The Road to Hell - eARC (71 page)

“Actually, Sir, I doubt even Gershyr’s going to delay our departure today,” chan Klaisahn continued, and shrugged when chan Bykahlar raised a questioning eyebrow. “I don’t mean to suggest he’s suddenly decided to turn over a new leaf and become
reasonable
, Sir. It’s just that we won’t be ready to move out in less than at least six to ten hours, no matter what we do. Not only do we have all of our own baggage and heavy weapons to cross-load, but I understand Master Yanusa-Mahrdissa’s sending a fuel convoy along with us. It’s going to take a while to top off the kerosene drays from the tanker cars.”

“Sounds like a good idea to me,” chan Bykahlar agreed. “Gods know the last thing we need is to run short of fuel in the middle of the godsdamned Roanthan Plains in the middle of winter! But only kerosene? Not coal, too?”

“Not this trip, Sir. Rechair’s in the midst of a deep discussion with the freight master, and I expect he’ll emerge with more detail than I have now. From what I understand, though, they’ve decided to hold the coal-fired Bisons farther back, where the bulk of their fuel requirements—and their funnel smoke—won’t be as big a problem.”

Chan Bykahlar nodded. Aside from its tendency to leak, it was actually easier to transport, and while he strongly suspected that several hundred Bisons and Steel Mules churning across the plain would produce enough dust to make their presence obvious, he was entirely in favor of not adding dense clouds of coal smoke to the mix.

Not that it’s likely to be much of a factor where
we’re
concerned
, he reflected.
It’s the poor bloody dragoons who have to worry about being spotted by the damned dragons. And if we
are
spotted
, they’re
the ones who’re going to draw the first dragon attacks, too, I imagine
.

“All right,” he said, squelching across the mud to the step built into the Mule’s rear bumper, “I suppose I should survey my new domain while it’s still standing still.”

Chapter Forty-One

March 27

Division-Captain chan Geraith stood atop the canyon wall and peered down at the bustling anthill so far below through his field glasses.

In the eight days since crossing into Thermyn, he’d traveled over thirteen hundred miles, and every bone in his body knew it. The four hundred and sixty miles from Chindar to High Rock City hadn’t been all that terrible, except for the endless climb up to High Rock. The three hundred miles from there to Coyote Canyon had been far worse, however, given the terrain, although the Bisons and Steel Mules which had preceded the main column had at least pounded the worst of the ground flat. The weather hadn’t been all that bad—in fact, it hadn’t fallen below freezing for the last week and there’d been plenty of sun—but the lack of water and the dense, choking pall of dust had more than made up for that. Civilians who’d never tried to move a few thousand men and horses across an arid waste had no concept of just how much water they’d need. The engineers had damned the Sand Rock River where it flowed through High Rock City to create a reservoir, but even this early in the year the Sand Rock was scarcely the Dalazan River. It helped a lot, but he knew the quartermasters spent a lot of time worrying over breakdowns among the water tankers.

Fortunately, that problem was in a fair way to being alleviated here at Coyote Canyon itself, given the amount of water brawling its way along the Stone Carve. The engineers had set up a water collection and purification point five miles upstream from the bridging site, and through his glasses he could see several hundred men splashing around in the river itself. He suspected the water was a bit too cold for his own tastes, but he was glad to see them washing away the dust. No doubt at least some of them were also trying to soak up as much moisture as they could through the pores of their skin, he thought with a grin.

He moved his attention to the bridge itself. He couldn’t hear much from his present position except for the constant, sighing voice of the wind, but the bridge’s prefabricated steel spans swarmed with workmen. It was almost completed, and the bulldozer blade-fitted Bisons were improving the approach to it. More of them, as well as hundreds of men with shovels and picks, were working to improve the steep, rugged ramp up to the notch blasted out of the canyon’s farther wall.

Tomorrow
, he thought.
Yahnday at the latest. And that’s when the pressure
really
starts
.

He lowered the glasses and turned to look back to the east. The sprawl of vehicles, orderly rows of tents, and industriously employed soldiers stretched as far as the eye could see, and the inevitable cluster of shirtless, sunburned mechanics swarmed over a half-dozen Bisons, shielded from the intense desert sun by overhead canvas flies. From the occasional curse riding the stiff breeze to his ears, he suspected that at least one of the recalcitrant vehicles was likely to find itself being cannibalized to get the others running again. He hated the thought of losing yet another of them, but his instructions to Therahk chan Kymo’s quartermasters had been uncompromising.

The next six or seven days would be critical. The indefatigable Company-Captain chan Mahsdyr and his Gold Company were once again far out ahead of 3rd Dragoons’ main body. In fact, he and his men were ensconced in the rugged country along the White Snake River east of Fort Ghartoun, keeping a cautious and surreptitious eye on its Arcanan garrison. As long as they stayed at least a few miles back, the rough terrain—made considerably rougher by the violence of the portal wind which must have come screaming through the New Uromath portal, probably for centuries, when it originally formed—offered an abundance of concealment for troops as experienced at keeping out of sight as imperial Ternathian dragoons. Chan Geraith knew that. And despite knowing that, his nerves tightened every time he thought of all of the ways in which they might betray their presence to any semi-alert Arcanan.

Fortunately, there seemed to be few of those in Fort Ghartoun. Nor had chan Mahsdyr’s Plotters or Distance Viewers seen any dragons permanently attached to the fort. For that matter, they hadn’t seen any of the eagle-lions the Arcanans appeared to use as unmanned reconnaissance vehicles, either. That undoubtedly explained how the thousands of Sharonians along the Stone Carve, barely four hundred miles from them, had so far eluded their attention. The fact that the shortest route between Fort Ghartoun and Fort Brithik at the Failcham portal lay well over two hundred and fifty miles north of their present position probably didn’t hurt; a dragon would have to detour pretty far out of its direct flight path to Failcham to spot them way down here. But even if there weren’t any dragons permanently stationed at Fort Ghartoun, plenty of them were certainly passing along that route to Failcham farther to the north, and the closer his main body got to Fort Ghartoun, the more likely one of those transiting dragons was to spot his column. He’d cheerfully have sacrificed his left hand for the sort of aerial reconnaissance capability the Arcanans enjoyed, but in its absence, the best he could do was to take the threat into consideration and try to plan around it.

And that was why the next few days were going to be critical.

According to chan Mahsdyr’s detailed reports, the entire garrison of Fort Ghartoun couldn’t amount to much more than half a battalion. There was perhaps a company of their unicorn-mounted light cavalry and what certainly looked from the Voice reports like no more than a couple of infantry companies. It was obvious, reading between the lines of the company-captain’s reports that chan Mahsdyr was confident Gold Company could have successfully seized the fort out of its own resources, and given how expeditiously they’d secured the entry portal from Nairsom, chan Geraith was prepared to believe he was right. He had no intention of finding out, however. When the time came, Battalion-Captain chan Yahndar’s entire battalion would storm the fort. Hopefully, 2nd Battalion’s attack would come as as much of a surprise to Fort Ghartoun as chan Mahsdyr’s assault had been for the Arcanan encampment on the Tyrahl River. Unfortunately, the Fort Ghartoun hummer cots were inside the fort’s sturdy walls. Not even a Talented sniper like Fozak chan Gyulair could hit a target on the other side of a solid, clay-reinforced timber palisade, and unfortunately, the engineers who’d chosen Fort Ghartoun’s site had picked one which offered no handy vantage points simultaneously high enough and close enough to target the fort’s interior over its walls.

Chan Yahndar had devised a plan to deal with that, and chan Geraith had approved it because it offered an excellent chance of success. Without the ability to specifically and directly target the hummer cots, however, no one could
guarantee
that the fort’s garrison—chan Geraith hesitated to use the noun “defenders” to describe a body of troops which appeared to spend so much time sitting on its collective arse—couldn’t get off a message. That was unfortunate, because it was less than three hundred miles from Fort Ghartoun to Hell’s Gate across New Uromath, and even with the Bisons and Steel Mules, 3rd Dragoons would need at least three days—more probably four—to cover that distance. In fact, it might well take five, given the forests on the New Uromath side of the portal, and he had no idea how close the nearest Arcanan reaction force might be.

At least he could count on the Arcanans’ lack of Voices. Fast as their hummers were, they were far slower than a Voice message, so it would take them a lot longer than it would have taken a Sharonian commander to begin responding to any message from Fort Ghartoun. Unfortunately, once they
did
respond they had those never-to-be-sufficiently-damned dragons. They could move troops far, far faster than he could, so it would be a race between his powerful, concentrated ground force and a dragonborne Arcanan force which would
probably
be far more scattered initially than his own. And that being the case, he needed his main body as close to Fort Ghartoun as he could get it before he attacked it.

It would be an interesting challenge in a training exercise
, he reflected,
but it’s a pain in the arse when I have to do it for real. How close can I get to Fort Ghartoun before one of those transiting dragon riders glances down and happens to notice several hundred vehicles churning towards it? The direct route to Failcham may be north of us, but the closer we get to Ghartoun, the more likely it is that someone’s going to spot us and our damned dust clouds
.

He’d decided that a hundred miles was the absolute maximum he could rely upon in that regard. He’d already spotted Plotters and Distance Viewers along his route to Fort Ghartoun, tied together by Flickers and Voices to warn him of any dragon which might chance close enough to detect them, but once he got within a hundred miles, he was going to assume detection by the Arcanans was effectively inevitable.

At least according to chan Malthyn the idiots garrisoning the fort aren’t doing a dawn stand-to
, he reminded himself, then grimaced.

It probably really wasn’t entirely fair to think of the garrison as “idiots,” this far in what they “knew” was their own army’s rear. As far as they knew, the nearest possible threat was thousands upon thousands of miles away. Still, he liked to think a Ternathian CO would have been taking more precautions than the Arcanans appeared to be.

And whether they’re really idiots or not, the fact that they’re sleeping in instead of manning the firing steps is going to cost them when the time comes
, he reflected more grimly.

His smile would not have looked out of place on a hungry lion, and he raised his glasses once more, gazing down at the bridge and willing the engineers to work even faster.

April 6

Commander of One Hundred Verchyk Gorsatan contemplated the day’s paperwork with sour disgust. It wasn’t that he objected to paperwork
per se
; as an officer who’d come up through logistics, he was really more of an administrator than a warrior, anyway, and he knew it. In fact, he was very good at paperwork, and as a general rule, he took a quiet pride in the fact that it was men like him whose ability to manage supply chains, troop movements, and transportation resources—and generally massage the system—made possible advances like the one Two Thousand Harshu had driven so brilliantly forward until that unfortunate business at Fort Salby.

Which, although he had no intention of pointing it out, had clearly been the fault of the warriors, not the despised bureaucrats who kept them fed.

No, the reason Gorsatan objected to the reports floating in his crystal’s depths this morning was that warrior or not, he recognized the shit storm certain to descend upon his head at some point in the still thankfully indeterminate future. What made it even more revolting was the fact that none of it would be
his
fault, despite the fact that he was the one who’d be holding the can when that storm inevitably made landfall.

The only good news, he reflected, was that even more of it would descend upon Hadrign Thalmayr, who deeply deserved every single thing that was going to happen to him. That had become abundantly clear to Gorsatan since his arrival as Thalmayr’s replacement at Fort Ghartoun. Fifty Varkan and Fifty Yankaro, the senior officers of the fort’s rather tattered garrison, had done their best to gloss over Thalmayr’s excesses. Their very silence on the subject of prisoner misconduct, torture, and violations of the Kerellian Accords spoke volumes, however. Gorsatan was well aware he wasn’t regarded as one of the Union of Arcana Army’s sharpest blades, and he suspected he’d drawn Fort Ghartoun at least in part on the theory that he wouldn’t poke into matters which predated his own assumption of command. For that matter, he didn’t
want
to stick his nose into things which were none of his affair, and he especially didn’t want to turn over any rocks that might reveal scorpions ready to sting his hand or Two Thousand Harshu.

Much as he respected Harshu, however, he knew those scorpions were waiting, and that their venom was going to be painful. And, despite that same respect, he’d come to the conclusion Harshu would deserve whatever came his way. Gorsatan was well aware that Harshu had never approved Thalmayr’s personal, vicious cruelty. But he was equally well aware that Harshu had, at the very least, turned a blind eye to the activities of Alivar Neshok. How the two thousand could have thought for a moment that men like Thalmayr wouldn’t take Neshok’s brutality as a license to commit their own atrocities passed Gorsatan’s understanding. Verchyk Gorsatan had never seen a better illustration of the old Chalaran proverb about a fish rotting from the head.

And when it all hit the fan and the inevitable investigators arrived at Fort Ghartoun,
he’d
be one who went down in the Army’s memory either as the man who’d provided the information that started the catastrophic implosion of the career of an officer he deeply admired or else as the man who’d tried to conceal evidence of profoundly criminal activity in an effort to
protect
an officer he deeply admired.

Whichever way it worked out, it was exceedingly unlikely he would ever advance beyond his current rank. Assuming, of course, that it wasn’t suggested very strongly to him that he might, perhaps, seek a civilian career, instead. And civilian career opportunities for Andaran officers effectively drummed out of the Army were few and far between.

It was ironic, but the officers who’d actually mutinied and for all intents and purposes gone over to the enemy actually had far better long-term career prospects than Gorsatan, who hadn’t had a single thing to do with Thalmayr’s excesses. If, that was, they survived long enough for the investigations to exonerate them, and the fact that they’d managed to get clean away suggested they might. Two Thousand Harshu had detached an entire air-mobile battalion to search for Fifty Ulthar, Fifty Sarma, Fifty Yankaro, and the escaped Sharonian prisoners. They hadn’t been able to begin their search until Thalmayr reached Karys, however, and by the time they did, the mutineers had vanished. Precisely how they’d accomplished that remained a mystery, although Gorsatan inclined toward the theory—shared by Valchair Stanohs, the thousand who’d been detached to find them—that the Sharonians must have devised a way to mask or deactivate the casualty recovery spells. They’d certainly managed to elude the most assiduous searches, not just in Thermyn but in Failcham and New Uromath, as well, and they obviously hadn’t passed through Hell’s Gate into Mahritha. That meant they damned well ought to be in range for the overflights to trigger the recovery spells if they hadn’t been turned off somehow, and those spells were specifically designed to be impossible for anyone except a highly trained magistron with the security keys to deactivate.