By Heresies Distressed (40 page)

Earl Mancora's infantry hurled themselves forward.

How the handful of survivors from the winnowed ruin of his forward ranks managed to advance instead of running away in terror or simply flinging themselves to the ground was more than the earl was prepared to say. But somehow, they did it, and his heart wept within him at the gallantry with which they responded to the bugles.

They moved forward, stumbling over the bodies of dead and wounded comrades. They waded into the smoke, forged ahead into the stormfront of rifle fire like men leaning into a hard wind, and the meaty thuds and slapping sounds of heavy caliber bullets ripping through human flesh were like hail.

The Charisians watched them come, and even the men killing them recognized the courage it took to keep advancing. Yet courage was not enough in the face of such a totally unanticipated tactical disadvantage. It wasn't Gahrvai's fault, wasn't Mancora's. It was
no one's
fault, and that changed nothing. Almost eight hundred half-inch bullets slammed into them every fifteen seconds, and they were only flesh, only blood.

The advancing Corisandian battalions were like a child's sand castle in a rising tide. They melted away, shredded, broken, shedding dead and wounded with every stride. They marched straight into a fiery wasteland like the vestibule of Hell itself, roofed with smoke and fury, filled with the stink of blood, the thunder of the Charisian rifles, and the shriek of their own wounded, and it was more than mortal men could stand.

The men of the leading battalions didn't break. Not really. There weren't enough of them left to “break.” Instead, they simply died.

The battalions behind them were marginally more fortunate. They realized that all the courage in the universe couldn't carry them across that beaten zone of fire. It simply couldn't be done, and they
did
break.

“
Yes!
” Clareyk shouted as the Corisandian formation disintegrated.

Pikemen dropped their cumbersome weapons, musketeers discarded their muskets, men threw away anything which might slow them as they turned and ran. A harsh, baying cheer of triumph went up from the Marine riflemen, and yet, in its own way, that wolf-like howl was almost a salute to the courage of the Corisandians who had marched into that furnace.

“Sound the advance!” Clareyk commanded.

“Aye, Sir!” Colonel Zhanstyn acknowledged, and Third Brigade swung into motion once more.

Charlz Doyal swore savagely as Mancora's wing came apart. He understood exactly what had happened, not that understanding changed anything. He'd still just lost the infantry covering the right flank of his beleaguered grand battery, and it wouldn't be very long before the Charisian left swung in on his own exposed right. The range at which they'd dismantled Mancora's infantry told him what would happen when their massed volleys joined the blasts of grapeshot and pinpoint sniper fire already tearing into his men. But if
he
pulled back, if he tried to get his guns out, then Barcor's right would be uncovered, as well. And if the Charisian left could advance fast enough, they might actually reach the highway bridge
before
Barcor. If they managed that, trapped Barcor between themselves and their advancing fellows . . .

Doyal's jaw clenched so tightly his teeth ached as he watched Barcor's wing falling back with alacrity. He had no more doubt than Gahrvai about
why
Barcor was doing what he was, yet whatever the man's reasoning, it was the right thing. He was still going to lose heavily to the Charisians' fire, but his retreat was the only thing that might get half of Gahrvai's advance guard out of this disaster reasonably intact. And if that meant sacrificing Doyal's thirty-five guns and six hundred men to save five thousand, it would still be a bargain at the price.

Besides
, he thought with a sort of ghoulish humor,
I've already lost so many dragons and horses I couldn't get more than half of the battery out of here, anyway
.

His heart ached at what he was about to demand of the men he'd trained and led, yet he drew a deep breath and turned to the commander of his right flank battery. The major who had commanded that battery half an hour ago was dead. The captain who'd been his executive officer up until ten minutes ago was wounded. Command of the entire battery had devolved onto the shoulders of a lieutenant who couldn't have been more than twenty years old. The young man's face was white and set under its coating grime of powder smoke, but he met Doyal's eyes steadily.

“Swing your battery to cover our flank, Lieutenant,” Doyal said, and forced himself to smile. “It looks like we're going to get a bit lonely.”

The side conversations in the Grand Council Chamber were more hushed than usual this year.

The chamber itself had been meticulously prepared for the afternoon's ceremony. Ancient tradition said the Archangel Langhorne himself had sat in council with his fellows in this very chamber, and its magnificent wall mosaics and the enormous, beautifully detailed map of the world—four times a man's height—inlaid into one wall certainly supported the tradition. Portraits of past Grand Vicars hung down another wall, and the floor, paved in imperishable, mystically sealed lapis lazuli like the floor of the Temple sanctuary itself, was covered with priceless carpets from Harchong, Desnair, and Sodar. An entire army of servants had spent the past five-day dusting, mopping, polishing, honing the chamber's normal magnificence to the very pinnacle of splendor.

The glittering crowd of vicars seated in the chamber's luxuriously comfortable chairs made a fitting match for the enormous room in which they had gathered. Jewels glinted and flashed, bullion embroidery gleamed, and priests' caps glittered with gems. The air in the chamber circulated smoothly, soundlessly, warmed to exactly the proper temperature by the Temple's mystic wonders, despite the snow falling outside the Temple Annex in which this treasure box of a meeting room was housed. Perfect, softly glowing illumination poured down from the chamber's lofty ceiling, lighting every detail of priceless artwork and sumptuous clothing. A long buffet table of delicacies stretched across the short end of the chamber (although “short” was a purely relative term in such an enormous room), and servants circulated with bottles of wine, ensuring that the vicars' glasses did not suffer a sudden drought.

Despite the comfort, despite the splendor which underscored the majesty and power of God's Church, a curiously fragile tension hovered in the chamber's atmosphere. Voices were lowered, in some cases almost to the level of whispers, and some of the wineglasses required more frequent replenishment than usual.

Zahmsyn Trynair sat in his own chair, the one reserved for the Chancellor of the Council of Vicars, located just to the right of the Grand Vicar's empty, elevated throne. Zhaspahr Clyntahn's chair flanked the throne from the other side. Each had chatted easily with the members of his staff, making the occasional small joke, showing his calm assurance, but after exchanging a single, smiling nod of greeting, the two of them had made a point of
not
speaking to one another since they'd taken their seats.

Rumors of their recent . . . disagreement had filtered throughout the Temple's hierarchy. No one knew precisely what it had been about, although a great many people suspected that it had owed something to the explosive news from Ferayd. The totally unprecedented findings of the Ferayd Tribunal certainly suggested that it had, at any rate. Even the most jaded Temple insiders had been astonished by the tribunal's conclusions, and the penance Clyntahn had been assigned by the Chancellor, speaking for the Grand Vicar, had been equally unheard of.

Clyntahn had accepted his penance with every outward sign of humility, humbling himself before the high altar, leading memorial masses for the innocents who had been slain along with the obvious heretics in Ferayd. He had even performed his five-day of service, laboring in the Temple kitchens to feed his far humbler brethren, serving plates with his own two, well-manicured hands.

However humble he might have chosen to appear, no one believed for a moment that he had
enjoyed
the experience, and there were persistent rumors that he held Trynair personally responsible for his humiliation. Needless to say, neither Trynair nor Clyntahn had confirmed any such thing. Indeed, they'd both taken considerable pains to establish that whatever their confrontation had been about, it had constituted—at worst—a
temporary
rift between them. Of course, some of the Temple insiders would suspect that their obvious rapprochement was all a mask, a disguise to prevent their many enemies on the Council of Vicars from scenting blood. Showing just the right degree of friendliness and cooperation to warn any potential enemies that an attempt to exploit any division among the ranks of the Group of Four would be . . . unwise was a delicate task, and never more than today. Too much or too effusive a display of friendship would transmit the wrong message just as surely as too cold and formal an attitude. Especially today. It would never have done for either of them to have seemed as if he might be suffering some sort of last-minute attack of nerves, after all.

Theater
, Trynair thought.
It's all theater. I wonder if there's a single man in this Chamber who couldn't have earned his living on the stage if he hadn't been born to be elevated to the orange?

There were other differences between this year's Address from the Throne and those of years past. Normally, there would have been a standing crowd of junior archbishops and senior bishops behind the seated vicars. In theory, the members of that crowd would have been selected randomly, in reflection of the universal equality of the priesthood's members. In fact, of course, invitations to the Address from the Throne were carefully considered tokens of power for the vicars and of prestige and influence among the recipients. This year, however, there was not a single bishop, nor any member of the laity, present. Even some of the more junior archbishops had been excluded, and the senior archbishops were virtually silent in the presence of their superiors.

Maybe it's not
all
theater, after all
, Trynair thought more somberly.
Not this year, at any rate
.

A single, musical chime echoed suddenly, and the hushed conversations stilled abruptly. That, too, was unusual. Normally, at least some of those side conversations would have continued even through the Address itself. After all, every vicar would have already received his copy of the text. Some of them might not have bothered to read it yet, but it would have been waiting for them in their offices when they got around to it. Besides, everyone would already have known what was in it, even if he hadn't received a copy.

Today was very different, however. No one had yet seen the text of this year's Address—no one outside of the Grand Vicar, Trynair, the other three members of the Group of Four, and the Chancellor's most trusted aides, at least. And the rumors concerning its probable content had swirled throughout the ranks of the vicarate like a spring riptide as one report after another underscored the challenge the Kingdom of Charis had thrown into the Church's very teeth.