by David Weber
That had been two and a half five-days ago. Over the last twelve days, he’d launched five separate attempts to cut his way out, better than doubling his original casualties in the process. He’d known the effort was almost certainly futile, and so had his men, yet they’d responded to his orders with a stolid courage and a willingness to try anyway which had made him ashamed to ask it of them.
But it’s not as if you had a choice, Koryn. With your supply line cut, you can’t just stay here. There’s no more waiting game when you’ve already had to start slaughtering horses and dragons. And even on short rations, supplies are going to run out in days, not five-days. It’s either fight your way out, starve, or surrender.
His mind flinched away from the last word, yet it was one he had to face. Even if Corisande had possessed another field army, it couldn’t have broken through the Charisian lines to relieve him. Not against Charisian weapons. And not, he admitted harshly, against Charisian commanders.
Food was in short supply, and the healers were running out of bandages and medicines. They were already out of almost all painkillers, and his men were suffering and dying for nothing, accomplishing nothing . . . except to force the Charisians to expend ammunition killing them.
His fists clenched at his side. Then he drew a deep, decisive breath.
“General Gahrvai,” Cayleb Ahrmahk said quietly as the Corisandian commander was shown into his tent.
“Your Majesty.”
Cayleb stood with Merlin at his back and watched Gahrvai straighten from his respectful bow. The Corisandian had taken pains with his appearance, the emperor noted. He was freshly shaved, his clothing clean and pressed, but there was a tightness around his eyes, his face was gaunt, and that immaculate clothing seemed to hang loosely on his frame. Cayleb knew from Merlin’s reports that Gahrvai had insisted that his officers’ rations—including his own—be cut along with those of his private soldiers, and it showed.
“I thank you for agreeing to meet with me and for granting me safe conduct through your lines, Your Majesty.” Gahrvai sounded stiff, almost stilted in his formality.
“General,” Cayleb said, “I don’t enjoy killing men. And I especially don’t enjoy killing brave men who, through no fault of their own, can’t even fight back effectively. If anything we say or do here today can keep some of those men alive, I’ll count this meeting as time well spent.”
Gahrvai looked into the emperor’s face, and his own expression seemed to relax just a bit. Cayleb saw it, and wondered how much of Gahrvai’s tension had been due to the stories which had been told—and grown in the telling—of his ultimatum to Earl Thirsk after the Battle of Crag Reach.
“Since you’ve said that, Your Majesty, I suppose there isn’t any point in attempting to pretend my army is in anything but desperate straits. I can continue to hold out for some days longer, and the men under my command will attack yet again, if I ask it of them. But you and I both know that, in the end, any further attacks will accomplish nothing. If I believed continued resistance could serve my Prince or Corisande, then resist I would. Under the circumstances which actually obtain, I must ask for the terms upon which you would permit my men to honorably surrender.”
“I can’t say your request was unanticipated, Sir Koryn,” Cayleb’s tone was almost compassionate, “and my terms are relatively simple. I will require your men to surrender their weapons. I will require the surrender of all of your army’s artillery, baggage train, and surviving draft animals. Officers will be permitted to retain their swords, and any man—officer or trooper—who can demonstrate personal ownership of his horse will be allowed to retain it.
“I regret that I can’t parole your officers or any of your men,” the emperor continued. Gahrvai’s eyes narrowed, his jaw muscles tightening, but Cayleb went on calmly. “Under any other circumstances, I would gladly accept your parole, Sir Koryn. While we may have found ourselves enemies, I would never question or doubt your honesty or your honor. Unfortunately, as you may perhaps have heard—” Cayleb’s tight smile bared his teeth “—the Empress and I have been formally excommunicated by Grand Vicar Erek. Well, actually by the Group of Four, via their puppet on Langhorne’s Throne, but it amounts to the same thing.”
Gahrvai winced at the biting sarcasm of Cayleb’s last sentence, and the emperor chuckled harshly.
“If I believed for a moment that Erek actually spoke for God, I’d be worried by that, General. As it is, I take it rather as a badge of honor. As my father once told me, it’s true that a man can be known by his friends, but you can tell even more about him by the enemies he makes.
“However, it would leave you in a rather ticklish position if I were to ask for your parole. In the eyes of the Temple Loyalists, you’d be guilty of trafficking with heretics, at the very least. And, also in the eyes of the Temple Loyalists, any parole you granted to me would be invalid, since no one can swear any binding oath to someone who’s been excommunicated. If you attempted to honor your word—which, by the way, I believe you would—then you would be twice-damned in the Temple’s eyes.
“I will confess,” Cayleb admitted, “that I was tempted to offer you parole, anyway. It would have been one way to help accelerate the fragmentation of Corisande’s internal stability, which could only help my own cause. But after considering it more maturely, I decided that using an honorable foe in that fashion wasn’t something I wanted to do. However, since this little problem about oaths and my own religious status confronts us, I’m afraid that if you and your men surrender, I’m going to have to insist on moving all of you back to the vicinity of Dairos and establishing a prisoner camp there. Towards that end, you would be allowed to retain the use of all of your army’s tentage, cooking gear, and other similar supplies. We would supply whatever additional needs, medical or food, you might have. And as soon as hostilities conclude, the formal release of you and all your men would undoubtedly be covered under the terms of whatever agreement is finally reached.”
Gahrvai looked at him long and hard, and Cayleb looked back levelly. He didn’t know precisely what Gahrvai might be reading in his own eyes, but he waited patiently. Then, finally, the Corisandian’s nostrils flared.
“I understand your concerns, and your reasons for them, Your Majesty,” he said. “To be honest, they hadn’t even occurred to me. I suppose that, like you, I have a few . . . reservations about the validity of your excommunication. You’re undoubtedly right about what would happen if I offered you my parole, though. Under the circumstances, your terms are most generous—more generous than I would have anticipated, in fact. I won’t pretend it’s easy, but I have no choice but to accept them . . . and to thank you for your generosity.”
. VIII .
Royal Palace,
City of Manchyr,
League of Corisande
It was remarkably quiet in the council chamber.
Prince Hektor sat at the head of the table. Earl Tartarian sat at its foot, facing him, and Earl Anvil Rock and Sir Lyndahr Raimynd, who had taken over the Earl of Coris’ duties in addition to his own, sat to either side. No one else was present, and the prince’s advisers’ faces might have been carved from stone.
Hektor’s was no better. News of the Talbor Pass surrender had arrived less than an hour ago, and the fact that everyone had known it was inevitable had made it no more welcome when it arrived. Anvil Rock, especially, looked gray-faced and ashen. It was his army which had been defeated . . . and his son who had surrendered.
“My Prince, I apologize,” the earl said finally.
“There’s not anything to apologize for, Rysel,” Hektor told him. “Koryn did exactly what we told him to do. It’s not his fault the Charisians have better weapons and control the sea.”
“But he still—”
“Did you, or did you not, recommend relieving Barcor?” Hektor interrupted. Anvil Rock looked at him for a moment, then nodded, and the prince shrugged. “I should have taken your advice. However important the man might have bee
n politically, he was an obvious disaster as an army officer. You knew that, Koryn knew that, and I knew that. But instead of letting Koryn remove him, I told him to find something ‘important but harmless’ for the idiot to do. Under the circumstances, and faced with those instructions from my prince, I would have done precisely the same thing he did. And it shouldn’t have mattered, given the observation posts he’d set up along the coast.”
“I agree, My Prince,” Tartarian said. The admiral shook his head. “I still can’t see how they could have broken the signal chain so completely.”
“The Ahrmahks, unfortunately, have this unwelcome tendency to produce highly capable kings, Taryl,” Hektor said with a wintry smile. “And it often seems to work out that when you get rid of one of the capable bastards, you get an even more capable one in trade.”
“I don’t care how capable Cayleb might be, My Prince,” Raimynd put in. “I have to agree with Earl Tartarian. I can’t see how he could have done it, either.”
“It’s almost enough to make you believe Clyntahn has a point about heretics and Shan-wei looking after her own, isn’t it?” Hektor’s chuckle contained no humor at all.
“I’m not prepared to go quite that far, My Prince,” Tartarian said. “I am ready to concede that he has Shan-wei’s own luck, though.”
“I agree. At the moment, though, how he did it matters a lot less than the fact that he did do it. And the fact that we are now well and truly screwed.”
No one else spoke for several long moments. At last, Anvil Rock stirred in his chair.
“I’m afraid you’re right, My Prince,” he said heavily. “With Koryn’s field force gone, we aren’t going to be able to put another one together for at least three or four months. And anything we could cobble together would be far less well-equipped—and trained—than the army we’ve just lost, even if we had the time . . . which we don’t.
“According to our latest reports, Cayleb already has three strong columns moving out from the Dark Hills across Manchyr. What’s left of Windshare’s cavalry is trying to harass him, but not very successfully. They’re managing to slow him down, but I still estimate that he’ll be here, outside the capital, within a five-day. The garrison we have can hold the entrenchments for a time, at least, but we’d anticipated having Koryn’s forces—especially his artillery and musketeers—available as well. If Cayleb wants to pay the price in lives, he can probably storm the works. If he’s willing to settle for a siege, instead, we might hold out for several months. We’ve stockpiled sufficient food for the city’s population and the garrison for that long, but to make it last that long, we’ll have to institute rationing right now. And get as many unnecessary civilian mouths as possible out of the city as quickly as possible, too.”
“And his navy has Manchyr Bay completely sealed,” Tartarian added grimly. “Even if the Temple were in a position to send relief, I don’t see any way that it could get past the Charisian Navy.”
“Neither one of you is telling me anything I didn’t already know,” Hektor sighed. “I think we’re going to have to play for time. We might be wrong—the Temple might actually have a relief fleet on its way, strong enough to do some good. I’m not saying I believe it does; I’m only saying it’s possible. And that I will be damned if I surrender to Cayleb Ahrmahk after this long until I absolutely have to.”
The silence after his final sentence was finally said aloud was profound.
“My Prince,” Raimynd said finally, “I believe we could still get you out of the capital. As long as you’re free to rally the nobles, it’s possible that—”
“No, Lyndahr.” Hektor shook his head. “As Rysel’s just pointed out, our entire stock of new weapons was captured with Koryn, for all intents and purposes. Putting troops armed with nothing but pikes and matchlocks into the field against him would be useless. And the casualties we’d take would probably be enough to turn the survivors permanently against my House, especially after people realized I’d known how bad they’d be all along. Nor do I propose to run around, like a rabbit or a hedge lizard looking for a hidey hole, while Cayleb beats the bushes for me. If I’ve lost, I’ll take my chances on my feet, not cowering in a cupboard somewhere until they haul me out by the scruff of the neck!”
There was another moment of silence. This time, it was broken by Anvil Rock.
“I hate to say this, My Prince, but I believe you’re probably right. Certainly, you’re right about the uselessness of trying to fight them with old-fashioned weapons. And I’d have to say that, based on the way he’s treated his prisoners, I don’t think Cayleb is the sort of man to seek blind vengeance. I don’t doubt he’d prefer to see you dead, especially after all of the, ah . . . animosity between your house and his and all the blood that’s been shed. But if it’s a choice between the pleasure of taking your head and finding the troops to control Corisande in the face of the backlash that might provoke from your subjects, I think he’ll probably forego your execution.”
“That’s what I think, too,” Hektor said. “And don’t think for a moment that I don’t find the fact that I’m forced to think that way . . . irritating.” The last word came out covered with fish hooks. “On the other hand, I’d just as soon keep as much maneuvering room as I can. And at least we’ve gotten Irys and Daivyn safely out of Corisande.”
His face tightened, the anxiety of a father who had sent two of his children into danger in an effort to protect them from still greater danger showing in his eyes, in the tightness of his lips. But then he shook himself.
“I’m not planning on sending him any surrender offers anytime soon,” he told the other three. “As I say, there’s always a chance, after all, no matter how slim. And however ‘merciful’ Cayleb may be feeling, I can always hope one of his own Temple Loyalists will get to him with a knife, one fine night.”
. IX .
Emperor Cayleb’s Tent,
Duchy of Manchyr,
League of Corisande
“Should I assume, Colonel,” Emperor Cayleb asked coldly, “that you have somehow failed to grasp my intentions in this matter?”
Colonel Bahrtol Rohzhyr had the appearance of a man who wished he could be anywhere else as he stood in Cayleb’s command tent facing an irate emperor. The Commissary officer was effectively the chief quartermaster for Cayleb’s army, and, by and large, he’d done an outstanding job so far, aided by the Charisian Navy’s ability to move large quantities of supplies quickly by water. At the moment, however, he clearly didn’t expect his past accomplishments to loom very large in Cayleb’s thinking.
“No, Your Majesty,” he said.
“In that case, perhaps you could explain to me why my instructions haven’t been carried out?”
Cayleb’s voice was even colder, and Rohzhyr swallowed unobtrusively. Then he stiffened his shoulders and faced the emperor squarely.
“Your Majesty, they don’t believe us.”
“Who doesn’t believe us? Your assistant commissaries?”
“No, Your Majesty—the Corisandians. The Corisandians don’t believe you’re serious.”
Cayleb’s eyebrows rose, and Merlin found himself hard-pressed not to chuckle as Rohzhyr faced his emperor with an expression which was part pleading, part confusion, and part outraged virtue.
Unlike most Safeholdian Commissary officers, Rohzhyr was actually honest. By tradition, most commissaries took a ten percent “bite” off the top of all funds which passed through their hands. In most kingdoms, that was considered one of the perquisites of their position; in Charis, that wasn’t the case, and Rohzhyr had never shown any temptation to emulate his more sticky-fingered counterparts in other realms.
In addition to his honesty, he possessed the virtues of intelligence and energy, but he was an outstanding example of what had once been called a “bean counter” back on Old Earth. He was organized to the point of fanaticism, and he was one of the people who’d seized upon the introduction of the abacus and Arabic numerals with both hands. Outside t
he regulations and requirements of the Commissary, however, he had about as much imagination as a boot. And he was possessed of a strong sense that things should be done the way they’d always been done, only more efficiently.
Now Cayleb settled into the camp chair beside the table at the center of his tent, looking at Rohzhyr, and the Commissary officer clasped his hands nervously behind him.
“What do you mean, they don’t think I’m serious?”
“Your Majesty, I’ve tried to explain it to them. They just don’t believe it.”
Merlin wasn’t really surprised to hear that.
Cayleb and his commanders were busily seizing every bag of rice, every basket of wheat, every reaper, and every horse, cow, draft dragon, chicken, and pig their foraging parties could locate. That didn’t surprise the locals, however much they might have resented it. Stealing food and plundering farmers were what armies did, after all. Expecting them not to would have been about as reasonable as expecting a hurricane not to rain, although with this particular army there’d been remarkably little of the rape which often accompanied that plundering.
In this case, however, Cayleb wasn’t collecting the food and other supplies for his own army’s sustenance. He was collecting those items primarily to deprive Hektor of them, although he was also quite willing to use the confiscated food to feed the prisoners who’d once been Sir Koryn Gahrvai’s army. That particular difference in approach had absolutely no significance for the unhappy original owners of the food, animals, and agricultural equipment involved. What did have a certain burning significance for them was that, contrary to the practice of virtually all other armies, the Marines were actually issuing receipts for the private property which had been seized. Receipts which would be redeemed in cold, hard cash at the end of the campaign. At which point Cayleb fully intended to tap the treasury currently in Hektor’s possession in order to pay for them.