heretics’ impending arrival reached Fort Tairys. The beverage Walkyr’s cook had provided as a substitute was hot, but that was about all anyone could say in its favor. Vahnhain suspected it had been made using either burnt breadcrumbs or ground acorns, and he’d firmly resolved not to ask which.
Walkyr took a long, slow sip of “tea” while he weighed his intendant’s complaint. Part of him agreed with Vahnhain; another part—which he suspected was the smarter part of him—agreed with Kyrbysh and Zahmsyn. Yet Vahnhain had been his spiritual guide and closest adviser from the very first day of the Rising. At the very least, he deserved the careful consideration of his views.
“Under most circumstances, I’d agree with you, Father,” he said finally, setting the cup on its saucer. He cut a sliver of cheese from the only slightly moldy wedge on the corner of his desk, one of the last cheeses of the winter before, and tore a piece of bread from the still-warm loaf beside it.
“But most circumstances would have included being attacked from only one direction at a time,” he continued. “And, to be honest, Kyrbysh was right. If he and Zahmsyn had stayed put and let the heretics throw an assault column at them the result would’ve been a disaster.”
“But they had the earthworks and the abatis.” Vahnhain’s tone was less angry although he clearly wasn’t quite ready to give up. “That would’ve made up for a lot, Lairays!”
“Not enough.” Walkyr took a bite of bread and cheese, chewed slowly and washed it down with another swallow of so-called tea, then shrugged. “The heretics wo
uld have controlled the point at which they attacked, Father, but Kyrbysh and Zahmsyn would’ve been forced to defend the entire wall. That would spread their men so thinly the heretics could easily have attacked at twenty- or thirty-to-one odds just by picking their spots. I’m sure our men would’ve fought hard, but against those odds?” He shook his head. “I won’t pretend I wasn’t pissed off when they took it upon themselves to pull back, but that doesn’t make it the wrong decision. In fact, I’m not planning on putting anything but pickets on the second line, either.”
Vahnhain stared at him, and Walkyr gave him a lopsided smile.
“Father, there’s a reason they put Fort Tairys where they put it. As long as we’re sitting here on the road, nobody’s getting past us. They may be able to send small parties on foot through the foothills—may even be able to get some cavalry through there, whatever Syngyltyn says about ‘impassable’ terrain. But they can’t get transport wagons or artillery across those lizard paths. So when you come down to it, the fort and the earthworks right around it are all that really matters.”
“But— Forgive me, Lairays, but it sounds as if you’ve already decided to stand solely on the defensive. Isn’t that a recipe for ultimate defeat?”
“Trying to launch sorties or fight them in the open would be a recipe for immediate defeat,” Walkyr said, somewhat more firmly—almost harshly—than he normally spoke to the Schuelerite. “They have rifles and these ‘new model’ guns of theirs; our men have matchlocks, arbalests, and pikes. You read the reports of what the Dohlarans did to the Fort Sheldyn garrison, and we’re talking about Charisians with those damned breech-loading rifles.”
Vahnhain’s eyes fell. There’d been so many reports, so many stories, carried by word of mouth or even transmitted by the semaphore, that it had become increasingly difficult to separate fact from fiction, rumor and invention from reality. Nonetheless, they’d been forced to accept that the Charisian heretics truly did possess breech-loading rifles capable of preposterous rates of fire.
“Leaving that aside, trying to defend the second line of entrenchments would be almost as bad as trying to defend the first one. We just don’t have enough men to man the works. We never did—not out of our own resources—and we both knew that all along. So we leave pickets to keep the heretics from just sashaying right across the parapet, but those pickets will ‘skedaddle,’ as Colonel Vahlverday would put it, as soon as the heretics mount any serious attack. And then we concentrate on holding the core of our position, stuck right here in the heretics’ throat, until the Army of Shiloh gets here. At that point, the heretics west of the Gap can either run or die, and Duke Harless will pass straight through and kick the arses of the bastards on the other side of the mountains, as well. All we have to do is hold until he gets here. If we do that, we win. If we don’t do that, the heretics win, and Mother Church and the Archangels lose Shiloh after all. It’s that simple, however inglorious just hunkering down to hold may seem.”
Vahnhain looked back up, considering his protégé’s expression, the steadiness of his eyes, and realized Walkyr was right. And he also sensed a fresh resolution, an aura of determination. It was as if the moment of decision had crystallized—no, refined—Lairays Walkyr, and the priest remembered the army captain who’d led the seizure of Fort Tairys in the first place. That captain had been certain of his duty, unhesitating in its execution, and fierce in his devotion.
Perhaps he’d been wrong to insist Walkyr accept promotion, the priest thought. It had seemed the right, the inevitable thing at the time, but now he wondered. The responsibilities that came with his new rank, the uncertainty of holding an isolated position without knowing when—or if—the promised relief column would arrive, had been more than Walkyr had bargained for. The administrative details of somehow feeding his own command, organizing and helping to equip the militia, providing support for the Faithful partisans, harrying the heretics, and doing his best to provide what little semblance of governance and order western Shiloh had possessed.…
All those things had weighed down upon him because, whether he’d ever have admitted it or not—and he wouldn’t, Vahnhain thought, because it would have been a sign of weakness—he’d been unsuited for that task. That, Vahnhain suddenly realized, was the true reason he’d kept his troops busy building such outsized fortifications. Not simply so they’d be available when the Army of Shiloh finally arrived, but to keep them—and him—occupied doing something they understood.
But now all those details, all those worries, had been swept aside, replaced by a single overpowering imperative. It was time once more to fight or die as God’s own champion, and that, unlike administrative details and grand strategy, was something Lairays Walkyr understood just fine.
The only way the heretics will pry him out of this position is by carrying him out dead, Vahnhain realized. And when you come down to it, what more can Mother Church—or God—ask of any man?
“All right, Lairays,” he said gently. “I understand. So while you concentrate on holding the position, I’ll just have a word with the Archangels to see if they can’t speed Duke Harless on his way a bit.”
.XVI.
Malyktyn, On the Cheryk-Kharmych High Road, The South March Lands, Republic of Siddarmark
“And I’m afraid I have to insist on disturbing him anyway, Sir Graim,” Sir Rainos Ahlverez said flatly. “I apologize for interrupting his supper, but this is something which won’t keep.”
Sir Graim Kyr glowered at Ahlverez, permitting his brown eyes to show just a trace of aristocratic contempt for the other man’s sodden, mud-splashed appearance. Ahlverez experienced a sudden, overwhelming desire to punch the youthful Baron of Fyrnach in the eye, then kick him in the belly when he went down. Followed up by a boot heel to the Adam’s apple, preferably, or at least a good solid kick in the testicles. No, better the Adam’s apple; he’d probably survive a kick in the balls, however satisfying that might be. No doubt a proper Desnairian nobleman would have thought in terms of a formal duel, but allowing the little bastard that much dignity was more than Ahlverez cared to contemplate.
“As I’ve explained, Sir Rainos,” Fyrnach began, “my uncle—that is His Grace”—he smiled thinly —“is at table. As soon as—”
“I,” Ahlverez’ tone turned suddenly to precise, icy steel, “command the Dohlaran contingent of the Army of Shiloh. I answer to Mother Church and to my King, not to you, My Lord. If I’m not in Duke Harless’ presence within the next two minutes, my command and I will be headed back to Thesmar within the next twelve hours. The explanation for why that happened will be that you were too arrogant, too pigheaded, and too fucking stupid to allow me to speak to him on a matter of the greatest urgency, clearly demonstrating that it was impossible to coordinate properly with your granduncle, since he was willing to tolerate your stupidity. And, My Lord Baron, I will personally guarantee that the Inquisition will be discussing with you exactly why you personally sabotaged the campaign Mother Church has ordered this army to undertake. I’m certain Emperor Mahrys will wish to discuss it with your granduncle, as well.”
He pulled out his watch and snapped the cover open.
“You now have one minute and fifty seconds, My Lord.”
Fyrnach stared at him, his face first turning dark with fury and then bone-white with terror. He opened his mouth and—
“One minute and forty seconds,” Ahlverez said in that same, deadly voice. “I wouldn’t waste any of them talking to me, if I were you.”
Fyrnach shut his mouth with an almost audible click, then darted out of the vestibule of the mayor of Malyktyn’s house, which he’d appropriated in Harless’ name as soon as the vanguard reached the town. The door closed sharply behind him, and Ahlverez heard someone inhaling through his teeth and glanced up from his watch at Captain Lattymyr.
“Yes, Lynkyn?” he asked pleasantly.
“Did my heart good, Sir. You do realize you’ve just made an enemy for life, though, don’t you?”
“I suppose I have. Frankly, I’ve never met anyone I’d rather have as an enemy. The way he’s handled access to his precious uncle’s cost this army at least five thousand stragglers since we left Thesmar, and according to Master Slaytyr here,” he nodded to the very tall, gray-haired, brown-eyed man standing behind the two Dohlarans and maintaining a prudent silence, “the pair of them may’ve cost us Fort Tairys, as well.” His nostrils flared. “I’m pretty much out of patience where that little son-of-a-bitch is concerned.”
Captain Lattymyr nodded, although a certain trepidation still shadowed his expression. It wasn’t for himself, however, and he straightened as Baron Fyrnach rematerialized.
“His Grace will see you immediately, Sir Rainos,” he said with awful, frigid dignity and a dagger-eyed promise of retribution.
“Thank you.” Ahlverez snapped his watch closed and returned it deliberately to his pocket, then twitched his head at Lattymyr and Slaytyr.