Hell's Foundations Quiver (76 page)

“I don't think you'll hear any argument out of me about that, Sir,” Kylmahn replied. “The men will be disappointed, though.” He shook his head affectionately. “They're Charisians, you know, even the Chisholmians and the Emeraldians amongst them—no offense intended, Sir.”

“None taken,” Ahbaht said affably. He sipped cherrybean. “After all, at some point all that salt in you Old Charisians' blood always seems to dry up your brains. It does seem to happen more quickly among first lieutenants than to anybody else, though, doesn't it?”

“Ouch!” Kylmahn raised his free hand in the fencer's gesture which acknowledged a touch. “I suppose I had that coming, Sir.”

“You suppose correctly. On the other hand, you have a point. They
aren't
going to be happy if we turn around and ‘run for home.' Even the ones who understand why we're doing it are going to be pissed off, and I imagine they'll be just a
bit
grumpy about it. Still, I'd rather have them feeling pissed off because they're too aggressive than relieved because they're too timid!”

“Oh, I don't think that's something you need to worry about very much, Sir.”

*   *   *

“Any more sign of that damned schooner, Dahnyld?”

Lieutenant Stahdmaiyr looked up quickly, the sunlight through the open skylight flashing brief silver off the lenses of his spectacles, as Captain Haigyl stepped back into his day cabin from HMS
Dreadnought
's sternwalk.

“No, Sir. Not since last night,” the lieutenant replied and gestured at the chart he'd been updating. “I've laid in our current position. Master Gyllmyn and I concur that we're about eighty miles from the mouth of the Narrows.”

Haigyl nodded. His own navigation skills were more than adequate … but not a
lot
more than adequate. Both Stahdmaiyr and Ahlahnzo Gyllmyn,
Dreadnought
's sailing master, were more proficient at it than he, and he was confident enough in their ability—and in his own judgment of their ability—to trust the positions they gave him. Not that Stahdmaiyr's estimate made him happy.

Wind conditions could vary widely even over relatively short distances; every sailor knew that, and it was entirely possible Bruhstair Ahbaht's squadron had already reached its destination, carried out its attack, and headed home. By the same token, it was possible
Dreadnought
had made up so much time that his lookouts would spot Ahbaht's topsails before lunch. The
probability
, however, lay somewhere between those two extremes, and he wasn't happy about the schooner whose topsails those same lookouts had spotted the evening before.

He stepped up beside Stahdmaiyr, rubbing the patch over his left eye socket as he considered the chart. He'd already decided that if he reached Ki-dau after Ahbaht had headed upriver, he wasn't going to follow. Instead, he'd lie off the estuary's mouth, watching Ahbaht's back and not getting his own ship tangled up in the narrow channels, mudbanks, and potential groundings of a river. The truth was, he was perfectly content to leave that sort of business to the undersized Emeraldian.

But that schooner.… That schooner bothered him.

Even a Harchongian should recognize a Charisian warship's lofty rig, yet the schooner had held its course, following along in
Dreadnought
's wake until darkness fell. No merchant skipper would have done that, although, to be fair, the chance of the ironclad's turning around and overtaking a schooner in these weather conditions didn't exist. So maybe he was being too paranoid. Maybe a merchant skipper
would
tag along, see where the Charisian warship in question was going and what it was up to before turning and running for port somewhere. But he didn't think so. He couldn't have said why, but he didn't think so.

“Make sure the lookouts keep their eyes peeled,” he said, still rubbing his eye patch and frowning at the chart. “If that lad has friends along up to windward, I want to know about it.”

“Aye, Sir.” Stahdmaiyr nodded soberly. “I'll do that thing.”

 

.X.

Cliff Peak Province, Republic of Siddarmark

“—still got one brigade moving to the front, but Rhandyl and Brigadier Dahmbryk'll have everything buttoned up right and tight between 'em by the time I get back there,” Ahlyn Symkyn said. “Truth to tell, I'd not've thought we'd be this close to ready this close to on time.”

“Most battle plans work just fine until the enemy turns up, Ahlyn,” Ruhsyl Thairis pointed out. The Duke of Eastshare stood at the enormous table, looking down at the contour map his staff cartographers had constructed out of papier-mâché. Green-headed pins indicating the positions of three Allied armies stood out of it like clustered rows of strange topiaries, spread wide in a rough crescent reaching towards the elongated clump of sullen red-topped pins representing the Army of Glacierheart. “I'm rather fond of the one we've worked out in Kaitswyrth's honor, but it
is
a bit complicated.”

“Not so much complicated as just … large, Your Grace,” Sir Breyt Bahskym, the Earl of High Mount, observed. “I don't believe anyone's ever tried to coordinate the attack of over three hundred thousand men across a front more than eighty miles wide. Bound to be a little slippage in there somewhere. In fact, I'll guarantee there's some we don't know about right this minute and more we won't find out about till months after.”

“You're always such a comfort to me, Breyt,” Eastshare observed, and the other two army commanders chuckled.

The relationship was good, the duke thought—immeasurably better than the internal dogfight the Church's Army of Shiloh had turned into last winter. Symkyn had been born a commoner and might well die that way; the Bahskym family had held the High Mount title since the founding of the Kingdom of Chisholm; his own father had earned the Duchy of Eastshare less than forty years ago, fighting for King Sailys against his own distant kinsman; yet there was none of the supercilious jockeying for position which had wracked the Army of Shiloh's command structure.

Or, for that matter, he thought far less happily, that marked the attitude of far too many of Chisholm's present nobles when it came to matters political. He didn't much care for what Sir Fraizher Kahlyns' latest dispatches from home had to say about certain wellborn gentlemen in southwestern Chisholm. On the other hand, those dispatches had taken the best part of three five-days to reach him, even with the Raven's Land semaphore chain back up and running. Lots of things could have happened in that much time, and, he reminded himself firmly, there wasn't one damned thing he could do about whatever might have.

“I'm sure you're right about the slippage,” he continued out loud, “and the truth is, we don't have to coordinate things perfectly. Whatever happens, we're going to be a hell of a lot smoother than the bastards on the other side, and I'll put our regimental and company commanders up against any general that fat prick in Zion can come up with!”

The others bared their teeth, obviously as grateful as Eastshare himself for Zhaspahr Clyntahn's interference in the Army of God's internal organization. The results produced by that sort of meddling had revealed themselves only too clearly in the Army of Shiloh's disintegration, and he supposed it was greedy of them to hope for still more of the same. He didn't intend to rely on their getting it, either, but all indications to date—from his own patrols, as well as the
seijins
' spy reports, not to mention his own experience against the Army of Glacierheart the previous fall—suggested that Kaitswyrth was as big a disaster waiting to happen as the Duke of Harless had been. And he was clearly
Clyntahn's
choice at this point, not Maigwair's. Every single spy report agreed on that, and Eastshare had spent many a night thanking God for it.

“Well, I suppose it's time the two of you got back to your own headquarters,” he said. “If anything slips—anything major, I mean—on the schedule, let me know by semaphore and I'll adjust from here if that seems necessary. Use your own judgment deciding if anything's that important.” Symkyn and High Mount nodded, and he nodded back. “In that case—”

“'Scuse me, Your Grace,” a voice said … with rather more diffidence than it usually used addressing Eastshare. He turned to find himself facing Corporal Slym Chalkyr, his batman of far too many years. Chalkyr was the only man besides his personal aide, Captain Lywys Braynair, who would have dared to interrupt a meeting of six generals, eight brigadiers, five colonels, and all their aides, and Braynair was already in the group gathered around the map table. Anyone other than Chalkyr would have anticipated being annihilated on the spot, but very few things fazed Slym Chalkyr, and Eastshare knew he wouldn't have interrupted on a whim.

“Yes, Slym?”

“Beggin' your pardon, Your Grace, but Archbishop Zhasyn's here.”

Eastshare's eyebrows rose, but he only nodded.

“Give the Archbishop my respects and ask him if he'd care to join us.”

“Aye, Your Grace.”

Chalkyr disappeared. A few moments later, the door opened again, and Zhasyn Cahnyr stepped through it.

“My Lord,” Eastshare said with a slight bow, then bent to kiss the bishop's extended ring. “This is an unexpected pleasure. I didn't expect to see you until day after tomorrow.”

“I finished the current round of the paperchase earlier than I'd expected, Your Grace,” Cahnyr said, “and the roads are much better—muddy, but otherwise better—than the last time I visited the front. I didn't expect to get here myself before General Symkyn and General High Mount returned to their own commands, but I hoped I might.” He smiled at the other two generals and raised a hand, signing Langhorne's scepter in a general benediction for the three dozen officers around the table. Then his expression sobered. “On the eve of such an endeavor, I very much wanted the opportunity to speak to all of you briefly, if I may.”

“Of course you may, My Lord. Please—it would be our honor.”

“That's gracious of you, as always, Your Grace, but the truth is that the honor is mine.” The archbishop let his eyes track across the gathered officers and his voice was as serious as his gaze. “If not for you and your countrymen, Duke Eastshare, Kaitswyrth and his army would have swept across Glacierheart last summer, and we know from what happened at Aivahnstyn what would have happened in Glacierheart, as well. Thousands of my parishioners—and I—owe our lives to Brigadier Taisyn … and you. And now you're going to take the offensive back to Kaitswyrth, and after him to all the other butchers Zhaspahr Clyntahn's launched at the throat of the world. I've followed the semaphore reports. I know what's already happened to the Army of the Sylmahn, and I know—I
know
, my sons—what you and your men, your Charisians and the Siddarmarkians serving with them, will soon do to the ‘Army of Glacierheart.' But I also know that however superior your weapons, however superior your men, you are about to pay a price in blood to liberate soil that was never yours. For that, ‘gratitude' is far too small and shabby a word.”

“My Lord, half of Brigadier Taisyn's force was Siddarmarkian,” Eastshare said after a moment into the silence Cahnyr's words had produced, “and your own Glacierheart Volunteers fought superbly before, during, and after the assault on Fort Tairys. They and General Wyllys' division will be at the heart of this fight, as well, right beside us, and while we may be about to liberate
Siddarmarkian
soil, this is as much or more
our
battle than it could ever be yours. As you say, Clyntahn launched his butchers against the whole world, against every single one of God's children who refused to bow down and worship him instead of God or the Archangels. We know that. Our
men
know that, and none of us will stop or turn aside until the sort of corruption which has poisoned Mother Church at her very heart can never happen again.”

“As your Emperor said,” Cahnyr murmured, “‘Here you stand,' Your Grace.”

“His Majesty is more eloquent than I am. He has a much better way with words. But, yes, My Lord. Here we stand.”

“In that case, may I send all of you back to your duties with my prayers?”

“We would be honored, My Lord.”

Heads bent all around the map table, and Cahnyr sketched the scepter once again and raised both hands.

“O God, Creator and Judge of all that is, has been, and ever shall be, look down upon these Your servants, called to the stern task of war against the captors of Your Holy Church. Be with them in the hurricane as they take up the sword against Your enemies. Guide them, inspire them,
guard
them. Bless the strength of their arms, the courage of their hearts, and lead them to victory in Your name and in defense of all Your children. Fill them with fortitude as they face the test of battle, and inspire them to remember that true justice resides in mercy, not brute vengeance. Be with them in the furnace, gather those who may fall into Your loving arms, and give Your comfort to those who loved them. And finally, as the Archangel Chihiro prayed so many centuries ago, You know how busy they must be in the coming days about Your work. If they forget You, do not You, O Lord, forget them. Amen.”

*   *   *

Bishop Militant Cahnyr Kaitswyrth pushed back the light blanket, sat up, and swung his legs over the edge of the cot. He stood, stretching and yawning, then rubbed the small of his back. The funny thing was, the camp cot was actually more comfortable than the soft, luxurious bed he'd left behind in Aivahnstyn.

He smiled, but the amusement was brief as he reflected on why he'd left Aivahnstyn. He didn't trust the reports from his own scouts, for a lot of reasons. For one thing, too many of them said exactly the same thing day after day, and that same thing described a uniform lack of activity on the heretics' part. The main reason for that … unvarying report, he suspected, was that none of his scouts were willing to push home a reconnaissance effort against the heretics. In some ways it was hard to blame them, given the casualties they suffered whenever they ran their noses into the heretics' accursed scout snipers or the Kau-yungs the heretics left strewn in their wake. But there was a reason the heretics were so determined to prevent him from getting a look at whatever was gathering behind their lines, and he was grimly certain of what that reason was.