On a planet named Earth, those emplacements would have been called a work of circumvallation; on Safehold, they were simply called “siege works,” but the function was exactly the same, and they were manned by a dismayingly powerful army—a fact which explained why Gorthyk Nybar was making this ride this chill June morning without Father Charlz Kaillyt at his side.
The bishop’s jaw tightened as he contemplated Kaillyt’s absence. He didn’t like the reason he’d had no choice but to leave the cleric safely in Fairkyn, but there was no use pretending, just as there was no use pretending he had any choice about accepting the parley summons in the first place. Sir Bartyn Sahmyrsyt, the heretic commander, had phrased his written message with at least marginal courtesy, but the iron fist inside the rather threadbare silk glove had been there for any to see. And if anyone had missed it the first time around, Sahmyrsyt’s flat rejection of Nybar’s counteroffer that they meet inside his position—a rejection which had included words like “treachery” and “murderers”—would have made it abundantly clear.
And I don’t have any choice but to go meet with the arrogant, heretical son-of-a-bitch wherever he chooses. The thought burned harshly through Nybar’s brain as he neared the designated redoubt. I wonder if he knows how short our rations really are? He snorted grimly. I guess I may find out about that in the next half-hour or so.
A group of horsemen rode out to meet his small party as it approached the redoubt, and Nybar was uncomfortably aware of the riflemen manning the earthen parapet. Neither they nor the redoubt’s half-dozen field guns were aimed directly at him, but that minor detail could be quickly corrected.
At least the bastards were polite enough to meet us outside their own hidey hole, he reminded himself. Of course, that probably has more to do with their not wanting me to see anything on the other side of their damned entrenchments than it does with courtesy.
The heretics drew rein about fifty yards from the redoubt and waited for the trio of Army of God officers to reach them. Nybar continued straight ahead at an unhurried pace, only too well aware of how his own mount’s hunger-thinned gauntness compared to the heretics’ well-fed, well-cared-for horses.
A message in that, too, he thought. I wonder if that’s why they bothered to mount up in the first place instead of just walking out to meet us? Or are they making sure they didn’t find themselves looking up to us at some sort of psychological disadvantage?
He drew his own horse to a halt a few feet from the dark-haired, dark-eyed heretic with the single gold-sword collar insignia of a Charisian general who had to be Sahmyrsyt. He was a big man, at least two or three inches taller than Nybar’s own five feet and eleven inches and yet stocky for his height, with powerful shoulders, a deep chest, dark hair and eyes, and eyebrows that formed a single thick bar across the bridge of his nose.
Sahmyrsyt was flanked on his left by a much younger man with the twin silver crowns of a lieutenant and the look of someone who’d been born on the island of Charis itself. He also looked as if he was perhaps fifteen years old … until someone got a look into those steady brown eyes of his. The man on the general’s right had a pair of silver swords on his collar and offered the visual antithesis of the lieutenant, with fair hair, blue eyes, and a full, well-kept beard. All of them, Nybar noted, were immaculately groomed and obviously well fed. Well, he hadn’t been able to do anything about his own officers’ semi-starved appearance, but at least they were as perfectly turned out as the heretics.
He tried not to think about any words like “thin pretense.”
“Bishop Gorthyk.” Sahmyrsyt’s voice carried a strong Chisholmian accent and sort of deep power one might have associated with that thick chest.
“General Sahmyrsyt.” Nybar kept his tone brusque and clipped in response, and his fingers tightened on his reins when Sahmyrsyt smiled ever so slightly, as if that terseness amused him somehow.
“Brigadier Silkiah, my chief of staff,” the Chisholmian said, indicating the blond officer to his right. “And Lieutenant Mahkgrudyr, my personal aide. I see you’ve brought Captain Fhrancys and Colonel Hansylman along.”
He nodded to Nybar’s subordinates with something which might have been mistaken for courtesy under other circumstances, and Nybar felt his expression go briefly blank. How in Langhorne’s name had Sahmyrsyt known who Fhrancys and Hansylman were? Fhrancys had been with him since the Army of God marched out of the Temple Lands, so he supposed it was possible prisoner interrogation might have provided his name and rank, even his description, to the heretics. But Hansylman had been detached from the St. Emylee Division to serve as his equivalent of the heretic Silkiah less than three months ago, when Nybar consolidated the skeletons of the division’s four original regiments into three regiments which were merely badly understrength.
It doesn’t matter how he knows, Gorthyk, he told himself flatly, banishing surprise’s blankness. He probably got it from some fucking deserter. It sure as Shan-wei doesn’t mean they’ve got spies inside Fairkyn, anyway! And it’s obvious the only reason he dropped the names was to make you worry about it exactly like this, so stop.
“You requested the parley, General,” he said, looking Sahmyrsyt in the eye, and the Charisian nodded.
“Yes, I did. It occurred to me that this might be a moment to recall the Book of Langhorne’s injunctions. Chapter Seventeen’s to be exact—verses twelve through fourteen. I realize no one seems to have been reading that passage very much from your side lately, but I think it applies.”
Nybar heard Hansylman inhale sharply and sensed young Kaillyt’s stiff-faced anger, and his own jaw clenched as Langhorne’s words went through his mind.
The time will come when violence mars the peace God Himself has created for His children, and He will weep to see it. Yet there is no virtue in attempting to deny that truth, for Truth is Truth, and God has given all of you freedom of will to choose your own course. Let no man forget that God breathed the breath of life into all Adams and all Eves at the same instant, in the same minute of the same day under the same sun. Whatever the anger you may feel, whatever the fury which impels you to raise hands against one another, you are all equally His children in His eyes and love. So on the day when you face one another with anger in your heart and weapons in your hands, keep that memory in your minds and souls. If war you must, then let mercy stay your hand against the helpless and compassion for the defeated keep you clean of the spiritual poison which must destroy any whom it touches.
“So I should assume your purpose today is to demonstrate your ‘mercy’ and ‘compassion,’ should I?” he asked after a moment, the words bitter in his mouth.
“Something of the sort,” Sahmyrsyt agreed.
“But something rather less than that for our inquisitors, I imagine,” the bishop said harshly.
“‘As he sows, so shall he reap, and the mercy he denies to others shall be denied to him in his turn,’” Sahmyrsyt quoted softly. “The sermon was Archbishop Maikel’s, but the words are Chihiro’s, and in this case rightly applied. You know my Emperor and Empress’ policy, and so do any inquisitors in your army who’ve chosen not to leave that bastard Clyntahn’s service.”
“And you expect me to turn consecrated priests over to you to be murdered, is that it?” Searing anger burned in the question, but Sahmyrsyt only nodded. “And what in Shan-wei’s name makes you think I’d do that?!”
“In some ways, I don’t really care whether you do it or not,” Sahmyrsyt said calmly. “I’m a simple man at heart, Bishop Gorthyk. I honor Emperor Cayleb and Empress Sharleyan, and my orders from them are pretty clear, but I prefer simple solutions, myself. That means I’m perfectly all right with what happened at Fort Tairys last winter, if that’s the way you want to handle it instead of accepting terms. But you might want to think about the other eighteen or nineteen thousand men trapped in that spider rat hole with you.”
“You think any of my men are afraid to die for God?” Nybar sneered.
“For God?” S
ahmyrsyt shrugged. “Maybe not. For that fat, fornicating pig Clyntahn?” He rolled his eyes under the solid barrier of his eyebrows. “Anybody willing to die for him is so frigging stupid we should go ahead and cull him now, before he reproduces!”
Nybar’s face went first red and then white with fury. Yet even as the rage went through him, a part of him knew Sahmyrsyt had a point. Little though he wanted to admit it, even to himself, the very foundations of the Jihad had begun to quiver. Even in the Army of God, there were those beginning to differentiate between the Grand Inquisitor and Mother Church. He and his chaplains and inquisitors jumped on that sentiment with both feet whenever it reared its head, but it was like trying to quench a grass fire in high summer. Each flame they extinguished threw out its own fiery embers before it died, and the realization that the Army of Fairkyn had been left to die in place had fanned them like a high wind.
“If you expect to goad me into some … intemperate response,” he bit out, “I have no intention of obliging you. And whatever your murdering friends may have done at Fort Tairys, I think you’ll find Fairkyn a much bloodier and harder to chew mouthful.”
“Whether or not you surrender now is up to you,” Sahmyrsyt replied. “What happens in the end if you don’t surrender is another matter. At the moment, you have just over fifteen thousand infantry, twenty-seven hundred cavalry, and eighty-three guns. No, wait.” He shook his head. “It’s eighty-two guns after that Fultyn Rifle burst Friday in Captain Zakrai’s battery, isn’t it?” His smile was a razor. “I, on the other hand, have the next best thing to eighty thousand infantry and cavalry, and over two thousand angle-guns, field guns, and mortars.” He shrugged. “I’ll grant you most of them are mortars, not angle-guns. I’ll even grant that we won’t be able to target your positions as accurately as we’d like and that assaulting uphill is never easy. I don’t have any doubt about the outcome if my army has to assault, however. And while I don’t plan to be playing ‘The Pikes of Kolstyr’ on the way up, I tend to doubt many of my men will be remembering Langhorne’s injunctions about mercy and compassion once we get to the top. They’ll have their orders about giving quarter and taking prisoners, of course. But given the Army of God’s outstanding record of restraint after victory, I’m sure you’ll understand how it is that sometimes the troops get out of hand.”
An icy cannonball congealed in Gorthyk Nybar’s belly as Sahmyrsyt catalogued his own strength so calmly … and so accurately. There was no way—no way under God’s golden sun—Sahmyrsyt could have those numbers, yet he did. And as badly as Nybar wanted to believe he’d exaggerated his own strength, he was sickly certain the Charisian hadn’t.
“I suppose we’ll just have to find out then, won’t we?” the bishop heard himself say.
“I suppose we will.” Sahmyrsyt glanced up at the sun. The morning was ticking away, the shadows shortening, and he looked back at Nybar. “In that case, this parley’s over. The truce extends until thirteen o’clock. I’d recommend that you and your chaplains spend the time in prayer. You may not have another opportunity.”
He twitched his head at his companions, and the three of them turned away and trotted back towards the redoubt without another word.
* * *
“Are you sure this is going to work, Sir?” Lieutenant Mahkgrudyr asked quietly as Sir Bartyn Sahmyrsyt checked his watch. He and the general stood in the shadow of the looming observation tower, and the lieutenant shrugged when Sahmyrsyt glanced at him. “It sounded really good when Colonel Ahlgyrnahn proposed it, Sir, but that was then and this is now.”
“I have a great deal of confidence in Colonel Ahlgyrnahn and his men, Cayleb,” Sahmyrsyt said mildly. “And Seijin Ahbraim’s friends were good enough to confirm the accuracy of his navigation in addition to keeping tabs on Nybar’s troop and artillery strength for us. Major Sahndyrsyn’s men went exactly where they meant to go. So is there some other reason you don’t expect it to work?”
“No, Sir. But I can’t help remembering what Emperor Cayleb said in Corisande. He and General Chermyn even coined a term for it: the KISS Principle.”
“‘Keep It Simple, Stupid,’” Sahmyrsyt said with a nod. “Baron Green Valley’s fond of the same phrase. But when you come down to it, Colonel Ahlgyrnahn’s suggestion was about as simple as they come. Hard work, true, but certainly simple.”
Mahkgrudyr didn’t—quite—glare at his general, but he was clearly less than amused by Sahmyrsyt’s ironic tone. And, his superior reminded himself, young Mahkgrudyr was both older and much more experienced than his boyish appearance might suggest. He’d been a Marine sergeant for Emperor Cayleb’s Corisande campaign, and when the bulk of the Royal Charisian Marine field force transferred to the new Imperial Army, Mahkgrudyr had come with it. He’d been all but functionally illiterate before he enlisted, but he’d caught the eye of his superiors in Corisande and been recommended for a commission before the transfer. The Army had agreed with the recommendation, and the Royal Chisholmian Army, with its tradition of recruiting commoners, had more experience than most at filling any holes in its volunteers’ education. That was how he’d been sent off to the Imperial Officers School—which had previously been the Royal Officers School—at Maikelberg and emerged as a shiny new lieutenant just in time for Sahmyrsyt to snap him up as an aide. He’d also emerged as a committed bibliophile, determined—apparently—to catch up on the last several centuries’ worth of the reading he’d missed earlier in life.
“Seriously, Cayleb,” the general said now, reaching out to rest one hand on the lieutenant’s shoulder, “I think Ahlgyrnahn came up with a perfectly workable idea that’s going to save a lot of lives … assuming it works. And given his men’s experience and Colonel Mahknail’s input, I think it will work. If it doesn’t,” he shrugged, “we’ll just have to do it the hard way after all.”
Mahkgrudyr looked back at him for a moment, then nodded, and Sahmyrsyt started the climb up the observation tower’s steep zigzag stairs with his aide at his heels.
* * *
“Get ready,” Colonel Kynt Ahlgyrnahn said, looking at his own watch, and Major Bryntwyrth Sahndyrsyn, CO of the 63rd Infantry’s 4th Company, smiled and reached for the brass ring.
Major Sahndyrsyn was three years younger than his colonel, and like almost all of the 63rd’s men, he’d been born in New Province. In fact, Sahndyrsyn had been born and raised in Irondale, and his family had been miners for generations. A lot of Ahlgyrnahn’s men could have said that about their families, and at least half of them had been miners themselves before volunteering when Ahlgyrnahn’s regiment was recruited back up to strength after its losses to the Sword of Schueler. The original 63rd, a New Province-based regiment of regulars, had suffered well over fifty percent casualties in that first dreadful winter, and the majority of its new personnel had enlisted to avenge brothers, fathers, or cousins. They brought a certain practicality to the pursuit of that vengeance, however, and when Baron Green Valley had left General Makgrygair’s 2nd Rifle Division to keep an eye on Fairkyn pending General Sahmyrsyt’s arrival, they’d found themselves with time on their hands.
Colonel Ahlgyrnahn, who’d been the regiment’s senior surviving company commander after the Sword, was a firm believer that idle hands were Shan-wei’s workshop, so when Sahndyrsyn—whose long-armed, short-legged physique and sloping forehead concealed a frighteningly acute brain from the casual observer—approached him with the suggestion, he’d leapt on it. In fact, he’d authorized the regiment to begin work even before taking the idea to General Makgrygair.
Makgrygair had been at least a little dubious, but he, too, was a regular who recognized the negative consequences of too much idleness. He’d allowed the 63rd to continue its efforts and even championed their idea to Sahmyrsyt when he arrived. Fortunately, Colonel Thyadohr Mahknail, Sahmyrsyt’s chief engineer, had embraced it enthusiastically when the rest of the Army of New Northland came up. In fact, his surveyors had helped materially in directing the effort and he’d sent back to S
iddar City for something a bit more … energetic than gunpowder.
Not all of Fairkyn’s bluffs were solid bedrock. That was especially true on their southern edge, where the ex-miners had toiled away for two and a half months, and the result was a three-thousand-yard tunnel extending into them from the south. The 63rd had managed to finish the excavation just in time to avoid the flooding threat of the spring floods—that time pressure had been a large part of General Makgrygair’s original skepticism—and the site chosen for its mouth was on the reverse slope of one of the low hills which was still above water level, completely concealed from even the defenders’ observation towers. But the tunnel itself climbed steadily as it angled to the east and ended in a two-hundred-foot-long perpendicular gallery, like the crossbar on a capital “T,” directly under the outermost of Gorthyk Nybar’s defensive earthworks. The miners had hoped to drive it deeper into Nybar’s position, but they’d encountered solid rock well short of their planned endpoint. That gallery lay seventy feet below the entrenchments, however, and they’d packed it with seven thousand pounds of the Charisians’ new “Lywysite.” After that, the last thirty yards of the approach tunnel had been refilled with hard-packed earth to focus the blast upward by preventing it from blowing back out the mouth of the mine when the moment came.
Ahlgyrnahn wasn’t certain he really believed the Charisians’ estimates of the new explosive’s effectiveness, but he figured three and a half tons of anything ought to make a satisfying bang, And since Sahndyrsyn’s company had come up with the idea, it was only fair the major execute its final stage. Now Ahlgyrnahn watched the sweep hand bite off the last few seconds. Then he looked up.