The archbishop inquisitor had become steadily more querulous—although Rainbow Waters would have denied he could have become more querulous after their first meeting—as the situation worsened. He’d made it amply clear that he knew the true reason for all their reverses could be found in the fecklessness of their commanders. He’d become increasingly strident, and he no longer hesitated to show his displeasure with Rainbow Waters as clearly as with Walkyr. The earl had been unable to decide whether that was simply because Saintahvo was such a natural pain in the arse or if it reflected the tone of the private dispatches the archbishop inquisitor received regularly from Zion.
“In fact, I’m afraid it is, Your Eminence,” the Mighty Host’s commander said now, his tone calm and his expression curiously serene for a man about to impart news of still more disaster to Zhaspahr Clyntahn’s personal representative. “I received a messenger wyvern from Earl Golden Tree this evening. At dawn tomorrow, Sairmeet will surrender to the heretics.”
“What?!” Saintahvo jerked upright in his chair, his face twisting with rage.
“Regrettable,” Rainbow Waters said, “but scarcely unexpected, Your Eminence.” He shook his head. “Sairmeet’s been completely isolated for almost two five-days, but Earl Golden Tree has continued to get occasional messenger wyverns out. I’ve shared his dispatches with you and Archbishop Militant Gustyv, and it’s been evident for some time that unless we reopened the high road, Sairmeet’s loss was inevitable. According to the Earl’s final dispatch, he has less than forty rounds of ammunition per rifle and enough food to feed his men for less than a five-day. The heretics haven’t even assaulted his position in over six days. They’re simply dropping shell after shell upon it and killing somewhere between three and six hundred of his men every day without ever exposing their own infantry to his fire.” The earl shrugged. “Under those circumstances, a surrender which might save the lives of his remaining men is the only logical recourse.”
“Logical?! What does logic have to do with a war for the entire world’s soul?” Saintahvo demanded. “This Jihad isn’t about logic, My Lord! It’s about defeating Shan-wei and her minions and saving the soul of every loyal child of Mother Church, living or yet unborn. Beside that, what does simple life or death matter?!”
“With all due respect, Your Eminence, I think that might be just a little difficult to explain to the sons and daughters of the men in Sairmeet. I don’t question the importance of protecting Mother Church and defending God’s will even at the cost of our own lives. But it would seem to me that when dying for God can accomplish nothing except to die for God, one might be excused for not wishing to create any more orphans and widows than one must.”
Saintahvo flushed puce at the Harchongian’s cool, unruffled tone, but the earl seemed not to notice.
“Were it possible to relieve and resupply Earl Golden Tree,” he continued, “then it would, indeed, be his duty to continue to hold his position until our columns reached him. Unfortunately, that isn’t going to happen.”
“And why not?” Saintahvo demanded. “Why haven’t you relieved him?”
“Because to this point, the Mighty Host has suffered in excess of thirty-two thousand casualties attempting to do just that, Your Eminence.” Rainbow Waters leaned back in his chair. “That means our losses in the effort to relieve him now exceed the total strength still under his command by fifty percent. The math is irrefutable. I cannot afford to continue losing men at that rate attempting to reinforce failure. And even if it made some sort of military sense to continue the attempt—which, I repeat, it does not—it would no longer be possible.”
“Why not?” Saintahvo snarled.
“Because the Army of Tarikah took Gleesyn this afternoon,” Rainbow Waters said flatly. “They are now across the Ferey at Gleesyn and at two points south of Gleesyn in at least brigade strength, covered by their heavy angle-guns from the eastern bank of the river. The bridges at Gleesyn were demolished before the position was overrun, but heretic engineers have already thrown at least—at least, Your Eminence—five pontoon bridges across the stream. I feel confident there are additional bridges we haven’t seen yet. If they do not exist now, they will by morning.”
Silence gripped the office for several seconds, enhanced somehow by the distant, vicious mutter of the Charisian artillery.
“I estimate the heretics have suffered something in excess of eighty thousand casualties, Your Eminence,” the earl resumed quietly. “But the Mighty Host has suffered in excess of four hundred thousand, which doesn’t count the casualties your own Army of the Center has suffered, nor the casualties Earl Silken Hills and the Southern Host have taken now that Symkyn and High Mount have broken through at Reklair and Tallas. When all are combined, the total is probably very close to twice that number.
“Our men—and your men—have fought with the utmost courage and tenacity, and I assure you that the heretics’ casualties have been far heavier than any they’ve suffered in any of their campaigns since Bishop Militant Bahrnabai was stopped in the Sylmahn Gap. Indeed, I believe they may be heavier than all the casualties they’ve suffered in all of their campaigns since then. That’s certainly true for the Charisians, at any rate. And our forces are still intact, still a viable fighting force, despite the heretics’ advantages in artillery and mobility—even despite their balloons. But the loss ratio is tilting more and more sharply in their favor, not ours, and our lines are strained to the breaking point, as what just happened at Gleesyn demonstrates. And, perhaps even more to the point, they’re driving spearheads past our lines. They’re about to turn this from a battle of fortified positions into a war of maneuver, of movement, where their mobility and their balloons will be even more decisive than they’ve been to this point.”
“So what do you propose to do?” Saintahvo grated.
“There’s only one thing I can do, Your Eminence.” Rainbow Waters met the archbishop inquisitor’s furious gaze levelly. “If I don’t order the immediate retreat of every man north of Gleesyn, the heretics will drive northwest, cut them off, and do to them exactly what they’ve just done to Sairmeet. But once I evacuate that end of the Ferey River Line, there are no other suitable defensive positions short of Mhartynsberg. Indeed, given the heretic force at Four Point’s threat to the Holy Langhorne at Transyl, it may prove necessary to withdraw all the way to that city. At the very least, I believe it would be necessary to dispatch Archbishop Militant Gustyv and his entire remaining force to hold that position.”
“That’s over seven hundred miles from here!” Saintahvo blurted. “And if you retreat past Mhartynsberg, you surrender the entire Barony of Charlz and Sardahn to heretics and demon-worshipers!”
“And if I do not retreat, Your Eminence, then my army—and yours—will be destroyed. At which point there will be no organized force to defend anyone else against heretics and demon-worshipers.”
“And have you discussed this with Bishop Merkyl?” Saintahvo demanded.
“I have. And it’s only fair to admit that he felt much as you appear to feel, initially at least. In the end, however, I believe he recognized the unfortunate but inescapable logic of my analysis.”