Hell's Foundations Quiver (63 page)

The deepwater bay, a pocket of water twelve miles across on Talisman's west coast, offered a secure, almost totally sheltered anchorage. Protected from easterly winds by the bulk of Talisman itself, it was shielded from the north and west by even smaller, half-awash islets and rocky, barely submerged shoals which formed a natural breakwater. The mainland of Howard, less than ninety miles to the southeast, provided a bulwark against bad weather from that direction, as well. Talisman's unforgiving terrain and the treacherous band of shoals stretching around its circumference everywhere outside Rahzhyr Bay made the bay itself the only practical spot for troop landings, which promised to make the island an extraordinarily tough defensive target, as well. In many ways, it was Claw Island in miniature, and it was also barely three hundred miles from Shwei Bay and under a thousand from the Royal Dohlaran Navy's base at Saram Bay in North Harchong's Stene Province. Perhaps even more to the point, it was barely four hundred miles from the advanced anchorage Sir Dahrand Rohsail had established for the RDN at Stella Cove on the large island of Jack's Land at the eastern end of the Harchong Narrows.

Kylmahn understood the logic behind acquiring Talisman. It would have made sense under any circumstances he could think of; after the near-hurricane gale which had ravaged the Narrows in late April, however, it had taken on even greater point.

“Do you think this is going to cause Rohsail to change his tactics, Sir?” the lieutenant asked after a moment.

“Hard to say.”

Ahbaht straightened and turned his back on the angle-glass. He folded his hands behind him and began pacing back and forth across his quarterdeck while raindrops bounced off his oilskins and Kylmahn kept station beside him.

“It ought to make him more nervous, anyway,” the captain continued. “I expect he'll feel at least some compulsion to keep more of his line of battle concentrated in case we get adventurous and decide to raid Jack's Land, for example. For that matter, he has to be worried about our attacking Saram Bay itself, given what Captain Haigyl accomplished in the Bay of Alexov.”

Kylmahn nodded. He suspected that Sir Bruhstair would have already sailed into Saram Bay and reduced it to rubble if he'd been allowed to. Unfortunately, Admiral Rohsail was clearly determined to protect what had become his primary forward base after the loss of Claw Island. Their most recent spy reports indicated that he had several score of the Dohlarans' new “spar torpedoes,” and he'd placed batteries on every rock and islet—and on floating batteries with massive bulwarks reinforced with anchor chains and sandbags—to cover the bay's entrances. The lieutenant knew Earl Sharpfield wasn't especially concerned by the possibility that even the heaviest Dohlaran guns could penetrate his two ironclads' armor, but he had a very lively concern over what might happen if the enemy managed to dismast one of them with spar torpedoes in the vicinity.

And the fact that Captain Haigyl damned nearly lost
Dreadnought
in that gale doesn't help any,
he reminded himself grimly.

There were those in the Imperial Charisian Navy—including himself, Kylmahn admitted—who were less than impressed by Captain Kahrltyn Haigyl's abilities as a seaman, yet he'd done himself and his command proud last month. The storm had moved in far too quickly for anyone to seek shelter, especially when the nearest available harbor had been Claw Island itself, and more than one of the Charisians in Earl Sharpfield's squadron had remembered the disastrous hurricane which had doomed Sir Gwylym Manthyr the
last
time a Charisian squadron entered the Gulf of Dohlar.

This one hadn't been as bad as that one, according to the handful of officers who'd survived both, but it had been quite bad enough for Daivyn Kylmahn. Two of Sharpfield's galleons had been lost. One had gone down with all hands, which meant no one knew exactly what had happened to her. The second had been driven ashore on Martyn's Point, barely three hundred miles from Saram Bay, with the loss of eighty-three men, although her consorts had rescued the rest of her company before the Harchongians realized what had happened. A third galleon, so badly damaged she'd had to be towed back to Claw Island, had been effectively written off Earl Sharpfield's effective strength. Unwilling to risk her at sea in her crippled state, he'd stripped her of her guns and turned her into an anchored receiving ship. One of the earl's schooners had vanished at sea in the same storm, along with her entire crew, and another had lost every spar, although she'd survived.

Dreadnought
had also survived, despite having found herself trapped in the gale's direct path. She had, however, suffered heavy damage aloft, and her armored hull had strained badly. All her damage was repairable, and the service galleons Sharpfield had brought along for the purpose were confident they'd have her back in full commission shortly. In the meantime, however, the earl's available strength had been severely reduced. He'd already dispatched five of his original unarmored galleons back to Chisholm, escorting his withdrawing transports to protect them against privateers, as his original orders had required. That had reduced his total galleon strength to twenty-eight, counting both ironclads. After the storm, he was down to only twenty-five, at least a half dozen of which had to be kept at Claw Island, and he had no intention of running any avoidable risk with his single remaining ironclad.

“I really hate to ask this, Sir—given how smoothly the landing seems to be proceeding, and all—but how soon do you think you'll be able to hand matters over to Commander Makgrygair?”

“Not soon enough to make me happy,” Ahbaht said a bit sourly.

The captain, Kylmahn knew, had a lively respect for Commander Symyn Makgrygair, the officer Sharpfield had selected to command the base facilities on Rahzhyr Bay. He also liked and respected Major Qwentyn Ohmahly, who would command the Marine garrison. It was scarcely their fault that things were proceeding … less than smoothly, but Sir Bruhstair's irritation was apparent.

“Actually,” Ahbaht said, stopping and peering up at the sodden masthead pendant, “I imagine we'll have most of the Marines landed by evening. Another five-day or so to sway the guns ashore and land supplies. Then another five-day, say, to get the batteries emplaced and make sure the anchorage's been properly surveyed. So I could probably make a fairly good case for turning command over to Makgrygair by the twelfth, let's say.”

Kylmahn brightened slightly. That was better than he'd expected, and he wondered if Ahbaht's own desire to be off and about was influencing the captain's estimate. He dismissed the thought almost instantly. Sir Bruhstair Ahbaht wasn't the sort to engage in wishful thinking, no matter how great the temptation.

The lieutenant pulled out his pocket watch and checked the time.

“With your permission, Sir,” he said, snapping the case closed, “I promised the Bo'sun I'd oversee that sail room survey this morning. I think he's concerned about the storm sails after last month.”

“I find myself in rather strong agreement with him on that particular point,” Ahbaht said with a smile.

“Then I'll be about it, Sir.”

Kylmahn touched his chest in salute and strode off briskly. Ahbaht watched him with an approving smile, then shrugged and resumed his pacing once again.

In all fairness, Kylmahn had a point—it wasn't
really
going as badly as it seemed to him it was—and he strongly suspected that the real reason for his disgruntlement were the orders keeping him tethered here until the defensive batteries were in place, sighted in, and fully manned.

But once I
can
sign off on their readiness
.…

His lips twitched in a hungry smile at the thought.

Sir Dahrand Rohsail, in Sir Bruhstair Ahbaht's considered opinion, had entirely too good a grasp of his own responsibilities and his resources. Nothing he had could possibly stand up to
Thunderer
or
Dreadnought
in a ship-to-ship action. By the same token, any attempt to retake Claw Island could end only in disastrous defeat, and once Major Ohmahly's batteries were in place, any attack on Talisman Island would be equally costly. But if Rohsail wasn't stupid enough to match his own unarmored ships against heavy batteries, and if he couldn't engage the ironclads at sea, nothing prevented him from engaging any
other
Charisian ship he encountered, and he'd already destroyed three of Sharpfield's schooners. There were no reports of survivors from any of them, which might say something about Rohsail's willingness to offer quarter. It might just as easily say something about the Charisian Imperial Navy's unwillingness to
ask
for quarter from the Navy which had delivered Sir Gwylym Manthyr and his crews to the Inquisition. Ahbaht's mental jury was still out on that point, but there was no denying that Rohsail's ships' companies were well drilled and tough. And unlike any other Safeholdian fleet, they respected the Charisian Navy's reputation without being overawed by it. They were quite prepared to engage on anything remotely like equal terms, and that aggressiveness had severely hampered Earl Sharpfield's operations against the Gulf of Dohlar's merchant shipping.

Once Talisman was secured and ready to support the earl's light cruisers, and once
Dreadnought
was returned to service, Ahbaht and Haigyl would take themselves off to Saram Bay to do a little something about that unhappy state of affairs. With Talisman to fall back on for supplies, fresh water, and shelter from bad weather, they should be able to maintain an effective blockade of the bay. For that matter, one of them might keep watch over Saram Bay while the other did the same for Jack's Land. With any luck, they'd catch all or a substantial portion of Rohsail's galleons in the harbor when they began patrolling the approaches. If the Dohlaran wanted to come out and fight, that would be fine with Ahbaht. And if he
didn't
want to come out and fight, his ships could sit at anchor and rot while Sharpfield's cruisers wreaked havoc on the commerce they were supposed to be protecting.

We'll get the job done, one way or another
, the captain promised himself.
It may not be pretty, and it damned well won't be as
quick
as we'd hoped it would, but we'll get it done. And once the
King Haarahlds
are ready, that won't be the
only
thing we get done, either
.

 

.III.

The Temple, City of Zion, The Temple Lands

“Archbishop Wyllym, Your Grace,” the Schuelerite under-priest murmured as he ushered Wyllym Rayno through the mystic sliding door of Zhaspahr Clyntahn's office. The office walls' ever-changing mirror of God's handiwork showed a forest glade today, the straight white and gray trunks rising from a drift of ground mist as golden bars of sunlight shone down through holes in the canopy. Another golden streamer, from no discernible source, struck down to illuminate Clyntahn's actual work space, distant birdsong and wyvern whistles came quietly, quietly from the forest, and every so often a nearbadger or some other small creature scurried through the hushed stillness of that woodland cathedral.

No one seemed to notice. The Grand Inquisitor only responded to the announcement with his customary grunt of acknowledgment and jabbed an index finger at the chair on the other side of his desk. The under-priest disappeared, the door closed once more behind him, and Rayno seated himself obediently, folded his hands in the sleeves of his cassock, and regarded his superior calmly.

“You wished to see me, Your Grace?”

“No, I damned well didn't
wish
to see you,” Clyntahn growled. “There are a hell of a lot of other things I'd wish for before
that!
Unfortunately, what I wish and what I need are two different things at the moment.”

Rayno allowed himself a slight nod of acknowledgment. The Grand Inquisitor snorted, yet he seemed uncharacteristically loath to come to the reason he'd summoned the archbishop. He straightened a sheaf of notes on his desk, then adjusted the pen holder on his blotter, before he finally tipped back in his chair and regarded the Order of Schueler's adjutant.

“I'm worried about Maigwair,” he said abruptly, and paused, obviously inviting a response.

“In what way, Your Grace?” Rayno asked obediently, and Clyntahn's face tightened.

“He's accepted that Wyrshym can't retreat—for the moment, at least—but he's one hell of a long way from being happy about it and I'm none too sure he won't do what he can to get Wyrshym's orders changed. Or even to quietly circumvent them, if he thinks he can get away with it! And he might just decide he
could
get away with it, because I doubt he's the only member of the Army of God who feels that way, and he knows it. All any of them can see is the frigging
battlefield
. Not one of them seems to understand what's really at stake here, not the way you and I do! For all I know, it might even make some sort of
military
sense to let Wyrshym retreat—assuming he could, under the circumstances, and I'm not so sure it would be possible in the first place!—but giving that ground would be disastrous for the cause of crushing the heresy in Siddarmark. What
really
matters beside accomplishing that?”

Rayno nodded, partly in sincere agreement and partly in understanding of the real cause of at least half of Clyntahn's ire. Despite any effort on Inquisitor General Wylbyr's part to put a good face on things, the Inquisition's own internal reports all pointed to the extent to which the inquisitor general's own inquisitors had allowed the rigor with which they approached the heretics in his holding camps to … erode. That was bad enough in the Grand Inquisitor's view; the possibility that every unsifted heretic in one of those camps might be rescued by their fellow heretics was intolerable.