Hell's Foundations Quiver (23 page)

From where he stood, looking across the square, the colonel could see the Church's green and gold banner flying from the roof of the house which had been appropriated for Bishop Qwentyn's quarters. Smoke plumed from both of the house's chimneys, and as he watched, the door opened, and Father Vyncyt Zhakyby—St. Fraidyr Division's intendant—stepped out of it. The Schuelerite upper-priest stood for a moment, clapping his gloved hands together against the day's cold while he exchanged a few words with the shivering sentry on a steamy spurt of breath.

Sahndyrs had come to know the divisional intendant fairly well, and, to be honest, he didn't much like him, because Father Vyncyt had a tendency to meddle in the management of the division's regiments. Still, the Schuelerite possessed both a powerful faith and enormous energy, and however much he might interfere in purely military decisions, he was also prepared to share any privation the troops under his care had to endure. He'd restricted himself to the same austere diet and the same cobbled-together grab bag of winter clothing, yet he'd sustained the pace of his visits, inspections, exhortations, and sermons at a level a peacetime priest would have found difficult to match. And unlike too many intendants and chaplains Sahndyrs could have named, he took time to actually talk to the men, to listen to their questions and concerns and
explain
things to them, not simply lecture them. Sahndyrs was prepared to overlook quite a lot of meddling as long as that was true.

He turned back from the window, and smiled at his executive officer.

“Yet another exciting day in Esthyr's Abbey,” he said dryly, crossing to his desk and relishing the fire's heat against his back as he seated himself. “Should I assume that with your customary efficiency you have that report about the men's boots?”

“Yes, Sir.” The much younger Hahl inhaled deeply and rubbed a forefinger across his mustache. “I don't think you're going to like hearing it, though.”

“Lawrync, I haven't liked hearing
most
of what I've heard since the frigging heretics blew up the canals. From your preface, however, I take it the Bishop Militant's quartermasters don't have any boots to send?”

Frostbite had become a deadly serious problem, inflicting more than half the division's total casualties over the last two months, and it was worst of all for the men's feet. Only a handful had been issued proper winter boots, because there simply weren't enough of them to go around. Most of the rest had wrapped what boots they did have in straw from the many abandoned barns and stables, bound in place with burlap or anything else they could find. Sahndyrs had been moving heaven and earth to get his freezing men better boots for more five-days than he liked to count, but it was like trying to empty Lake Pei with a bucket.

“They've found us a few pairs, Sir.” Hahl opened a folder and looked at the top sheet of notes inside it. “Unfortunately, I think the only reason they had them on hand was probably the fact that they're too small to fit most of our men. According to Lieutenant Khaldwyl, we'll be lucky if—”

*   *   *

“The heliograph's just delivered a message from Colonel Hyndryks, Sir,” Lieutenant Saith Zohryla announced.

Brigadier Sutyls and Baron Green Valley both looked up quickly from the map and their quiet discussion of the terrain between Esthyr's Abbey and St. Zhana, 1st Corps' next objective.

“The Colonel says Colonel Yarith is in position,” Sutyls' aide told them, and Sutyls' expression lightened. As Green Valley had expected, it had taken Yarith longer to reach his position than the brigadier had estimated, and Sutyls had tried to hide his unhappiness as he felt the precious winter daylight slipping away. “Colonel Yarith also reports he encountered a Temple Boy outpost where there wasn't supposed to be one,” Zohryla continued. “He believes his men killed or captured the entire picket.”

Sutyls' lips tightened once more at the word “believes,” but Green Valley only nodded. The SNARCs had already told him about the collision between Yarith's men and the “outpost.” In fact, the half-strength AOG platoon had been sent to inventory the contents of half a dozen abandoned barns and silos on the west side of the town which had been earmarked as future firewood. There'd been no way anyone could have predicted it would be dispatched on its mission, even with SNARC reconnaissance, but Yarith's scouts had spotted it in time and swept up its hapless infantry before any of them could fire a shot or escape to sound a warning.

Brigadier Sutyls wasn't privy to the information the SNARCs had reported to his superior, and it was obvious he was none too pleased by the encounter's potential to warn Preskyt's men there were enemies about. On the other hand, it wasn't like they weren't about to find out anyway.

“Very well, Saith,” he said after a moment. “Pass the execute order to Colonel Maiyrs, please.”

“Yes, Sir!”

Lieutenant Zohryla touched his chest in salute and strode purposefully towards the signals party, beckoning for one of the runners. A moment later, the runner departed on his skis, moving fast, and Sutyls turned back to Green Valley.

“I know it's more efficient this way, My Lord,” he said with a wry smile, “but sometimes I sort of miss the days when I'd've been standing on a hilltop with a spyglass and personally organizing this entire attack!”

“If you think it's bad for a brigadier, you should try it as a
corps
commander,” Green Valley agreed with feeling. “But it seems to've worked out pretty well so far.”

“Langhorne send it keeps
on
working that way, Sir.”

“I won't complain if he does,” Green Valley said with complete sincerity, despite his feelings where Eric Langhorne were concerned. “Not one bit.”

*   *   *

“All right.”

Colonel Maiyrs refolded the note from Brigadier Sutyls and shoved it into his parka's outer pocket, then put his gloves back on with slow deliberation. Once he had them adjusted properly, he turned to his own signal party.

“Fire the signal,” he said.

*   *   *

Lieutenant Byrtrym Azkhat was the commanding officer of the recently formed 23rd Heavy Support Platoon, which was currently assigned to the 16th Infantry's 1st Battalion. Now he looked up at one of his noncoms' shout and saw the signal rocket soar upward on its trail of smoke. The flash when it burst was pale in the daylight, but it was bright enough, especially when Azkhat had been waiting so impatiently to see it.

“
Now!
” he snapped.

*   *   *

The new M97 mortars were big, ugly brutes with a barrel length of over five feet. Their explosive projectiles weighed thirty-three pounds, without propellant charge, and Azkhat's gunners had cursed them with sweaty sincerity in training. There weren't many of them, and Lieutenant Azkhat's feelings had been mixed, to say the least, when his platoon had been ordered to turn in their three-inch mortars and reequip with them.

They had a range of four miles, however, and at the moment they were emplaced just over
two
miles from the center of Esthyr's Abbey. There'd been ample time for Azkhat's men to dismount the weapons from their sleds and prepare solid, properly leveled foundations on the eastern side of a long crest line, and the lieutenant and Sergeant Cahnyr Lynkyn, his senior squadron commander, had positioned the range and bearing stakes with finicky precision.

The crest of their concealing hill boasted a scattering of northern spine trees. The spear-shaped evergreens' branches were covered with the sharp, unpleasant spines which gave them their name, but they were also sturdy, and Azkhat had sent Corporal Shawyn Portyr up the tallest of them. From there, he had an excellent view of the town and of the actual abbey beyond it, and he'd constructed a perch for himself and the map on which a gridded overlay had been superimposed. He'd long since located their initial targets' positions from the map, and the rest of Azkhat's organic artillery support party was prepared to pass his corrections to the mortars. The ASP's position was also perfect—or nearly so—for receiving and passing on fire requests from other units.

The tubes themselves had been laid in on as close to the correct bearings and elevations as they could come without their own direct lines of sight. Now Sergeant Ymilahno Fahrya, the sergeant in charge of 3rd Squad, nodded sharply in response to Azkhat's one-word command and chopped one hand at Corporal Mahthyw Khulpepur, the gun captain on 3rd Squad's number one mortar.

“
Fire!
” Khulpepur barked, and Private Rahdryk Nahkadahn, who'd been waiting, eyes locked on Khulpepur, dropped the first bomb down the rifled tube. The M97 dispensed with the side caplock which had been a feature of the original M95. The ICA had discovered that the M95 had an unpleasant habit of “cooking off” when a freshly loaded propellant charge hit an ember left from the previous shot, so the Delthak Works had modified its design to combine loading and firing into a single, rapid motion. Now the priming cap fitted in the simple retaining clip at the end of the rod projecting from the bomb's base hit the spike at the bottom of the tube. The impact detonated the cap, its flash ignited the powder-filled felt “doughnuts” fitted around the rod, and the mortar spat the bomb heavenward at over eight hundred feet per second.

*   *   *

“—so Ustys is checking with the other regiments.” Major Hahl shrugged ever so slightly. “It's not likely we're going to find many people with feet that small, but Ustys will probably turn up at least a few.” The major smiled suddenly, although there was more than a hint of grimace in the expression. “I'm sure he'll drive a hard bargain for them!”

Colonel Sahndyrs chuckled in agreement. Technically, Lieutenant Ustys Khaldwyl was assigned to Rhobair Duchairn's quartermaster's corps, but Sahndyrs and Hahl had more or less kidnapped him and put him to work for 4th Regiment the better part of two months ago. He made a far better supply officer than they'd had previously, and while they knew they'd be forced to admit his whereabouts and give him up eventually, he'd been a gift from the Archangels in the meantime. Not only did he know how to work the official logistics system, but he was also an inspired scrounger and Sahndyrs' fellow colonels had begun muttering darkly about his depredations.

“I'm sure the Lieutenant will do us proud,” the colonel said. “And, with that out of the way, I suppose it's time for lunch. Who are we messing with today?”

“Captain Myrgyn, Sir,” Hahl replied, and Sahndyrs nodded. He made it a point to eat at least one meal a day with each of his company commanders in turn. The practice kept him abreast of their commands' readiness and morale, as well as the state of their rations.

“In that case, we should probably get started,” he sighed, climbing out of his chair with an air of resignation. It was cold outside, and Captain Ahnthyny Myrgyn's 3rd Company wasn't what one might have called conveniently close to his own HQ. “At least—”

*   *   *

Approximately three and a half seconds after Private Nahkadahn dropped it down the mortar's muzzle, the thirty-three-pound projectile came sizzling out of the clear winter's sky with a warbling wail that ended in a clap of thunder.

*   *   *

Colonel Sahndyrs whipped back towards the window as something exploded like Langhorne's own Rakurai. A column of flame-shot smoke erupted from a roof on the far side of Bishop Qwentyn's headquarters, and Sahndyrs' eyes went wide with consternation as he tried to understand what had just happened.

*   *   *

Shawyn Portyr peered through his double-glass, waiting … waiting.…

It was odd how slowly seconds could drag at a time like this, a corner of his brain reflected, eyes glued to the green and gold flag which made such a handy reference point. The wait really wasn't all that long, but it seemed far longer. There was always time to wonder if they'd gotten it right, how much it was going to miss by, whether or not—

The thunderbolt landed, and Portyr bared his teeth. The answers seemed to be yes, and not by much.

“Right fifty and down one hundred!” he called, never lowering his glasses, and heard the correction shouted back up in confirmation from his signalmen.

*   *   *

“Right fifty and down a hundred,” Sergeant Fahrya shouted, and Corporal Khulpepur's crew traversed the weapon slightly, using the ranging stakes, while the corporal himself turned the knob which adjusted its elevation.

“Right fifty, down one hundred, and … set!” he called back in confirmation, and Fahrya nodded.

“Fire!”

*   *   *

Was that a
shell
? No. That's ridiculous! How could it be—?

Doors were beginning to open around Snow Dragon Square. Even through the window glass, Colonel Sahndyrs could hear sentries shouting the alarm, and Bishop Qwentyn appeared suddenly on the steps of the house across from Sahndyrs. He must have been about to leave his headquarters for an inspection, Sahndyrs thought, because he already wore his heavy coat and gloves, and there hadn't been time for him to don them in response to the explosion. But—

A second thunderbolt arrived from on high. It landed on the far side of the small, snow-covered circle of ornamental trees and frozen flowerbeds at the center of the square, almost on top of one of the stone benches where the square's residents were accustomed to sitting in warmer weather … and less than fifty feet from Bishop Qwentyn Preskyt.

The dining room window shattered on the wings of the explosion's shockwave, icicles and diamond-shaped panes blowing in like glass axe blades. One of those blades opened Bahstyk Sahndyrs' right cheek like a razor, but he hardly noticed. His ears were filled with thunder and Lawrync Hahl's choked-off cry of pain … and his mind was filled with the knowledge that he'd just become St. Fraidyr Division's commanding officer.