Unless something new was added, of course.
In the meantime, the men cursing, bleeding, and dying at the sharp end of the stick still needed to be supplied, and Klymynt Hahrlys turned back from the distant thunder to the men laboring to get those supplies to them.
* * *
“Sorry, Sir.”
Sir Hauwerd Breygart, otherwise known as the Earl of Hanth, grimaced and waved his hand, actually grateful for once for the wet air’s damp cold as it eased the sting in his fingers.
“Firing squad at dawn, Dyntyn,” he said, giving his personal aide a stern look. “Make a note of that!”
“Yes, Sir. Of course, after you have me shot, you’ll have to find someone else who can find your maps for you.” Major Dyntyn Karmaikel smiled crookedly. “That’s my secret weapon, you know. I figure if no one else can find anything for you, you’ll have to keep me around.”
“Sneaky bastard, aren’t you?” Hanth stopped waving his hand and examined it carefully. There was no sign of blisters, although the back of his ring finger was undeniably red-looking.
“Let’s try that again, more carefully,” he said, and took the enormous mug of hot cherrybean tea from Karmaikel’s hand without further misadventure.
It wasn’t really the major’s fault the hot brew had slopped over the brim, and at least he’d kept it off the map spread out under the dripping tarp’s protection. Besides, as long as no fingers were burned entirely off, a little scorching around the edges was a small price to pay.
The earl sipped deeply, treasuring the warmth and the caffeine. His addiction to cherrybean was relatively new, acquired only after he’d come ashore in Thesmar. It wasn’t a common beverage in the Old Kingdom of Charis, although it was popular in Emerald. It was even more—one might almost have said ferociously more—popular in the Republic, however. That wasn’t hard to understand, given Siddarmarkian winters, and restocking the militia companies who’d held Thesmar in the teeth of everything the South March Temple Loyalists could throw at them had been a high priority once Charisian galleons were able to reach the port city. It was a staple at any senior officers’ meeting—especially early ones; Siddarmarkians in general seemed incapable of rational thought before their first cup of the morning. Under the circumstances, Hanth’s addiction had probably been inevitable, although he remained a little bemused by the fact that he’d actually succumbed to drinking it black. For a man who’d been brought up on milder teas and hot chocolate, that was going a bit far.
What happens when a man falls into bad company, I suppose, he reflected, wrapping both hands around the heavy earthenware mug to warm his palms. And there are worse habits to get into.
“Anything more from Brigadier Snaips?” he asked out loud.
“Not a full report, My Lord, but he sent an update right after breakfast.” Dyntyn grimaced and gestured at the the charcoal-gray sky’s low, drifting cloud belly and misty curtains of blowing drizzle. “Not too many heliograph or semaphore reports making it through this muck, so he had to send it by runner. His forward units are still counting noses, but he says the casualty totals aren’t going to be quite as bad as he thought. According to Colonel Brystahl, the platoon he thought had been completely overrun held its positions, instead. It sounds like it took more wounded than KIA, too, and its CO actually had twenty or thirty prisoners to hand over when he was relieved.”
“Good!” Hanth nodded vigorously.
Brigadier Ahrsynio Snaips’ 4th Brigade was his leading formation, and Colonel Fhranklyn Brystahl’s 7th Regiment had been 4th Brigade’s point for the last two five-days. It was a thankless task, especially in weather like this, and Hanth worked hard to rotate the duty. That was why 8th Regiment would be moving up past Brystahl’s men to take over the offensive next five-day. The miserable terrain was cramped enough—and logistics were poor enough—that a regimental frontage was about the widest advance the Army of Thesmar could support at the moment. Clyftyn Sumyrs’ Alyksberg Division, its Siddarmarkian pike companies made back up to strength and rearmed entirely with rifles, was deployed to cover both of his flanks, but they were rather far back from his spearhead—if such a slow, slogging advance could be called that—because they could move no farther forward than the repaired high road unless he wanted to starve his entire army.
Those same considerations had put a stop to the repeated turning movements he’d used early in the year, working around the Army of the Seridahn’s flanks to force Rychtyr to pull back instead of grinding straight into the Dohlaran’s prepared positions. He’d tried to continue them after the rains set in in earnest … for a while. His men referred to that unhappy experience as “Grimaldi’s Mud Bath,” which he had to admit was thoroughly reasonable of them. He could still have moved infantry and cavalry cross-country—slowly—and he knew the men would have done it for him, but moving the supplies to feed them was another problem entirely. For that matter, he was finding it damned hard to keep his advance grinding forward even along the direct line of the canal!
Off-road conditions were even worse than he’d expected, and he began most mornings by kicking himself for not having paid more attention to the local Siddarmarkians who’d tried to warn him about that. It wasn’t that he hadn’t believed conditions would be bad; he’d simply been unable—or, he acknowledged, unwilling—to think they could be this bad. In his defense, no one else had ever tried to move entire armies through the area, even during the wars between Desnair and the Republic, which meant they hadn’t experienced just how shallow the water table east of Fyrayth and the line of the Fyrayth Hills truly was. As a result, not even his Republic of Siddarmark Army allies had been able to warn him about the swamp the nice, flat ground would turn into as soon as he sent a few thousand infantry, cavalry, and supply wagons churning across it.
The Army of the Seridahn’s logistics, unfortunately, were rather better than his. All his intelligence reports indicated that the Royal Dohlaran Army remained short of trained men, and even shorter of new weapons for them to use, but they seemed to have ample stocks of food and ammunition, and the high road behind General Rychtyr remained intact. Worse, the terrain west of the Fyrayths was far better drained—and was a lot less swampy—and the canal was still operable to within thirty miles of his front line. Rychtyr’s troops might be wet and miserable, but they were well fed and full of fight and he was becoming more confident … or at least less timid about risking casualties of his own.
He’d also assigned command of the units in contact with the Army of Thesmar to General Clyftyn Rahdgyrz, arguably his most competent division commander … and certainly his most aggressive one. Last night’s counterattack launched under the cover of last night’s darkness, was typical of Rahgyrz, unfortunately. His men didn’t call him “The Slash Lizard” for nothing, and he’d chosen the conditions for it well. The low cloud base and rain had reduced the effectiveness of the Charisians’ illuminating rockets and the even newer “star shells” with which Admiral Sympsyn’s gunners been supplied. That had let Rahdgyrz’ men cross what both sides had taken to calling “no man’s land” with far fewer casualties than they ought to have taken, and the fighting had been close, nasty, and costly. Brystahl had retaken the lost ground, but the Dohlaran attack had cost him time, as well as men, which had undoubtedly been Rahdgyrz’ primary purpose. There’d be no further advance before tomorrow; given its casualties, 7th Regiment would need at least all of today just to reorganize.