Hell's Foundations Quiver (112 page)

“Heads below!”
someone screamed, and Captain Audhaimyr looked up just as
Riptide
's mizzen toppled like a weary forest giant. The entire mast tilted with slow majesty, and he swore again with hopeless venom. It must have been cut away below deck level by one of those Shan-wei-damned shells, and the rending, tearing sound as the main topgallant mast snapped and followed it was dreadfully clear even through the bedlam.

Three of his spar deck gun crews had gotten their guns cleared away, but they had no target. The Charisian galleon had forged steadily across
Riptide
's stern, guns blazing, pounding away, then ranged up beside her to leeward. The situation had been hopeless, and he'd known it, even before his ship lost her mizzen. Now, as he ducked to avoid the decapitating power of the snapping mizzen shrouds he saw his assailant, no more than two hundred yards clear of his ship. She'd backed her topsails, reducing speed, providing a steadier gun platform, and her guns belched flame, smoke, and death with metronome precision.

More of the heretics' rockets roared into the heavens, pouring their pitiless light down across a scene of horrors. At least three Charisian galleons hammered fire into Captain Kurnau's
Saint Ahndru
. She'd already lost her foremast, mainmast, and bowsprit, and although it was impossible to be certain at this range, it didn't look as if even one of Kurnau's guns was in action.

Two more of the Charisians had run alongside
Tide
, pounding her savagely from both sides simultaneously. Even as he watched, both of them crashed aboard Captain Ohkamohto's ship and grappling hooks flew. He couldn't hear the high-pitched, howling Charisian warcry—not from here, not through the unending bellow of the guns—but he didn't have to hear it to know what was happening aboard the escort's flagship. And after what had happened in the Kaudzhu Narrows, and given where the convoy had been bound, there would be precious little mercy behind that shrill, terrifying howl this night.

He looked around desperately, but the falling masts had taken
Riptide
's banner with it. He had no colors to strike, and he was none too sure the Charisians would have paid any attention if he'd had them.

“Fire!”
someone screamed. “Oh, dear God, boys!
She's taken fire!
”

Audhaimyr wheeled towards the cry and his belly turned into a knot of ice as he saw the first flames belching from the forward hatch.

“Abandon ship!” he shouted. “Abandon ship!”

Other voices took up the order, and men began plunging over the galleon's tall sides. Some of them—petty officers and senior seamen, for the most part—kept their wits about them well enough to cast floats to the men in the water. Others struggled to lower the surviving boats. But most of them simply went over the bulwarks or scrambled frantically out of her gunports, fleeing the madness and the terror … and the flames.

And even as they fled, the Charisian guns continued their pitiless thunder.

*   *   *

“My God,” Father Ahndyr Brauhylo murmured, signing himself with Langhorne's scepter, as the night astern of HMS
Truculent
dissolved into flaming chaos and nightmare.

The under-priest had no idea—couldn't imagine—how it could have happened so suddenly, with so little warning. One moment, it seemed, everything was calm, normal. The next instant those hideous blazing lights poisoned the heavens and the merciless, rolling broadsides began. Commander Urwyn Guhstahvsyn had obeyed his standing orders and immediately brought his ship about and headed southeast, back for the Trosan Channel, but
Truculent
was a transport galleon. No one had ever intended her as a genuine warship, just as no one had wasted the expense of a coppered bottom on her. The chance that she might outrun a Charisian galleon was minimal, to say the least. Even Brauhylo knew that.

“What's … what's happening now?” he asked.

“All due respect, Father,” Commander Urwyn Guhstahvsyn said flatly, “we're getting our arses kicked.
Tide
's done for,
Saint Ahndru
's a wreck, and
Riptide
's on fire. Must be at least twenty or thirty of the bastards, and it's only a matter of time until—”

The night in
front
of them tore apart in the sudden, rapid eruption of broadsides.

*   *   *

Captain Honshau Bryxtyn had clapped on every stitch of canvas he could when the northern horizon turned into a cauldron of fire and explosions. Unlike the other members of the escort, he'd actually had time to clear for action—and douse every light—yet he was under no illusions about what must have happened. He had no more idea than any other Dohlaran officer of
how
it could have happened, but the “what” of it was devastatingly clear.

He had no illusions about what would happen if he sailed his ship into the midst of that cauldron, either, yet he had no option. It was his duty, and it was at least possible HMS
Saint Kylmahn
would survive long enough to cover the flight of
Truculent
and
Prodigal Lass
.

“Ship on the larboard bow!”

Bryxtyn wheeled in the indicated direction and swore as the courses and topsails of a Charisian galleon loomed against the fire-sick night. The other ship was boring straight in, leaving him no option but to meet her.

“Three points to starboard!” he told his helmsmen, and
Saint Kylmahn
began to pivot away from the oncoming Charisian, opening her broadside firing arc.

“Off topgallants and royals!” he shouted, and men dashed aloft to reduce sail as
Saint Kylmahn
stripped down for combat.

*   *   *

“And now it's
our
turn,” Sebahstean Hylmyn murmured to himself.

He'd always been proud of his magnificent ship. Named for King Haarahld's flag captain at the Battle of Darcos Sound, HMS
Dynzayl Tryvythyn
mounted sixty-eight guns, including a pair of pivot-mounted eight-inch muzzle-loading rifles on her upper deck. Hylmyn knew
Dynzayl Tryvythyn
was outmoded, already left behind by the Imperial Charisian Navy's breakneck pace of innovation. Armor, steam, and breech-loading guns were the ICN of the future, and he knew that, too. But his ship's namesake had commanded the Royal Charisian Navy's flagship in the last galley battle in history. It was fitting that
Dynzayl Tryvythyn
should be here for this one, as well.

“Not until the range drops, Bryahn,” he said to Bryahn Mastyrsyn, his first lieutenant. “No more than half-musket shot. I want this over as soon as it's begun.”

His voice was flat, hard, and his eyes were cold.

“Aye, aye, Sir,” Lieutenant Mastyrsyn replied, and his voice was just as hard.

*   *   *

“Make more sail!
Make more sail!
” Father Tymythy Maikyn half shouted, brown eyes wild.

“Father, there's no more sail to make!” Rubyn Mychysyn shot back. He waved one arm at the
Prodigal Lass
' masts and yards. “This is a merchant galleon, not a warship! If you see any place I could set another sail, show it to me!”

He knew his voice was dangerously hard for anyone addressing any inquisitor, far less one who was a member of Ahbsahlahn Kharmych's personal staff, but he really didn't care. The chance that he might survive to face Father Ahbsahlahn's anger ranged from slim to none, in his considered opinion. Besides, he hadn't liked Father Tymythy from the instant the Schuelerite came on board.

Maikyn stared at him, face pale. Clearly the Charisian policy towards inquisitors was running through his mind, and Mychysyn was surprised by the vicious pleasure he felt at that thought. The murder of any priest was impious blasphemy, yet he'd discovered there were some priests he'd miss less than others.

Maikyn whirled away from him, staring back at the carnage astern of them. The firing had begun to fade, and Mychysyn glanced back, knowing what he was going to see. The outnumbered and outgunned escorts, taken by surprise out of a moonless night, had never stood a chance. One of them was heavily on fire and two more were motionless wrecks, with Charisian galleons hard alongside. The burning ship and the rockets, continuing to burst overhead at regular intervals, lit that vista of devastation with hideous clarity, despite the distance between them and Mychysyn's command.

He had no time to spare for what was happening behind them, however. Not with a pair of galleons locked in mortal combat looming up
ahead
of them. The Charisian combatant was clearly much larger and more heavily armed than
Saint Kylmahn
. Even if she hadn't been, her guns were better served, each of them getting off at least three shots for every two
Saint Kylmahn
fired in reply.

He had no doubt there were plenty of Charisian galleons—or schooners—bearing down on
Prodigal Lass
from the north. Any one of them could overwhelm his command in a heartbeat. She was armed with a grand and glorious total of twelve one-pounder wolves in swivel mounts along her rails, and those had never been meant to resist an enemy warship. They were there in case the prisoners chained in the transport's hold had managed to break loose somehow and storm the hatches.

“'Nother of the bastards, Sir!”

Mychysyn turned towards the shout and saw yet another Charisian galleon bearing down on
Truculent
from the northwest. The other transport was perhaps a mile upwind and three-quarters of a mile astern of
Prodigal Lass
, and the galleon swept down upon her like a storm.

*   *   *

“What are you going to do, Captain?” Father Ahndyr asked quietly, and Commander Guhstahvsyn turned to face him.

“That ship mounts at least fifty-six guns, Father,”
Truculent
's commanding officer replied, “all of them at least thirty-pounders.
We
mount eighteen, all of them twelve-pounders, and all we have for them are round shot. We can't fight them. Not and win.”

“That's not what I asked you, my son,” Father Ahndyr said. “I asked you what you were going to do.”

“You can't dump all of this on me, Father,” Guhstahvsyn said. “I'm this ship's captain. My decision is final. But you're Mother Church's Inquisitor.
You
speak for her, not me. And you know as well as I do what the heretics will do if you fall into their hands.”

“Yes, I do,” Brauhylo said, far more calmly than Guhstahvsyn could have spoken in his place. “I imagine I'll be rendering my account to God and the Archangels quite soon now,” the Schuelerite continued. “Whatever else, Captain, I won't be in any position to report you or your men for … lack of zeal.”

Guhstahvsyn looked at him, and the under-priest smiled sadly, almost gently. Then he traced the sign of Langhorne's scepter between them.

“Go with my blessing, whatever your decision, my son,” he said. “But if I were an officer of the Dohlaran Navy and not an inquisitor sworn to obey the Grand Inquisitor in all things, I would ask myself if I truly wished to stain my hands with the blood of the helpless. And I would also look to my own men's lives.”

He held Guhstahvsyn's eyes for another moment, then turned and headed down the companion towards his cabin. Guhstahvsyn watched him go, then drew a deep breath and turned to his first officer.

“Strike the colors and heave-to,” he said.

*   *   *

“You can't let these accursed heretics escape their just Punishment!” Father Tymythy shouted as the leading Charisian galleon bypassed
Truculent
, leaving Guhstahvsyn's command to her next astern, and bore down swiftly on
Prodigal Lass
.

“And just how do you suggest I prevent that, Father?” Rubyn Mychysyn demanded harshly.

“You've got wolves on the rails!” The Schuelerite waved one arm in a wild sweep indicating the swivel-mounted weapons. “Use them!”

“They'd be less than useless against
that!
” Mychysyn shot back, jabbing an index finger at the oncoming Charisian.

“Not against the galleon—against the heretics in the hold! Load them with canister!”

“You're insane,” Mychysyn said flatly. “They're mounted on the
bulwarks
, Father. I could sweep the decks with them, but there's no way anyone could aim them down into the hold! And even if we could, I can't think of a single thing which would be more likely to get my men massacred—and rightly so!”

“What does that matter beside our duty to
God?!
”

“I imagine it would matter quite a bit to their wives and children, Father. Besides,” he turned back to the Charisian galleon, already beginning to reduce sail as she came charging up to starboard, “there's no time for any of that lunacy.”

“Then blow the ship up—
burn
it!” the inquisitor demanded.

“There's no time to burn it, and probably not enough powder in the magazine—such as it is—to blow it up. And with all due respect, Father,” he didn't sound especially respectful, “I don't see any reason I should ask my lads to do anything of the sort. They're not inquisitors, are they? Killing accused heretics is
your
job, isn't it?”

Maikyn stared at him, cheek muscles quivering, then darted another look at the galleon, now less than two hundred yards away and closing quickly.

“You're right, Shan-wei take you!” he shouted suddenly, and reached into the pocket of his cassock.

Mychysyn had no idea where the priest had gotten the hand grenade. He'd never suspected Maikyn had anything of the sort, but now the Schuelerite snatched it out and dashed towards the main hatch. There was a lantern above the hatch, placed there so that the watch on deck could be sure the barred grating remained securely locked. Maikyn reached for that lantern, opening its hinged front to light the fuse of the grenade before he dropped it through the grating. The glass was hot enough to burn his fingers badly, but he scarcely even noticed. His lips drew back in a snarl of anticipation as he raised the hand grenade and—