“I can see where you might’ve gotten that impression,” he said, “but they don’t seem to’ve figured out how to make them launch themselves. Instead, they’ve come up with a sort of domed footstool with a hundred or so old-style musket balls embedded in a ‘roof’ of pitch and resin. When the charge goes, it sprays the musket balls directionally in a cone. It might be more accurate to call the pattern a hemisphere I suppose, though, now that I think about it.” He shrugged. “Either way, the things are going to be a major pain in the arse.”
Eastshare made a less than delighted sound of agreement. Like Green Valley, he’d always recognized the consequences of introducing a weapon like the footstools. He’d even considered objecting to their use, but no commander worthy of his men could refuse to embrace such a potentially effective weapon when those men were going to be outnumbered a hundred-to-one … or more. And they’d been enormously useful. In fact, they’d probably been the decisive factor—or at least one of the decisive factors—in his ability to stop Cahnyr Kaitswyrth’s advance after Kaitswyrth massacred Mahrtyn Taisyn and his men. But the wyvern he’d worried about seemed to be coming home to roost, although at least Green Valley had insisted on devising a doctrine for dealing with footstools—sweeping them, he called it—at the same time he’d come up with one to employ them offensively. It was a slow and dangerous process, however, and that, unfortunately, would favor the Mighty Host more than the Allies in the upcoming campaign. Anything that clogged Allied mobility—and especially the mobility of Charis’ mounted infantry—had to be considered a good thing from Rainbow Waters’ perspective.
“Well, I can’t say I’m happy to hear that,” he observed. “We knew it was coming eventually, though. And at least your boys’ve made sure it doesn’t surprise us. That’s something. In fact, that’s a lot! Your scout snipers brought it in, Kynt?”
“Yes.” Green Valley nodded, then smiled. “I can’t help suspecting Rainbow Waters probably didn’t want them laid quite this early. He knows how active our patrols are, and he’s too smart to not want to surprise us with it.”
“A local commander trying to be sure he gets them in before you jump him, you think?”
“That’s exactly what I think.”
In fact, Green Valley knew that was what had happened. And while he was grateful for the warning, he could wish Rainbow Waters hadn’t engendered enough independence of mind in his frontline commanders to make something like this possible. The “seijins” could have “discovered” the new weapon’s existence in ample time to plan for the upcoming campaign. In fact, the report had already been written when the scout snipers quietly dug up an actual example and brought it in for examination. In a lot of ways, he would have preferred to rely on the seijins rather than face an army whose officers had learned the value of initiative … and who weren’t afraid of their superiors’ wrath if they got caught exercising that initiative, even against orders.
“Well, thank Andropov for small favors!” Eastshare said philosophically, then leaned back in his chair and waved a donut with a bite taken out of it at the captain standing, pointer in hand, in front of the huge map of Tarikah Province.
“I apologize for the interruption, Captain Slokym,” he said. “I’ll try to keep my mouth shut until you get through your initial briefing.” He smiled crookedly. “And I’ll also try to remember how much I always hated being interrupted by monumentally senior officers when it was my turn to do the briefing.”
“I promise you, Your Grace,” Slokym said solemnly, “that such an ignoble thought would never cross my mind.”
“Junior officers who lie to generals come to bad ends,” Eastshare remarked to no one in particular, his eyes carefully fixed upon the ceiling.
“I believe I’ve heard that, Your Grace,” Slokym said and laid the tip of his pointer on the town of Ayaltyn.
“To begin, Sir,” he said in a much more serious tone, “the Harchongians have been thickening the overhead cover on their bunkers here at Ayaltyn, and if they’re doing it here, they’re probably doing the same thing everywhere else, as well. We suspect that’s the result of more of those tests Captain of Horse Rungwyn and Lord of Foot Zhyngbau have been conducting.” He grimaced. “Whatever inspired it, it’s going to make them harder artillery targets when we launch our attack. Unfortunately, we’re still going to need the river line, and that means dealing with Ayaltyn somehow. That’s why we’ve moved the Fourth Mounted around to the west and given Brigadier Tymkyn two extra battalions of M97 field guns and a hundred or so of Major Sykharelli’s new rockets, plus a company of mounted engineers with demolition charges and the new flamethrowers. In addition, we’ve—”
His pointer moved again as he spoke briskly, confidently, without ever consulting the notepad in his pocket, and High General Ruhsyl Thairis, Duke of Eastshare, cocked his head and listened intently.
JUNE
YEAR OF GOD 898
.I.
City of Zion,
The Temple Lands.
The Wednesday wind blowing sharply off Lake Pei spread the voices of Zion’s thousands upon thousands of bells all across the City of God on Safehold. They sang their ageless song of God’s love for His creation and His children on this, His day, and that song was more welcome than ever in these times of worry and despair. It promised His people comfort and ultimate victory, whatever temporary reverses His servants here in the world might suffer. It would be God’s Day, the highest holy day of the year, in only two more five-days, and the entire city was already bedecking streets and buildings with banners, spring flowers, and icons of the Archangels and Holy Martyrs while its hundreds of churches and cathedrals purified and reconsecrated themselves in anticipation of that joyous celebration. After April’s terrible news from the Gulf of Dohlar and May’s dreary, late-spring snows, His people needed that promise, that confirmation that they truly were His and that He would never forget them.
The wind spreading that joyous music across the city was brisk enough to strike a chill even in the bright June sunlight, but the picked bodyguard of Temple Guardsmen and agents inquisitor made a brave show as they waited on the immaculate, marble-faced quay consecrated to the Temple’s use, like an island of snow-white sanctity on the bustling Zion waterfront. Polished armor and the silver-plated heads of the halberds the Guard still carried on ceremonial occasions flashed back the sun, which gleamed less brilliantly from the burnished barrels of far more businesslike rifles and pistols. Banners snapped above them—Mother Church’s green-and-gold and the flame-badged purple of the Inquisition.
Wyllym Rayno had been scheduled to join them, but the Grand Inquisitor had decreed otherwise at the last minute. Probably, Rayno thought, watching through a parapet-mounted spyglass from the Temple Annex roof, because for all the pomp and ceremony, Zhaspahr Clyntahn was less than pleased with the man those guards were there to escort directly to his first audience. Rayno couldn’t be certain that was why his own agenda had been changed. He only knew his new instructions had been waiting when he’d emerged from the Temple side chapel dedicated to the Archangel Schueler after celebrating his own Wednesday mass. On the other hand, he did know it would have been like his superior to “send a message” to the Inquisitor General by deliberately changing Rayno’s itinerary to snub Edwyrds only after making certain the Inquisitor General had received his own copy of it. After all, if he hadn’t received his copy first, he wouldn’t have known he was being snubbed, would he?