At the Sign of Triumph

by David Weber

  My, Walkyr thought. There’s quite a lot of “circumspection” in that, isn’t there?

  The archbishop militant pushed up out of his chair and walked across to stand closer to the map, studying its terrain. It didn’t show a lot of detail, but he was amply familiar with smaller scale, more detailed maps of most of the terrain involved. And little though he still liked the idea, he had to admit it was less illogical—and considerably less stupid—than he’d originally thought.

  However little Rainbow Waters might relish the thought of shifting a third of his total force even farther south, a potential attack through the Tymkyn Gap—especially with the prospect of Charisian naval control of the Gulf of Dohlar—could have serious consequences. And as Maigwair had just pointed out, Tayrens Teagmahn’s Army of Tanshar would never be able to stand up to High Mount’s Army of Cliff Peak in the open. As long as he could hold the chain of the Snake Mountains and avoid confronting High Mount’s mobility, he could no doubt give a good account of himself. But while the Snakes’ narrow passes and twisting secondary roads afforded all sorts of excellent defensive positions, the Tymkyn Gap itself was mostly open, rolling terrain. There were some patches of forest and hillside to slow an advancing army, but nothing like the mountain ramparts north and south of the Gap, and it was a hundred and ten miles wide. That was far too much frontage for him to cover with so few men.

  But Earl Silken Hills had six times Teagmahn’s strength, and the truth was that—especially after the last year of unmitigated disaster—the Mighty Host was better trained, better equipped, and more experienced than ninety percent of the current Army of God. If Silken Hill moved south to cover that flank, High Mount would find any effort to penetrate the Snakes far more difficult. In addition, Silken Hills’ infantry and engineers had spent the last several months mastering the fortification techniques Captain of Horse Rungwyn had worked out. Walkyr had little doubt that the defenses they’d build across the Tymkyn Gap would give even High Mount pause … assuming they had time for it.

  And, he admitted to himself, they won’t be taking the fortifications they’ve already built with them, will they? Most of the guns, yes, but the emplacements will still be there, and so will the trenches, the bunkers, and the redoubts.

  If Teagmahn shifted the Army of Tanshar north, he’d have—barely—enough men to man the most forward of the Southern Host’s dug-in positions, and those were very formidable positions. By the time the weather improved enough for serious campaigning as far north as Westmarch and Tarikah, the bulk of the new AOG formations would be at the front or very close to it. If he’d been Rainbow Waters, he wouldn’t have been at all happy about the thought of relying upon those new, potentially less than steady bands and divisions to cover his flank, but they’d be far more effective doing it from those prepared defenses than they’d be in an open field battle.

  “I still don’t like the idea,” he said finally, turning back to his superior. “I have to admit I hadn’t thought through everything you’ve just pointed out. In my defense, I didn’t know about a lot of it, of course. But now that you’ve laid out the logic behind it, I’ll concede that it’s not the outright lunacy I thought it was.”

  “Not exactly a ringing endorsement,” Maigwair observed dryly, “but I suppose I should take what I can get. Especially since Earl Rainbow Waters has made one … stipulation. I wouldn’t exactly call it a ‘demand,’ but before he signs off on redeploying that drastically, he wants a voice in deciding who we’ll assign to command the area Silken Hills is going to be handing over to us.”

  “Makes sense,” Walkyr agreed, returning his eyes to the map as he thought back over his own face-to-face meetings with the Harchongese commander.

  That was a smart, smart man. He’d want to be as certain as humanly possible of both the quality and the reliability of the AOG commander on his flank. Perhaps especially of that commander’s reliability. Cahnyr Kaitswyrth’s performance with the Army of Glacierheart couldn’t have imbued him with boundless faith in the AOG’s prowess, and the last thing he’d want would be a Temple commander whose competence might be in question and who might dispute his orders or, far worse, might … pull back precipitously under pressure.

  “I’m glad you think so.” Something about Maigwair’s tone turned Walkyr back around to face him. The archbishop militant raised both eyebrows in question, and Maigwair smiled almost whimsically.

  “He was rather insistent, actually,” the captain general said. “In fact, there was really only one officer he cared to propose.”

  “And who might that have been?” Walkyr asked slowly.

  “Why, you, Gustyv.”

  Maigwair smiled at Walkyr’s expression, but then he shook his head and his own expression had turned very serious.

  “I can think of a lot of reasons he might’ve preferred you for this,” he said, “and all of them are good ones. The fact that you spent so much time with him before last summer’s campaign has to be a part of it, of course. He had the chance to get a feel for the way your mind works, which means he can be confident you’re not an idiot, like Kaitswyrth. Even more, though, you’re the one senior commander we’ve got he can be certain understands his thinking and the strengths—and weaknesses—of the Mighty Host. But I’ll be honest here. I think he has a few reasons he prefers not to discuss openly … and so do I.”

  “Such as?” Walkyr’s tone was soft, his eyes dark.

  “Whoever we send has to be smart, he has to be determined, and he has to be able to … ‘think outside the box,’ as Vicar Rhobair’s become fond of putting it. But, most importantly of all, he has to be someone Earl Rainbow Waters—and I—can depend upon to do not simply what he’s told to but what he knows he needs to, as well.”

  He held the archbishop militant’s gaze levelly, and it was very, very quiet in his office.

  .XI.

  The Zhonesberg Switch

  and

  Town of Zhonesberg,

  South March Lands,

  Republic of Siddarmark.

  It was raining, of course.

  In this particular instance, it wasn’t the depressing drizzle which had become entirely too familiar to anyone in the Army of Thesmar—or, for that matter, in the Army of the Seridahn—either. No, this was a hard, driving, icy rain, deluging out of a night sky darker than the underbelly of hell. The sound of it filled the universe: pounding, pattering, turning creeks into brawling rivers, blowing on the wind, and generally making every living thing miserable.

  Except for Major Dynnys Mahklymorh’s 1st Battalion, 2nd Scout Sniper Regiment, Imperial Charisian Army.

  They thought it was lovely weather.

  * * *

  Private Dynnys Ahdmohr dreamed wistfully of a nice, hot fire protected by sturdy, weathertight walls, where he could toast frozen toes and breathe without exhaling puffs of steam. For that matter, he would have settled for hunkering down under a scrap of tarpaulin which might keep the worst of the rain at bay while a small, miserable, smoky fire provided at least an illusion of warmth. Unfortunately, he had neither roof nor tarpaulin. And even if he’d had either of them, Sergeant Klymynty—who was not noted for his kind and gentle heart—frowned on sentries who made themselves too comfortable.

  More to the point, the Army of the Seridahn had learned the hard way that sentries came to bad ends if they took liberties against the Army of Thesmar. So despite the weather, he hunched down inside his new oilskins—which, praise Langhorne, at least didn’t leak like the ones they’d replaced—and walked his assigned section of 4th Company’s perimeter as philosophically as possible.

  That perimeter covered the central approach to the fortified position marked on the Army of the Seridahn’s maps as the Zhonesberg Switch. The Switch wasn’t the best defensive ground in the world, for a lot of reasons, including the scrubby, second-growth woodlot which crowded close upon it. It covered the vital road junction where the farm tracks from Byrtyn’s Crossing, Zhonesberg, and Kharmych’s Farm converged, h
owever. It was much too far out on the Army’s right flank to be heavily held, but the heretics had shown a truly fiendish talent for exploiting any unwatched spider-rat hole, which explained what Hyndyrsyn’s Regiment was doing out in the middle of East Bumfuck in the Shan-wei-damned rain.

  Stationary, sandbagged guard posts closer in to the main position actually did offer at least the illusion of overhead protection for which Ahdmohr longed, and more rudimentary—and much wetter and more miserable—posts formed a loose outer shell, as well. No one could put a solid wall of sentries across a frontage as wide as the Switch, however, especially with only four understrength companies. There had to be gaps, and Captain Tyrnyr believed in tying fixed positions together with mobile sentries as insurance. That was his policy at any time, but especially on a night when darkness conspired with driving rain to reduce visibility to zero and added a backdrop of sound that deadened all other noises, to boot. That policy had served him well, and since he was the senior officer in command of the Switch, his policies were the ones that mattered.

  Ahdmohr understood that, and he wasn’t about to argue with success. Despite that, the odds of any threat to a position over fifty miles from the Sheryl-Seridahn Canal materializing on a night like this weren’t very high, in his opinion. For some reason, however, Sergeant Klymynty hadn’t asked his opinion when he was handing out assignments. And, to be fair, the heretics had demonstrated a distressing tendency to do things most armies didn’t. Including a nasty habit of creeping around on miserable, rainy nights for the express purpose of capturing any unwary sentry they could. The Army of the Seridahn had been slower to learn the value of offensive patrols and prisoner interrogation, but experience was a harsh instructor, and Dynnys Ahdmohr had no intention of finding himself the heretics’ guest while they asked—

  He approached the clump of brush which marked the boundary between his and Zhaif Truskyt’s assigned circuits. He’d passed it at least forty times already. But this time was different, and unfortunately for Private Ahdmohr, the Imperial Charisian Army wasn’t interested in interrogating him tonight.

  An arm snaked around the private’s head from behind. A hard, calloused palm clamped across his mouth and yanked his head back, a combat knife slashed his throat from ear to ear, and a spray of arterial blood steamed in the night’s chill. The Charisian scout sniper and his partner dragged the twitching body back into the brush, then crouched down with their mates, waiting.

  If the timing held, the other sentry should be along in four or five minutes.

  * * *

  “What time is it?”

  “Five minutes later than the last time you asked,” Sergeant Ohmahr Swarez growled. Daivyn Mahkneel was not Swarez’ favorite trooper at the best of times.

  “I was only asking, Sarge.”

  The private was a past master at sounding aggrieved without sounding officially insolent … which was one of the things Swarez least liked about him. On the other hand, a sergeant was a practical sort of thing to be. His job was to manage the troops and take care of all those unpleasant little details officers lacked the time to deal with appropriately. To nip problems in the bud while they were still simple, before they had to be brought to the attention of higher, better paid authority, where things like fine shades of meaning and a carefully considered sense of justice might be important. Pragmatism was a vital military resource, when all was said, and it was the Army’s sergeants who were the wyvern-eyed custodians of that precious commodity.

  With that awesome responsibility in mind, Swarez chose his next words very carefully.

  “Yeah, an’ you’ve been asking every five minutes fer the last half hour, fer Langhorne’s sake! Case it’s missed yer notice, none of the other lads like bein’ out here any more ’n you do, but I don’t hear them bellyachin’ ’bout the duty an’ whining ’bout how soon we get t’ go off watch. So, if you ask again before we’re relieved, I’m gonna put a boot so far up your arse you’ll taste leather for the next five-day. In fact, if I hear another word outa you at all ’tween now an’ then, you’ll get exactly the same answer plus—an’ I absolutely guarantee this—three fucking five-days of picket duty. Now, was there somethin’ else you wanted t’ say?”

  Someone chuckled loudly enough to be heard over the rain drumming on the canvas tent halves which had been laced together and stretched overhead to afford at least some protection. Given just how noisy that rain was, the chuckler had to have deliberately made sure Mahkneel—whose constant whining made him even less popular with his squadmates than with his sergeant—heard it.

  Swarez smiled, gazing out into the rainy darkness as he heard it. It was unlikely Mahkneel would be able to keep his mouth shut, although he supposed it was remotely possible. The Writ promised miracles still happened, after all.

  An’ if the miserable prick insists on bein’ a pain in the arse, the other lads’ll sort his arse out with a little “counselin’ session” next time there’re no officers around. Prob’ly shouldn’t be thinkin’ that’s a good thing, an’ I hope they don’t get too carried away, but the—

  The sergeant’s thoughts broke off, and his eyes narrowed. He cocked his head, trying to decide if he really had heard anything besides the splashing energy of the rain. It seemed unlikely, but he turned in the direction from which the possible sound had come, straining his eyes, and something tingled unpleasantly up and down his spine.

  “What is it, Sarge?” one of the other members of the picket asked.

  “Don’t know,” Swarez said tersely, but his hand groped for the signal flare, copied from a captured heretic signal rocket. “Thought I heard—”

  * * *

  “Now!” Sergeant Ahrnahld Taisyn hissed, and two squads of 2nd Platoon, 1st Company, 1st Battalion, 2nd Scout Sniper Regiment, came to their feet in the muddy, rain-soaked scrub. “And remember,” he added, totally superfluously, because it was his job to, “no shooting, damn it!”

  The scout snipers were understrength, like every other unit in the Army of Thesmar, but 2nd Platoon was down only nine of its nominal fifty-seven men, and Lieutenant Abernethy had picked the squads for Taisyn’s present mission with care. Not even a scout sniper could move through close, overgrown terrain in total darkness—and rain—without sounding like a draft dragon in a cornfield. But at least Abernethy and Taisyn could count on 3rd and 4th Squad to sound like small dragons.

  The Charisians came out of the dark with bayoneted rifles at the ready and every safety set, sweeping through the gap they’d created by picking off Captain Tyrnyr’s layered shell of sentries. Sergeant Swarez was a highly experienced veteran with well-honed combat instincts. That was why he had time to realize he truly had heard something, to find the signal flare with his right hand and reach for the primer tape with his left. His fingers actually found the tape and started to pull it … just as a fourteen-inch tempered steel bayonet rammed home at the base of his throat.

  The unlit flare fell back into the mud as his hands pawed uselessly at the blood-spouting wound. He went down, gurgling for breath, trying to shout, and a muck-covered combat boot slammed down on his breastplate as the Charisian recovered his bayonet.

  * * *

  “All right.” Captain Zackery Wylsynn had to raise his voice over the rain and the sullen wind tossing the leafless branches around him. “Our forward squads have informed us they’re at least theoretically where they’re supposed to be. And Sergeant Major Bohzmhyn here—” Wylsynn twitched his head in the direction of the tallish, square-shouldered noncom at his elbow “—assures me the Temple Boys don’t have a clue we’re coming. I want you all to remember he gave us his word about that.”

  “Not exactly what I said, Sir.” Unlike Wylsynn, who was an Old Charisian and an ex-Marine, Bohzmhyn was a Chisholmian who’d spent the better part of twenty years in the Royal Chisholmian Army before it became the Imperial Charisian Army. As such, he had a Langhorne-given responsibility to be the voice of reason for his Charisian CO. “What I said was that none of
our lads fired a single shot and none of the pickets warned anyone we’re coming. Doesn’t mean somebody hasn’t figured it out on his own.”

  “Ah, I see. I stand corrected.” Wylsynn grinned at his company sergeant major. Then his expression sobered as he returned his attention to the youthful lieutenants standing around him while the rain battered their shoulders and bounced off their helmets.

  “The point is that our people are in position, the engineers are out doing their jobs, and Colonel Maiyrs’ lead elements should be closing up on our point teams right about now. In another—” he pulled his watch out of his tunic and tilted it to catch the narrow beam of light from the bull’s-eye lantern Bohzmhyn cracked open “—eighty minutes or so, things’re going to get lively. So,” he closed the watch’s case with a snap, “let’s just get back and make sure no balls get dropped, shall we?”

  * * *

  “Got an Alyksberg officer here lookin’ for the Lieutenant, Sarge,” Corporal Clyffyrd said.

  Sergeant Taisyn looked up from the bayonet he’d been honing, then stood and saluted the sodden Siddarmarkian captain who stood dripping at the corporal’s heels.