by David Weber
Mohrtynsyn’s face clenched, but he didn’t disagree, and Rychtyr turned back to the window.
Of course that was what Hanth wanted. It was what any worthwhile, sane general—especially a general who served sane masters like Cayleb and Sharleyan Ahrmahk—would want. Because if Rychtyr agreed to a cease-fire, however brief, however limited, it would set the entire Army of the Seridahn back on its heels. The respite would make it even harder for the men to walk back into the furnace, and who could blame them? The fact that the “heretics” had offered a cease-fire, offered a chance to spare their lives instead of simply continuing to kill them when everyone knew they could, might well confirm the Army’s “Clyntahn’s War” thinking. Who was the true servant of Corruption, after all? The man who spared when he might have killed … or the man who condemned millions of other men to die?
“That’s exactly what he’s thinking, Ahskar, and I’m not going to give it to him. Clyftyn didn’t die leading that frigging forlorn hope just so I could sell out the sacrifice he and the men with him made! I won’t do that. I can’t do that.”
“Very well, Sir,” Mohrtynsyn said after a long, still moment. Then he smiled crookedly. “I guess I already knew what you’d say. Still, it is my job to point these little things out to you.”
“Yes, it is.” Rychtyr’s smile was considerably broader—and warmer—than the colonel’s had been. “And you do it w—”
The door to his improvised office opened suddenly, and he turned towards the interruption. His expression was irritated … but it smoothed instantly as he saw the man standing in the doorway. The brown-haired newcomer wore the purple cassock of the Order of Schueler, badged with the sword and flame of the Inquisition. The cockade in his priest’s cap was the same upper-priest brown as Pairaik Metzlyr’s, but his right sleeve bore the embroidered white crown of an archbishop’s personal secretary.
Rychtyr had never seen him before, but he knew instantly who—or at least what—he had to be, and Metzlyr’s reaction confirmed it a moment later.
“Father Rahndail!” his intendant said sharply. “What are you doing here? And, forgive me for pointing this out, but one usually knocks before barging in on a general officer.”
“I realize that, Father,” the newcomer said. “Circumstances are … somewhat unusual, however.” He turned to Rychtyr. “I apologize for bursting in on you, Sir Fahstyr, but I fear my errand leaves little time for normal courtesies.”
“And why would that be, Father…?” Rychtyr raised his eyebrows in polite inquiry as if he hadn’t already realized perfectly well who the other man was.
“Evryt, Sir Fahstyr,” the upper-priest said, bending his head in the slightest of nods. “Father Rahndail Evryt. I have the honor to be one of Archbishop Trumahn’s personal assistants.”
“I see. And could I ask—” Rychtyr began, then paused as the door opened once more, this time to readmit Lieutenant Gohzail. The lieutenant’s shoulders were tight, his gray-green eyes were worried, and he was accompanied by another officer. It was a captain Rychtyr had never seen before … and he wore the purple tunic and red trousers of the Army of God, not the green and red of Dohlar.
“Yes, Zhulyo?”
“Forgive me, Sir, but this … gentleman declined to wait in the orderly room. He insisted upon joining Father Rahndail. And he appears to have brought a couple of platoons of dragoons with him. They’re waiting outside.”
“Indeed?” Rychtyr glanced at the Army of God officer. “And has the captain explained exactly what he’s doing here?”
“No, Sir.” Gohzail’s tone was manifestly unhappy. “I asked him, but—”
“Excuse me, Sir Fahstyr,” Evryt said. Rychtyr’s eyes returned to him, and the upper-priest shrugged slightly. “I regret any confusion, and no doubt I should already have mentioned Captain Gairybahldy’s presence and introduced him to you. I shouldn’t have allowed the importance of my mission to distract me from that courtesy, so please, allow me to correct that oversight now and present Captain Ahlvyno Gairybahldy. When I set out for the front, Bishop Executor Wylsynn thought it best to provide me with an escort. He is, of course, aware of the way in which Duke Salthar is straining every nerve to reinforce you while simultaneously protecting the Kingdom’s coasts, so it seemed best to provide that escort from the Army of God personnel who’ve been seconded to the Inquisition rather than requesting troops from him at such a time. Captain Gairybahldy is the commander of that escort.”
“I see,” Rychtyr said again. He gave the captain—who looked a shade less than completely calm and composed—a thoughtful glance, then looked back at Evryt. “And I suppose that rather brings me back to the question I was about to pose before we were … interrupted. So, may I ask what brings you to Borahn?”
“I’ve been sent to inform you and Father Pairaik that you are summoned to Gorath.” Evryt’s tone was level, his expression grave. “My instructions were to inform you of that as quickly as possible and then to personally escort you—both of you—back to the capital.”
“I see,” Rychtyr said for a third time, and glanced briefly at Metzlyr. His intendant’s expression didn’t look any happier than the general felt, and he returned his attention to Evryt and held out his hand. “May I see Duke Salthar’s instructions, Father?”
“I’m afraid the summons wasn’t issued by Duke Salthar. Or by any secular authority, Sir Fahstyr.” Evryt’s face hardened ever so slightly. “You’ve been summoned by Bishop Executor Wylsynn and Father Ahbsahlahn.”
“With all due respect for the Bishop Executor and Father Ahbsahlahn, this would be a very bad time for me to abandon the Army, Father,” Rychtyr said levelly. “We’ve just received confirmation of General Rahdgyrz’ death, and I’ve lost close to a third of my senior regimental commanders. We’re in the process of reorganizing in anticipation of the heretics’ next attack, and it would be … counterproductive for me to leave for Gorath before that’s been accomplished.”
“I’m sorry to hear that, Sir Fahstyr. Unfortunately, I was granted no discretion to modify my instructions. I really must insist we depart immediately.”
The iron in his tone was as unmistakable as the flint in his eyes. Rychtyr felt himself tighten internally, and the corner of his eye saw Mohrtynsyn stiffen. He also saw Gohzail take a quiet half-step backwards, which just happened to place him behind Captain Gairybahldy, while his hand dropped to the grip of the captured Charisian revolver at his side.
Gairybahldy took no apparent notice of Gohzail’s movement … or of the way Mohrtynsyn’s hand strayed towards the hilt of his dagger. But his spine stiffened and he was very careful to keep his own hand away from any weapon. The tension in that parlor could have been sawn up into pieces and used for sandbags, Rychtyr thought. Even Evryt was aware of it. It showed in the sudden tightness of his shoulders, the way his face lost all expression. It hovered in the very air, that suddenly icy, brittle tension, as Evryt realized Sir Fahstyr Rychtyr’s officers might just put their loyalty to him above their loyalty to Mother Church.
Or to the Group of Four, at least.
“I understand your desire to discharge your instructions as speedily as possible, Father,” the commanding officer of the Army of the Seridahn said calmly. “And as a loyal son of Mother Church, I am, of course, at the Bishop Executor’s service at any time. I do have obligations to the Kingdom and to King Rahnyld’s Army, however. I can’t simply walk out the door with you right this moment. At the very least, I have to see to an orderly transfer of command. This isn’t the time for there to be any confusion in the chain of command—not when fresh heretic attacks are almost certainly imminent. I’m sure you can understand that.”
“I can … understand your reasoning, Sir Fahstyr. Nonetheless, my mission—as you’ve just more or less observed—is a pressing one and my instructions are nondiscretionary. How long would you require to see to that transfer?”
“General Iglaisys is my senior commander, now that we’ve lost General Rahdgyrz,” Rychtyr r
eplied. “At the moment, he’s in St. Torrin. I presume you passed through that village on your way here?”
Evryt nodded, never taking his eyes from Rychtyr’s face.
“Then you know it’s only about five miles from here,” the general continued. “It’s too dark now to summon him by semaphore, but a courier could reach him in about an hour. Assume another hour—more probably an hour and a half—for him to hand over to his own second in command—that would be Colonel Hylz now, I believe—and then another hour to return here with the courier. So call it three and a half hours. Then it will probably take at least a couple of hours for me to bring him fully up to speed. It would take considerably longer than that if he and I hadn’t already discussed our situation and our options pretty thoroughly.” He shrugged. “At any rate, I’d estimate I could probably leave the Army under his command in six or seven hours. Of course, by that time it will be Langhorne’s Watch, so we probably wouldn’t want to leave before dawn. I could be fully packed and ready to depart by then with a clear conscience, however.”
Evryt’s eyes flicked past Rychtyr to Gohzail, then flitted to Mohrtynsyn’s stony expression. His unhappiness was evident, but he produced something approximating a smile as he returned his gaze to Rychtyr’s face.
“I’m a priest, Sir Fahstyr, not a general. I’m afraid I hadn’t fully thought through the … complications a professional soldier would face in simply handing his command over to someone else. I’m afraid I do have to insist we depart absolutely as soon as practicable, but obviously we can’t do that until you’ve had time to transfer command to General Iglaisys in an orderly fashion.”
“I’m glad you understand, Father.”
“Oh, I assure you I understand.” Despite himself, Evryt’s smile turned rather colder for a moment. Then he looked at Gairybahldy. “Captain, please inform your men we’ll be staying the night here in Borahn, after all. I’m sure the General’s staff will see to your quarters while we’re here.”
“Of course they will, Father.” Rychtyr smiled at the AOG officer. “All of us understand the requirements duty imposes, Captain. Zhulyo—Lieutenant Gohzail—will see to it that you and your men are quartered together. I’m afraid all we can offer overnight will be a spot for you to pitch your own tents, but the cooks should at least be able to feed you a hot supper and I believe we’ll be able to put you somewhere that lets you look after Father Rahndail’s comfort and security. I trust that will be satisfactory?”
“Perfectly so, Sir,” Gairybahldy replied.
“I’m glad. In that case,” Rychtyr looked past him to Gohzail, “I’ll leave you in Zhulyo’s capable hands. He’ll see you as comfortably settled as possible before he goes and oversees the packing of my own bags.” He held the youthful lieutenant’s eyes very steadily. “He’s a very conscientious young officer. I’m sure he’ll look after you to the very best of his ability.”
Rebellion flickered in Gohzail’s eyes for just a second, and the hand on his revolver tightened. Rychtyr’s gaze never wavered, however, and after a moment, the lieutenant made himself take his hand off the weapon and his nostrils flared.
“Of course, Sir.” His tone acknowledged far more than anything Rychtyr had just said. “I’ll personally see to Captain Gairybahldy and his men’s needs. And I’ll see to it that none of our people feel any confusion or … concern over their presence.”
“Good, Zhulyo. That’s good,” Rychtyr said. “And on your way out, send a courier to General Iglaisys to tell him to report to me here.”
“I will, Sir,” Gohzail acknowledged, then touched Gairybahldy on the shoulder. “If you’ll come with me, Captain?”
“With your permission, Father?” Gairybahldy asked, looking at Evryt, and came to attention when the upper-priest nodded. “In that case, I’m at your service, Lieutenant.” He saluted Rychtyr, rather more formally—and, unless Rychtyr missed his guess, much more gratefully—than an Army of God officer normally saluted someone else’s officers. “Permission to withdraw, General Rychtyr?”
“Granted, Captain Gairybahldy.” Rychtyr returned the salute and smiled frostily. “I look forward to your company on the trip to Gorath.”
.V.
Lizard Island,
Hankey Sound,
and
Gorath Palace,
City of Gorath,
Kingdom of Dohlar.
“Sir, I think you’d better come see this.”
Lieutenant Bryahn Sathyrwayt lowered his cup of hot chocolate with a frown. Sergeant Maikel knew how he hated being disturbed at breakfast. One of the very few good things about being the senior officer of the Harlysville “garrison” was the plethora of seafood taken off Lizard Island’s shores and, especially, the spider crabs and shellfish harvested from Lamb Chop Shoal off the island’s northwestern coast. Before he’d been assigned to the grandiloquently named Coastal Defense Force and then shuffled off to Lizard Island he’d never considered the thought of seafood for breakfast. Now it was one of the simple pleasures to which he looked forward.
“See what, Ahmbrohs?” he inquired in repressive tones, looking up from his plate. “And why can’t it wait until I’ve at least finished breakfast?”
“Sir,” Ahmbrohs Maikel was a tall, lugubrious-looking man, with a long face and thinning gray hair, who walked with a pronounced limp courtesy of the wounds he’d suffered at Alyksberg, “you can wait until you’ve finished breakfast if you want. No skin off my nose. Don’t think Governor Alysyn’ll be too happy about that later, though.”
Sathyrwayt’s frown deepened. Maikel took a certain pleasure in finding suitable reasons to predict doom and gloom. And he was not, regrettably, a tremendous respecter of the dignity of twenty-year-old lieutenants who’d never heard a shot fired in anger. Still, there was usually a point to his less than deeply respectful moments—what Sathyrwayt’s uncle, a lay brother in the Order of Sondheim, was fond of calling a “teaching moment.” All of which suggested this was a day when breakfast should be deferred.
“All right, Ahmbrohs,” he sighed, took one last sip of chocolate, and pushed back from the table. “What’s so damned important?” he asked, walking across the tiny dining parlor of the house assigned for his use here in Harlysville.
“Best if you see it for yourself, Sir,” Maikel said, and pointed out to sea.
Harlysville lay at what was very nearly the northernmost point of Lizard Island, fronting the twenty-five-mile-wide Ghustahv Channel between Lizard and the much larger Dragon Island, its northern neighbor. The Ghustahv Channel was deep, suitable for the largest galleons, and there were usually a few sails visible upon its waters. Much less shipping had passed through it since the heretics’ seizure of White Rock Island, however. White Rock was nine hundred miles north of Lizard, but Charisian commerce-raiders had swarmed out from it to shut down the Trosan Channel and the Fern Narrows. What little shipping still moved across Hankey Sound came from South Harchong, not the north, and tended to hug the Sound’s southern coast as tightly as possible, staying close to ports it could dash into the instant a Charisian schooner’s topsails showed themselves. That meant no one was taking the shortcut through Ghustahv Channel. So what, Sathyrwayt thought irritably, could be so damned important that he had to leave his breakfast to get cold and—
“Sweet Langhorne,” he said very, very softly.
“Figure that’s about the only person who could help us now, Sir,” Maikel agreed with appalling cheerfulness. Sathyrwayt looked at him sharply, and the sergeant shrugged. “Already roused the platoon, Sir. Got both twelve-pounders manned, too. Don’t think it’ll make much difference, though.”
Sathyrwayt stared at him for several seconds, then back out at the forest of sails emerging from the morning fog. There had to be at least thirty or forty galleons out there, he thought numbly. And, far worse, were the two ships heading purposefully—and absurdly swiftly—towards Harlysville’s modest docks. The thick banners of smoke trailing from the single smokestack each of them boasted wo
uld have made their identity crystal-clear even without the silver, blue, and black banners flying from their yardarms.
Behind them, moving more slowly but trailing their own smoke, were at least two dozen much smaller vessels. They looked more like cargo lighters than anything else, except for their spindly smokestacks and the paddle blades churning the ocean behind them. Sathyrwayt had seen pedal-powered paddle wheels on a handful of canal boats, but he’d never seen paddle wheels that spun as rapidly and steadily as these did.
Maikel tapped him on the shoulder and extended the spyglass Sathyrwayt hadn’t noticed hanging from his shoulder. The lieutenant took it numbly, raising it and peering through it, and his jaw tightened as he recognized the black and blue uniforms of Imperial Charisian Marines. There were what looked like at least a couple of squads—probably more—packed into each of those oncoming “cargo lighters,” and his entire command consisted of a single understrength platoon of only twenty-seven men.
“I believe you’re right about how much difference the twelve-pounders are going to make, Sergeant,” he said, lowering the glass. “Why don’t you get back to the men and suggest they stand well clear of the guns? In fact, I think it would be a good idea to shove them through the embrasures. We can always fish them back out of the harbor at low tide later.”
“I think that sounds like a really good idea, Sir.” There was considerably more approval in Maikel’s voice than Sathyrwayt was accustomed to hearing from him. “I’ll just go and take care of that right now, shall I?”
“I think that would be a very good idea.” Sathyrwayt handed him back the spyglass with a thin smile. “And while you’re doing that, I’ll see about getting semaphore messages off to Governor Alysyn and Captain Ohygyns.”
