by David Weber
And then there was the probe he’d sent up the high road toward Haidyrberg only to have it ram straight into its own fiendish ambush twenty miles south of the town. He still didn’t have any official name for the explosive devices the heretics were using. He’d taken care to avoid officially learning that his men had christened them “Kau-yungs” in honor of the most infamous explosion in the history of the universe, since his army’s Inquisitors found the name as offensive as it was blasphemous, but it was also more apt than they (or he) liked to admit. It was as if the heretics could put shrapnel shells wherever they wanted and make them explode on cue, but all the shrapnel went in one direction. A handful of his scouts had survived to bring back a half-dozen curved iron plates that seemed to be part of whatever it was, but that brought him no closer to understanding how the things worked. And, unfortunately, whatever those were, they weren’t the only demonspawn device Shan-wei or Kau-yung had taught the heretics to build.
The column he’d sent to Haidyrberg had paused, understandably enough, when it encountered the entrenchment clear across the high road, bristling with still more of the heretic artillery. It had deployed to either side of the roadbed, sending infantry forward through the thick trees, using the woodland for cover against the enemy guns. That was when they’d discovered that in addition to the explosive man-killers they’d already encountered, the heretics had still more of them which could be buried in the very ground men walked upon. They hadn’t been shy about filling the woods beyond the Shan-wei spawned things with more of their accursed riflemen, either. He’d lost upward of three hundred men in that particular misadventure, and when his senior division commander on the spot had thrown a column straight down the road instead, trying to carry the entrenchment at the point of the bayonet, the casualty total had tripled.
I need information, the bishop militant thought almost desperately. I have to know what we’re up against before I go charging forward blindly. But every time I try to get information, all I manage is to lose more men.
He forced his jaw to relax, inhaled deeply, and turned his back upon the map. He looked out a porthole, instead, clasping his hands behind him and watching the setting sun turn the Daivyn’s waters into a dazzling highway of gold. A highway barred and locked by the heretic duke and his damnable army.
Another beautiful campaigning day spent sitting on my arse, he thought moodily. There aren’t that many days left, and the Grand Inquisitor won’t be very pleased if we can’t find a way to make use of the ones we still have.
He thought about his latest conference with Sedryk Zavyr, the Army of Glacierheart’s special intendant. The Schuelerite upper-priest was twelve years younger than he himself was and, technically, far junior to him in Mother Church’s hierarchy. Every churchman knew not all prelates had been created equal, however, and Zavyr was also Zhaspahr Clyntahn’s personal representative, whereas Kaitswyrth had never aspired to a bishop’s ring until the Jihad yanked him up from the ranks of the Temple Guard. He had few friends and no allies in the upper ranks of the episcopate, and even someone far better connected than he was would have had ample cause to fear the Grand Inquisitor’s ire.
Besides, Vicar Zhaspahr’s right, and you know it! he told himself harshly. There’s only one cure for heresy—the same one we gave those bastards of Stahntyn’s after Aivahnstyn. Give the leaders to the Punishment, and the others will learn from their example. Langhorne! Even the leaders may repent before it’s too late! And if they don’t, anyone who raises his hand against God’s own Archangels deserves whatever he gets.
He was beginning to wonder if Captain General Maigwair saw things the same way, though. It was clear from Maigwair’s dispatches that he expected Kaitswyrth to stand in place just as he did Wyrshym, but the Army of Glacierheart wasn’t nearly as far up the creek as the Army of the Sylmahn. Wyrshym was over nine hundred miles from his last intact canal lock on East Wing Lake; Kaitswyrth had secure, unthreatened communications all the way from the Bay of Bess via the Charayan Canal and the Fairmyn River. Langhorne only knew how long he’d have the sole use of that supply line, but for now it was all his, and whatever Maigwair might think, Vicar Zhaspahr was absolutely right in the point he’d made to Father Sedryk in his private dispatches. If they took the pressure off the heretics—if Stohnar and his allies were able to knock the Army of God back purely onto the defensive—the heretics’ morale would rebound disastrously from the shock the Sword of Schueler had inflicted upon it.
We had our boot on their throats! We’d pushed them back everywhere—everywhere! If we let them stop us in our tracks after that, all the momentum shifts to the other side. And Vicar Zhaspahr’s right about whose side God’s on, too! There comes a time when men who fight for Him have to trust Him to fight for them.
He scowled out at that gleaming, golden expanse of water, his hands clenched behind him. The Dohlarans hadn’t expected to be called upon to supply the Army of Glacierheart, and he didn’t much trust Dohlaran efficiency under any circumstances. Worse, all the supplies which had been headed up the Holy Langhorne Canal for the Army of Glacierheart would have to be turned around, shipped roundabout to the Gulf of Dohlar before they could travel up the Fairmyn to his present position. That meant he wasn’t going to see much in the way of fresh ammunition or replacement soldiers before winter, but his delay here had allowed him to build up ample stocks of powder and shot, and at least the Dohlarans seemed capable of keeping food and fodder moving until the canals starting freezing up in late October. He’d have the mobility to exploit any victory if he could just punch Eastshare out of the way.
He turned away from the porthole, bending his glower upon the map once more, and knew what he had to do.
* * *
“I don’t like it, Father,” Bishop Ahdrais Pohstazhian muttered as he stood gazing out into the gray, predawn mist. It wasn’t the sort of remark many senior officers of the Army of God would make to their divisional intendants, but Pohstazhian and Father Isydohr Zoay were very much alike. Not physically—Pohstazhian was brown-haired, brown-eyed, and decidedly stocky, whereas Zoay was fair-haired, with gray eyes, thin, and a full head taller—but under the skin. They understood one another, and Pohstazhian knew Zoay wouldn’t take him wrongly now.
“I’d prefer having a better idea of what we’re about to run into myself, My Lord,” the under-priest replied. He was four years older than Pohstazhian, which made him a bit old for his ecclesiastic rank, probably because he was more methodical and organized than brilliant. He was a fiery foe of the heresy, yet like Pohstazhian he preferred a clear plan before committing to battle.
“Unfortunately,” he continued now, “Bishop Militant Cahnyr’s right. We need to smash this heretic position before they can reinforce it further.”
“Agreed. Agreed!” Pohstazhian waved one hand, as if he could fan away the mist and see clearly. “And God knows we’ve got numbers enough to do the job, but it’s going to cost like Shan-wei.” He shook his head. “I don’t think a full-fledged assault is what most people would think of as ‘fighting for intelligence.’”
“We haven’t been able to get it any other way,” Zoay pointed out, and Pohstazhian stopped shaking his head and nodded grudgingly.
“I didn’t say I see any better way to go about it. That doesn’t mean I have to like doing it, though. Especially when I think of all the men who’re going to be wounded or dead by afternoon.”
“If all goes well the majority of them will be heretics,” Zoay said grimly.
“If all goes well,” Pohstazhian agreed.
* * *
“Anytime now, My Lord,” Colonel Maindayl said quietly at Cahnyr Kaitswyrth’s elbow. Only someone who knew the Army of Glacierheart’s chief of staff well would have recognized the anxiety in Maindayl’s brown eyes as he peered down at his pocket watch, its hands gleaming golden in the lantern light.
“Assuming they kick off on time, anyway,” Kaitswyrth replied sourly.
“Pohstazhian, Scovayl, and Waimy
an all know their business, My Lord, and they’d’ve sent word if they expected to be delayed. They may be off a minute or two either way, but no more than that.”
Kaitswyrth only grunted. It wasn’t that he disagreed with Maindayl. After Bishop Gahrmyn’s Chihiro Division, Khalryn Waimyan’s Zion Division, Pohstazhian’s Sulyvyn Division, and Tymahn Scovayl’s Fyrgyrsyn Division were the three best he had, and Chihiro was still integrating replacements after that fiasco on the Haidyrberg Road, but that didn’t make him any happier about what his own orders were about to demand of the men in those units. Plenty of his other divisions could follow where Zion, Sulyvyn, and Fyrgyrsyn led, but it was going to take something special to carry through against the heretics under these conditions. If anyone could do it, they would, whatever the cost, yet.…
The bishop militant shook his head. It was too late for second thoughts. They were committed, and in the next few minutes they’d be finding out if it could be done at all.
* * *
“What was that?”
Platoon Sergeant Ruhfus Hahpkyns raised his head.
“Who asked that?!” he demanded in a harsh whisper. All of his men knew the importance of identifying whoever was speaking at a moment like this. Without that information precious minutes could be lost figuring out who saw what where, but even the most experienced could forget and—
“Me, Sarge,” Private Bynzhamyn Makysak replied from his position ten yards farther down the parapet’s fighting step. “Sorry.”
“So what was what?” Hahpkyns asked, careful to keep his head below the top of the parapet as he moved quietly towards Makysak.
“I dunno.” Makysak waved towards the northwest. “I heard something out there, but—”
A sudden explosion ripped through the misty, predawn gloom—a flash in the fog and a blast of thunder, followed an instant later by a chorus of screams. A moment later, there was another explosion—then another.
“Stand to!” Hahpkyns shouted. “Runner!”
“Here, Sarge.”
“Leg it to the CP. Someone’s in the sweepers in Sector Able!”
“Yes, Sarge!”
The runner disappeared up the communications trench, and Hahpkyns cocked and capped his Mahndrayn. He heard metal clicking all around him as the fifty-odd men of 1st Platoon, Company A, 1st Battalion, 5th Regiment, followed suit and then fixed bayonets, as well. There were more explosions—and more screams—out in front of their position, spreading from northwest to southwest like summer lightning, and he felt himself tighten internally. The Temple Boys wouldn’t be setting off that many sweepers across that much frontage unless there were Shan-wei’s own lot of them out there!
“What do we have, Ruhfus?” a voice asked, and he turned his head as Lieutenant Styvyn Hylmyn, 1st Platoon’s CO, climbed up on the firing step beside him to peer over the parapet. Hylmyn had been sound asleep two minutes earlier, but no one would have guessed it from looking at him.
“Damned if I know, Sir.” Hahpkyns shook his head. “From the sound of it, though—”
“Point taken.” Like Hahpkyns, Hylmyn was a Chisholmian, although he was barely half the platoon sergeant’s age. He was a large, athletic young man, intelligent without being anything someone might mistake for brilliant, but he had determination by the bargeload and an almost frightening level of energy. “Any word back from the CP yet?”
“No, Sir,” Hahpkyns replied. “I’d guess Captain Carlsyn’s kicking it up the line himself by about now.”
“I imagine you’re right.” Hylmyn nodded, then clapped Hahpkyns on the shoulder. “Hold the fort till I get back.”
“Yes, Sir,” Hahpkyns said, and watched the lieutenant moving down the line, pausing just long enough to exchange a few words with each of the platoon’s squads. From the sound of the explosions, he’d better hurry if he expected to get back before the ball opened.
* * *
Ahdrais Pohstazhian swore softly and venomously as the “Kau-yungs’” explosions—and the shrieks—came back out of the drifting veils of mist. He and his command group followed in the interval between his second and third regiments, and he had his own suspicion about how the heretics managed their infernal devices. No one in the Army of Glacierheart had yet figured out for certain how the heretics’ new rifles worked. Not officially, at least. But one of Pohstazhian’s junior officers had suggested that the copper caps they’d captured in the heretics’ redoubts might be filled with something like fulminated mercury. Pasquale’s injunctions warned about the dangers of such substances, but that was unlikely to deter a pack of Shan-wei worshippers, and according to the lieutenant, a sharp blow would cause something like that to explode, probably more reliably than a flintlock’s sparks. But if it could be used to ignite powder charges for rifles, there wasn’t any reason it couldn’t ignite something else, and if Pohstazhian had been the heretics, he would’ve used some kind of trip wire and a simple striking mechanism to trigger their shrapnel-spewing explosions. He’d shared that suspicion with his company commanders before they started out, but in this kind of light terrain, the only reliable way to find a trip wire was to step on it.
He passed a windrow of bodies. Two were still writhing, and someone in the green armband of a Pasqualate was working on them. His mouth tightened, yet at least there were only six of them. That was a paltry harvest from one of the Kau-yungs, and he felt a little better at the evidence that his advancing troops were staying properly spread out, denying the explosions compact, concentrated targets.
We’ll have to close up again once we come up against their main entrenchments, he reflected grimly. The heretics’re likely to shoot hell out of us while we form up, but at least most of the boys ought to still be on their feet when we do.
* * *
The senior officers of Cahnyr Kaitswyrth’s army had done their best to evolve a workable approach, but their options had been unpalatable, for the Army of God had little of the Royal Chisholmian Army’s decades of institutional experience. The Temple Guard from which so many AOG officers sprang had been primarily a peacekeeping force which no one in the world would have dreamed of attacking. As a result, it had been unaccustomed to thinking in the sort of terms in which professional army officers might think, which meant it had lacked the sort of baseline assumptions from which the new Imperial Charisian Army had begun. Worse—and even though the AOG’s officers were intelligent, for the most part, and had considered as many implications of the new model weapons as carefully as they could—they’d been able to allow only for the threats they knew about. No one had warned them about breech-loading rifles, landmines, claymores, or percussion caps, and no one could plan intelligently to deal with something they didn’t know existed.
They’d learned the hard way, storming Brigadier Taisyn’s redoubts, just how deadly rifle fire could be to troops crossing a cleared kill zone, and they knew that unlike Taisyn’s small, forlorn hope of a force, every one of Eastshare’s infantrymen was rifle-armed. They might not yet have fully realized the open field implications of breech-loading, but they’d known they didn’t want to advance in line or column in the open through difficult terrain against a heavily fortified position packed with thousands of waiting rifles. They’d tried desperately to find a way to avoid attacking that position at all; unfortunately, their efforts to find a way around 1st Brigade had proved fruitless, thanks in no small part to 1st and 2nd Battalion, 1st Scout Sniper Regiment, and their endlessly inventive ambushes. Almost worse, they had no real doctrine for reconnaissance in the first place, since pre-Jihad engagement ranges had been so short that Mainland armies had never required the sort of scouting Charisian scout snipers were trained to provide. They’d simply marched up to one another, paused outside matchlock or arbalest range, looked the situation over, and then either attacked or marched away again.
That procedure, unfortunately, was no longer applicable, given rifles and the range of new model field artillery.
Engineering officers with spyglasses in
titan oaks had been able to construct sketch maps of the terrain between their own positions and the Charisian entrenchments on the far side of the old forest fire scar. In the face of the dense overgrowth of saplings and wire vine which had conquered the blackened clearing in the half dozen or so years since the fire, however, those sketch maps could tell an attacker very little about the actual topography. There was simply no way for the men who’d produced them to actually see the hollows and ravines hidden in all that greenery, and the Charisians had made skillful use of the high ground when they planned their entrenchments. Kaitswyrth’s engineers had been able to see enough of the Charisian position to find spots where the defensive fire would hopefully be less intense, less concentrated, than in others, and they’d been able to map a depressing number of well-dug-in field pieces, but they’d been completely unable to locate the scores of infernal devices hidden amid that undergrowth. Not just the “sweepers” they’d encountered elsewhere, either. There were also pressure-detonated surface mines—“Shan-wei’s footstools,” to the Charisians who’d emplaced them—and, even worse, a bounding mine propelled to waist height by an explosive charge before it detonated, spraying shrapnel balls in a three-hundred-sixty-degree pattern. Christened “Shan-wei’s fountains,” or simply “fountains,” they were almost as lethal as the sweepers. The shrapnel patterns were less dense, but they were also omnidirectional; men who’d managed to get past them without triggering one of the trip wires could still be killed when someone behind them was less fortunate.