by David Weber
“And on top of what happened to Thirsk’s family,” Merlin put in, “Maik has what certainly looks like a genuine sense of pastoral responsibility. Not just for the Dohlaran Navy, either. I think he’s worried about what will happen to the entire Kingdom if this goes down to the bitter end.”
“And he damned well should be,” Parkair said in a considerably harsher tone. The Charisian side of the table looked at him, and the seneschal shrugged, his earlier amusement vanished. “Let’s not forget where a goodly chunk—the most effective chunk!—of the Army of Shiloh came from. Or, for that matter, what Rychtair did in South March and Ahlverez did at Alyksberg. That was a pretty sharp dagger they planted in our back. As your lady wife said in that splendid speech that’s appeared in all the newspapers, Your Majesty, there’s a price for actions like that.”
“I can’t deny that,” Cayleb said, after a moment. “But I also think we’d all have to admit that whatever their other faults, the Dohlaran Army—and its Navy, for that matter, despite what happened to Gwyllym and the others—have fought a hell of a lot ‘cleaner’ war than the Army of God or Desnair.”
He ended on a slightly rising note and quirked an eyebrow at the seneschal.
“There’s a difference between ‘cleaner’ and clean,” Parkair growled. But then his nostrils flared as he inhaled deeply. “Still, you have a point. And as you said a few minutes ago, I don’t want to lose a single man we don’t have to lose. If there’s an acceptable … arrangement that takes Dohlar out of the war, then I suppose we probably have to be reasonable about accepting it.”
“It’s not a decision we’ll need to make tomorrow, whatever happens,” Aivah pointed out pragmatically. “But it is something to consider. And I think it’s especially important to consider the broader impact a Dohlaran exit would have.”
“Broader impact?” Gahdarhd’s tone suggested he already saw where she was headed, and she nodded to him.
“Precisely. After Baron Sarmouth’s victory at Shipworm Shoal—and especially after Gwylym Manthyr reinforces Earl Sharpfield and Baron Sarmouth’s squadron shifts farther east—Dohlar will be as effectively neutralized as Desnair. From a practical viewpoint, Earl Hanth could stop at Shandyr and adopt a defensive stance and Dohlar—and South Harchong, for that matter—couldn’t do a single thing to affect what happens in Tarikah or Cliff Peak this summer. That may not be all that apparent to anyone else if Dohlar’s still formally in the jihad, but what happens if Dohlar withdraws from the jihad? I think we’re all in agreement that our minimum requirement would be a formal withdrawal, one which is officially acknowledged and not just another unilateral ‘we’re not going to fight anymore’ informal arrangement like Desnair’s.”
She looked around the table, saw agreement on every other face, and shrugged.
“That sort of formal withdrawal—a surrender, really, whatever it’s called—by a Mainland realm would have an enormous impact on morale in the Border States, North Harchong, and even the Temple Lands. We all know Clyntahn will rant, rave, and thunder anathemas, and I don’t doubt he’ll make ‘examples’ of any Dohlaran he can possibly accuse of ‘complicity’ in the ‘betrayal of Mother Church.’” Her beautiful face twisted in an expression of distaste. “I’m sure the certainty he’d do exactly that would be a hard pill for Thirsk and Ahlverez to swallow, too. But no matter how he tries to spin it, he won’t be able to hide the fact that the Church’s most effective ally—a Mainland ally, not just another of those barbarian Out Island realms, and the one whose navy the Group of Four’s own propaganda’s held up as their counterweight for the ICN—has abandoned them. And if, as I’m sure would happen, Thirsk, Ahlverez and, possibly even Maik, denounce Clyntahn and the Group of Four as the corrupters of Mother Church they actually are.…”
Her voice trailed off, and Stohnar nodded firmly.
“You’re right,” he said. “I’m with Daryus where the price for Dohlar’s earlier actions is concerned, but we’re hardly alone in that. And if they’re willing to formally and officially denounce Clyntahn and his friends, that would be a pretty hefty installment on the debt, as far as I’m concerned.”
“I know that’s not an easy thing to accept,” Cayleb said quietly. “Truth to tell, it won’t be an easy choice for me and Sharleyan, either. And it’s not one we’ll have to make until and unless Thirsk and Ahlverez decide they have to act, come up with a plan, and actually make it work. Trust me,” his tone turned grim, “if they try and fail, the price Clyntahn will exact from the entire Kingdom’s likely to be a lot higher than either of us would ever have asked for.”
“Absolutely, Your Majesty,” Fardhym said. The archbishop’s expression was troubled—not by doubt, but by his concern for the lives of any of God’s children. “I trust no one will be offended if I spend a few Wednesdays praying for them, as well as for their success.”
“I’m sure Maikel will be doing exactly the same thing in Tellesberg, Your Grace,” Cayleb assured him. “For that matter, I don’t have the same sort of … access you two have, but I may find myself spending a little time on my own knees over them.”
Silence fell again, lingering for several seconds until Stohnar straightened in his chair again and inhaled.
“That was certainly some of the best potential news I’ve heard in a long time,” he said briskly. “However, we have a few more immediate concerns right here in the Republic, and I think we’d better get back to those status reports from the northern front if we want to finish in time for dinner. Cayleb, the first point I’d like to consider is the Army of Tarikah’s supply position. I know Baron Green Valley’s said he’s satisfied, but—”
* * *
Quite a few of the spectators crowding the batteries and steadily expanding quays seemed to have trouble believing their eyes, Earl Sharpfield thought dryly. That was fair enough. He was having a little trouble in that regard.
HMS Gwylym Manthyr had waited until full light to make her way across Shell Sound and then through North Channel into Hardship Bay. She’d taken North Channel because it was wider and quite a bit deeper than Snake Channel, and Halcom Bahrns obviously had no intention of putting his magnificent new command onto a sandbar. For all her size, Gwylym Manthyr’s normal draft was actually only three feet deeper than a Rottweiler-class ironclad’s, but it seemed impossible, looking at her, that that could be true, and he didn’t blame Bahrns one bit for his caution.
Saluting guns boomed from the battery, and Manthyr replied with a timed ripple of smoke from her larboard four-inch breechloaders. The cheers rising along with the salute were deafening, and it was a bit difficult for Sharpfield to remember his dignity and not join them. Not that anyone would have held it against him, under the circumstances.
The enormous, gray-hulled monster moved across the harbor’s tiny waves with preposterous, majestic grace, gliding through the water, turning back a thin mustache of white and leaving a brief, glassy smoothness in her wake. Not a man watching her could doubt that he looked upon the final doom of the Royal Dohlaran Navy. Sharpfield was no different in that respect, but in some ways he was actually happier to see the columns of smoke following her out of North Channel.
There were four of them, each rising from a ship barely twenty feet shorter than Gwylym Manthyr herself. They weren’t warships. In fact, those tall, boxy, slab-sided hulls weren’t armed at all. Their only defense was the fact that no hostile warship in the world could possibly catch one of them, but in their own way, they were even more dangerous to Charis’ foes than Manthyr.
“Victory ships.” That was what Emperor Cayleb had christened them when the Duke of Delthak—only he’d still been simple Master Ehdwyrd Howsmyn at the time—first proposed them, and that’s precisely what they were: the first steam-powered, ocean-going cargo vessels in the world. These four, like the eight sister ships still completing behind them, had steel frames and wooden planking. The next flight were already well into construction, however, and they’d be steel-hulled, as well as framed. They�
��d also be at least a little faster, but Sharpfield wasn’t about to complain about what he had. Each of those four ships could carry just over ten thousand tons of cargo, five times as much as the largest galleon in the world, for ten thousand miles at a constant speed of almost thirteen knots, regardless of wind conditions, on a single bunkerload of coal.
He didn’t have a complete list of their present cargo, since—like Manthyr—they’d far outrun any dispatches. He did know, in general terms at least, what was supposed to be aboard them, however, and he smiled thinly at the thought.
Manthyr slowed still further as Bahrns reversed power. She was barely ghosting through the water now, and a fountain of white erupted as her anchor plunged into the harbor.
And now, Sharpfield told himself, starting down the stone stairs to the launch bobbing at their feet, it’s time for me to go inspect my new toy. And it’s not even God’s Day!
He chuckled at the thought, but then the chuckle stopped and he frowned thoughtfully.
Well, maybe that’s not really true, he reflected. It won’t formally be God’s Day until July, but the Writ teaches that every day belongs to Him, and just this minute, He’s in the process of showing those bastards in Zion whose side He’s really on, isn’t He? Because when Manthyr turns up in Gorath Bay, the message will be pretty damned clear.
.VI.
Camp Mahrtyn Taisyn,
Traytown,
Tarikah Province,
Republic of Siddarmark.
“I really don’t like what we’re hearing about those damned rockets. Kynt,” Ruhsyl Thairis said quietly. The Duke of Eastshare and Baron Green Valley rode through the chill afternoon along Dahltyn Sumyrs Way, the slushy central road across the sprawling complex of Camp Mahrtyn Taisyn, towards Green Valley’s headquarters block. “If they’re as good as the seijins’ reports suggest they are, we’re going to get hurt a lot worse this year than last.”
“Yes, we are,” Green Valley replied unhappily, his breath steaming faintly in the cold. “But, let’s be honest, Ruhsyl. We already knew that was going to happen. This’ll only push the price a little higher than it would have been anyway. And at least we know about them, so we can take them into consideration.”
“And at least Duke Delthak’s given us our own rockets,” Eastshare acknowledged with a sharp nod.
“That he has. And this latest cold snap’ll give us at least another few five-days to get them to the front.”
“Well, that’s a case of finding a bright side to look upon if I ever heard one!” Eastshare laughed sourly.
“‘We can’t change the weather, only curse it’,” Green Valley responded, quoting a Chisholmian proverb. “And if the damned winter wants to drop four or five feet of late snow on us, I might as well find something good about it!”
“Can’t argue with that.”
They reached their destination and their escort drew up around them. There was quite a lot of that escort, actually. The Imperial Charisian Army wasn’t in the habit of taking chances with its general officers, and the last effort to assassinate Eastshare had occurred barely three months ago. The last attempt on Green Valley’s life, on the other hand, was well over a year old. The Inquisition could still find zealots willing to carry out suicidal missions, but it had become evident Green Valley’s security was simply too good. No one had gotten within a hundred yards of him in so long even Wyllym Rayno had decided his assets could be better expended someplace they had a chance of succeeding.
The two generals dismounted, once the escort commander had given his gracious approval, and handed their reins to waiting orderlies and started up the short flight of steps to the covered snow porch that fronted the HQ block. As they did, Captain Bryahn Slokym, Green Valley’s aide, opened the door and stepped out onto the porch, came to attention, and saluted.
“Captain,” Eastshare acknowledged, returning his salute, then smiled and patted the younger man’s shoulder. “Congratulations on the promotion.”
“Thank you, Your Grace.” Slokym smiled and nodded to the red-haired, slightly built major following at Eastshare’s heels. “There seems to be quite a bit of that going around. I understand that happens to people who spend a lot of time around generals.”
“No, does it really?” Major Lywys Braynair said, rounding his eyes as he clasped forearms with Slokym.
“That’s what I’ve heard, anyway, Sir.”
“You obviously don’t keep him trimmed back to size, Kynt,” Eastshare observed, scowling ferociously at the captain.
“And you do keep Lywys pruned back, is that it? You’ll have to show me how that works sometime,” Green Valley said innocently.
“Well, I suppose as long as they keep doing their jobs—and have plenty of hot chocolate or that barbarous cherrybean ready—I’ll let them keep their ill-deserved promotions,” the duke replied.
Slokym opened the door again, holding it for his superiors, then followed them into Green Valley’s office. Where, by the strangest coincidence steaming carafes of both hot chocolate and cherrybean tea were ready and waiting. With fresh donuts, no less.
“Passable, I suppose,” Eastshare observed as the generals shed coats, hats, gloves, and mufflers. He blew into his cupped palms for a moment, then settled into a chair while Slokym poured hot chocolate into a cup for him. “Passable.”
Green Valley snorted in amusement, then settled into his own chair.
In a lot of ways, today’s meeting was a pure formality. Eastshare had been kept fully briefed on his plans, and the duke had suggested more than one useful improvement. There’d been plenty of time—more time than any of them wanted, really—to tweak those plans. And Rainbow Waters had compelled them to do more of that tweaking than Green Valley would have preferred.
Still, there was no true substitute for face-to-face discussions. Even the most carefully written dispatch could be misconstrued, and without that face-to-face conversation, there was no opportunity for the sort of feedback that might correct the misunderstanding. That was something Ruhsyl Thairis understood bone-deep, and Green Valley felt yet another surge of admiration for his superior. Eastshare wasn’t a member of the inner circle. He had access to neither the SNARCs’ reconnaissance capabilities—certainly not in real time, although it was true that the “seijins’ reports” he regularly received helped a great deal in that respect—nor to the real-time communication capabilities of the inner circle. Green Valley enjoyed both those advantages, yet Eastshare’s performance was at least as good as his own. In his personal opinion, it was actually better, in fact.
And because Eastshare understood the value of personal conferences, he’d made the wearisome circuit of his broadly deployed army commanders. Which, in the middle of a mainland winter, was scarcely a trivial undertaking. Camp Taisyn was his final stop, however. He’d head back to his more central position in Glacierheart as soon as they were finished, and even with canal ice boats, Safeholdian high roads, and snow lizard-drawn sleds, he was looking at three solid five-days of travel just to get there.
So maybe those extra five-days will come in handy after all, the baron reflected.
He tipped back in his chair with a cup of cherrybean in one hand and a donut in the other and contemplated the large, detailed wall maps. There was a lot of information on them. Any Inquisition spy would cheerfully have sacrificed an arm for an hour or two to look at them and take notes, and Green Valley’s smile grew hungry as his eyes drifted towards the southern end of the long front stretching from Hsing-wu’s Passage all the way to the Gulf of Dohlar.
Nahrmahn Baytz’ deception plan had borne better fruit than even the rotund little dead Emeraldian, who was no more addicted to modesty in death than he’d been in life, had dared to predict.
Green Valley had a great deal of respect for Gustyv Walkyr. The archbishop militant wasn’t simply an intelligent man or a smart commander; he was also a man of compassion whose heart had been sorely tried by the kind of war he’d been ordered to fight. In fact, Green Va
lley had decided it spoke rather better for Allayn Maigwair than he’d ever expected that a man like Walkyr was so obviously devoted to the Church’s captain general on a personal level. Especially when Walkyr so obviously knew Maigwair had to be in Zhaspahr Clyntahn’s sights.
He expected Walkyr to make the best use anyone could have of his advantages of position, his fortifications, and his artillery and rocket launchers. But Earl Silken Hills would have done the same thing, and however good Walkyr might be, the caliber of his men didn’t come close to that of Silken Hills’ men. Those Harchongese serfs had spent the better part of two years learning to outpace their tutors, acquiring a set of military skills no “Temple Boy” army had ever possessed. There were still holes, they were still … unsophisticated, and their units weren’t as capable of thinking for themselves as the best of the original Army of God divisions had been. They were immensely better at it than any current Army of God division, however, and their sheer toughness—especially their cohesion—made them extraordinarily tough opponents. They possessed a deep and abiding faith in themselves, their weapons, and—astonishing in any Harchongese army, and an enormous tribute to Rainbow Waters—in their officers. They were tough-minded, tenacious, and unlikely to give in easily, whatever happened, but they were also pragmatic and realistic.
Green Valley would have been happier if the men of the Mighty Host had been supremely confident of victory. That kind of assurance could be turned against an army. A crushing victory—like his own, when he’d arrived in the nick of time to stop Bahrnabai Wyrshym from breaking through the Sylmahn Gap—did far more damage to the morale of an overconfident army than to one with a realistic grasp of the task before it.
The Mighty Host of God and the Archangels was too realistic for overconfidence … but it was also a long way from expecting to lose. One of Rainbow Waters’ most impressive achievements—and God knew he’d managed one hell of a lot more “achievements” than Green Valley would have preferred!—was his ability to produce an army which still believed it could win, even though it knew it would confront enemies with better weapons and more experience. That would have been more than bad enough from Green Valley’s perspective, but Rainbow Waters hadn’t stopped there. He’d also used the example of Sir Fahstyr Rychtyr’s success in slowing Hauwerd Breygart to inculcate an understanding that even a retreating army could accomplish its most important mission. That the simple fact that the Host might be forced to give ground didn’t mean it had been defeated as long as it maintained its cohesion, continued to fight, and withdrew in good order to the next point at which it could stand. He’d convinced his men that as long as their army existed, so long as they were still fighting—still represented a formed force in the field—they were accomplishing their mission in God’s defense.
