.XI.

North Bedard Bay, City of Siddar, Republic of Siddarmark

It was cool on the waterfront. The cloudy day promised rain by afternoon, and the wind was brisk and muscular as it swept across the broad blue waters. The tide was coming in, the white-crested waves breaking higher on the pilings of massive piers, washing against the seawall with ageless, timeless patience. The piers and wharfs were crowded with Charisian transport galleons, and from where he stood at quayside, Merlin Athrawes watched long lines of imperial Charisian soldiers filing across dozens of gangplanks under the weight of heavy knapsacks and slung rifles.

Hundreds of Siddarmarkians had come out to welcome the Charisians, and he heard them cheering, waving small Charisian flags which had appeared mysteriously all over the city. The soldiers were too disciplined to break ranks, but their step turned a little jauntier, their regimental bands struck up a more lively marching note, and more than one of them managed to make eye contact with the more attractive—and younger—female members of the crowd. They’d taken pains to refurbish their worn-out gear after the long, weary march from The Fence to Ramsgate Bay, and their boot heels struck the cobblestones with a fierce, strong rhythm.

Those infantry regiments would be changing those slung rifles for new ones before evening, Merlin thought, watching them march past him without ever realizing he was there. And after that, they’d be off on yet another voyage, this time aboard canal boats with double teams of dragons, priority-cleared through every lock between them and the fighting. They’d make the trip at an average of fifty miles or more per day … and the odds were they wouldn’t get there in time anyway.

He folded his arms across his chest, standing in the little pocket of clear space his seijin’s reputation always seemed to create. No one wanted to crowd the fearsome Seijin Merlin, which he’d found quite useful on occasion. At the moment, he wasn’t sure he liked it very much, however; it gave him too much privacy for his thoughts.

Dark thoughts.

The one real bright spot was Hauwerd Breygart, and even that one was purely conditional. The Earl of Hanth’s mixed bag of Marines and sailors had decisively halted the Dohlaran vanguard’s advance towards Thesmar. The Battle of Thesmar—although it had been fought miles from the city, Merlin was certain the name Hanth had used in his dispatches was going to stick—had come as a catastrophic shock to the Dohlarans. It had cost them almost eight thousand men, more than two-thirds dead and wounded, as well as eighteen twelve-pounder field guns. That was twenty percent of Sir Fahstyr Rychtyr’s initial order of battle, and the blow to the Dohlarans’ confidence had been even worse.

Unfortunately, it hadn’t been decisive. Baron Traylmyn hadn’t panicked, although several of his regimental commanders had come close when the initial reports—and the fleeing survivors on their lathered horses—reached his main body. Unlike his colonels, the baron had proven much more flexible than Merlin could have wished, however. He wasn’t certain what had happened, but he’d reacted quickly, and with a firm grasp of operational and strategic realities. He’d fallen back towards Trevyr on the Seridahn, leaving two artillery batteries, one of his remaining infantry regiments, and four cavalry regiments to delay Hanth’s advance while he threw up earthworks around the eastern side of the town.

His rearguard, unfortunately, had been given time to recover its morale and dig in because the Battle of Thesmar’s wreckage had delayed Hanth more than the Marine had counted upon. The high road through the woods was completely choked with dead men, horses, and dragons, not to mention abandoned artillery pieces, limbers, and ammunition wagons. He’d had to clear that ghastly roadblock before he could follow his fleeing enemy, and his healers’ need to separate the merely wounded from the dead and see to their proper treatment had slowed the process still further.

The surviving Dohlarans were fortunate they’d been defeated by Charisians, not Siddarmarkians. Because they had, they’d been permitted to go on surviving, but the delay had cost Hanth a full day, and by the time he’d reached Traylmyn’s rearguard, the artillery and its single supporting regiment of infantry had dug in directly across the high road. The enemy cavalry had been more of a nuisance, albeit a serious one, than a genuine threat, but those guns and that infantry had to be dealt with. Hanth needed the road if he was going to support his own forces that far from Thesmar, and so he’d deployed his guns and gone to work.

To their credit, the outnumbered Dohlaran infantry and artillerists had stood their ground with stubborn, dogged courage. Traylmyn’s fragmentary reports had given him no idea the Charisians’ rifles were breech-loaders, but he had a very firm idea of the advantages which accrued to infantry behind thick earthen parapets, and his uncompromising instructions to dig in deeply had blunted most of the Mahndrayns’ tactical advantages. The Charisians could still fire much more rapidly—and suffered virtually no misfires, which the more poorly designed Dohlaran flintlocks did more than fifteen percent of the time—but the protection of the entrenchments offset their more dispersed formations and ability to fire from a prone position, and there’d been no handy tree trunks or boulders for their skirmishers to use. It had turned into an old-fashioned artillery duel, with the Marines watching the flanks to keep the cavalry at bay, and the larger number—and greater caliber—of the Charisian pieces had been decisive, despite the Dohlarans’ entrenched position.

Hanth’s naval gunners hadn’t had it all their own way. He’d lost over sixty of them, but the thirty-pounders’ shells were more than three times as heavy as those of the Dohlarans’ twelve-pounders, and even though the design of the Dohlaran shells was virtually identical, Charisian quality control was much better. Charisian shells had a far greater tendency to explode where they were supposed to, whereas variations in the Dohlaran fuses made them substantially less reliable. The thirty-pounders had fired much more slowly, but each shell had been far more effective.

The Dohlarans had stood their ground until all but two of their guns had been silenced. Then they’d spiked the two survivors—they’d no longer had the draft animals to withdraw them—and pulled back, with the cavalry screening the infantry’s withdrawal. The rearguard’s stand had cost half the infantry committed to it—another six hundred dead and wounded, ten times Hanth’s casualties—in addition to the artillery, but it had served its purpose. By the time the earl was able to close up to Trevyr, Traylmyn was firmly dug in, with all of his remaining field guns emplaced. Not only that, but his dispatches to Rychtyr had hastened his superior’s approach, and the rest of the vanguard’s remaining strength had reached Trevyr before Hanth had.

Since he was now outnumbered by better than four-to-one by an opponent dug in behind thick, well laid out earthworks, and since he had no cavalry of his own, Hanth had declined to assault the town. Instead, he’d stopped just outside artillery range and dug in his own forces. He had to be careful, since his thirty-pounders were heavy and cumbersome, even with their field carriages. Getting them limbered up and on the road back to Thesmar would take time that was unlikely to be available if the Dohlarans surprised him with a sudden assault. But if Rychtyr and Traylmyn were content to sit in Trevyr and be besieged, Hauwerd Breygart was perfectly prepared to sit outside Trevyr and do the besieging. He’d posted pickets on the Cheryk-Cheraltyn high road to make sure nobody snuck up on him from the north, and he’d entrenched four of his thirty-pounders north of Trevyr, covered by two hundred of his Marines, where they could sweep the surface of the St. Alyk River. No one was going to use that river to support any advances into Cliff Peak unless they first pushed him out of position, and as long as he sat where he was, he held almost five times as many Dohlarans in place.

Actually, the total number was higher than that. Sir Rainos Ahlverez had reached Evyrtyn, farther north on the Seridahn, with the leading elements of the fifty-thousand-strong Dohlaran main body. If he’d chosen to move south with his entire strength, he could undoubtedly have brushed Hanth out of his path, no matter how good the earl and his men were. He’d chosen otherwise, however, partly because of persistent reports that the Charisians who’d bloodied Traylmyn’s nose had also sent troops up the Taigyn, past Fort Darymahn, to hold that river line against him, too. He had no desire to face any more of those Charisian weapons than he had to, and so he’d sent an additional four infantry regiments to reinforce Rychtyr, but the remainder of his men were moving not south, but north. They were headed up the Seridahn to Alyksberg, the fortress guarding the pass where the East Seridahn flowed out of the Snake Mountains.

The fall of Alyksberg would divert him from his secondary objectives in the eastern South March, but he was perfectly willing to leave that little chore to Desnair. And the change would give him access to Cliff Peak … without needing to operate up the St. Alyk or force a crossing of the Taigyn. Perhaps even more important, from his perspective, Alyksberg was manned by only five badly understrength Siddarmarkian regiments, composed mainly of militia, and without a single rifle or new-model artillery piece. And according to his spies, the garrison was virtually out of food and its ranks were riddled by illness.

From his perspective, it was a much more inviting target, and Merlin couldn’t disagree with him. Hanth had done a superb job, but as Greyghor Stohnar had pointed out, they simply couldn’t be in enough places at once. Merlin had no doubt Alyksberg would fall, and quickly, when fifty thousand men moved to assault it, and as soon as Alyksberg fell, the door into Cliff Peak Province would be wide open for the Royal Dohlaran Army.

Nor would the Dohlarans be alone. Kaitswyrth’s advance out of Westmarch had crossed the Cliff Peak border two days ago, and the city of Aivahnstyn on the Daivyn River had fallen without a fight, because General Charlz Stahntyn, commanding the fifteen-thousand-man garrison, had been wise enough to realize what would have happened to the city if he’d tried to defend it. He’d also realized what would have happened if he’d taken his fifteen thousand men out to face a hundred and ten thousand in the field, however, and so he’d fallen back south, towards the city of Sangyr.

Unfortunately, Stahntyn had possessed virtually no cavalry, and the bishop militant had used his own cavalry to get around the weary, ill-nourished Siddarmarkian infantry. The Church’s horsemen had caught them within twenty miles of Aivahnstyn and held them in play until Kaitswyrth’s infantry came up. Stahntyn had formed his men for battle even though he’d known it was hopeless, but Kaitswyrth had seen no reason to suffer avoidable casualties. He’d simply brought up his guns and done to the defenders of Aivahnstyn what Sir Naythyn Byrgair had done to Colonel Mahldyn’s regiments on the Syrk high road.

Except, of course, Merlin thought, his mouth tightening, that no one in the Army of God had been prepared to give Stahntyn’s survivors Pasquale’s Grace. Father Sedryk Zavyr, Kaitswyrth’s Schuelerite special intendant, was far more concerned with punishing sinners for their offense against God than with attempting to save their souls, and the inquisitors attached to Kaitswyrth’s army took their cue from him. Not that Merlin had ever seen any practical difference between those like Zavyr and those who claimed they sought to reclaim Shan-wei’s victims from the lip of hell. Whatever their motives, the butchery was the same.

Bishop Militant Bahrnabai Wyrshym, whose army was headed towards Guarnak, was a very different man from Kaitswyrth. He was older, and while both were Chihirite members of the Order of the Sword and experienced ex-Temple Guardsmen, that was the end of the similarities between them. Muscular and tough, with gray hair and eyes, Wyrshym gave the impression of a man made of iron, yet unlike Kaitswyrth, he clearly didn’t agree with Clyntahn’s extremism. He’d also served in the same unit as Hauwerd Wylsynn many years ago, and Merlin suspected that was the main reason he’d been sent to secure New Northland and the Sylmahn Gap while Clyntahn had selected Kaitswyrth to deal with Cliff Peak.

He wasn’t sure what to make of Wyrshym’s special intendant, Auxiliary Bishop Ernyst Abernethy, though. Abernethy was very young for his position, having risen rapidly in his order as Clyntahn and Rayno expanded their pool of inquisitors, and he seemed to be prepared to be however severe his duties required, yet Merlin suspected he regretted all the violence and ugliness. He didn’t go out of his way to be vicious, the way Zavyr did, at any rate.

But then there was Bishop Wylbyr Edwyrds, Clyntahn’s handpicked choice for the newly created post of Inquisitor General to head the Inquisition in the territories occupied by the Army of God. He wasn’t technically part of that army at all, although he had authority to call upon it whenever he felt that was necessary. In fact, despite the fact that both Wyrshym and Kaitswyrth were senior to him in the Church’s hierarchy, he could actually give them orders in anything that pertained to his own responsibilities … and he was the one who determined when it was appropriate for him to do that. He and his administration reminded Merlin irresistibly of the SS following the Wehrmacht into occupied territory in Old Earth’s World War Two, and Owl’s remotes had snooped on enough of Edwyrds’ correspondence for Merlin to know Clyntahn had personally charged him to crush Siddarmarkian heresy—which included opposition to Clyntahn’s policies on any basis, secular or temporal—with blood and terror.

He clearly intended to do just that.

The denunciation of neighbor by neighbor had already begun … and so had the autos-da-fé. The hatred the previous winter’s bitter fighting had created and stoked fed those fires with a steady flow of victims, and the bitterness between the informers and the informed upon only fed the hatred, in turn. The body count, already high in the fighting of the Sword of Schueler, was rising steadily, and it wasn’t going to get any better any time soon.

The only good news—and even it posed fresh problems for the Republic’s overwhelmed defenders—was how many thousands of additional refugees had managed to escape. The Army of God was advancing on its designated targets with disciplined efficiency, not allowing itself to be diverted. That gave those it had bypassed the opportunity to flee, and the weather was far better than it had been during the bitter winter months, so none of those refugees were dying from hypothermia. But food was still scarce, and the refugee columns’ paths were marked by the bodies of all too many victims of starvation. Somehow, the Siddarmarkian army and government had to find housing, food, and medical care for all of them, even as they tried desperately to defend what remained of their country against the invaders.

And that’s the good news, Merlin thought bitterly. God, I knew it was going to be ugly, but this—! It’s like one enormous ongoing atrocity, and even if my brainstorm actually works, there’s not a single solitary damned thing we can do about what’s going to happen to anyone trapped behind Church lines. Not a thing, before next summer at the earliest, and even for that, we have to hang on through the rest of this campaigning season!

A longshoreman hurrying past almost ran into the stationary seijin. He slid to a stop and turned his head to apologize for the near collision. But his expression congealed and he scurried away without a word as he saw those grim, dark eyes.

Merlin watched him go with a certain bitter amusement.

Didn’t realize I looked quite that bad, he thought. I suppose I ought to try to cultivate a more confident expression in public. It’s just not my cup of tea, though. I’m more the mayhem and massacre sort myself, I suppose. Or that’s the way I’m feeling right this minute, anyway. Maybe—

His thoughts broke off as he saw what he’d been waiting to see. A cloud of smoke forged steadily across North Bedard Bay towards the city, and there were three more plumes behind it.

He watched them for a few more moments, then started down the stone steps to the launch waiting for him at their feet.

*   *   *

“Sir, please tell me you’re joking,” Pawal Blahdysnberg said, looking across the chart table in HMS Delthak’s conning tower at his captain.

“Is this my ‘I’m telling a funny story’ face?” Halcom Bahrns demanded testily. “We’ve got three days.”

“But, Sir—!”

Blahdysnberg broke off, staring at his CO. His expression was a mix of consternation and something very like desperation, and Bahrns didn’t blame him one bit. His own reaction to the orders Seijin Merlin had delivered had been … less than calm.

“The men are exhausted, Sir,” the lieutenant continued after a moment. “I’ll admit we’ve arrived in one hell of a better shape than I expected when we left, but the stokers, especially, are worn out. And Zhak thought we’d have time to do maintenance on the engines. Sir, we’ve just steamed six thousand miles! I don’t have any idea what that means about these engines’ reliability. Do you?”

“No, I don’t. But we don’t have any choice, Pawal,” Bahrns said now, his voice flatter. “They’ve been waiting for us, and this comes direct from the Emperor. The barge conversions are almost done. Commodore Shailtyn’s already picked the drafts from his galleons’ crews—and if you think you’re upset, you should hear what his captains had to say about this. We’re stripping almost six hundred seamen and gunners right out from under them! Not only that, they’ve had to give up the artillery we’re going to need, as well—it’s already been swayed ashore; it’s waiting for us at Saint Angyloh’s Quay, along with our coal. More galleons left two days ago to ferry additional coal to Ranshair and Salyk, too. Assuming all of this works, it’ll be waiting for us when we get there. Oh, and in addition to the seamen and gunners Commodore Shailtyn’s giving up, we’re also taking along two hundred of his Marines and six companies of Siddarmarkian riflemen. Riflemen, I hasten to add, who received their rifles for the first time day before yesterday. But don’t worry. Seijin Merlin assures me they’ll be spending all the time before we depart learning how to load and fire without blowing off their own heads—or anyone else’s—in the process.”

Blahdysnberg’s consternation had segued into shock as he listened to Bahrns’ “explanation.” He looked as if he’d just been hit over the head, and the captain gave him a minute or two to absorb it before he reached out and squeezed his shoulder.

“You know the old Navy saying, Pawal—‘If you can’t take a joke, you shouldn’t have joined,’” he said in a gentler voice. “I’ll admit I’m finding the humor just a bit hard to see at the moment myself, but that doesn’t change what we have to do. And it’s important.” He looked into Blahdysnberg’s eyes. “It’s more important than you could possibly guess.”

Blahdysnberg looked back at him. Then his nostrils flared as he inhaled deeply, and he gave himself a shake.

“In that case, Sir,” he said with a crooked smile, “I suppose I’d better get started working on it.”