by David Weber
My God, she thought. I never expected to hear that out of him!
No one could possibly have quibbled with the first half of the archbishop’s prayer, but the second half—! In just two sentences, Klairmant Gairlyng had made the position of the Church in Corisande crystal, one might almost have said blindingly, clear. And in the process, he’d overturned centuries of Corisandian precedent with all the subtlety of a sledgehammer and a chisel. Or perhaps a charge of gunpowder.
She drew a deep breath, forcing her brain to work once again. Another archbishop could have gone on ten times as long and said nothing, but Gairlyng had clearly picked that brief prayer’s words with deadly forethought.
First, he’d referred to Irys as Daivyn’s “sister and guardian,” and that gave the Church’s formal imprimatur to Sharleyan Ahrmahk’s suggestion that Irys should be formally named her brother’s guardian and seated on the Regency Council. Second, he’d asked God’s blessing on her and Daivyn as they led “the people of their realm,” a clear indication that he, as God’s vicar in Corisande, expected Irys to be directly involved in the governance of the princedom. That she had an acknowledged, official standing in Corisande’s power and political structures. And, third, and most devastating of all, he’d endorsed Corisande’s active engagement in the war against the Group of Four in God’s own name … and with all the authority of his office.
As she looked around that chamber, saw the expressions of the men seated around that table, she also saw the impact of Archbishop Klairmant’s brief, shattering benediction echoing through the minds of the gathered councilors. And if the men behind some of those expressions clearly didn’t care for what they’d just heard, that was hardly surprising.
Some wouldn’t care for it because of personal ambition, because they’d hoped to shape and drive “Daivyn’s” policies to benefit themselves and their families. That, after all, was one reason men acquired power in the first place, and her father had always told her that anyone who expected human beings to think differently had no business on a prince’s throne, for his blindness could lead only to ruin.
Others wouldn’t care for it because they’d already heard Charis’ terms … and knew the archbishop had heard them as well. Because in his final sentence, they heard Gairlyng’s endorsement of the Princedom of Corisande’s inclusion in the Empire of Charis. They resented the thought of Corisande’s being subordinated to any other power, the thought of “bending the knee” to a foreign empire which had conquered them by raw military force. Indeed, some of those councilors undoubtedly continued to hold Cayleb Ahrmahk responsible for her father’s death, no matter what anyone else might say.
But somewhat to her surprise, the men who were so clearly angered by Gairlyng’s endorsement of those terms appeared to be a distinct minority. She’d hoped for that, prayed it might be so, but she’d never dared to plan upon it, just as she’d never dared even for a moment to think that the archbishop might so unambiguously and unhesitatingly declare in favor of the Church and Empire of Charis. She’d realized in Tellesberg the extent to which Maikel Staynair had moved to withdraw the Church of Charis from secular power and direct, day-to-day involvement in the government of the Empire. She’d been surprised by that, at least until she’d come to know Staynair, but she also knew the process was only beginning even in Old Charis and Chisholm. Here in Corisande, it had scarcely even started, and that meant the archbishop had just put all the avalanche weight of Mother Church’s centuries of authority behind the acceptance of Charis’ terms. All of Charis’ terms, including the war against the Group of Four and the Grand Vicar himself.
All in no more than four brief sentences.
“I thank you, Your Eminence,” Anvil Rock said at last, and it was obvious from his tone that however much he might agree with Gairlyng, he’d been as astonished as anyone else. Whatever else might be true, there’d been no preplanned coordination between him and the archbishop.
“I thank you for your blessing, your words, and”—the earl allowed his eyes to sweep the chamber, meeting those of every other person in it one by one—“your thoughts. With God’s grace, I believe this Council and this Princedom will accomplish all of the tasks to which, as you so rightly say, we’ve been called in His name.”
.XI.
Thesmar, The South March Lands, Republic of Siddarmark
It had taken two five-days just to get the guns and troops into position, Sir Rainos Ahlverez thought bitterly. Left to his own devices, he could have done it in less than one, but he hadn’t been left to his own devices.
The formal instructions he’d been certain were on the way had arrived. They’d come from Gorath over Duke Salthar’s signature, but he knew they’d actually been written in Zion. He wondered if they’d been delivered to King Rahnyld—officially, at least—by Vicar Zahmsyn’s office or by the Inquisition, not that it mattered. And not that he, as a dutiful son of Mother Church, could contest them, however badly he might want to. Worse, he couldn’t even argue with the underlying reasoning, since history offered all too many examples of the disastrous consequences of attempting to command an allied army by committee. No, command must speak with a single voice, and it would have flown in the face of logic—and given all manner of offense—to place the commander of the smaller component of that army in command of the entire force. Especially when that commander was a mere knight, whoever he might be related to, and the commander of the larger component was a duke.
Yet the mere fact that they were inevitable, logical, and the decision of God’s own Church made it no less maddening to be subordinated to a Desnairian. The Empire had always looked down its collective nose at Dohlar, that feckless little pocket-sized excuse for a kingdom (“Why, it’s scarcely more than an overgrown barony, you know!”), and Dohlarans had heaped scorn on Desnair’s miserable showing against the Republic with retaliatory delight for the better part of two hundred years. The Empire’s contempt for Dohlar’s obvious desire to ape the mercantilism of Charis had been met by Dohlar’s disdain for a realm so backward it continued to practice outright slavery, and the ostentatious lifestyles Desnair’s gold mines had bestowed upon its indolent aristocracy evoked as much envy as resentment among Dohlar’s less affluent nobility. All of that was true, and more than bad enough, yet to be subordinated to a man who was not merely a Desnairian but might—might, on a good day—be able to find his arse as long as he got to use both hands—and someone else helped—made it still worse.
Be fair, Rainos, he told himself, forcing his expression to remain merely thoughtful, as the artillery creaked past him. You fucked up by the numbers yourself at Alyksberg. Harless probably isn’t any more overconfident now than you were then. Well, not a lot more overconfident, anyway. You’d at least bothered to read Rychtyr’s reports, and I’m none too sure Harless can read, given how eager he is to “grapple with the apostate Charisians.”
He stepped on that thought hard.
The truth, if he was honest, was that he’d diverted to Alyksberg largely to dodge an open field battle against new model Charisian weapons, but they couldn’t avoid them forever, and at least their spies reported that barely a quarter of the Thesmar garrison was made up of Charisian Marines. The rest of the Charisians were mere sailors who were unlikely to relish facing trained soldiers. And the Siddarmarkians were a collection of odds and sods—a skeleton of regulars fleshed out by militiamen and ragged volunteers—half of whom were sick and starving after their forced march from Alyksberg. He understood why Harless might see this as a good opportunity to blood his troops against the heretics. Probably fewer than half the garrison had firearms of any sort, far less rifles, and he had an enormous numerical advantage. And while he clearly hadn’t read all of the reports, he’d demonstrated at least limited literacy by perusing the ones describing Cahnyr Kaitswyrth’s final assault on the Charisian redoubts on the Daivyn River. Ahlverez knew he had, because he’d referred to it at least a dozen times in their last conference.
“I have no intention of disreg
arding the advantage their entrenchments give them, General Ahlverez,” he’d said. “But Bishop Militant Cahnyr proved that when they can’t maneuver, when they’re pinned in their own redoubts, with their manpower overcommitted covering all of their points of vulnerability, a massive column can overwhelm even Charisian weapons.” He’d laid one palm on the report from Kaitswyrth. “Moreover, the fact that they haven’t been reinforced, despite their navy, indicates that they don’t have any troops to send, and I intend to be in possession of that town before they do.” The hand on the bishop militant’s report had clenched into a fist. “It has been done, it can be done, and it will be done, Sir Rainos. And,” he’d added blandly, “it will enhearten the army to crush the heretic Marines who dealt your advanced guard such a painful blow.”
Ahlverez had felt his own lips tighten, and it had been difficult to keep his expression neutral. Harless had been careful about anything he personally might have said to his allies, but Ahlverez had informants of his own. He knew how Harless had expressed himself to his own senior officers, and there’d been more than one confrontation between some of his own officers and officers from the Army of Justice who’d commented on how a Dohlaran army had allowed itself to be pinned down by a field force barely a quarter its own size.
“Reducing Thesmar and removing the threat to my supply lines is vitally important in its own right,” Harless had continued. “And it’s almost equally important for Dohlar, since it will eliminate much of the strain supplying the Army of Shiloh will place on your own canals and rivers.”
The duke hadn’t seemed very enthused by their combined force’s new designation, Almaraz had noted. According to his informants, Harless had lobbied hard for simply absorbing Ahlverez’s own force into the Army of Justice. Fortunately, someone back in Gorath had obviously realized how Ahlverez’ men and officers would have reacted to that idea, at least.
“I realize there’s some risk in our plan of attack,” the Desnairian had said. “No one can ever predict the outcome of a battle before it’s fought, or there’d be no need to fight it in the first place. And I also realize my own troops have no experience against the heretics’ new weapons.” The last sentence had seemed a bit perfunctory to Ahlverez. “More than that, a failed assault would undoubtedly have an adverse effect on the Army’s morale. I doubt the consequences would be much greater than we’d suffer by refusing to even attempt an attack, however. If we appear too timid to try conclusions against a force we outnumber so heavily, it cannot but undermine the men’s confidence in us and, ultimately, in themselves. That would be bad enough even among the men of blood and breeding; among the common sort in the ranks, the consequences might well be even worse.”
And there, Ahlverez had thought, you might just have a point. About your men, at least. I’d like to think mine would understand the logic in simply screening and confining the heretics in Thesmar—doing to them what they did to Rychtyr at Trevyr—even if I’m not as sure of that as I wish I were. But you haven’t personally reconnoitered the heretics’ position the way I have. You’ve read the reports, looked at sketches, laid it out on the map, but you haven’t actually seen those entrenchments and those inundations. And you haven’t seen all the fucking artillery in the world looking back across them at us.
It might not have mattered if Harless had personally seen the muzzles of those heretic cannon. He continued to think of artillery as the massive, immobile, slow-firing monsters which had been all but useless in land battles. Indeed, he seemed to think it was a good thing the heretics had “been forced” to rely upon naval gunners! He’d apparently grasped the fact that his own field guns fired much more rapidly than old-style naval weapons, but he seemed not to have made the mental leap of grasping that new model naval guns did the same thing.
Or that those contemptible, common-born Charisian seamen had more experience in firing them than anyone else in the entire world.
“So we’ll attack as planned, as soon as our own artillery is in position,” Harless had concluded, and Ahlverez had nodded.
“Of course, Your Grace,” he’d said. It wasn’t as if he’d had any choice. And perhaps Harless was right. Perhaps they could carry Thesmar, even if Ahlverez was grimly certain the casualties would be far higher than the duke believed. There was sometimes something to be said for the courage of ignorance, the confidence to attempt something “older and wiser heads” knew was impossible.
And as the Archangel Chihiro himself had pointed out before one of the battles against the Fallen, when the cause was dire enough, you sometimes had to break however many eggs it took to make the omelette.
But that conversation lay well over a five-day in the past, and Ahlverez’ frustration had grown with every passing day while the heretics continued to improve their positions and the Desnairian component of the Army of Shiloh struggled to get into position. It was especially maddening because Harless ought to have known—as Sir Rainos Ahlverez certainly did—that the inefficiency of the Desnairian officer corps had had a great deal to do with the fashion in which the Siddarmarkian Army had kicked its arse up one side and down the other over the centuries. The fact that Desnair hadn’t managed to overcome those shortcomings for the Jihad was not reassuring, but what was even less reassuring was the fact that Harless’ officers obviously thought they had overcome them, which said some really horrendous things about how bad the situation had been before the Imperial Army’s current reorganization.
The good news was that the worst problems seemed to be at what the Dohlaran Army would have called the divisional level. Even for Dohlar, the regiment remained the primary combat formation and divisions were purely administrative organizations, but division commanders (the most senior regimental commander in each division) were charged with coordinating the movement and supply of all the regiments in their divisions. That at least established a clear chain of command and authority … and responsibility. Ahlverez wasn’t really certain the Desnairian Army had “divisions” in that sense at all, and it was obvious to him that there was precious little coordination above the regimental level in the Army of Justice. The fact that Desnairian infantry regiments were half the size of Dohlaran regiments only made that worse, as did the obvious contempt for the entire concept of infantry emanating from Harless’ senior officers. They clearly continued to regard cavalry as the decisive arm, despite how disastrously they’d fared against Siddarmarkian infantry in the past. Indeed, Ahlverez had heard even Earl Hennet, the official commander of Harless’ infantry, quoting the Desnairian aphorism: “Cavalry conquers; infantry occupies.”
Odd how poorly that had worked out against the Republic in times past.
At least their better regimental commanders seemed to be figuring out just how screwed up they were, Ahlverez told himself as the last battery moved past him towards its preselected position. Some of them even seemed willing to learn from mere Dohlarans. They’d actually spent the last five-day or so inviting his own company and regimental commanders to dine with them and then picked their brains for the counsel of experience. Even some of their artillerists had quietly discussed their trade with his!
Of course, no one’s ever going to be able to teach a Desnairian cavalry commander anything about his job, he told himself bitingly, since no one in the entire world could possibly understand it as well as he does to begin with. They’re all naturally born centaurs, after all!
His mouth twisted at the thought, and he reminded himself—again—that his own dislike for Desnair and Desnairians might well be coloring his evaluation. On the other hand, some things genuinely were so bad that even a tendency to look on the bad side couldn’t make them any worse.
We’ll just have to see how it all works out, he thought. And I can’t think of a single time I’ve hoped I’ll be proved wrong as much as I hope it this time.
* * *
“The listening posts say they’re moving up, My Lord,” Lieutenant Dyntyn Karmaikel reported.
The brown-haired Marine was very
tall for a Charisian—considerably taller than the Earl of Hanth, in fact—with a dour expression that caused some people to miss the quick wit behind it. Hanth, however, knew that dourness reflected the curb bit Karmaikel had set to control his searing anger. He did an excellent job of containing it, truth be told, and he hadn’t needed to control it before one of the cousins he’d been fostered with died in Zion with Gwylym Manthyr. That was one of the reasons Hanth had chosen Karmaikel as his personal aide. The lieutenant was a good man, despite the anger burning inside him, and Hanth wanted him out of the immediate line of fire until he’d had a chance to lay some of those demons. Far better to give the youngster time before he found himself leading a platoon in combat and had the opportunity to commit the sort of acts that would seal him into bitter vengefulness forever.
Besides, Karmaikel was a very good aide.
“They’re moving up where we expected them?”
“Yes, My Lord. The listening posts say they can’t actually see very much, but from the sounds, they’re deploying their guns on Sulyvyn Hill, midway between the Navy Redoubt and Redoubt Number One.” The lieutenant grimaced. “Right where they thought we wouldn’t realize they’d been digging gun pits.”
“Now, now, Dyntyn! At least they tried to fool us.”
“Yes, My Lord, and they probably would have if we’d been deaf and blind.”
