Green Valley had watched through the SNARCs as reports of the disaster flowed into Crystal Lake’s headquarters, and he’d been deeply impressed by the Harchongese commander. Despite the proof of the Army of Tarikah’s crushing power—despite the loss of over thirty-five thousand men in the space of a few hours—the redoubtable earl had refused to panic. Nor had he allowed himself to be paralyzed by the sheer scale of the catastrophe. He’d reached his decision by midnight, barely fifteen hours after the bombardment began, and the orders had gone out by courier to the brigades continuing to cling to the southern stub of the Tairyn River Line.
Those brigades, aside from sacrificial rearguards, had been in motion westward by dawn. Nor had Crystal Lake stopped there. With Green Valley’s advanced infantry less than fifteen miles from Lake City’s outer defense perimeter, and with no way to estimate how quickly the Charisian guns could bring their devastating new power to bear against that perimeter, he’d had the moral courage to order the evacuation of Tarikah Province’s capital city, as well.
Green Valley didn’t even want to think about how Zhaspahr Clyntahn was likely to react to that, but Crystal Lake hadn’t hesitated. He’d ordered the systematic destruction of as much of his own fortifications as possible, and any artillery that couldn’t be on the road within twelve hours was blown up in place. The thunderous explosions had rolled around the city for hours as the guns—and the mountains of supplies Rainbow Waters had collected at Lake City—were blown up or put to the torch. Meanwhile, the capital’s garrison had been ordered back to the Gleesyn-Chyzwail Line south of East Wing Lake and what remained of the Tairyn River Line’s defenders were ordered to form a defensive front between the Tarikah Forest and the Gleesyn-Chyzwail Line, covering the Gleesyn-Sairmeet High Road to protect the Sairmeet garrison’s lines of communication.
Crystal Lake had made his decisions and implemented them so swiftly not even Charisian mounted infantry could have interfered with his movements. Or not, at least, without operating beyond the support of their own artillery, and even with the Army of the Hildermoss added to his command, Green Valley remained too hugely outnumbered by the Northern Mighty Host to take that sort of liberties with Harchongians.
It was difficult even for the SNARCs to provide definitive numbers on Earl Rainbow Waters’ casualties to date, but Owl’s best estimate was that, combined with the Tairyn River Line disaster, the Mighty Host had suffered close to a hundred and seventy-five thousand dead, wounded, and prisoners. That was a staggering number, greater than the entire combined initial strength of the Army of Tarikah and the Army of the Hildermoss … and represented less than fourteen percent of the Northern Mighty Host’s starting strength. Green Valley and Klymynt between them, on the other hand, had suffered around fourteen thousand combat casualties—only about a third of them fatal, thank God—which was only eight percent of the Harchongians’ losses. With “nonoperational” casualties from accidental injuries and illness included, his and Klymynt’s total casualties rose to just under seventeen thousand, which was ten percent of their initial strength. That might not sound too dreadful, aside from the agonizing human cost hidden behind those bland numbers, especially given the new troops arriving from Chisholm to reinforce them. But their losses were overwhelmingly concentrated in his specially trained and equipped assault brigades. Some of the battalions in those brigades were down to little more than forty percent of their assigned strength, and rebuilding them with replacements straight from Chisholm, without time for those replacements to integrate into their new formations, could only compromise their combat effectiveness.
And that’s exactly what Rainbow Waters intended to do to us, Green Valley thought grimly. He meant to hurt us worse than this—and expected to do it faster than this—because he didn’t have a clue the Balloon Corps was coming or just what that would mean for artillery and operational movements. But he’s no more likely to panic than Crystal Lake did, and there’s the next damned best thing to six hundred thousand fresh Harchongese infantry en route to the front. They’ll take a while to get here, but within the next three five-days—by the end of August, at the latest—he’ll have received enough fresh brigades to replace every man he’s lost. In the same timeframe, Hainryk and I are looking at maybe another forty thousand. We’re costing him one hell of a lot of casualties, but in absolute numbers, including current field strengths and reinforcements in the pipe, the loss ratio is actually slightly in his favor.
Of course, there came a point at which comparative loss ratios became meaningless. A point at which those in command realized their own losses were simply unsustainable, whatever the other side’s might be. And however tough-minded Rainbow Waters, Crystal Lake, and the Mighty Host’s other field commanders might be, they weren’t really the psychological target of the current offensive. No, that target lay elsewhere … in a city named Zion.
He shook that thought aside as his escort drew up before the modest two-story palace beside Tarikah Cathedral. He looked around again, noticing the firefighting parties his brigade commanders had organized to prevent sparks and drifting embers from spreading the warehouses’ blaze to the city’s civilian housing, and swung down from the saddle. He handed the reins to one of his escorting troopers and ascended the palace’s front steps, with Bryahn Slokym and half a squad of infantry at his heels.
A very nervous looking upper-priest opened the huge, carved door as the baron reached it. The cleric was brown-haired and brown-eyed, with long, stork-like arms and legs, and he bobbed an awkward bow.
“General Green Valley?” He sounded tentative, his tone anxious, and Green Valley nodded.
“I am … Father Avry.”
The Chihirite stiffened in surprise as Green Valley addressed him by name, but he clearly had other things to worry about, and he drew a deep breath.
“The Archbishop is waiting in his office,” he said. “If that would be convenient, of course, My Lord,” he added quickly.
“That would be entirely convenient, Father. Please, take me to him.” The priest nodded, and Green Valley looked at the bodyguards standing behind Slokym. “I think you lads can stay here,” he said.
The squad leader looked rebellious, and Green Valley frowned.
“Let me rephrase that,” he said pleasantly, “you lads not only can stay here, you will stay here. Would it happen that I need to be any clearer than that?”
The corporal looked appealingly at Captain Slokym, but the captain only shook his head.
“No, My Lord,” the corporal said finally, looking back at Green Valley. “That’s … clear enough.”
“Good,” Green Valley replied, then relented a bit. “Don’t worry, Corporal. I’m armed, Captain Slokym is armed, and the last thing anyone in this palace wants is to harm me in any way. Isn’t that correct, Father Avry?”
He cocked an eyebrow at the priest, who nodded quickly.
“There, you see?” Green Valley said cheerfully. “And now, Father, if you’d lead the way?”
The man who came to his feet as Green Valley entered the large, book-lined office had thinning silver hair, a receding hairline, and intelligent—and worried—gray-blue eyes behind the lenses of wire-rimmed spectacles perched on a beaky nose. He wore the white cassock of an archbishop, badged with the green of Pasquale, and he looked far more composed than Father Avry had.