At the Sign of Triumph

by David Weber

  “And how did it know to be waiting here this month?” Rock Coast sounded skeptical, and Mahrtynsyn shrugged.

  “Your Grace, I didn’t know precisely when you and the others would make your attempt, but I knew roughly what the window of opportunity had to be. So last month, a different ‘privateer’ was waiting. The month before that, it was yet another ‘privateer’ … and next month, it would have been still a fourth.”

  Rock Coast looked at him narrowly, and Mahrtynsyn hid a smile as he watched the duke reevaluating just how high in Mother Church’s hierarchy his “chaplain” actually stood. Or how high in the confidence of the adjutant of Mother Church’s Holy Inquisition, at least.

  “Trust me, Your Grace,” the priest soothed. “The ship will be there, and once we’re aboard, her crew will see that both of us arrive safely in Desnair.”

  * * *

  “Sail on the larboard bow!”

  Duke Rock Coast sat up from where he’d actually managed to fall asleep against the side of the fishing boat’s wretched little deckhouse. The fishermen had offered to let him go below, but he’d declined. The stench was bad enough on deck; he didn’t even want to think about what it must be like below decks.

  Now he rubbed his eyes, peering in the indicated direction, and poked Mahrtynsyn in the ribs. The priest snorted awake and jerked upright, then stretched hugely.

  “Yes, Your Grace?” he half yawned, and Rock Coast pointed.

  “Unless I’m mistaken, that’s your ‘privateer,’ Father.”

  Mahrtynsyn shielded his eyes with his hand, then nodded sharply as the two-masted schooner tacked in their direction. Desnair’s black horse on a yellow field flew from its foremast head, and he was pleased to note that it was even larger than he’d expected. Ideally, no one would even see them on the voyage to Desnair, but the big, obviously well-armed schooner looked more than capable of taking care of itself if it had to.

  “About twenty minutes, I’d say,” Rock Coast said, estimating times and distances with an experienced eye, and grimaced. “I’m sure these fellows truly are the loyal sons of Mother Church you called them, Father, but I hope you won’t take it wrongly if I say I’ll be happy to be shut of their boat.”

  “To be honest, Your Grace, I can’t fault you,” Mahrtynsyn admitted with a smile. “They’re fine fellows, but it is a bit … fragrant, isn’t it?”

  “Nothing burning our clothes as soon as we get out of them won’t cure,” Rock Coast said dryly.

  * * *

  As it happened, Rock Coast’s time estimate had been almost perfect, and the big schooner rounded up into the wind as she hove-to with a smooth professionalism that drew a nod of approval from him. It was nine thousand miles to Desnair. Having a crew skilled enough to get them there struck him as a very good idea.

  The fishing boat ran up into the schooner’s lee and took in its single baggy sail.

  “Hello there!” Mahrtynsyn called through his cupped hands, standing at the fishing boat’s rail. “We’re glad to see—”

  His voice broke off as nine blunt carronades snouted out of the schooner’s gunports. At the same instant, the Desnairian colors plummeted from the masthead and another flag—this one a terrifyingly familiar black-quartered silver-and-blue checkerboard—shot upwards in their place. A dozen riflemen in the uniform of the Imperial Charisian Navy appeared at the quarter deck rail, and a wiry young man in a lieutenant’s uniform raised a speaking trumpet.

  “I think you might consider surrendering, Your Grace!” he called.

  Rock Coast stared at him in horrified recognition, and the lieutenant shrugged. He was barely thirty yards away, and the movement was easy to see.

  “I’m afraid your schooner ran afoul of the Navy some five-days ago, Father Sedryk,” he said. “Her secret orders made interesting reading, and once the Duke’s little rebellion failed, it wasn’t difficult to guess who would be traveling with you. Earl White Crag and Baron Stoneheart decided it would be rude to leave the two of you stranded, and I just happened to have delivered Baron Sarmouth and Earl Sharpfield’s latest dispatches to Port Royal, so they sent me to provide you with transportation. Unfortunately, I can’t take you to Desnair right now.” The Duke of Darcos smiled coldly. “I’m afraid we have an errand in Cherayth, first.”

  * * *

  “Excuse me, Sir.”

  The Earl of Hanth looked up from the ribeye steak, fork paused in midair, and his expression was not happy. Too many of his meals got interrupted for one reason or another, and he’d missed lunch completely. He’d been looking forward to supper ever since, and his steak was done exactly the way he liked it, with a cool red center, and smothered in sautéed mushrooms. He was … less than eager for some last-minute detail to interfere with it while it—and the baked potato steaming gently beside it—got cold.

  “Yes?” he said just a bit repressively, and Major Karmaikel grimaced.

  “I regret interrupting you, My Lord, but there’s someone here to see you, and I’m pretty certain you wouldn’t want me to keep him waiting.”

  “Who the hell could be so frigging important I can’t even finish this first?” Hanth demanded waving the bite of steak on his fork irately. “Couldn’t you have … I don’t know, delayed whoever it is for fifteen whole minutes?”

  “Yes, My Lord. And if I had, you’d have taken my head off.”

  “I find that rather difficult to believe,” Hanth sighed. “But you don’t usually do things that are totally insane.” He contemplated the morsel of steak mournfully, then drew a deep breath. “At least give me long enough to chew and swallow one bite,” he said, and popped the steak into his mouth.

  “Of course, My Lord,” Karmaikel murmured with a hint of a smile.

  The tall, broad-shouldered major withdrew, and Hanth chewed slowly—it was just as delicious as he’d expected, of course—then swallowed. He’d just lifted his beer stein to take a sip when the door opened again.

  “I apologize for interrupting your supper, My Lord,” the brown-haired, bearded man in the uniform of a Royal Dohlaran Army colonel said. “My name is Mohrtynsyn, Ahskar Mohrtynsyn. I have the honor to be General Sir Lynyrd Iglaisys’ chief of staff, and he’s sent me to request a cease-fire while my King’s ministers—and Earl Thirsk—negotiate with Admiral Sarmouth in Gorath.”

  .V.

  Earl Rainbow Waters’

  Pavilion Cherayk,

  220 Miles North of Selyk;

  and

  Lake City,

  Tarikah Province,

  Republic of Siddarmark.

  “Your Eminences.”

  Earl Rainbow Waters stood in welcome as Gustyv Walkyr and Ahlbair Saintahvo followed Captain of Horse Wind Song into the compartment at the heart of his headquarters pavilion. Walkyr gave him a weary but genuine smile and the earl returned it; Saintahvo held out his ring hand imperiously.

  Rainbow Waters bent to kiss the ring with scrupulous courtesy, but his face was expressionless as he straightened, with no hint of the smile he’d bestowed upon the archbishop militant. Nor did Walkyr extend his ring to demand the same obeisance, and Saintahvo’s mouth tightened.

  “I thank you for meeting me,” the earl continued after a moment.

  “You’ve traveled rather farther than we have, My Lord,” Walkyr pointed out. “And from all reports, you’re being pressed as heavily north of the forest as we are here.”

  “Unfortunately, yes,” Rainbow Waters conceded. “But our front is in no immediate danger of an outright rupture, Earl Crystal Lake and my other band commanders understand both their orders and my intentions, and I’m in touch with them by semaphore and messenger wyvern. Still, it’s true that events there are the reason I felt it was essential we meet personally to discuss the situation.”

  “The ‘situation’ here is about as bad as it could be,” Walkyr said bluntly. He nodded to Major Mastyrsyn, who raised his eyebrows in a polite request to the earl. Rainbow Waters waved at the lacquered table at the center of the sizable c
ompartment, and Mastyrsyn unrolled the map he’d carried under his arm.

  “As you can see, My Lord,” Walkyr said, indicating the newest positions marked on that map, “Eastshare’s pushed us all the way back to Selyk in the center. Unfortunately, he’s also gotten around us with a spearhead and cut the road behind Bishop Militant Lainyl at Mercyr. We attempted a relieving attack, but it failed.” Archbishop Saintahvo stood behind the archbishop militant and scowled at his back as Walkyr shook his head, his eyes shadowed. “My boys tried hard, My Lord—they truly did—but with those damned balloons and the heretics’ mounted infantry.…”

  “Your Eminence, I fully appreciate the tenacity with which your men have fought,” Rainbow Waters said quietly, oblivious to Saintahvo’s expression. “None of us anticipated the weight of attack that would fall upon you—especially not now that Symkyn’s brought so much of his army up past Marylys to join Eastshare’s assault. By our best estimate, you’re now faced with almost three hundred thousand men.”

  “Which is barely half the strength—indeed, less than half the strength—of the Army of the Center,” Saintahvo pointed out unpleasantly. Walkyr flushed, but Rainbow Waters simply looked at the intendant.

  “That’s true, Your Eminence,” he said after a moment. “But Eastshare and Symkyn are far more mobile than our own forces and, as such, have the advantage of the initiative. And in addition to their mobility and artillery’s superior range and rate of fire, they now have the advantage of those balloons no one warned us might be coming.”

  It was Saintahvo’s turn to flush at the reminder of the Inquisition’s failure to uncover yet another devastating Charisian surprise.

  “The enemy,” the earl continued calmly, “always possesses the ability to choose his time and place to attack. Archbishop Militant Gustyv has over six hundred miles of front to defend, and unlike him, the heretics can see precisely where their enemy’s forces are deployed and in what strength. He cannot—no one could—prevent the heretics from massing a decisive local superiority at their chosen point of attack under those circumstances.”

  Saintahvo glared at him for a moment, but then he nodded choppily. Obviously, he wasn’t prepared—yet, at least—to challenge Rainbow Waters’ authority. Walkyr wondered how much longer that would last if—when—the situation continued to worsen.

  “In addition to the situation at Mercyr,” the archbishop militant continued into the silence, “Eastshare’s pushed a column west of Blufftyn. In fact, the head of that column’s no more than a hundred and fifty miles southeast of Cheryk at this moment, My Lord. I’m afraid you’ve come rather closer to the front than might be wise against an opponent who’s so much more mobile than we are.”

  “I am accompanied by three entire brigades of cavalry and Baron Wind Song and I brought our finest horses,” Rainbow Waters replied with a faint smile. “I believe we can safely outdistance any pursuit if we must, although I thank you for your concern.”

  “Well, we can’t afford to lose you whatever else happens,” Walkyr said gruffly. “And at least Bishop Militant Ahntohnyo managed to get his entire command out of Blufftyn and rejoin my main force. In fact, he’s currently dug in on the high road between here and Eastshare’s column. I judge that the tree cover on his line of retreat helped a great deal by obstructing the balloons’ visibility.”

  “I’m most relieved the Bishop Militant was able to extract his band,” Rainbow Waters said. “Unfortunately, I’ve just received semaphore dispatches which indicate that the Siddarmarkian Stohnar has finally appeared. At least one entire corps of the Army of the Sylmahn is driving along the Five Forks-Sairmeet High Road. A second spearhead has swung south from Five Forks and then turned northwest. Apparently, the intention was to trap Bishop Militant Ahntohnyo between the Army of the Sylmahn and the Army of Westmarch. He’s escaped that trap, but his retreat means the road from Blufftyn to Sairmeet is now open to the heretics as well.”

  Walkyr’s face tightened. Earl Golden Tree’s position blocking the high road at Sairmeet, at the heart of the Great Tarikah Forest, was the true key to the terrain feature which shielded the Mighty Host’s southern flank. It was a strongly fortified position, powerfully held by forty thousand men, with no less than three additional defensible river lines in its rear. If Golden Tree was forced to fall back, the heavy tree growth would offer his flanks formidable protection, and those river lines would offer him places to stand. But once he started falling back …

  “Your Eminence,” Rainbow Waters faced Walkyr squarely, “we cannot afford for Eastshare to separate your left from my right … and at the moment, that seems to be precisely what the heretics are accomplishing.” Walkyr nodded. Saintahvo gave him a stony glance, then looked back at Rainbow Waters, and the earl shrugged. “I believe Eastshare and Symkyn hope to … peel you away from the western flank of the forest and simultaneously break through between Selyk and Glydahr to prevent you from retreating into Sardahn. Whether or not they intend to pin the entire Army of the Center—or as much of it as they can—into one enormous pocket is more than I’m prepared to say at this time. That would certainly be an extremely valuable prize for them, if they could accomplish it. However, I feel confident their primary objective is to drive you towards St. Vyrdyn, away from the forest and from the Ferey River.”

  Walkyr gazed down at the map and his jaw clenched. Eastshare’s most northern spearhead was within ten miles of the Sair-Selyk Canal, already across the original boundary between the Army of the Center’s area of responsibility and the Mighty Host’s. Ahntohnyo Mahkgyl’s twenty thousand men from Blufftyn had retreated across that boundary in their effort to delay the heretics, but under Mother Church’s contingency planning, if the Army of the Center was forced to retreat, it was supposed to fall back west, on Glydahr, not to the north, in line with its orders to cover the gap between the Black Wyverns and the Tairohn Hills. But Rainbow Waters was right; Eastshare and Symkyn were obviously attempting to drive him northwest, towards Four Point and St. Vyrdyn … both of which also lay in the Mighty Host’s area of responsibility and were too far west to play any significant role in the fighting in Tarikah.

  “What do you need me to do, My Lord?” he asked, looking up from the map.

  “I need you to form a new line. Almost a quarter million of your troops have yet to reach the front. I intend to ask Vicar Allayn and Vicar Rhobair to debark them at Transyl. From there they can move down the high road from the Holy Langhorne Canal, hopefully as far as Glydahr. If, however, the heretics attack Glydahr in strength before they can arrive, I desire your garrison there to retreat up the high roads towards Four Point. I do not wish you to attempt to defend Glydahr under those circumstances. Instead, I wish you to withdraw all but perhaps one band from the Glydahr front, reinforce your center, fall back to form an east-west line between St. Vyrdyn and the Forest, and hold it as long as possible. In the meantime, I am pushing forces of my own southwest along the Ferey and my engineers are preparing defensive positions west of the river. Hopefully, I’ll be able to offer you additional support forward of the river. I can’t guarantee that, however, and whether I can reinforce you or not, you must slow the heretics and buy my engineers time.”

  It was very quiet in the tent.

  “I realize this is a distinct departure from our previous plans, and from any discussions with Vicar Allayn.” The earl’s voice sounded almost shockingly loud against that quiet as he looked at the two archbishops … and carefully failed to mention Zhaspahr Clyntahn. “In the end, however, no plan survives unmodified in the face of the enemy. I fully recognize the danger that pulling your forces north, away from Glydahr, presents to Sardahn. I hope the diversion of your reinforcements will offset that, but, frankly, the critical consideration at this time is the defense of the Mighty Host’s communications. If the heretics succeed in driving Earl Golden Tree out of Sairmeet and clear the road for Stohnar to advance directly through the forest while Green Valley and Klymynt continue their advance on Lake City, my posi
tion east of West Wing Lake will become untenable. In that case, the Ferey River becomes our final stop line for their advance on the Holy Langhorne. And, Your Eminence,” the earl looked the archbishop militant squarely in the eye, “if they succeed in cutting the Holy Langhorne, at least half of the Mighty Host will have no option but to attempt to retreat across the Barony of Charlz … with winter coming on. I estimate that as many as three in ten of my men may survive under those circumstances.”

  “I’m sure that’s true, My Lord,” Saintavho said after a moment, “and we must obviously give great weight to your views. At the same time, however, the Archbishop Militant’s instructions from Vicar Allayn are very clear. And I’m sure you realize how … unhappy Vicar Zhaspahr would be if the Inquisition’s camps at Glydar should fall into heretic hands. Or if Bishop Militant Tayrens should find himself forced to execute all of the camps’ inmates to prevent the heretics from freeing them before they can be sifted.” He held the earl’s eye coldly. “There are many responsibilities in play at this moment, My Lord. It might be wise for you to discuss these matters with Bishop Merkyl before rushing to decisions based purely on military considerations of what the heretics may or may not do at some future time. May I ask if it would be possible for him to join our discussion here?”

  Rainbow Waters’ expression hadn’t so much as flickered at Sainthavo’s reference to Bishop Merkyl Sahndhaim, the Mighty Host’s intendant. Now he shook his head with what appeared to be genuine regret.

  “I fear Bishop Merkyl’s age and gout made it impractical for him to accompany me on a journey which must be made in such haste, Your Eminence. We did, however, discuss these points at some length before I departed from Lake City, and he expressed his agreement with my intentions. Indeed,” he held out a hand to his nephew, who opened his briefcase and handed him a document several pages thick, “the Bishop was good enough to send along his own appreciation of the situation.”

  The earl extended the document to Sainthavo, whose expression could have soured all the milk within a hundred miles as he took it.