At the Sign of Triumph

by David Weber

“Your Eminence, according to General Iglaisys, General Rychtyr has been relieved of command and is returning to Gorath accompanied by an Army of God escort,” Salthar said. “I gave no such order, and it’s my understanding that it was delivered by Father Rahndail in Mother Church’s name.”

  The tension in the chamber ratcheted upwards abruptly and Lainyr sat back down in his chair and folded his hands on the table before him.

  “General Iglaisys is correct, Your Grace,” he said flatly.

  “With all due respect, Your Eminence, the Army is answerable first to me, then to Duke Fern, and then to the Crown. I am answerable to Mother Church for the success or failure of that Army. If I feel one of my field commanders is no longer giving of his best, or if I feel he’s proven ineffective, then surely it’s my prerogative—and responsibility—to replace him.”

  “No, Your Grace.” It wasn’t Lainyr; it was Kharmych, and the intendant’s eyes were fiery. “You’re correct that it’s your responsibility to replace ineffective or halfhearted commanders, but those commanders—like every other child of God—are directly answerable to Mother Church as God’s bride. Mother Church’s concerns with General Rychtyr’s … state of mind were shared with you and Duke Fern. You chose to exercise your military judgment by leaving him in command of the Army of the Seridahn—as was your legal right. Since that time, the Army of the Seridahn has been driven back deep into the Kingdom, suffering massive casualties, and reports from our inquisitors in the field indicate that its spirit and zeal are … not what they might be. Indeed, those reports are one reason Bishop Executor Wylsynn expressed concern over the fighting spirit of the Lizard Island garrisons. The employment of your troops is a matter for your decision, and as you say, your responsibility—one for which you’ll be accountable in the eyes of God. But if the faith, the spiritual strength, of those troops is being permitted to erode … that, Your Grace, is a matter for Mother Church and the Inquisition.”

  “Are you suggesting General Rychtyr is more responsible than the chaplains assigned to him for the manner in which his men’s morale responds to military defeats, Father?”

  A dangerous edge of challenge glinted in the depths of Salthar’s tone, but Kharmych only nodded.

  “Ultimately, Your Grace, the commander of an army is responsible for everything pertaining to that army, is he not? That’s always been true in a secular sense—at least, as I understand it. So, yes, General Rychtyr carries a major share of the responsibility for his troops’ spiritual well-being. It’s possible our reports are less than accurate or overstate the severity of the problem.” The intendant’s voice made it crystal clear he didn’t believe that for a moment. “If that’s true, I’m sure General Rychtyr will be returning to his command quite soon.”

  “I hope that’s the case, Father,” Salthar replied. “The General is deeply respected by the entire Army, and I’m confident no man could be better qualified—from a military perspective—to command the Army of the Seridahn. I’m sure his removal from command would … sit poorly with his officers and men.”

  Something murderous flashed in Kharmych’s eyes, but Lainyr laid a hand on his forearm again before the intendant could speak. He gazed at Salthar for a long, thoughtful moment, then stood, beckoning for Kharmych to join him.

  “I understand your concerns, Your Grace,” the bishop executor said coolly. “And I have no desire to … unsettle the Army’s command at this critical time. I assure you that we’ll delve to the bottom of this as swiftly as humanly possible.”

  “As loyal sons of Mother Church, we can ask no more, Your Eminence,” Duke Fern replied for both councilors as they also stood.

  “Until later, then,” Lainyr said, and sketched Langhorne’s scepter in blessing. Then he and Kharmych turned on their heels and swept out of the council chamber in silence.

  * * *

  It was a far smaller council chamber, tucked away in a little used corner of the palace, and the men seated around the table had arrived very quietly, one at a time. Now Duke Fern leaned back in his chair and swept his eyes across his fellows’ faces. There were only three of them: Duke Salthar; Sir Zhorj Laikhyrst, Baron of Yellowstone, who served as the Kingdom of Dohlar’s foreign minister; and Hairahm Kortez, Baron Windborne, the minister of the treasury. Once again, the Duke of Thorast was conspicuous by his absence.

  “I think,” the first councilor said quietly, “that … recent events require us to reconsider our existing plans for the prosecution of the Jihad.”

  “Since it’s coming down to a matter of survival, I think that’s probably fair enough,” Salthar said, and Fern nodded. The fact that Salthar was here while Thorast wasn’t said quite a lot about how those “recent events” had … reshaped thinking in Gorath, given how supportive of the Jihad Salthar had always been, the first councilor thought.

  “What sort of reconsideration did you have in mind, Samyl?” Yellowstone asked.

  “There are several new bits of information we need to evaluate,” Fern replied. “Our ability to continue to pay for the weapons we need is also a matter for some concern. That’s one reason we’ve asked you to attend, Hairahm.”

  Windborne nodded, although from his expression, he was less than delighted to have been invited to this particular meeting.

  “Before we turn to those, however,” Fern continued, “Shain and I—and Aibram, of course—have rethought some of our earlier deployment plans. We’ve decided that the reinforcements we’ve assembled for the Army of the Seridahn need to be held closer to Gorath for the immediate future.”

  Yellowstone stiffened ever so slightly, and Windborne frowned. By straining every muscle, combing every possible man out of garrisons throughout the kingdom, they’d managed to collect and arm—after a fashion—almost sixty thousand men, exclusive of the additional Coastal Defense Force detachments Thirsk was organizing out of the seamen he’d sent ashore. Since they’d come from so many disparate sources, it was essential to give them at least some time to drill together before they were thrown into combat, and they’d been assembled outside Gorath, in close proximity to the manufactories charged with producing their rifles. Given the Army of the Seridahn’s desperate situation, however, they needed to be started for the front soon. With the heretics’ closure of the eastern end of the Gulf of Dohlar, they’d have to be sent up the Gorath River, to the St. Nytzhana Canal, to the Fronz River, and then northwest to Fronzport on Lake Sheryl, over a hundred miles in the Army of the Seridahn’s rear, and that would take time. A lot of time.

  “We haven’t taken that decision lightly, of course,” Fern continued, his expression grave. “The heretics’ capture of Lizard Island, however, suggests they intend to intensify their attacks all along our coast. While the operating range of their smaller ironclads appears to be limited, the loss of Lizard Island clearly brings the capital itself into their reach, and it’s obvious the operating range—and gun power—of their new, big ironclad are both much greater. Given that, we see no choice but to delay the deployment of those troops to Thorast until we’re confident they don’t intend an invasion in force at some vital point.”

  Windborne and Yellowstone glanced at one another, then nodded slowly.

  “You don’t suppose the heretics were so obliging as to allow Governor Alysyn’s report to reach us in hopes we’d worry about exactly that, do you?” Yellowstone asked after a moment. “Or that its arrival had anything to do with Archbishop Trumahn’s ‘unavoidable recall’ to Zion?”

  “I imagine both those things are entirely possible,” Fern conceded. “I can’t speak to the Archbishop’s schedule,” he added drily, “but I’m quite sure they told us about Lizard Island—or let Alysyn tell us for them—specifically to encourage us to hold General Rychtyr’s—I mean, of course, the Army of the Seridahn’s—reinforcements right where they are. But whether that’s the case or not, we have no choice but to honor the threat until we know more.”

  “And have you communicated that decision to Mother Church?” Yellows
tone asked.

  “Not yet. We only reached it a few hours ago, and we want your input on how best to draft a message explaining our intentions and the reason for them.”

  “I’m flattered.” Yellowstone’s tone was dry enough to turn Gorath Bay to dust.

  “I knew you would be.” Fern smiled briefly. Then his expression sobered. “We’ve made one other decision, as well. Under the circumstances, wherever those replacements end up, they’ll need the best, most experienced commander we can give them—especially now that General Rychtyr is … temporarily unavailable.”

  “I can see that,” Windborne said slowly. “Who do you have in mind?”

  “General Ahlverez,” Fern replied, and this time his tone was very flat. “Shain and I have discussed it at some length, and we can’t think of a single other general as experienced against the heretics as Sir Rainos. Or—” he let his gaze meet Yellowstone and Windborne’s levelly “—one with a better understanding of the Kingdom’s enemies—all the Kingdom’s enemies—and how they think.”

  .VI.

  Tymkyn Gap,

  Snake Mountains,

  Cliff Peak Province,

  Haidryrberg,

  Glacierheart Province,

  Republic of Siddarmark.

  “June usually isn’t this nice where I come from,” Captain of Swords Bryntyn Mahklyroh observed.

  He slouched comfortably in the canvas sling chair, a mug of beer in one hand and a hot dog, liberally anointed with mustard and ketchup, in the other. The napkin tucked tastefully into the front of his collar protected his tunic from his chosen meal, although it threatened to fail its function as he waved the hot dog at the spectacular sunset over the Snake Mountains.

  “Please don’t tell me about all those tons and tons of snow back home in St. Cehseelya again!” Captain of Horse Gwynhai begged. “I may be a southern boy from Kyznetzov, but I have relatives all the way up in de Castro Province. I’ll see your tons of snow and raise you five hundredweight of ice, Bryntyn!”

  Mahklyroh chuckled and took a bite of the hot dog.

  “All right, I’ll admit it doesn’t really snow thirty feet every winter back home. Sometimes it’s only twenty-nine. And if you’re going to be that way about it, I’ll concede that those seventh- and eighth-cousins of yours probably get at least as much snow as we do. But it’s true you know.” He sat a little straighter in his chair to set the hot dog on his plate and free his non-beer hand to snag another fried potato slice. “This is really, really nice weather for June.”

  Now, there, Gwynhai thought, Bryntyn had a point. Even a “southern boy” could appreciate a night like this one promised to be. A few low-lying banks of cloud still glowed crimson in the west, but the sky overhead was a cobalt blue vault, a-glimmer with stars, and the moon was well above the eastern horizon. The breeze blowing out of the east was just a bit cooler than his Kyznetzov sensibilities preferred—he’d grown up spending June days wading in the shallows of Bay of Alexov, and the Snake Mountains were a lot higher than that—but the day had been a bit too warm, perhaps, despite the altitude.

  And a damned good thing it was, too, he told himself rather more grimly. I could wish we were completely dug-in, and all that sunshine and lack of rain isn’t hurting a thing when it comes to getting that way. And neither is the fact that I’ve got Bryntyn to make sure the frigging engineers do it right!

  The truth was, he supposed, that Bryntyn Mahklyroh was as much a barbarian as any other Easterner. Certainly his taste for “good, simple food” like tonight’s hot dogs and beer was a far cry from the sophisticated preferences of some of Gwynhai’s more nobly born—or wealthier—Harchongese fellows. And he was a corrupting influence. He’d actually badgered the regiment’s bakers into figuring out how to bake and slice hot dog “buns” for him, although he’d been unable to procure proper hot dogs to go in them. The best the cooks had been able to come up with was a mild smoked sausage, and Mahklyroh’s efforts to get the “real thing” delivered through channels had probably driven at least three or four of the Southern Host’s commissaries to the brink of madness. But as the 321st Infantry Regiment’s commander, Gwynhai didn’t really care about any of that. For that matter, the captain of horse was about as common as a Harchongian came, himself, although his family had done well for itself in the cherrybean trade before the Jihad. Perhaps that explained why he got along so well with Mahklyroh. He was fairly certain it explained the undeniably lowbrow streak of pragmatism which had gotten him chosen for his current duty.

  Lord of Horse Fengli Zhywan, the Earl of Red Sun and the commanding officer, 3rd Band, of the Southern Host, had been assigned primary responsibility for the northern third of the Tymkyn Gap, with a frontage of roughly eight miles. Third Band consisted of four brigades, including the 321st’s parent 5th Provisional Brigade. That gave Red Sun just over twelve thousand infantry—closer to eighteen thousand, once artillerists and other supports were added in—to cover his area of responsibility. That seemed like a lot. For that matter, it was a lot. But it still worked out to less than one man per yard of straight-line frontage, the way a wyvern might fly it. Since God and the Archangels hadn’t seen fit to give human beings wings, the Southern Host had to cover that frontage on the ground, where hillsides, streambeds, inconveniently placed patches of woods, and Hastings only knew what else added a good thirty percent to the actual frontage. And Red Sun had chosen Lord of Foot Snow Mount’s 5th Provisional Brigade to hold the extreme left of that line.

  And Snow Mount had chosen the 321st to hold the extreme left of 5th Provisional Brigade’s frontage. Which meant that if Gwynhai had been in the heretic High Mount’s boots, he would have been paying particularly close attention to the 321st’s positions. And that explained why he was so happy to have clear, dry weather and lots of picks and shovels.

  To be fair, the Army of Tanshar had made a decent start on fortifying the Gap before everything was rearranged. But sad to say, the AOG’s engineers weren’t the world’s greatest experts on field fortifications. It was entirely possible that the Charisian heretics could still lay claim to that title, since they were the ones who’d invented new-model weapons and tactics, but the Imperial Harchongese Army—and especially the Mighty Host of God and the Archangels—could give them a damned good run for their money these days, and the Southern Host had spent the last several five-days deepening, broadening, and strengthening the works Bishop Militant Tayrens’ troops had begun.

  Mahklyroh, however, was something rather out of the ordinary. He’d been a lieutenant in the Army of God, the equivalent of a mere captain of bows, when he was assigned to the Mighty Host as one of Captain General Maigwair’s “advisers.” Then, he’d been one more “foreigner” foisted on the Mighty Host by a batch of barbarians who obviously couldn’t understand the art of war as well as Harchongians did. Now, he’d risen to the equivalent of an AOG major and commanded Yahngpyng Gwynhai’s 1st Company, and the men of that company would have followed their round-eyed “foreign” CO straight through Shan-wei’s front gate.

  There weren’t many Easterners still serving with the Southern Host. Or, rather, they’d been so diluted by the influx of reinforcements from the Empire that they seemed far less numerous. Mahklyroh, however, had clearly found a home, and the … less than exquisitely sophisticated serfs of his company adored him. The fact that he’d started as an engineering officer before being transferred to the infantry didn’t hurt under the present circumstances, either.

  “Yes, Bryntyn,” the captain of horse acknowledged. “It is nice weather. On the other hand,” his tone darkened, “if all those spy reports are accurate, there’d be something to be said for a mid-summer blizzard!”

  “Since it would be highly impolitic for me to call my commanding officer a wet blanket, I’ll refrain from any observations about borrowing trouble or looking on the dark side, Sir,” Mahklyroh replied. Then he shrugged. “That doesn’t mean you’re wrong. May I ask if we’ve heard anything more about what High Mount’s
up to?”

  “Nothing I haven’t already shared with you.” Gwynhai shook his head. “Our patrols still aren’t as good as their patrols, unfortunately—not that I have to tell you that. There are obviously a lot of men over on their side of the line, and even more of their damned artillery, but we haven’t been able to confirm anything concrete about his timetable. About the only thing we have been able to confirm is that it’s going to be Shan-wei’s own bitch when he finally gets around to lighting the fuse. I expect it’s going to look a lot like Armageddon Reef did.”

  He wouldn’t have allowed himself to make that particular comparison before most of his other officers, but Mahklyroh only nodded.

  “You’ve got that part right,” he agreed, his tone considerably grimmer than it had been. “And I’m grateful for every day we get to dig the boys in deeper. But, you know, there’s a part of me that really wishes they’d go ahead and get down to it. We know it can’t be much longer—they’re burning too much summer to lie around forever—and I sometimes think the waiting’s worse than the actual bleeding.”

  “Well, that’s certainly brought supper down to earth,” Gwynhai observed. “You wouldn’t happen to have any other depressing thoughts you’d care to share?”

  “Oh, I’m sure something will occur to me, Sir!” Mahklyroh assured him with a smile. “In fact—”

  The captain of swords broke off and his head snapped around as the dark eastern horizon flared with sudden, volcanic life. The blinding trails of hundreds of artillery shells streaked across the heavens, overpowering the moon, burning away the stars. They plummeted downward and deadly flowers of flame rose from 3rd Band’s frontline positions. Mahklyroh’s quarters were three miles behind the front, but the ground-shaking thunder rolled over them fourteen seconds later.

  * * *

  “How bad is it?” Zhowku Seidyng, the Earl of Silken Hills, demanded as he strode into his office.

  The howling wilderness—by any civilized standard, at any rate—west of the Snake Mountains offered precious little in the way of proper housing for a Harchongese earl, but Silken Hills had become accustomed to roughing it in the Jihad’s service. His steel thistle silk pavilion was a modest thing. It couldn’t have cost much more than it would have taken to feed an entire village of his estate’s serfs for a year or two. But it was adequate—adequate, if not palatial—although the section of its interior partitioned off for his office space was no more than twenty or thirty feet on a side.