Hell's Foundations Quiver (106 page)

“I don't like it, but as Sir Bartyn pointed out to me some few days ago,
we
aren't the Group of Four and we're not going to behave as if we were. Unless, of course,” he smiled thinly, “the motherless bastards give us an excuse.”

*   *   *

“Bishop Failyx is concerned about the state of your troops' morale, Major,” Father Aizykyal Trynchyr said.

“Is he, Father?”

Major Zhefytha Chestyrtyn's question came out almost mildly but his face tightened with anger. Trynchyr was Bishop Failyx Mahkgyvyrn's second-in-command here at Camp Chihiro. The Schuelerite upper-priest was a fair-haired native Siddarmarkian with muddy blue eyes who was ten years older than Chestyrtyn and seemed to have about as much imagination as Chestyrtyn's left bootheel.

And considerably less empathy than that.

“Yes,” Trynchyr said now. “More and more of your men are … creeping away in the middle of the night. That won't do, Major. It won't do at all.”

Chestyrtyn bit his tongue firmly against the temptation to point out that two-thirds of Camp Chihiro's
inquisitors
had already crept away “in the middle of the night.” In fact, over half of the ordained clerics and at least that many of the lay brothers who'd been attached to Camp Chihiro were nowhere to be seen. Bishop Failyx wasn't one of them, unfortunately, and he was determined that Chestyrtyn and his men—his
remaining
men—would defend the concentration camp to the death.

I suppose I should count myself fortunate that he hasn't already ordered us to execute every single inmate, like those lunatics at Camp Fyrmahn. And this idiot's worried about the troops “creeping away” like his own frigging inquisitors?

“I'll make a personal inspection this afternoon and impress that upon all of them, Father,” he said, once he was confident he had control of his tone. “Was there anything else?”

“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 cup 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.