Rahdgyrz had become Rychtyr’s ranking subordinate after Sir Ohtys Godwyl’s death in a Charisian bombardment, and Rychtyr had been prayerfully grateful for him more than once since then. They’d known one another for twenty-five years, since long before the Jihad, and if there was a braver man in all the world—or one more fiercely devoted to Mother Church—Sir Fahstyr Rychtyr had never met him. Rahdgyrz had been one of the first to volunteer for the initial, disastrous naval campaign, and he’d lost his right leg five inches below the knee aboard the galley Saint Taitys, fighting under the Earl of Thirsk in the battle of Crag Reach. That would have been sacrifice enough for most, but not for Clyftyn Rahdgyrz, who’d returned to field service as soon as he’d adjusted to his peg leg. He’d bulled through every objection, pointing out that he could still ride as well as he ever had and a general had no business fighting on foot, anyway! He’d gotten his way—he generally did … and lost his left arm above the elbow under Sir Rainos Ahlverez at Alyksberg. He’d only been invalided for about three months that time, rejoining the field army before Thesmar just after Ahlverez marched off to Desnairian-engineered disaster in the Kyplyngyr Forest, and he’d fought like a great dragon when Hanth counterattacked out of Thesmar. And, as always seemed to happen, he’d been wounded yet again. This time, he’d been out of action for less than a month … but he’d returned to his command without the vision of his right eye.
And to Sir Fahstyr Rychtyr’s knowledge, he’d never complained a single time about the wounds he’d sustained in God’s service. There was a reason Rychtyr’s army called Clyftyn Rahdgyrz “the Slash Lizard,” and the general had never failed him.
“The heretics haven’t reached it yet,” Rychtyr said now, “but they’re damned close.” He tapped the map with his forefinger. “Brynygair’s brigade’s done incredibly well to slow them as much as it has, and I know he’s got some terrain to work with. But it’s only a matter of time, and not much of that.”
“I’ve already sent Gairwyl and Klunee to support Brynygair,” Rahdgyrz said stubbornly, and it was his turn to tap the map with his remaining hand. “You’re right about the terrain, too. I know the woods aren’t all that thick, and most of the rivers are barely creeks, now that we’re into summer. But the Chydor’s still running deep, and Brynygair has the fords covered. Once Gairwyl, especially, closes up to the river, he’ll squeeze every ounce of advantage out of anything he has to work with, and I can have two more regiments up to support them within … six hours, at the outside.”
“I know you can—I know you would, and you’d be standing at their heads, sword in hand.” Rychtyr squeezed the general’s shoulder. “Just like I know your men would fight like dragons for you. But I need them—and you, you old slash lizard!—alive. I know every one of you would die in your tracks, but the best you could do would be to slow them down for maybe two days. Every hour more than that would require a separate miracle, and you know it.”
“But—” Rahdgyrz began, his expression mulish, but Metzlyr raised a hand, and the general closed his mouth on whatever he’d been about to say.
“If you can’t keep them from cutting the road, what do you intend to do now, Fahstyr?” The intendant laid one hand on Rychtyr’s forearm. “I’m not trying to paint you into any corners, my son, and I know right now your thoughts have to be with your men. But I’ve come to know you pretty well, and I’m sure you were already thinking about your options in the face of this sort of disaster.”
“There’s only one thing we can do, Father,” Rychtyr told him with bleak honesty. “We have to fall back, and not just a few miles this time. The terrain along the canal between Waymeet and Shandyr’s too open, too flat, and the heretics are too mobile. For that matter, there are too many of these damned farm roads, and Langhorne knows their mounted infantry’s too damned good at finding its way along them. I need to fall back far enough to build a defensible front again—probably between Duhnsmyr Forest and Kaiylee’s Woods.”
Metzlyr nodded in understanding, although his expression was deeply troubled. Rychtyr was talking about a sixty-mile retreat, and the thought of giving that much ground was … unpleasant.
But the general wasn’t done yet.
“And,” he added unflinchingly, “I need to evacuate Bryxtyn and Waymeet … assuming there’s still time.”
“Evacuate?” Rahdgyrz’ eye widened. “Those are fortresses, Sir! We can’t just hand them over to the heretics!”
“We can’t keep the heretics from simply taking them anytime they decide to, Clyftyn,” Rychtyr replied. “For that matter, they don’t even need to take them. Waymeet blocks the junction of the Sheryl-Seridahn Canal and the Sairhalik Switch Canal, but now that the heretics have Canal Bank Farm—” he tapped another point on the map, thirty-five miles south of Waymeet “—they’ve already cut the Switch. Besides, they aren’t using the damned canals now, anyway! Holding the city won’t deprive them of any significant strategic or logistic advantage, and Bryxtyn isn’t even on one of the canals. Yes, they’re both fortresses, but they were designed against the old-style Siddarmarkian army, against someone without new model Charisian artillery or Charisian logistics. In terms of importance to the Jihad, they’re really only names on a map now. But General Iglaisys has seven thousand men in Bryxtyn and General Symyngtyn has ten thousand in Waymeet. Between them, that’s seventeen thousand, and we were down to barely forty-five thousand before the heretics’ most recent attack. If we leave them where they are, they’re useless to the Jihad. If Iglaisys and Symyngtyn pull back—if they can pull back, get out before the heretics cut the high roads behind them—they’ll increase our available field force by almost forty percent.” He shook his head. “Believe me, they’ll be a lot more valuable to the Jihad in the field with us than sitting behind old-fashioned stone walls that won’t last two five-days against Hanth’s artillery.”
“Sir, I swear we can bleed them before they cut the high road!” Rahdgyrz’ tone was respectful, but his dismay was obvious and his expression was almost desperate. “You’re right, my boys’ll die where they stand if I ask ’em to! And if we can’t stand and fight for major fortresses, where can we stand?”
“Clyftyn, we will fight—we are fighting,” Rychtyr said. “A wise man doesn’t pick a fight he can’t win, though, and when they broke our front, they broke our lateral communications behind it. That means they can transfer forces, shift their weight, faster than we can. Shan-wei! They could do that before, given how many mounted infantry and dragoons have reinforced Hanth! They can just do it even faster now, and from Brynygair’s dispatch, they’d started doing exactly that even before they cut the Cahrswyl’s Farm Road.”
Rychtyr shook his head, his eyes unhappy but his expression resolute.
“Yes, we can bleed them before they actually cut the high road. And with you in command on that flank, we could probably inflict a lot more casualties than we took, especially in that kind of terrain. But they have the men to absorb those casualties; we don’t. It’s that simple. And that’s the very reason I need to pull those garrisons out, add them to our field strength. Our best guess is that Hanth has close to eighty thousand, maybe even ninety thousand men, and he’s got more mounted strength than we do even proportionately, much less in absolute terms. I need the additional manpower, and I need someplace I can anchor my flanks on natural obstacles again. And that’s here.”