His forefinger stabbed a point west of the city of Shandyr.
Rahdgyrz glowered down at the map, and Metzlyr gripped his pectoral scepter as he stepped up closer beside the general and gazed down at it, as well. But then, finally, the intendant inhaled sharply and looked back up once more.
“I very much fear you’re right … again, my son,” he told Rychtyr. “I don’t like giving so much ground, especially when your army’s fought so magnificently this long. But neither do I want to see that army cut down in a battle that can’t stop the heretics, anyway. Godly men should always be prepared to die in His service … but not when they know their deaths will accomplish nothing.”
“You’ll support the evacuation of Bryxtyn and Waymeet, Father?” Rychtyr asked softly, and Metzlyr nodded.
“Even that, my son.” He produced a rather twisted smile. “I suspect a few people in Gorath won’t be very happy with us, but your logic’s compelling. In fact, if you concur, I’ll recommend that as many troops as possible be combed out of the Kingdom’s other fortresses and sent to us, as well. As you say, they can accomplish little sitting behind stone walls the heretics can either avoid or blast to pieces.”
Rahdgyrz’ single remaining eye was desperately unhappy as he looked back and forth between his commander and the intendant, and Rychtyr squeezed his shoulder again.
“I know you don’t agree with me on this one, Clyftyn, but I need you to go back out there and fight like Chihiro himself for me again. Buy me as much time as you can. You said you could bleed them? Do it! Cost them every casualty you can, slow them up any way you can think of. Hold that road open until Iglaisys and the Bryxtyn garrison can break clear, but don’t get yourself tied down in a fight to the finish! I’m not sure Iglaisys can get his men out of the city and join us at this late a date anyway, and if he can’t, I don’t want to lose your men—or you—reinforcing failure. You’ve got to promise me you won’t set your teeth into the heretics and hold on too long. Can you do that for me? Will you do that for me?”
“Of course I will, Sir.” Rahdgyrz’ voice was hoarse, but he met Rychtyr’s gaze levelly. “You can count on me and my boys. As Langhorne’s my witness, we’ll still be standing on that damned road when Iglaisys’ rearguard marches past us!”
“I’m sure you will be, Clyftyn.” Rychtyr gripped both of the taller Rahdgyrz’ shoulders and shook him gently. “I’m sure you will. Just be damned sure you get back to me without losing any more body parts, understand?”
“I’ll put that on my list, Sir,” Rahdgyrz told him with a glint of true humor. Then he stood back, touched his chest in salute, and limped out of the office with a grim, determined stride.
“He doesn’t like it, Sir,” Mohrtynsyn said quietly, and Rychtyr sighed.
“No, he doesn’t,” he told his chief of staff, then glanced at Metzlyr. “I don’t like it. But if there’s a man alive who can do it for us, that man just walked out of this office.”
* * *
“—so we’re moving up to the Chydor,” Clyftyn Rahdgyrz said. “I need at least three more regiments. Find out who’s closest and get them moving.”
“Of course, Sir!” Colonel Mahkzwail Mahkgrudyr, Rahdgyrz’ senior aide, nodded sharply. “How soon can Sir Fahstyr send additional troops to our support?”
“He won’t,” Rahdgyrz said heavily, and Mahkgrudyr’s eyes widened. The colonel was cut very much from the same cloth as his general, but Rahdgyrz held up his hand before the other officer could protest.
“I don’t like it, either. And, neither does Sir Fahstyr,” Rahdgyrz added. “But our job is to hold the high road open until General Iglaisys can evacuate Bryxtyn.”
“Evacuate,” Mahkgrudyr repeated in the voice of a man who couldn’t quite believe what he’d just heard. Or who didn’t want to, perhaps.
“You heard me,” Rahdgyrz said a bit roughly. “He’s decided—and Father Pairaik agrees with him—that we need the Bryxtyn and Waymeet garrisons with the field army more than we do locked up in fortresses behind the heretics.”
“But I thought the idea was to stand and fight somewhere, Sir,” Mahkgrudyr said bitterly.
“That’s enough!” Rahdgyrz half-snapped, rubbing the patch over his blind eye while he glared at his aide with the other one. “We’ve got our orders, and we’ll carry them out. Right?”
“Of course, Sir,” Mahkgrudyr said after only the briefest hesitation. Then he shook himself. “I’ll go start the clerks drafting the movement orders.”
“Good, Mahkzwail. Good!” Rychtyr patted the colonel’s back. “I have a note of my own to write while you do that.”
“Of course, Sir,” Mahkgrudyr repeated, his tone closer to normal as he came back on balance. He saluted, turned, and left, and Rychtyr settled into the folding chair in front of his field desk. He opened the drawer, extracted a sheet of the thin paper used for messenger wyvern dispatches, and dipped his pen into the inkwell.
It was, perhaps, as well that Colonel Mahkgrudyr couldn’t see his expression at the moment, and he sat for several seconds, his remaining eye dark with a pain that had nothing to do with the physical wounds he’d suffered in Mother Church’s service. And then, slowly—reluctantly—the pen began to move.
My Lord Bishop, it is with a heavy heart and profound regret, only after many hours of prayerful meditation, that I take pen in hand to inform you—
MAY
YEAR OF GOD 898
.I.
Swayelton,
Earldom of Swayle;
Rydymak Keep,
Earldom of Cheshyr;
Rock Coast Keep,
Duchy of Rock Coast,
Kingdom of Chisholm,
Empire of Charis,
and
Nimue’s Cave,
The Mountains of Light.
“Thank you for agreeing to see me, Milady.”
The tall, dark-haired man had gray-green eyes, dramatic silver sideburns, and a strong, distinguished face. He was well dressed and elegantly groomed, though clearly not of noble station, and looked every inch what he was: a skilled craftsman, confident in his competence and accustomed to the respect due a senior member of the Gunmakers Guild.
And those gray-green eyes were dark and bitter as he straightened from kissing Rebkah Rahskail’s hand.
“You are most welcome, Master Clyntahn. Please, be seated,” the Dowager Countess of Swayle replied, and waved the hand he’d just released in a graceful gesture at the comfortable chair facing her own across the cast-iron stove ducted into what had been a massive, old-fashioned, and hideously inefficient fireplace.
It was the month of May, but May was often the cruelest month in Chisholm, and the weather had turned vile again. A nasty mix of sleet and snow rattled against the solar’s glass, and her visitor’s boots were wet. He settled into the indicated chair with only a hint of uneasiness at sitting in the presence of a noblewoman to betray his commoner origins and the countess studied him thoughtfully and unobtrusively.
Anger radiated off of him in waves even stronger than the heat rolling off the stove, but she suspected it was so obvious to her only because of the matching hatred radiating from her. She rather doubted his motives were the same as hers, yet that scarcely mattered. What mattered was that in addition to a name which had become increasingly unfortunate here in Chisholm, he carried the burden of a trade which was about to disappear, taking not simply his wealth but his status with it.