Hell's Foundations Quiver by David Weber
He showed his teeth, and something between a chuckle and a snarl answered that thin smile.
“It helps that they haven’t—hadn’t—been keeping a very close eye on us here,” he continued. “Very considerate of them, that was. Of course, we owe Commander Lywys and Commander Cupyr a certain debt of thanks in that respect, as well.”
The snarl was a bit more pronounced this time. It also carried a note of profound satisfaction, and Cupyr, who was both young and amazingly blond and blue-eyed for an Emeraldian, colored ever so slightly. His Sojourn was the only survivor of the schooners which had sailed for Hahskyn Bay with Sir Bruhstair Ahbaht, and he’d taken that hard. The loss of his close friend Zheryko Cumyngs hadn’t made that any easier—the ICN’s small-ship captains tended to be a close, tight-knit fraternity—although there was scarcely anyone in Sarmouth’s squadron who hadn’t known someone who’d died—or, far worse, been captured—at the Kaudzhu Narrows. Grief hadn’t prevented Cupyr from doing his duty, however. In fact, it had sharpened his edge, and he and Commander Fraizher Lywys’ Foam had pounced on the pair of brigs the Royal Dohlaran Navy had sent to take a look at Rahzhyr Bay in the aftermath of that savage battle.
The Dohlarans had been considerably later getting around to that minor detail than a Charisian squadron commander would have been.
Sarmouth was grateful for that tardiness, yet he reminded himself not to confuse it with lethargy. Admiral Caitahno Raisahndo was a generally vigorous and capable officer, but he had a lot on his plate just now, and all of his intelligence reports agreed there couldn’t be any large number of additional Charisian galleons that far forward. Not yet. Even assuming there’d been enough of them at Claw Island for Earl Sharpfield to send them east in strength, the earl couldn’t have learned about Ahbaht’s defeat soon enough to have already dispatched them to Talisman Island. More to the point, Raisahndo had a fairly accurate estimate of what Sharpfield’s initial strength had been, and he knew exactly how many ships had been lost at the Kaudzhu Narrows. He also knew—courtesy of spies operating out of Port Royal—that no reinforcements had been dispatched from Chisholm, at least as of three five-days previously. Unfortunately for his intelligence estimates, however, Sir Ahlber Zhustyn knew all about the Port Royal spy. In fact, that spy had been carefully left in place while his counterpart in Manchyr had been quietly eliminated. As a result, even though Raisahndo knew exactly what hadn’t sailed from Chisholm, Corisande was rather a different matter. There was no way for any Dohlaran even to know Sarmouth and his squadron had departed Manchyr, far less that it had reached Claw Island and that “Empress Sharleyan’s orders” had inspired Sharpfield to send him forward as rapidly as possible.
By the time Raisahndo did get around to dispatching a pair of his light cruisers to check up on Talisman, Sarmouth had arrived, and he’d stationed his own light vessels—all of them, including Sojourn—to patrol as aggressively as possible on the island’s eastern approaches. Foam and Sojourn had been waiting, almost perfectly placed and with a favorable wind, when Raisahndo’s scouts finally arrived, and they’d captured both brigs after a short, vicious action.
Less than a third of the Dohlaran crews had been taken prisoner. That probably said a few unfortunate things about the Imperial Charisian Navy’s present attitude towards the Royal Dohlaran Navy, but there was little evidence the schooners’ companies had simply massacred people trying to surrender. It was more a matter of how … vigorously they’d gone about the business of boarding their enemies.
The consequence of their neat little engagement, however, was that Raisahndo still didn’t know—and couldn’t know, for five-days at the very least—that Sarmouth’s squadron had reached Talisman or how powerful it actually was.
“Since we don’t want them to realize we’re coming until we’re ready to invite them to our picnic,” the baron went on, “it would be very helpful if they don’t see us until then. Bearing that in mind, here’s what I intend.”
He nodded to Hektor Aplyn-Ahrmahk, who stood with a pointer in his good hand while Sylvyst Raigly and Trumyn Lywshai, Sarmouth’s secretary, held up a large, unrolled chart so that everyone in the cabin could see it. Lieutenant Aplyn-Ahrmahk put the tip of his pointer on the tiny symbol labeled “Talisman Island” and looked at his admiral expectantly.
“The Squadron will depart Rahzhyr Bay with the morning ebb,” Sarmouth said. “We’ll shape our course to stay well clear of Scallop Island, and we’ll time our transit through Whale Passage to pass between Cliff Island and Whale Island during the hours of darkness. That assumes, of course, that the wind allows us to do so, which it probably will.” Hektor’s pointer traced the line of the baron’s proposed course as the baron spoke. “We’ll have approximately twelve hours of darkness; with a normal westerly, we can make the entire transit in only ten. We’re most likely to be spotted by fishing boats, especially in our approach to Whale Passage. On the other hand, fishermen have a well-known aversion to encountering enemy warships—for that matter, any warships—at sea.”
The soft sound from his assembled officers was much more chuckle than snarl this time, and he smiled back at them.
“Just to be on the safe side, however, we’ll expect Commander Cupyr, Commander Lywys, and their associates to … shoo away any fishing boats that seem slow about taking to their heels. They’ll also be responsible for spotting those fishing boats before the fishing boats spot the rest of the squadron’s sails. It’s always possible someone will get a glimpse of us and get away from them, despite their best efforts. However, it seems most likely to me that the majority of the Dohlaran squadron is still in Hahskyn or South Shwei Bay, or—at worst, from our perspective—en route back from there.”
In fact, he knew from Owl’s SNARCs that all but five of the surviving Dohlaran galleons remained at anchor—most of them in the Yu-shai Inlet—while they awaited replacement personnel and the worst damaged underwent repair in Yu-shai itself.
“So even if someone spots us and runs for Jack’s Land or Saram Bay to report our presence, the word isn’t going to get to Admiral Rohsail—” at the moment, Sarmouth and his flag lieutenant were the only two Charisians in the Gulf of Dohlar who knew Rohsail had been too badly wounded to exercise effective command “—before we want it to. Even if it does, however, there’s no way he could have Dreadnought back in service under Dohlaran colors yet, and in her absence, I’m more than willing to encounter what’s left of his galleon fleet after Captain Haigyl and Sir Bruhstair got done with it.”
Heads nodded throughout the cabin with a certain grim satisfaction. Even without benefit of SNARCs, most of those officers could do the math for the Royal Dohlaran Navy’s probable losses and damages. Which wasn’t to say they didn’t approve wholeheartedly of their commanding officer’s precautions.
“Once we’ve passed Whale Island,” Sarmouth went on as Hektor’s pointer continued to move across the chart, “we’ll shape our course to the east.” Several people were leaning forward now, their eyes intent. “We’ll be penetrating farther into the Gulf than anyone’s gone since Admiral Manthyr withdrew from Trove Island. As of our last reports, the majority of the enemy’s shipping is using the Trosan Channel—” Hektor’s pointer swooped down to tap the hundred-and-forty-mile-wide stretch of water between the eastern tip of Hilda Island and the Dohlar Bank “—or staying even farther east and skirting the Dohlaran coast through the Fern Narrows. That’s probably due to the way in which Captain Ahbaht’s people have made themselves so thoroughly unpleasant in the western Gulf.”
He nodded slightly in Sir Bruhstair Ahbaht’s direction, and the diminutive Emeraldian nodded back. It was a stiff gesture, without the edge of relaxed humor which had characterized him before the Kaudzhu Narrows, but it also acknowledged the validity of Sarmouth’s analysis. There would undoubtedly be a lot of pressure for shipping patterns to move farther west again to shorten transit times now that Ahbaht’s squadron had been destroyed, but there would also be a lot of resistance. Charis stil
“My intention,” Sarmouth said, letting his eyes sweep the other officers’ faces, “is to position our galleon strength somewhere in this area.” Hektor’s pointer tapped the water midway between the northeastern tip of Hilda Island and the Fist of Schueler, the southernmost headland of the border state of Erech. “Rather than tip our hand prematurely by attacking any ports or revealing the presence of our main strength, we’ll begin by letting the schooners have their head in this area.” Hektor’s pointer swept a circle over the Dohlar Bank, Trosan Channel, and Mahthyw Passage. “I imagine their presence that far east will come as a nasty surprise to the other side, especially after the Kaudzhu Narrows. Hopefully they’ll have at least a five-day or so of good hunting before anyone gets himself well enough organized to send his own light cruisers or galleons to chase them away.
“Of course, someone will send those galleons to see to that chasing eventually. Most likely, they’ll draw a half dozen or so of them from the Dohlarans’ home fleet, and when they arrive, the first of our schooner captains to sight them will break and run. Right through here.”
Hektor’s pointer tapped the area between Hilda Island and the Fist of Schueler again, and there was no chuckle at all in the snarls that answered him.
Sarmouth smiled fiercely at his assembled captains, treasuring that sound. And treasuring even more something he knew but they didn’t about just who would be passing through the Trosan Channel about the time they got there.
.V.
Camp Chihiro, Hyrdmyn, Province of New Northland, Republic of Siddarmark
“Do you think they’re really coming, Sarge?”
Sergeant Laijah Kaspahrt of the Army of God stopped and turned to face the questioner. Private Tohmys Fhranklyn had just turned nineteen. He had untidy straw-colored hair, a prominent Adam’s apple, and a bad case of acne. He also had very worried brown eyes, and he licked his lips nervously as Kaspahrt looked at him expressionlessly.
“Is who really coming?” the sergeant asked after a long, slow moment, and the private’s Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed hard.
“Them, Sarge,” he said. And swallowed again, harder. “The … the heretics.”
“I think the only heretics you’d better be worrying about, boyoh, are the ones in there.” Kaspahrt jerked a thumb over his shoulder at the ragged clusters of prisoners inside Camp Chihiro’s fences. “You just let the Bishop and the Major worry about any other heretics. Got me?”
“Yeah, Sarge. I mean, sure!” Fhranklyn nodded in jerky agreement.
The sergeant held him with a cold, beady eye for another fistful of heartbeats, then nodded back much more firmly and resumed his walk. Behind him, young Fhranklyn turned to look disconsolately not at the camp’s inmates, but southeast, down the Gray Hill-Hyrdmyn High Road.
* * *
“Somebody just got on the wrong side of Sergeant Kaspahrt,” Private Ahntahn Ruhsail remarked. Lewshys Stahdmaiyr looked up from the not especially tasty sandwich he was eating and raised an eyebrow.
“Whatcha talking about?” he asked a bit indistinctly, and Ruhsail twitched his head at the pimple-faced private peering down the road.
“You want to bet Fhranklyn was dumb enough to ask Kaspahrt if the heretics’re about to come calling?” he asked.
Stahdmaiyr grunted, swallowed, and washed the mouthful down with a swig from a jealously hoarded—and none too good—bottle of beer.
“Nothing I wouldn’t wanna lose,” he said then. He stood and walked to the guard tower rail at Ruhsail’s side. “Boy’s ’bout four cards short of a full deck, you ask me. On t’other hand, though,” he scratched his chin thoughtfully, “hard t’ blame him fer worryin’, isn’t it?”
“Oh, I think that’s fair enough,” Ruhsail agreed. He looked to the southeast himself. From his higher vantage point he could look past the rudimentary defensive works Bishop Failyx had insisted the camp guards throw up outside the perimeter and see considerably farther down the high road than Fhranklyn could see from ground level. So far, there was nothing to see, however, and he was torn between gratitude for that absence of oncoming, vengeful heretics and resentment of the pincers of anticipation twisting him as he waited for them.
“Fair enough,” he repeated softly. “Fair enough.”
* * *
“So, everyone’s clear?”
Brigadier Dairak Bahrtalymu, CO, 10th Mounted Brigade of the 1st Corps of the Army of New Northland, scanned the faces of the other three officers gathered around his map. Major Stywyrt Malikai, his chief of staff, stood at his left shoulder. Colonel Mahkswail Veldamahn, CO of the 19th Mounted Regiment, and Colonel Saisahr Bailukhav, who commanded the 20th Mounted, Bahrtalymu’s second regiment, stood on the far side of the folding desk.
“I think so, yes, Sir,” Veldamahn said, glancing at Bailukhav. The other colonel was both four years older and senior to Veldamahn.
“And you, Saisahr?” Bahrtalymu asked.
“Clear, Sir.”
Bailukhav’s accent still sounded a bit strange in the Imperial Charisian Army. He was an Emeraldian, from the capital city of Manchyr itself, who’d been sent off to the Imperial Army by the late Prince Nahrmahn’s Uncle Hanbyl, the Duke of Solomon. One didn’t normally think of the words “Emeraldian” and “cavalry” in the same sentence, but Duke Solomon had been right about Bailukhav. He was tough, flexible-minded, and the sort of officer to whom mobility was second nature.
He also looked just a bit disgruntled at the moment, and Bahrtalymu didn’t really blame him. Of course Bailukhav wanted to be in at the kill, but it was just as important to circle wide of the objective and snap up anybody headed west, towards Cat-Lizard Lake and the Temple Boys. Well, towards the Harchongians now, really, but it was the same thing.
“It’s important that you and your boys cut the high road between Gray Hill and Traymos,” he said now. “And I want you keeping a sharp eye out to the west, too. So far the Harchongians haven’t shown any signs of rushing forward, but if the seijins’ reports are accurate, they’re probably under orders to move at least as far forward as Cat-Lizard, and that’s less than three hundred miles from Gray Hill. The last thing we need is for them to start feeling adventurous and us not realize they’re coming.”
“Understood, Sir.”
Bailukhav nodded just a bit more cheerfully as Bahrtalymu gently stressed the importance of his mission, and the brigadier turned back to Veldamahn.
“The main thing as far as you’re concerned, Mahkswail, is that we don’t want a bloodbath here. The Inquisitors are for the high jump, no matter what, and they damned well know it. Frankly, if one of them wants to cut his throat or hang himself before you get your hands on him, the bastards have my permission. But if they know they’re going to die anyway, some of them may decide to take as many of the prisoners—or of your boys—with them as they can. So I want you to emphasize the need for everybody to watch his arse. And remind them that for now, at least, the order’s to let any of the Temple Boys who want to give it up surrender.”
Neither colonel looked very happy at that, and Bahrtalymu shrugged.
“I don’t like it, either,” he said flatly.
His brigade had been the first Charisian troops into Camp Lairays at Hyrdmyn, and even Charisian discipline had wavered—snapped, actually, in a couple of cases—when his troopers saw the state of Camp Lairays’ inmates. General Sahmyrsyt had had a few stern words to say to Bahrtalymu about that, although to be fair, they’d been extraordinarily mild stern words compared to some of Sir Bartyn’s more famous and inventive tongue lashings. The general’s heart hadn’t really seemed to be in it.
“I don’t like
* * *
“Bishop Failyx is concerned about the state of your troops’ morale, Major,” Father Aizykyal Trynchyr said.
“Is he, Father?”
Major Zhefytha Chestyrtyn’s question came out almost mildly but his face tightened with anger. Trynchyr was Bishop Failyx Mahkgyvyrn’s second-in-command here at Camp Chihiro. The Schuelerite upper-priest was a fair-haired native Siddarmarkian with muddy blue eyes who was ten years older than Chestyrtyn and seemed to have about as much imagination as Chestyrtyn’s left bootheel.
And considerably less empathy than that.
“Yes,” Trynchyr said now. “More and more of your men are … creeping away in the middle of the night. That won’t do, Major. It won’t do at all.”
Chestyrtyn bit his tongue firmly against the temptation to point out that two-thirds of Camp Chihiro’s inquisitors had already crept away “in the middle of the night.” In fact, over half of the ordained clerics and at least that many of the lay brothers who’d been attached to Camp Chihiro were nowhere to be seen. Bishop Failyx wasn’t one of them, unfortunately, and he was determined that Chestyrtyn and his men—his remaining men—would defend the concentration camp to the death.
I suppose I should count myself fortunate that he hasn’t already ordered us to execute every single inmate, like those lunatics at Camp Fyrmahn. And this idiot’s worried about the troops “creeping away” like his own frigging inquisitors?
“I’ll make a personal inspection this afternoon and impress that upon all of them, Father,” he said, once he was confident he had control of his tone. “Was there anything else?”