by David Weber
If anyone in the world was more bemused by where he’d wound up than Sailys or himself, the brigadier reflected, it had to be Mahkhom. In retrospect, it had been inevitable, though. Always a natural leader, he’d been one of the first to begin organizing Glacierheart to resist the Sword of Schueler. He’d been instrumental in holding the Gray Walls against the onslaught from the Province of Hildermoss, and he’d exacted a savage price from the Temple Loyalists who’d slaughtered his entire family. And while he’d clearly been astonished by his promotion, he’d shouldered it with the same solid determination with which he shouldered every responsibility. In fact, meeting the challenge of his new rank seemed to have helped lay at least some of his demons.
He had more than enough of them left to visit carnage and ruination on the Temple Boys, though, Byrk thought, feeling the power of the older man’s clasp.
“Your boys ready?” Byrk asked … unnecessarily, he knew.
“Might say we are,” Mahkhom replied … equally unnecessarily.
“Then go.” Byrk smiled crookedly around the stem of his pipe. “And don’t get yourself shot! If they won’t let me go gadding about out there with the boys, then I’m not letting you get yourself killed, either. Understand me?”
“Not rightly sure what ‘gadding’ is,” Mahkhom replied, scratching his beard with a thoughtful air. “Sounds like somethin’ you shouldn’t be doin’ if you’re not married t’ the girl, though.”
“That’s exactly what it is,” Byrk told him with a chuckle, and punched his upper arm gently. “But I mean it, Wahlys. I’d really like to get all of you back, but we both know that isn’t going to happen. Try not to be one of the ones we don’t.”
“If I can,” Mahkhom told him much more quietly. “Happen the gun dogs and the balloon boys’ve made sure there’ll be more of us after, this time around.”
“We can always hope. Now, go. And since Archbishop Zhasyn can’t be here to say it himself, I’ll say it for him. May God go with all of you.”
* * *
All right,” Major Sygfryd Makwyrt growled, raising his voice to be heard by his platoon commanders over the distant artillery and the thud of the mortars closer to hand. They’d been laying smoke to cover the combat engineers lifting the footstools in the Glacierheart Brigade’s front; now they were laying more of it to cover the brigade itself.
“You all know what we’re supposed t’ do,” Makwyrt continued. “Go out there, do it, and kick arse. Just make damned sure you stay in the cleared lanes till you hit the abatis, right?”
A chorus of assents came back, and he nodded sharply and pointed towards the front. They trotted off to join their platoons, and Makwyrt turned to Colonel Mahkhom.
“Wasn’t much of what th’ Brigadier calls a ‘detailed briefing,’ Sygfryd,” the colonel observed as the two of them followed the lieutenants a bit more sedately.
“Heard a ‘briefing’ or two of yours, over the years,” Makwyrt replied. “Least I used more’n three words and a grunt.”
“Just didn’t want t’ dazzle ’em with my eloquence.”
“Ha! Can’t fool me. Learned that one from the Brigadier, didn’t you?”
“Learned quite a few things from the Brigadier over the years, actually,” Mahkhom said much more seriously. “Reckon all of us did. Try to bear that in mind, right?”
“Right.”
They’d reached the start line, and Makwyrt gave him a firm arm clasp, waved for his command group, and his runners started forward. Mahkhom watched him go, then pulled out his pocket watch and checked the time. Another ten minutes till the barrage lifted, he thought. He and his own command group would be going in directly behind 1st Company, and he nodded to young Lieutenant Zhaikahbsyn whose 6th Platoon had been given the unenviable task of bringing up the rear … and watching the Colonel’s arse.
“Lainyl,” he greeted the lieutenant. “You boys ready?”
“Yes, Sir!” Lainyl Zhaikahbsyn replied fiercely.
“Well, just remember the idea’s that the other fella’s s’posed t’ be the one that dies,” Mahkhom said dryly.
A memory of a younger Wahlys Mahkhom in the Green Cove Trace flashed through him as he said it, but he made himself push that memory aside. Archbishop Zhasyn was right. Mahrlyn would have wanted him to live, and despite the pain that still sometimes threatened to drag him under, he meant to do what she would have wanted. And he also meant to keep as many of these young Glacierheart men alive for their wives and families as he could.
Maybe that could compensate—a bit—for some of the other things he’d done in the last couple of years.
“Yes, Sir,” Zhaikahbsyn said in a slightly more subdued tone.
“Good lad!” Mahkhom clouted him on the shoulder, then twitched his head for his runners to follow him.
* * *
Hyrbyrt Ahdymsyn crouched at the head of the bunker stairs, stinging eyes leaking tears as he peered into the smoke. He’d sent a runner to Colonel Flymyng during the first lull in the heretics’ shelling … just in time to have it resume, exactly the way the Dohlaran reports Captain Lynkyn had shared with them had described. Ahdymsyn knew he’d be a long time forgiving himself for not waiting a little longer before sending Private Shandahsky off. He should’ve remembered those reports. He had remembered them; he simply hadn’t had time to wait. Colonel Flymyng had to know what had happened to 2nd Company—and how badly it needed reinforcements—and he had to know as soon as possible.
I still should have waited, he thought grimly. I knew it then, too.
A stubborn voice that sounded a lot like Captain Lynkyn’s told him he was wrong. Told him a military commander had to accept that men would die following his orders. Had to send them out knowing they were going to die, if the mission required it. But Hyrbyrt Ahdymsyn was still a very young man, and one who cared, and he’d discovered he didn’t have whatever hardness or determination it took to accept that cold, bitter truth.
“More trouble, Sir,” a voice said, and Ahdymsyn turned his head as Owyn Lynyrd reemerged from the foul-smelling ocean of smoke floating across his company’s splintered position.
Ahdymsyn had sent the sergeant out fifteen minutes ago to survey what was left of that position, and he felt a vast surge of relief that he’d gotten back in one piece. But then—
“Just got a runner from Third Company,” Lynyrd continued. “Captain Rychardo’s dead, too. And so’re Lieutenant Traivyr and Lieutenant Charlz.”
“What?” Ahdymsyn stared at him in consternation. “All three of them?!”
“Yes, Sir,” Lynyrd confirmed grimly. “They were out of their bunkers, walking the position together—crawling it, really, I guess—when the heretic guns opened up again. Single shell got all three of ’em. And Lieutenant Zhaksyn was already wounded. That leaves Lieutenant Pahtyrfyld as company commander.” The sergeant managed a mirthless smile. “Sent a runner to let you know who’s holding your right, I guess, Sir.”
Langhorne, Ahdymsyn thought numbly. Two companies both commanded by their most junior lieutenants? If Second and Third are this bad off, what the hell’s happened to the rest of the Regiment?!
“I see,” he said out loud, and twitched his head in the direction of the fighting trenches. “How bad?” he asked.
“Pretty damned bad, Sir,” Lynyrd replied frankly. “Wasn’t able to get all the way forward, but from what I could see of the second abatis, there can’t be a whole hell of a lot left of the first one. Bastards were putting shells exactly where they wanted ’em, and they ripped the shit out of the obstacles and the trenches. Second line’s close enough to in one piece we can probably man it; first line has to be just about completely gone, and they’re dropping portable angle shells all along the hillcrest. Got a mess of shrapnel and explosive mixed in with the smoke, too. We’d probably lose a third of the boys we’ve got left just getting to the first line. Only good news is that we got just about everybody out of there before the really heavy shelling started.”
Ah
dymsyn nodded. Earl Rainbow Waters’ new tactics specifically called for pulling back from the exposed trench line during the artillery bombardment and then reoccupying it once the shelling lifted, and despite the pounding 2nd Company had endured, he knew its casualties would have been far worse if the men had been out in the open during the hurricane bombardment. The question was whether or not he applied the rest of the new tactics. Did he move back forward to man the forward trench lines, or did he concede those and concentrate on the final line, here by the bunkers.
He listened to the heretic shells, continuing to fall not on 2nd Company’s position, but behind it, laying down a wall of fire and steel to prevent the division reserve from coming to his support, and his mouth was a grim, hard line.
Owyn’s right, he told himself coldly, the first line almost has to be gone. Oh, I could probably get the boys into it—and back out, any of them that survived—without losing as many to the portable angles as he’s suggesting. That’s what the communication trenches are for, and they can’t all have been taken out! But we were only supposed to hold it until the reserve came up, and that’s not going to happen with those damned shells ripping hell out of the lateral roads behind us. Besides, I don’t have enough men left to man it even if it’s still there!So that only leaves the lines on this side of the valley, and I don’t have enough men left to man both of them, either.
The forward line had less overhead protection even before the heretics kicked the crap out of us, but it also has the better field of fire up to the eastern crest. Visibility sucks with all this smoke, but the heretics have to ease up on the shelling, even with their portable angles, if they’re sending in their own infantry. So we might still have a chance to catch them silhouetted when they come over the crest.
All of that was true, but deep inside, he knew the real reason he wasn’t going to man that forward line.
If I put them that far forward and the bastards start shelling us again, I’ll lose half the boys I’ve got left before they make it back to their bunkers.
He couldn’t do that. He just … couldn’t.
“Turn them out, Owyn,” he said. “We don’t have enough men for the original defense plan, and Colonel Flymyng and Bishop Militant Styvyn won’t get any reinforcements to us through that.” He jabbed one thumb over his shoulder at the curtain of death thundering between his men and the rest of the Holy Langhorne Band. “We’ll make our stand here on the bunker line. And be sure we’ve got plenty of hand-bombs forward. In all this smoke, they’ll probably have as much range as our rifles do.”
* * *
“Hsssst! Right here, Sir—an’ watch your feet!” Corporal Tymyns hissed.
Lieutenant Greyghor Ohygyns, CO, 2nd Platoon, 1st Company, the 1st Glacierheart Volunteers, froze. Zackery Tymyns, the assistant squad leader of Sergeant Braisyn Mahktavysh’s 1st Squad, was well into his forties—the next best thing to a septuagenarian from Ohygyns’ perspective. He was also shrewd, solid, steady, and unflappable, however, and he’d have been an officer himself if he hadn’t been the next best thing to functionally illiterate. If Tymyns wanted him to be careful with his feet, then he’d damned well be careful with his feet!
“Good, Sir!” Tymyns emerged from the smoke with a gap-toothed grin. “Got our markers, Sir, an’ Braisyn said t’ tell you the engineers did us proud. Got a clear path marked clear through the first belt. Only they’s a passel of footstools kinda stacked t’ the sides, so it’s best you stay t’ the middle of the path.”
“I appreciate that, Zackery,” Ohygyns said. “No telling where I would have put my feet as I went strolling along whistling and drinking a beer.”
“’S why I’m here, Sir, t’ keep you out of trouble,” Tymyns replied with an even broader grin, and Ohygyns shook his head. Then he looked over his shoulder at Klymynt Ohtuhl, his platoon sergeant.
“Pass the word back, Klymynt,” he said much more seriously. “Single file from here, and we stay right in the middle of the tapes!”
“Got it,” Ohtuhl acknowledged with typical Glacierheart informality, and Ohygyns started forward once more, following closely on Tymyns’ heels.
The “crump, crump, crump” of bursting smoke rounds rolled steadily back from the west, getting louder as they came closer. There were no shrapnel or explosive rounds in the smoke falling on this side of the crest line—or their damned well weren’t supposed to be—and the combat engineers had cleared several lanes through the belt of footstools.
He passed a couple of motionless bodies in Charisian uniforms, and his mouth tightened. Those engineers had paid a price to accomplish their task, yet he knew that price had been infinitesimal compared to what it would have been without the massive artillery support they’d received, and the smoke had probably been even more valuable than the high explosive and the shrapnel. The engineers had trained to find and lift the footstools in total darkness—for that matter, the Glacierheart Volunteers had trained to do it, as well—but that was always tricky, and too often costly. That was why the infantry support squads’ mortar crews had hauled such vast numbers of smoke bombs forward with them. With the rifles covering the footstool fields blinded, the engineers had been able to go about their dangerous work in daylight.
Of course, there’s always the second belt on the other side of the hill, he reminded himself, but the engineers were supposed to be working on that at that very moment.
He reached the crest and found Sergeant Mahktavysh waiting with the rest of 1st Squad spread out to either side, heads up and weapons ready.
“Good to see you, Braisyn,” he said.
“And you, Sir. See Zackery got you here in one piece.”
“So far, at least. What’s the situation down below?”
“Don’t rightly know yet, Sir. Still waiting for—”
“Cahnyr!” one of the riflemen barked suddenly, and the sergeant broke off.
“Staynair!” came back, and the private who’d challenged relaxed—slightly at least—as he was answered with the proper counter.
“Come on in,” he called, and a figure materialized out of the smoke.
The engineer sergeant was very careful about how he approached Mahktavysh’s ready riflemen, despite the invitation. Then he saw Ohygyns and trotted briskly over to him and saluted.
“Got a lane clear to the obstacle belt for you, Lieutenant,” he said.
“Good!” Ohygyns nodded, and turned as Platoon Sergeant Ohtuhl arrived along with Sergeant Tymythy Ohlyry’s 2nd Squad.
“Fourth and Fifth’re right behind us, Sir,” Ohtuhl said, indulging in what was an orgy of formality for him.
“Then I reckon it’s time we follow the sergeant here—” Ohygyns indicated the engineer “—and get down to it.”
* * *
Lieutenant Ahdymsyn and his remaining men manned their positions while portable angle-gun shells continued to thud about them. The protective bays in the front walls of their trenches, coupled with what remained of the overhead sandbags, provided reasonable cover against the small shells’ sprays of shrapnel. It would be another matter if one of the explosive rounds landed directly in one of the trenches, but that was unlikely, despite the weight of fire still coming at them.
At least they weren’t being scourged by the devastating fire of the heretics’ heavy angles any longer. Ahdymsyn was grateful for that, but it was a very mixed blessing. The only reason the heavy guns would have stopped pounding them had to be because the heretic infantry was moving in for the kill.
I wish to hell we had a frigging breeze! Something to move the damned smoke along.
The smokescreen was like the worst fog he’d ever seen—ever imagined—and at least half the portable angle-gun shells falling on his position were solely to replenish the smoke any time it even looked like thinning. And that meant—
* * *
As nearly as Lieutenant Ohygyns could tell—which wasn’t nearly as well as he would have preferred to tell, thanks to the lifesaving smoke which had gotten them
this far—2nd Platoon was where it was supposed to be … give or take a few dozen yards. The large-scale maps prepared by the Balloon Corps’ cartography section had helped enormously in the initial approach, but once 2nd Platoon entered the cratered wilderness of the main bombardment zone, they’d become a lot less useful. There didn’t seem to be any recognizable landmarks or topographic features anymore, and he’d been forced to hope the engineers had managed to maintain their bearings as they cleared the footstools.
He’d been surprised to find the Temple Boys’ second trench unmanned when they reached it. It had been hammered almost as badly as the first one, and it was more than half-collapsed in many places, but he’d been impressed, when he slithered down into the trench, revolver in hand, by how well it had held up, all things considered. It would still have offered a daunting fighting position, and some of the craters behind and in front of it were deep enough to have offered very effective improvised defensive points to support it.
His Glacierhearters had found some bodies and even a couple of wounded who might survive if 1st Company’s healers got to them in time, but it was obvious the Temple Boys had pulled back from this trench, as well as the first, almost the instant the bombardment began. Well, that was only sensible. Ohygyns didn’t even want to think about how he would have reacted with every heavy angle in the world dropping shells on top of him. But they hadn’t moved back into it when the heavy shellfire lifted, either.
First Platoon had filtered out of the narrow lane the engineers had cleared, climbed cautiously across the shattered but still formidable abates … and found no one waiting for them. They’d been able to spread out along the abandoned trench, gathering their full strength without having to fight their way into it, and that had been a priceless boom. Now Ahbnair Mahkneel’s 4th Platoon had come up to join them, Zheppsyn Mahkwaiyr’s 5th Platoon was on Mahkneel’s heels, and the trench was almost as defensible from the west as it had been from the east. Whatever else happened, letting the better part of two hundred Glacierhearters establish a secure foothold in their lines was a serious mistake on the Temple Boys’ part, because they’d play hell pushing the company back out of it again.