Hell's Foundations Quiver: Chapter Thirteen

.XII.
Daivyn River,
Twelve miles east of Stantyn,
Cliff Peak Province,
Republic of Siddarmark.

    The wind gusted down the long, frozen surface of the Daivyn River in a sullen roar of leafless branches, bitter enough to steal a statue’s breath.

 

---

 

    Well, that might be putting it a bit too strongly, Zhasyn Cahnyr conceded. The temperature was, after all, a mere four or five degrees below freezing, positively balmy after the last few five-days. But it was certainly more than cold enough to burn like an icy blade in the ancient lungs of an archbishop who’d seen more than seventy-five winters.

    Cahnyr rode at the center of a mounted bodyguard much larger than seemed necessary to him. Not that anyone was particularly interested in his opinion. Not after how close he’d come to getting himself killed the previouswinter. All very well for him to point out how the situation had changed, how much more secure Glacierheart and the neighboring portions of Cliff Peak Province had become, and how the Temple Loyalist guerillas had been driven into hiding or killed. No one intended to allow him, even for a single moment, to forget his previous lapse in judgment, and his keepers — “loyal subordinates,” he meant, of course — were none too shy about pointing out how enthusiastically the Inqusition’s “Rakurais” resorted to assassination. It had been all he could do to exert his paramount authority as God’s steward in Glacierheart and refuse to make the trip along the river’s ice in a snow lizard-drawn sleigh, wrapped to the nose in furs, blankets, and shawls and completely surrounded by a regiment or two of boduguards.

    Which, he acknowledged very privately, might not have been so terrible an idea after all, deadly assassins or no deadly assassins. I can’t decide whether my arse is frozen to the saddle or simply frozen.

    He grimaced at the thought, although the expression was fortuitously hidden by the thick, triple-knitted angora lizard wool muffler which swathed his face to the eyes. Sahmantha Gorjah had knitted that muffler for him, and she’d personally wrapped it around his neck and tucked its ends down inside his parka before letting him out of Tairys, escort or no escort. At least this time he’d been able to convince her to stay behind herself . . . even if it had required him to take unprincipled advantage of the fact that all four of her children had joined their parents over the summer . . . and that she was three months pregnant with her fifth. It would, he had pointed out, be the height of unwisdom for her to expose herself to the potential rigors of such a trip under those circumstances.

    It had, admittedly, been unscrupulous, but unscrupulous was fine with him, given the underhanded way all of them insisted on managing him. And he hadn’t exactly gotten off unsupervised, anyway. Her husband, Gharth, rode to his left and Brother Laimuyl Azkhat, a very skilled Pasqualate healer, rode directly behind him. Brother Laimuyl was more than thirty years younger than Cahnyr, but age was no more protection against the healer’s tyranny than the fact that he was a mere lay brother whereas Cahnyr was a consecrated archbishop who’d become the second ranking member of the Reformist Siddarmarkian episcopate.

    Personally, Cahnyr was of the somewhat grumpy opinion that the ruby ring on his left hand and the broad, dove-tailed orange ribbon at the back of his priest’s cap ought to have bought him at least a modicum of control over his own comings and goings.

    Oh, stop complaining!he scolded himself. It could be a lot worse, and you know it, you cantankerous old . . . gentleman.

    His lips quirked under the muffler as he remembered the way Byrk Raimahn had applied that noun to him the previous April. Sailys Trahskhat’s additional adjectives after the near-fatal ambush on the Green Cove Trace had been far more colorful . . . and, he allowed, no more than he’d richly deserved. So perhaps his subordinates weren’t being quite as unreasonable as it felt. And even if they were, it was no more of a penance than he deserved.

    He reminded himself of that rather firmly as the ridiculous cavalcade trotted briskly along the snowy tow road atop the riverbank, paced by the cargo sleighs on the river ice below them.

    * * * * * * * * * *

    “You’d no need to come all this way in person, Your Eminence. I could’ve given you any report you needed by semaphore, or even messenger wyvern.”

    Somehow, Archbishop Zhasyn wasn’t surprised by Ahlyn Symkyn’s first sentence. He’d formed a tentative judgment of the stocky, gray-haired general after he’d been relieved as commander of the Charisian 3rd Division and passed through Tairys on his way to assume command of the Army of the Daivyn. Now that judgment was confirmed as the Chisholmian regarded him with exactly the same I-respect-you-but-you-shouldn’t-be-allowed-out-without-a-keeper glower Fraidmyn Tohmys, his valet of far too many years, had bestowed upon him when he announced his intention to visit the front.

    “Yes, my son,” he replied tranquilly. “I’m sure you could have. Unfortunately, I’ve always found it just a bit difficult to visit the sick and bless the dying by semaphore or messenger wyvern.”

    Symkyn’s cheeks colored ever so slightly, and he bent his head in acknowledgment. Cahnyr wasn’t deluded into believing the general’s contrition would last long, however. Best to take as much advantage as he could before it dissipated.

    “While I’m here,” he continued, “I would, of course, like to inspect the army’s positions and meet as many of your brave soldiers as I can.” He touched his pectoral scepter and met Symkyn’s eyes. “It seems the very least I can do for the men out here in the ice and snow protecting the people of my archbishopric. Believe me, General Symkyn. After the winter and summer just past, my Glacierhearters know exactly how important that is.”

    “Of course, Your Eminence. Happen I’ll be happy to provide guides — and a suitable escort — to take you anywhere you like. Within reason, of course.”

    Well, that window didn’t stay open very long, Cahnyr thought tartly.

    He thought about arguing, but not very hard. He’d come over three hundred miles to make this visit, and he’d covered more than half of them before he warned the general he was coming. The delay hadn’t been an accident, either. Whatever Symkyn might say now, the archbishop was certain that if he’d been so imprudent as to tell the army commander he was coming any sooner, the general would have found all manner of irrefutable reasons for him to turn right around and return to Tairys. From what he’d seen of Charisians and Chisholmians, Symkyn would have been fully capable of sending an armed escort to politely — but firmly — enforce his view of the matter, too. Under the circumstances, it was probably wiser to settle for any victories he could get.

    Besides, once he was out from under Symkyn’s eye, he should be able to browbeat whatever subordinate officer was assigned to command his escort into taking him wherever he really wanted to go. There were certain advantages to being a frail, white-haired, saintly looking, devious old cleric.

    However resistant to them generalsmight be.

    “Thank you, my son,” he said meekly. “I’m sure you’re the best judge of these matters.”

    Symkyn gave him a skeptical look, and Cahnyr didn’t need to look at Father Gharth to know his secretary and aide had rolled his eyes heavenward.

    “In the meantime, however,” Symkyn said, “best we get you settled someplace warm and get some hot food into you. Once you’ve eaten and had a chance to rest for a few hours, I’ll be happy to brief you on our situation here.”

    “That sounds like an excellent idea, my son. Thank you.”

    * * * * * * * * * *

    The hot soup, fresh bread, and strong mountaineers’ tea were even more welcome than Cahnyr had expected. They were also a far cry from the tight rations he and all of his flock had endured the previous winter and spring. His eyes darkened with the memory of how many of that flock had perished of cold and privation . . . and of how many had been so very young. They’d paid a bitter price for their loyalty to Republic and Protector — and to Zhasyn Cahnyr — his Glacierhearters. A price bitter enough to make any archbishop feel inadequate.

    But the situation was far better this winter. Lord Protector Greyghor and his Charisian allies had moved heaven and earth to ship food up the canals and rivers from Siddar City. And even though far too many of Glacierheart’s farmers and miners had either perished or been called to military service, they were a tough and resilient people, too stubborn for their own good and well accustomed to meeting the challenges of life head on. They’d managed to get the crops sown and the coal mined, despite everything, and at least this year they’d been spared savage guerrilla attacks and the threat of outright invasion. Their stony fields had answered their devotion with richer yields than usual. The gaunt, thin faces — even Cahnyr’s hunger-hollowed cheeks — had filled out once more, and he no longer felt bitterly guilty when he sat down to a solid, nourishing meal.

    He finished the last of the soup and sat back from the plain wooden table, cherishing the tea mug between his palms, and looked about him. He was certain his own august presence had displaced some major or colonel, and he regretted that, but there was no point thinking he could have convinced Symkyn and his subordinates to make any other sort of arrangement. Which was probably just as well, since Gharth and Brother Laimuyl would have pitched three sorts of fits if he’d argued that they should house him in the Charisian-provided winter tents they’d used on their journey here. They were actually warmer than the lodge from which he, Gharth, and Fraidmyn had made their escape from the Inquisition, but he doubted anyone would have been interested if he’d pointed that out to them.

    His present quarters, however, were far warmer and snugger than his lodge had been and, truth be told, he was more than happy with that state of affairs. The room was part of a sturdy barracks built of peeled, squared, chinked — and blessedly draft-proof — logs, thickly roofed in shingles cut from the logs’ bark. A row of back-to-back fireplaces were set into the stone wall which formed the structure’s spine, a solid cliff of river rock that absorbed the fires’ heat and radiated it back. The floor’s wooden planks had been slabbed off by the Charisian engineers’ water-powered sawmills, and he felt his eyelids trying to slide shut as he sat in warm comfort and listened to the wind moaning outside the walls.

    Someone knocked lightly on his closed door and he started in surprise, then straightened in his chair, setting the tea mug back on the table.

    “Enter!” he called.

    The door opened far enough for Gharth Gorjah to poke his head through it.

    “General Symkyn is here, if you’re prepared to receive him, Your Eminence.”

    “Of course I am, Gharth!” Cahnyr stood. “Please, show the General in.”

    Gorjah dipped his head in acknowledgment and disappeared. A moment later, he reappeared, ushering Symkyn into the room, accompanied by a youthful captain with what looked like a rolled map tucked under his arm and a civilian who was probably midway between the captain and general in age. Cahnyr held out his hand, and Symkyn bent to kiss his ring of office, then straightened.

    “Thank you for agreeing to see me, Your Eminence.”

    “No, thank you for comingto see me, General.” Cahnyr smiled faintly. “I’m certain you have far more pressing tasks.”

    “Not so many as you might think, Your Eminence.” It was Symkyn’s turn to smile. “Once an army goes into winter quarters, there’s not so very much for its general to do. Unless he’s Baron Green Valley, of course.”

    The general’s smile turned a bit tart with his last sentence, and Cahnyr nodded in understanding. He knew exactly what Symkyn meant, and he found himself rather in agreement with the Chisholmian’s present, undoubtedly uncharitable thoughts about Green Valley. Not that he had anything at all againstthe baron, and it was well known that Symkyn and Green Valley were close friends. Unfortunately, supplies and capabilities had to be prioritized somehow.

    Cahnyr was scarcely a trained military man, but he’d become unhappily familiar with the grim realities of campaigns, logistics, and winter weather. He was frankly astonished by the Imperial Charisian Army’s ability to move supplies and men through the heart of a mainland winter, yet he’d come to realize even they were unable to properly support two winter offensives simultaneously, and so Symkyn’s Army of the Daivyn had gone into winter quarters while Green Valley moved against the Army of the Sylmahn.

    It must be especially galling to Symkyn given the way Duke Eastshare, with less than a quarter of the Army of the Daivyn’s current strength, had driven the Army of Glacierheart over two hundred miles in reeling retreat. By the time Symkyn had moved up to reinforce the two lonely brigades — one Charisian and one of rifle-armed Siddarmarkian regulars — and militia Eastshare had left to keep an eye on Cahnyr Kaityswyrth’s demoralized command, weather had ruled out any fresh offensive. According to their spies’ reports, Kaitswyrth’s men were enduring a far more wretched winter than Symkyn’s, but they were immensely better off than Bishop Militant Bahrnabai’s Army of the Sylmahn, and they’d had months to improve their present positions before the freeze set in.

    “Please, be seated, all of you,” Cahnyr invited.

    He waved at the other three camp chairs around the table, but he wasn’t surprised when only Symkyn accepted his invitation. The young, golden-haired captain stood at his general’s right shoulder, while the civilian — shorter than either of the Chisholm-born officers — stood to the general’s left with a faint smile. He was dark-haired and dark-complexioned, in distinct contrast to the Charisians, but his eyes were blue and even darker than the captain’s.

    “Allow me to present my aide, Captain Wytykair, Your Eminence.” Symkyn gestured at the captain, who bent and kissed Cahnyr’s ring. “And this is SeijinGanieda Cysgodol, another of SeijinMerlin and SeijinAhbraim’s fellows.”

    “Your Eminence,” Cysgodol murmured, bending to kiss the ring in turn. “It’s an honor to meet you.”

    “The honor is mine, Seijin,” Cahnyr replied seriously.

    He was only too well aware of how much his own survival — and Aivah Pahrsahn’s — owed to the intervention of other seijins, although this one seemed rather on the small size, compared to the descriptions of Merlin Athrawes and Ahbraim Zhevons. Indeed, he was almost diminutive next to the two Charisians, although there was nothing remotely fragile about him.

    “Happens your timing was good in at least one respect, Your Eminence,” Symkyn said. “I’d no idea SeijinGanieda was in the area. As you know,” the general smiled thinly, “ seijinscome and go as they please. Or might be I should say they come and go as they’re needed. Any wise, SeijinGanieda’s just brought us a fresh evaluation of Kaitswyrth’s troops and their positions.”

    “Indeed?” Cahnyr cocked his head, raising one eyebrow at the seijin.

    “Yes, Your Eminence.” Cysgodol (whose name, Cahnyr reflected, was as outlandish as most seijins’ names seemed to be) had a pleasant tenor with a pronounced Westmarch burr. “There isn’t much change to report, but we like to keep an eye on the Bishop Militant.” He showed his teeth in a smile even thinner than the general’s. “Duke Eastshare gave him a pointed lesson in manners last July, and we want to be certain he took the instruction to heart.”

    “I’d gathered he had,” Cahnyr replied. “From the reports reaching Tairys, however, it’s sounded to me as if he’s recovered at least some of his confidence since July.”

    “Aye, he has that,” Symkyn acknowledged. “But someconfidence’s a mite different from completeconfidence, as you might say, Your Eminence. And the men under his command, they’re even more aware than he is of how badly the Duke mauled them.” He shook his head. “He ‘put the scare into them,’ as Baron Green Valley likes to put it, the Duke did, and that ‘scare’ went deep in their bones. Happen they’ll feel it again the next time they see Charisians and Siddarmarkians coming at ’em.”

    “The General’s right, Your Eminence.” Cysgodol’s voice was firm. “Oh, Kaitswyrth’s about finished reorganizing his forces. He’s disbanded three entire divisions and used their remaining manpower to bring other regiments back up to strength, and despite the weather, his logistics are much better than Wyrshym’s. He’s received quite a few replacements and at least some reinforcements, even if our reports indicate he hasn’t received anywhere near as many of the Church’s new rifles. And while his supply situation’s nowhere near as good as General Symkyn’s, he’s managing to keep his men reasonably well fed.”

    “Aye, that’s true enough,” Symkyn growled. “And those entrenchments of his’ll make his muzzle-loaders a lot more useful than they’d be out in the open where we could get at ’em. He’s had time to throw up decent winter quarters, as well. According to the Seijinhere, he’s still losing men to frostbite, but nowhere near so many as the Army of the Sylmahn seems to be losing.” He grimaced. “Now, I’d not wish frozen fingers and feet on any man — not normally, at least — but I’ve a bone to pick with the Temple Boys, and I’m finding it just a bit harder to feel the sympathy for my fellow man the Writsays I should.”

    “A failing I fear I share with you, General.”

    There was an edge of genuine regret in Cahnyr’s tone, but only an edge. The Writtaught that the Archangels despised hypocrisy, and he’d gotten to know Mahrtyn Taisyn before the Charisian brigadier marched to his death defending Glacierheart. He’d been a dedicated and courageous man who’d laid down his life and those of the men he’d commanded in defense of the innocent, as the Writitself enjoined, and Cahnyr had decreed a daily mass in Tairys Cathedral for the souls of all his men. It had shocked but not really surprised the archbishop when he’d discovered just how much vengeful satisfaction he’d taken from knowing how many of the inquisitors who’d overseen the massacre of Taisyn’s men had suffered the penalty Cayleb and Sharleyan of Charis had decreed for them. And he’d discovered since that Symkyn had also known Taisyn well, if not as well as he knew Green Valley . . . which was going to be a very bad thing for the Army of Glacierheart in the fullness of time.

    “The biggest problem, Your Eminence,” the general went on, crooking the first two fingers of his right hand at Captain Wytykair, “is that there’s a damned good reason — pardon my plain speaking — Kaitswyrth stopped where he did.”

    Wytykair unrolled the map under his arm in response to his commander’s gesture. It showed considerably more detail of the two armies’ positions than anything Cahnyr had previously seen. It was also too big for the young man to manage on his own once it was unrolled, so Cysgodol helped him spread it where it would be visible to both Symkyn and the archbishop.

    “As you can see, Your Eminence,” Symkyn continued, “Kaitswyrth’s total frontage is broader than he’d like, I’m sure. It’s about sixty miles, north to south, but his left is anchored on the marshes between Stylmyn and Gyrdahn and his right’s anchored on Tyrath down here to the south.” The general grimaced. “Those marshes’re impossible for even our supply columns, and they cover his left for over thirty miles. And as for Tyrath, it’s not much of a village, but it sits right on the only secondary road connecting the Haiderberg-Sangyr High Road to the Sangyr-Aivahnstyn High Road. Once the snow melts — or ever sooner, might be, if I pushed hard — I could hook down to turn his right flank. But to speak truth, there’s not so good a chance I could actually rupture his front the way the Duke did. And even if I flanked him, he’d still have the interior line to fall back on Aivahnstyn. Now, that’d be a sight better than leaving him where he is, but what we really want is to finish the bugger once and for all.”

    “That sounds like an excellent idea to me, General,” Cahnyr murmured, and Symkyn flashed him a predatory grin.

    “Well, I do believe we might be in the way of doing that little thing in another couple of months, Your Eminence.” He tapped the map symbols indicating his own forward positions. “At the moment, I’ve only my First Corps all the way forward. That’s the two infantry divisions and the Seventh Mounted. Well, and the one battalion of scout snipers, plus artillery. More than enough to keep those sorry bastards huddling in their holes after what the Duke did to ’em last summer, any road.”

    He did not, Cahnyr noted, apologize for his language this time. Which suited the archbishop just fine.

    “Course, technically he’s still got us outnumbered ’bout three-to-two, maybe a bit better, and according to the Seijinhere —” Symkyn twitched his head at Cysgodol “— they’ve another thirty thousand or so marked to reinforce him from the reserve they’ve been building up and arming in Tanshar as soon as ever they think his supply line’ll support them. Meanwhile, he’s digging in even deeper, and there’s another thirty, maybe forty thousand militia and regulars gathering in Westmarch and the Border States — especially in Usher and Jhurlahnk — to support him. Mind, Your Eminence, they’re the usual odds and sods with crappy weapons. Well, aside from the Jhurlahnkians and Usherites, at least. Prince Grygory’s army’s no more’n nine thousand strong, but Earl Usher’s is probably half again that large, and both the Jhurlahnkians and Usherites’re almost as good as Temple Boy regulars.”

    “Probably better than the units Kaitswyrth’s put back together out of bits and pieces of other ones, actually, Your Eminence,” Cysgodol put in with a grimace. “Their morale’s a lot higher, anyway! And both of them have managed to hang on to more of their own rifles than the other Border States.” The grimace turned into a tart smile. “Partly because Usher has more manufactories than almost any other Border State and built the rifles for Jhurlahnk as well as its own army, but mostly by pointing out — loudly — just how close General Symkyn here is to their borders. Of course, the other side of that coin is the Group of Four’s insistence that they support Kaitswyrth in the spring.”

    “That’s true enough, Your Eminence,” Symkyn agreed. “And if we sit and let them do all that, Kaitswyrth’ll be back up to somewhere above two hundred and fifty thousand men by the time they finish. Which’d be close to three times my strength, even with both corps up.”

    “I see.”

    Cahnyr hoped his tone didn’t sound as . . . thoughtful as he was afraid it did. This was the first he’d heard of any Border State forces being placed under the Army of God’s command. It was also the first he’d heard about the Army of the Daivyn being outnumbered by that large a margin. From the glint in Symkyn’s eye, he felt reasonably confident the general had detected a certain trepidation on his part.

    “As it happens, Your Eminence, that’s one of the main reasons I don’t plan on attacking the Bishop Militant until spring. We want those extra militia and all that Border State infantry up at the front.”

    “Excuse me?” Cahnyr blinked, and this time Symkyn actually chuckled.

    “Your Eminence, there’s a reason I’ve been sitting right here, and why I’ve kept half my strength far enough back Kaitswyrth couldn’t see it even if he was trying to get patrols across the line. In fact, it’s the same reason Duke Eastshare’s headed north from the South March right this minute instead of moving on to the west behind Earl Hanth.”

    “He is?” Cahnyr wondered if he sounded like a village idiot, but surprise had startled the question out of him.

    “Aye, that he is, Your Eminence. Happen he’ll need to refit his troops over the next month or two — they’ve done some hard marching and fighting in rain and knee-deep mud — and we’ll be using the rest of the hard freeze to sled more supplies up the rivers and canals from the coast before the mud sets in north of the Branaths, as well. We’ll not have nearly so many of the new rifles as Baron Green Valley, but like the seijinhere says, Kaitsywyrth’s gotten damn all of the Temple Boys’ new rifles, either. More to the point, though, happen that however many rifles he might get by then, betwixt the Army of the Daivyn, Earl High Mount’s Army of Cliff Peak, and the Army of the Branaths, we’ll have three times his present manpower — maybe more, if the Lord Protector’s able to send up as many divisions as Lord Daryus hopes he’ll be. Between us, we’ll have four brigades of mounted infantry, as well. That means we’ll actually have more troops than he does, maybe half again as many, even after his reinforcements come in, with Charisian artillery in support, and the equivalent of two full divisions of mounted infantry to sweep around his flanks and cut the roads and canals in his rear.”

    The general’s smile was distinctly unpleasant now, and Cahnyr felt himself smiling back.

    “Give us those numbers under the Duke’s command, and that bastard Kaitswyrth’ll never know what hit him, Your Eminence. Earl High Mount’ll go north, around the marshes, send a column for Marylys, and take his main body straight for Aivahnstyn. At the same time, Duke Eastshare’ll go south and flank Tyrath hard enough to pin Kaitswyrth’s right. And while theydo that, Your Eminence, happen the Army of the Daivyn will smash right through the bastards’ front and the three of us’ll do to the Army of Glacierheart what Duke Eastshare and Earl High Mount did to the Army of Shiloh.”

    The Chisholmian sat back in his chair, his eyes hard and bright.

    “Happen even that rat bastard Clyntahn’ll start to get the message once we’ve chopped another quarter million Temple Boys into sausage. And if it should happen he doesn’t, well — ” he shrugged “— there’s always what’s about to happen to Wyrhsym to make it plain enough even for him!”