“They’ve found us a few pairs, Sir.” Hahl opened a folder and looked at the top sheet of notes inside it. “Unfortunately, I think the only reason they had them on hand was probably the fact that they’re too small to fit most of our men. According to Lieutenant Khaldwyl, we’ll be lucky if—”
* * *
“The heliograph’s just delivered a message from Colonel Hyndryks, Sir,” Lieutenant Saith Zohryla announced.
Brigadier Sutyls and Baron Green Valley both looked up quickly from the map and their quiet discussion of the terrain between Esthyr’s Abbey and St. Zhana, 1st Corps’ next objective.
“The Colonel says Colonel Yarith is in position,” Sutyls’ aide told them, and Sutyls’ expression lightened. As Green Valley had expected, it had taken Yarith longer to reach his position than the brigadier had estimated, and Sutyls had tried to hide his unhappiness as he felt the precious winter daylight slipping away. “Colonel Yarith also reports he encountered a Temple Boy outpost where there wasn’t supposed to be one,” Zohryla continued. “He believes his men killed or captured the entire picket.”
Sutyls’ lips tightened once more at the word “believes,” but Green Valley only nodded. The SNARCs had already told him about the collision between Yarith’s men and the “outpost.” In fact, the half-strength AOG platoon had been sent to inventory the contents of half a dozen abandoned barns and silos on the west side of the town which had been earmarked as future firewood. There’d been no way anyone could have predicted it would be dispatched on its mission, even with SNARC reconnaissance, but Yarith’s scouts had spotted it in time and swept up its hapless infantry before any of them could fire a shot or escape to sound a warning.
Brigadier Sutyls wasn’t privy to the information the SNARCs had reported to his superior, and it was obvious he was none too pleased by the encounter’s potential to warn Preskyt’s men there were enemies about. On the other hand, it wasn’t like they weren’t about to find out anyway.
“Very well, Saith,” he said after a moment. “Pass the execute order to Colonel Maiyrs, please.”
“Yes, Sir!”
Lieutenant Zohryla touched his chest in salute and strode purposefully towards the signals party, beckoning for one of the runners. A moment later, the runner departed on his skis, moving fast, and Sutyls turned back to Green Valley.
“I know it’s more efficient this way, My Lord,” he said with a wry smile, “but sometimes I sort of miss the days when I’d’ve been standing on a hilltop with a spyglass and personally organizing this entire attack!”
“If you think it’s bad for a brigadier, you should try it as a corps commander,” Green Valley agreed with feeling. “But it seems to’ve worked out pretty well so far.”
“Langhorne send it keeps on working that way, Sir.”
“I won’t complain if he does,” Green Valley said with complete sincerity, despite his feelings where Eric Langhorne were concerned. “Not one bit.”
* * *
“All right.”
Colonel Maiyrs refolded the note from Brigadier Sutyls and shoved it into his parka’s outer pocket, then put his gloves back on with slow deliberation. Once he had them adjusted properly, he turned to his own signal party.
“Fire the signal,” he said.
* * *
Lieutenant Byrtrym Azkhat was the commanding officer of the recently formed 23rd Heavy Support Platoon, which was currently assigned to the 16th Infantry’s 1st Battalion. Now he looked up at one of his noncoms’ shout and saw the signal rocket soar upward on its trail of smoke. The flash when it burst was pale in the daylight, but it was bright enough, especially when Azkhat had been waiting so impatiently to see it.
“Now!” he snapped.
* * *
The new M97 mortars were big, ugly brutes with a barrel length of over five feet. Their explosive projectiles weighed thirty-three pounds, without propellant charge, and Azkhat’s gunners had cursed them with sweaty sincerity in training. There weren’t many of them, and Lieutenant Azkhat’s feelings had been mixed, to say the least, when his platoon had been ordered to turn in their three-inch mortars and reequip with them.
They had a range of four miles, however, and at the moment they were emplaced just over two miles from the center of Esthyr’s Abbey. There’d been ample time for Azkhat’s men to dismount the weapons from their sleds and prepare solid, properly leveled foundations on the eastern side of a long crest line, and the lieutenant and Sergeant Cahnyr Lynkyn, his senior squadron commander, had positioned the range and bearing stakes with finicky precision.
The crest of their concealing hill boasted a scattering of northern spine trees. The spear-shaped evergreens’ branches were covered with the sharp, unpleasant spines which gave them their name, but they were also sturdy, and Azkhat had sent Corporal Shawyn Portyr up the tallest of them. From there, he had an excellent view of the town and of the actual abbey beyond it, and he’d constructed a perch for himself and the map on which a gridded overlay had been superimposed. He’d long since located their initial targets’ positions from the map, and the rest of Azkhat’s organic artillery support party was prepared to pass his corrections to the mortars. The ASP’s position was also perfect—or nearly so—for receiving and passing on fire requests from other units.
The tubes themselves had been laid in on as close to the correct bearings and elevations as they could come without their own direct lines of sight. Now Sergeant Ymilahno Fahrya, the sergeant in charge of 3rd Squad, nodded sharply in response to Azkhat’s one-word command and chopped one hand at Corporal Mahthyw Khulpepur, the gun captain on 3rd Squad’s number one mortar.
“Fire!” Khulpepur barked, and Private Rahdryk Nahkadahn, who’d been waiting, eyes locked on Khulpepur, dropped the first bomb down the rifled tube. The M97 dispensed with the side caplock which had been a feature of the original M95. The ICA had discovered that the M95 had an unpleasant habit of “cooking off” when a freshly loaded propellant charge hit an ember left from the previous shot, so the Delthak Works had modified its design to combine loading and firing into a single, rapid motion. Now the priming cap fitted in the simple retaining clip at the end of the rod projecting from the bomb’s base hit the spike at the bottom of the tube. The impact detonated the cap, its flash ignited the powder-filled felt “doughnuts” fitted around the rod, and the mortar spat the bomb heavenward at over eight hundred feet per second.
* * *
“—so Ustys is checking with the other regiments.” Major Hahl shrugged ever so slightly. “It’s not likely we’re going to find many people with feet that small, but Ustys will probably turn up at least a few.” The major smiled suddenly, although there was more than a hint of grimace in the expression. “I’m sure he’ll drive a hard bargain for them!”
Colonel Sahndyrs chuckled in agreement. Technically, Lieutenant Ustys Khaldwyl was assigned to Rhobair Duchairn’s quartermaster’s corps, but Sahndyrs and Hahl had more or less kidnapped him and put him to work for 4th Regiment the better part of two months ago. He made a far better supply officer than they’d had previously, and while they knew they’d be forced to admit his whereabouts and give him up eventually, he’d been a gift from the Archangels in the meantime. Not only did he know how to work the official logistics system, but he was also an inspired scrounger and Sahndyrs’ fellow colonels had begun muttering darkly about his depredations.
“I’m sure the Lieutenant will do us proud,” the colonel said. “And, with that out of the way, I suppose it’s time for lunch. Who are we messing with today?”
“Captain Myrgyn, Sir,” Hahl replied, and Sahndyrs nodded. He made it a point to eat at least one meal a day with each of his company commanders in turn. The practice kept him abreast of their commands’ readiness and morale, as well as the state of their rations.
“In that case, we should probably get started,” he sighed, climbing out of his chair with an air of resignation. It was cold outside, and Captain Ahnthyny Myrgyn’s 3rd Company wasn’t what o
ne might have called conveniently close to his own HQ. “At least—”
* * *
Approximately three and a half seconds after Private Nahkadahn dropped it down the mortar’s muzzle, the thirty-three-pound projectile came sizzling out of the clear winter’s sky with a warbling wail that ended in a clap of thunder.
* * *
Colonel Sahndyrs whipped back towards the window as something exploded like Langhorne’s own Rakurai. A column of flame-shot smoke erupted from a roof on the far side of Bishop Qwentyn’s headquarters, and Sahndyrs’ eyes went wide with consternation as he tried to understand what had just happened.
* * *
Shawyn Portyr peered through his double-glass, waiting … waiting.…
It was odd how slowly seconds could drag at a time like this, a corner of his brain reflected, eyes glued to the green and gold flag which made such a handy reference point. The wait really wasn’t all that long, but it seemed far longer. There was always time to wonder if they’d gotten it right, how much it was going to miss by, whether or not—
The thunderbolt landed, and Portyr bared his teeth. The answers seemed to be yes, and not by much.
“Right fifty and down one hundred!” he called, never lowering his glasses, and heard the correction shouted back up in confirmation from his signalmen.
* * *
“Right fifty and down a hundred,” Sergeant Fahrya shouted, and Corporal Khulpepur’s crew traversed the weapon slightly, using the ranging stakes, while the corporal himself turned the knob which adjusted its elevation.
“Right fifty, down one hundred, and … set!” he called back in confirmation, and Fahrya nodded.
“Fire!”
* * *
Was that a shell? No. That’s ridiculous! How could it be—?
Doors were beginning to open around Snow Dragon Square. Even through the window glass, Colonel Sahndyrs could hear sentries shouting the alarm, and Bishop Qwentyn appeared suddenly on the steps of the house across from Sahndyrs. He must have been about to leave his headquarters for an inspection, Sahndyrs thought, because he already wore his heavy coat and gloves, and there hadn’t been time for him to don them in response to the explosion. But—
A second thunderbolt arrived from on high. It landed on the far side of the small, snow-covered circle of ornamental trees and frozen flowerbeds at the center of the square, almost on top of one of the stone benches where the square’s residents were accustomed to sitting in warmer weather … and less than fifty feet from Bishop Qwentyn Preskyt.
The dining room window shattered on the wings of the explosion’s shockwave, icicles and diamond-shaped panes blowing in like glass axe blades. One of those blades opened Bahstyk Sahndyrs’ right cheek like a razor, but he hardly noticed. His ears were filled with thunder and Lawrync Hahl’s choked-off cry of pain … and his mind was filled with the knowledge that he’d just become St. Fraidyr Division’s commanding officer.
* * *
“Yes!” Corporal Portyr shouted. He couldn’t actually see down into Snow Dragon Square, even from his perch, but he could see well enough to know the second round had landed inside it. He looked down at the private at the foot of his tree. “Perfect. Tell the Lieutenant that was perfect!”
Eleven more M97 mortars duplicated Corporal Khulpepur’s sight settings. Confirmations were called out. And then—
“Fire!” Lieutenant Azkhat barked.
* * *
Kynt Clareyk stood with his head cocked, listening to the mortars’ deep-throated coughs. His eyes were half closed, his expression intent, but he wasn’t simply listening to the mortars, whatever his officers might think. No, he was watching through the SNARCs as their bombs came hurtling down all across Esthyr’s Abbey, and unlike Corporal Portyr, he could see down into the town’s squares and alleys.
He’d personally selected Snow Dragon Square as the target for Azkhat’s heavy support platoon. Officially, he’d chosen it because it was close to the center of town and an easily identifiable target. Both of those reasons were true, but he’d also chosen it because he knew where Preskyt was headquartered. Chaos and confusion in the enemy’s ranks were two of the deadliest weapons in any soldier’s arsenal, and if he could decapitate the entire garrison.…
A dozen thirty-three-pound projectiles scorched across the sky, wrapping Snow Dragon Square in explosions, blasting roofs off of houses, setting fires. They were filled only with gunpowder, not the antipersonnel rounds’ flesh-shredding shrapnel charges, but they scourged the town with fire and blast, and the garrison’s troops—totally surprised, with no warning there was an enemy within a hundred miles—reacted with all the confusion Clareyk could have asked for.
The explosions shattered roofs and walls, and men who’d been huddled around fireplaces, or mending worn equipment, or asleep in their blankets under heaps of straw stumbled to their feet as the arctic cold swept in on the heels of destruction. Not just in Snow Dragon Square, either. More mortars had been positioned all around the town’s eastern and southern perimeters. Most were M95s, but their lighter bombs were perfectly adequate, and there were a great many more of them. They targeted the outermost houses and barns which had been turned into barracks, directed by the ASPs embedded with the scout snipers and the forward companies of the 8th Brigade. Roofs disintegrated, glass and shutters blew outward as bombs exploded inside houses, stored hay—more precious than gold in the heart of a North Haven winter—caught fire, and cries of shock and screams of pain were everywhere. Men staggered out of the sudden inferno into the bitter cold, many only half-clothed, and a third of the M95s were firing antipersonnel bombs fused for airburst that sent cyclones of shrapnel through their bleeding ranks.
Each support platoon had its predesignated targets, and the mortar crews worked their way outward toward the town’s edges, methodically shattering its buildings. Despite the carnage, the garrison’s officers and noncoms managed to restore some sort of discipline and order. Leather-lunged sergeants bellowed orders, sending men into their assigned positions in the entrenchments which had been hacked out of the icy ground. Other sergeants and officers—the ones with the quickest minds, the ones who realized that even if they survived the attack they’d still have to face the winter—sent some of their men back to fight fires and rescue whatever of winter clothing and supplies they could snatch from the flames.
On the eastern side, the infantry racing for the forward trenches—most from St. Manthyr’s Division’s 3rd Regiment—came suddenly under accurate, heavy rifle fire. Two of Major Dyasaiyl’s scout sniper companies had infiltrated to within thirty yards of the trenches under cover of the streambed and the eye-blurring effect of their white snow smocks. They’d lain patiently in the snow for hours, waiting without a sound, until the instant the first mortars fired. Then they’d come to their feet behind a hailstorm of hand grenades, bayonets fixed on their whitewashed M96 rifles.
The entrenchments were more rudimentary than anything the ICA would have tolerated. First, because it had been so difficult to hack them out of the frozen ground, but second—and more damningly—because no one had really expected to need them before spring. There would be plenty of time to deepen the trenches, build the shallow parapets higher, before the heretics could possibly advance this far. More effort had been expended on the dugouts threaded along the trenches, but that was mainly because they also served as snugger, better-insulated barracks for the infantry companies assigned to man them. It certainly hadn’t been because anyone anticipated an actual attack, and the startled sentries, minds numbed as much by routine as by cold and hunger, never had a chance. They were swept away in the first rush, before most of them even realized they were under attack, and the infantry platoons sheltering in those dugouts for warmth had only a very little more warning. They were just beginning to pour out of them when the scout snipers arrived among them in a blizzard of bullets and bayonets. Men who normally would have stood their ground in the face of the most furious assault gave way, succumbing to
a panic born of surprise, not cowardice. Dozens fell as the scout snipers’ fire swept over them, others went down, screaming, as bayonets drove into them, and even as they died, the dreadful rain of mortar bombs doubled and redoubled in fury behind them.
The defenders fell back. They more than “fell back”; they routed. Many threw away the weapons which might have hindered their flight. Others fled back into the dugouts from which they’d come, only to discover the horrific depth of their error when scout snipers tossed grenades in behind them and turned their protection into charnel houses. And while one platoon in each scout sniper company dealt with that problem, the other three spread out along the captured trenches. They found firing positions among the defenders’ bodies, and most of them removed the outer gloves from their right hands, retaining only the knitted glove liners, to improve their ability to manipulate bolt handles and triggers.
Each man had seventy rounds—one ten-round magazine already locked into his rifle’s magazine well and six additional charged magazines in the ammunition pouches affixed to his web gear—and all along the captured trench line, scout snipers unbuttoned their ammo pouches and made sure those extra magazines were ready to hand. Behind them, the four infantry companies of Major Sethry Ahdyms’ 2nd Battalion, 16th Infantry, slogged forward to reinforce them. And behind 2nd Battalion, more support squads dashed forward from the stream bank dragging their sled-mounted weapons up to the far side of the entrenchments, where the parapet concealed them from the defenders, to provide the close fire support which was so fundamental a part of Charisian tactics.
By the time the first counterattacking companies of Colonel Sahndyrs’ 4th Regiment emerged from the smoke, dust, and flying snow of the bombardment, the scout snipers were ready. For the first time in Safeholdian history, magazine-fed, bolt-action rifles came into action on a field of battle, and the result was horrendous. The first savage volleys went home before the scout snipers’ targets realized what was happening, while they were still moving forward in column formation under their officers’ orders. They took a minute to grasp what was happening—to realize they were being killed by rifle bullets coming from in front of them rather than shrapnel and explosions from above—and they kept surging forward towards the illusory protection of the trenches they didn’t know had been occupied by their enemies.