“Feeling better now, are we?” Hahskyn asked as he clamped his double-glass to the bracket at the front of the gondola, but his voice was softer, almost gentle, and Ahlgood snorted.
“Guess I am,” he acknowledged, pulling a pencil out of its slot.
“Good, because I believe it’s time we got to work.”
“Ready when you are.”
“Good.”
At four thousand feet, in clear visibility and with a good double-glass, an observer could pick out large objects in relatively flat terrain at up to fifty miles or even a bit farther. That was under near-perfect conditions, however. Twenty miles was a more reasonable limit, and the new Balloon Corps’ doctrine really counted on less than ten. Ideally, the three wyverns of a balloon company would be deployed about fifteen miles apart, giving them plenty of overlap even in less-than-perfect visibility. For this particular mission, only Sahmantha had been sent forward, but the company’s other sections weren’t far behind, moving up close behind the mounted infantry screening the Army of Westmarch’s approach march. For that matter, the 5th Balloon Wing’s entire 1st Squadron would be arriving about the same time the first leg-infantry brigades did, with no less than eleven more wyverns to support Sahmantha.
But until they got here, Sahmantha was Duke Eastshare’s eyes and ears, and Hahskyn focused his double-glass carefully as he swept it across the terrain below.
“Baron Green Valley was right,” he said almost absently. “Nobody down there gave any thought to camouflaging their positions against somebody up here.” He chuckled grimly. “That’s going to cost them when the gun dogs get here.”
The base of the mounting bracket was marked off in degrees to permit him to take accurate bearings, and he spent the first minute or so absorbing a general feel of the terrain below him. From his current altitude, he could see all the way to the once modestly prosperous town of Talmar. It wasn’t very prosperous these days, and even from Sahmantha’s gondola it was little more than a low-lying, distant blur. The fortified zone between the balloon and Talmar was much more sharply visible in the bright morning light, and he studied it thoughtfully, then glanced at the topographical map at his own elbow to orient himself properly.
“All right,” he said. “I’ve got a triple line of trenches starting at about five miles, running from Hill 123 to Shyndail’s Farm. Call it … three and a half miles. First trench line follows the military crest. Communications trenches run back from there, and the second line is on the reverse slope. Distance between them is about … two hundred and fifty yards. Then another couple hundred yards to the third line. I’ll give you hard cross bearings from the hill when you’re ready to start marking up.”
He was gazing through the double-glass again while Ahlgood jotted notes on a pad before he started laying details in on the map on his chart table.
“Looks like the communications trenches zigzag every twenty yards or so.” He grimaced. “Be a pain trying to enfilade that. And we’ve got what look like pretty deep bunkers along the third trench line. Not the first or second, though.”
“Climbing the slope on the other side of the valley?” Ahlgood asked, still writing notes.
“Yep.” Hahskyn shook his head. “Looks like the same sort of setup Earl High Mount’s been pounding away at down at the Tymkyn Gap.”
All of the Balloon Corps’ crews had been fully briefed on everything the Army of Cliff Peak had been able to tell them about the Southern Host’s fortifications. Without deploying his own balloons, the earl hadn’t been able to provide them with comprehensive detail, but what his scout snipers and artillery support parties had been able to report helped fill in the picture unrolling before the sergeant’s eyes.
“Frontline trench is for riflemen to cover the abatis downslope from it,” he said, “and it looks like they’ve got some mortars of their own dug in behind the second line to support them. Got some flanking sandbagged rifle pits and breastworks supporting the second line, too, but the third line’s the real main line of resistance. I see at least a couple of dozen field guns dug in and sited to cover the approaches, and there’s a second line of obstacles between the second and third trench lines. The first gun pit’s about … sixty yards north of Hill 123 and just below the western edge of the valley. It gives them a good angle down the slope over their own people’s heads, I’d guess. They’re spaced roughly a hundred yards apart—in fact, I’ll bet they’re exactly a hundred yards apart—between there and the woods south of Shyndail’s Farm. Hard to pick out the individual bunkers from here, but looks like they’ve got a deep bunker—probably enough for one of the Temple Boys’ big-arsed squads—every hundred and fifty yards, with a couple of smaller ones between each of the big boys. Probably not as deep as the main bunkers, but I see lots of sandbags. Willing to bet they’ve got good lines of fire from all of them, too.”
“Better and better,” Ahlgood muttered.
“Be even worse if we couldn’t see what was coming,” Hahskyn pointed out. “Now, looking beyond the valley, I see a couple of roads that aren’t on the map, too. Looks like they’ve put in laterals behind their front, where they figured no one’d be able to see them.” He raised his head and grinned nastily over his shoulder at Ahlgood. “Pity they were wrong about that, isn’t it? Especially since I also see some canvas-covered wagons parked behind what look like dirt berms. Wanna bet those are some of those damned rocket launchers they told us about?”
“You’re not making me any happier.”
“Not my job.” Hahskyn shrugged and returned to his double-glass. “Looking past Shyndail’s Farm, the ground’s all open, but it looks like they’ve—”
He went on detailing terrain features and deployments and Zhaimysn Ahlgood scribbled them all down, then sat at the chart table and began carefully preparing the most deadly weapon known to man: a map.
* * *
“Your Eminence, I don’t know what it is,” Bishop Militant Henrai Shellai said flatly, and there was more than a little uneasiness—possibly even fear—in his eye as he made the admission.
The rough sketch Bishop Militant Styvyn had sent them lay on the map table in all its bland impossibility. That sketch had been rendered by a young sergeant in the Holy Martyrs Division’s 3rd Regiment. It had also been signed by the sergeant’s platoon commander, his company commander, and by Colonel Brahdryk Flymyng, 3rd Regiment’s CO, all of whom attested that it was an accurate rendering. Unfortunately, no one could begin to suggest exactly what it was or how it did what it was doing.
And given the Inquisition’s pronouncements of heretic demon-worship.…
“It’s fairly obvious it has to be some sort of … balloon, Your Eminence,” Ahlfryd Bairahn said. “It’s the only thing it could be. And if this is accurate, then this—” he tapped the protrusion on the belly of the thing “—is some sort of cage or car. That means there’s somebody in it, probably with a spyglass, looking down and seeing exactly how Colonel Flymyng’s men are deployed.”
“Don’t be preposterous!” Archbishop Ahlbair Saintahvo said sharply. “No one could build a balloon that big, floating that high—assuming the altitude estimates aren’t wild exaggerations!—and keep it up there that long. I’ve seen balloon ascents in Zion. None of the balloons were remotely close to the size of this thing, and they all needed hot air. They’d have to have far more fuel in this thing than they could possibly fit into it to keep it aloft this long! Besides, not one of the so-called witnesses has even mentioned fire or smoke! If the thing is really there—and I’m not so positive it is—it isn’t a balloon, whatever it is!”
The intendant glowered at Bairahn, but Archbishop Militant Gustyv’s chief of staff looked back at him levelly.
“Your Eminence,” his tone was courteous but unflinching, “you’re right that no one’s seen any sign of a fire to heat air, so I don’t pretend to be able to explain how they’re keeping it up for hours on end. But when so many men tell us it’s there, it’s there. Maybe it’s demons keeping
it up—I don’t know! I’m a soldier, not an inquisitor or an expert on demonology.”
Saintahvo’s eyes glittered angrily at that, but Bairahn went right on.
“But whether we want to call it a ‘balloon’ or something entirely different, what it’s doing is only too clear. It’s a reconnaisance platform. They have observers on top of the tallest observation tower imaginable, and those observers are looking down on our positions. That means the heretic commanders will know exactly where all of our men, all of our fortifications, and all our artillery pieces are. They don’t have to send out patrols to get that information. All they have to do is send this thing up and float there, watching us and probably dropping messages to the people on the ground.”
“Then do something about it!” Saintahvo snapped.
“So far, Bishop Militant Styvyn’s suffered somewhere around two thousand casualties trying to ‘do something about it,’ Your Eminence.” Gustyv Walkyr’s voice was just as unflinching as Bairahn’s had been … and considerably harder. “The St. Byrtrym Division lost an entire dragoon regiment just trying to get close enough to this thing to tell what it’s anchored to, far less what it is. And, frankly, that’s as alarming as the fact that they have it, whatever we call it in the end.”
“What are you talking about … Your Eminence?” Saintahvo demanded, attaching the last two words as an obvious afterthought.
“St. Byrtrym is Phylyp Sherytyn’s division,” Walkyr replied, “and I know him. In fact, I recommended him for St. Byrtrym when the division was raised. He’s good, Ahlbair.” The archbishop militant used the intendant’s first name deliberately. “He’s very good, and he’s also very levelheaded and very reliable. He doesn’t report anything he’s not certain of—or, at least, if he’s not dead certain, he tells you that—and according to him, it’s not just mounted troops out there in the woods. He ran into some of those damned ‘scout snipers’—in what he thinks was at least battalion strength—and they were waiting for him. Probably the observers Bairahn’s talking about saw him coming and passed the word. But the critical point is that we aren’t talking about just mounted infantry and some kind of glorified cavalry raid. We still don’t know whether these are Eastshare’s or Symkyn’s troops, but there are one hell of a lot of them and according to everything we were told about the heretics’ plans for the summer, they aren’t supposed to be here at all, much less present in such strength.”
Saintahvo’s jaw clenched. He understood Walkyr’s implication only too well, but there wasn’t much he could say in reply.
“I genuinely don’t want to dwell on this,” Walkyr said more gently. “And I don’t know if this thing’s demonic, but the mere fact that they have it is bad enough, demonic or not. I’m sure that even now we can’t begin to estimate all of the advantages it’s likely to give them, especially since I think we have to assume that if we’ve seen one of them, this far out in front of their known positions, they have to have a lot more still to show us. But all of our troop dispositions were made based on the belief that the major heretic attack would come in the south. I know the men of this army will fight with everything they have, but I’m still short better than a third of my total strength, and the sober truth is that we were given this sector because it was the one least threatened. For all intents and purposes, aside from the divisions Bishop Militant Tayrens brought with him, all of my units are green. They haven’t been blooded, they aren’t veterans, and no one can ever predict how well an inexperienced unit will actually stand up in its first combat. That’s true under any circumstances. When the inexperienced unit in question sees something like this—” it was his turn to stab the sketch with an index finger “—floating above it, its morale will be even shakier than it would’ve been otherwise.”
Saintahvo’s eyes were shutters in a stone wall, and Walkyr shook his head.
“What I’m saying is that I think the heretics fooled us all. I think the attack in the Tymkyn Gap is a sham. I think the reason that all Earl Silken Hills has seen so far is a lot of artillery and a little skirmishing is that High Mount never really intended to attack in the south at all. Or maybe that was their plan, and their spies figured out somehow that our spies had warned us what was coming so they changed their strategy. I don’t know about that. I don’t know about a lot of things. But I do know, as sure as I’m standing here, that they’re going to put in a heavy attack on the Army of the Center. I’m willing to bet that what we’re actually seeing is Eastshare’s Army of Westmarch. Instead of shifting south to support High Mount, they pulled it north, and according to our best estimates, he’s got damned close to two hundred thousand men with massive artillery support. If he’s managed to get his guns forward—and he damned well could have, after he got around Marylys and onto the high road—our front-line positions are about to get hit by one hell of a hammer.”
“And?” Saintahvo said when he paused.
“And we need to convince Zion—” the temptation to be honest and say “Zhaspahr Clyntahn” instead was almost overpowering “—that we’ve been drawn into a false appreciation of the heretics’ intentions. I think we need to start shifting some of Earl Silken Hills’ left flank units back north as quickly as possible to support my army. I’ve already semaphored my conclusions to Earl Rainbow Waters, and he’s agreed my assessment is probably accurate. He’s looking at what he may be able to shift south from his reserve, because if this is Eastshare and he’s kicking off a major offensive in the center, Green Valley can’t be far behind in the north. Whatever Eastshare’s doing, Green Valley is damned well going to punch straight towards Lake City and the Wings. He’ll go for West Wing Lake and the Holy Langhorne’s canalhead like a slash lizard for a prong buck. The Earl has to keep him from getting there, whatever it costs or however many of his men it takes … and if Eastshare has these ‘balloons’, then it’s for damn sure Green Valley has them, too.”
Saintahvo looked like a cat-lizard passing fish bones. He glowered at the archbishop militant and his staff for several seconds, then shrugged angrily.
“I think you’re overreacting,” he said, “but I’ll countersign any dispatches you send to Zion, at least in so far as their factual content is concerned. After all,” he smiled thinly, “I’m a servant of the Inquisition, not a military man. As such, I’m obviously not qualified to pass an opinion on the heretics’ intentions.”
Walkyr’s nostrils flared, but he only nodded.
“Thank you,” he said. “And in the meantime, I think—”
“Excuse me, Your Eminence.”
Walkyr turned in surprise as Major Ahntahn Mastyrsyn, his personal aide, interrupted him. He started to say something uncharacteristically sharp to the youthful major, but the expression on Mastyrsyn’s face stopped him.
“Yes, Ahntahn?” he said instead, ignoring Saintahvo’s obvious irritation at the interruption.
“Your Eminence, we’ve just received a semaphore message from Bishop Militant Ahrnahld. The heretics have deployed at least six more … whatever they are,” he twitched his head in the direction of the sketch, “and opened a heavy bombardment of the Talmar lines.”
.XI.
Forward Lines,
Holy Langhorne Band,
Talmar,
Westmarch Province,
Republic of Siddarmark.
The tornado of heavy angle-gun shells crunched through 2nd Company’s trenches and bunkers like Shan-wei’s brimstone boots. Some of those shells were far heavier than anything the Army of God had ever experienced before. They drove deep into the earth when they hit, and the craters they blew could have swallowed entire platoons. Smoke, flying dirt, dust, shell splinters, and bits and pieces of what had been the defensive abatises were everywhere, sizzling through the air at lethal velocities.
That was bad enough, but one of those heavier shells had landed directly on the roof of Captain Tymythy Lynkyn’s command bunker. The bunker’s depth would probably have defeated one of the 6-inch angle-guns. Unfortunately
, what hit it was a shell from one of the new 8-inch guns, three times as heavy and with four times the bursting charge. Even it failed to completely penetrate the bunker, but it exploded so deep that the bunker collapsed. Only three men got out alive, and Captain Lynkyn wasn’t one of them.
* * *
“Captain’s dead, Sir!” Sergeant Lynyrd bawled in Lieutenant Ahdymsyn’s ear. He had to shout, even inside the bunker, to be heard over the howling bedlam outside it. “So’s Lieutenant Sedryk! Means you’re in command!”
Hyrbyrt Ahdymsyn turned from the horrific, hellish panorama of his bunker’s view slit to look at his platoon sergeant in disbelief. He was the senior officer on the position? Impossible!
But Lynyrd twitched his head at the exhausted, bloodstained corporal standing beside him, and Ahdymsyn recognized Captain Lynkyn’s senior clerk. He couldn’t begin to imagine how the man had made it from the company HQ bunker through the holocaust raging across the position, but the noncom’s expression told him it wasn’t impossible at all.
The earth shook and trembled, quivering like a frightened animal as the torrent of shells ripped and gouged. The heretics’ bombardment had begun an hour after dawn, after the men had finished the regular dawn stand-to and just had time to settle in to their breakfast chow lines. It had struck with no warning at all, with no intimation that they’d somehow managed to haul their artillery train forward and deploy it behind their screen of mounted infantry and scout snipers. It had come shrieking down out of a beautiful blue sky with mountainous white clouds, and its fury was a living, breathing monster, rampaging through the company’s position and snatching men—his men, some of them—into its fiery maw. He couldn’t believe the sheer accuracy of their fire. All the lectures he’d attended in training, everything he’d heard on the endless journey from Zion to the front, had warned him heretic artillery was more accurate, longer arranged, and more … flexible than Mother Church’s. But this—!