“No. No!” Trynchyr shook his head. “Just … just see to it they do their duty, Major.”
He waved one hand in a tossing-away gesture, turned, and headed back towards the camp’s administrative block. Chestyrtyn watched him go with a sense of relief, then turned and resumed his own walk across the parade ground.
Captain Mohrtyn Ahdymsyn, his own youthful second-in-command, was waiting for him—or had damned well better be waiting for him—in his office. Ahdymsyn wasn’t the sharpest arrow in the quiver by a long chalk, but at least that very lack of imagination made him unlikely to come up with any bright ideas—or with any ideas, really—of his own. It was a sorry note when someone who couldn’t be trusted to think for himself was a more desirable subordinate than someone who could do that thinking. In this instance, though, obedience to orders was going to be far more important than initiative.
And the wrong sort of “initiative” could damned well get us all killed, the major thought grimly.
Zhefytha Chestyrtyn was devout, he was orthodox, but whatever else he might be, he was no fool, and he had no death wish. He’d made certain—unobtrusively, of course—that every man of his remaining guard force had heard what had happened to the guards and inquisitors who’d overseen the forced march of the Camp Tairek prisoners to Sardahn. The prisoners had made it in the end, but almost two-thirds of the guard force and every ordained inquisitor who’d set out from Camp Tairek had been less fortunate. The nightmare reports of the survivors had made it clear—far clearer than the Inquisition undoubtedly wished—that the attacking “terrorists” had reserved their greatest fury for the priests and guards who’d been most brutal during the march.
Not that Chestyrtyn and his men had needed those reports. Chestyrtyn himself had been present when Zherohm Clymyns, Fhrancys Ostean, and Zhorj Myzuhno were shot down like so many prong bucks at Kuhnymychu Ruhstahd’s execution. He’d been there when the note signed “Dialydd Mab” was opened, and his company had been dispatched to “chase down” the killer. Which—thank Langhorne!—they’d been unable to do. Chestyrtyn had paced off the distance from which Dialydd Mab had taken those shots, and he’d wanted no part of what a marksman like that could have done to his pursuers.
It was remarkable, really, how Camp Chihiro’s inmates’ treatment had improved after that object lesson. It was also remarkable how many of the camp’s more senior officers—especially those with strings to pull—had been transferred to other duties over the next couple of months. Major Chestyrtyn had been only one of the Camp Chihiro guard forces’ officers at the time Dialydd Mab had paid his visit. Now he’d inherited command, and he wished with all his heart that he hadn’t.
* * *
“All right,” Major Symyn Zylwyky said. “Colonel Veldamahn’s been what one might call abundantly clear about the need to let these bastards surrender if they want to. I have to assume that’s because Brigadier Bahrtalymu made that point to him. I trust all of you will bear it in mind?”
It wasn’t really a question. Major Zylwyky commanded 1st Company of the 19th Mounted Regiment, and he was a no-nonsense sort of officer. He let the silence linger for several seconds, then grunted in satisfaction.
“Good,” he continued. “In that case, Shaimus, your platoon has lead.”
Lieutenant Shaimus Dahnvyrs, commanding 1st Platoon, nodded in understanding.
“Dunkyn,” Zylwyky turned his attention to Lieutenant Dunkyn Murphai, 3rd Platoon’s CO, “you’ll have Shaimus’ back. Once he’s secured the gates and the guard towers on the eastern perimeter, you’ll move straight for the administrative block. After that—”
* * *
“Oh, shit,” Ahntahn Ruhsail muttered.
“What?” Private Stahdmaiyr said, turning quickly. Then his jaw tightened.
“Oh, shit,” he agreed.
“Better find the Corporal,” Ruhsail said, watching the long, broad column of extremely well-armed horsemen trotting up the high road towards him.
* * *
“They’re here, Sir,” Sergeant Kaspahrt announced grimly.
“Wonderful,” Chestyrtyn sighed.
He looked down at the report on his desk, then smiled crookedly and tossed it over his shoulder. The individual sheets of paper separated, fluttering like awkward ghosts, and he shoved his chair back from the desk.
“Go find Ahdymsyn,” he said. “Sit on him—respectfully, of course. If he even looks like doing something stupid, hit him over the head with whatever you can find.”
“Yes, Sir!”
The sergeant sketched Langhorne’s scepter in salute, turned on his heel, and disappeared out the office door. Chestyrtyn watched him go, then picked up his sword belt and buckled it around his waist.
* * *
“Company, halt!”
The command—and Major Zylwyky’s raised hand—brought the entire column to a halt. The major’s eyes narrowed as a single man in the uniform of the Army of God with a major’s insignia stepped out of Camp Chihiro’s gates and stood alone, facing the Charisians.
The earthworks which had been thrown up outside the camp’s fence were sturdy enough to offer the certainty of painful casualties if they were defended. They seemed a little extensive for someplace which was supposed to have the garrison the Army of New Northland’s intelligence reports estimated Chihiro had. It was always possible that strength estimate had been in error, but now, as he studied them in the early-afternoon sunlight, he realized there’d been absolutely no rush to man those fighting positions. In fact, the guards he could see in the watchtowers on either side of the gate were rather ostentatiously looking anywhere but at his column.
After a moment, Zylwyky touched his horse with a heel and started slowly forward, followed—without orders, he thought dryly—by Zhaikyb Presmyn, his company sergeant major. Presmyn was almost twice his major’s age and trusted any Temple Boy about as far as he could have walked across Cherry Bay. Zylwyky didn’t need to look over his shoulder to know that the retaining strap on Presmyn’s holster had been unbuttoned.
He stopped his horse six feet from the Army of God major and sat there, looking down at the other man from the height advantage of his saddle.
“Major Chestyrtyn, Army of God,” the Temple Boy said.
Zylwyky had heard an accent like his before. It came from the border area between the Harchong Empire and the Desnairian Empire, and Zylwyky’s eyes narrowed as he heard it. People from the Harchong-Desnair border had a well-earned reputation for devout orthodoxy. Some might have preferred the phrase “foaming fanaticism,” in fact.
“Major Symyn Zylwyky, Imperial Charisian Army,” he replied flatly.
“I assume you’re here to take possession of Camp Chihiro,” Chestyrtyn said.
“I am, in the name of Their Majesties and Protector Greyghor.”
Zylwyky’s tone was even flatter, and Chestyrtyn nodded.
“Major,” he said, “I have strict orders from Bishop Failyx Mahkgyvyrn not to surrender my post. However—”
He drew his sword very carefully by the quillons and held it up, offering Zylwyky the hilt.
.VI.
Lake City, Tarikah Province, Republic of Siddarmark
“So, Nephew,” Taychau Daiyang said, porcelain wine cup nestled between his palms as he sat on the shaded veranda and enjoyed the cool afternoon breeze blowing in off East Wing Lake, “ought I to assume that you bring me yet more tidings of gladness and joy?”
The wine cup in the Earl of Rainbow Waters’ hands did not contain wine, and he raised it slightly, nostrils flaring as he inhaled the scent of the whiskey it did contain. The remains of a light luncheon lay on the wicker table in front of him, and he raised one mobile eyebrow at Captain of Horse Medyng Hwojahn, the Baron of Wind Song.
“‘Gladness and joy’ are not the precise terms I would have chosen, My Lord,” Wind Song replied.
“For some reason, I fail to find myself overwhelmed by surprise,” Rainbow Waters said dryly. He took one hand from his wine c
up and gestured at another of the chairs on the broad veranda. “Sit and tell me what fresh non-gladness brings you here.”
“Thank you, My Lord.”
Baron Wind Song settled into the indicated chair and, at his uncle’s gesture, poured some of the truly excellent Chisholmian whiskey into another of the all-but-priceless wine cups. He took a moment to savor the first small sip, then squared his shoulders and looked across the lunch table at the earl.
“There is some good news, My Lord,” he said. “Earl Silken Hills reports that he’s established his positions as directed by Vicar Allayn. At this time, all I have is his preliminary semaphore message to that effect, but Captain of Horse Hywanlohng assures me that a complete written report, including maps, will arrive by courier as soon as possible.”
Falling Waters nodded. Wind Song was correct; that was good news, and if Captain of Horse Hywanlohng promised the complete report would arrive shortly, Silken Hills could be confident that it truly would. That wasn’t something he could have taken for granted from all of his subordinates, unfortunately. Too many of them were imbued with the philosophy that it was better to fend off unpleasantness today by promising their superiors whatever they wanted to hear for tomorrow. That, the earl had been forced to admit to himself many years ago, was an attitude endemic to much of the Harchongese aristocracy.
Unlike most officers of his rank, however, Kaishau Hywanlohng neither held an aristocratic title nor stood heir to one, although he was related to several noble families. In fact, he was some sort of remote cousin of the Duke of Yellow Dragon, although Silken Hills doubted that even Harchongese genealogists could have determined the exact degree of kinship. However low-ranked he might have been in the Empire’s nobility, Hywanlohng was a hard-bitten military professional who’d served for over a quarter century in the Imperial Harchongese Army before his assignment to the Mighty Host of God and the Archangels. At present, he was Earl Silken Hills’ equivalent of Baron Wind Song, the effective chief of staff of what had now officially become known as the Southern Mighty Host of God and the Archangels.
“I have the impression from Captain of Horse Hywanlohng’s message,” Wind Song continued a bit delicately, “that some considerable portion of Earl Silken Hills’ line east of the Black Wyverns consists of fortified posts screened by patrols rather than a solid line of entrenchments.”
“Given his strength and the width of the front he’s been instructed to hold, I find that not surprising,” Rainbow Waters said after a moment. “It seems reasonable enough to me. Unless Captain of Horse Hywanlohng’s fuller report shows some reason to reconsider that, I see no reason to trouble Archbishop Militant Gustyv or Vicar Allayn with an overabundance of details.” He smiled briefly. “They have so many details to keep track of already, after all.”
“Of course, My Lord,” Wind Song agreed.
Officially, Silken Hills had been instructed to fortify his entire front in sufficient strength and depth to withstand the sort of whirlwind attack which had overwhelmed Cahnyr Kaitswyrth’s Army of Glacierheart. In fact, that would have been impossible, and Wind Song knew his uncle was confident Archbishop Militant Gustyv Walkyr had been well aware of that when he passed on Allayn Maigwair’s instructions to that effect. He also knew that the Mighty Host’s commander strongly suspected those instructions had been issued more to placate Zhaspahr Clyntahn than because Maigwair had believed for a moment that they could actually have been obeyed by mortal men.
“And now for the less good news,” Rainbow Waters prompted, and Wind Song nodded.
“We have official confirmation that the heretics have liber—” The baron paused in mid-word and cleared his throat. “That is to say, we have official confirmation that the heretics have captured Camp Chihiro,” he said instead and was rewarded by an even briefer smile from his uncle.
“While news of any reverse must be less than welcome to any loyal son of Mother Church, it would be foolish to deny that this particular reverse simplifies our own situation somewhat,” Rainbow Waters remarked after a moment.
Wind Song let the observation pass without comment. Bishop Merkyl Sahndhaim, the Mighty Host’s official intendant, would be … less than happy to hear about Camp Chihiro’s fall. The baron suspected he would be even less happy when he heard how Camp Chihiro had fallen, but there wasn’t any actual confirmation that the camp guards had surrendered themselves, the prisoners, and Camp Chihiro’s inquisitors without firing so much as a single shot.
Hopefully, there wouldn’t be.
In the meantime, however, the official loss of Camp Chihiro should mitigate the pressure on Rainbow Waters to somehow race the almost five hundred miles between Lake City and Gray Hill to prevent its loss. Wind Song was pretty sure Sahndhaim had recognized the impossibility of doing anything of the sort, but the intendant had been under immense pressure from the Grand Inquisitor and the Inquisitor General. On the other hand, he’d been far less insistent about it than he might have been, given that pressure from above. Bishop Merkyl’s support for Vicar Zhaspahr’s policies was well known, but he was an intelligent man. More than that, he had more than enough faith in the Mighty Host’s orthodoxy and zeal to be willing to accept Rainbow Waters’ military analyses and arguments, even when those analyses weighed against the … overly impetuous fulfillment of the Grand Inquisitor’s designs. He was also intelligent enough to accept Rainbow Waters’ judgment without openly arguing against the Grand Inquisitor’s instructions. It was an often tricky tightrope, but Sahndhaim was well acquainted with the techniques Mother Church’s bureaucrats had evolved over the centuries to protect their own backs.
They were almost as skilled in that regard as Harchongese bureaucrats.
“The other bit of news on that front,” the baron continued after a moment, “is that the column from Camp Saint Charlz will be arriving by barge tomorrow or the next day.”
“I see.”
Rainbow Waters sipped whiskey. Despite his own deep faith and belief in the Jihad, the earl had been much more than simply dismayed by the conditions he’d discovered at Camp St. Tailahr, the Inquisition’s camp outside Lake City, when he first saw it. Harchongese aristocrats were seldom squeamish, but the brutality of the camp guards—especially directed towards those whose heresy had yet to be proven—had struck him as excessive. And that had been before he discovered that conditions in St. Tailahr had been still worse until Archbishop Arthyn Zagyrsk personally intervened. Primate of Tarikah or not, it had required more intestinal fortitude than most mere archbishops were willing to display to risk the ire of Inquisitor General Wylbyr or Zhaspahr Clyntahn, but Zagyrsk had insisted that since the camp inmates were being used as a labor force by Mother Church, Mother Church had a moral obligation to see to it that they were at least adequately fed and received minimal medical care. And moral considerations aside, he’d pointed out acidly, if the inmates were simply worked to death, they would no longer be available as a labor force.
Rainbow Waters wasn’t looking forward to receiving the prisoners evacuated from St. Charlz and discovering what the inmates of camps who’d lacked an Archbishop Arthyn had endured. Not even the splendid whiskey in his cup was enough to kill the taste that was likely to put into his mouth. On the other hand.…
Yes, there’s always an “other hand,” isn’t there, Taychau? he thought dryly.
“If the camp’s been successfully evacuated,” he said serenely, lowering the cup once more, “then the pressure to defend Traymos has … somewhat decreased.”
Wind Song nodded.
“In that case,” the earl said rather more briskly, “we will reinforce our forward observation force at Mardahs, and also the one at Ayaltyn. A cavalry picket at Camp Saint Charlz’ position—former position—should suffice to cover the approaches from Cat-Lizard Lake, for the moment at least. Sanjhys will become the northern anchor of our main position.”
“Yes, My Lord.”
Wind Song forbore to point out that the Mighty Host of God and the Archang
els’ orders were to hold a position as far east as possible. In fact, they were to hold the line of the North Hildermoss River, a hundred and fifty miles east of East Wing Lake, if at all possible. It was evident from the correspondence from Zion that with the heretic navy’s armored riverboats stymied on the line of the north Hildermoss—so far at least—by the demolished locks at Darailys, the Captain General (or at least the Grand Inquisitor) wanted the entire river line south from Darailys held. It was equally obvious from what his uncle had just said that Rainbow Waters had no intention of doing anything of the sort. Sanjhys, one of the villages and small towns—very small towns, this far north—strung along the Tarikah River between East Wing Lake and the Hildermoss, was barely sixty-five miles east of the lake. It was also, however, only about a hundred and twenty miles from the Great Tarikah Forest which would form the southern anchor of Rainbow Waters’ proposed defensive line.
The Tarikah Forest stretched six hundred miles, north-to-south, and most of it was trackless, virgin, unconsecrated forest. No doubt the heretics would be able to get through it more readily than Mother Church’s defenders—they’d demonstrated their accursed mobility clearly enough by now—but not in great strength. And as long as the Mighty Host held blocking points along the canals, rivers, and limited road net, they wouldn’t be getting any supply wagons or artillery through it.
It would also prevent Rainbow Waters’ right from dangling in midair and inviting yet another of the heretics’ devastating flank attacks.
“Were the year not quite so advanced,” the Mighty Host of God and the Archangels’ commander continued calmly, “I would, of course, prefer to advance to the line of the Hildermoss, at least as far south as Lake Mayan, with an eye towards taking the offensive should the heretics’ present preoccupation with capturing Mother Church’s holding camps offer an opening. Under the circumstances, however, and given the damage done to the transportation system, it would clearly be rash to advance too precipitously with winter no more than a month and a half away. Our ability to supply the forces necessary to hold the occupied—reoccupied—territory would be problematical at best, once winter sets in. Far better to select a line we can be confident of holding and spend the next month or two building up our supply magazines here at Lake City in order to assure us of the ability to launch a powerful and sustained offensive in the spring.”