Like a Mighty Army

by David Weber

  He made sure the pipe was drawing properly, then discarded the candle and squinted through wind-shredded smoke at the sketch map once more. Out there in the darkness, the coal miners of Major Laimuyl Stywyrt’s 4th Company, 1st Glacierheart Volunteers, were toiling forward through the rain and mud, laden with picks and shovels and gunpowder while Major Zhaikyb Mahclyntahk’s 3rd Company covered them with ready rifles and two ICA mortar platoons stood ready to fire in their support. Hopefully, 3rd Company and the mortar crews would have nothing to do but sit there and curse the icy rain. If the artillery pounding the Temple Loyalists’ position did its job properly, the defenders would be too busy keeping their heads down to notice any small sounds or movement at the base of their earthen ramparts.

  They shouldn’t let that happen, and neither Charisian troops nor General Wyllys’ Siddarmarkian regulars would have. But after six days of almost ceaseless bombardment, the Fort Tairys garrison was unlikely to be that alert. And nothing had happened the last two nights, now had it?

  In fact, quite a bit had happened on those nights, although no one inside the fortifications appeared to have noticed. Two nights ago, Zheryld Mahkdugyl’s 1st Company had carried the shovels while Larek Satyrfyld’s 2nd Company watched their backs. Last night it had been Mahkdugyl’s men’s turn to dig while Mahclyntahk mounted watch. And when 4th Company finished tonight’s labors Raimahn could report to Duke Eastshare that the 1st Glacierheart Volunteers had completed the mission to which they’d been assigned.

  The youthful colonel who no longer felt quite so young smiled around the stem of his pipe. It was a remarkably cold smile.

  * * *

  “Colonel Raimahn reports the charges are laid, Your Grace,” Colonel Traimynt reported. Duke Eastshare looked up from his spartan breakfast, and his chief of staff grinned. “I don’t think they enjoyed slogging around in the rain, Your Grace, but I’m pretty sure they decided it was worth it in the end.”

  The colonel undoubtedly had a point, Eastshare thought, and applied himself once more to his bowl of hot, sweetened porridge while he considered the report. Corporal Chalkyr kept trying to inveigle him into a menu more in keeping with his exalted status, but the ICA had carried over the Chisholmian Army’s attitude towards rations. It would be stupid to carry austerity to the point of impairing an officer’s ability to carry out his duties, yet within that restriction, officers in the field ate what their men ate, which encouraged those same officers to make sure the quartermaster corps did its job properly. There were other advantages, of course, including the fact that the men knew about it.

  At the moment, however, Eastshare was much more focused on Byrk Raimahn and his men than on his meal. The Glacierhearters had done well under trying conditions, but he’d expected that. What bothered him was Raimahn’s request on behalf of his men that they be allowed to lead the attack their labors had made possible.

  For all their determination, the Glacierhearters were still far from anything Eastshare would have called trained soldiers. He knew it wasn’t fair to hold them to the same standards as his highly trained regulars, but war wasn’t about “fair.” War was about blood, death, and ruptured bodies, and about seeing to it that there were as few as possible of those on one’s own side. It was inevitable that the Volunteers would take heavier casualties than the ICA regiments would.

  Yet he also knew the highly disciplined miners would almost certainly take lighter casualties than he was afraid they would. Most of them had endured a particularly brutal practical training course in how to survive in combat. They were veterans in every sense of the word, whether they’d spent any time on the drill square or not, and they were far more accustomed to the use of explosives than most people. They’d taken to hand grenades with gusto, and he never doubted they’d make ample use of them in any assault.

  And that brought him back to the real reason for his hesitation.

  They had too many scores to settle with men just like the ones in Fort Tairys. If he turned them loose, let them lead the assault, it was unlikely they’d be interested in taking prisoners. That struck him as a poor way to respect his monarchs’ desire to minimize counteratrocities. On the other hand.…

  I suppose we’ll just have to see how reasonable Walkyr and Vahnhain are feeling. After all, whether or not there’s an assault at all is going to be at least as much up to them as it is to me. And so are the consequences of any assault.

  He smiled for just a moment—a smile which strongly resembled that of Byrk Raimahn—and scooped up another spoonful of porridge.

  * * *

  “There’s the signal, Sir!” a sergeant called out, and Raimahn nodded.

  “Time to sound reveille, Sailys. Do the honors for us, please.”

  “Think the men’d prefer for you to do it, Sir,” Trahskhat replied. Raimahn looked at him quizzically, but the major’s expression was serious. “The boys know who got us this far, Sir. They figure you’re our good luck charm. Wouldn’t want them thinking we’d done anything to jinx it at the last minute, would we?”

  Raimahn snorted, trying to hide behind a gruff expression, and strode over to the varnished, rain-beaded wooden box. There was a metal ring on its side, at the end of a copper tube, and a long line of fuse hose stretched away from it. The hose was made of canvas, and its function was not simply to preserve the fuse inside it from damp, although it had been heavily coated in pitch waterproofing in order to help it do just that.

  He bent, inserting his index finger through the ring, and drew a deep breath, letting the raw, wet air settle into the bottom of his lungs.

  “Fire in the hole!” he announced, and pulled.

  The friction primer ignited the quick match—the powder impregnated cotton thread—at the heart of the fuse hose, and the hose itself confined the heat and exhaust gases. Instead of escaping to the open atmosphere, they were shot forward down the hose, speeding the rate of combustion enormously, and the incandescent heart of fury raced away from the wooden box at well over three hundred feet per second.

  No one saw it coming, for the same fuse hose which accelerated its burning hid it from any watching eye, and that meant there was no warning before it reached the charges the 1st Glacierheart Volunteers had planted at the base of the defenders’ final earthen parapet.

  * * *

  Lairays Walkyr had just sat down to a cheerless breakfast with Naiklos Vahnhain. Food was more plentiful than it had been over the winter, but not a lot. Colonel Syngyltyn’s cavalry deserved much of the credit for that; they’d been too preoccupied with burning the abandoned farms of heretics to think about the crops which might have been harvested from them instead. It wasn’t the quality of the provisions which produced the gloom that hung almost visibly over the breakfast table, however.

  Walkyr waited while Father Naiklos intoned the blessing, then picked up his teacup and tried not to grimace as he sipped.

  “How much damage did they do last night, Lairays?” Vahnhain asked after a moment.

  “I haven’t seen the reports yet.” This time Walkyr did grimace. “I don’t expect them to be good, though. Those guns in the hills have riddled the southern and eastern curtainwalls. There are gaps—especially on the south—you could put a platoon of Syngyltyn’s cavalry through. Assuming he still has any horses.”

  Losses among the cavalry’s limited supply of horses had been heavy even before the heretics captured the third line of entrenchments, where most of them had been picketed.

  Vahnhain’s expression tightened and he sipped his own “tea.” He was worried enough he didn’t even notice the horrible taste.

  “Morale’s suffering,” he said, lowering the cup. “I’m hearing it from all the chaplains. It’s not because they’re ready to give up; it’s just being pounded this way, without any opportunity to strike back.”

  “I know.” Walkyr sighed. “Vahlverday’s all for making a sortie against the heretics’ guns and I wish we could, but they’ve got at least a thousand infantry dug in between us a
nd the batteries and those slopes’re damned near vertical and bare as a tabletop. They’d massacre any columns we sent up. I’d considered a night attack, but those Shan-wei damned rockets of theirs mean they’d still see us coming and rip us apart on the slopes. And the situation’s no better down here. I’m not even trying to man the parapets anymore, except for lookouts in the most protected positions they can find. I’ve got units positioned in dugouts along the base of the wall to meet any assaults, but they’re under strict orders not to expose themselves for any other reason.” He grimaced. “Putting men up on the firing step would only give the heretic sharpshooters target practice, and I sort of doubt that would help their morale any, either.”

  “That wasn’t a criticism, Lairays,” Vahnhain said quietly. “Only a report.”

  “I know, Father.” Walkyr took another sip from his own cup. “There’s no use pretending we’re not in Shan-wei’s own mess, though. Our matchlocks and arbalests are completely outclassed by their rifles. I’ve had the guns loaded—those the heretic artillery hasn’t already dismounted—but the heretics aren’t giving them any targets. I’m reserving them for use against any assault they choose to launch, and I just hope the rain hasn’t gotten to the charges. And that’s really the best we can hope for with our matchlocks, as well. If the heretics decide to assault the position, to actually come out where we can get at them, we can hurt them badly. If they stay where they are and keep shelling and shooting, there’s nothing we can do except hunker down and take it.”

  “I was afraid that was what you’d say.” Vahnhain smiled wanly.

  “The good news is that they’re using up a lot of ammunition and time. The longer they don’t try an assault, the closer Duke Harless gets,” Walkyr said, trying very hard to sound optimistic. “And if they do try an assault, we’ll finally have the chance to bleed them. I don’t like losing men in dozens and scores any more than you do, Father. But as long as we’re still sitting here, we’re doing our job and—”

  The earsplitting thunder snatched him up out of his chair in midsentence.

  * * *

  “Well, that was impressive.” Duke Eastshare’s word choice might have sounded flippant; his tone did not. “Remind me to congratulate Colonel Raimahn and his men, Lywys. They did us proud.”

  “Of course, Your Grace,” Captain Braynair replied.

  The Glacierhearters’ charges had ripped three broad breaches through the southern face of Fort Tairys’ final line of earthworks. They’d probably killed at least two hundred men in the process, but it was the breaches that mattered.

  “Sound Parley,” the duke said. “Let’s see if these people are more willing to listen to reason now.”

  * * *

  Lairays Walkyr’s face was like stone as he rode one of the garrison’s few remaining horses towards the Charisian banner atop the third line of earthworks. He was accompanied only by Colonel Mhartyn and Colonel Kyrbysh. He wished intensely that Father Naiklos could be by his side, but the Charisian proclamation that all Inquisitors would be murdered on sight made that impossible.

  One more proof they serve Shan-wei, Walkyr thought grimly.

  He would have preferred to ignore the heretics’ parley request, but they might actually have something worth hearing to say. More to the point, it used up a little more time, bought a few more hours for Duke Harless’ approach. And, he admitted, whatever they said, whatever threats they uttered or demands they made, he’d take them back to his regiments knowing they could only stiffen the determination of men already resolved to die for God.

  Of course, there was always the question of whether the heretics would honor the traditional safeguards of a parley. They might well cut him and his party down, instead, and he almost wished they would. He was no more eager to die than the next man, but that sort of treachery would fire his men with rage and determination as nothing else could.

  He reached the waiting banner and dismounted, trying to ignore the rifle-armed infantry in their bizarre, mottled uniforms. From the top of the parapet he could see the heretics’ encampment spreading out down the gap towards Kharmych. It was the first clear view he’d had of it, and something tightened inside him as he saw the neat rows of tents, the canvas-covered supply wagons, the mess tents. The Charisians might be as wet and muddy as his own men, yet he strongly suspected that even under canvas they were better housed—and far better fed—than his own command in the sodden, artillery-threshed, ruin of what had been a snug, weather-tight fortress.

  And, also for the first time, he saw the squat, dug-in “angle-guns” which had contributed so heavily to that destruction.

  The stocky man waiting for him was tall for an Islander—as tall as most Siddarmarkians—with brown hair, brown eyes, and a hard expression. He stood behind that expression with a rock-like solidity any boulder might have envied, and he wore the same uniform as the infantry stationed around the parley site. The only differences were the riding boots he wore instead of their lace-up footwear, the peculiar-looking pistol at his side, and the single golden sword of a Charisian general glinting on his collar.

  Walkyr curled a mental lip. Even the militia recognized the need for officers to be readily visible to their own men in the heart of combat! But then he remembered the deadly accuracy of the heretic rifles and the disproportionate number of junior officers and sergeants who’d become casualties.

  He came to a halt, facing the man who had to be the Duke of Eastshare, and firmly quashed a reflex twitch towards a salute. The red-haired young officer at Eastshare’s elbow had a single golden crown on his collar instead of a sword. Aside from that, his uniform was identical to his superior’s, and his blue eyes hardened at Walkyr’s refusal to acknowledge Eastshare’s rank. That gave Walkyr a certain amount of pleasure, yet if the insult perturbed the heretic duke in the least, there was no sign of it.

  “‘General’ Walkyr, I presume?” His accent struck a Siddarmarkian ear oddly, but there was no mistaking his cold, cutting contempt.

  “You’re the one who sounded parley,” Walkyr returned bluntly. “I assume that means you had something to say. Say it.”

  The red-haired officer—Eastshare’s aide, probably—stiffened, face darkening, but Eastshare only snorted as if he’d heard something amusing.

  “Straight to the point,” he observed. “Good. I won’t have to waste a lot of time on this after all.” He showed a flash of white tooth that reminded Walkyr of a slash lizard he’d once seen. “My message is very simple, Walkyr. Your outer works are in my possession. Your last line of earthworks is breached, and so is the curtainwall. The laws of war say I have to give you an opportunity to surrender when that’s true. So I’m giving it to you now.”

  Walkyr’s jaw tightened and he felt his right hand quiver where it had clenched on the hilt of his sword. For an instant he was tempted to draw that sword, drive it into Eastshare’s belly, and watch that hard, cold face crumple with the knowledge of death. But the Charisian riflemen were watching too intently. He’d be dead before he got the weapon fully drawn.

  He fought the temptation aside, but the fury died harder. Surrender? Surrender to scum who’d raised their blasphemous hands against the might and majesty of Mother Church and God Himself? Who murdered priests? Who’d invaded his country, brought war and destruction to the Faithful in support of that traitor in the Lord Protector’s Palace?

  “And what makes you think I might consider surrendering to you?” he managed to bite out after a small eternity.

  “The possibility that you might possess a glimmer of sanity,” Eastshare replied coldly. “The laws of war also state that a garrison which refuses to surrender when summoned to do so after a practicable breach has been made loses the right to surrender at a later time. Should you reject this opportunity, I’ll be fully justified in putting your entire command to the sword.”

  “How many men are you ready to lose to manage that?” Walkyr snapped, and Eastshare snorted again, this time contemptuously.

 
; “Against your rabble? Be serious! And before you make your decision, I should point out that the only troops outside your fortress who’re remotely likely to let your men surrender are mine. The Siddarmarkians to the north are under the command of an officer who held the Sylmahn Gap against everything the ‘Army of God’ could throw at him. He lost enough men and saw enough atrocities by ‘holy warriors’ like you there that he wouldn’t’ve been particularly inclined to offer quarter anyway. But then he marched through the ruins you and the men inside that fort left in western Shiloh. I know exactly how he and his men feel about your crew of mutineers, rapists, and butchers.”

  His eyes were brown ice, and even so they were warmer than his voice.

  “I’ll be honest here, ‘General.’ I don’t particularly want to offer you quarter, either. My orders are to not simply slaughter you out of hand the way you deserve if I can help it, and I’m offering to obey those orders. But if you choose not to surrender, it won’t break my heart. And allow me to point out to you that it was your own Grand Inquisitor who proclaimed that in Jihad, the normal laws of war don’t apply. That’s why he authorized you to murder women and children in God’s name. I don’t plan to do any murdering in His name … unless you’re kind enough to give me an excuse. At that point, I’m perfectly willing to follow your rules. So I urge you to consider the out I’m offering you, because it won’t be offered again.”