“Such as?” Walkyr’s tone was soft, his eyes dark.
“Whoever we send has to be smart, he has to be determined, and he has to be able to … ‘think outside the box,’ as Vicar Rhobair’s become fond of putting it. But, most importantly of all, he has to be someone Earl Rainbow Waters—and I—can depend upon to do not simply what he’s told to but what he knows he needs to, as well.”
He held the archbishop militant’s gaze levelly, and it was very, very quiet in his office.
.XI.
The Zhonesberg Switch
and
Town of Zhonesberg,
South March Lands,
Republic of Siddarmark.
It was raining, of course.
In this particular instance, it wasn’t the depressing drizzle which had become entirely too familiar to anyone in the Army of Thesmar—or, for that matter, in the Army of the Seridahn—either. No, this was a hard, driving, icy rain, deluging out of a night sky darker than the underbelly of hell. The sound of it filled the universe: pounding, pattering, turning creeks into brawling rivers, blowing on the wind, and generally making every living thing miserable.
Except for Major Dynnys Mahklymorh’s 1st Battalion, 2nd Scout Sniper Regiment, Imperial Charisian Army.
They thought it was lovely weather.
* * *
Private Dynnys Ahdmohr dreamed wistfully of a nice, hot fire protected by sturdy, weathertight walls, where he could toast frozen toes and breathe without exhaling puffs of steam. For that matter, he would have settled for hunkering down under a scrap of tarpaulin which might keep the worst of the rain at bay while a small, miserable, smoky fire provided at least an illusion of warmth. Unfortunately, he had neither roof nor tarpaulin. And even if he’d had either of them, Sergeant Klymynty—who was not noted for his kind and gentle heart—frowned on sentries who made themselves too comfortable.
More to the point, the Army of the Seridahn had learned the hard way that sentries came to bad ends if they took liberties against the Army of Thesmar. So despite the weather, he hunched down inside his new oilskins—which, praise Langhorne, at least didn’t leak like the ones they’d replaced—and walked his assigned section of 4th Company’s perimeter as philosophically as possible.
That perimeter covered the central approach to the fortified position marked on the Army of the Seridahn’s maps as the Zhonesberg Switch. The Switch wasn’t the best defensive ground in the world, for a lot of reasons, including the scrubby, second-growth woodlot which crowded close upon it. It covered the vital road junction where the farm tracks from Byrtyn’s Crossing, Zhonesberg, and Kharmych’s Farm converged, however. It was much too far out on the Army’s right flank to be heavily held, but the heretics had shown a truly fiendish talent for exploiting any unwatched spider-rat hole, which explained what Hyndyrsyn’s Regiment was doing out in the middle of East Bumfuck in the Shan-wei-damned rain.
Stationary, sandbagged guard posts closer in to the main position actually did offer at least the illusion of overhead protection for which Ahdmohr longed, and more rudimentary—and much wetter and more miserable—posts formed a loose outer shell, as well. No one could put a solid wall of sentries across a frontage as wide as the Switch, however, especially with only four understrength companies. There had to be gaps, and Captain Tyrnyr believed in tying fixed positions together with mobile sentries as insurance. That was his policy at any time, but especially on a night when darkness conspired with driving rain to reduce visibility to zero and added a backdrop of sound that deadened all other noises, to boot. That policy had served him well, and since he was the senior officer in command of the Switch, his policies were the ones that mattered.
Ahdmohr understood that, and he wasn’t about to argue with success. Despite that, the odds of any threat to a position over fifty miles from the Sheryl-Seridahn Canal materializing on a night like this weren’t very high, in his opinion. For some reason, however, Sergeant Klymynty hadn’t asked his opinion when he was handing out assignments. And, to be fair, the heretics had demonstrated a distressing tendency to do things most armies didn’t. Including a nasty habit of creeping around on miserable, rainy nights for the express purpose of capturing any unwary sentry they could. The Army of the Seridahn had been slower to learn the value of offensive patrols and prisoner interrogation, but experience was a harsh instructor, and Dynnys Ahdmohr had no intention of finding himself the heretics’ guest while they asked—
He approached the clump of brush which marked the boundary between his and Zhaif Truskyt’s assigned circuits. He’d passed it at least forty times already. But this time was different, and unfortunately for Private Ahdmohr, the Imperial Charisian Army wasn’t interested in interrogating him tonight.
An arm snaked around the private’s head from behind. A hard, calloused palm clamped across his mouth and yanked his head back, a combat knife slashed his throat from ear to ear, and a spray of arterial blood steamed in the night’s chill. The Charisian scout sniper and his partner dragged the twitching body back into the brush, then crouched down with their mates, waiting.
If the timing held, the other sentry should be along in four or five minutes.
* * *
“What time is it?”
“Five minutes later than the last time you asked,” Sergeant Ohmahr Swarez growled. Daivyn Mahkneel was not Swarez’ favorite trooper at the best of times.
“I was only asking, Sarge.”
The private was a past master at sounding aggrieved without sounding officially insolent … which was one of the things Swarez least liked about him. On the other hand, a sergeant was a practical sort of thing to be. His job was to manage the troops and take care of all those unpleasant little details officers lacked the time to deal with appropriately. To nip problems in the bud while they were still simple, before they had to be brought to the attention of higher, better paid authority, where things like fine shades of meaning and a carefully considered sense of justice might be important. Pragmatism was a vital military resource, when all was said, and it was the Army’s sergeants who were the wyvern-eyed custodians of that precious commodity.
With that awesome responsibility in mind, Swarez chose his next words very carefully.
“Yeah, an’ you’ve been asking every five minutes fer the last half hour, fer Langhorne’s sake! Case it’s missed yer notice, none of the other lads like bein’ out here any more ’n you do, but I don’t hear them bellyachin’ ’bout the duty an’ whining ’bout how soon we get t’ go off watch. So, if you ask again before we’re relieved, I’m gonna put a boot so far up your arse you’ll taste leather for the next five-day. In fact, if I hear another word outa you at all ’tween now an’ then, you’ll get exactly the same answer plus—an’ I absolutely guarantee this—three fucking five-days of picket duty. Now, was there somethin’ else you wanted t’ say?”
Someone chuckled loudly enough to be heard over the rain drumming on the canvas tent halves which had been laced together and stretched overhead to afford at least some protection. Given just how noisy that rain was, the chuckler had to have deliberately made sure Mahkneel—whose constant whining made him even less popular with his squadmates than with his sergeant—heard it.