At the Sign of Triumph (Safehold)

.XII.

Army of the Seridahn HQ,

Kraisyr,

Duchy of Thorast,

Kingdom of Dohlar.

“How bad is it, Fahstyr?” Pairaik Metzlyr’s voice was very quiet.

He stood with Sir Fahstyr Rychtyr, Colonel Ahskar Mohrtynsyn, and General Clyftyn Rahdgyrz in the office Rychtyr had appropriated from the town of Kraisyr’s mayor, staring down at the map covering the mayor’s desk. There was no one else in the office—at the moment—but urgent voices could be heard through its open door and no doubt another of the general’s clerks would turn up momentarily with fresh tidings of disaster.

“I’m afraid it’s about as bad as it gets, Father,” Rychtyr said heavily.

He kept his own voice down, for the same reason his intendant had, but his gray eyes met Metzlyr’s gaze without flinching. Then he straightened, running one hand through his graying, sandy hair and sighed.

“They’ve not only cut the road, they’ve taken both the Saiksyn Farm and Cahrswyl’s Farm,” he said, his worn face grim. “That gives them control of the road from Cahrswyl’s to Kraisyr … and of the only solid ground between the road and the swamp.” He shook his head. “I can’t put the front back together, Father. Not before they cut the Waymeet-Fronzport High Road, anyway. And according to Brigadier Byrgair, their right flank’s less than ten miles from the Bryxtyn-Shan High Road right now.”

“It may be that close, Sir, but it hasn’t reached the damned road yet,” General Rahdgyrz rasped. The one-armed general’s eyes—well, his left eye; the right one was covered by a black eye patch—was very dark in a lean, strong-nosed face.

“No, no it hasn’t, Clyftyn,” Rychtyr agreed, smiling at the tall, narrow-shouldered general whose long black hair spilled down his back in a thick, old-fashioned braid. That braid was matched by a flowing beard that covered his chest, as if a stained-glass seijin from the War Against the Fallen had returned to take up his sword once more, and the image was more than skin deep.

Rahdgyrz had become Rychtyr’s ranking subordinate after Sir Ohtys Godwyl’s death in a Charisian bombardment, and Rychtyr had been prayerfully grateful for him more than once since then. They’d known one another for twenty-five years, since long before the Jihad, and if there was a braver man in all the world—or one more fiercely devoted to Mother Church—Sir Fahstyr Rychtyr had never met him. Rahdgyrz had been one of the first to volunteer for the initial, disastrous naval campaign, and he’d lost his right leg five inches below the knee aboard the galley Saint Taitys, fighting under the Earl of Thirsk in the battle of Crag Reach. That would have been sacrifice enough for most, but not for Clyftyn Rahdgyrz, who’d returned to field service as soon as he’d adjusted to his peg leg. He’d bulled through every objection, pointing out that he could still ride as well as he ever had and a general had no business fighting on foot, anyway! He’d gotten his way—he generally did … and lost his left arm above the elbow under Sir Rainos Ahlverez at Alyksberg. He’d only been invalided for about three months that time, rejoining the field army before Thesmar just after Ahlverez marched off to Desnairian-engineered disaster in the Kyplyngyr Forest, and he’d fought like a great dragon when Hanth counterattacked out of Thesmar. And, as always seemed to happen, he’d been wounded yet again. This time, he’d been out of action for less than a month … but he’d returned to his command without the vision of his right eye.

And to Sir Fahstyr Rychtyr’s knowledge, he’d never complained a single time about the wounds he’d sustained in God’s service. There was a reason Rychtyr’s army called Clyftyn Rahdgyrz “the Slash Lizard,” and the general had never failed him.

“The heretics haven’t reached it yet,” Rychtyr said now, “but they’re damned close.” He tapped the map with his forefinger. “Brynygair’s brigade’s done incredibly well to slow them as much as it has, and I know he’s got some terrain to work with. But it’s only a matter of time, and not much of that.”

“I’ve already sent Gairwyl and Klunee to support Brynygair,” Rahdgyrz said stubbornly, and it was his turn to tap the map with his remaining hand. “You’re right about the terrain, too. I know the woods aren’t all that thick, and most of the rivers are barely creeks, now that we’re into summer. But the Chydor’s still running deep, and Brynygair has the fords covered. Once Gairwyl, especially, closes up to the river, he’ll squeeze every ounce of advantage out of anything he has to work with, and I can have two more regiments up to support them within … six hours, at the outside.”

“I know you can—I know you would, and you’d be standing at their heads, sword in hand.” Rychtyr squeezed the general’s shoulder. “Just like I know your men would fight like dragons for you. But I need them—and you, you old slash lizard!—alive. I know every one of you would die in your tracks, but the best you could do would be to slow them down for maybe two days. Every hour more than that would require a separate miracle, and you know it.”

“But—” Rahdgyrz began, his expression mulish, but Metzlyr raised a hand, and the general closed his mouth on whatever he’d been about to say.

“If you can’t keep them from cutting the road, what do you intend to do now, Fahstyr?” The intendant laid one hand on Rychtyr’s forearm. “I’m not trying to paint you into any corners, my son, and I know right now your thoughts have to be with your men. But I’ve come to know you pretty well, and I’m sure you were already thinking about your options in the face of this sort of disaster.”

“There’s only one thing we can do, Father,” Rychtyr told him with bleak honesty. “We have to fall back, and not just a few miles this time. The terrain along the canal between Waymeet and Shandyr’s too open, too flat, and the heretics are too mobile. For that matter, there are too many of these damned farm roads, and Langhorne knows their mounted infantry’s too damned good at finding its way along them. I need to fall back far enough to build a defensible front again—probably between Duhnsmyr Forest and Kaiylee’s Woods.”

Metzlyr nodded in understanding, although his expression was deeply troubled. Rychtyr was talking about a sixty-mile retreat, and the thought of giving that much ground was … unpleasant.

But the general wasn’t done yet.

“And,” he added unflinchingly, “I need to evacuate Bryxtyn and Waymeet … assuming there’s still time.”

“Evacuate?” Rahdgyrz’ eye widened. “Those are fortresses, Sir! We can’t just hand them over to the heretics!”

“We can’t keep the heretics from simply taking them anytime they decide to, Clyftyn,” Rychtyr replied. “For that matter, they don’t even need to take them. Waymeet blocks the junction of the Sheryl-Seridahn Canal and the Sairhalik Switch Canal, but now that the heretics have Canal Bank Farm—” he tapped another point on the map, thirty-five miles south of Waymeet “—they’ve already cut the Switch. Besides, they aren’t using the damned canals now, anyway! Holding the city won’t deprive them of any significant strategic or logistic advantage, and Bryxtyn isn’t even on one of the canals. Yes, they’re both fortresses, but they were designed against the old-style Siddarmarkian army, against someone without new model Charisian artillery or Charisian logistics. In terms of importance to the Jihad, they’re really only names on a map now. But General Iglaisys has seven thousand men in Bryxtyn and General Symyngtyn has ten thousand in Waymeet. Between them, that’s seventeen thousand, and we were down to barely forty-five thousand before the heretics’ most recent attack. If we leave them where they are, they’re useless to the Jihad. If Iglaisys and Symyngtyn pull back—if they can pull back, get out before the heretics cut the high roads behind them—they’ll increase our available field force by almost forty percent.” He shook his head. “Believe me, they’ll be a lot more valuable to the Jihad in the field with us than sitting behind old-fashioned stone walls that won’t last two five-days against Hanth’s artillery.”

“Sir, I swear we can bleed them before they cut the high road!” Rahdgyrz’ tone was respectful, but his dismay was obvious and his expression was almost desperate. “You’re right, my boys’ll die where they stand if I ask ’em to! And if we can’t stand and fight for major fortresses, where can we stand?”

“Clyftyn, we will fight—we are fighting,” Rychtyr said. “A wise man doesn’t pick a fight he can’t win, though, and when they broke our front, they broke our lateral communications behind it. That means they can transfer forces, shift their weight, faster than we can. Shan-wei! They could do that before, given how many mounted infantry and dragoons have reinforced Hanth! They can just do it even faster now, and from Brynygair’s dispatch, they’d started doing exactly that even before they cut the Cahrswyl’s Farm Road.”

Rychtyr shook his head, his eyes unhappy but his expression resolute.

“Yes, we can bleed them before they actually cut the high road. And with you in command on that flank, we could probably inflict a lot more casualties than we took, especially in that kind of terrain. But they have the men to absorb those casualties; we don’t. It’s that simple. And that’s the very reason I need to pull those garrisons out, add them to our field strength. Our best guess is that Hanth has close to eighty thousand, maybe even ninety thousand men, and he’s got more mounted strength than we do even proportionately, much less in absolute terms. I need the additional manpower, and I need someplace I can anchor my flanks on natural obstacles again. And that’s here.”

His forefinger stabbed a point west of the city of Shandyr.

Rahdgyrz glowered down at the map, and Metzlyr gripped his pectoral scepter as he stepped up closer beside the general and gazed down at it, as well. But then, finally, the intendant inhaled sharply and looked back up once more.

“I very much fear you’re right … again, my son,” he told Rychtyr. “I don’t like giving so much ground, especially when your army’s fought so magnificently this long. But neither do I want to see that army cut down in a battle that can’t stop the heretics, anyway. Godly men should always be prepared to die in His service … but not when they know their deaths will accomplish nothing.”

“You’ll support the evacuation of Bryxtyn and Waymeet, Father?” Rychtyr asked softly, and Metzlyr nodded.

“Even that, my son.” He produced a rather twisted smile. “I suspect a few people in Gorath won’t be very happy with us, but your logic’s compelling. In fact, if you concur, I’ll recommend that as many troops as possible be combed out of the Kingdom’s other fortresses and sent to us, as well. As you say, they can accomplish little sitting behind stone walls the heretics can either avoid or blast to pieces.”

Rahdgyrz’ single remaining eye was desperately unhappy as he looked back and forth between his commander and the intendant, and Rychtyr squeezed his shoulder again.

“I know you don’t agree with me on this one, Clyftyn, but I need you to go back out there and fight like Chihiro himself for me again. Buy me as much time as you can. You said you could bleed them? Do it! Cost them every casualty you can, slow them up any way you can think of. Hold that road open until Iglaisys and the Bryxtyn garrison can break clear, but don’t get yourself tied down in a fight to the finish! I’m not sure Iglaisys can get his men out of the city and join us at this late a date anyway, and if he can’t, I don’t want to lose your men—or you—reinforcing failure. You’ve got to promise me you won’t set your teeth into the heretics and hold on too long. Can you do that for me? Will you do that for me?”

“Of course I will, Sir.” Rahdgyrz’ voice was hoarse, but he met Rychtyr’s gaze levelly. “You can count on me and my boys. As Langhorne’s my witness, we’ll still be standing on that damned road when Iglaisys’ rearguard marches past us!”

“I’m sure you will be, Clyftyn.” Rychtyr gripped both of the taller Rahdgyrz’ shoulders and shook him gently. “I’m sure you will. Just be damned sure you get back to me without losing any more body parts, understand?”

“I’ll put that on my list, Sir,” Rahdgyrz told him with a glint of true humor. Then he stood back, touched his chest in salute, and limped out of the office with a grim, determined stride.

“He doesn’t like it, Sir,” Mohrtynsyn said quietly, and Rychtyr sighed.

“No, he doesn’t,” he told his chief of staff, then glanced at Metzlyr. “I don’t like it. But if there’s a man alive who can do it for us, that man just walked out of this office.”

* * *

“—so we’re moving up to the Chydor,” Clyftyn Rahdgyrz said. “I need at least three more regiments. Find out who’s closest and get them moving.”

“Of course, Sir!” Colonel Mahkzwail Mahkgrudyr, Rahdgyrz’ senior aide, nodded sharply. “How soon can Sir Fahstyr send additional troops to our support?”

“He won’t,” Rahdgyrz said heavily, and Mahkgrudyr’s eyes widened. The colonel was cut very much from the same cloth as his general, but Rahdgyrz held up his hand before the other officer could protest.

“I don’t like it, either. And, neither does Sir Fahstyr,” Rahdgyrz added. “But our job is to hold the high road open until General Iglaisys can evacuate Bryxtyn.”

“Evacuate,” Mahkgrudyr repeated in the voice of a man who couldn’t quite believe what he’d just heard. Or who didn’t want to, perhaps.

“You heard me,” Rahdgyrz said a bit roughly. “He’s decided—and Father Pairaik agrees with him—that we need the Bryxtyn and Waymeet garrisons with the field army more than we do locked up in fortresses behind the heretics.”

“But I thought the idea was to stand and fight somewhere, Sir,” Mahkgrudyr said bitterly.

“That’s enough!” Rahdgyrz half-snapped, rubbing the patch over his blind eye while he glared at his aide with the other one. “We’ve got our orders, and we’ll carry them out. Right?”

“Of course, Sir,” Mahkgrudyr said after only the briefest hesitation. Then he shook himself. “I’ll go start the clerks drafting the movement orders.”

“Good, Mahkzwail. Good!” Rychtyr patted the colonel’s back. “I have a note of my own to write while you do that.”

“Of course, Sir,” Mahkgrudyr repeated, his tone closer to normal as he came back on balance. He saluted, turned, and left, and Rychtyr settled into the folding chair in front of his field desk. He opened the drawer, extracted a sheet of the thin paper used for messenger wyvern dispatches, and dipped his pen into the inkwell.

It was, perhaps, as well that Colonel Mahkgrudyr couldn’t see his expression at the moment, and he sat for several seconds, his remaining eye dark with a pain that had nothing to do with the physical wounds he’d suffered in Mother Church’s service. And then, slowly—reluctantly—the pen began to move.

My Lord Bishop, it is with a heavy heart and profound regret, only after many hours of prayerful meditation, that I take pen in hand to inform you—