At the Sign of Triumph

by David Weber

  Baozhi had listened carefully when Captain of Spears Zhwyailyn explained that the balloons weren’t really demonic. He believed the company XO had been telling him the truth … at least as much of it as Zhwyailyn knew, anyway. He would have found the explanation more convincing, however, if the captain of spears had been able to explain exactly how the monstrous things managed to stay up there if they weren’t demonically empowered. He would have liked explanations for quite a few of the heretics’ innovations, to be honest, but the balloons were front and center of his concerns at the moment. Without them, the heretics would still be east of St. Tailar instead of pushing their way across the Tairyn River.

  Baozhi was happy enough to be shut of St. Tailar. He was as devout as the next man, but the endless expanse of unmarked mass graves, stretching literally for miles around the ruins of the concentration camp the Inquisition had built on the town’s site, had been enough to give him nightmares, especially when the artillery began ripping those graves open. The bones and the bodies—high northern winters tended to slow decay, and the stench of bodies and body parts, making up for that delay under the hot July sun—had been like a curse from the un-restful dead. He couldn’t truly believe all those people, especially the children who’d been exhumed by the terrible thunder of the shells, had been heretics. Surely not all of them—not the kids! That was the sort of thought it was unwise to voice where the Inquisition might hear, but he was pretty sure he wasn’t the only one who’d thought it.

  Yet however glad he might have been to leave St. Tailar behind, he was a lot less happy about how far the heretics’ Army of Tarikah had driven the St. Bahzlyr Band since it launched its offensive. The heretics’ new super-heavy angle-guns seemed to be slower-moving than the rest of their artillery, but the lighter angles—and their own version of Mother Church’s rocket launchers—seemed to keep right up with their mounted infantry.

  They hadn’t had it all their own way, at first, because Lord of Horse Yellow Sky, St. Bahzlyr’s commander, had ordered his artillerists to survey every suitable artillery position between Ayaltyn and his main forward defense line. His plans had envisioned counterattacking to relieve Ayaltyn if it was attacked, and he’d wanted to know where to put his guns when he did. The speed with which Green Valley had enveloped Baron Morning Star’s brigade had prevented that, but his gunners’ surveys had helped them predict the firing positions the heretic artillery was most likely to choose coming west. Once it became obvious no counterattack could save Morning Star—that, instead, the heretics would be calling on the band’s main positions very soon—his batteries had pre-registered their guns on as many of those points as lay within their range. They couldn’t actually see most of them when the heretics opened fire on the main defensive line, but they’d counter batteried with blind fire, using the previously recorded elevations and deflections. They’d scored in at least one case, too, silencing a pair of heretic batteries within a half hour of their opening fire. But their triumph had been short-lived. The heretic angles, guided by two of their balloons, had started eliminating St. Bahzlyr’s guns with steady, dreadful precision.

  And that was what had happened again and again over the last several five-days. Each time the heretics bounded forward, the out-ranged and out-gunned Harchongese angle-guns had a fleeting opportunity to inflict casualties before they were hunted down by the heretics’ aerial spies and subjected to a deadly cascade of counter battery fire. By now, the Mighty Host’s angle-gun crews had started limbering their guns after firing only a dozen shells and attempting to withdraw before the heretics’ counterfire came down upon them.

  Sometimes, it even worked.

  Baozhi suspected the new camouflage schemes were working better for the field guns and the rocket launchers, so 4th Company might actually get some effective fire support next time the heretics tried to cross the ford in front of it. For a while, at least. Until the combination of balloons and angle-guns crushed the Harchongese batteries again. The rocket launchers could be devastating when they actually got their rockets off, but the smaller, portable infantry angles were really the most effective. They were far smaller, which probably made them harder to spot from the air, and they could set up much closer to the front, in any convenient shell hole or behind any handy hill, and their size made them smaller, harder to hit targets. Plus, they were far more mobile than any of the Mighty Host’s other artillery and the tactic of moving as soon as they fired worked better for them. One of his buddies, the gun captain on an infantry angle, called it “shoot and scoot,” and it seemed to work … after a fashion, at least.

  But none of that changed the fundamental fact that the Mighty Host was being driven steadily westward. It didn’t take a genius to realize where that had to end if they couldn’t find a way to stop Green Valley’s advance.

  At least they seemed to have a stopper in his path at the moment. The Tairyn River was narrow, little more than a hundred and fifty yards across, but it was also deeper over most of its length, and had a faster current, than the Tarikah River between East Wing Lake and the North Hildermoss. It was the most substantial terrain obstacle yet in the heretics’ path, and the St. Bahzlyr Band and its sister St. Zhyahng Band were solidly dug-in on its western bank. Langhorne knew the heretic engineers seemed able to produce pontoon bridges in the blink of an eye, but they’d have a hard time getting one across the Tairyn unobserved, and every ford was covered by positions just like 4th Company’s.

  As long as they held the fifty or sixty miles between East Wing Lake and the tangled, impassable obstacle of the Great Tarikah Forest, Green Valley wasn’t getting past them, however much artillery he had.

  * * *

  “I’m looking for Captain Bahrtalam,” the combat engineer lieutenant said. “Anyone know where I can find him?”

  “Up at the CP, Sir,” a private in one of the rifle pits said, and pointed back into the drifting mist. “Straight up the bank. Big tree, still about ten, twelve feet of it left. Turn left there and it’s about fifty yards.”

  “Thanks,” the lieutenant said, and started climbing the bank.

  It wasn’t all that steep, but the pounding both sides’ artillery and mortars had delivered made for treacherous footing in the misty dark. The lieutenant didn’t mind, though. Misty dark was ever so much better than bright, clear daylight with bullets whistling around his ears.

  He found the tree the private had described. Once upon a time, it had been a lot taller, judging by the three-foot-diameter trunk that remained. He turned north, feeling his way carefully through the remnants of the dead tree’s companions until he saw the faint gleam of a shaded light ahead of him.

  “Halt!” someone barked, and he froze. “Who goes there?”

  “Mahrsyhyl,” he called back, “Ninety-Seventh Combat Engineers. I’m looking for Captain Bahrtalam.”

  “You’ve found him,” a different voice, this one with a pronounced accent, replied. “Come on in.”

  Lieutenant Mahrsyhyl advanced cautiously, keeping his hands well out from his sides. The gleam of light he’d seen would have been completely invisible from the far side of the river, even without the fog, he realized. Bahrtalam’s command post was in a natural hollow, with a solid earthen slope between it and the river. The lieutenant slithered down into it and tried not to notice the shotgun-armed sentry watching him alertly.

  “Captain Bahrtalam?” he asked as a tallish, broad-shouldered man loomed against the light.

  “Bahrtalam,” the captain confirmed in an accent that never came from Chisholm or Old Charis. He must have been one of the very first Zebediahans to enlist, Mahrsyhyl thought. “What can I do for you, Lieutenant?”

  “I understand you’ve got a problem the Ninety-Seventh might be able to help out with,” Mahrsyhyl replied. “Captain Kwazenyfsky sent me to find out what it was.”

  “He did, did he?” Bahrtalam smiled. “Can’t say I’m sorry to hear that! Step into my office, Lieutenant.”

  * * *

  “
You sure this is the right place, Sarge?” Corporal Waryn Meekyn asked dubiously. “Not saying you’re lost,” he continued. “Heck, it’s been—what? At least three, four days since the last time that happened! Just kinda hard picking up landmarks in this crap.”

  “And just as hard for some Temple Boy sniper on the other side of the river to deprive me of your invaluable services,” Platoon Sergeant Hauwerd Paitryk retorted. “Sort of makes me wish we’d waited for daylight.”

  “Aw, don’t be that way, Sarge!” Meekyn chuckled. “You know you’d miss me in the morning.”

  “Like a hangover, Meekyn. Like a hangover.”

  The men of Meekyn’s squad shook their heads, grinning in the darkness. He and the platoon sergeant went back a long way, and Paitryk had already dropped off 3rd Platoon’s other three squads. It was obvious he was saving 2nd Squad for something special.

  “Hold it!” someone called, and Paitryk’s raised hand stopped the squad dead. “Looking for someone?” the voice continued.

  “Looking for First Platoon,” Paitryk confirmed. “Sergeant Paitryk, Ninety-Seventh Combat Engineers.”

  “Good!”

  The satisfaction in the one-word response was obvious, and Paitryk beckoned for the men pulling the equipment carts to take five. The obeyed with alacrity. The carts had outsized wheels and were fitted so that as many as four men could tow each of them, but they were still a bitch to get through this sort of terrain. Not that they didn’t beat hell out of trying to backpack their gear!

  Paitryk left them to it while he and Meekyn moved forward again. A corporal emerged from the dark and nodded for them to follow him, and another fifty yards brought them to a foxhole scratched in the muddy riverbank. There were a couple of feet of muddy water in its bottom, but Paitryk doubted anyone much cared about that when the bullets were flying. A fair-haired lieutenant—probably two-thirds of Paitryk’s age, if that—sat on the edge of the foxhole, his feet a couple of feet clear of the water, waiting for them.

  “Lieutenant Mahkdahnyld?”

  “That’s me. What do you need, Sergeant?”

  “I understand there’s a couple of bunkers on the other side of the river that’ve been giving your boys some problems.”

  “You might say that.” The lieutenant sounded considerably grimmer than a moment ago. “Lost a quarter of my platoon this afternoon. The bastards waited till we were halfway across, then opened up. There’s one position in particular—don’t think it’s actually a bunker, more like something they threw up after the gun dogs blew the crap out of their original entrenchments. It’s high enough the bastards in it can toss grenades straight down to the ford. Wouldn’t be surprised if it’s been spotting for their artillery, too. It’s the only position we’ve seen that’s high enough to see back onto our side, and judging by how quick their mortars hit us, somebody sure as hell saw us before we hit the river last time. I don’t think the balloon boys can pick it out from all the churned-up shit. For that matter, our support squad spent a couple of hours trying to take it out. No luck. I think they hit it a couple of times, but it must have a shitpot of dirt piled on top of it.”

  “But you can spot it for us when we’ve got a little light?”

  “Sure.” The lieutenant shrugged. “We’ve been pecking away at it—at all three of them—with riflefire, but it doesn’t seem to do a lot of good. One of my boys almost got a rifle grenade through the firing slit, but it’s the better part of two hundred yards and we don’t have an unlimited supply of them to waste.”

  Paitryk nodded. The ICA’s Lywysite-filled rifle grenades were lethal when they hit, but two hundred yards was right on the edge of their maximum range, even with the new smokeless ammo, and a rifle grenade didn’t have the punch to take out a bunker unless someone managed to pop it past one of its firing slits. It wasn’t an impossible shot, but hitting any sort of pinpoint target with an RGL at that range depended a hell of a lot more on luck than it did on skill.

  “Well, Sir,” he said, laying one hand on Meekyn’s shoulder, “I believe my friend here may be able to help you out. Don’t let that low forehead and those monkey lizard arms fool you. He’s actually almost as bright as most hamsters.”

  “I see.” The lieutenant surprised himself with a chuckle. Then he cocked his head. “And just how is Corporal Monkey Lizard going to help me out?”

  “I’m glad you asked that, Sir.”

  * * *

  “Roll out.” Corporal Baozhi prodded Private Yangkau with his toe, then stepped back as the private snapped awake. “Dawn in about twenty minutes,” he continued, twitching his head at the opening to the rear of their position. “Last chance to take a dump before we settle in for the day.”

  “Gee, thanks,” Yangkau said, coming to his feet with a long, stretching yawn.

  “Well, I don’t want to say anything about stinks,” Baozhi told him, “but there’s a reason Pasquale has us dig latrines, and it’s bad enough when we have to take a leak inside here. Besides, I’ve always found the sound of bullets a little distracting when I’m communing with nature.”

  “Got a point,” the private said, and climbed out of the improvised bunker.

  Baozhi watched him go, then peered out into the dimness. It was too dark still to see the bodies which had bobbed uneasily in the ford yesterday, and he wondered if the heretics had recovered their dead overnight. He hadn’t taken any pleasure out of killing them, but a man did what he had to do, and he was sure their friends would be back to try to return the compliment.

  Hell of a way for people to spend their time, he thought, shaking his head. Hell of a way.

  * * *

  The eastern sky glowed its salmon and rose way towards sunrise, and stomachs tightened on both sides of the river. The St. Bahzlyr Band had held the Army of Tarikah’s advance for four solid days, and Baron Green Valley’s men—especially the men of the 21st Brigade—were tired of that. The 21st was one of the Army of Tarikah’s assault formations, especially trained in and equipped for the new assault trooper tactics, and they took their failure yesterday—and the painful loss of friends—as a personal failure. They were confident they could have carried through and taken their objectives anyway, but their casualties would have been brutal, and their lives—and training—were too valuable to waste when it could be avoided. Sometimes it couldn’t be, but the Imperial Charisian Army regarded the lives of its soldiers as its most precious resource. Which was why the 97th Combat Engineer Battalion had been sent up to lend them a helping hand.

  * * *

  “Are you sure about this, Corporal?” Lieutenant Mahkdahnyld asked.

  “Yes, Sir,” Corporal Meekyn replied. “If we can see it, we’ll take it out for you.”

  Mahkdahnyld looked at the corporal’s contraptions a bit dubiously. He’d heard about them, but he’d never actually seen one of them used. His inclination had been to call for plenty of smoke from his support squad—there was a lot less breeze today, so the smoke ought to be more effective—and put his men across under its cover. He was confident he could get them across the ford more or less intact this time—as long as no one called the mortars in on them—but then they’d face the tangled remnants of the abatis the Harchongians had built along the western shore. They’d have to clear those under fire, smoke or no smoke, and that damned bunker at the right end of the Harchongese line would be rolling the damned grenades down on them the whole time. So if Meekyn and his team really could take out the bunkers, especially the one on the right …

  “’Bout enough light, I think, Sir,” Meekyn observed. “Point them out to us?”

  Mahkdahnyld peered through his double-glass, scanning the western side of the river as the last of the mist began to lift. After a moment, he lowered the double-glass and pointed.

  “All right, the one on the left is at about twenty degrees,” he said. “See what’s left of that clump of talon branch? It’s about fifteen yards this side of that. Got it?”

  Meekyn gazed across the river.
The range wasn’t great enough to need a double-glass once someone had pointed the target out, and he nodded.

  “Got it,” he said.

  “Okay, the next one’s about thirty, forty yards to the right of that. If you follow the trench line, you should be able to pick it up.”

  “Beside that communication trench running up the slope?”

  “Right. Okay, now the third one—the one that’s been such a bitch—is harder to see, but if you look another sixty yards or so to the right and up near the crest line.…”

  * * *

  “Any sign of the heretics yet, Corp?”

  “Not yet,” Baozhi replied.

  He stood peering out the firing slit, wishing he had a spyglass … and that the sun wasn’t so much in his eyes. He was a little surprised the heretics hadn’t tried to take advantage of that, time their crossing for when he couldn’t make out details because of the sun glare. But they probably didn’t realize how bad it was from up here, so—

  His thoughts paused, and his brow furrowed. What the hell was that?

  * * *

  “All right, Lieutenant,” Corporal Meekyn said. “Ready whenever you are.”

  “Fine.” Lieutenant Mahkdahnyld looked first to his left, then to his right. His platoon crouched or lay prone behind downed trees or in muddy shell holes. Farther behind them, hopefully still invisible from the far side of the river, all three of 2nd Company’s other platoons waited to follow them across.

  Assuming they got across this time, of course.