Hell's Foundations Quiver

  “Thank you, Mahrak,” Ahbaht replied gravely, and the steward bowed slightly—to him—and withdrew. Thunderer’s captain smiled after him, shaking his head, then turned to his visitor. “I trust Mahrak wasn’t too rude, Seijin Dagyr.”

  He reached out to clasp forearms with Cudd, and the seijin smiled back at him.

  “I’d say he was less rude than … wary, perhaps. As was Lieutenant Zhaksyn when my boat came alongside, although I think my accent probably helped with him.”

  Ahbaht snorted. Ahlber Zhaksyn was Thunderer’s second lieutenant. He was also just twenty-nine years old and a native of Chisholm, so he probably had found Cudd’s Harris Island accent reassuring.

  “Well, fortunately, Earl Sharpfield mentioned your meeting with him when he sent me out here. It would appear it was a good thing he did.”

  Ahbaht released Cudd’s arm and waved the roughly dressed seijin into one of the wingback armchairs sitting on the square of carpet under the skylight. He poured whiskey into two glasses, handed one to his visitor, and then settled into the second armchair and leaned back.

  “I trust you won’t take this wrongly, Seijin Dagyr,” he continued, “but it’s rather a relief to encounter a seijin of merely mortal dimensions.”

  “Not all of us are as tall as Merlin or Ahbraim,” Cudd agreed with what was undeniably a grin this time, not a smile. He was no more than an inch or two taller than Ahbaht.

  “No, I don’t suppose you are.” Ahbaht sipped whiskey for a moment, regarding the seijin levelly. Then he shrugged. “It would seem, however, that all of you are … equally gifted at turning up unanticipatedly. Would it be violating any secret seijin lore to ask how you came to happen across us?”

  It was, Cudd acknowledged, a reasonable question. At the moment, Thunderer was about midway between Hilda Island and Parrot Point, over nine hundred miles east of Talisman Island. Ahbaht was doing exactly what he was supposed to be doing, now that Talisman been secured and the coastal batteries were in place, by deliberately showing the ironclad so far east of the Harchong Narrows. Whether or not he would succeed in drawing any substantial portion of Sir Dahrand Rohsail’s squadron away from Saram Bay and Jack’s Land was an open question, at best. Frankly, Cudd thought there was relatively little chance of someone as canny as Rohsail obliging Earl Sharpfield that way, but it was certainly worth trying.

  “Actually, no special arcane seijin lore was required, Sir,” he replied almost, but not quite, honestly. “I’d heard rumors of Charisian ships having seized Talisman Island and it seemed reasonable to assume they might be operating farther east than they had been. For someone who doesn’t want to come any closer to Admiral Rohsail than I had to, the Hilda Channel would seem like the best route from Gorath to Claw Island.” He shrugged. “All I had to do was keep a close lookout on the way through, and your ship’s not exactly hard to recognize, Sir Bruhstair.”

  There was, he decided, no need to mention that Owl had used one of the air lorries with a heavy-lift tractor to deliver his fishing boat to just outside visual range of Thunderer before he started keeping a close lookout for her.

  “I see.” Ahbaht nodded, although he suspected it hadn’t been quite as simple as the seijin seemed to imply. “On the other hand,” he continued, “I rather doubt you stopped by simply to exchange observations on other people’s height.”

  “You doubt correctly.” Cudd’s expression sobered. “In fact, when I heard you’d been sent to take possession of Talisman, I decided it was even more important for you to have this information than Earl Sharpfield.” Ahbaht raised his eyebrows politely, and Cudd grimaced. “It seems Earl Thirsk’s had an inspiration where his screw-galleys are concerned, Sir Bruhstair. In fact—”

  * * *

  “Thank you both for coming so promptly,” Captain Ahbaht said as Daivyn Kylmahn, his first lieutenant, showed Horayshyo Vahrnay and Lywelyn Pymbyrtyn into his day cabin.

  Nine days had elapsed since his meeting with Dagyr Cudd, during which Thunderer had made her laborious way back to Talisman Island against persistent headwinds. A Charisian officer—especially a Charisian naval officer—was supposed to exercise his own judgment in the absence of specific orders from his superiors, and Ahbaht had spent those days considering the implications of the seijin’s information. All of his squadron was now gathered in Rahzhyr Bay, taking on fresh water from the water hoys sent forward from Claw Island, and he’d signaled for the other two captains to repair aboard the ironclad almost before her anchor had hit the bay’s sandy bottom. They had to be afire with curiosity over the sudden, peremptory summons.

  Vahrnay commanded HMS Vengeance and Pymbyrtyn commanded her sister ship Vindicator. After Thunderer, the pair of sixty-eight-gun galleons were the two most powerful units of Ahbaht’s entire squadron, and Vahrnay was his second-in-command. He was also a consummate seaman, and one of the finest warship commanders Ahbaht had ever seen, but Pymbyrtyn was even more interesting in many ways. He was a subject of Old Charis, but he spoke with a heavy Tarotisian accent, because until five years ago, he’d been a subject of King Gorjah of Tarot rather than Haarahld VII. When King Cayleb and Archbishop Maikel decided to bid defiance to the Group of Four, however, Pymbyrtyn had abandoned everything he owned in Tarot, resigned his commission in the Tarotisian Navy, and traveled to Tellesberg to offer his sword and his loyalty to Charis. An ardent Reformist and a skilled seaman, he’d also become a fervent Charisian patriot who thoroughly deserved his powerful command.

  “Your signal did indicate a certain urgency, Sir Bruhstair,” Vahrnay answered for both of them, and Ahbaht nodded.

  “Yes, it did. We have a problem, gentlemen.” Ahbaht tapped the map spread across his dining table with a pair of brass dividers. It wasn’t a nautical chart, and his visitors wondered why he was looking at a map showing features as much as a thousand miles inland. “In approximately twenty-five days, Admiral Pawal Hahlynd of the Royal Dohlaran Navy will be arriving at Yu-shai with at least twelve and possibly as many as fifteen of Thirsk’s armored screw-galleys.”

  The other two captains stared at him for a moment, then turned their heads in unison to look at each other before turning back to him.

  “Excuse me, Sir Bruhstair?” Pymbyrtyn said, and Ahbaht showed his teeth.

  “I don’t blame you for wondering if I’ve lost my mind, Lywelyn, but I’m serious. And, no, they aren’t going to try to sneak them through the Shweimouth Passage past us.” He tapped the map again, the dividers’ points touching the thin blue line of the Sherach Canal. “They’re sending them by canal.”

  Pymbyrtyn’s eyes narrowed, then widened in sudden understanding.

  “Shan-wei!” he muttered, and shook himself. “They are small enough for that, aren’t they?”

  “They are, indeed,” Ahbaht agreed, “and we’re very fortunate certain spies of ours were able to get word of it to us this quickly. The same word’s on its way to Earl Sharpfield. Unfortunately, it won’t reach him for another two five-days. Even after it does, it would take at least another ten days for any reinforcements he might send us to reach us here. For that matter, he only has ten galleons of his own, so there’s not a lot he could send us. And there’s always that bastard Rohsail to worry about. We didn’t see any sign of him east of Whale Island, no matter how assiduously we trailed our coats. That may suggest he has something else in mind. If he knows Hahlynd’s coming—and I trust nobody thinks Thirsk’s stupid enough to have sent this sort of reinforcement without informing Rohsail about it—and the two of them combine forces, the only ships we’ve got that could hope to stand up to them would be Thunderer and Dreadnought … and the last we’ve heard, Dreadnought’s still on the binnacle list. That’s probably changed by now—in fact, I’m confident it has—but we can’t be certain of that. And even if she’s on her way to us right this moment, what happened to her indicates we could always lose one or even both of the ironclads all over again, at least temporarily. For that matter, Hahlynd’s supposed to be bringing along a siza
ble supply of those ‘spar torpedoes’ Earl Sharpfield warned us about. If his screw-galleys reach Yu-shai, especially with those damned torpedoes, they could make any attack into Shwei Bay prohibitively expensive. For that matter, if the Saint Lerys Canal’s been repaired, Hahlynd could send some of them all the way to Yu-kwau to cover the Bay of Alexov.”

  Both of the other captains were back on mental balance now, gazing at the map intently.

  “I’m sure you’re telling us this for a reason, Sir Bruhstair.” Captain Vahrnay’s tone suggested he had his own suspicions about what that reason might be, and Ahbaht smiled at him.

  “I am indeed, Horayshyo. I am indeed.”

  He dropped the dividers on the map and beckoned for the other two captains to join him on Thunderer’s sternwalk. They stood under the hot afternoon sun, watching seabirds and wyverns soar against a cloudless blue sky, and gazed out across the thicket of masts. It was a peaceful scene, and all of them conscientiously reminded themselves of the Dohlaran ships based on Jack’s Land, less than five hundred miles away.

  “If Hahlynd’s supposed to reach Yu-shai basically this time next month, then they’ll be reaching Symarkhan, where the Hahskyn-Varna Canal enters the Hahskyn River, seventeen days from now,” Ahbaht said, “and unlike most Harchongese rivers, the Hahskyn’s navigable for blue-water ships as high as Symarkhan. It’s not anything I’d call an easy channel, but it’s navigable.

  “If we were to sail today, assuming average wind conditions, we could reach Ki-dau, where the Hahskyn enters Hahskyn Bay, in nine days. It’s a hundred and seventy miles upriver from Ki-dau to Symarkhan, and assuming a fair wind, we might be able to make three knots against the current. That means we could be there in eleven or twelve days from the moment we weighed anchor here at Talisman. Taking Thunderer and the other galleons or the bombardment ships that far up the river, especially without local pilots, would run some pretty serious risks, but if we had that much time in hand, we could use the schooners and our own small craft to find us a way through. And if we were to do to the Symarkhan canalfront what Captain Haigyl did to the Yu-kwau canalfront, Hahlynd and his screw-galleys would be stuck fourteen hundred miles from Yu-shai and even farther than that from the Gulf of Dohlar.”

  “If you took the entire squadron, we’d leave Talisman unprotected behind us, Sir,” Vahrnay pointed out after a moment.

  “And if the wind didn’t cooperate, we might not reach Symarkhan in time to keep the screw-galleys bottled up,” Pymbyrtyn added. He shook his head, although his expression was thoughtful, not one of disagreement. “I don’t like to think about what they could do to us if they caught us in a river where we couldn’t maneuver freely.”

  “First, you’re absolutely right about leaving Talisman exposed, Horayshyo,” Ahbaht agreed. “They’ll send word to Rohsail the minute they spot us passing through the Shweimouth on our way south, and I don’t think any of us believe Rohsail’s going to just sit there with his thumb up his arse. He might decide to attack us here, but, frankly, I wouldn’t be all that concerned if he did. First, because I’m fairly confident Major Ohmahly and Commander Makgrygair between them would be able to stand him off, and secondly, because Dreadnought’s repairs should be pretty much complete by now. That means Captain Haigyl will be coming forward, which means he’d be available to help defend the anchorage.

  “Bearing all that in mind, I think it’s more probable Rohsail would come in pursuit of us, especially if he already knows Hahlynd is on his way. Depending on his deployments when he came after us, he could have a substantial numerical advantage. In fact, I imagine he wouldn’t pursue us in the first place if he didn’t have a heavy numerical edge, but even if he does, I’m not too concerned about our ability to handle him out on Hahskyn Bay without the screw-galleys to support him. He’d still have to deal with Thunderer, and the rest of you aren’t likely to be standing by doing nothing in the meantime.

  “I’d be more concerned about his arriving close enough on our heels to hold the rivermouth against us before we could get back to the bay after attacking Symarkhan. But even his Jack’s Land squadron would be at least four days behind us, and that’s assuming he’s ready to sail the instant he gets word we’ve entered the Shweimouth, without calling in any additional galleons from Saram Bay. That would cut down on the numbers he could bring to bear, and we should still have enough of a lead to hit Symarkhan and get back out of the river again even if he did it. No one can guarantee that, of course, but I plan on leaving a few of our schooners in South Shwei Bay to watch our backs.

  “As for encountering the screw-galleys in the river, I’m no more interested in that sort of foolishness than either of you are. If we get to Ki-dau and it’s clear we won’t have time to reach Symarkhan before Hahlynd does—or even if it’s simply not clear that we would have time—I’m perfectly ready to turn around and go home again. Let’s be honest, keeping those screw-galleys out of Shwei Bay—and out of the Bay of Alexov, for that matter—would be highly beneficial. Keeping them from getting up to anything adventurous, like attacking Talisman while the rest of us were at sea, would be even more beneficial. But it’s not exactly critical to High Admiral Rock Point’s long-term plans for the Gulf and for Dohlar. This is eminently worth doing; it’s not worth losing valuable ships and men if the timing goes belly-up on us. If that looks like happening, I will turn around in a skinny Siddarmarkian minute.”

  “Can’t say I’m sorry to hear you say that, Sir,” Vahrnay said. “I realize I’m the only Old Charisian in this little conversation, but the truth is, I get nervous when there’s anything besides saltwater under the keel. Fresh water’s all very well for drinking and even the occasional bath, but it’s no place for a Navy man, if you’ll pardon my saying so.”

  “I don’t think Lywelyn or I would disagree with you under normal circumstances,” Ahbaht replied. “On the other hand, as I say, this is definitely something worth doing if we can pull it off. And if we decide we can’t, and if Rohsail has tried to follow us, we might just snare a consolation prize. I think we’d all enjoy an opportunity to engage an isolated portion of his squadron with Thunderer to lead the way, don’t you, gentlemen?”

  .VI.

  Guarnak, Mountaincross Province, Republic of Siddarmark

  “Have you seen Colonel Fyrgyrsyn’s latest report?” Bishop Militant Bahrnabai Wyrshym asked.

  Icy wind whistled around the eaves of the mansion he’d commandeered as his headquarters, and it was cold in the splendidly furnished dining room. He and Auxiliary Bishop Ernyst Abernethy sat at a small table across the hearth from the frugal fire which was all Wyrshym permitted himself as the Army of the Sylmahn’s stocks of fuel and food dwindled once more. The spartan breakfast before them—little more than two bowls of porridge, sweetened with the last of Wyrshym’s chef’s jealously hoarded sugar and enormously out of place on the expensive, polished table—was another sign of that army’s tightening belt.

  “I haven’t seen one in the last day or two,” Bishop Ernyst replied. “I’m sure if I had it would’ve made depressing reading, though.”

  “Depressing, but not surprising,” Wyrshym agreed. Colonel Tayrens Fyrgyrsyn was the Army of the Sylmahn’s senior quartermaster. He was intelligent, good at his job, and only in his early fifties, but anyone looking at him would have guessed his age at at least sixty-five or seventy, and for good reason.

  “They slaughtered the last draft animal yesterday. Assuming nobody has to burn up energy marching around or performing heavy labor—and that the mortality rate keeps climbing the way it has—he and Father Zherohmy estimate they can feed what’s left of the Army through the second five-day of June. Which, of course, means for another four five-days, total. After that, we’ll be well below Pasquale’s minimums, and it’ll only get worse. If their numbers are accurate, the Army will literally starve to death by the end of next month.”

  Abernethy sighed heavily and closed his eyes in brief, silent prayer. Then he opened them again and looked bac
k across the table at the bishop militant.

  “Is there anything else we can do?” he asked quietly.

  “Not without violating our orders to stand fast,” Wyrshym replied, with far more candor than most AOG commanders would have exposed to their army’s intendant. “I realize the Mighty Host’s supposed to be marching to our rescue, but, frankly, there’s not a chance in hell it could get here before mid-June or early July even if it didn’t have Green Valley to worry about at Five Forks. And if it doesn’t get here by the end of next month, the heretics won’t have to attack us at all; they can just sit where they are and let us starve.”

  “Do you really think they’ll do that?”

  “If I were in their boots, that’s exactly what I’d do.” Wyrshym’s expression was grim. “Why take casualties when they can let hunger win the battle for them? It’s worked in enough sieges, and that’s effectively what this is, as long as we stand fast. On the other hand, we can’t be sure what Green Valley’s situation is at Five Forks, and they may be feeling a little nervous about having him stuck out at the end of such a long limb. For that matter, we don’t know what’s happening south of Wyvern Lake, either, really.”

  His lips twisted and he patted them with his napkin, then folded the fabric over precisely and laid it on the table.

  “My boys are doing their damnedest to keep an eye on Stohnar, but let’s not fool ourselves. They’re cold, they’re hungry, they’re more poorly armed than the enemy, and the heretics hold the high ground. I’m sure you’ve seen even more chaplains’ reports than I have, Ernyst. All the faith in the world can’t compensate for empty bellies, frostbite, and lack of fires. They’re trying, and they’ll fight hard to hold their ground, but there’s a big difference between that and pressing home patrols—and taking casualties—looking for information they figure won’t make much difference in the end. So Stohnar could’ve been reinforced by eighty or a hundred thousand men without us knowing a thing about it. As for Fairkyn, Nybar’s down to his last few messenger wyverns, but his last report indicates the heretics’ve settled for keeping him pinned, at least for now. They may be figuring to starve him out without losing men, either, but it’s also possible they’re simply waiting until their own reinforcements come up before they go ahead and assault.