Hell's Foundations Quiver (22 page)

In the meantime, Esthyr's Abbey was a forlorn and lonely place. With its civilian inhabitants dead or fled, Preskyt could probably have housed twice his actual troop strength in its houses and public buildings or in the homes, barns, and other outbuildings of the surrounding farms, if only it had been possible to feed them. As it was, the last of the abandoned livestock had been slaughtered months ago and most of Esthyr's Abbey's woodlots had been felled for firewood. For that matter, working parties had systematically pulled down the buildings of a steadily growing number of those outlying farms for fuel, as well, and more than a few unoccupied structures in the town itself had gone the same way.

The lack of clothing suited to North Haven's brutal winters was another problem for all Wyrshym's men, not just Preskyt's force, and no improvement in his transport capability was going to change that anytime soon. Everything left behind by Esthyr's Abbey's citizens had been combed through, looking for any additional warm clothing Preskyt's shivering troops could find, but the most optimistic observer couldn't have called them adequately clothed. They'd been driven increasingly to ground under the town's roofs, especially with the blizzards which had swept through the Gap in the last two five-days. The current warming trend would bring the temperatures up into the mid-thirties in a few days, which would encourage quite a bit of snow melt. But another bitter wave of arctic cold would follow the “warm snap” within less than two days, and the defenders of Esthyr's Abbey were going to find themselves far less well-suited to deal with it than they were now.

Green Valley smiled thinly at the thought and sent his sturdy High Hallow forging along the trampled slot where the scout snipers and most of Brigadier Zhorj Sutyls' 8th Infantry Brigade had moved up towards their objectives.

It was hard to pick out details of his men's deployment. Their snow smocks blended too well into the endless whiteness around them for that. It was actually easier to spot where they'd been than where they
were
, thanks to the tracks they'd left behind and the little islands where squads had parked their tent- and baggage-laden sleds while they stripped down to combat gear. The weather was warm enough (although, to someone of Green Valley's Old Charisian sensibilities, calling twenty-two degrees Fahrenheit “warm” came perilously close to blasphemy) that they'd been able to discard their heavy gauntlet-style mittens in favor of lighter gloves which would make handling weapons much easier, and each squad of the platoons moving forward into their jumpoff positions had left one man to keep an eye on its sled. Since the men had left their cumbersome caribou-hide outer parkas behind when they stripped down for combat, making sure those sleds and their burdens were close at hand would become critically important once the short winter's day slid over into twilight.

Other sleds were surrounded by a different set of acolytes. Those were the ones supporting the squat, menacing tubes of 1st Corps' mortars. Along with the influx of M96s and Trapdoor Mahndrayns, Green Valley had taken receipt of the Delthak Works' latest upgrade of the Army of Midhold's lethality in the form of a new four-and-a-half-inch mortar. Technically known as the “Model 97, 4.5" Mortar,” the new weapon's standard explosive round had four thousand yards more range than the older M95 three-inch. The range increase for its rather heavier antipersonnel round was a little less than that, but its projectiles were three times as heavy as the M95s, with a proportionate increase in bursting charge and shrapnel which gave its rounds more than twice the lethal radius. It was, in fact, considerably more effective against concealed or semi-concealed targets than the artillery's four-inch muzzle-loading rifles, although the field pieces had a much deeper lethal zone against exposed enemies.

There weren't as many of the M97s as Green Valley could have wished, but there'd been enough to form them into additional support platoons, and he'd assigned one of those platoons to each of 1st Corps' regiments. At the moment, 7th Brigade had loaned its heavy mortars to 8th Brigade, and their gunners were opening crates of bombs and propellant charges while the lighter M95s continued to make their way closer to the town. Artillery support parties had already moved up close behind the deploying infantry, carrying their signal mirrors, signal rockets, and semaphore flags with them. Additional ASPs had been dropped off to serve as relays to the heavy mortars.

Green Valley reached the brigade command post and dismounted, passing his reins to Lieutenant Slokym as he slogged through the snow to where Brigadier Sutyls was deep in conversation with Colonel Ahlfryd Maiyrs, 16th Regiment's CO.

“So Colonel Gairwyl's regiment is swinging around the north side of town,” Sutyls was saying, tapping the map between them. “There's more tree cover to get in the horses' way on that side, but it's almost all evergreens. That's actually kept the ground clear of snow, which means the mounted infantry can move pretty well, even through the trees, and they should keep anyone in town from spotting them.”

The brigadier looked up as Green Valley arrived. He and Maiyrs began to come to attention, but the baron only shook his head and pointed at the map.

Sutyls nodded to acknowledge the unspoken command and bent back over the map, tracing positions with his forefinger as he continued speaking to Maiyrs.

“Colonel Hyndryks is moving up his First and Fourth Battalions down here,” the brigadier indicated an arc around the town's southern approaches. Colonel Symohr Hyndryks commanded the 15th Infantry, the 16th's sister regiment in 8th Brigade. “He's using this line of hills for cover, and a company of Major Kharyn's scout snipers have outposts in these abandoned farms along here.” The finger tapped again. “That should let Hyndryks move up to within a few hundred yards of their outer earthworks without anyone seeing him, and the rest of Kharyn's scout snipers've moved round to the west side with Colonel Yarith and the Sixth Mounted. The going's not as good around the southern flank, so Yarith's not in position yet, but his people got an early start and he's in heliograph contact with Colonel Hyndryks. Hyndryks'll pass the word when Yairley's cut the high road on the far side of town. At that point, the frigging Temple Boys are in the bag, with nowhere to go when your lads kick in their front door. Best current estimate is that Hyndryks and the Sixth ought to be in position in about another hour.”

Green Valley glanced up at the sky. They were still an hour and a half or so shy of local noon, but the days were short this far north. They'd have no more than another four hours—five, at the outside—before darkness closed in once again. On the other hand, a quick check through the SNARCs agreed—for the most part—with Sutyls' time estimate. In fact, half of Colonel Symohr Hyndryks' 15th Infantry Regiment was already in place, close behind Fumyro Kharyn's scout snipers, making its final weapons checks while the other two battalions remained well back to form a reserve in the unlikely event that they were needed.

Sir Uhlstyn Yarith's mounted infantry and its accompanying ski-mounted scout snipers were a bit behind Sutyls' schedule, however. It had been a hard slog through deep snow, even for the Chisholmian-bred High Hallows and the caribou-drawn sleds of their assigned support element, but they were past the worst of it now. There'd be more than enough daylight left when they reached their positions, and the support element had already reached
its
position and begun erecting the first of the tents for their intended post-battle bivouac.

“Major Mahkylhyn and Major Tahlyvyr have moved up to this bank of the stream, Sir,” Maiyrs told Sutyls, tracing his own line on the map. “I'll have Major Hylmyn in place on Tahlyvyr's left in thirty minutes, and then we'll just see about kicking that door down for you.”

Sutyls grunted in satisfaction. Three of 16th Infantry's battalions—Tohmys Mahkylhyn's 1st Battalion, Brygham Tahlyvyr's 2nd Battalion, and Samyl Hylmyn's 4th Battalion—were tasked as the primary assault units, while Major Rahnyld Gahdarhd's 3rd Battalion formed the regimental reserve and Colonel Hyndryks' infantry and the two mounted regiments prevented any breakout to the west by the AOG garrison. In theory, Brigadier Ahdryn Krystyphyr's entire 7th Brigade was available as a reserve or to exploit success, but Green Valley had no expectation of requiring Krystyphyr's men. Sutyls' brigade was almost fully up to strength, with the better part of nine thousand men present, compared to the barely forty-five hundred of all arms of Qwentyn Preskyt's understrength units, and trying to cram Krystyphyr's men into the operation would only have cramped the attack. That wasn't to say that 7th Brigade's men and officers weren't highly miffed at being told to sit this one out, but Green Valley had already promised Krystyphyr his brigade would be allowed to take the lead in the next stage of what the baron had dubbed “Operation Winter Vengeance.”

He smiled with cold appreciation of his troops' determination to make that name fit, but the smile faded as he thought about the one thing none of his men or he would be able to accomplish. The nearest of the Inquisition's concentration camps was located at Hyrdmyn on the New Northland Canal, still seven hundred hopeless straight-line miles from Esthyr's Abbey. He probably had the logistical capability to reach Hyrdmyn, but he could neither have fed the camp's inmates after he got there nor evacuated them across that enormous distance. Those inmates were dying in dreadful numbers as cold and hunger—not to mention hopelessness and the Inquisition's brutalities—ate away at their fragile reserves of strength and endurance. Yet without a means to evacuate them, they would only have died still faster if he'd tried to mount a rescue operation.

Kynt Clareyk was no coward, but he could no longer bear to view the SNARC imagery of the camps. He'd left that heartbreaking task to Owl and to Nahrmahn Baytz, because he couldn't—literally couldn't—let his personal hatred and sense of helplessness compromise his ability to think about the tasks he
could
accomplish. He knew what was happening at Hyrdmyn, and in the camps at places like Gray Hill, Traymos, Lakeside, Sairmeet, Blufftyn, and Lake City, and the day of reckoning the Republic would demand of the Inquisition—the entire Church of God Awaiting—in the fullness of time would be terrible enough to fit the crime. For now, all he could do was try to speed that day.

“The scout snipers and the ASPs say the ice is more than thick enough to stand the recoil from the M95s,” Maiyrs continued, “so I'm going to deploy them on the stream. They'll be closer to our lead units if we need to signal fire missions, and they ought to be able to get up the bank without even dismounting from the sleds to keep up close once we move off.”

“Good,” Sutyls said. “Good!”

Green Valley nodded in agreement. The lighter three-inchers packed less punch than the new M97, but they also weighed less than a third as much, which meant they—and their ammunition—found it easier to keep up close behind advancing infantry. And, perhaps more to the point, the M97s could handle their part of the operation just fine from their current locations.

“All right,” the brigadier said. “It sounds to me like we're just about ready. Do you have anything you'd care to add, My Lord?”

He looked at Green Valley, who shook his head.

“It's your brigade, Zhorj, and it's all looking good to me. Besides, you know my motto. ‘If it isn't broken—'”

He paused, and both of his subordinates grinned broadly at him.

“—‘don't fix it,'” they finished in unison.

“Exactly.” Green Valley smiled back at them, and it was a hungry, predatory smile. “On the other hand, I'm entirely in favor of your breaking something else.”

*   *   *

“… about the size of it, Sir,” Major Hahl concluded his report. Somehow, the major managed to look remarkably spruce and clean-shaven, despite his chapped face and hunger-sharpened cheekbones.

“Thank you, Lawrync,” Colonel Bahstyk Sahndyrs said, acknowledging yet another clearly and concisely delivered report on the state of his 4th Infantry Regiment. It was scarcely Hahl's fault the report was so unpalatable.

The colonel turned away from the map tacked to his wall and gazed out the window at the snow-covered, slovenly streets of Esthyr's Abbey. The office in which he stood had been the dining room of one of the town's more affluent farmers, and its windows looked past the glistening icicles, some thick as Sahndyrs' wrist, which fringed the overhanging roof and ran across the aptly named Snow Dragon Square. Once upon a time, before the Sword, Snow Dragon had been one of Esthyr's Abbey's neatly maintained residential squares. Now its houses had been taken over to shelter Mother Church's infantry, and those half-frozen soldiers had more pressing worries than keeping things neat and tidy.

The only good thing about Major Hahl's report, Sahndyrs reflected, was that bad as things were, they were better than they
had
been. Only a drooling idiot could have argued the situation was good, yet the improvement was marked. He knew supplying Esthyr's Abbey used up far more of Bishop Militant Bahrnabai's precious snow lizards than the bishop militant would have preferred, and he sympathized with the Army of the Sylmahn's commander. But that didn't keep him from being grateful that at least nearly adequate supplies of food were finally reaching the town, and even more grateful for the fact that they'd received almost six hundred of the new St. Kylmahn rifles four five-days earlier than predicted. Of course, the rifles had been divided between St. Fraidyr and Bishop Zhaksyn's Port Harbor Division, but there were some advantages to being the division's senior colonel, and Bishop Qwentyn had seen fit to assign all of St. Fraidyr's share to Sahndyrs' regiment. The good news was that that had been enough to completely reequip Sahndyrs' 4th Infantry; the bad news was that the only reason it had was that the regiment was at barely sixty percent strength.