Green Valley peeked around one end of the wall at the sudden firefight, then glanced at his aide and his lips twitched at the lieutenant’s expression. It was obvious that what the young man really wanted was to grab his idiot superior by the scruff of his oh-so-senior neck and drag him bodily back behind the wall.
“Forgive me, My Lord,” Slokym continued after a moment, “but didn’t our spies say they weren’t supposed to have any of those damned rifles before mid-April?”
His expression, Green Valley noted, was not one of approval.
“Actually,” the baron replied judiciously, one eye still on the stable, “our spies said they wouldn’t have very many of ‘those damned rifles’ before April. And spies, alas, have been known to be mistaken, Bryahn.”
Slokym scowled, and Green Valley didn’t really blame him. The Empire of Charis and its allies had been rather spoiled by the quality of their intelligence reports. Getting those reports where they needed to be quickly enough was sometimes a problem, but they were accustomed to knowing the reports they did receive were accurate ones. And so they usually were. Not always, however. Even their allies might have become suspicious if Charis’ “spies” never made a mistake. Worse, there were occasions on which no one could have come up with a credible explanation for how a particular bit of intelligence could be gotten to the recipient who needed it quickly enough to do any good. When that happened, it simply didn’t get to that recipient, and that sort of problem had a particularly acute relevance for the Army of Midhold at the moment. Merlin Athrawes, even with Nimue Chwaeriau’s assistance, could give faces to only so many seijins, and no one but a seijin would be operating in the bitter winter wastes of Northland Province.
And we sort of painted ourselves into a corner with our initial appreciation of when Zhwaigair and Fultyn’s toys were likely to arrive, he reminded himself grumpily. I don’t suppose it’s really Owl or Nahrmahn’s fault, though. The real problem was that their information was too damned good!
One drawback of the penetration the SNARCs and their remotes routinely accomplished—outside the Temple itself and the area of Zion immediately around it—was that the electronic spies reported what was actually being said. That had bitten the Allies more than once when the Group of Four (whose paranoia about heretic spies had become obsessive … justifiably, to be fair) used false orders to its own commanders as a disinformation technique. In this case, though, no one had deliberately set out to deceive them. They’d simply had access to Brother Lynkyn’s own production estimates, and Brother Lynkyn had been overly conservative.
More powder smoke erupted from the stable. Clearly there must be the better part of two Army of God cavalry platoons inside it. And just as clearly, all of them were armed with St. Kylmahn conversions.
Well, you knew there was going to be a rearguard, Kynt. And it probably made sense to give them the best weapons they could.
He frowned as the SNARC specifically assigned to hover overhead whenever he was in the field inserted a couple of remotes into the stable and confirmed his estimate. The defenders were indeed cavalry—units of Colonel Hyndyrsyn’s 42nd Cavalry Regiment who’d escaped the net at Esthyr’s Abbey—although they were actually the remnants of three of the AOG’s sixteen-man cavalry platoons, not two. They were thirty percent understrength, with barely thirty-three men between them, but there was no indication they intended to go easily. Which was no great surprise; if they’d been the sort to surrender, they never would have dug in inside the stable. They had to have known escape from their current position was effectively impossible when they chose to make their stand. For that matter, they didn’t even have horses. But no one had ever said the Allies had a monopoly on courage. He would have preferred for those dismounted troopers to be less determined to die where they stood, delaying his advance, yet what bothered him more was that they were rifle-armed cavalry.
We really don’t need the Temple Boys to start developing the concept of mounted infantry of their own. But maybe this is more in the nature of an improvisation. A one-off effort because they’re so focused on slowing us down.
And maybe he was whistling in the dark, he told himself sourly. Safeholdian armies had used bow- and arbalest-armed dragoons for centuries; making the leap to issuing firearms instead shouldn’t have been too difficult. But rifles had been far scarcer for the Army of God than for the Imperial Charisian Army and, up until very recently, they’d been reserved for the infantry. Every mainland realm knew the function of dragoons was to scout and skirmish, not engage in pitched firefights with enemy infantry, and he would be much happier if things stayed that way in the Church’s book.
Bahrnabai Wyrshym had already demonstrated that he was less enamored of The Book than Green Valley might have preferred, however. The bishop militant had reacted to the threat to his flank with his customary firmness. Even before Esthyr’s Abbey’s fall, he’d dispatched a convoy of armorers to Gorthyk Nybar in Fairkyn, along with every St. Kylmahn conversion kit he’d had on hand. While it was true the converted breechloaders couldn’t match the M96’s rate of fire, or even fire as rapidly as the original Mahndrayn, it was also true they fired far more rapidly than any muzzleloader ever made. And in some ways the conversions’ crudity actually worked in the AOG’s favor, since they were still flintlocks. They didn’t depend on the primer caps of the new-build St. Kylmahns, which simplified problems of ammunition supply. But the really bad news was that those armorers in Fairkyn were turning out somewhere around two hundred conversions per day. At that rate, they’d provide Nybar with almost seven thousand more of the new weapons by the fourth five-day of April.
At that point, they’d have run out of conversion kits and undoubtedly been recalled to Guarnak. But by the end of April, the first shipments of new-build weapons from the Temple Lands manufactories would have reached Wyrshym at Guarnak … and so would at least two additional artillery regiments with Fultyn’s new banded rifles.
The good news is that we’re looking at a late thaw again, he thought. According to Owl’s meteorological data, they might see fresh snow accumulations north of the Kalgaran Mountains as late as the second five-day of May. With a little luck, the extra bad weather may put their weapons deliveries behind Owl’s current, revised estimates. And we’re still a hell of a lot more mobile in the snow than they are. But it’s going to run closer than I’d counted on.
One of Gairwyl’s captains was busy organizing an assault on the stable. Green Valley considered offering the youngster a better estimate of the strength inside it, but not very hard. First, getting to him without getting shot would be a nontrivial challenge, and there was that thought he’d had a little earlier about not getting killed doing something stupid. Second, while his officers and men were prepared to accept his observations and estimates as the next best thing to the Holy Writ itself, it might be just a bit awkward to explain how he was in any position to make a better estimate than Captain Mahnroh, whose men were already engaged with the stable’s defenders. And, third, Gyairmoh Mahnroh was no one’s fool and seemed to have matters well in hand.
One of the captain’s platoons had worked its way around to the western side of the stable, where the charred ruins of the inn it had served offered protected firing positions within fifty or sixty yards of the defenders. That platoon’s riflemen were engaged in a spirited, close-range exchange with their AOG counterparts, and more Temple Boys were being drawn into the firefight. They weren’t leaving the stable’s other walls unmanned, but the number of rifles protecting them was definitely being thinned.
Mahnroh’s second platoon had crept cautiously into the snow-drifted paddock south of the stable without firing a shot, and the fire of his third platoon, north of the stable, was beginning to increase in intensity. The defenders, who’d built thick hay-bale breastworks along the inner sides of the stable’s walls, squirmed around to return the gathering fusillade, which reduced the number of rifles in their western and southern defenses still further. And as Green Valley
watched approvingly, one squad of Mahnroh’s last platoon settled into place behind a concealing haystack fifty yards east of the stable and locked peculiar-looking cup-like tubes onto their rifles’ bayonet mounts.
That’s going to come as a nasty surprise, the baron reflected.
Only a few hundred of the newly developed “M97 Rifle Grenade Launcher, Model One”—officially abbreviated as the “RGL” but already known to the troops as “Shan-wei’s slingshot,” which was in a fair way to being shortened to “sling”—had reached the Republic, and they’d been rushed forward to the Army of Midhold. They’d arrived too late for the attack on Esthyr’s Abbey, so this would be the first time they’d been used in action, which meant no one inside that stable could have a clue what was about to happen.
Another bullet came his way. He was pretty sure this one was a stray, not aimed specifically at him, but it whined nastily as it ricocheted from the protective stone wall.
“My Lord—!” Slokym began, but Green Valley shook his head.
“Sorry, Bryahn. I need to see this.”
Slokym looked less than convinced, but he clamped his jaw on any further protest. In fact, he wiggled forward and joined his general in peering around the corner of Green Valley’s wall, and the baron chuckled as he made room for the younger man.
The RGL-armed squad had secured the launchers to their rifles’ muzzles. Now they inserted the grenades into the cups. The black powder-filled weapons were bigger and clumsier than grenades with high-explosive fillers would have been, and aiming them was still something of a black art. Howsmyn had cribbed the fundamental concept from Owl’s libraries, however, and he’d moved directly to a “shoot-through” design which allowed the grenadier to use a standard rifle round instead of having to load a special blank cartridge. The bullet itself passed through a hole in the center of the grenade, igniting the grenade’s fuse an instant before the expanding muzzle gases launched it on its way. Maximum range was only about a hundred and eighty yards, well short of what would become possible with the introduction of smokeless powder but much farther than anyone could possibly have thrown a grenade.
The squad members finished loading the launchers, knelt on one knee, bracing their rifle butts on the ground, and watched their corporal. He gave them a last, quick inspection and raised his right hand head-high. He held it there for a heartbeat, then brought it slashing down and the grenadiers fired.
The grenades arced toward the stable with a considerably higher velocity than a human arm could have imparted, but they were still far slower than a bullet. Like rifle grenades throughout Old Earth’s history, that relatively low velocity resulted in a high trajectory and problematical accuracy, especially for first-time users who hadn’t yet been issued proper sights for them. They trailed smoke from their ignited fuses, and a third of them went wide. Two more bounced off of the building’s stout walls, three buried themselves in the stable’s thatched roof, and two bounced off the closed stable door. But one of them sailed through a second-floor hay door into the stable’s loft, directly into an AOG trooper’s face, and the last—better aimed or extraordinarily lucky (or both)—drilled through the ventilation space under the stable’s eaves.
The explosions sprayed shrapnel in all directions. The defenders’ hay-bale breastworks absorbed most of the lethal balls, but three were wounded and two were killed outright. The morale effect was considerably worse; even men determined to die for God could be shaken when Shan-wei’s own spite exploded in their midst in a blast of brimstone. They didn’t panic, but shock and consternation paralyzed them, at least briefly, and the white smoke of burning hay added itself to the gray billows of powder smoke.
The grenadiers inserted fresh rounds into the launcher cups and a second salvo lofted towards the stable. Smoke poured from the burning thatch, at least two or three more grenades found their way into the building’s interior, and the screams of wounded men answered.
The platoon which had infiltrated its way into the paddock had waited for the second wave of grenades. Now it leapt to its feet and charged. One of its squads charged with bayoneted rifles; the other three carried drawn Mahldyn .45s. None of the AOG troopers saw them for a moment or two. Then three rifles fired from inside the stable. One Charisian went down, but his companions carried through, rushing the closed double door in the middle of the stable’s southern wall. It was barred from the inside, but there was a small, square window opening in the middle of each door panel. The sliding shutters which closed them were far thinner than the rest of the door’s sturdy planks, and rifle butts smashed through them. Hand grenades were primed and tossed into the openings, more explosions thundered, and two revolver-armed Charisians took over each window, firing into the smoke-filled interior to keep the defenders’ heads down while two more of the attackers assaulted the door bar with axes. The door resisted—briefly—but then the bar broke and the door panels flew open. Another mounted infantryman fell, but the others stormed past him, pistols firing and bayonets stabbing.
After that, it was over in a very few minutes.
Green Valley straightened slowly, then climbed back into Traveler’s saddle. Slokym mounted beside him, and the two of them rode cautiously forward to join Captain Mahnroh’s men.
* * *
By midday, what was left of the town of St. Tyldyn was in Charisian hands.
There hadn’t actually been that much fighting, Green Valley thought as he handed his reins to someone else and climbed the steps of what had once been the St. Tyldyn town library. Like every other building in town, it had seen better days, yet it was closer to intact than most of them.
Somehow the baron doubted that was because of the Army of God’s deep respect for the printed word. More likely it had to do with how well the library’s brick walls had resisted the flames. Most of the rest of the town—more of a largish village, really—had been built of more combustible materials. Aside from buildings like the stable which had been turned into defensive strong points, they’d been set ablaze as the rest of the retreating AOG cavalry fell back. Clearly, the Temple Boys understood the value of denying an enemy the shelter of unbroken roofs and walls.
“My Lord,” Colonel Gairwyl greeted him, touching his chest in salute.
“Dahnyld.” Green Valley nodded and reached out to clasp forearms with him. “I saw young Mahnroh’s grenadiers in action. Impressive, but I think we need a little more work.”
“He told me you were there, My Lord.” Gairwyl’s tone made it clear that the Army of Midhold’s commanding general shouldn’t have been close enough to the sharp end to see anything of the sort, and Green Valley smiled at him.
“I promise young Bryahn’s already chewed me out for it.”
“I knew he had a good head on his shoulders,” Gairwyl replied, and the baron chuckled. Then his expression sobered.
“I wish we’d come closer to taking the place in one piece.” He shook his head. “I’m less worried about you and your boys—or General Gardynyr’s infantry, for that matter—but Second Corps is going to miss those roofs.”
“They’ll make out, My Lord,” Gairwyl said. “Won’t be their first snowstorm. Besides,” he shrugged, “there were never enough roofs for more’n a regiment or two. They may not be as fond of playing in the snow as my boys or General Gardynyr’s, but they know how to survive it and their tents’re just as good as ours. Don’t know about General Makgrygair’s boys and their gear, though.”
Green Valley nodded, because Gairwyl had a very good point. In fact, he had two of them.
The Charisian infantry of General Brohkamp’s corps were far less suited to actual winter combat than Gardynyr’s 4th Division and Brigadier Braisyn’s 3rd Mounted Brigade, but all of them were equipped with arctic uniforms and tents. General Sulyvyn Makgrygair’s 2nd Rifle Division, however, was Siddarmarkian. His infantrymen were tough and determined, and many were winter-wise, but they were far less well equipped and no one had ever trained them specifically for arctic warfare. That
was why Green Valley had left Makgrygair to assure the security of Esthyr’s Abbey while Brohkamp moved up from Esthyr’s Abbey to St. Zhana, a hundred and fifty miles farther west.
The good news was that his snow lizard- and caribou-drawn sleighs were building up a major forward supply point at Esthyr’s Abbey more rapidly than anyone in the Army of God would believe was possible. The bad news was that even so, he was going to have to hold his position at St. Tyldyn for at least a five-day or two. First Corps, and especially the engineers assigned to 4th Division, had been improving the high road as it went, but nature wasn’t cooperating. There’d been a fresh blizzard—two days’ worth of heavy snowfall—immediately after they’d taken Esthyr’s Abbey, coupled with almost daily flurries since. Now another arctic front was on its way, and the additional snow would hamper anyone’s logistics, even his. He doubted Brohkamp would be able to move even his Charisian infantry any farther forward than St. Tyldyn before the first day of April. Moving Makgrygair’s Siddarmarkians under those conditions would be problematic, at best, and even 1st Corps was starting to feel the strain of the pace he’d demanded of it.
He followed Gairwyl to the library table where the colonel had spread out his maps and both of them frowned down at the uncompromising topography.
St. Tyldyn was barely a hundred and forty air-miles east of Fairkyn, but that was over a hundred and seventy miles for an army which followed the high road. That high road crossed to the western bank of the Ice Ash River ninety-plus miles from St. Tyldyn, at which point a spur road ran south along the river’s bank to Fairkyn. The wooden spans of the drawbridges on which it had once crossed the Kalgaran and the Ice Ash had been burned, but the intact stone approach spans remained. Green Valley’s engineers would be able to put them back into service quickly, and under what passed for good winter conditions in northern Haven—in other words, at least five days in a row without a blizzard—1st Corps’ ski- and snowshoe-equipped infantry could have advanced almost thirty miles a day along the line of the high road. Much of that movement would have to be made in darkness, given how short those days were this far north, yet the road bed provided both a flat, graded path and a guide that would be hard to miss even in pitch blackness. But while 2nd Corps’ supply train could match that rate of advance, it was unlikely its infantry could manage much more than twenty or so miles a day under the best of conditions.