“Captain,” Eastshare acknowledged, returning his salute, then smiled and patted the younger man’s shoulder. “Congratulations on the promotion.”
“Thank you, Your Grace.” Slokym smiled and nodded to the red-haired, slightly built major following at Eastshare’s heels. “There seems to be quite a bit of that going around. I understand that happens to people who spend a lot of time around generals.”
“No, does it really?” Major Lywys Braynair said, rounding his eyes as he clasped forearms with Slokym.
“That’s what I’ve heard, anyway, Sir.”
“You obviously don’t keep him trimmed back to size, Kynt,” Eastshare observed, scowling ferociously at the captain.
“And you do keep Lywys pruned back, is that it? You’ll have to show me how that works sometime,” Green Valley said innocently.
“Well, I suppose as long as they keep doing their jobs—and have plenty of hot chocolate or that barbarous cherrybean ready—I’ll let them keep their ill-deserved promotions,” the duke replied.
Slokym opened the door again, holding it for his superiors, then followed them into Green Valley’s office. Where, by the strangest coincidence steaming carafes of both hot chocolate and cherrybean tea were ready and waiting. With fresh donuts, no less.
“Passable, I suppose,” Eastshare observed as the generals shed coats, hats, gloves, and mufflers. He blew into his cupped palms for a moment, then settled into a chair while Slokym poured hot chocolate into a cup for him. “Passable.”
Green Valley snorted in amusement, then settled into his own chair.
In a lot of ways, today’s meeting was a pure formality. Eastshare had been kept fully briefed on his plans, and the duke had suggested more than one useful improvement. There’d been plenty of time—more time than any of them wanted, really—to tweak those plans. And Rainbow Waters had compelled them to do more of that tweaking than Green Valley would have preferred.
Still, there was no true substitute for face-to-face discussions. Even the most carefully written dispatch could be misconstrued, and without that face-to-face conversation, there was no opportunity for the sort of feedback that might correct the misunderstanding. That was something Ruhsyl Thairis understood bone-deep, and Green Valley felt yet another surge of admiration for his superior. Eastshare wasn’t a member of the inner circle. He had access to neither the SNARCs’ reconnaissance capabilities—certainly not in real time, although it was true that the “seijins’ reports” he regularly received helped a great deal in that respect—nor to the real-time communication capabilities of the inner circle. Green Valley enjoyed both those advantages, yet Eastshare’s performance was at least as good as his own. In his personal opinion, it was actually better, in fact.
And because Eastshare understood the value of personal conferences, he’d made the wearisome circuit of his broadly deployed army commanders. Which, in the middle of a mainland winter, was scarcely a trivial undertaking. Camp Taisyn was his final stop, however. He’d head back to his more central position in Glacierheart as soon as they were finished, and even with canal ice boats, Safeholdian high roads, and snow lizard-drawn sleds, he was looking at three solid five-days of travel just to get there.
So maybe those extra five-days will come in handy after all, the baron reflected.
He tipped back in his chair with a cup of cherrybean in one hand and a donut in the other and contemplated the large, detailed wall maps. There was a lot of information on them. Any Inquisition spy would cheerfully have sacrificed an arm for an hour or two to look at them and take notes, and Green Valley’s smile grew hungry as his eyes drifted towards the southern end of the long front stretching from Hsing-wu’s Passage all the way to the Gulf of Dohlar.
Nahrmahn Baytz’ deception plan had borne better fruit than even the rotund little dead Emeraldian, who was no more addicted to modesty in death than he’d been in life, had dared to predict.
Green Valley had a great deal of respect for Gustyv Walkyr. The archbishop militant wasn’t simply an intelligent man or a smart commander; he was also a man of compassion whose heart had been sorely tried by the kind of war he’d been ordered to fight. In fact, Green Valley had decided it spoke rather better for Allayn Maigwair than he’d ever expected that a man like Walkyr was so obviously devoted to the Church’s captain general on a personal level. Especially when Walkyr so obviously knew Maigwair had to be in Zhaspahr Clyntahn’s sights.
He expected Walkyr to make the best use anyone could have of his advantages of position, his fortifications, and his artillery and rocket launchers. But Earl Silken Hills would have done the same thing, and however good Walkyr might be, the caliber of his men didn’t come close to that of Silken Hills’ men. Those Harchongese serfs had spent the better part of two years learning to outpace their tutors, acquiring a set of military skills no “Temple Boy” army had ever possessed. There were still holes, they were still … unsophisticated, and their units weren’t as capable of thinking for themselves as the best of the original Army of God divisions had been. They were immensely better at it than any current Army of God division, however, and their sheer toughness—especially their cohesion—made them extraordinarily tough opponents. They possessed a deep and abiding faith in themselves, their weapons, and—astonishing in any Harchongese army, and an enormous tribute to Rainbow Waters—in their officers. They were tough-minded, tenacious, and unlikely to give in easily, whatever happened, but they were also pragmatic and realistic.
Green Valley would have been happier if the men of the Mighty Host had been supremely confident of victory. That kind of assurance could be turned against an army. A crushing victory—like his own, when he’d arrived in the nick of time to stop Bahrnabai Wyrshym from breaking through the Sylmahn Gap—did far more damage to the morale of an overconfident army than to one with a realistic grasp of the task before it.
The Mighty Host of God and the Archangels was too realistic for overconfidence … but it was also a long way from expecting to lose. One of Rainbow Waters’ most impressive achievements—and God knew he’d managed one hell of a lot more “achievements” than Green Valley would have preferred!—was his ability to produce an army which still believed it could win, even though it knew it would confront enemies with better weapons and more experience. That would have been more than bad enough from Green Valley’s perspective, but Rainbow Waters hadn’t stopped there. He’d also used the example of Sir Fahstyr Rychtyr’s success in slowing Hauwerd Breygart to inculcate an understanding that even a retreating army could accomplish its most important mission. That the simple fact that the Host might be forced to give ground didn’t mean it had been defeated as long as it maintained its cohesion, continued to fight, and withdrew in good order to the next point at which it could stand. He’d convinced his men that as long as their army existed, so long as they were still fighting—still represented a formed force in the field—they were accomplishing their mission in God’s defense.
I wish to hell he’d never come up with his damned realization that a tactical defense could be the best strategic offense, but it probably would’ve been expecting too much for someone as smart as he is not to realize that. I can actually accept that. But did the insufferable pain in the arse really have to be able to convince his entire damned army of that? That’s just a little much.