by David Weber
The bastions and redoubts of General Fyguera’s works had been laid out by Captain Sympsyn and Commander Ahrthyr Parkyr. Neither of them was a trained Army engineer, but unlike the Siddarmarkian Army, the Charisian Navy had ample experience with new model artillery. They’d surveyed the position carefully before they began digging in, and they’d sited their batteries to give as much coverage of the approaches as possible. Most of the few spots of dead ground they couldn’t cover with direct fire were flooded by Fyguera’s inundations, and they’d already registered the angle-guns on all of them they knew about.
I won’t say they can’t take the position in the end if they’re willing to pay the price, but I can say that they don’t have a clue how high that price will be.
The thought touched him with grim satisfaction, and he raised his double-glass, looking through the twin tubes at the ant-like infantry and cavalry swarming about just beyond artillery range. The double-glass wasn’t as powerful as the rail-mounted telescopes, but its paired eyepieces presented a three-dimensional image that gave a far greater feel for detail, and he swept it slowly across the panorama before him.
“I’ve never seen that many people in one place before, either, Kydryc,” he said after a moment. “Impressive, isn’t it?”
“That’s one way to put it,” the bald, bull-shouldered Siddarmarkian replied sourly.
Despite the odds marshaled against them, Fyguera seemed far more relaxed than he’d been when Hanth and his Marines and seamen first arrived in Thesmar. Part of that was probably because his garrison and the limited number of civilians who hadn’t yet been lifted out were actually well fed for a change. More of it, though, undoubtedly stemmed from the knowledge that he and the men he’d managed to hold together over the terrible winter hadn’t been abandoned after all. The sheer quantity of artillery and gunners the ICN had landed was proof enough of that, and the proficiency those men of his had gained with the captured Dohlaran rifles Hanth had handed over had done wonders for their morale and his.
The Siddarmarkian general had also been remarkably unfazed by the lord protector’s insistence on putting Hanth in overall command. It made sense to him, given the fact that most of the defenders’ rifles, all of their artillery, and every ton of supplies had been supplied by Charis. Besides, he had even less experience with the new model weapons than their enemies did, and he knew it.
“Well,” Hanth pointed out, “cavalry’ll be pretty damned usless if it comes to storming entrenchments, and that’s half or more of everyone we’re seeing out there. And Harless is light on artillery compared to the Dohlarans, according to our spies. Plus there’s the little fact that he’s a Desnairian noble, and we all know how they feel about ‘mere infantry.’” The earl shook his head, his smile reminding Fyguera rather forcibly of a hungry slash lizard. “A general who lets contempt for his adversary govern his planning is a general waiting to get his arse kicked, and I’m of the opinion that our lads have just the boots to do the kicking with.”
“Do you really think he’ll try an assault?”
“Not if he’s got any sense, but that’s where the contempt comes in. And to be fair, we should probably add inexperience to the mix.” Hanth shrugged. “At least for the next little bit, everybody but us Charisians is operating in the complete unknown, Kydryc. I’m sure Rychtyr and Ahlverez could give Harless some pointers, and Rychtyr at least is smart enough to try. The question is whether or not Harless is smart enough to listen. If he isn’t, he and his men are going to learn the same way Ahlverez and Rychtyr did—the hard way.”
* * *
“Thank you for coming so promptly, Sir Rainos.”
Sir Rainos Ahlverez bowed just a bit stiffly to the impeccable sprig of fashion who’d greeted him as he stepped into the huge, brilliantly dyed tent. The young man in front of him couldn’t have been more than twenty-five years old, and he was dressed in the height of style for the imperial Desnairian court, which was one hell of a long way from the city of Thesmar. Aside from a light dress sword, he was unarmed, his dark hair was neatly curled, his hands were beautifully manicured, and Ahlverez caught a whiff of expensive cologne when the youngster returned his bow.
“I am Sir Graim Kyr,” he said, straightening, “and I have the honor to be aide-de-camp to His Grace, the Duke of Harless.”
“Of course. And this is Sir Lynkyn Lattymyr, my own aide,” Ahlverez indicated the rather older, more weathered, and much tougher-looking Royal Dohlaran Army captain at his side, “and Father Sulyvyn, my intendant.”
“Honored, Father,” Sir Graim murmured, bending to kiss the Schuelerite’s ring. He straightened again and nodded to Lattymyr with the air of someone who’d assayed yet another of his social inferior’s position with an expert eye. Then he turned back to Ahlverez.
“If you would accompany me, Sir Rainos, His Grace is waiting.”
* * *
As he followed the young exquisite down the thickly carpeted passage between walls of gently billowing cotton silk, Ahlverez cudgeled his brain, trying to place Kyr in the ranks of the Desnairian nobility. He wasn’t having much luck when Lattymyr leaned closer.
“Baron Fyrnach, Sir.” The murmur in Ahlverez’ ear was so faint even he could scarcely hear it. “Third cousin of Duke Traykhos and Duke Harless’ grandnephew.”
Ahlverez nodded. Of course he was. And Taylar Gahrmahn, the Duke of Traykhos, happened to be Mahrys IV’s first councilor. Sir Rainos understood the necessity of choosing men of good blood for important posts, and clearly family had to be a factor. Still, there was such a thing as attempting to find a competent man of good blood instead of one more useless court fop, even if he was family. Not that anyone should’ve expected anything else out of a Desnairian.
They turned a corner and—finally—reached their destination. Ahlverez liked his own camp comforts as much as the next man, but this monster of a tent had to measure eighty yards on a side. It must take hours to erect and strike, and it wasn’t exactly something he would’ve associated with a hard-driving, fast-moving cavalry commander. But since all the world knew that all Desnairian officers were hard-driving, fast-moving cavalry commanders, he must be mistaken about that.
“Sir Rainos Ahlverez, Your Grace,” young Fyrnach murmured, bowing to a tallish, balding man with a thin, trimmed mustache and brown eyes. “Father Sulyvyn, his intendant, and Sir Lynkyn Lattymyr, his aide.”
He turned back to Ahlverez.
“Sir Ahlvyn Gahrnet, His Grace the Duke of Harless,” he said, and went on to indicate the other three men present. “Sir Mahrak Dynnysyn, the Earl of Hankey; Sir Traivyr Bahskym, Earl of Hennet; and Father Tymythy Yairdyn.”
Ahlverez and his companions bowed in acknowledgment, and Harless waved for them to seat themselves at the magnificent inlaid table in the center of the spacious compartment. That table had to weigh three or four hundred pounds, Ahlverez estimated, and unlike the folding camp chairs he used in his own tent, the chairs around it were ornately carved and upholstered, obviously a matched set from the same master woodcrafter who’d produced the table.
Whatever Fyrnach’s virtues as a military officer might or might not be, he was clearly an asset in a social situation. He managed to get all three of the Dohlarans seated in their assigned chairs and in proper order without as much as a single spoken word. Then he took his own seat beside his granduncle while silent servants poured wine.
Ahlverez studied the others unobtrusively.
Earl Hankey, he knew, was Harless’ second-in-command. In his late fifties and very tall, he was fair-haired and brown-eyed, with a badly scarred left cheek. He was broad-shouldered, and despite the fact that he was “only” an earl, he was actually one of the Desnairian Empire’s most powerful nobles, with a seat on the Imperial Council.
Earl Hennet commanded the Army of Justice’s cavalry wing, and that was enough to make anyone who’d seen new model infantry weapons in action nervous about him. He was long-limbed but not especially tall, and while he wasn’t as well connected as Earl Hank
ey, he wouldn’t have held the post he held without a powerful patron. In his case, that patron was Faigyn Makychee, who’d become the new Duke of Kholman after Daivyn Bairaht fled to the Charisians. Makychee had arisen from relative obscurity, but he was a favorite of Bishop Executor Mhartyn Raislair and related by marriage to Duke Traykhos.
Which means he’s also related to Fyrnach, Ahlverez thought. Wonderful.
“I’m very pleased to see you, Sir Rainos,” Harless said after the servants had finished pouring and departed. “The victor of Alyksberg must be a welcome addition to any army.”
“Thank you, Your Grace.”
Ahlverez didn’t—quite—grit his teeth, and he supposed Harless probably genuinely meant it. For that matter, Alyksberg was the first Siddarmarkian fortress to be stormed by a foreign enemy in the last couple of centuries. The fact that it had been blown up in his face and killed so many of his men was just one of those irritating little historical footnotes. Anyway, most of them had been commoners. Not the sort of thing a Desnairian would hold against a fellow.
“And I’m also pleased to see you because your artillery train is so much more powerful than my own.” Harless waved one hand at a cotton silk wall, gesturing in the general direction of Thesmar. “We’re bringing up our own guns, of course, but yours will be a powerful reinforcement when we attack.”
“When we attack,” Ahlverez repeated carefully.
“Of course. And as soon as possible.” Harless shrugged. “With the heretic navy operating so freely in the Gulf of Jahras, Tabbard Reach, even Silkiah Bay, we—the Empire—can move reinforcements only overland. Oh, our batteries are enough to protect Silk Town and keep the Silk Town-Thesmar Canal open, but”—he grimaced distastefully—“after our Navy’s … regrettable defeat at Iythria, we can’t be certain how long that will be true. I’m assured the situation’s currently secure, but even with the canal, we can move no farther north than Lake Somyr by water, and as long as Thesmar remains in heretic hands, the possibility that they’ll suddenly reinforce and move against our supply lines can’t be ignored. For that matter, it would remain a serious threat to your own supply lines down the Seridahn as we continue our advance towards Shiloh. At the moment, however, our spies and the local Faithful report there are no more than ten to fifteen thousand men in the city.” He shrugged again. “The obvious solution is to crush it now, before its garrison can be further strengthened.”
Ahlverez sat very still, wishing suddenly that Sir Fahstyr Rychtyr were present. He wasn’t especially fond of his own second-in-command, although he was honest enough to admit—at least to himself—that the main reason he wasn’t was that he’d ignored Rychtyr’s advice when he diverted his own advance to Alyksberg instead of trying to crush Thesmar when it truly was weak. Given the many five-days his own … unwise diversion had allowed the heretic Fyguera and his garrison to change that state of affairs, he rather doubted the city could be crushed remotely as easily as Harless seemed to assume, not that he had any desire to explain the reasons for that to the Desnairians.
And, he admitted, he found himself wondering if Harless had omitted to invite Rychtyr because he’d wanted to get Ahlverez by himself and overwhelm any resistance to assaulting the heretics before he could discuss it with his own officers. His instructions from King Rahnyld—and Mother Church—were clear. As the commander of seventy percent of the combined Dohlaran and Desnairian field strength in the South March, Harless was the Jihad’s senior officer present. Much as it galled Ahlverez, he’d been instructed to accept Harless’ “directions”—even the Inquisition hadn’t wanted to call them “orders”—for the prosecution of the campaign. On the other hand, it had been made quietly and privately clear to him by the Duke of Salthar, the commander of the Royal Dohlaran Army, that he was not supposed to simply hand over command to the Desnairians.
But Father Sulyvyn was remarkably silent on that point, wasn’t he? Mother Church is the one behind this sword-point marriage with Desnair, and what do you do if he tells you to shut up and take Harless’ orders anyway?
“I agree that Thesmar represents a serious potential threat to your—to our—lines of communication, Your Grace,” he said after a moment. “And the possibility that the heretics will find the men to turn it into an actual threat can’t be ignored. Unfortunately, the heretic navy’s been landing artillery for five-days now. I’ve only just arrived myself, so I’ve had no opportunity to personally reconnoiter the enemy’s position, but I’m very much afraid our twelve-pounders are no match for heavy naval artillery. Especially not naval artillery that’s been thoroughly dug in behind solid earthworks.”
“I realize your guns, like our own, are lighter than naval guns.” There might have been just a hint of frost in Harless’ courteous tone. “There are, however, some advantages to that, and I understand you also have your own version of the artillery the heretics employed against our fortresses at Iythria.”
His expression made the sentence a question, and Ahlverez felt his lips tighten. It was true that his artillery train included several batteries of what the heretics had dubbed “angle-guns.” They were much smaller than the heretical version, firing the same shells as his field guns, and he suspected they were also shorter-ranged. What irked him the most about them, however, was the reason he had them, for they’d been the brain children of Lywys Gardynyr, the Earl of Thirsk, and there was no love lost between him and Thirsk.
At the moment, though.…
“Yes, Your Grace, we do have some angle-guns. Their shells are no heavier than those of our field pieces, however, and frankly we don’t have many of them. I’d have to check to be certain, but I believe we have no more than four or five batteries. A heavier version firing much larger shells is in production and will probably reach us within the next month or two, but for now I seriously doubt the weapons we possess would be enough to breach the heretics’ lines.”
“I wouldn’t expect them to, Sir Rainos,” Harless said. “Nor am I suggesting we should attempt to blast a breach through the heretics’ earthworks as if they were the stone walls of a castle. No, I have something rather different in mind.”
“Different in what way, if I may ask?”
“So far, no heretic’s ever been fired upon using the … ‘angle-guns,’ did you call them?” The duke raised an eyebrow, and Ahlverez nodded. “As I say, they’ve used the weapons against God’s loyal sons but they’ve never been on the receiving end of them. I realize you’ve had no chance yet to personally observe the heretics’ positions, and I’ll value your opinion once you’ve had that opportunity. From my own observation, however, the heretic left appears vulnerable. They’ve covered the low ground by flooding it, but they can’t flood the high ground. I propose—assuming you concur, of course—to assault across Sulyvyn Hill, thus avoiding the flooded ground.
“My scouts report two redoubts atop the hill, each with a half-dozen or so heavy guns. But heavy guns are slow-firing, Sir Rainos. Much slower than our own field guns, at any rate, and I feel sure your ‘angle-guns’ can fire more rapidly than they, as well. We have many fewer cannon, but their guns are dispersed throughout their defenses while ours can be concentrated in one place, and ours are light enough to be quickly and quietly moved into position. So my intention is to bring them up under cover of darkness and deploy them in a massed battery to sweep the heretics’ parapets with shot and shell. We’ll open fire just at dawn, when they have no cause to expect it, and use your ‘angle-guns’ to drop fire directly on their heads at the same time. The surprise of such a sudden bombardment—and of receiving the fire of someone else’s ‘angle-guns’—is bound to dismay them, and their positions can’t possibly be heavily manned. Not with the length of their works and the small size of the garrison. Surprised, frightened, and outnumbered, they’ll be no match for God’s true sons when our assault columns go in with cold steel.”
The Desnairian’s arrogantly confident expression sent a stab of dismay through Sir Rainos Ahlverez. Worse, Sulyvyn
Fyrmyn was nodding, eyes fierce with his burning desire to strike the heresy in the heart, and that was a bad sign. By and large, Ahlverez was of one mind with his intendant, and the only thing he was prepared to waste on a heretic was the powder to blow him to hell. But Fyrmyn’s passionate devotion could lead him into … enthusiasms which sometimes overlooked practical objections.
And Father Tymythy’s another chip off the same block, he thought, glancing at the Desnairian intendant. As soon as the two of them get their heads together, they’ll want us in Thesmar yesterday. And I can’t blame them for that, either. It’s what they ought to want—what I ought to want—and I do.
He wondered what really made him hesitate to embrace Harless’ plan. Or idea, at least. It would probably be unfair to call it a plan at this point, and he had no business rejecting it until he’d actually examined the possibilities. Was what had happened when he rushed in at Alyksberg against another hugely outnumbered garrison affecting him now?
You can’t allow the way one batch of heretics tricked you once to deflect you from your duty, he told himself sternly. And while you’re thinking about having been tricked, you might want to remember that the coward who left his men to die to set that trap is inside Thesmar with the rest of the heretics! Don’t pretend you don’t want to drag him out of his burrow!
