At the Sign of Triumph (Safehold)

.IV.

Symyn’s Farm

and

Village of Borahn,

Duchy of Thorast,

Kingdom of Dohlar.

“Sir, you’ve got to fall back!” Colonel Mahkzwail Mahkgrudyr said fiercely. “This line’s gone! Sir Fahstyr’s going to need you at Borahn!”

“Like hell he will!” Clyftyn Rahdgyrz snarled back. “He needs me right the fuck here, turning these sorry-arsed bastards back into frigging soldiers!”

“Sir, there’s a reason he built the Borahn Line in the first place! He needs you back there directing the troops into the right pos—”

“No, he doesn’t.” This time Rahdgyrz’ voice was flat, with an iron tang, and Mahkgrudyr shut his mouth and stared appealingly at Father Ahntahn Rahdryghyz.

Rahdgyrz’ intendant looked back at the general’s senior aide, then glanced at Rahdgyrz from the corner of one eye. His face tightened, and then, almost imperceptibly, he shook his head.

Mahkgrudyr’s jaw clenched, yet inside he’d already known his appeal would fail. He was certain Father Ahntahn agreed with him, but the Schuelerite had been with Rahdgyrz for a long time now. He knew as well as Mahkgrudyr that the general wasn’t about to listen to anything except his own conscience … and God.

“All right, Sir,” the colonel sighed finally. “All right. But for Langhorne’s sake, at least let me put together some cavalry to keep an eye on you!”

“You can put together whatever you want, Mahkzwail, but they’re going to have to catch up.”

Mahkgrudyr opened his mouth in fresh protest, but Rahdgyrz had already put the spurs to his horse. It thundered down the unpaved dirt track of the Symyn’s Farm Road in a shower of churned up clods of earth. Father Ahntahn was right on the general’s heels, and Mahkgrudyr spat an ugly curse before he gave his own horse the office and went galloping in pursuit.

* * *

Clyftyn Rahdgyrz leaned forward over his horse’s neck, urging his mount to greater speed while desperation ate at his soul. In only eight days of fighting, and despite all of Rychtyr’s painstaking preparations, all his troops’ determination, the heretics had driven the Army of the Seridahn back for over twenty-five miles. The heretic Hanth had disdained the flanking movements which had been his hallmark ever since he launched his counteroffensive out of Thesmar. Instead, he’d driven directly at the center of the Tyzwail Line, straight into the heaviest defenses the Army of the Seridahn could build.

The massive weight of his initial bombardment—and the diabolical timing which had drawn the defenders back out into the open to be slaughtered—explained much of his initial success. He hadn’t done it just once, either. He’d done it to them twice more, as well. Little wonder the traumatized defenders had been slower rushing back to their positions the fourth time … when the attack truly did come crashing in upon them. It hadn’t helped that his troops had proven far more adept at clearing lanes through the Kau-yungs than anyone in Dohlar’s service had anticipated, either. Shattered and demoralized by a heavier bombardment than any of them could possibly have imagined, the troops in what remained of the forward trenches and bunkers had been totally unprepared for the assault which had come out of the choking wall of smoke almost the instant that bombardment finally ended.

The defenders had captured a handful of heretic prisoners. According to interrogations, their assault troops had probably taken at least five percent of their casualties from their own artillery. That was how close behind the final, withering wave of the bombardment they’d been, waiting for it to lift. And however much Rahdgyrz might hate and despise them for their apostasy, he was confident taking those losses—being that close on the artillery’s heels—had reduced their total casualties by at least half.

Their assault parties had swarmed out of the smoke, advancing not in regiments or companies, but in platoons—even squads—heavily armed with hand bombs and revolvers, even those Shan-wei-damned repeating shotguns! Dohlaran platoons which had already been harrowed—in some cases, simply blotted out—by the deluge of shells had been a poor match for them. Half of them had still been stumbling back into their artillery-churned fighting positions—or what was left of them—when the assault came crashing in. Those who’d made it to their positions in time had fought hard, initially at least, and the heretics had paid a heavy price to force that first wedge into the heart of the Tyzwail Line. Rahdgyrz had been in the thick of that fighting, and he’d be astonished if Hanth had suffered fewer than two or three thousand casualties of his own in just the first two hours of his attack. But those assault battalions had succeeded in their mission. In seventeen hours of the most vicious, close-quarters combat Clyftyn Rahdgyrz had ever seen, they’d fought their way completely across the line of entrenchments between St. Stefyny’s Redoubt and St. Jyrohm’s Redoubt, the primary anchors of the Tyzwail Line.

He’d launched a furious counterattack into their northern flank, throwing in his last five reserve infantry regiments, supported by two regiments of cavalry and six batteries of field guns. They’d made perhaps a thousand yards before the heretics’ accursed portable angle-guns opened fire. Their crews had hauled them forward across the fields of Kau-yungs, the shell-torn ground, and the bodies of dead and dying heretics, and emplaced them in the Army of the Seridahn’s own trenches and lizardholes. The most advanced angle-guns had been barely fifty yards behind the heretic infantry’s point platoons, and they’d poured a devastating fire down upon his advancing infantry.

Those men had fought—and died—like heroes for him. They’d clawed their way forward for another hundred yards, but they’d had to advance across open ground, the heretic infantry prone behind every tiny bit of cover had poured out a tornado of accurate, aimed riflefire, and that deadly flail of shrapnel had come down on them like the hammer of Kau-yung itself.

They’d broken. For the first time ever, an attack under Clyftyn Rahdgyrz’ personal command hadn’t simply been stopped. It had broken. The survivors of those shattered regiments hadn’t fallen back; they’d fled, abandoning the field to the enemies of God Himself.

He’d cursed them, begged them, pled with them, and one or two had turned back. But most had been too terrified, too broken, and even as he’d cursed them, he hadn’t truly blamed them. There came a time when flesh-and-blood had simply taken more than it could endure. He knew that, but watching them flee had been more than he could endure. He’d drawn his saber, clapped his remaining heel to his horse, and charged the heretics single-handed.

No, not single-handed. His aides and his picked dragoon bodyguard had charged with him, although he knew at least half of them had actually been trying to catch up, seize his reins, drag him bodily back from that death ride. A third of them had died trying to do that, and each of their deaths was one more coal in the furnace of his desperate fury. But they hadn’t had to drag him away from anything. A heretic bullet had felled his horse, taking him down with it, stunning him, and Colonel Mahkgrudyr had personally dragged his half-conscious body across the withers of his own horse and ridden hell-for-leather for the rear.

He’d undoubtedly save his general’s life … and if they both lived, Rahdgyrz might someday forgive him for that. He wouldn’t have cared to wager anything important on the chance of that happening, however.

Not this time, he thought grimly, bending lower over the horse’s neck. Not this time! This time, we turn and stop the bastards!

It wouldn’t be for long. He knew that. But Mahkgrudyr was right in at least one respect. Fahstyr Rychtyr needed all the time anyone could buy him if he was going to organize a successful defense of the Borahn Line. Whether even he could do that this time was more than Rahdgyrz could say, but he’d proven time and time again that if anyone in the entire world could do it, that man was Fahstyr Rychtyr.

And if his friend failed, it wasn’t going to be because Clyftyn Rahdgyrz hadn’t given him every bleeding second he could!

* * *

“Stand, boys! Stand!” Colonel Efrahm Acairverah shouted.

He stood where the farm roads from the St. Daivyn’s and Sailyr Redoubts converged, two miles east of Symyn’s Farm and ten miles north of the Shan-Shandyr High Road, and the crackle of gunfire and the occasional crumping explosions of heretic portable angle-gun bombs came clearly on the wind. Those miserable, fugitive-crowded roads were the only path to the rear for almost a quarter of the Army of the Seridahn. The fork where they met had to be held, at least briefly, and the same engineers who’d built the Slokym Line, twenty-five miles west of the Tyzwail Line, had thrown up rudimentary breastworks, tying together a dozen bunkered firing positions that covered the crossroad. Manned by resolute troops, a company or two of riflemen could have held up fifty times their own number from behind those breastworks. But the panicked fugitives streaming west from St. Daivyn’s Redoubt in a choking pall of dust were the furthest thing from “resolute troops” Efrahm Acairverah had ever seen in his life.

Gray-faced with exhaustion, many of them wounded, covered with dust and dirt, their uniforms filthy and torn, their faces blackened with powder smoke from almost two solid five-days of combat, they were ghosts of the men who’d held the Tyzwail Line before the heretics’ attack.

Some of those shambling ghosts were Acairverah’s own men. Not many, he thought, his eyes burning even as he shouted at them to stand, grabbed at equipment harnesses, kicked them when they wouldn’t turn. One or two snarled at him, threatening him with rifle butts or even bayonets. One of them had actually followed through on the threat, hammering the colonel to the ground with his clubbed rifle, leaving him stunned for several seconds while the endless sea of boots trampled around him until he could get back to his own feet. But most of them simply squirmed away, flowed past him like the sea, kept stumbling westward. Most of his men had already died, and he wanted—wanted desperately—to hate these fugitives for being alive when his men weren’t. But even in his fury and his despair, he couldn’t. And even as they continued to stream by him, most of them still clung to their personal weapons.

They haven’t given up, he thought wearily. Not really. If they had, they’d’ve thrown away anything that slowed them down. But they’re beaten. For now, for today, they’re simply beaten. It’s as simple as that. They’re beaten, and until someone can convince them they aren’t—

“Stand, boys!” He heard the pleading in his own voice. “Stand and fight with me!”

No one even slowed. And then—

“Turn around!” The voice roared like thunder, like Chihiro himself come back to do battle in God’s name. “Turn around, Dohlarans! Remember what you’re made of! Remember who you are! Remember Who you fight for and show Shan-wei what godly men can do! Turn around!”

Acairverah knew that voice. Everyone in the Army of the Seridahn knew it, and the shambling shadows of that army paused. No other voice could have done that—except, perhaps, that of Sir Fahstyr Rychtyr himself. No other voice could have reached down through their exhaustion, the bitter varnish of their fear, to the core of the men they were.

But that voice could.

The men of the army had failed that voice once. They’d broken, fled, when that voice tried to stem the tide of disaster. Some of the very men hearing it now had failed it then, and the shame, the guilt, for having failed to follow where it led was arsenic on their tongues. They looked up, eyes huge in dirty, exhaustion-hollowed faces, as Sir Clyftyn Rahdgyrz came out of the dust, reins wrapped around the stump of his left arm to free his right hand for his saber. He tugged back on those reins, and his horse reared, foam flying from its snaffle, forehooves pawing the air.

“Come on, boys!” that voice they’d heard, trusted—followed—on twice a score of battlefields thundered. “Come with me!”

Men who hadn’t even heard Efrahm Acairverah when he shouted in their faces heard that voice. Hands which hadn’t discarded their rifles tightened on their weapons. Shoulders that had sagged and shrunken in on themselves in defeat squared themselves once more.

“The Slash Lizard!” someone shouted. “It’s the Slash Lizard!”

“Who’s with me?!” Rahdgyrz demanded. “Come on, boys! One more time! One more fight for me—for God! We owe Him a death, and this is a good day to give it to him! So who’s coming with me now?!”

“We are!” One or two voices answered him, hoarse with exhaustion, cracked with thirst. “We are!”

The shouts spread, the flow towards the rear halted. The mob of fugitives changed somehow, solidifying, turning back into an army even as Acairverah watched. There was little or no unit structure to it. No one could have called it an “organized force,” but neither was it a rabble.

“We are!” the shout went up from twice a hundred throats.

“Then follow me!” he shouted back, but before he could spur his horse again, a ragged sergeant grabbed his bridle.

“No, Sir!” the man said. “We’ll go, but not you. We can’t lose you, too!”

“Get your hand off my bridle, Sergeant,” Rahdgyrz said almost conversationally.

“No, Sir.” The sergeant shook his head stubbornly, and the general saw the tear tracks through the dust on his gaunt, filthy face. “No, Sir. We’ll go—we’ll do it for you, I swear we will!—but you go to the rear. Please, Sir! We need you. The Army needs you!”

“General Rahdgyrz to the rear!” more voices shouted, and men pressed in close about him, touching his legs, reaching for his bridle with the sergeant. “General Rahdgyrz to the rear!” they cried. “Slash Lizard to the rear!”

“Not going to happen, boys!” he shouted back, and actually managed a grin. “Not going to let you have all the fun. And none of you are going anywhere I don’t lead you—you hear me?! You and me—we’ve got an appointment down that road!” He pointed his saber at the road to St. Daivyn’s Redoubt, at the stream of fugitives still pouring down it only to stop as it ran into the solidifying barricade of soldiers about him. “All of us! Every damned one of us! I’m no different from you boys—from my boys! And if God decides this is my day to die, then so be it. Because if it is, then I’ll do it with His own warriors at my back and stand proud beside them before Him!”

The sergeant stared up at him, the muscles of his face working, and Rahdgyrz smiled down at him.

“Let go of my bridle, Sergeant,” he said gently, and, like a man moving against his own will, the sergeant did. The other voices fell silent, the other hands fell away, and he smiled at all of them, his single eye bright.

“Thank you, Sergeant. Thank all of you. By God, I’m proud to call you mine this day.” Rahdgyrz’ voice was soft, but then he raised it once more.

“After me, boys!” he shouted, and then, incredibly, he laughed. “After me … and try to keep up!”

He drove in his spurs, and his horse crouched on its hocks. Then it exploded forward, and the broken fugitives who’d heard his voice, the men who’d shouted for him to go to the rear, turned as one and followed him straight back into that hell of dust, smoke, and thundering weapons.

* * *

“Sit down, Colonel,” Sir Fahstyr Rychtyr said gruffly.

“I prefer to stand, Sir,” Colonel Acairverah replied.

“You can prefer whatever you damned well want, Colonel, but what you can actually do is something else. Now sit the hell down before you fall down!”

“I—” Acairverah began, then stopped, swaying on his newly acquired crutch. He looked at Rychtyr for a long moment, eyes dark in a pale, haggard face. And then, finally, he nodded.

“I expect you’re right, Sir,” he acknowledged hoarsely, and settled into the chair Lieutenant Gohzail had positioned behind him.

“Thank you,” Rychtyr said in a far gentler voice and leaned back in his own chair.

They sat in the farmhouse Rychtyr had commandeered for his headquarters in the village of Borahn. The mutter and rumble of artillery—most of it heretic, unfortunately—was like a distant, unending surf. But at least the “Borahn Line” was holding … for now. How long that would last was another matter entirely, of course.

The general glanced at Pairaik Metzlyr, standing in what had been the farm owner’s parlor, gazing out the eastern windows. Dusk had fallen, although it wasn’t completely dark yet, and the horizon flickered with muzzle flashes. The tempo had dropped, probably because the heretics were dragging their heavy angles forward again, but the constant skirmishes, the unending probes at his fragile positions, warned Rychtyr any diminuendo would be fleeting.

He looked down at the message on the field desk in front of him, and his jaw tightened. Acairverah had taken a very real risk in agreeing to carry that message to him. In a reasonable world, the fact that he’d lost his left leg just below the hip would have amply absolved him of any charge of cowardice for having given his parole so he might deliver it. Unfortunately, the world was increasingly unreasonable just now.

He ran his eyes over the message. It wasn’t handwritten. Instead, it looked almost printed. It would appear the once hand-to-mouth Army of Thesmar’s supply position had improved radically if Earl Hanth had taken delivery of one of the newfangled Charisian “typewriters.”

Probably part of the message, Rychtyr thought. The bastard wants me to know how good his logistics are … just in case I’ve missed how damned many shells he’s been dropping on my men’s heads. And how frigging many bullets and hand bombs he’s got to go with them.

Perhaps that was true, but it didn’t change what the message said, and a fist of anguish closed on his heart and twisted as he read its opening paragraphs once more.

To General Sir Fahstyr Rychtyr,

Commanding the Army of the Seridahn;

From Sir Hauwerd Breygart, Earl of Hanth,

Commanding the Army of Thesmar,

June 23, Year of God 898

General:

I deeply regret to inform you that General Clyftyn Rahdgyrz, died at 21:15 last night.

From the reports of my units, he had succeeded in rallying some six or severn hundred men from several regiments which had broken under intense infantry attack and artillery fire. He led them personally into battle, and the men he’d rallied inflicted over two hundred casualties upon the Army of Thesmar before they were beaten off once more. In the fighting, General Rahdgyrz was shot through the chest. Colonel Mahkgrudyr, his senior aide, was killed fighting at his side, attempting to evacuate him from the field for treatment, but the General’s wound was fatal. He died in hospital at my own advanced headquarters, under our healers’ care, and one of our chaplains heard his final confession and administered last rites to him before he passed.

He met his end with the same courage and the same resolute faith with which he always lived and fought, and his final request was that I pass on to you his apology for failing to hold his position. I assured him that no one could have held that position … or fought more bravely trying, and I now assure you that my words were no more than the simple truth. I hope that he died accepting that truth.

I believe that you and he are fighting for a bad cause, but no man was ever more loyal to his commander, no man ever fought more gallantly, and no man ever died more bravely or confident in his faith than he. I envy you his friendship, and I extend my sincere condolences for your loss.

I believe him, Rychtyr thought drearily. I really believe him. He shook his head mentally, tiredly, amazed to realize that was true. This isn’t just polite, pro forma flattery. He means it … and, God, but he’s right.

The general closed his eyes in pain. He’d hoped so hard. A handful of survivors from that hopeless, valiant attack had reported that Rahdgryz had been wounded, but there’d been no confirmation of his death, and so Rychtyr had allowed himself to hope. To pray. And now.…

He was going to miss that great, roaring dragon of a man. That friend. And if anyone had ever failed another, it had not been Clyftyn Rahdgyrz. His counterattack had been an act of desperation—of atonement to God—and Rychtyr knew it. But it had also delayed the heretics’ advance for two full hours … long enough for Rychtyr to fit four regiments from his reserve into the hole in his lines at Symyn’s Farm. Far too many of his men had been trapped when the farm finally fell, but those regiments had held it for almost two more days and at least eight thousand men who would otherwise have been lost had escaped to the Borahn Line because of what they’d done.

Because of what Clyftyn Rahdgyrz had done.

“You’ve lost a leg, Colonel,” he said softly, opening his eyes once more, looking up at the lines of pain across Acairverah’s face. “You’ve lost a leg, and I deeply regret that. But I—I’ve lost my good right arm. And half my heart, with it.”

“The men tried to get him to go to the rear, Sir. They truly did—and so did I. But he … well, he—”

Acairverah’s voice broke off, his cheeks working as if he hovered on the brink of tears, and Rychtyr nodded.

“I know,” he said almost gently. “Believe me, I know, none better. They didn’t call him the Slash Lizard for nothing, Colonel. Sooner or later, this had to happen. I always knew that … and so did he.”

Acairverah’s face tightened, and Metzlyr looked up sharply. Not in disagreement with anything Rychtyr had just said, but with an expression of … concern, perhaps.

“My son,” the Schuelerite began, “it might—”

“I only meant that when a man is so dedicated to God and Mother Church, when he commands from the front and insists on leading by example, no matter how many times he’s been wounded, sooner or later that man is going to be killed, Father.” Rychtyr returned the upper-priest’s gaze levelly. “The men who came back from that counterattack all say he told them ‘we owe God a death,’ and he was right. We do. And because he believed that so strongly—because he could conceive of no higher calling, no better end—it was inevitable that eventually he’d surrender his life in God’s service.”

Metzlyr looked at him for several seconds, then nodded.

Not because he agrees with me, Rychtyr thought. And not because he thinks that’s actually what I meant. But he’s a good man, Father Pairaik. He knows what I really meant. That’s why he’s worried the Inquisition may figure it out, as well.

The general leaned back in his chair, closing his eyes and pinching the bridge of his nose as he faced the bleak reality.

His army was crumbling. Despite the twenty-five thousand reinforcements Duke Salthar had somehow found to send to him, despite the eight thousand Rahdgryz’ sacrifice had saved, he was down to barely forty-eight thousand men, including his remaining militia. Many of those missing men were stragglers who’d simply been separated from their units, and at least some of them would turn up in the next few days. But that still represented the loss of over fifty-seven thousand men, seventy percent of the army he’d commanded less than three five-days ago, and he’d lost damned nearly two-thirds of his artillery to go with them. Hanth’s losses had been heavy, as well. Despite his advantages in artillery—and despite the fact that, however much it galled Rychtyr to admit it, his infantry was not just better equipped but simply better than the best Dohlar could offer, even now—he’d paid dearly to storm those successive lines of fortifications.

But this time he hadn’t stopped. He hadn’t tried to flank Rychtyr out of position, hadn’t sought the casualty-saving maneuvers he’d always used before. No. This time he’d fastened a death grip on the Army of the Seridahn and he intended to follow it wherever it went, drive it into its last desperate burrow, and then drag it out for the kill.

And he’s going to do it, Rychtyr admitted bleakly. However heavy his casualties may have been, they’ve been one hell of a lot lighter than mine. His mind flinched away from the raw wound of Rahdgyrz’ death. And he’s obviously been pouring in a steady stream of replacements—a hell of a lot bigger one than anyone in Gorath’s been able to send me.

Sir Fahstyr Rychtyr knew how this had to end, barring some miracle … and so far, God and the Archangels had vouchsafed precious few of those to Their defenders. Worse, his men knew what was coming for them, too. Their morale was collapsing, and much though that pained Rychtyr, he couldn’t blame them for it. He knew the inquisitors assigned to the Army’s units were increasingly concerned, even desperate, and that desperation was filling some of them with fury. But it was inevitable. Whatever else they might be, his men weren’t fools. No one had told them about the spy reports or the reasons Earl Silken Hills’ Harchongians had been shifted to cover the front north from Alyksberg, but they knew they were about to be totally overwhelmed by fire and death in what had always been a secondary theater for the heretics.

No, not for the “heretics”—for the Charisians. You’ve known that for at least two years … and now the men have figured it out, too. This isn’t about heresy, not about Charis’ sudden decision to defy the will of God, and it never has been. There’s a reason the boys are starting to call this “Clyntahn’s War,” a reason not even the Inquisition can stop the rot now. And where does that leave you, Fahstyr?

And if the Charisians could do this, produce this sort of carnage in a secondary theater, what possible chance did the Harchongians stand when Charis and the Republic unleashed their main attack? The men could answer that question for themselves, as well, he thought grimly, and even men thoroughly prepared to die in God’s service might reasonably turn away from a death which could accomplish nothing in the end.

We’re not all Clyftyn, he thought drearily. Not all Slash Lizards with that magnificent internal compass. The men are mortal, they have wives, children, people they love. People to live for. How can I keep feeding them into the furnace this way? But if I don’t, then I fail not just the Kingdom but Mother—

“Sir Fahstyr?”

Rychtyr lowered his hand and opened his eyes.

Acairverah had disappeared. He hadn’t heard a sound, and the colonel hadn’t asked his permission before withdrawing. But there was no sign of young Gohzail either, and his face tightened ever so slightly as he realized Colonel Mohrtynsyn had gestured both of them out of the room without a word. There could be only one reason for him to do that.

“Yes, Ahskar?” Rychtyr kept his tone calm, conversational, with no sign he knew what he was about to hear.

“Forgive me for asking, Sir, but … what about the rest of Earl Hanth’s letter?”

Mohrtynsyn’s voice was very quiet. Metzlyr looked up again, quickly, at the question, darting a warning glance at the man who headed Rychtyr’s staff, but the colonel’s eyes were steady as he looked back at the intendant.

“We have to reply one way or the other, Sir,” the colonel continued, speaking to Rychtyr but never breaking eye contact with Metzlyr. “And if we accept, even only temporarily, it would give us time to reorganize. God knows we need it!”

“That’s true,” Rychtyr conceded. “Of course, there are a few other things to consider before we give him an answer, aren’t there?”

“Yes, Sir. Of course.”

Rychtyr pushed back his chair, stood, and began pacing back and forth across the narrow dining room with his hands clasped behind him.

That was the most dangerous part of Hanth’s entire letter, he thought. The offer of a “temporary cease-fire.” The Charisian had justified it as an opportunity for both sides to collect their wounded and bury their dead—possibly even to exchange wounded prisoners, although he must know how many fewer Charisian prisoners Rychtyr held. But however he might have justified it, his intent was clear enough.

“I know we could use the respite, Ahskar,” he said finally, pausing beside Metzlyr to look out at that flickering eastern horizon. “God knows the men’ll be hard-pressed to stand if Hanth keeps coming this way, and I’d love to have time to finish the lines around Artynsian! But you know as well as I do what he really has in mind.”

Mohrtynsyn only looked at him, and Rychtyr snorted.

“Oh, trust me, Ahskar. If I could buy these boys even twenty-six hours with none of them getting killed, I’d sell my immortal soul for it. I’m sure Father Pairaik would disapprove of the transaction,” he smiled briefly at the intendant, although the smile disappeared as quickly as it had come, “but I’d lay down the cash in a heartbeat, and you know it. But what he really figures is that if we ever agree to stop—to pause—even once, two-thirds of the fight will go out of our men. This—” he flicked a gesture at the message lying on his desk “—isn’t really an offer of a couple of days in which to collect our wounded. This is the opening shot he hopes will lead to an outright surrender.”

Mohrtynsyn’s face clenched, but he didn’t disagree, and Rychtyr turned back to the window.

Of course that was what Hanth wanted. It was what any worthwhile, sane general—especially a general who served sane masters like Cayleb and Sharleyan Ahrmahk—would want. Because if Rychtyr agreed to a cease-fire, however brief, however limited, it would set the entire Army of the Seridahn back on its heels. The respite would make it even harder for the men to walk back into the furnace, and who could blame them? The fact that the “heretics” had offered a cease-fire, offered a chance to spare their lives instead of simply continuing to kill them when everyone knew they could, might well confirm the Army’s “Clyntahn’s War” thinking. Who was the true servant of Corruption, after all? The man who spared when he might have killed … or the man who condemned millions of other men to die?

“That’s exactly what he’s thinking, Ahskar, and I’m not going to give it to him. Clyftyn didn’t die leading that frigging forlorn hope just so I could sell out the sacrifice he and the men with him made! I won’t do that. I can’t do that.”

“Very well, Sir,” Mohrtynsyn said after a long, still moment. Then he smiled crookedly. “I guess I already knew what you’d say. Still, it is my job to point these little things out to you.”

“Yes, it is.” Rychtyr’s smile was considerably broader—and warmer—than the colonel’s had been. “And you do it w—”

The door to his improvised office opened suddenly, and he turned towards the interruption. His expression was irritated … but it smoothed instantly as he saw the man standing in the doorway. The brown-haired newcomer wore the purple cassock of the Order of Schueler, badged with the sword and flame of the Inquisition. The cockade in his priest’s cap was the same upper-priest brown as Pairaik Metzlyr’s, but his right sleeve bore the embroidered white crown of an archbishop’s personal secretary.

Rychtyr had never seen him before, but he knew instantly who—or at least what—he had to be, and Metzlyr’s reaction confirmed it a moment later.

“Father Rahndail!” his intendant said sharply. “What are you doing here? And, forgive me for pointing this out, but one usually knocks before barging in on a general officer.”

“I realize that, Father,” the newcomer said. “Circumstances are … somewhat unusual, however.” He turned to Rychtyr. “I apologize for bursting in on you, Sir Fahstyr, but I fear my errand leaves little time for normal courtesies.”

“And why would that be, Father…?” Rychtyr raised his eyebrows in polite inquiry as if he hadn’t already realized perfectly well who the other man was.

“Evryt, Sir Fahstyr,” the upper-priest said, bending his head in the slightest of nods. “Father Rahndail Evryt. I have the honor to be one of Archbishop Trumahn’s personal assistants.”

“I see. And could I ask—” Rychtyr began, then paused as the door opened once more, this time to readmit Lieutenant Gohzail. The lieutenant’s shoulders were tight, his gray-green eyes were worried, and he was accompanied by another officer. It was a captain Rychtyr had never seen before … and he wore the purple tunic and red trousers of the Army of God, not the green and red of Dohlar.

“Yes, Zhulyo?”

“Forgive me, Sir, but this … gentleman declined to wait in the orderly room. He insisted upon joining Father Rahndail. And he appears to have brought a couple of platoons of dragoons with him. They’re waiting outside.”

“Indeed?” Rychtyr glanced at the Army of God officer. “And has the captain explained exactly what he’s doing here?”

“No, Sir.” Gohzail’s tone was manifestly unhappy. “I asked him, but—”

“Excuse me, Sir Fahstyr,” Evryt said. Rychtyr’s eyes returned to him, and the upper-priest shrugged slightly. “I regret any confusion, and no doubt I should already have mentioned Captain Gairybahldy’s presence and introduced him to you. I shouldn’t have allowed the importance of my mission to distract me from that courtesy, so please, allow me to correct that oversight now and present Captain Ahlvyno Gairybahldy. When I set out for the front, Bishop Executor Wylsynn thought it best to provide me with an escort. He is, of course, aware of the way in which Duke Salthar is straining every nerve to reinforce you while simultaneously protecting the Kingdom’s coasts, so it seemed best to provide that escort from the Army of God personnel who’ve been seconded to the Inquisition rather than requesting troops from him at such a time. Captain Gairybahldy is the commander of that escort.”

“I see,” Rychtyr said again. He gave the captain—who looked a shade less than completely calm and composed—a thoughtful glance, then looked back at Evryt. “And I suppose that rather brings me back to the question I was about to pose before we were … interrupted. So, may I ask what brings you to Borahn?”

“I’ve been sent to inform you and Father Pairaik that you are summoned to Gorath.” Evryt’s tone was level, his expression grave. “My instructions were to inform you of that as quickly as possible and then to personally escort you—both of you—back to the capital.”

“I see,” Rychtyr said for a third time, and glanced briefly at Metzlyr. His intendant’s expression didn’t look any happier than the general felt, and he returned his attention to Evryt and held out his hand. “May I see Duke Salthar’s instructions, Father?”

“I’m afraid the summons wasn’t issued by Duke Salthar. Or by any secular authority, Sir Fahstyr.” Evryt’s face hardened ever so slightly. “You’ve been summoned by Bishop Executor Wylsynn and Father Ahbsahlahn.”

“With all due respect for the Bishop Executor and Father Ahbsahlahn, this would be a very bad time for me to abandon the Army, Father,” Rychtyr said levelly. “We’ve just received confirmation of General Rahdgyrz’ death, and I’ve lost close to a third of my senior regimental commanders. We’re in the process of reorganizing in anticipation of the heretics’ next attack, and it would be … counterproductive for me to leave for Gorath before that’s been accomplished.”

“I’m sorry to hear that, Sir Fahstyr. Unfortunately, I was granted no discretion to modify my instructions. I really must insist we depart immediately.”

The iron in his tone was as unmistakable as the flint in his eyes. Rychtyr felt himself tighten internally, and the corner of his eye saw Mohrtynsyn stiffen. He also saw Gohzail take a quiet half-step backwards, which just happened to place him behind Captain Gairybahldy, while his hand dropped to the grip of the captured Charisian revolver at his side.

Gairybahldy took no apparent notice of Gohzail’s movement … or of the way Mohrtynsyn’s hand strayed towards the hilt of his dagger. But his spine stiffened and he was very careful to keep his own hand away from any weapon. The tension in that parlor could have been sawn up into pieces and used for sandbags, Rychtyr thought. Even Evryt was aware of it. It showed in the sudden tightness of his shoulders, the way his face lost all expression. It hovered in the very air, that suddenly icy, brittle tension, as Evryt realized Sir Fahstyr Rychtyr’s officers might just put their loyalty to him above their loyalty to Mother Church.

Or to the Group of Four, at least.

“I understand your desire to discharge your instructions as speedily as possible, Father,” the commanding officer of the Army of the Seridahn said calmly. “And as a loyal son of Mother Church, I am, of course, at the Bishop Executor’s service at any time. I do have obligations to the Kingdom and to King Rahnyld’s Army, however. I can’t simply walk out the door with you right this moment. At the very least, I have to see to an orderly transfer of command. This isn’t the time for there to be any confusion in the chain of command—not when fresh heretic attacks are almost certainly imminent. I’m sure you can understand that.”

“I can … understand your reasoning, Sir Fahstyr. Nonetheless, my mission—as you’ve just more or less observed—is a pressing one and my instructions are nondiscretionary. How long would you require to see to that transfer?”

“General Iglaisys is my senior commander, now that we’ve lost General Rahdgyrz,” Rychtyr replied. “At the moment, he’s in St. Torrin. I presume you passed through that village on your way here?”

Evryt nodded, never taking his eyes from Rychtyr’s face.

“Then you know it’s only about five miles from here,” the general continued. “It’s too dark now to summon him by semaphore, but a courier could reach him in about an hour. Assume another hour—more probably an hour and a half—for him to hand over to his own second in command—that would be Colonel Hylz now, I believe—and then another hour to return here with the courier. So call it three and a half hours. Then it will probably take at least a couple of hours for me to bring him fully up to speed. It would take considerably longer than that if he and I hadn’t already discussed our situation and our options pretty thoroughly.” He shrugged. “At any rate, I’d estimate I could probably leave the Army under his command in six or seven hours. Of course, by that time it will be Langhorne’s Watch, so we probably wouldn’t want to leave before dawn. I could be fully packed and ready to depart by then with a clear conscience, however.”

Evryt’s eyes flicked past Rychtyr to Gohzail, then flitted to Mohrtynsyn’s stony expression. His unhappiness was evident, but he produced something approximating a smile as he returned his gaze to Rychtyr’s face.

“I’m a priest, Sir Fahstyr, not a general. I’m afraid I hadn’t fully thought through the … complications a professional soldier would face in simply handing his command over to someone else. I’m afraid I do have to insist we depart absolutely as soon as practicable, but obviously we can’t do that until you’ve had time to transfer command to General Iglaisys in an orderly fashion.”

“I’m glad you understand, Father.”

“Oh, I assure you I understand.” Despite himself, Evryt’s smile turned rather colder for a moment. Then he looked at Gairybahldy. “Captain, please inform your men we’ll be staying the night here in Borahn, after all. I’m sure the General’s staff will see to your quarters while we’re here.”

“Of course they will, Father.” Rychtyr smiled at the AOG officer. “All of us understand the requirements duty imposes, Captain. Zhulyo—Lieutenant Gohzail—will see to it that you and your men are quartered together. I’m afraid all we can offer overnight will be a spot for you to pitch your own tents, but the cooks should at least be able to feed you a hot supper and I believe we’ll be able to put you somewhere that lets you look after Father Rahndail’s comfort and security. I trust that will be satisfactory?”

“Perfectly so, Sir,” Gairybahldy replied.

“I’m glad. In that case,” Rychtyr looked past him to Gohzail, “I’ll leave you in Zhulyo’s capable hands. He’ll see you as comfortably settled as possible before he goes and oversees the packing of my own bags.” He held the youthful lieutenant’s eyes very steadily. “He’s a very conscientious young officer. I’m sure he’ll look after you to the very best of his ability.”

Rebellion flickered in Gohzail’s eyes for just a second, and the hand on his revolver tightened. Rychtyr’s gaze never wavered, however, and after a moment, the lieutenant made himself take his hand off the weapon and his nostrils flared.

“Of course, Sir.” His tone acknowledged far more than anything Rychtyr had just said. “I’ll personally see to Captain Gairybahldy and his men’s needs. And I’ll see to it that none of our people feel any confusion or … concern over their presence.”

“Good, Zhulyo. That’s good,” Rychtyr said. “And on your way out, send a courier to General Iglaisys to tell him to report to me here.”

“I will, Sir,” Gohzail acknowledged, then touched Gairybahldy on the shoulder. “If you’ll come with me, Captain?”

“With your permission, Father?” Gairybahldy asked, looking at Evryt, and came to attention when the upper-priest nodded. “In that case, I’m at your service, Lieutenant.” He saluted Rychtyr, rather more formally—and, unless Rychtyr missed his guess, much more gratefully—than an Army of God officer normally saluted someone else’s officers. “Permission to withdraw, General Rychtyr?”

“Granted, Captain Gairybahldy.” Rychtyr returned the salute and smiled frostily. “I look forward to your company on the trip to Gorath.”