Hell's Foundations Quiver (82 page)

Ahbaht's head snapped up. He shaded his eyes with one hand, looking up at the midshipman perched in the maintop, paging quickly through the signal book while his signalman assistant peered through a telescope at the eighteen-gun schooner five miles southeast of
Thunderer
, reading off the signal hoists.

“Number Eleven, Sir!” the midshipman called, his voice cracking slightly, and something clenched inside Sir Bruhstair Ahbaht.

Number Eleven was “Enemy in sight.”

*   *   *

“Cutlass
confirms
Lance
's signal, Sir,” Captain Mahgyrs said as Pawal Hahlynd came on deck. HMS
Sword
, Mahgyrs' command and Hahlynd's flagship, drove swiftly through the water, all sail set while the deck underfoot vibrated gently but perceptibly.

“Thank you, Ahlfryd,” Hahlynd acknowledged the report. “Any more detail from Commander Snelyng?”

“Not yet, Sir. But
Lance
is closing quickly. I'm confident Snelyng's going to have a more complete report for us shortly.”

Hahlynd nodded and walked to
Sword
's bulwark. He looked over the low-slung screw-galley's side at the water creaming away from its hull. The schooner-rigged vessel could come far closer to the wind than any square-rigged ship, and the twin screws spinning away at the ends of their crankshafts added at least four knots to her speed. When they
weren't
turning, their drag probably stole that much speed from her, even when they were locked in the vertical position behind their skegs. That wasn't the case just now, however, and he smiled thinly as he considered what that might mean in the next several hours. The day was hot, the light wind was turning increasingly fitful, and what little there was of it would favor his schooners far more than any square-rigged galleon. When the advantage of his screws was added to that equation.…

He'd heaved a sigh of relief when the semaphore messages from Symarkhan informed him the Charisians had turned back a full day before he'd reached the Hahskyn River himself. Yet that relief, for all its strength, had been flawed, as well. He was grateful the Charisians' mission to wreck the Symarkhan end of the Hahskyn-Varna Canal had failed, but their withdrawal had also meant there was very little chance even his screw-galleys were going to overhaul the retreating galleons. Still, there'd always been
some
chance, especially with Admiral Rohsail coming along behind the Charisian squadron. If Rohsail could force them to stand and fight long enough, or even simply convince them to dodge around trying to avoid action, Hahlynd's armored ships might yet overtake them on the inland waters of Hahskyn Bay or South Shwei Bay.

What he hadn't counted on even for a moment was encountering the Imperial Charisian Navy less than seventy miles from Ki-dau. He'd expected the poor wind conditions to slow them
some
, but by his most optimistic calculations they ought to have been at least entering the Kaudzhu Narrows by now. In fact, he'd been so certain of the lead they must have built up after reaching saltwater once more that he'd been proceeding under sail alone, resting his cranksmen.

Until Tymythy Snelyng's
Lance
reported sighting a Charisian schooner, at least.

There has to be some reason they're still this close to Ki-dau
, he thought. I
suppose it might be some sort of elaborate trap, although exactly how it's supposed to work is a bit hard to see. Fifteen galleons is still only fifteen galleons when all's said, and I doubt they've managed to sneak a bunch more of them through the Shweimouth without anyone's sighting them and mentioning it to me
.

He frowned down at the water as he considered the numbers. Any one of the Charisian galleons outgunned his flagship by a factor of five-to-one or better, and they had at least one of the armored monsters which had crushed the batteries at Claw Island. And done the same thing to Ki-dau's defenses, for that matter, he reminded himself, thinking about the shattered gun emplacements he'd passed on his way through the heavily damaged port. He had only fifteen vessels of his own, and despite their armor, his screw-galleys were fragile and vulnerable from the flanks or rear. A single full broadside into the unarmored portion of their hulls from one of the Charisian galleons would probably send one of them to the bottom. Two broadsides certainly would.

But conditions are almost perfect
, he thought, rubbing one palm up and down the bulwark rail like a man gentling a prized but nervous mount.
Langhorne himself couldn't have designed a better day to test Zhwaigair's brain children. Now it looks like he's even arranged an opportunity for us to do just that
.

There'd been more times since Armageddon Reef than Hahlynd cared to admit when he'd found himself wondering what God and the Archangels could be thinking to allow the heretics such a devastating succession of victories. It wasn't that Pawal Hahlynd believed God's champions needed any sort of “unfair advantage,” yet there'd been those times when he'd questioned why God couldn't at least stop allowing the
heretics
those sorts of advantages.

That's what He did in the Harchong Narrows, Pawal
, he reminded himself,
and Lywys kicked the Charisians' arses there. No reason you can't do the same thing here. Just don't get so carried away you screw up the opportunity. The bastards on the other side can probably replace entire galleons quicker than we could replace screw-galleys—or their armor, at least. And don't forget Rohsail's coming along behind them. You don't need to lose ships because you decided to wade into them all by yourself!

All of that was true, and he knew it. Just as he knew he and his youthful screw-galley commanders were going to rip out the Charisian Navy's throat if the opportunity offered.

*   *   *

“We're not getting her off—not in time,” Sir Bruhstair Ahbaht said flatly. Daivyn Kylmahn's jaw clenched and Ahbaht saw the desperate need to argue in the lieutenant's eyes, but the arguments died unspoken. Kylmahn could judge time and the tide as well as anyone.

“Signal to Captain Vahrnay,” Ahbaht said more briskly. “Inform him that I'm passing command of the squadron temporarily to him. He'll know what to do with it.”

“Aye, aye, Sir.”

“Then we need signals to
Wanderer
,
Sojourn
, and
East Wind
. Instruct them to close with
Thunderer
and prepare to pick up our boats. And after that—” he met Kylmahn's eyes levelly, his own bleak “—inform Master Muhlkayhe that I'll require a fuse laid to the magazine.”

*   *   *

“You're joking,” Pawal Hahlynd said, staring at Sebahstean Traivyr in disbelief. Traivyr, the admiral's flag lieutenant, shook his head emphatically.

“No, Sir. Captain Mahgyrs checked by signal twice. He even sent Lieutenant Haystyngs up to the masthead to look for himself.”

Hahlynd laid down his napkin slowly, his mind trying to grapple with Traivyr's news. He wondered if the reason it seemed so hard to believe was because he wanted so desperately for it to be true. Was he simply unwilling to believe it for fear of the disappointment if he found out it
wasn't
true?

“I see,” he said. He made himself finish his glass of wine, then pushed back his chair and reached for his tunic. “In that case, I suppose I should come back on deck.”

The trip from the oven of his miniscule cabin's sweltering heat to the scorching sunlight of
Sword
's cramped quarterdeck didn't take long, given the ship's diminutive dimensions, and Mahgyrs was waiting for him when he arrived.

“I understand we've had an unexpected windfall, Captain?” the admiral said, cocking his head, and Mahgyrs nodded.

“I sent Jyrohm here up to see with his own eyes, Sir,” he said, touching his first lieutenant's shoulder lightly. “Jyrohm, why don't you tell the Admiral what you saw?”

“One of them's hard aground, Sir,” Lieutenant Haystyngs replied. “That's what it looks like, anyway.”

“I'm thinking it must be Shingle Shoal.” Mahgyrs' forefinger tapped the Harchongese chart unfolded atop the binnacle. “I doubt anyone'd go as far as calling this chart
reliable
, but it's a Shan-wei of a lot closer to that than anything the heretics're likely to have, Sir. Probably never even saw it coming, and with the pissant tides on the Bay.…”

His voice trailed off, and it was Hahlynd's turn to nod as he gazed down at the map. It was easy enough to understand how a ship might drive herself onto the mudbank in the middle of Egg Drop Pass as Mahgyrs had suggested, and the captain was right about the difficulty in getting a ship back off it again. But the Charisians had clearly realized he was coming—he still couldn't figure out
how
they'd known, but that was the only reason he could think of for them to have started up the Hahskyn River at this particular time (and to turn back when they had)—so why hadn't they simply burned the grounded galleon and continued their retreat? No squadron commander wanted to abandon one of his units without a fight, but given the odds against getting it off the mud before the screw-galleys swooped down upon it, any tough-minded flag officer (and Langhorne knew
all
Charisian flag officers seemed uniformly tough-minded) should have bitten the bullet, burned the ship, and headed for South Shwei Bay. Unless.…

“You saw her yourself, Lieutenant?” he asked, turning back to Haystyngs.

“Yes, Sir. I did.”

“Could you make out any details?”

“Not at this distance, Sir. She's almost stern-on to us, so there's damn-all, begging your pardon, I could see. She does have a list to larboard; that's one reason I'm sure she's fast aground. But other than that—well, that and the schooners and boats around her—I really couldn't see anything.”

“I see.” Hahlynd rubbed his chin for a moment, then looked back up at the set of
Sword
's sails and inhaled sharply before he turned back to the flag captain.

“Signal
Lance
,” he said. “I want Captain Snelyng to continue closing until he can get a better look at our friend on the mud. In particular, I want to know how many armed decks she has.” He saw Mahgyrs' eyes narrow in understanding and speculation, but the flag captain didn't interrupt as he continued. “After you've signaled Snelyng, hoist Number Sixty-Three.”

“Aye, aye, Sir!”

Mahgyrs touched his chest in salute and turned away to begin volleying orders. The Royal Dohlaran Navy's signals vocabulary remained rather primitive compared to that which had been developed for the Imperial Charisian Navy, but Number Sixty-Three had been assigned to one of the Galley Fleet's preplanned—and well practiced—battle plans.

The necessary signals soared to
Sword
's masthead while
Lance
continued towards the Charisians at her best speed, making good almost eight knots now despite the fitful breeze, sailing close-hauled with both cranks fully manned. Astern of her, the other fourteen screw-galleys slowed as they maneuvered into four columns, two of three ships and two of four, and began to spread into a pattern aligned like the four fingers of an outstretched hand.
Sword
was the first ship in the four-ship column in the “ring finger” position, and as the formation settled down, Mahgyrs started the entire squadron moving forward once again, quite a bit more sedately than
Lance
but still faster than any pure sailing ship could have managed.

It helps that we're all coppered, too
, Hahlynd thought, watching with profound satisfaction, despite the hollow, singing sensation in his midsection, as his well-drilled crews headed towards the enemy.
Nimbleness and speed—those're going to be our real weapons today, although the hundred-and-fifty-pounders aren't going to hurt a thing
.

The three massive guns mounted in each screw-galley's armored citadel each weighed four tons, exclusive of their carriages, and fired a round shot ten inches in diameter. Each time one of them fired, the recoil was enough to jar a man's teeth right out of his head. It was also sufficiently severe that Hahlynd had decreed that the guns had to be fired individually—in succession, rather than simultaneously—and the cloud of smoke could have choked a dragon, but their hitting power was incredible. He didn't know if they'd penetrate one of the Charisians' ironclads, but he'd seen what they did to
unarmored
galleons, not to mention stone walls or other handy obstacles, in test firings. He doubted they'd have any opportunities to use the spar torpedoes each screw-galley carried in addition to its gun armament, but he also doubted that they'd need to.

“Signal from
Lance
, Sir,” Lieutenant Traivyr told him. Hahlynd looked up from his thoughts, and his flag lieutenant's smile seemed to split his face. “Captain Snelyng's lookouts've gotten a good look, Admiral! She's showing only one line of gunports.”

Hahlynd smiled back, and Captain Mahgyrs looked at him wonderingly.

“How'd you guess, Sir?”

“It was more of a hope than a guess, really, Ahlfryd,” Hahlynd admitted. “Still, if I'd been whoever's in command over there, I wouldn't have hung about unless I had a really good reason. They've got plenty of regular galleons—God knows they took enough prizes in the Markovian Sea and at Ithryia!—so it almost had to be one of their bombardment ships.”

“Or the ironclad, Sir?” Mahgyrs' brown eyes blazed, and Hahlynd shook his head.

“Let's not get too greedy, Ahlfryd. If Langhorne's seen fit to give us a bombardment ship, that's good enough for me.”