At the Sign of Triumph (Safehold)

.VII.

Great Tarikah Forest,

and

Chyzwail,

West Wing Lake,

Tarikah Province,

Republic of Siddarmark.

Zhwozhyou Puyang, Earl Golden Tree, rubbed his eyes wearily. It didn’t help a lot. He was sixty-one years old, and those eyes no longer took candlelight in stride. Unfortunately, he was out of lamp oil, courtesy of the heavy heretic angle shell which had landed directly atop his headquarters bunker. He hadn’t been in it at the time, but most of his staff had, and all of his lamp oil—and the lamps to burn it and the fragments of all of his personal possessions—had been left strewn in the crater where the bunker once had been.

Along with the bloody bits and pieces of the staff who’d served him for over two years.

Golden Tree didn’t know what in Kau-yung’s name the heretics filled their goddamned shells with now, but some of them, at least, struck like Langhorne’s own Rakurai. The sheer size of the craters they left was enough to turn a man’s bowels to water. Actually seeing one of them explode—and surviving the experience—could destroy the resolve of even the most faith-filled.

He was proud of his men. It wouldn’t have done to admit that, of course, since most of them were the scum of the earth—peasants, at best, and conscripted serfs, the most of them. But they’d stood tall and fought hard for God even after the heretics managed to cut their only line of retreat behind them.

Golden Tree still didn’t know how the heretics had done that, either. In fact, there were Shan-wei’s own lot of things he didn’t know … including how God expected him to get his command out of this trap. All he knew for certain was that eight days ago the heretic Stohnar had somehow gotten one—at least one—of his outsized infantry brigades deep enough into the Great Tarikah Forest to overwhelm his pickets on the South Tairyn River. Now the heretics controlled his only avenue of supply … or escape. And even if they hadn’t held the river, only God and the Archangels knew if the Mighty Host still held the other end of the high road, where it exited the forest. Earl Rainbow Waters’ last dispatch had indicated that Gleesyn was still holding and that the line he’d stitched together to cover the high road beyond the forest remained intact. But that dispatch was eight days old.

Golden Tree lowered his hand from his aching eyes and picked up the common pottery mug on the corner of his improvised replacement desk. He grimaced as he sipped and reminded himself—again—not to ask the cooks what they were using for “tea” these days. He was quite sure he wouldn’t have liked the answer to that question any more than he’d liked the answers he’d already gotten to a whole host of questions.

He sipped more “tea” and scowled down at the report he’d been reading. Or trying to read, at any rate. Captain of Foot Hiyang’s handwriting was atrocious. Then again, four years ago Zynghau Hiyang had been a small shopkeeper in the imperial capital. He’d never expected to be a soldier, much less an officer, and far less an officer battling heresy, apostasy, and demon-worship. He had his rough edges, did Captain of Foot Hiyang, and no one would ever accuse him of brilliance. But when his regimental commander had been killed, he’d taken over the regiment and fought it with more gallantry and determination than Golden Tree had seen out of any of his other commanders, and that was a very high bar, given how magnificently his entire command had fought.

Yet there was nothing left of Hiyang’s regiment. Not anymore. That was how the captain of foot had come to be available when Golden Tree’s staff died under the shell he’d somehow avoided. And now, glaring down at Hiyang’s latest casualty report, Golden Tree faced the truth.

He’d entered the Sairmeet position with two almost full strength bands of infantry, over forty thousand men—closer to fifty, when his artillery and engineers were added in. They’d settled into a well laid out set of defensive works under the loom of the massive northern spine trees of the unconsecrated forest and been grateful for the evergreens’ deep, cool green shade. It had been like living at the bottom of one of the ornamental koi ponds back home.

Now those trees were broken stumps. Now the branches which had shielded them from the sun—and from the heretic balloons—were gone, or stripped bare and ugly by heretic shells. Now the well laid out entrenchments were churned and broken, their perimeter littered with decaying bodies, too many of them Harchongese and too few of them Charisian or Siddarmarkian. And now the ammunition and supply dumps which hadn’t been destroyed outright by the heretic artillery were empty.

As of sunset tonight, by Hiyang’s best estimate, he had twenty-three thousand effectives left, and the captain of foot estimated the artillerists had barely a dozen rounds per piece. His riflemen were down to their last forty rounds per man, and hand-bombs were in even shorter supply. He had rations for two more five-days … if he fed the men one meal a day. His healers were out of Fleming moss, reduced to boiling whatever rags they could find for bandages—when they could find fuel and the heretics’ harassing infantry angle shells let them—and they’d exhausted all their painkillers … and the alcohol and Pasquale’s Cleanser to keep their surgical instruments clean of corruption.

He’d hung on desperately, hoping for the supply column Earl Rainbow Waters had promised to fight through to Sairmeet … if he could. The Mighty Host’s commander was a man of his word, and Golden Tree had known that if mortal men could get those supplies through, then the Mighty Host would do it.

But it hadn’t.

Face it, Zhwozhyou, he told himself. Your men are done. It’s not that they won’t fight any longer; it’s that they can’t. Not without food and medical supplies. Not without shells and hand-bombs. Langhorne! Not without bullets! And if the heretics have pushed the Host back from Gleesyn, there’s no point in your getting more of these men killed holding Sairmeet. They may be peasants, they may be serfs, but even serfs’ lives have to count for something.

He shivered at the thought of what Zhaspahr Clyntahn’s Inquisition might demand of his and his officers’ families, but he knew what he had to do.

* * *

Earl Rainbow Waters rose as his nephew ushered Gustyv Walkyr and Ahlbair Saintahvo into his office. He kissed Saintahvo’s proffered ring, then waved an invitation at the chairs awaiting his guests. They settled into them, and the ugly rumble of artillery formed a backdrop of distant thunder. The Charisian gunners couldn’t possibly see their targets in the darkness, even from their accursed balloons, but they didn’t seem to care, and their profligate expenditure of ammunition in what amounted only to harassing fire was its own message. It said their supply lines were capable of delivering everything they needed, and that their manufactories—and the treasuries behind them—were capable of producing everything they needed.

Neither of which was true of Mother Church any longer.

“I thank you for coming,” the earl said quietly as Wind Song poured wine into the waiting porcelain cups and then silently withdrew, leaving his uncle with his guests. “I realize both of you are sufficiently busy without my dragging you away from your headquarters in the middle of the night.”

“It’s not like we had that far to come, My Lord,” Walkyr observed with what might a trace of genuine humor, and Rainbow Waters’ lips twitched.

The Army of the Center had fought hard since his meeting with Walkyr and Saintahvo at Cheryk. Its inexperience and lack of artillery had shown, but its survivors had gained experience far more rapidly than they’d undoubtedly desired, and they’d inflicted severe casualties on the heretics when a brigade from the Army of Westmarch moved too precipitously against St. Vyrdyn and been caught in column by AOG rocket launchers.

The Charisians had probably lost in excess of two or three thousand men in that single disaster, and the Army of the Center’s gunners had been jubilant. But then the Charisian angle-guns had been brought up once more and the balloons the advancing column had outrun had caught up with the front. The Army of Westmarch had resumed its methodical advance, and Army of the Center had been driven back once again.

By now, Walkyr’s army had been driven clear back to Rainbow Waters’ Ferey River Line. It had lost contact with St. Vyrdyn—which the heretics had entered yesterday, if Rainbow Waters’ latest intelligence was correct—but its right flank continued to cling to the edge of the Tairohn Hills sixty or seventy miles north of the city. The garrison at Glydahr continued to hold out, but the heretics had punched two mounted brigades between St. Vyrdyn and Glydahr and taken Four Point, cutting the high road between Gyldar and the Holy Langhorne Canal. It was only a matter of time before the isolated Sardahnan capital fell … a point the Army of the Daivyn’s heavy artillery was making clear as it steadily and mercilessly obliterated the city’s outworks. It would be interesting to see how long the intendants and inquisitors in Glydahr could … inspire Archbishop Militant Klymynt Gahsbahr’s men to resist.

In the meantime, the portion of Walkyr’s army still under his direct command—perhaps a hundred and sixty thousand men, all told—had become the Mighty Host’s reserve behind the southern end of the Ferey River line, and the archbishop militant had moved his own headquarters to Chyzwail to facilitate conferences just like this one.

No, Rainbow Waters reminded himself. Conferences, yes. But like this one? I think not.

“May I ask why you needed to see us, My Lord?” Saintahvo asked, leaning forward and ignoring the wine glass at his elbow. “I assume it’s to share still more bad news,” he added caustically.

The archbishop inquisitor had become steadily more querulous—although Rainbow Waters would have denied he could have become more querulous after their first meeting—as the situation worsened. He’d made it amply clear that he knew the true reason for all their reverses could be found in the fecklessness of their commanders. He’d become increasingly strident, and he no longer hesitated to show his displeasure with Rainbow Waters as clearly as with Walkyr. The earl had been unable to decide whether that was simply because Saintahvo was such a natural pain in the arse or if it reflected the tone of the private dispatches the archbishop inquisitor received regularly from Zion.

“In fact, I’m afraid it is, Your Eminence,” the Mighty Host’s commander said now, his tone calm and his expression curiously serene for a man about to impart news of still more disaster to Zhaspahr Clyntahn’s personal representative. “I received a messenger wyvern from Earl Golden Tree this evening. At dawn tomorrow, Sairmeet will surrender to the heretics.”

“What?!” Saintahvo jerked upright in his chair, his face twisting with rage.

“Regrettable,” Rainbow Waters said, “but scarcely unexpected, Your Eminence.” He shook his head. “Sairmeet’s been completely isolated for almost two five-days, but Earl Golden Tree has continued to get occasional messenger wyverns out. I’ve shared his dispatches with you and Archbishop Militant Gustyv, and it’s been evident for some time that unless we reopened the high road, Sairmeet’s loss was inevitable. According to the Earl’s final dispatch, he has less than forty rounds of ammunition per rifle and enough food to feed his men for less than a five-day. The heretics haven’t even assaulted his position in over six days. They’re simply dropping shell after shell upon it and killing somewhere between three and six hundred of his men every day without ever exposing their own infantry to his fire.” The earl shrugged. “Under those circumstances, a surrender which might save the lives of his remaining men is the only logical recourse.”

“Logical?! What does logic have to do with a war for the entire world’s soul?” Saintahvo demanded. “This Jihad isn’t about logic, My Lord! It’s about defeating Shan-wei and her minions and saving the soul of every loyal child of Mother Church, living or yet unborn. Beside that, what does simple life or death matter?!”

“With all due respect, Your Eminence, I think that might be just a little difficult to explain to the sons and daughters of the men in Sairmeet. I don’t question the importance of protecting Mother Church and defending God’s will even at the cost of our own lives. But it would seem to me that when dying for God can accomplish nothing except to die for God, one might be excused for not wishing to create any more orphans and widows than one must.”

Saintahvo flushed puce at the Harchongian’s cool, unruffled tone, but the earl seemed not to notice.

“Were it possible to relieve and resupply Earl Golden Tree,” he continued, “then it would, indeed, be his duty to continue to hold his position until our columns reached him. Unfortunately, that isn’t going to happen.”

“And why not?” Saintahvo demanded. “Why haven’t you relieved him?”

“Because to this point, the Mighty Host has suffered in excess of thirty-two thousand casualties attempting to do just that, Your Eminence.” Rainbow Waters leaned back in his chair. “That means our losses in the effort to relieve him now exceed the total strength still under his command by fifty percent. The math is irrefutable. I cannot afford to continue losing men at that rate attempting to reinforce failure. And even if it made some sort of military sense to continue the attempt—which, I repeat, it does not—it would no longer be possible.”

“Why not?” Saintahvo snarled.

“Because the Army of Tarikah took Gleesyn this afternoon,” Rainbow Waters said flatly. “They are now across the Ferey at Gleesyn and at two points south of Gleesyn in at least brigade strength, covered by their heavy angle-guns from the eastern bank of the river. The bridges at Gleesyn were demolished before the position was overrun, but heretic engineers have already thrown at least—at least, Your Eminence—five pontoon bridges across the stream. I feel confident there are additional bridges we haven’t seen yet. If they do not exist now, they will by morning.”

Silence gripped the office for several seconds, enhanced somehow by the distant, vicious mutter of the Charisian artillery.

“I estimate the heretics have suffered something in excess of eighty thousand casualties, Your Eminence,” the earl resumed quietly. “But the Mighty Host has suffered in excess of four hundred thousand, which doesn’t count the casualties your own Army of the Center has suffered, nor the casualties Earl Silken Hills and the Southern Host have taken now that Symkyn and High Mount have broken through at Reklair and Tallas. When all are combined, the total is probably very close to twice that number.

“Our men—and your men—have fought with the utmost courage and tenacity, and I assure you that the heretics’ casualties have been far heavier than any they’ve suffered in any of their campaigns since Bishop Militant Bahrnabai was stopped in the Sylmahn Gap. Indeed, I believe they may be heavier than all the casualties they’ve suffered in all of their campaigns since then. That’s certainly true for the Charisians, at any rate. And our forces are still intact, still a viable fighting force, despite the heretics’ advantages in artillery and mobility—even despite their balloons. But the loss ratio is tilting more and more sharply in their favor, not ours, and our lines are strained to the breaking point, as what just happened at Gleesyn demonstrates. And, perhaps even more to the point, they’re driving spearheads past our lines. They’re about to turn this from a battle of fortified positions into a war of maneuver, of movement, where their mobility and their balloons will be even more decisive than they’ve been to this point.”

“So what do you propose to do?” Saintahvo grated.

“There’s only one thing I can do, Your Eminence.” Rainbow Waters met the archbishop inquisitor’s furious gaze levelly. “If I don’t order the immediate retreat of every man north of Gleesyn, the heretics will drive northwest, cut them off, and do to them exactly what they’ve just done to Sairmeet. But once I evacuate that end of the Ferey River Line, there are no other suitable defensive positions short of Mhartynsberg. Indeed, given the heretic force at Four Point’s threat to the Holy Langhorne at Transyl, it may prove necessary to withdraw all the way to that city. At the very least, I believe it would be necessary to dispatch Archbishop Militant Gustyv and his entire remaining force to hold that position.”

“That’s over seven hundred miles from here!” Saintahvo blurted. “And if you retreat past Mhartynsberg, you surrender the entire Barony of Charlz and Sardahn to heretics and demon-worshipers!”

“And if I do not retreat, Your Eminence, then my army—and yours—will be destroyed. At which point there will be no organized force to defend anyone else against heretics and demon-worshipers.”

“And have you discussed this with Bishop Merkyl?” Saintahvo demanded.

“I have. And it’s only fair to admit that he felt much as you appear to feel, initially at least. In the end, however, I believe he recognized the unfortunate but inescapable logic of my analysis.”

“And why isn’t he here to tell me that himself?”

“The gout which has plagued him for so long has become much worse, Your Eminence. I believe his natural … unhappiness with recent events has aggravated the condition. At any rate, he is currently with the healers, although I believe he’ll be available to confer with you by tomorrow or the next day.”

“Tomorrow or the next day?” Saintahvo repeated in an ugly tone. “Well, My Lord, whatever Bishop Merkyl may feel or not feel—assuming his medical condition hasn’t … compromised his state of mind—I categorically reject your ‘logic’! We’re God’s warriors. We owe him our lives—and our deaths, if it comes to that—and He expects us to fight on in His cause, trusting that in the day of battle, He will be our fortress and our refuge. You will not retreat, My Lord!”

“Your Eminence, I might point out that for all your high ecclesiastic rank, you aren’t my intendant; Bishop Merkyl is. As such, I question whether or not you have the authority to countermand my intentions if he approves them.”

“Whatever you may think about my authority, My Lord, I disagree.” Saintahvo quivered visibly with the force of his rage. “And while I might officially be ‘only’ Archbishop Militant Gustyv’s intendant, I’m also the Grand Inquisitor’s personal representative. Are you prepared to tell him I lack the ‘authority’ to countermand your cowardly intention to run away from the enemies of God?”

His tone was scathing, his eyes contemptuous, but the earl only shrugged.

“I anticipated that you might … disagree with my analysis, Your Eminence,” he said in that same calm, almost conversational tone, “so I took the precaution of informing Vicar Allayn of my intentions.”

“You did?” Saintahvo asked in a rather different tone, obviously taken aback by Rainbow Waters reasonable sounding response.

“I did, indeed,” Rainbow Waters replied. “And I received his reply by semaphore shortly before sunset. Somewhat to my surprise, there was a second response, addressed to Archbishop Militant Gustyv in the Captain General’s personal cipher. Vicar Allayn was sufficiently alarmed by the … sweeping nature of my intentions that he wished to make his own and his colleagues’ view of them as clear as possible to the Archbishop Militant.”

He extracted a single sheet of paper from a folder on his desk and handed it to Walkyr. The archbishop militant didn’t seem especially eager to take it, but he did. Then he unfolded it and read it slowly. His face was expressionless as he reached the bottom, then reread it carefully and even more slowly. He looked up and folded the message very neatly and precisely. Saintahvo held out an imperious hand for it, but Walkyr seemed not to notice as he gazed across the desk at Rainbow Waters, who looked back at him with one raised eyebrow.

“May I ask if you find yourself in concurrence with the Captain General’s instructions, Your Eminence?”

“Yes,” Walkyr replied. There was something odd about his voice, a combination of trepidation and something else, something almost like … relief. “Yes, I do, My Lord.”

“Very good,” the earl said. Saintahvo looked back and forth between them, hand still extended for Vicar Allayn’s message, and Rainbow Waters picked up the small handbell on the corner of his desk and rang it once.

The sweet, musical sound seemed utterly incongruous against the backdrop of heretic artillery, but it was surprisingly clear and sharp. It hung on the ear for a moment, then the office door opened and Baron Wind Song reentered, accompanied by a half-squad of infantry in the uniform of the Emperor’s Spears, the Harchongese military police.

“Yes, My Lord?” the baron inquired, and the earl waved a graceful hand at Saintahvo.

“Arrest him,” he said.