Hell's Foundations Quiver (87 page)

Now the only thing that remained was to see if Haigyl's desperate plan worked.

*   *   *

“Any sign of the heretics, Markys?”

Markys Hamptyn turned quickly to salute Sir Dahrand Rohsail as the admiral came on deck.

“No, Sir. Not yet,” he said.

“Any more of those signal rockets?”

“No, Sir. One of the lookouts did report a ‘glow' to the south, but no one else saw it.”

“Was it a reliable man?” Rohsail asked, eyes sharpening, and his flag captain shrugged.

“One of my best, actually, Sir. That's why I'm inclined to take his word for it. He might be mistaken, but he's honest as the day is long. If he says he saw something, then I'm pretty damned sure he actually did.”

“But he can't tell us anything except that it was a ‘glow'?” the admiral asked skeptically.

“No, Sir,” Hamptyn admitted.

“Umpf.”

Rohsail nodded and walked to
Defiant
's taffrail. He leaned on it beside one of the stern chasers, gazing out into the darkness and willing the dawn to hurry. The increased wind was welcome, but he didn't like the overcast creeping in from the west. The last thing he needed was rain! Low visibility was far more likely to help the fellow trying to run away than to assist the other fellow trying to catch him, and if this turned into the sort of action he expected it to.…

He couldn't be certain the solitary Charisian galleon he'd been pursuing for so long truly was one of the heretics' ironclads. It seemed likely, given its sail plan, the fact that his scouts' best estimate was that it had only a single row of gunports, and the fact that it was wandering around all alone and unsupported. If so, however, he was about to find himself face-to-face with
two
ironclads, and that was a sobering reflection. On the other hand, he had fifty galleons, and they'd have only sixteen.

He would have preferred to overtake the singleton, whatever it was, before it rendezvoused with its consorts, but he'd never had the wind to do that. It was possible he might have managed it with his coppered galleons, but that would have required him to leave half his strength behind, and there'd never been any way of telling how close the rest of the Charisians were. Besides, the damned heretics ultimately had to get back past him one way or the other, whatever happened or however long it took. Under the circumstances, prudence had suggested keeping his entire force concentrated until the moment he really needed it.

Now that moment had come, and he waited impatiently for the sun to break the eastern horizon. It was time to show the heretics they weren't going to get past him after all.

*   *   *

“Sail ho!”

The call floated down from
Dreadnought
's masthead, and all conversation and movement on deck froze as men looked up at the lookout's lofty perch. Kahrltyn Haigyl did the same, waiting tensely for the rest of the report. Whoever it was, it wasn't going to be an unexpected friend, he thought grimly. Captain Ahbaht's galleons had already been spotted and identified—a bit farther south than he'd hoped they'd be, but close enough to work with—so anyone else had to be—

“Looks like at least thirty 'r forty galleons, four points off the larboard bow!” the lookout shouted down after making the best estimate he could. “I make it about twelve miles! Course sou'west, but they're alterin' to leeward!”

So they've seen
us
, too
, Haigyl thought grimly.
Well, it could've been worse … assuming that's everything they've got, anyway. And still headed
southwest
, for the moment at least. Looks like we aren't exactly where they expected to find us. Pity about that
.

“Lubberly lot not to've seen us sooner,” he grunted, just loud enough to be certain he'd be overheard, and carefully paid no attention to the grins he saw around him. “And I've time for my morning constitutional before we have to worry about them.”

He tucked his hands behind him and began pacing slowly up and down the weather side of the quarterdeck with a calm, thoughtful expression. There was nothing he could do at this point except wait.

*   *   *

“Not
quite
, you bastard,” Sir Dahrand Rohsail muttered.

He stood about thirty feet above deck level in
Defiant
's mizzen ratlines, shading his eyes against the fierce light of the newly risen sun as he peered almost directly into it. He'd expected to find the heretics farther west of him, or trying to
get
farther west of him, at any rate. In their place, he'd have fought hard for the wind gauge, holding position up to windward where his pursuers would have found it all but impossible to close with him. The last thing he'd have done would have been to deliberately accept the
lee
gauge, where the enemy would be free to sail down upon him, especially when he was pinned against a coast as dotted with shoals and mudbanks as the southern side of the Kaudzhu Narrows.

They were also a good bit farther north than he'd anticipated, though. He'd deliberately reduced sail overnight on the assumption that the galleon he'd been pursuing had made rendezvous with the rest of the Charisian squadron. It was always possible the other ship's signal flags had been a bluff, an attempt to convince Rohsail it had friendly support close enough to read its messages. They'd gone on for a very long time, however, and he'd been forced to assume there really were additional Charisians in the vicinity. If there were, their only sane course of action, given the numbers, was to avoid action if at all possible, which would mean running for home. They might have chosen to run in front of him,
away
from the narrows, but that was ultimately a losing game as long as he stayed put and blocked the only exit from Hahskyn Bay against them.

At the same time, if he'd pursued too eagerly and blundered into them unexpectedly, the confusion of a night action could only have aided the heretics. All
they
were likely to want was to escape, and it was far easier to simply hold a chosen heading in the darkness than it was to pick enemy from friend and be sure one wasn't firing into one's own consorts instead of the foe.

All those considerations had strongly suggested the enemy would turn back towards South Shwei Bay as soon as possible after darkness fell. They probably wouldn't
want
to fight, but they'd be more willing to accept a night battle than to fight in daylight. By preference, though, they'd avoid engaging at all if they could, which meant they'd work their way as close as possible to the Narrows'
northern
shore in order to take the weather gauge if they could. That was why he'd slowed his own rate of advance and edged up towards the west overnight to stay outside and up-wind of them.

“Clever bastard, aren't you?” he murmured. “Figured out how I'd think and took advantage of it, hey? But you're not far enough north yet, friend.”

He gazed at the nearest enemy ship, no more than ten miles clear now. From his current perch, all he could see of the line of additional galleons five miles beyond her were scraps of sail on the horizon. His masthead lookouts had a hard count on them, though, although the numbers seemed to have come up a little short. And there was no doubt about the identity of that single ship between
Defiant
and the other Charisians. It was clearly one of the ironclads, and he rather doubted she was so far to windward of her consorts because of bad navigation. No, she was there specifically to offer battle.

It seemed unlikely, to say the least, that even she could defeat fifty conventional galleons. She could hammer the shit out of anyone who tried to get
past
her, though, and from that perspective, her captain had positioned her almost perfectly. Rohsail was far enough north to intercept the entire Charisian force, but at least two-thirds of his squadron was southwest of the ironclad, where it would have to get past her to reach her consorts. What had been the rearmost third of his own formation had already turned to intercept the head of the heretics' line, and he'd deliberately concentrated his coppered ships to the north, placing his fastest galleons in the best position to pursue the enemy if they'd somehow managed to get past him during the night. Now they should be able to pass ahead of the ironclad to attack the ships it obviously intended to protect. Of course, it was almost certain that the
second
ironclad was somewhere in the midst of those other galleons, preparing to exact a painful price when they
were
intercepted. On the other hand.…

Is it possible they've
lost
the other one? They're down four galleons for
some
reason, which means they've taken losses somewhere
 …
unless I want to assume they just got scattered for some reason. That's certainly possible, but the weather's been too moderate for them to've been driven apart and what I can see of their formation's too tight to make it anything I'd call likely. Still, I've been assuming those were
heretic
signal rockets last night, a beacon to guide the ship we've been chasing to the rest of their squadron. What if they weren't, though? What if Hahlynd got here even sooner than I expected he could? Could that “glow” the lookout reported have been a burning ship below the horizon? Is
that
where the other ironclad went?

The desire to believe that was greater than any temptation he'd ever felt before, and he forced himself to step on it firmly. A pessimist was disappointed far less often than an optimist, he reminded himself. And either way, he still had to deal with the ironclad he knew about. But if it was true.…

He climbed down the ratlines to rejoin Captain Hamptyn on deck.

“It's going to be ugly,” he said, “but the bastards aren't getting away from us this time.”

“Good!” Hamptyn's eyes glittered. “Ugly or not, the men're eager to be about it, Sir.”

“I know they are.” Rohsail gazed into the sunrise for a few more moments, then looked back at his flag captain. “Signal the schooners to search to the southwest. I've got a feeling we might just find a few friends in the neighborhood.”

*   *   *

Sailing ships were neither slash lizards nor race horses at the best of times. Even though the wind continued to slowly and steadily increase in power, the best speed Dahrand Rohsail's ships could make good on their current heading was no more than five and a half knots with all sail set. Once they reduced to fighting sail, they'd be lucky if they could make half that, and because the Charisians continued sailing resolutely northeast, the Dohlarans were forced to sail the hypotenuse of a very long right triangle if they wanted to engage. Even the rearmost Dohlaran galleons had to cover over eighteen miles to reach Captain Ahbaht's line; for Rohsail's van it was closer to twenty-five.

And, of course, his
rearmost
ships were the ones which would be forced to deal with
Dreadnought
, first.

There were few cowards in the Imperial Charisian Navy, yet the gnawing wait as the Dohlarans inched closer with agonizing slowness ate at the courage of even the stoutest heart. Rohsail's squadron wasn't a fleet; it was a forest of titan oaks, a dense and impenetrable thicket of masts, spars, and canvas rumbling down upon them. The ICN knew its worth, knew no other navy in the world was its equal, yet there were odds no qualitative skill could even, and the men in those Charisian galleons recognized the avalanche rolling across the water towards them.

And between the two lines sailed HMS
Dreadnought
.

Kahrltyn Haigyl stood on his quarterdeck, hat low on his forehead to shade his eyes, hands clasped behind him, and watched his enemies come. Unlike the unarmored galleons in Ahbaht's line,
Dreadnought
had set no studding sails or staysails. There was no haste aboard her, and he raised his voice.

“We'll have that signal now, if you please, Master Trymohr!”

“Aye, aye, Sir!”

The midshipman saluted and turned to his signal party. An instant later, the flags went soaring to her mizzen yard and broke to the breeze. A moment longer the silence held, and then it tore apart under the weight of five hundred fierce, baying voices.

“Remember King Haarahld,”
Dreadnought
's signal said, canvas vanishing from her yards as she furled her courses, reducing to topsails and topgallants alone while her speedier wooden sisters forged steadily by on her starboard side. And as they passed, every one of them in turn dipped her banner in salute.

*   *   *

“Well, that's a hell of a surprise,” Pawal Hahlynd said dryly as he read the smudgy pencil message the signal midshipman of the watch had just handed him.

“Beg your pardon, Sir?” Captain Mahgyrs said from the other side of the table, setting down his stein of beer.

Hahlynd looked up from the note, then smiled crookedly and patted his lips with a napkin. He and his flag captain had decided to make it an early lunch, given how active their afternoon was likely to prove, and they'd been joined by Lieutenant Traivyr and Lieutenant Haystyngs.

“It seems the Charisians are even more popular than we thought they were,” the admiral said. “We've just received a signal from
Scourge
, one of Admiral Rohsail's schooners.”

His three dinner guests stiffened in their chairs, and he passed the note across to Mahgyrs. He picked up his wine glass and sipped while the flag captain read it. Then Mahgyrs looked up and their eyes met.

“Puts a bit of a different perspective on it, doesn't it, Sir?”

“It does, indeed, Ahlfryd.” Hahlynd set down the wine glass and stood. “I believe I feel the need for a bit of fresh air.”