By Heresies Distressed (47 page)

The plainly furnished little room was silent for several seconds, and then Halcom shook himself.

“I know how you've already answered that question, Ahlvyn. If you continue to have doubts, continue to question some of the actions to which we are called, that's completely human of you. Indeed, I think it would worry me more if you
had
no doubts. Even when the shedding of blood is necessary, it should never be easy, never be a trivial decision, arrived at without questioning, without being as positive as one can be that it
is
necessary. That should be true of any man, and particularly of any priest. But I believe you know as well as I do that in this case it is necessary, and that we must do whatever we may to ensure that we succeed in doing God's work.”

He gazed into Shumay's eyes, and the younger man nodded.

“You're right, Sir, of course.” He tapped the sheet of notes in front of him. “If you'll give me a few moments, I'll draft the letters for your approval before we encrypt them.”

Sir Koryn Gahrvai kept low as he made his cautious way to the forward redoubt.

Coming this far forward in daylight was risky, although that wasn't a consideration which would have occupied his mind as little as two months before. Now, however, he and the men of his army had learned the hard way that to expose oneself anywhere within a thousand yards of a Charisian marksman was likely to prove fatal. Even now, he could hear the occasional distant, distinctively whip-like crack of their damnable long-range rifles, and he wondered if whoever was firing actually had a target.

Probably. But not necessarily
. He grimaced.
They managed to put the fear of their riflemen into us at Haryl's Crossing; just reminding us by firing an occasional shot, even at random, is one way to make sure we don't forget
.

Not that anyone who'd survived Haryl's Crossing was ever likely to forget. Of course, he reflected sourly, there weren't that many who
had
survived and were still with his army. Most of those who'd actually faced the Charisian Marines' rifle fire—and survived—were prisoners.

Despite that, his men's loyalty remained unshaken. And so, more than a little to his own surprise, did their confidence in their leadership. In him.

I owe a lot of that to Charlz
, he thought bleakly.
We may have fucked up, but without Charlz and his gunners, we wouldn't have gotten
anyone
out. The men know that, just as they know he—and I—never even considered running for it ourselves until we'd gotten out every single man we could
.

Gahrvai only wished Doyal hadn't left it quite so late. A handful of artillerists who'd managed to escape death or capture had told him how Charlz had moved continually from gun pit to gun pit, exposing himself recklessly to the deadly Charisian rifle fire, as he rallied his men. He'd been everywhere, encouraging, threatening, pointing guns himself, even wielding the rammer with his own hands on one of the last guns still in action while two-thirds of its crew lay dead or wounded around it. Without his example, the men in that battery would have broken and run far earlier . . . and the trust Gahrvai's troops were still willing to extend to their commanders would probably be a much flimsier thing.

Gahrvai knew that, but he missed Doyal more with every passing day. He'd counted upon the older man's sharp mind and imagination even more than he'd realized before he lost them, and he was painfully aware of their absence now. Besides, Charlz was a friend.

At least you know he's still alive, Koryn
, he told himself.
And he's likely to stay that way, according to Cayleb's letter. That's something. In fact, it's quite a lot. And you've still got Alyk, too. That's nothing to sneeze at, either, given what almost happened to
him
!

Windshare had recognized the unfolding disaster and attempted to do something about it by getting his cavalry into the Charisians' rear, in the gap they'd obligingly left between their own formations and the woodland through which they'd advanced. Unfortunately, the Charisians had detailed an entire battalion of their infernal riflemen expressly to prevent him from doing just that. They'd hidden it in an arm of second-growth trees which had extended out into the farmland surrounding Haryl's Crossing, with enough trees and undergrowth to make their position effectively cavalry proof, and their deadly rifle fire had more than decimated Windshare's lead squadrons when they attempted to ride past them to the infantry's assistance. Fortunately, horses were bigger targets than men, and Windshare's human casualties hadn't been as severe as the earl had first feared. They'd been bad enough, though, and the loss of so many horses had been decisive. Windshare himself had had his horse shot out from under him, and he'd dislocated his shoulder when his mount went down. But one of his staff officers had gotten him remounted and safely out of the cauldron, and, to Gahrvai's intense relief (and not a little surprise), the earl had called off his advance rather than taking even worse casualties trying to bull his way through.

I really ought to stop feeling surprised when Alyk does something right
, he scolded himself.
He isn't
stupid,
whatever else, and he's probably the best cavalry brigade commander in Corisande. It's just
—

The sudden
“wheeet”
of one of the Charisians' infernal bullets, passing unpleasantly close to his head, reminded him forcibly that he was almost to the front line and that it was unwise to allow his mind to wander.

And
, he thought with wry bitterness, quickly ducking back down behind the sheltering parapet,
it's also the reason I ordered all of my officers to take the damned cockades off their hats!

He scrambled the last fifty or sixty yards along the communications trench to the redoubt he'd come to visit. The major commanding it saluted sharply as Gahrvai entered the work, and Sir Koryn returned the courtesy with equal sharpness. He suspected that some of his subordinates thought it was silly of him to insist on maintaining proper military etiquette at a time like this, but Gahrvai was convinced the familiar requirements helped keep the men focused, not to mention maintaining their sense of identity as
soldiers
, rather than a frightened rabble huddling in their fortifications.

And I'm not going to let them turn
into
a rabble, either
, he promised himself—and them—grimly.

“Good afternoon, Major,” he said now.

“Good morning, Sir.”

“How have things been today?”

“More of the same, Sir.” The major shrugged. “I think some of their light infantry was sneaking around out there early this morning, before dawn. We haven't seen any sign of them since sunrise, though.”

“And their marksmen?”

“A pain in the arse, Sir,” the major said frankly. Then he grinned crookedly. “As usual,” he added.

“How bad are your losses?”

“Actually, Sir, I think they're a little off their game today. I've got two wounded, only one of them seriously. That's about it.”

“Good!” Gahrvai slapped the younger man on the shoulder, wondering if it sounded as bizarre to the major as it did to his own ears to call two wounded in return for no enemy casualties “Good.”

On the other hand, that's exactly what it is, so there's no point pretending otherwise. Besides, I wouldn't be fooling anyone if I did
.

Gahrvai climbed up onto the redoubt's firing step and very cautiously lifted his head above the parapet. No Charisian bullets screamed around his ears immediately, but he made a mental note not to assume things would stay that way as he rapidly scanned the approaches to his present position.

Talbor Pass was the shortest, most direct route through the Dark Hill Mountains, although at just under twenty-seven miles “short” was a purely relative term. It was also a thoroughly unpleasant place to fight a battle. “Shortest” and “most direct” didn't say a thing about “straightest,” and no general in his right mind would launch an offensive battle in a place like this. Which was precisely why Sir Koryn Gahrvai's army was here.

The western half or so of the pass was fairly broad and really did have extensive stretches of good going, but as one moved farther east, it became increasingly narrow, twisting, and steep-sided . . . among other things. The handful of places that weren't bare rock, or a thin coating of dirt
over
bare rock which might support a threadbare patch of alpine grasses, were covered in tangled thickets of wire vine and dagger thorn. Whatever the wire vine didn't manage to entangle, the dagger thorn's six-inch, knife-edged thorns ought to cut to ribbons quite handily. Best of all, from Gahrvai's perspective, places where firing lines were more than a hundred and fifty yards long were virtually impossible to find. In many places, the longest field of fire available was less than
fifty
yards, which suited his smoothbores as well as it did the Charisians' rifles. And it also meant the shorter-ranged Corisandian batteries could count on holding their own against the Charisian guns.

He couldn't keep the Charisians from sending their marksmen scurrying up the steep slopes to find suitable positions, but it had quickly become evident that the number of Charisians capable of those truly astounding long-range shots was limited. They managed to inflict a steady, painful stream of casualties, a handful here and a handful there, but there weren't enough of them to be a serious threat to his ability to hold his ground. Especially not with the redoubts and connecting earthworks he'd ordered built. Most of them had been thrown up before what was left of his retreating advance guard had reached the pass, and they'd been steadily improved by working parties each night thereafter. By now, Gahrvai was completely confident of his ability to hold any frontal assault . . . assuming someone as smart as Cayleb would suffer a sufficiently severe case of temporary insanity to launch any such assault.

Part of Gahrvai was deeply tempted to pull back behind Talbor. He could have left perhaps a quarter of his total infantry strength to hold the fortifications, and it probably would have eased his supply problems. He'd fallen back to the west of the worst bottleneck before he'd ever dug in, so getting supplies forward to his advanced positions in sufficient quantity wasn't
quite
impossible. The bulk of his army lay spread out along the wider portions of the pass behind him—close enough to move forward quickly if the opportunity to do so presented itself; far enough to the rear to make supplying it relatively easy. That didn't make those problems magically go away, by any stretch of imagination, however, and moving forty or fifty thousand men out of the pass would have helped a lot.

I ought to do just that
, he told himself for perhaps the thousandth time.
But if I do, then I lose the ability to threaten Cayleb's rear if he suddenly decides to go somewhere else. Besides, there's that little surprise we're working on for him
.

He grimaced as he gazed eastward, then ducked as a puff of smoke blossomed high on the side of the pass and a bullet thudded into the parapet close enough to throw dirt into his face.

“See what I mean about being off their game, Sir?” Gahrvai turned his head and saw the major crouched beside him, grinning. “Most days, that bugger would have nailed you.”

Despite himself, Gahrvai found himself smiling back. He supposed some generals might have reprimanded the youngster for his familiarity, but Gahrvai treasured it. The major's “
what-the-hell-we're-all-in-this-together
” grin was the clearest indication possible that despite its awareness of how its enemies' weapons outclassed its own, his army was still far from defeated.

“Well, Major, I suppose I've seen what I came to see, anyway. No point giving him an opportunity to improve his score, is there?”

“I'd really prefer for you to get shot on someone else's watch, Sir. If you insist on being shot, that is.”

“I'll try to bear that in mind,” Gahrvai chuckled, and patted the young man on the shoulder. Then he looked back the way he'd come, squared his shoulders, and drew a deep breath.

“Well, back to headquarters,” he said, and set off on the cautious trek towards the rear.

There hadn't really been any need for him to make the trip forward this morning in the first place. He'd already known exactly what he was going to see, it wasn't as if his personal reconnaissance was going to change anything, and it could certainly be argued that exposing the army's commanding officer to an incapacitating wound (or death) without some damned compelling reason wasn't a particularly bright move. But he'd made it a point to spend at least part of every day in one of the forward positions, primarily because he felt he
did
have a compelling reason. He was no more fond of the sound of bullets whizzing past him than anyone else, and his personal opinion was that an officer who deliberately exposed himself to fire when there was no need for him to do so wasn't proving his bravery, just his stupidity. Unfortunately, there were times when a commanding officer had no choice. Nothing could destroy morale faster than a sense that an army's officers were keeping themselves safely out of harm's way while leaving their subordinates exposed to the enemy. That was the very reason he'd found the major's reaction to his own near-miss so welcome.