by David Weber
“No,” Colonel Clareyk Syngyltyn replied a bit repressively. Kyrbysh looked at him, and Syngyltyn shrugged. “Their cavalry screen’s too strong to penetrate. All I can tell you for certain is that there’s infantry—and presumably guns—coming at us from both sides.”
Kyrbysh looked less than delighted, but then he and Syngyltyn didn’t much like each other. Kyrbysh was perfectly prepared to burn out heretic farms or towns, but he disapproved of disorganized, disorderly, freelance activities, whereas Syngyltyn’s cavalrymen had spent a lot of time doing just that. In fact, Syngyltyn had been busier setting fires than recruiting additional troopers. During the time Kyrbysh, Colonel Maikel Zahmsyn, and Colonel Nathalan Hahpkynsyn had created their Maidynberg Militia regiments virtually from scratch, Syngyltyn’s strength had actually declined. Admittedly, it took longer to train cavalry than infantry, but Syngyltyn had used up men and worn out—and broken down—far too many irreplaceable horses on raids to burn already abandoned farms, and however satisfying his men might have found their efforts, arson didn’t seem to have produced the information on enemy movements cavalry was supposed to provide.
“Without more information, I don’t see how any of us can contribute any useful advice, Sir,” Kyrbysh said after a moment, turning back to Walkyr. “We all understand the importance of holding the fort until Duke Harless reaches us. At the same time, this is obviously a coordinated pincer movement. They intend to come at us from both sides at once, and I doubt they’d do it at all unless they figured they had the numbers to get the job done before the Duke gets here.”
“That assumes they know the Duke is coming.” Father Naiklos gave Kyrbysh a hard look. “If they’re unaware he’s marching to our relief, they’re the ones who’ll find themselves trapped between us and the Army of Shiloh!”
“That’s true, Father,” Dahglys Mhartyn acknowledged. “I suspect they do know, though. They certainly know about the attack on Thesmar, and whether we like it or not, their navy has free run of the sea. I’m no sailor, and I don’t know how long it would take a ship from Thesmar to reach Trokhanos, say. As soon as one did, though, the semaphore would tell the heretics the Duke’s broken camp. It wouldn’t take a genius to guess where he has to be headed. They may not know how many men he has, but I think we have to assume they do know he’s on his way.”
“And so what do you recommend, Colonel?” The under-priest’s voice was unyielding. “That we simply abandon our position?”
“I never said that, Father.” Mhartyn’s Southguard accent was a bit more pronounced than it had been, but he faced Vahnhain without flinching. “I’m simply pointing out that whatever plans we make should be based on the most realistic assumptions about the enemy’s strength and preparedness available to us. Assumptions which are too pessimistic will leave us half defeated before we even begin, but overly optimistic assumptions may prove even more dangerous.”
“Schueler knows we’ve seen more’n enough ‘optimists’ get bit on the arse,” Colonel Helfryd Vahlverday growled. “Nobody ’spected the heretic bastards to get in an’ burn Raisor to the ground, now did they?”
He glowered around the table. Half of Walkyr’s militia consisted of the three regiments of “Raisor Volunteers,” which had been raised by the Shiloh Faithful after the heretic raid on the town of the same name. Major Olyvyr Bekyt and Colonel Tobys Shraydyr, who commanded the first two regiments of Volunteers, had at least some pre-Rising militia experience; Vahlverday did not. He’d distinguished himself by his zeal in stamping out pockets of heresy around Raisor, however, and a senior Inquisitor had nominated him to command one of the new regiments. He was short on training in movement and tactics and Walkyr was certain he’d be a disaster in an open field battle, but he was a ferocious disciplinarian, his men trusted him, and his lack of training would be a much less serious disadvantage defending a fortified position.
“I’m forced to agree with Colonel Mhartyn and Colonel Vahlverday,” Syngyltyn said into the brief silence which followed. “At the same time, I’m afraid I have to point out that the enemy’s cavalry strength appears to be at least five times our own, and their lead elements are already on the road between here and Kharmych. Even if we wanted to abandon the fort, we’d have to fight our way through Charisian horse and foot and they’d have the advantage in numbers.”
A shiver ran down Walkyr’s spine at that thought. He was inclined to think Syngyltyn was overestimating the numbers of the enemy’s horsemen, and he was overlooking the fact that the heretics’ cavalry was split, with half of it trapped east of the Branath and Shingle Mountains. Yet if half the whispered tales about Charisian weapons capabilities were accurate, the thought of facing them in the open and probably outnumbered was one to chill the boldest heart.
He looked around his office, seeing his own worry reflected in every other face, and realized where the conversation was going to end. It would take a while, yet the final decision was about as inevitable as decisions came.
It’s too bad the semaphore’s down, he reflected unhappily. I really would like to be able to tell Duke Harless how much we’d appreciate his getting here as quickly as possible.
.XIV.
Kharmych, The South March Lands, Republic of Siddarmark
“You do have a habit of turning up at opportune moments, don’t you?” Duke Eastshare asked, looking up from the map on his folding desk with a smile as Captain Braynair escorted Ahbraim Zhevons into his tent. The seijin looked as wet, muddy, and cold as anyone in Eastshare’s column, but if it worried him, he hid it well.
“As Major Athrawes would say, one tries, Your Grace,” he replied with a slight bow.
“May I assume you and your colleagues have fresh information about Fort Tairys for me?”
“At least some.” Zhevons accepted a mug of hot apple cider from Corporal Chalkyr. “Not as much as I’m sure you’d like, I’m afraid.”
“Show me a general with all the information he wants, and I’ll show you an idiot,” Eastshare said tartly, and Zhevons chuckled.
“It’s a little better than that, Your Grace.” The seijin sipped appreciatively, then lowered the mug. “Our best estimate is that they have somewhere over nineteen thousand men inside their perimeter now that those ‘Raisor Volunteers’ have come in. Kyrbysh’s made his regiment almost up to full strength, too, but Syngyltyn’s managed to lose a couple of hundred more cavalry, mostly by doing stupid things in this kind of weather.”
Eastshare grimaced. Thanks to Zhevons’ associates, he had far better information on the opposing commanders than he’d had any right to expect. Colonel Clareyk Syngyltyn was young for his rank and responsibilities, little more than thirty. On the other hand, Major Rhobair Tymyns, who commanded the 2nd Provisional Cavalry Regiment which had been attached to Eastshare’s brigade, was even younger, probably no older than Emperor Cayleb himself. And whereas Syngyltyn had started out with eighteen hundred men and was down to no more than a thousand after operational losses, Tymyns had started out with barely five hundred and was now up to over two thousand despite operational losses. Part of that was courtesy of the cavalry mounts Eastshare’s men had captured from Kaitswyrth, but more importantly, Tymyns understood horses were actually fragile creatures. Properly cared for, they were capable of amazing endurance; casually or poorly cared for, they broke down—and died—with appalling speed.
“Well, Major Tymyns has reported the rebel cavalry isn’t pressing his men very hard,” the duke observed dryly. “If Syngyltyn’s managed to turn that many of his troopers into infantry, we know why, don’t we?”
“Yes, we do,” Zhevons agreed and sipped more cider. “On the other hand, cavalry probably won’t be very useful once you and General Wyllys get down to business.”
“True.” Eastshare nodded, then frowned as he listened to the galloping patter of raindrops on the canvas overhead. “It’s going to be muckier and muddier than I’d anticipated, though, and I’m sure the fatigue parties will curse my name more inventively than
Clyntahn. But if we’ve got a couple of five-days to work with.…”
“I can’t make any guarantees,” Zhevons said, “but I will say I’d be absolutely astonished if Harless was able to get his vanguard here anytime within the next three five-days.”
“And if he hears about an attack on Fort Tairys and he’s smart enough to strip off Ahlverez and send him ahead?”
“The Dohlarans could cut that by a good five-day,” Zhevons acknowledged. “From his record to date, though, the thought won’t even occur to him.”
“I’d like to think you’re right about that, but is even he really that stupid?”
“It’s not actually stupidity, Your Grace.” Zhevons cradled his mug in both hands and frowned down into it, like a man seeking exactly the words he wanted. “It’s more … blindness and blinkers than outright stupidity,” he said finally. “Harless isn’t an imaginative man; there’s no doubt about that. Worse, he knows what he knows that he knows, as Master Howsmyn might put it, and he’s not about to chase any wild wyverns into the unknown as long as the methods he knows are working. And the problem he has right now is that they are working.”
Eastshare looked at him in disbelief, and the seijin snorted.
“Oh, they aren’t working by your standards, Your Grace. Or by the Republic’s. Or by the Army of God’s for that matter. But they’re working as well as the Imperial Desnairian Army’s methods have traditionally worked, and that’s the yardstick he’s using. That’s where his lack of imagination comes in. He hasn’t had Ahlverez’ experience, and because he’s insisted on leading the entire march from Thesmar with his own troops, he truly doesn’t realize how much faster Ahlverez could be moving, even in this weather, without the rest of the Army of Shiloh in the way. He’d like to get to Fort Tairys sooner, and he’s frustrated by how long it’s taking, but he genuinely thinks he’s getting there as quickly as he can, and the truth is that he’s pushing his own baggage train and men hard enough to take significant losses from straggling.”
Eastshare’s expression shifted slowly from disbelief to thoughtfulness. Then he nodded.
“You may have a point. In fact, now that you’ve explained it, I think you do. But even if you do, I’m not making any comfortable assumptions about his—what was it you called them? ‘Blindness and blinkers,’ was it?” The duke’s forefinger tapped his map, tracing the line of the high road through the Kyplyngyr Forest, the broad swath of “unconsecrated” native Safeholdian forest between Kharmych and Roymark. “I think we’ll just put some good cavalry scouts out this way, and maybe a company or two of scout snipers in among the trees. If His Grace of Harless’ imagination is underdeveloped, I think the least we can do is stretch it for him, don’t you?”
.XV.
Fort Tairys, Shiloh Province, Republic of Siddarmark
“Well, that’s confirmed,” Colonel Kyrbysh said sourly.
He and Maikel Zhaimsyn stood on the muddy summit of an earthen embankment watching scattered horsemen drift towards them. All of Clareyk Syngyltyn’s remaining cavalry were safely within Fort Tairys’ defenses. That didn’t leave much doubt about who the newcomers had to be, and the rain had actually stopped … at least briefly. The better visibility made it obvious the oncoming cavalry was Siddarmarkian, but Kyrbysh’s prized spyglass had verified that the infantry columns slogging up the muddy track on its heels wore the mottled uniforms which could only belong to Charisian regulars.
“Could be worse.” Zhaimsyn’s tone was equally sour. “It could be Charisians on both sides of the damned mountains!”
Kyrbysh grunted and wondered once again if Walkyr was truly fool enough to attempt to hold the entire area he’d fortified. To be fair, throwing up the earthworks had given his regiments something to do besides sit around and worry. And he had laid out his outer perimeter in the assumption that when the Army of Shiloh arrived to relieve him, it would want a large, well-fortified position here in Ohadlyn’s Gap. But surely he had to realize the position was far too large for the forces under his command to man adequately!
Oh, the entrenchments were certainly impressive, with each parapet fronted by a deep ditch and covered by a thick abatis. Most of the ditches were knee-deep, or even waist-deep in water, thanks to the rain, and they’d done their best to provide overhead cover for the firing steps. If they’d just had the men to man them, they would have been a formidable obstacle. Unfortunately, they didn’t have the men, and the heretics’ simultaneous arrival at the eastern and western ends of the gap made a bad situation even worse.
I’ll bet you we’re actually close to even in manpower, Kyrbysh thought bitterly. And according to what they always told me in the Militia, that means the defenders should have the advantage. Yeah—sure!
He glowered some more. It seemed to be a given that they’d have to mount at least a token defense of the outer works, although he hoped to Langhorne Walkyr would settle for holding the second line of defenses rather than the first. Even the second line was fifty-two miles long, but a twenty-five percent reduction was nothing to sneer at. For that matter, the road—and the only way through the Gap for anything larger than a cliff lizard—ran directly through Fort Tairys, and the line of works protecting the fort itself was only ten miles long.
Of course, we used up all those nice abatises on the first and second lines, didn’t we? Still, getting the frontage down to three feet per man would be Schueler’s own improvement on damned near twenty feet per man!
It struck him as a bad sign that Walkyr still hadn’t decided—or bothered to tell his commanders, at any rate—which of the several defensive plans they’d discussed he intended to follow. Those Charisian heretics weren’t wasting any time, judging by the speed of their marching columns, and if they guessed how thinly stretched Fort Tairys’ garrison was, they might just throw an assault straight at the entrenchments.
And it shouldn’t take a military genius to figure out how thinly we’re stretched, now should it?
“We can’t hold the outer lines, Maikel,” he said flatly. “If we try, we’ll get reamed. We may actually outnumber the bastards, but if we spread out to cover everything, they’ll hit us at nine- or ten-to-one odds at a point of their own choosing and smash right through us.”
“Wish I could disagree,” Colonel Zahmsyn growled after a moment. “Happen you’re right, though.” He showed his teeth. “For a Militia officer, you’ve your head screwed on better’n quite a few Reg’lars I could mention.”
“The question is whether we ask for orders or use our initiative,” Kyrbysh pointed out, glancing at the heliograph fifty feet east of their current position.
Under the plan for defending the entire position, he and Zahmsyn were responsible for the thirty miles of entrenchment directly threatened by the Charisians’ arrival. Since they had roughly four thousand men between them, that meant each of their men had to cover “only” fifteen yards or so of frontage. Unless, of course, they wanted to retain a useful reserve for some silly reason. Somehow that struck him as a losing proposition. Unfortunately, he wasn’t at all certain how quickly General Walkyr would respond to a militarily correct request for permission to fall back. If Father Naiklos happened to be standing at the general’s shoulder when the request arrived, the decision time would probably double, however. Much as Kyrbysh respected the priest’s bright, searing faith, there was no point pretending Vahnhain was anything like flexible. Indeed, that faith of his made him even less flexible when it came to anything that resembled giving ground before the heretical, apostate foes of Mother Church.
No doubt that helped account for all Father Naiklos had managed to accomplish, but it wasn’t always a useful character trait.
Zahmsyn was clearly uncomfortable at the notion of withdrawing without authorization. His regiment was built out of the remnants of three regiments which had suffered massive casualties during the Rising, and he’d done well hammering them into a cohesive unit. Despite that, there was a reason he’d been old for his rank before the Ris
ing. No one could ever accuse him of doing an inch less than his very best, yet he’d always been more of a stolid, slogging, stubborn fighter than a thinker.
He wasn’t stupid, however, and he, too, glanced at the heliograph, then inhaled deeply.
“Something your very first sergeant teaches you is that there’s times it’s easier to beg forgiveness than ask permission, Bryahn. I’m thinkin’ this here’s one of those very times.” His unhappiness was obvious, but there was no hesitation in his brown eyes. “If we’re minded to pull back ’thout disordering our companies, we’d best get started soon.”
“Pull back to our secondary positions, you think?” Kyrbysh asked, suddenly aware of how grateful he was for Zahmsyn’s bluff, unimaginative presence.
“At least.” Zahmsyn’s voice was flat. “I’m thinkin’ it’d be best to fall back all the way to the third line, truth to tell.”
“We’d be giving up the hills on either side to the heretics’ artillery. That might not be a very good idea if half the stories about those ‘new model’ guns of theirs’re true,” Kyrbysh pointed out, and Zahmsyn made a sound somewhere between a laugh, a grunt, and a curse.
“If they can get guns up there, happen they can get ’em up on the flanks of the outer works, too. And if they get eyes up there and see how thin the outer works’re held, happen we’re screwed come what may, as I’m thinkin’ you just pointed out.”
