Hell's Foundations Quiver (111 page)

“Lights on the larboard bow!”

The announcement was relayed to the quarterdeck, and Ahbaht sprang up into the mizzen shrouds to gain more height and peered in the indicated direction. He found the lights quickly—masthead lights well above the sea and a row of illuminated gunports dipping in and out of sight as the two ships rose and fell relative to one another—and his jaw tightened. The other ship was no more than a mile downwind, which was perilously close. If there'd been even a trace of moon tonight, her lookouts
must
have seen his galleons' sails against it. But there was no moon, and he watched the lights unblinkingly.

If the commander of that convoy had been given any hint that the Imperial Charisian Navy was anywhere in his vicinity, not one of those lights would have been lit, Ahbaht thought. But he
didn't
know that. Indeed, he had every reason to believe there were no Charisian galleons east of Claw Island, and even if that hadn't been the case, the odds against Charisians stumbling into contact with him in the middle of the night were staggering. Ahbaht wasn't one bit surprised by his ships' illumination; given what he knew, it only made sense to light them up in order to help them maintain station on one another in the darkness.

The diminutive Emeraldian wondered if that convoy commander's superiors would share that opinion if he lived long enough to file an after-action report.

After a moment, he was certain: the other galleon was heading northwest, on an almost exactly reciprocal course. That was good … as long as she kept going, at any rate. Their relative motions would let him sweep in astern of her sooner. On the other hand, the convoy was headed almost directly towards Baron Sarmouth's main force, which also meant the Dohlarans would run into Sarmouth more quickly. And that would shave time
off
of how long Ahbaht had to get into position.

He climbed back down to deck level, where only the masthead light was visible, and his brain whirred as he computed relative ship speeds, probable positions for the transports he hadn't yet seen, and the strength of the wind. After a moment, he felt Pymbyrtyn standing at his shoulder and turned his head.
Vindicator
's captain's expression was invisible in the darkness, but Ahbaht knew he was staring at that illuminated masthead with hard, hazel eyes. There was a reason Sarmouth had assigned
Vindicator
and
Broadsword
to their part of the mission. If Captain Kahrltyn's
Firestorm
's damages had been less extensive, she would have formed part of Ahbaht's division as well instead of remaining anchored in Rahzhyr Bay to continue her repairs.

“How much longer do you think, Sir?” Pymbyrtyn's Tarotisian accent was more pronounced than ever, and something
hungry
lurked in the depths of his voice.

“Probably not long enough,” Ahbaht replied softly. “I'll take every minute we can get.”

“Understood, Sir. But—”

Pymbyrtyn broke off with a shake of his head, and Ahbaht nodded in understanding.
Vindicator
's commander knew they needed all the time they could steal to get into position, yet he was as eager to be about it as Ahbaht himself.

“Another ten minutes, Lywelyn,” he said, touching Pymbyrtyn's elbow lightly. “Another ten minutes. That's how long we need to come in cleanly behind that bastard. If they'll just give us that long, I'll be a happy man.”

*   *   *

“Ship on the larboard bow!”

The sudden, startled shout came down from
Tide
's masthead. Cahnyr Ahlkofahrdoh spun towards the mainmast, eyes widening in astonishment. The lookout had to be imagining things! There couldn't possibly be a—

“
Galleon
on the larboard bow!” the lookout bawled. Then, a moment later, “Oh, Sweet Langhorne!
Many
galleons on the larboard bow!”

“Clear for action!” Ahlkofahrdoh shouted. “
Clear for action!
Someone call the Captain!”

For just an instant, nothing happened. Then the drums began to roll, ripping startled shouts from
Tide
's crew, and bare feet pattered across planking as the ship's company rolled out of its hammocks and dashed for its action stations.

This is impossible
, a voice like ice said in Ahlkofahrdoh's mind.
It's not
possible!
No one could sail straight to us in the middle of the frigging dark!

Or at least no one could do it without supernatural aid, he thought, and felt the hairs on the back of his neck trying to stand on end.

*   *   *

The shouts of alarm were faintly but clearly audible, and Sir Dunkyn Yairley grunted in mingled satisfaction and irritation. He and the rest of his column had covered almost four miles since sighting the convoy's lights. He'd hoped to get even closer—preferably clear across the Dohlarans' bows before he was spotted—yet he'd always known the odds were against that. Even though he knew precisely where his opponents were, his ability to communicate with his captains was too cumbersome, too limited, for him to achieve the exact placement he'd wanted. What he had would simply have to do … and, in fairness, it ought to be good enough.

“Well, they know we're here, Rhobair,” he said calmly to his flag captain. “Let's shed a little light on the subject.”

“Aye, aye, Sir!”

*   *   *

Captain Frahnchesko Ohkamohto dashed out onto the main deck and raced up the short ladder to
Tide
's raised poop deck. Bangs, thumps, the squeal of gun trucks, and volleys of orders filled the night as his men cleared for action. They were as well drilled a crew as any captain could have asked for, yet he heard—and felt—the edge of confusion as they raced to prepare for battle, and he couldn't blame them for it. This had to be a mistake—it
had
to be! There was no way the heretics could
really
be out there and—

Something hissed and shrieked its way into the night, rising in a pillar of flame from less than a mile away, and Ohkamohto swore viciously. He'd read the Army of Shiloh's after-battle reports, or as much of those reports as he'd been able to get his hands on, at any rate. That had to be one of the heretics' rockets, and if it was, when it burst, it was going to—

Then
another
rocket howled heavenward, this time from starboard, well to the east and downwind of
Tide
's position. They soared upward, arcing toward one another, dazzling the eye, killing any night vision. And then they burst in rapid succession, and the pitiless, eye-tearing light of the heretics' flares blazed down from above.

*   *   *

Sir Bruhstair Ahbaht's slitted eyes glowed in the parachute flares' brilliant illumination. The first rocket had come from
Destiny
; the second was from HMS
Intrepid
, one of the ICN's schooners.
Intrepid
's skipper wasn't exactly where he was supposed to be—not surprisingly, given that the precise location of the Dohlaran convoy had been impossible to predict when his ship was sent off—but he was close enough. He'd seen
Destiny
's rocket launch and fired his own promptly, hopefully after taking due precautions to avoid setting his ship's sails alight with its exhaust. Now it burst in splendor, stripping away the darkness and telling the Dohlarans there were enemies to the east of them, as well.

Of course, there weren't very
many
enemies to the east of them, but there was no way they could know that, was there?

“There!” he said, pointing as the flares showed him the single Dohlaran galleon whose lights
Vindicator
had already sighted.
Vindicator
had let the other ship sail past her, then Pymbyrtyn had worn ship to follow her, still upwind and on her larboard quarter while the other ships of Ahbaht's division continued to the south for another fifteen minutes. By now, they would have turned almost straight downwind, running for the transports whose masthead lights
Vindicator
's lookouts had finally sighted almost twenty minutes ago. Ahbaht would have preferred to be with them, but
Vindicator
had a different task to see to.

Estimating the enemy ship's size accurately was all but impossible under the current conditions, but she had at least two armed decks, and if he'd been the Dohlaran commander, he'd have placed one of his more powerful units in that spot. She was a mile and a half to windward and perhaps that far northwest of the transports, perfectly positioned to run down to them with the wind in case of emergency.

Now
Vindicator
turned sharply to starboard in a smother of white foam and a boom of canvas, coming onto the wind and bringing her larboard broadside to bear on the Dohlaran ship from a range of just over six hundred yards.

“Engage the enemy, Captain Pymbyrtyn,” Sir Bruhstair Ahbaht said coldly.

*   *   *

Captain Sir Lywys Audhaimyr was sound asleep in his cabin when the first Charisian rocket screeched into the heavens, but HMS
Riptide
's company was as well trained as any crew anywhere. By the time he reached his cabin door, the drums were beginning to roll; by the time he reached the deck, breeching tackle was being cast off, gunports were opening, and powder monkeys were already dashing for the magazines.

And by the time his eyes found the blazing Charisian flares, hanging like curses above the sea, HMS
Vindicator
was already turning across his stern at a range of six hundred yards, hidden in the darkness while his own ship stood out starkly against the flares and with every gun run out.

“Sail on the weather quarter!
Sail on—!
”

*   *   *

“Fire as you bear!” Lywelyn Pymbyrtyn barked.

The range was long, even for Charisian gunners, but the Dohlaran galleons' illuminated stern windows were about as visible as a target could be and
Vindicator
's gun crews had been waiting for this moment ever since the Kaudzhu Narrows. They took their time to do it right. Division officers and gun captains waited, making certain every gun was fully prepared, judging the ship's motion, then—

“Fire!”

The powerful galleon's broadside tore the night apart like an erupting volcano.

*   *   *

Despite all of the gunners' skill and all of their meticulous preparations, “only” eleven of
Vindicator
's thirty-pounder shells found their target. But those shells crashed into
Riptide
while the Dohlaran crewmen were still racing to their stations, still trying to cope with the paralyzing surprise. It wasn't a perfect raking broadside; the angle was too acute for that. But it was close enough, and they arrived like demons, howling out of the night to rip into the ship, and exploded with all the fury of Shan-wei herself.

Captain Audhaimyr's ears cringed under the roar of explosions, and hard on their heels he heard the screams of wounded and dying men.

“Hard to starboard and clear for action!”
he shouted. “Come on, boys! Get those guns cleared away—
now!
”

Riptide
began to swing to starboard, turning her vulnerable stern away from her foe, and he heard scattered shouts of acknowledgment from the gun crews. But even as he urged them on, he knew it was futile. The turn would take too long, and it took at least fifteen minutes to clear for action from a standing start. A well-trained crew might manage it in as little as ten, but only if they knew the evolution was coming. Surprised in the middle of the night, with absolutely no warning, they'd be lucky to do it in twenty, and
Riptide
didn't have twenty minutes.

Another savage broadside screamed across the water, trailing the red streaks of burning fuses, and HMS
Riptide
shuddered in agony as the exploding shells savaged her.

*   *   *

“Captain!
Captain Vahrnay!
”

Horayshyo Vahrnay opened his remaining eye as someone shook his good shoulder. It took what seemed an eternity for him to rouse in the foul, stinking hellhole of
Prodigal Lass
' hold. Then he coughed, cleared his throat, and spat.

“What?” he asked. “What is it, Zhaspahr?”

Zhaspahr Shewmakyr had been HMS
Vortex
's third lieutenant. He was also the second-ranking prisoner after Vahrnay himself. Only nine officers—three of them midshipmen—had survived to reach Gorath Bay. Vahrnay knew more than that had been captured initially, but the others had died of their wounds after the battle, and Shewmakyr was the only one of the survivors who hadn't been severely wounded. Instead, he'd had the misfortune to be knocked out by a falling block when
Vortex
's mizzen mast went over the side. He hadn't recovered consciousness until the second day after the battle. And even then—

“Gunfire, Sir!” Shewmakyr's urgent voice cut through Vahrnay's wandering thoughts like a waterpowered bandsaw.

“Gunfire?!”
Vahrnay thrust himself upright, his right hand—the only one he still had—sliding in the noisome filth produced by men left permanently chained to the deck. He almost fell, but Shewmakyr's grip on his shoulder prevented that.

Surely the lieutenant must be mistaken! There was nothing left under the Charisian flag to be firing at the Dohlarans. It must have been thunder. Trapped down here, with the hatches battened, it was impossible to see the sky or evaluate the weather, after all, and—

Horayshyo Vahrnay froze as he, too, heard the long, rolling cascade of explosions which could never be mistaken for anything else by anyone who'd ever heard it.

*   *   *