Hell's Foundations Quiver (12 page)

*   *   *

The explosions weren't simultaneous. That would have been expecting the impossible. But there were over a dozen of them, spread over a window of less than three minutes, which was very respectable timing … and a vast relief for all concerned. Especially for the engineers who'd placed the charges. They'd felt a certain trepidation at the knowledge that the fuses inside those charges had been lit even before the ominous, pitch-sealed packages were handed to the men responsible for putting them where they belonged before they blew the hell up.

Ehdwyrd Howsmyn and his minions had provided the engineers with a demolition fuse—a variant on the improved metallic time fuses he'd introduced for smoothbore artillery shells the year before—for those moments when it wasn't expedient to simply light a length of quick match and run for cover. Essentially, it was a solid, disk-shaped bronze casting whose upper surface bore a spiraling groove or channel packed with a very slow-burning compound that crept along the channel at a rate of only a foot an hour. It was sealed with a special varnish, then covered with a protective tin lid marked in increments, each equal to two minutes' burning time, which followed the line of the channel. When it was time to emplace the charge, an awl was punched through the tin at the appropriate time—up to a maximum of two hours—and flame was applied.

In theory, it provided a reasonably accurate—and reasonably
safe
—timing device. The only problem was that none of the engineers in question had ever before actually worked with the things, and no one could have blamed them for approaching their task a bit gingerly. Now they stood on the river bank, Sergeant Edwyrds still wrapped in a thick cocoon of blankets and leaning on Platoon Sergeant Tyllytsyn, and cheered each white-and-brown, mud-stained column of water as it erupted in the predawn gloom.

*   *   *

“I do believe that's our signal, Crahmynd,” Halcom Bahrns said, leaning in through the conning tower door as the final explosion roared. “I think we can proceed as planned, assuming that's convenient.”

“Aye, Sir!” The flash of a white-toothed smile was just visible in Petty Officer Crahmynd Fyrgyrsyn's luxuriant brown beard.

“Ahead half please,” Bahrns continued, glancing at the telegraphsman as Fyrgyrsyn turned the wheel, bringing
Delthak
around in a slow circle to point upstream.

“Ahead half, aye, Sir!”

The telegraphsman swung his polished brass handles and the ironclad quivered as her twin screws turned faster.

Bahrns stepped back onto the bridge wing while she gathered speed and folded his arms atop the bridge wing rail as white water began creaming back from her blunt bow. He could see quite a bit better in the slowly strengthening light—well enough to pick up landmarks on either bank above the mist—and he grunted in satisfaction as he realized
Delthak
was almost exactly on course. Not that accurate navigation would help a lot if Admiral Hywyt had gotten his calculations wrong. It was entirely possible he was about to damage his vessel severely, perhaps even sink her, although that was unlikely. Even if he did, the river was shallow enough that refloating her should be fairly simple, and it was far more likely those closely spaced explosions had shattered the sunken river barges as planned. In fact, he could already see broken sections of planking spinning downstream to meet him. Given that
Delthak
displaced twelve hundred tons and would be moving at approximately six knots when she reached the barrier, she should shoulder her way through whatever remained without too much trouble. The biggest risk, actually, was that one of her propeller blades might hit something big enough to damage it, and repairing
that
would be far more difficult than merely floating her once more. If she cleared the barrier, on the other hand, the Army of the Seridahn would suddenly find itself in what Emperor Cayleb liked to call “a world of hurt.”

*   *   *

Ahrnahld Bryahnsyn climbed back to his feet as the deluge of water, mud, shattered pieces of river barge, and dead fish finished thudding down around him. He didn't remember flinging himself facedown, although it had certainly been the right thing to do. Lieutenant Sandkaran hadn't, and he lay unconscious, bleeding heavily from a scalp laceration.

Bryahnsyn felt a distant pity for his fellow lieutenant, but it was buried under the sheer shock of that rolling series of explosions. At least he knew now what Kaillyt must have seen the night before, although Shan-wei only knew how the heretics had managed to get boats or swimmers across that icy expanse of riverwater.

He was still in the process of working out
why
they'd managed it when a fresh thunder—this one the explosion of hundreds of mortar bombs and angle-gun shells—crunched down on the Army of the Seridahn's defenses like the heel of Chihiro's war boot. He crouched, wheeling towards the sound of the guns, then jerked back towards the river as something screamed impossibly.

A blazing limb of the sun reached above the horizon, touching the low-lying river mist—swirling in torment from the force of the explosions—with rose and gold. That was all he saw for a moment, but then something moved above the mist, like an island rolling arrogantly upriver, contemptuous of the current which tried to stay its progress.

The ironclad surged towards the cleared gap, huge and black, impossibly long guns protruding from its sides and across the front of its broad casemate, screaming its fury in a thick, white plume of whistle steam. A man in a watch coat stood on one bridge wing, peering upstream through one of the heretics' double-barreled spyglasses, and smoke streamed from its tall funnels. A growing mustache of white wrapped itself around the ironclad's stem, and as he watched, its bow smashed a splintered length of wreckage aside.

It went charging past, and he and his men clapped their hands over their ears as the dreadful shriek of the whistle crashed over them.

*   *   *

Bugles sounded high and urgent, drums thundered, and Major Failyx Sylvstyr burst out of his hut in his shirtsleeves, hatless, napkin still clutched in one hand. His head whipped around to the southwest, where the bellow of enemy artillery laid a fiery surf of explosions, shrapnel, and shell fragments across the Army of the Seridahn's deeply entrenched front, and his jaw clenched.

That bombardment was entirely too ferocious to be anything other than the prelude to a serious attack, and he wondered how well the dugouts and entrenchments were standing up to it. They were considerably stronger than the ones which had protected Cheryk, but were they strong
enough?
The heretics' rifled guns—of which, thankfully, they seemed to have relatively few—had far more penetrating power and heavier bursting charges than anything his own twelve-pounders could produce. The engineers had done their best to dig deep enough and pile dirt and sandbags high enough to give the infantry a decent chance of surviving, but only time would tell whether or not they'd succeeded.

As one of the Army of the Seridahn's senior artillery commanders, Sylvstyr had been briefed on the new “Fultyn Rifles” which were supposed to become available “any day now.” He'd believe they were coming when he actually saw one, but he hoped desperately that they really existed and might even perform as promised. He was proud of his gunners, of their efficiency and determination, yet that pride only made him even more bitterly aware of how outclassed their weapons were. And if the stories about Guarnak were true, nothing the Royal Dohlaran Artillery currently had could hope to stop the heretic ironclad if it got loose on the upper river. That was a point of significant importance to Failyx Sylvstyr, because it was his regiment that Sir Fahstyr Rychtyr had dug in atop the river bluff to keep just that from happening.

Sylvstyr didn't know how he'd drawn the short straw, but he'd done the only thing he could: saluted and then emplaced his guns behind the thickest earthen parapets he could throw up. In addition, he'd built four-foot-thick walls of sandbags between guns, putting each of them in its own protected bay, and roofed the entire position with heavy logs and four more feet of earth. Building those works in the midst of a cold, rainy South March winter had been no easy task, but at least—

Something shrieked, shrill enough to be heard even through the heretic guns, the drums, and the bugles. Failyx Sylvstyr had never heard anything like it in his life, yet he knew instantly what it had to be.

He turned back to the river, and his mouth was a thin, bloodless line as the ugly black carapace of the heretic ironclad surged through the golden glow of river mist, trailing twin banners of smoke.

“Stand to!
Stand to!
”

He heard other voices repeat the order. Then more bugles were sounding, calling his regiment to war, and he flung himself into the heavily sandbagged battery command post with a silent prayer to Langhorne and Chihiro.

*   *   *

“There's the battery, Sir. 'Bout six points on the larboard bow.”

Captain Bahrns swung his double-glass to the indicated bearing and grunted.

“Got it. Good eyes.”

“Thank'ee, Sir!”

The lookout's pleasure at the compliment was obvious, but most of Bahrns' attention was focused on the battery itself. If their spy reports were as accurate as usual, it was likely to prove a tough slabnut to crack. On the other hand, his breechloaders had been designed to crack nuts just like it.

“Clear the bridge!” he commanded, still peering at the raw earthen face of the enormous battery. It was high enough its guns might just be able to score on the thinner armor of the decks and casemate roof, but the angle would be shallow if they did. “Inform Master Blahdysnberg that we'll be needing his gunners soon,” he continued. “And bring her a point to starboard, if you please!”

Acknowledgments came back, and he felt the lookouts moving past him through the conning tower door. He stood where he was for a moment longer as
Delthak
swung slightly away, presenting her broadside more fully to the battery. Then it was his turn, and he stepped over the raised coaming and swung the armored door shut. One of the lookouts dogged the latches, and he nodded his thanks and stepped across to the forward vision slit on the larboard side.

The first furious gouts of gunsmoke blossomed from the heavily dug-in field guns, and he raised an eyebrow in ungrudging respect. They were quick off the mark, those gunners, and
Delthak
's armor rang like a hammered anvil as twelve-pounder round shot ricocheted from her casing.

“Slow to one-quarter,” he said. There was no point dodging about, and the lower speed would improve his own gunners' accuracy.

“One-quarter speed, aye, Sir!” the telegraphsman sang out, and Bahrns stepped to the voice tube, uncapped it, and blew down it to sound the whistle at the other end.

“First Lieutenant!” Pawal Blahdysnberg's voice acknowledged.

“I believe it's time you earned your princely salary, Master Blahdysnberg. You may open fire when ready.”

“Aye, aye, Sir!”

Bahrns let the voice pipe cover snap shut and stepped back to the vision slit just as HMS
Delthak
's six-inch rifles spoke in anger for the very first time.

*   *   *

Major Sylvstyr felt a fresh, fierce surge of pride. Even surprised by the ironclad's appearance, his gunners had gotten off their first salvo before the heretics could fire. The waterspouts clustered around the ironclad were proof they'd taken time to aim, as well, and at least nine or ten had scored direct hits.

Which appeared to have been just as effective as the hits Bishop Militant Bahrnabai's gunners had registered at Guarnak.

He caught his lower lip between his teeth, peering out the observation slit through his spyglass, and his heart sank like a stone as he got his first really good look at his opponent.

Whatever those run-out guns were, they
weren't
the thirty-pounders the ironclad had used against Guarnak. Those barrels were longer than any gun he'd ever heard of, which suggested they were even more powerful than he'd feared. But how in Shan-wei's name did something that long run back in to reload? He couldn't imagine how it might be done, but however they did, the rate of fire must be incredibly slow. For that matter, how did they swab out and extinguish the sparks from the last round before loading the charge for the next into the muzzle? And—

The ironclad fired.

The muzzle flash was incredible, a bubble of fire raging out above the river's surface, burning away the mist, laying a ripple pattern of shockwaves across the water. The volcanic eruption of smoke was enormous, and it was
brown
—dark, dense, thick
brown
smoke!

That thought had just begun to register when six six-inch shells struck their targets almost simultaneously, and Sylvstyr staggered to their earthquake arrival.

Sweet Langhorne! How the hell much powder are those things
filled
with?!

The shells drove deep before they exploded, and even black powder could blow an enormous crater when there were eleven and a half pounds of it in each shell. At six thousand yards,
Delthak
's armor-piercing shells would have penetrated four inches of solid, face-hardened steel armor. She wasn't firing armor piercing … but the range was less than two hundred yards, and she certainly wasn't firing at face-hardened armor.

One of her six shells drilled into the face of the bluff below the battery and ripped its hole harmlessly into the inoffensive dirt and clay. But the other five struck the parapet face, and Failyx Sylvstyr discovered that he hadn't made it thick enough, after all.

*   *   *

Shell bursts erupted along the shore, and Bahrns showed his teeth as the earthwork between two of the gun embrasures blew heavenward in a vortex of fire, smoke, and dirt. The embrasure to the right of the point of impact disintegrated, and he thought he could see the muzzle of that field gun buried in the spill of earth and ruptured sandbags. He wasn't sure about the second gun; it might have survived, if its crew was unreasonably lucky. But there was no question about one of
Delthak
's other shells. It landed almost directly under a third twelve-pounder's barrel and the explosion ripped open its emplacement and threw the shattered gun high into the air.