Besides, Walkyr reminded himself, useless or not, there are less than seventy thousand of them in the entire Host. His lips twitched at the irony of using the adverb “less” about a number greater than the entire current strength of the Army of the Sylmahn, but the truth was that it represented less than six percent of the Mighty Host’s manpower. We can afford to let Rainbow Waters play with them any way that amuses him.
The oncoming infantry came to a halt on the drill field, fifty yards from the reviewing stand and deployed into a single line, and Walkyr noted the polish of its drill with approval. It was twice the size of an Army of God platoon, and its “uniforms” were a motley collection of civilian garments, but its men’s movement was smoother—and quicker—than the majority of AOG units the archbishop militant had reviewed.
Hmmm. Those aren’t regular slings, either, he realized. They’re staff slings. Now what…?
The platoon’s formation was much more open than archers, arbalesteers, or riflemen would have required, which probably reflected the additional room a slinger must require. Walkyr had never really thought about it, since the sling had become obsolete in most of Safehold generations ago. In fact, it was practically unknown outside Harchong these days, and it had probably persisted there only because slings were incredibly cheap and because of the prohibitions the Empire placed on more advanced weapons. The only reason Walkyr knew the difference between simple slings and staff slings was the sheer quantity of paperwork which had crossed his desk during the Host’s rearmament.
The slingers moved briskly, inserting stones into their weapons’ leather-reinforced pouches. It was little wonder they were cheap, Walkyr reflected. They were little more than a staff, perhaps six feet long, with a relatively short length of tanned leather attached to its end. He was a little puzzled by the apparent size of their ammunition, however. According to the paperwork he’d seen—which included charges for cast lead “bullets”—they shouldn’t have been that large. The bullets weighed between one and a half and three ounces which shouldn’t have been much larger than an old-style matchlock bullet, and whatever they were using today was a lot bigger than that, close to the size of a man’s fist. It wasn’t spherical, either, which he’d always assumed sling bullets had to be. It was more … elliptical. Or perhaps the word he wanted was “ovoid.” At any rate—
A crisp order rang out. The staffs whipped up with lightning speed, arcing through a sharply defined motion whose precision took the archbishop militant by surprise. Obviously, the men using those slings had begun learning how to handle them almost before they could walk!
His eyebrows flew up in even deeper astonishment as he realized just how far the slingers’ projectiles could travel. He’d assumed they’d do well to reach a hundred yards, but they far exceeded that. In fact, their shots sailed well over two hundred yards, despite the size of the projectiles, before they thudded softly into the snow.
And exploded.
Archbishop Militant Gustyv stepped back involuntarily as flame, snow, and smoke erupted with absolutely no warning. The fountains covered a zone at least fifty yards across and ten yards deep, and the flat, staccato explosions hammered his ears. He felt his jaw drop, but there was nothing he could do about that. He could only stare at the clouds of snow and smoke rising higher and higher on the chill wind.
It took him at least ten seconds to close his mouth, shake himself, and turn back to Rainbow Waters.
“That … was remarkable, My Lord,” he said. “It never occurred to me that slings could reach that sort of range. And as for the explosions—!”
“I don’t doubt that, Your Eminence.” The Harchongese officer shrugged slightly. “It’s been my observation that Easterners significantly underestimate the range a trained slinger can reach. In fact, with a properly designed bullet, these men could reach at least twice the range they just demonstrated.”
Walkyr started to object to such a claim, almost by reflex. Fortunately, he stopped himself in time.
“If they weren’t using bullets, what were they using?” he asked instead.
“Hand bombs,” Rainbow Waters replied. “We made them ourselves, based on the ones Mother Church is supplying to our infantry. They’re individually smaller—they weigh only half as much and don’t carry as much powder or as many shrapnel balls—but you’ve seen how far our slingers can throw them. Of course, these men are using staff slings, which have much more range than a standard sling, and they can’t be used at short ranges. Their bullets—or bombs—have to travel in an arc without the flatter trajectories standard slings can achieve. On the other hand, they can reach two hundred yards with the full-size hand bombs; with the ones they used today, they can reach almost four hundred, although their accuracy falls off at that range. The hand bomb patterns become less concentrated the farther they have to sling them.”
“I see.” Walkyr looked at the earl for a moment, then back at the slinger platoon, which was now standing motionless, awaiting its next order. “Might I see them demonstrate that again, My Lord? And would it be possible for you to have them show me how well they can do with the full-size hand bombs?”
“By the strangest coincidence, Your Eminence, they happen to have a half dozen of each size with them.”
Rainbow Waters smiled broadly at the archbishop militant, then nodded to one of his aides. The young man saluted crisply, hurried down the reviewing stand’s shallow steps, and jogged towards the waiting platoon.
“I know we haven’t been able to duplicate the heretics’ portable angle-guns,” Rainbow Waters said, his own eyes on the slingers as he stood beside Walkyr. “From the reports Bishop Militant Bahrnabai and Bishop Militant Cahnyr have shared with me, the best slinger in the world isn’t going to be able to match those sorts of ranges. But once the range falls.…”
His voice trailed off, and Walkyr nodded as he watched the slingers reload.
* * *
“I have to admit, My Lord,” the archbishop militant said several hours later, sitting across a well-laden supper table from the lord of horse, “that I never anticipated anything like those slingers. You’re right about the heretics’ portable angle-guns’ range advantage, but they don’t have anywhere near as many of those as you have of slingers.”
“The thought had crossed my own mind,” Rainbow Waters acknowledged, pouring fresh tea into Walkyr’s cup with his own hands. “On the other hand, the specially designed hand bombs aren’t the easiest things to make.”
He raised one eyebrow across the teapot, still held in midair, and Walkyr nodded.
“I take your point, My Lord. And I imagine Vicar Allayn will be delighted to give them priority at the powder mills once he reads my report.”
“Excellent!”
Rainbow Waters set the teapot aside, and Walkyr sipped from the tissue-thin porcelain cup. The smaller hand bombs the slingers preferred were, indeed, ovoid in shape. They also consisted of old-fashioned musket balls embedded in a matrix of pitch and cored with a small powder charge. The most effective ones used the new primer caps the Inquisition had approved for production, but caps were in short supply for the Mighty Host of God and the Archangels, and virtually all of the ones the Harchongians had received were earmarked for the new-build St. Kylmahn breechloaders they’d been issued. A second variety, like the standard hand bombs the Church had begun producing after the heretics used them against her defenders in battle, had to be lit with a length of slow match, instead. That worked, but it also meant that each slinger had to be paired with someone to light—and, if necessary, cut—the fuses before they were slung at the enemy.
“I’m glad I was able to see your demonstration in person,” he said, setting the cup back on its saucer. “I don’t think a written report would have done it justice.”
“I admit I wanted you to see it without any … preconceptions, shall we say?” Rainbow Waters smiled. “That was how my nephew demonstrated it to me, in fact.”
Walkyr smiled back. The lord of horse’s n
ephew—Medyng Hwojahn, the Baron of Wind Song—was a captain of horse, roughly equivalent to an Army of God colonel. He was also Rainbow Waters’ senior aide and adjutant. He didn’t appear to be quite as intelligent as his uncle, but he possessed abundant energy and he was meticulously organized. Even more importantly, perhaps, he shared the earl’s awareness of why it had been so vital to reorganize and rearm the Mighty Host. No wonder both he and his uncle had been so delighted by the possibility of demonstrating the effectiveness of their new technique.
But then, slowly, Walkyr’s smile faded into a more sober expression. Rainbow Waters watched it happen and sat back in his own chair.
“May I presume, Your Eminence, that we’re about to come to the primary reason for your visit?”
“You may.”
The archbishop militant sighed, and Rainbow Waters chuckled softly.
“I suspect I might be able to guess at least a part of your purpose, Your Eminence,” he said almost gently. “It’s two thousand miles from Zion to Mahzgyr, after all. Not the sort of journey Vicar Allayn’s chief assistant is likely to make in the middle of winter without some pressing motivation.”
“I’m afraid you’re right about that,” Walkyr conceded wryly with a shudder which wasn’t at all feigned. He was fortunate he’d been able to make almost the entire journey across the frozen lakes, canals, and rivers by iceboat, but it had still been an exhausting—and frigid—ordeal. “And the distance I had to come is rather relevant to the reason I came, I’m afraid.”
“You’re worried about the heretic Green Valley,” Rainbow Waters said, and Walkyr’s estimate of the Harchongian’s intellect revised itself upward yet again.
“Precisely,” he acknowledged. “The fact is, unfortunately, that we’re … less informed than we’d like about his movements. In fact, we don’t have any idea where he is at the moment! Bishop Gorthyk’s in communication with Bishop Militant Bahrnabai by messenger wyvern, but he reports that the heretic troops currently investing Fairkyn appear to consist almost entirely of Siddarmarkians. They’re supported by at least some Charisian artillery, and some of the Charisians’ mounted troops are in the area, as well, but Green Valley himself is nowhere to be seen. And that, My Lord, makes us nervous.”
“If you’ll forgive me for pointing this out, Your Eminence, you must have been well on your way to Mahzgyr before Bishop Gorthyk reported that.”
“Once again, you’re absolutely right.” Walkyr shrugged. “The reason I was initially dispatched was to form a firsthand opinion of the Mighty Host’s readiness for combat. The reports we’ve had from you and officers like Colonel Krestmyn have made it clear how hard the majority of your officers and men are working—and that they’ve made enormous progress—but I hope you’ll forgive my frankness when I say they’ve also made it apparent not all of your officers are fully supportive of your efforts even now.”
It was Rainbow Waters’ turn to sigh, and he nodded. He obviously didn’t like agreeing, but his atypical (for a Harchongese noble) willingness to admit the truth was one of the things Allayn Maigwair and Gustyv Walkyr most valued about him.
“That was only a part of the reason I came,” the archbishop militant continued. “Frankly, one reason our current ignorance of Green Valley’s position concerns us so deeply is the degree of mobility the heretics have demonstrated. We’d given some thought to ski-equipped or snowshoe-equipped infantry, but not on anything like the scale the heretics appear to have undertaken. Our men are neither equipped nor trained for movement in this sort of weather. In fact, the only troops who might be capable of that sort of movement—”
“—are my Harchongians,” the earl said, and Walkyr nodded again.
“Vicar Allayn and Vicar Rhobair realize that sort of movement at this time of year was never anything they discussed with you or your superiors, My Lord. And the last thing either of them wants is for you to lose men to frostbite and freezing. But at this moment, your headquarters are the better part of four thousand miles from Guarnak. Even before Green Valley’s heretics … disappeared, that meant it would take the Mighty Host over two months to cover the distance by canal boat. Obviously, trying to move you or any substantial proportion of your troops when everything’s frozen will only make that even worse. But every mile closer to Guarnak that you could get before the canals thaw might well be priceless.”
Rainbow Waters frowned thoughtfully, toying with his salad fork while he considered his response, and Walkyr sat back in his own chair. Maigwair’s dispatches had overtaken him less than a five-day from Mahzgyr, and the Captain General’s sense of urgency had come through clearly. Yet his instructions for Walkyr to be careful how he pushed Rainbow Waters had been explicit and very, very unambiguous. The Mighty Host of God and the Archangels had always been the largest single force at Mother Church’s command. Now, against all logical expectation, it had been transformed into what was almost certainly also the most powerful and effective of those forces. The last thing Maigwair wanted was for a Harchongese Duke of Harless to overpromise what he could do and march the Mighty Host into the same sort of starvation, with frostbite as a garnish. If—if—Rainbow Waters could begin moving towards the front without killing his own men in the process, the Captain General wanted him underway as soon as possible, but there was no point marching a force twenty times the Army of the Sylmahn’s size into exactly the same trap.
“It distresses me to say so, Your Eminence, but I couldn’t possibly move any large proportion of the entire Host under these conditions.” The regret in Rainbow Waters’ voice was genuine, Walkyr realized. “While it’s true my men are more winter hardened than the majority of Easterners, not even they could move with the sort of … facility of which the heretics appear capable. On the other hand, my own reading of the reports coming back from Fairkyn and from Bishop Militant Bahrnabai suggest that not even the heretics’ entire army is equally capable of movement and combat under these conditions.”
His tone made the last sentence a question, and Walkyr nodded.
“Their entire force seems to be able to move far better than we ever anticipated, My Lord. But you’re right. The reports we’ve received so far suggest that Green Valley used only a portion—probably less than half—of his total strength in his attacks on Esthyr’s Abbey, Saint Zhana, and Saint Tyldyn. Whether that’s because only the troops he’s using are truly trained and equipped for arctic combat or because his ability to move supplies is more constrained than his ability to move troops is more than we’ve been able to determine, but Vicar Allayn is leaning towards the former.”
“I’m inclined to agree,” Rainbow Waters said. “And that’s really the problem the Mighty Host would face. To be perfectly honest, Your Eminence, none of my men are truly trained to fight under these conditions. If I demanded it of them, they’d do their best and probably be more capable than my own fears suggest. But the problem of keeping them supplied isn’t precisely a minor one, either. Especially not when it would be impossible to supply them by foraging.”
Walkyr managed not to grimace. The mere thought of turning a Harchongese army loose to forage on the Temple Lands and Border States was enough to terrify anyone, especially at this time of year. Very few of the towns, villages, and farms in North Haven would have any food to spare this late into winter, and when starving civilians found themselves oppressed by a starving soldiery—especially a starving foreign soldiery—the only question would be how disastrous the outcome would be. And even if that hadn’t been true, once the Host crossed into Siddarmark, there simply wouldn’t be any towns or villages to be pillaged in the first place. Not in the Sword of Schueler’s wake.
“So you don’t believe it would be possible at this time?” he asked heavily.
“That’s not precisely what I said, Your Eminence. I said I couldn’t move any large proportion of the total Host under these circumstances. But even a very small proportion of a million men is a substantial force. I believe I could probably put as many as fifty thousa
nd—possibly sixty thousand—into motion towards Guarnak within the five-day. That would be dependent upon Vicar Rhobair finding the additional snow lizards or mountain dragons to support their move, of course. And I doubt that even following the canals and rivers they could make good much over ten or twelve miles per day. It would also require me to divert a lot of my tentage and fuel, which would have consequences when it’s time for the rest of the Host to advance. But it’s now early April; it will be early June before the canal and river ice begins to break up. Even at only ten miles a day, my detachment could be six or seven hundred miles closer to Guarnak by then, and I could start with Baron Falling Rock. I’d like to be able to tell you we could accomplish more than that, and if we find we can, we certainly will. The last thing Vicar Allayn or Mother Church needs, however, would be for me to assure you I can accomplish more than I believe is possible and end up throwing away the weapon we’ve spent all winter forging.”
Walkyr’s eyes widened.
“That’s far better than I anticipated you might be able to accomplish, My Lord,” he said frankly. “With your permission, I’ll transmit your comments to Vicar Allayn immediately.”
“Of course, Your Eminence.” Rainbow Waters gave the archbishop militant a seated bow. “The burden Mother Church and the Archangels have placed upon our shoulders is a heavy one, but it’s also the most honorable and important burden which could ever be entrusted to mortal men. What I can do, I will, and so will the men of the Mighty Host.”