At least there were only two of them, he reminded himself. So far, at least.
“Ahlvyn’s not the most diplomatic fellow in the world, My Lord,” Baiket said, “but he does have a point. Admiral Rohsail knows his duty, and he’ll do his best, but if the batteries couldn’t stop those bastards.…”
“I know. I know!” Thirsk shrugged irritably. Not because he was angry at Baiket, but because the flag captain had such an excellent point. Still.…
“I agree with everything both of you’ve said. On the other hand, all the witnesses we have agree there were only two of those armored galleons in the attack. It’s possible they’re wrong, but I don’t think so.” The earl smiled tightly. “We’ve had a bit of experience of our own with how much iron it takes to armor even a relatively small galley. I realize the Charisians appear to be able to conjure iron and steel magically out of thin air, but it has to take even them a little time to produce enough armor for ships that size. From the description of their armament, they’re a lot bigger than any ironclad small enough for river or canal use could possibly be, and not even Charisians could build and armor something like that with a snap of their fingers. They’re galleons, too, not … whatever those damned smokepots are! What does that suggest?”
“That the inland ironclads are either too unseaworthy or too short-legged to make the trip from Corisande, My Lord,” Baiket said, eyes narrowed in thought. “Or maybe both.” He nodded slowly. “However those riverboats of theirs move, they’re burning something to produce all that smoke, and there has to be a limit on how much coal or wood they can load into something that size, especially if they’re also going to armor it and put guns into it.”
“I think that’s probably true.” Thirsk nodded. “It’s not something I plan to count on, but one thing we have to avoid is overestimating Charis’ capabilities. I know it’s better to be pessimistic than to be overly optimistic, but we can’t paralyze ourselves with ‘what-ifs.’ Unless they have a hell of a lot more regular galleons based at Claw Island than reports suggest, we can meet their fleet on more than equal terms, and even an armored galleon needs spars to move. Between our own galleons and Lieutenant Zhwaigair’s screw-galleys—and that other project of his—I think we’d have a pretty good chance of handing them a serious defeat if they were foolish enough to come out where we can get at them. And the fact that they seem to be staying close to home at Claw Island now that they’ve retaken it suggests they may feel the same way about it.”
“For now, at least, My Lord,” Baiket said, diffidently but stubbornly, and Thirsk nodded again.
“For now,” he acknowledged. “That’s always subject to change. But it does suggest we have a little time in hand to continue to push Zhwaigair’s projects. And in answer to the point Ahlvyn raised, I assure you the Army is aware of what’ll happen to its supplies if the Imperial Charisian Navy comes east of the Narrows. Especially if they get as deep as the Gulf of Tanshar or Hankey Sound. Or, if it doesn’t, at least it’s not because Pawal Hahlynd and I haven’t talked ourselves blue in the face explaining it to Salthar and the rest of them! So even though that slash lizard at the front door seems to have an awful lot of sharp teeth, they’re still going to have to pay at least some attention to the great dragon in the pasture, and they know it.”
He grimaced, his eyes bleak.
“We’re not going to have the kind of priority we really need, but they can’t cut us off completely, and they know it,” he told his subordinates, and prayed he was telling them the truth.
* * *
No, they probably can’t, My Lord, Sir Domynyk Staynair thought. I wish they would, but they won’t … damn it.
The high admiral sat back from his desk in his day cabin, listening to the nighttime sounds of his flagship, and busied his hands filling the bowl of his favorite pipe with tobacco while he contemplated the imagery he’d just watched. Nahrmahn might be dead, he reflected, but that hadn’t affected his ability to recognize information other members of the inner circle needed to see.
The notion that Thirsk almost certainly would be able to make the case against cutting the Dohlaran Navy to the bone was less than palatable for several reasons. The earl was unquestionably Charis’ most formidable naval opponent, and the time he’d had to train his fleet was rubbing off on his subordinates. Subordinates like Sir Dahrand Rohsail, for just one example. Rohsail, commanding the RDN’s Western Squadron, had demonstrated a depressing level of competence, despite the loss of his base at Claw Island. Pawal Hahlynd, the man Thirsk had chosen to command Dynnys Zhwaigair’s screw-galleys, was another case in point. And however outclassed those screw-galleys might be compared to the new steam-powered ironclads or even one of the sail-powered Thunderers, they were more than a match for any of the wooden galleons which still composed ninety-five percent of the Imperial Charisian Navy’s total line of battle.
Rock Point’s—and Cayleb Ahrmahk’s—respect for Thirsk and the navy he’d built was the real reason Earl Sharpfield had been dispatched to retake Claw Island and establish a forward base—and coaling station—there. They’d sent him months earlier than they’d originally planned, and they hadn’t been able to assign him all the firepower they would have preferred, but he’d done them proud. Claw Island would be a critical part of their end game strategy for the Gulf of Dohlar once the King Haarahld VII-class ships commissioned, but they’d hoped it might also serve as a support base for a squadron of the new City-class coastal ironclads. The Cities were too big to operate along the mainland canals the way the River- and River II-class ships were intended to, and they were over four knots slower, but that extra displacement gave them marginally thicker armor and almost twice the endurance. More to the point—and despite Halcom Bahrns’ near miraculous feat of seamanship in the Tarot Channel—they were far better seaboats.
Unfortunately, they wouldn’t be sending any of them to Sharpfield for quite a while after all, because while Thirsk might be their most capable opponent, he wasn’t currently the most dangerous. That honor, difficult though any Charisian found it to believe, belonged to Sir Slokym Dahrnail, Duke of Shairn and navy minister of the Empire of Desnair, the least nautically inclined great power of Safehold.
Most Desnairians got seasick in a bathtub, but unlike the rest of Desnair, Shairn boasted an extensive fishing fleet which had dared the fish-rich waters off Samson’s Land and The Weeping Sisters for generations, despite their proximity to Armageddon Reef. Their catch had provided the duchy with a valuable export, and the House of Dahrnail had been smart enough to recognize its importance. The last four dukes had adopted policies which favored both the fisheries and the coastal trade, and when Duke Kohlman, Desnair’s previous naval minister, sought asylum in Charis following the destruction of Ithryia, Sir Slokym had struck Mahrys as his logical successor. The fact that Shairn was a passionate Temple Loyalist, who hated Charis with all his heart, had made him an ideal successor in the eyes of the Church, as well, and the effective annihilation of the Dohlaran battle fleet at Ithryia had allowed him to pursue a commerce raiding strategy with all his resources.
Kohlman had wanted to do the same thing for years, and he’d begun laying down light, fast cruisers as soon as the Battle of the Markovian Sea demonstrated (to anyone who could see) that fighting the ICN at sea had become nothing short of suicidal. The Church had resisted that policy strongly, however, so Kohlman had turned to issuing letters of marque to private shipowners. Even that had been more than the Church wanted, on the theory that it diverted resources from building up the navy, but, ironically, Desnair’s devastating defeat at Ithryia had forced both Church and Crown to adopt the “traitor” duke’s proposals, and Shairn—who was no fool, despite his religious bigotry—had driven them hard ever since.
Which was why well over half of Sir Domynyk Staynair’s warships were now tied down in commerce protection and convoy duties. There was a very good reason he’d sent Payter Shain to wipe out the Gulf of Jahras’ privateer bases—hopefully for good
, although Rock Point was far from confident they wouldn’t rebuild quickly if the pressure was ever taken off again—but that left thousands upon thousands of miles of additional coastline, especially along the stretch between Traykhos and Shairn. Scores of fleet, weatherly schooners were swarming out to sea, and the situation was growing steadily more serious. Just six days ago, although Rock Point hadn’t yet received official word, over a dozen of those cruisers—half of them navy ships, not just privateers, and acting with far better coordination than he cared to think about—had swamped a convoy from Tellesberg to Siddar City. The outnumbered escort had managed to prevent any of the half-dozen troopships under its care from being seriously damaged and had actually sunk two of the raiders, but no less than six cargo ships had been cut out despite all they could accomplish. One of the escorting schooners had been destroyed, as well, and two others—and one of the three defending galleons—had been damaged.
There’d been no survivors from any of the merchantmen or from HMS Thistle. The only “good” news from that perspective was that all of the wounded had been slaughtered out of hand rather than returned to Desnair for the Punishment. The captured cargoes, however, had provided Desnair with five thousand precious M96 rifles, almost a hundred three-inch mortars, and two entire batteries of four-inch rifled field guns … among other things. Charis was only lucky the damage hadn’t been still worse—and that the overwhelmed escorts had been able to protect the troopships. But Rock Point couldn’t count on that happening the next time around, and what had been a constant, niggling trickle of losses in other privateer attacks was growing steadily more serious.
Rock Point grimaced around his pipe stem, then struck a Shan-wei’s candle and lit it. He took time to be sure it was drawing properly, savoring the sweet taste of the smoke, before he waved out the candle and dropped it into an ashtray. Then he sighed heavily and admitted the disagreeable truth.
Even with the Navy straining every sinew, he simply didn’t have the escorts to put every merchantman into a convoy. Over a third of all Charisian merchantmen were still forced to sail independently, and while almost all of them were now armed, they were scarcely regular men-of-war. Nor did Rock Point have the ship strength to blockade such an enormous coastline in order to prevent the raiders from getting to sea to attack them. That was the reason Shain was in the Gulf of Jahras … and also the reason the high admiral wouldn’t be sending the first new Cities off to Claw Island, after all. No, he was going to have a better use for those ships considerably closer to home. Or a more pressing one, at least. Sharpfield was just going to have to make do until more of the Cities were available, and it was entirely likely the King Haraahlds would be ready by then, as well.
Sir Domynyk Staynair didn’t like it, but that was just the way it was. And however much he respected Thirsk’s capabilities, at least when Sharpfield did receive his reinforcements, there wasn’t going to be one damned thing Dohlar could do about it. And in the meantime.…
Zhaztro’s not going to like it, either, he reflected, drawing on his pipe. I imagine he’s going to squawk about it—respectfully, of course!—when I break the news to him, too. But he’ll get over it, especially when he considers the consolation prize. And—the high admiral smiled grimly—he’ll do one hell of a good job once he does.
.IV.
West of Allyntyn, Northland Province, Republic of Siddarmark
The cold was bone-numbing.
At least there wasn’t any wind, but even without the extra chill factor, the midday temperature had climbed no higher than twelve degrees on the Fahrenheit scale, and it was already falling steeply once more. After sunset it would drop to twenty degrees below zero—or lower—on the same scale, and the wind would be picking up once more as another arctic front began making its way through sometime after Langhorne’s Watch. Snow lay horse knee-high and powdery on level ground; where any obstacle had offered the opportunity, drifts with sharply sculpted edges rose as high as a man’s head or higher. The breath of the Raven’s Land caribou hauling the heavy sleds rose like smoke in the frigid air, and the sturdy High Hallows under the mounted men jetted white vapor like the fumes of an Old Earth dragon. The sky was a polished blue bowl, harder and colder than steel, without a hint of cloud. It was only a few hours past midday, but the sun was already well to the west, dipping towards the peaks of the Meirstrom Mountains and promising that the brief northern evening—and much longer winter night—were not far away.
It was one of the coldest, bleakest vistas imaginable, Kynt Clareyk, the Baron of Green Valley, thought approvingly. He had no doubt the men of 1st Corps sorely missed the snug barracks they’d enjoyed at Allyntyn, but that was fine with him. And with them, too, if the truth be known. They were as impatient to be about their assigned task as he was.
He glanced to the northeast, where a party of Siddarmarkian engineers swarmed about the fire-charred skeleton of a semaphore station. There was no way to tell whether it had been fired by Temple Loyalists during the Sword of Schueler’s initial onslaught or by Siddarmarkians loyal to their lord protector as they were driven from Northland by the rebellion, but whoever had set the blaze had done a less than thorough job of actually wrecking the station. Cables, pulleys, and the roof of the station crew’s barracks had been destroyed, yet the towering masts and the barracks’ stone walls remained, and the engineers would have it back in service by tomorrow afternoon. The stations were closer together across the bleak, rolling tableland of the Midhold Plateau because of how bad visibility became in the winter. Even with them restored to service, Green Valley’s communications with Allyntyn were likely to be sporadic, given that same limited visibility, but they ought to be good enough. His communications with the rest of the inner circle couldn’t care less about weather conditions, but since he’d left close to two-thirds of the Army of Midhold behind at Allyntyn under General Dymytryoh Brohkamp, who commanded his 2nd Corps, it behooved him to maintain the closest contact with Brohkamp that he could.
There was a reason he’d stripped Brigadier Wylsynn Traigair’s 3rd Brigade, out of 1st Corps, transferred it temporarily to 2nd Corps, and left Brohkamp behind. Without Traigair, General Ahntahn Makrohry’s 1st Corps consisted only of two battalions of the 1st Scout Sniper Regiment, 3rd Mounted Brigade, and General Eystavyo Gardynyr’s 4th Division (Mountain). On the other hand, Makrohry himself had been raised amid the beautiful, bitter peaks of northern Chisholm’s Snow Crest Mountains, and all of his units had been exhaustively trained in winter warfare at Raylzberg, perched high in the westernmost spur of the Lonely Mountains above High Hallow’s Stonewater Lake. The Royal Chisholmian Army had made a point of acclimating all of its units to winter marches, but only about a third of the entire army had been trained in actual winter war fighting, which was a much more demanding regimen.
Even with their training, it would have been difficult or impossible for the new Imperial Charisian Army to have put this many men into the field this far north at this time of year without the manufactories of Old Charis. The Chisholmian experts had designed the necessary equipment, but their designs—tweaked here and there without their knowledge by an AI named Owl—had been built by Rhaiyan Mychail’s textile manufactories and Ehdwyrd Howsmyn’s foundries. Green Valley suspected that many of those foundry and manufactory workers in semi-tropical Charis hadn’t quite been able to believe in weather conditions severe enough to require the items they’d been making, but that hadn’t stopped them from churning them out in quantities no one on the Church of God Awaiting’s side could possibly have matched.
The column of marching infantry swung along on their snowshoes with the practiced gait of men who’d spent the last several five-days regaining and sharpening their skills. It was unlikely many Army of God patrols would be out and about in the snow and cold (in fact, Green Valley knew from the SNARCs that none of them were), yet the scout sniper battalions ranged well out in front of the main column on cross-country skis. He couldn’t exactly tell them there was no one in
the vicinity, and he wouldn’t have even if he could. There were limits to how many “inspired guesses” he could make, and however readily he could talk with the other members of the inner circle, he was limited to more mundane methods of communication with his subunit commanders … none of whom had the SNARC access he did. Even when the SNARCs told him exactly what they might be walking into, it wouldn’t do any good unless he had some way to tell them, which all too often he would not. They needed the sort of reconnaissance which was the scout snipers’ specialty, and it was best that they stay in the habit of making certain they had it.
Behind the infantry, caribou and snow lizards hauled heavy cargo sleds, loaded with food, fuel, forage, and ammunition. Each infantry support squad was accompanied by its assigned caribou, pulling its mortars and ammunition on dedicated sleds, and each twelve-man squad of infantry towed two sleds of its own. One normally carried the men’s packs, sparing them that sixty-pound load, at least, while the other was loaded with the arctic tent assigned to that squad. The tent’s outer layer was steel thistle silk—light, strong, and so tightly woven it was virtually impervious to wind. The inner layer was woven cotton, quilted with eiderdown, and when the tent was erected there was an insulating two-inch airspace between the layers. The same sled also carried a lightweight steel chimney and a relatively small but highly efficient oil-fired stove. In a worst-case scenario, a smoke hood could be rigged at the base of the chimney to permit other fuels to be used in an open fire pit, although that would be very much a second—or third—choice for the tent’s occupants. It also would have posed a small problem for the tightly rolled caribou-hide sleeping mats strapped to the sleds to provide an insulating floor inside the tents.
Sleeping bags had been provided, as well, made in three layers—an inner removable liner, once again of steel thistle silk, followed by a thickly quilted insulating layer of eiderdown, followed by an outer layer of additional, insulated wind-resistant steel thistle silk. The liberal use of thistle silk was expensive, even for the Charisian textile industry, but it was no longer prohibitively expensive, and it also meant they were light enough to carry rolled and lashed to the top of a rifleman’s pack. They were undeniably bulky, however, and because they made awkward loads, they were normally stowed on the sleds with the tents.