“Go,” he said simply.
Sahndyrsyn hooked his index finger through the ring on the polished wooden box and drew a deep breath.
“Fire in the hole!” he announced, and pulled firmly.
* * *
“Perhaps you should consider surrendering, Gorthyk,” Father Charlz Kaillyt said somberly. He stood gazing out one window of Gorthyk Nybar’s office in Fairkyn, and the bishop looked at his sword-straight spine incredulously.
“You can’t be serious, Charlz! Surrender to a slew of godless heretics before they’ve even fired a single shot?!”
“If you don’t surrender, the men are going to starve to death,” Kaillyt replied flatly. “The only thing you’ll accomplish by not surrendering is to get even more of them killed in the end.”
“No, that isn’t the only thing I’ll accomplish.” Nybar’s tone was equally flat. “If those bastards assault us here, then by Chihiro we’ll kill a lot of them, too.”
“And achieve what?” Kaillyt wheeled from the window and glared at the bishop.
They’d known one another for years, and Kaillyt—originally the senior chaplain of Nybar’s Langhorne Division—had become the Army of Fairkyn’s acting intendant. He was a Schuelerite, although he’d never been a formal member of the Inquisition, and he was less fiery than many. Yet Nybar had never doubted his quiet, determined opposition to the heresy. Now Kaillyt raised a right hand which had lost its thumb and two fingers to frostbite over the winter and pointed at his bishop with his ring finger, in the gesture he’d acquired since his mutilation.
“However deep you stack the bodies, you aren’t going to stop them, and you aren’t going to save Bishop Militant Bahrnabai—assuming the heretics haven’t already overrun him, as well. It’s obvious the Inquisition completely underestimated how many men the Charisians can put into the field, Gorthyk. I don’t doubt for one moment that Sahmyrsyt gave you accurate numbers—why in Shan-wei’s name shouldn’t he have? It’s not like we’ll be telling anyone, is it? And the truth is that if he has half the strength he says he does, this army is already completely screwed, so why inflate the numbers? And we already know the Siddarmarkians are putting fresh regiments into the field as quickly as they can get rifles into their hands, as well. You can’t possibly kill enough of them to keep them from taking your position away from you, and I don’t want to see any more of our men dead. My God, Gorthyk! Look what they’ve already given us! They deserve a chance to live.”
The last sentence came out slowly, deliberately, and Nybar’s face tightened. Father Charlz wasn’t saying anything he hadn’t already thought. His command was already lost, as far as the rest of the Army of God was concerned. Whether they were prisoners or dead, they would be equally off the field, yet in the brutal calculus of war, every heretic they killed would be one less to continue the attack afterward. It was a cold, despicable logic—the sort to appeal to a Zhaspahr Clyntahn—but that didn’t mean it was invalid logic.
And if he did surrender.…
“I can’t turn you and the other inquisitors over to them, Charlz,” he said quietly. “I just can’t.”
“Much as I despise the heretics,” Kaillyt told him, “Sahmyrsyt has a point. They gave us fair warning two years ago. We can’t pretend—I can’t pretend—we didn’t see this coming, and the bitter truth is that it’s far better for a handful of God’s priests to die for Him than for an entire army to be put to the heretics’ equivalent of the Punishment. And another truth is that if I were a heretic and truly believed I was obeying God’s will, I’d be every bit as angry they are over how many of their fellow heretics have already suffered the Punishment.” He shook his head, eyes dark. “I know it doesn’t seem that way, but they really are being merciful if they’re willing to settle for so little vengeance. And the Writ tells us Mother Church is sustained by the blood of martyrs. I have no more desire to die than the next man, but there are far worse ways—and far worse causes for which—a man could surrender his life.”
“But I don’t thin—”
A roll of thunder like the end of the world cut Nybar off in mid-syllable.
* * *
A volcano blasted its bowels into the heavens.
It was larger and louder by far than the greatest, most deafening explosion any of the witnesses had ever imagined—ever could have imagined. The Lywysite-packed gallery disappeared into a vast mushroom-headed cloud and a crater over two hundred yards wide, four hundred yards long, east-to-west, and the next best thing to eighty feet deep. Of the six hundred infantrymen and seventy artillerists manning that stretch of works at the moment of detonation, seventeen survived; the others were either killed instantly, mortally wounded, or buried alive to die a slower and more terrifying death.
Unlike the Army of God, the Army of New Northland had known what was going to happen … and the Republic of Siddarmark Army’s 2nd Rifle Division had awaited this day with hungry anticipation. They had a debt to settle with the Army of God and Zhaspahr Clyntahn, and so far, they’d had to watch their Charisian allies exact most of that debt’s payment on their behalf. In fact, the fact that Sir Bartyn Sahmyrsyt knew exactly how they felt had driven much of his decision against allowing starvation to defeat Gorthyk Nybar’s army without firing a shot. Time was of the essence, as well, but that had been only a part of the decision-making process, and not the largest one. It was essential to blood the new Siddarmarkian formations—to give them actual battlefield experience, and the confidence which went with it, with their new weapons and their new doctrine—just as it was essential to demonstrate to the Army of God that someone besides Charis was fully capable of demolishing it in battle. All of that was true, yet the bottom line was that Sahmyrsyt—and Cayleb Ahrmahk and Greyghor Stohnar—would have made exactly the same choice anyway.
It was time the Republic of Siddarmark Army got some of its own back.
Makgrygair had tasked his 1st and 3rd Brigade with the actual assault, with 2nd Brigade in reserve, and they’d begun their preparation over a month earlier, out of sight of Fairkyn’s defenders. They’d rehearsed the attack no less than five times, although it had been impossible for them to accurately project the exact size and shape of the eventual crater, and the one thing their commanders had insisted upon again and again was the need to stay out of the crater itself. The mine was a means to an end, not an end in its own right. The very last thing the Army of New Northland needed was for the assault element to flow into the crater and attempt to use it as a defensive bridgehead rather than continuing to drive the attack aggressively home.
There were over four thousand men in each assault column, and they headed up the bluffs’ steep slope, assisted by the debris which spilled down from the crater’s lip. It was a hard, exhausting slog even with that assistance, but sixty six-inch angle-guns opened fire on the defensive positions to either side of the crater. The defenders in those positions were so stunned—physically, not simply mentally—by the stupendous force of the explosion and the almost equally sudden bombardment that the attackers had crossed the no-man’s-land between besiegers and besieged and climbed the heights before Nybar’s men could even consider any sort of organized response.
First Brigade was on the south, 3rd Brigade on the north. The guns went silent as they reached the top of the bluff into which the crater had been blown, and each brigade faced away from the crater. They swept outward with bayonets and grenades, bursting into the trenches which had been abruptly flanked. Rifles and pistols crackled spitefully, grenade explosions sent shrapnel into the faces of panicked, confused defenders, and those defenders crumbled.
There was nothing wrong with the Army of Fairkyn’s courage, but its men were perpetually hungry and already oppressed by the knowledge that the siege could have only one ultimate outcome. Nor were even men prepared to sell their lives dearly in God’s service immune to the effects of shock, cataclysmic violence, and surprise. At least half of them simply fled, falling back before the attack, seeking some fresh position where they migh
t hope to reorganize and hold. Others dove into bunkers or dugouts, repeating the same instinctive mistake the St. Fraidyr Division had made at Esthyr’s Abbey and Colonel Somyrs’ regiment had made at Five Forks … and with the same result. Grenades turned what should have been defensive strong points into slaughterhouses, and the assault stormed on past them.
By nightfall, half of the Army of Fairkyn’s outer defenses were in Allied hands.
.VIII.
City of Zion, The Temple Lands
“Yes, Your Eminence?” Bishop Markys Gohdard’s tone was slightly surprised and he started to rise as Wyllym Rayno entered his office unannounced, but the archbishop waved him back into his swivel chair.
Gohdard was a distinguished-looking man, with elegantly groomed silver hair, blue eyes, and a taste for expensively tailored cassocks. He’d been a youth pastor many years ago and remained active in the Inquisition’s youth outreach ministries even today, and he was a doting father of three whose eldest son had recently been ordained as an upper-priest in the Order of Schueler.
He was also the man in charge of Rayno’s and Zhaspahr Clyntahn’s personal security details, and he’d lost track long ago of how many of their potential—and personal—enemies he’d … dealt with.
“I’m sure you’ve heard rumors about Fairkyn by now,” Rayno said without preamble and without even extending his ring of office to be kissed. His tone suggested that a man in Gohdard’s position damned well should have heard them if he hadn’t. “Well, they’re true. Nybar surrendered two days ago. His last message reached Maigwair this morning—he got a carrier wyvern to Lake City and the semaphore sent it on from there—and that’s probably where the rumors are coming from, but Maigwair still hasn’t informed the Grand Inquisitor of that tiny fact. In fact, he doesn’t seem to have informed anyone.”
Gohdard’s eyes narrowed. He didn’t ask how Rayno knew what had happened at Fairkyn, the better part of five thousand miles from Zion, if Maigwair hadn’t informed anyone at all. It was the Inquisition’s business to know things, and Gohdard was more familiar than most with the arrangements which made sure that happened. He simply sat, hands folded on his desk, waiting.
“The Grand Inquisitor is … perturbed by the Captain General’s silence on this minor matter,” Rayno continued. “He feels it may indicate a certain dereliction of duty, or even something more serious. Because of that, he feels it’s time to begin considering all of Mother Church’s options where her Army is concerned. Accordingly, he’s decided to convene a meeting of a small, select group to begin that process.”
He extracted a folded sheet of paper from a cassock pocket and extended it to Gohdard. The bishop unfolded it, and only his many years of experience prevented him from pursing his lips in a silent whistle as he scanned the fifteen names written on it. There were nine vicars on the list—the other six were archbishops—and all of them had been closely associated with planning for or actively organizing the Army of God. At least seven of the vicars were personal friends of Allayn Maigwair and four of them sat on the Council of Vicars’ Army Oversight Committee. All of the archbishops headed or sat on various sub-committees associated with manning and managing the Army of God and Navy of God, and three of them had been Maigwair’s protégés prior to the Jihad.
“This needs to be handled discreetly,” Rayno said. Gohdard looked back up, one eyebrow arched, and his superior smiled thinly. “I’m afraid Vicar Allayn is unaware that all of the men on that list have quietly—and privately—assured Vicar Zhaspahr of their loyalty to Mother Church. Not all of them are aware the others have done so either, however, and the Grand Inquisitor believes it’s time they were made aware of one another’s positions vis-à-vis the Army—and its command structure—and the high regard in which he personally holds each of them. Under the circumstances, it might be best to find a venue outside the Temple in which they might convene for a quiet gathering under Vicar Stauntyn’s guidance. One in which he might acquaint them with the many difficult but necessary decisions which may have to be made in Mother Church’s name.”
“I understand, Your Eminence.”
Gohdard bent his head in a seated bow and laid the list of names on his blotter. Stauntyn Waimyan had been one of Zhaspahr Clyntahn’s allies on the Council of Vicars long before the Jihad. Gohdard was fairly confident that Waimyan’s loyalty to the Grand Inquisitor had less to do with principle than with the sorts of deals, debts, and secrets which fueled so many of the vicarate’s relationships. What mattered in this case, however, was that his name wasn’t on the list Rayno had just handed him, because Vicar Stauntyn had never had a hand in the creation of the Army of God. He knew nothing at all about strategy, tactics, logistics, or recruiting. In fact, Gohdard was none too sure Waimyan even knew what a bayonet was or what a soldier was supposed to do with one of them! If he was supposed to “guide” this meeting, he’d be there as Zhaspahr Clyntahn’s personal representative, and every other man on that list would know it. Any message or instructions he delivered would come straight from Clyntahn … with the advantage that Clyntahn wouldn’t have to deliver them personally.
And any instructions Zhaspahr Clyntahn delivered to this group could only be the first step towards removing Maigwair from his offices. And since the vicar was a member of the Group of Four, he would have to be removed both very publicly and for rather … spectacular cause. Something which would justify the Grand Vicar acting swiftly, unilaterally, and above all decisively, in a way which made it clear this was not a case of simple factionalism or the elimination of someone who’d become a rival for power but a decision forced upon him by his supreme responsibility to Mother Church and the Jihad. That sort of cause would just happen to require the sort of punishment which would dissuade anyone else—and especially anyone in the Army who might have delusions of loyalty to the fallen vicar—from following in Maigwair’s tracks. Setting the stage for that would require some delicate maneuvering, and if the vicars and archbishops on Rayno’s list were unaware that all of them were Zhaspahr Clyntahn’s men, getting them together somewhere out of the public eye while they got their marching orders—and making sure all of them had those orders straight—had much to recommend it.
“Will you be attending, Your Eminence?” the bishop asked.
“No.” Rayno shook his head. “Under the circumstances, Vicar Zhaspahr’s of the opinion that it would be unwise for me to drop out of sight at a time like this. He believes Vicar Allayn might draw an unwarranted conclusion if I seemed to be evading him. In fact, he intends to call for a meeting with Vicar Allayn, Vicar Rhobair, and Vicar Zahmsyn—at which I’ll be in attendance—to discuss the situation in New Northland and Hildermoss. I’d appreciate knowing how quickly you’ll be able to arrange this matter—” a tiny finger flick indicated the list of names on Gohdard’s desk “—so that we can set a time for that meeting.”
“Of course, Your Eminence. I’ll try to have that information for you by this afternoon. Will that be soon enough?”
“It will indeed. In that case, I’ll leave you to your duties.”
This time, Rayno did extend his ring hand, and Gohdard stood and bowed across his desk to kiss it.
* * *
“Excuse me, Your Grace.”
Zhaspahr Clyntahn looked up from the memo he’d been dictating with a flicker of annoyance. He hated being interrupted, but the annoyance vanished quickly as he saw Wyllym Rayno’s expression.
“A moment, Father,” he said to the secretary, and pointed at his office door. “We’ll finish that after I’ve dealt with whatever brings Archbishop Wyllym here. I’m sure it won’t take long.”
“Of course, Your Grace,” the under-priest murmured. He withdrew with a courteous and respectful bow to both of his superiors, and Clyntahn sat back.
“Well?”
“Markys has submitted his recommendation to me, Your Grace. Before I approve it, I thought it best to get your view on it.”
“Well?” the Grand Inquisitor repeated a bit mo
re impatiently.
“Markys suggests Second Pasquale’s as the venue, Your Grace. He believes it would lend itself well to security, from several perspectives, and if the location is agreeable, he proposes to arrange the meeting itself for early tomorrow afternoon. He was thinking of about fifteen o’clock so that none of them would be conspicuous by their absence during luncheon.”
Clyntahn frowned, not in disapproval but thoughtfully.
Second Pasquale’s—more formally known as the Second Church of the Holy Pasquale of the Faithful of Zion to differentiate it from the original, older, and more prestigious Church of the Holy Pasquale of the Faithful of Zion—was located several blocks outside the Temple’s precincts in a relatively quiet area of Zion. Despite the fact that it lay outside the Temple proper, however, its location backed up against a section of townhouses and luxurious apartment buildings in which many of the archbishops and senior bishops too junior for quarters in the Temple itself had their lodgings. As such, primary responsibility for security in its vicinity had become the business of the Inquisition rather than the Temple Guard over the last two or three years.
He could have wished for a little more physical separation from the Temple, yet he understood the advantages which had drawn Gohdard to that location. The vicars and archbishops should find it relatively simple to arrive at Second Pasquale’s without drawing attention to their movements, and the Inquisition already controlled the patrols in the area. Gohdard would have no problem clamping the necessary tight security into place.
“That sounds reasonable,” he said after a few moments’ consideration. “Tell him I approve. Then inform Waimyan that he’s to dine with me tonight. He and I need to go over exactly what needs to happen.”
“At once, Your Grace.” Rayno bowed slightly. “Should I also inform Vicar Allayn and the others that you need to meet with them after lunch tomorrow?”
“No.” Clyntahn shook his head. “I don’t want that bastard to get even a sniff that anything special is going on. I’ll have one of my clerks draft the invitations this afternoon and send them through the regular channels.” He smiled coldly. “Given the debacle in New Northland, I don’t imagine any of the others will find it too difficult to set aside a little time on their calendar.”