Hell's Foundations Quiver: Chapter Four

.IV.

West of Allyntyn,
Northland Province,
Republic of Siddarmark

    The cold was bone-numbing.

    At least there wasn’t any wind, but even without the extra chill factor, the midday temperature had climbed no higher than twelve degrees on the Fahrenheit scale, and it was already falling steeply once more. After sunset it would drop to twenty degrees below zero — or lower — on the same scale, and the wind would be picking up once more as another arctic front began making its way through sometime after Langhorne’s Watch. Snow lay horse knee-high and powdery on level ground; where any obstacle had offered the opportunity, drifts with sharply sculpted edges rose as high as a man’s head or higher. The breath of the Raven’s Land caribou hauling the heavy sleds rose like smoke in the frigid air, and the sturdy High Hallows under the mounted men jetted white vapor like the fumes of an Old Earth dragon. The sky was a polished blue bowl, harder and colder than steel, without a hint of cloud. It was only a few hours past midday, but the sun was already well to the west, dipping towards the peaks of the Meirstrom Mointains and promising that the brief northern evening — and much longer winter night — were not far away.

    It was one of the coldest, bleakest vistas imaginable, Kynt Clareyk, the Baron of Green Valley, thought approvingly. He had no doubt the men of 1st Corps sorely missed the snug barracks they’d enjoyed at Allyntyn, but that was fine with him. And with them, too, if the truth be known. They were as impatient to be about their assigned task as he was.

    He glanced to the northeast, where a party of Siddarmarkian engineers swarmed about the fire-charred skeleton of a semaphore station. There was no way to tell whether it had been fired by Temple Loyalists during the Sword of Schueler’s initial onslaught or by Siddarmarkians loyal to their lord protector as they were driven from Northland by the rebellion, but whoever had set the blaze had done a less than thorough job of actually wrecking the station. Cables, pulleys, and the roof of the station crew’s barracks had been destroyed, yet the towering masts and the barracks’ stone walls remained, and the engineers would have it back in service by tomorrow afternoon. The stations were closer together across the bleak, rolling tableland of the Midhold Plateau because of how bad visibility became in the winter. Even with them restored to service, Green Valley’s communications with Allyntyn were likely to be sporadic, given that same limited visibility, but they ought to be good enough. His communications with the rest of the inner circle couldn’t care less about weather conditions, but since he’d left close to two thirds of the Army of Midhold behind at Allyntyn under General Dymytryoh Brohkamp, who commanded his 2nd Corps, it behooved him to maintain the closest contact with Brohkamp that he could.

    There was a reason he’d stripped Brigadier Wylsynn Traigair’s 3rd Brigade, out of 1st Corps, transferred it temporarily to 2nd Corps, and left Brohkamp behind. Without Traigair, General Ahntahn Makrohry’s 1st Corps consisted only of two battalions of the 1st Scout Sniper Regiment, 3rd Mounted Brigade, and General Eystavyo Gardynyr’s 4th Division (Mountain). On the other hand, Makrohry himself had been raised amid the beautiful, bitter peaks of northern Chisholm’s Snow Crest Mountains, and all of his units had been exhaustively trained in winter warfare at Raylzberg, perched high in the westernmost spur of the Lonely Mountains above High Hallow’s Stonewater Lake. The Royal Chisholmian Army had made a point of acclimating all of its units to winter marches, but only about a third of the entire army had been trained in actual winter war fighting, which was a much more demanding regimen.

    Even with their training, it would have been difficult or impossible for the new Imperial Charisian Army to have put this many men into the field this far north at this time of year without the manufactories of Old Charis. The Chisholmian experts had designed the necessary equipment, but their designs —tweaked here and there without their knowledge by an AI named Owl — had been built by Rhaiyan Mychail’s textile manufactories and Ehdwyrd Howsmyn’s foundries. Green Valley suspected that many of those foundry and manufactory workers in semi-tropical Charis hadn’t quite been able to believe in weather conditions severe enough to require the items they’d been making, but that hadn’t stopped them from churning them out in quantities no one on the Church of God Awaiting’s side could possibly have matched.

    The column of marching infantry swung along on their snowshoes with the practiced gait of men who’d spent the last several five-days regaining and sharpening their skills. It was unlikely many Army of God patrols would be out and about in the snow and cold (in fact, Green Valley knew from the SNARCs that none of them were), yet the scout sniper battalions ranged well out in front of the main column on cross-country skis. He couldn’t exactly tell them there was no one in the vicinity, and he wouldn’t have even if he could. There were limits to how many “inspired guesses” he could make, and however readily he could talk with the other members of the inner circle, he was limited to more mundane methods of communication with his subunit commanders . . .none of whom had the SNARC access he did. Even when the SNARCs told him exactly what they might be walking into, it wouldn’t do any good unless he had some way to tell them, which all too often he would not. They needed the sort of reconnaissance which was the scout snipers’ speciality, and it was best that they stay in the habit of making certain they had it.

    Behind the infantry, caribou and snow lizards hauled heavy cargo sleds, loaded with food, fuel, forage, and ammunition. Each infantry support squad was accompanied by its assigned caribou, pulling its mortars and ammunition on dedicated sleds, and each twelve-man squad of infantry towed two sleds of its own. One normally carried the men’s packs, sparing them that sixty-pound load, at least, while the other was loaded with the arctic tent assigned to that squad. The tent’s outer layer was steel thistle silk — light, strong, and so tightly woven it was virtually impervious to wind. The inner layer was woven cotton, quilted with eiderdown, and when the tent was erected there was an insulating two-inch airspace between the layers. The same sled also carried a lightweight steel chimney and a relatively small but highly efficient oil-fired stove. In a worst-case scenario, a smoke hood could be rigged at the base of the chimney to permit other fuels to be used in an open fire pit, although that would be very much a second — or third — choice for the tent’s occupants. It also would have posed a small problem for the tightly rolled caribou-hide sleeping mats strapped to the sleds to provide an insulating floor inside the tents.

    Sleeping bags had been provided, as well, made in three layers — an inner removable liner, once again of steel thistle silk, followed by a thickly quilted insulating layer of eiderdown, followed by an outer layer of additional, insulated wind resistant steel thistle silk. The liberal use of thistle silk was expensive, even for the Charisian textile industry, but it was no longer prohibitively expensive, and it also meant they were light enough to carry rolled and lashed to the top of a riefleman’s pack. They were undeniably bulky, however, and because they made awkward loads, they were normally stowed on the sleds with the tents.

    The men themselves wore white snow smocks over fleece-lined outer parkas and trousers of supple, well-tanned caribou hide. Inside that came inner parkas of steel thistle silk-lined, triple-knit wool over woolen shirts and corduroy trousers, and more steel thistle silk had been expended on each man’s long-sleeved and legged underwear. That “layered” effect was essential for arctic clothing, and the silk served as a barrier against the menace of water vapor. Arctic air could accept less water as vapor, so moisture like sweat quickly condensed out of it. The steel thistle silk prevented perspiration from saturating the layers outside it, which would quickly have destroyed their insulating capacity.

    To protect his hands, each man wore heavy, multilayered mittens or thick fleece-lined gloves over an inner glove of knitted wool and a separate liner of steel thistle silk. The mittens were warmer than gloves because they gathered and held the heat of the entire hand, not individual fingers, but they were clumsy, to say the least, and the gloves allowed greater manual dexterity when it was required.

    Boots had been as carefully considered as the rest of the troops’ gear. Made of sealskin and lined with fleece, they had double soles and an inner, moccasin-like liner which could be removed to dry, or worn as a sort of house shoe inside one of the tents.

    The weight of all those garments was a significant burden, but one which allowed them to move and operate in temperatures far below freezing. Nature had provided the caribou and snow lizards with their own formidable insulation, and the High Hallows had been bred by centuries of Chisholmian breeders for conditions very similar to these. Nonetheless, arctic rugs had been provided for the horses as additional protection if the temperature plunged still lower.

    The snow made marching difficult, even with snowshoes, but it provided easy going for the sleds which followed in the broad, beaten down lanes the infantry’s snowshoes provided. In many ways, conditions were actually less difficult than they might have been for dragons pulling conventional wagons cross-country in mid-summer.

    And best of all, Green Valley thought, no one on the other side has a clue of just how winter-mobile we are.

    If he’d ever entertained any doubts on that subject, the SNARC imagery of the Army of God’s outposts would have put them to rest. Very few of those half-frozen men, shivering in inadequate clothing as they crouched around fires in whatever structures they’d found or whatever huts they’d been able to piece together, had any interest in going anywhere else. Nor would they survive if their shelters were destroyed, Green Valley reflected, his expression bleak under the two layers of snow mask — what would have been called balaclavas back on Old Earth — and the ski goggles he and every other man in the column wore. Freezing to death was a very unpleasant way to die, and the baron took no pleasure in the thought of inflicting that particular death even on his enemies.

    Which wouldn’t stop him from doing it for a moment.