Hell's Foundations Quiver
“If they do decide to come at us from the south, though, they need to do it pretty quickly. The ice on Wyvern Lake’s going to start breaking up any day now. It may already be too thin for them to come straight across it, and that’s going to leave them with the same bottleneck they faced last fall. I should at least be able to pull some of our regiments back once that happens, not that I have any brilliant ideas for where else to use them, I’m afraid.”
Abernethy sat silent for several long moments, gazing down into his porridge bowl with hooded eyes. Then he raised his head and gazed across the table at the bishop militant.
“If those regiments were here at Guarnak,” he said in a very careful tone, “and if the heretics took Fairkyn and advanced down the line of the canal towards Guarnak, would their presence help you … conduct a fighting retreat towards Jylmyn and the Hildermoss?”
Wyrshym’s face froze for just a moment. He sat very still, looking back across the table at Zhaspahr Clyntahn’s personal representative in his headquarters. He knew exactly what Abernethy was painstakingly not suggesting, and if Wyrshym gave that order—and Abernethy didn’t instantly countermand it—both of them would face the Inquisition.
But it might also save at least part of this Army, a quiet voice said in the back of the bishop militant’s brain. These men have been through Shan-wei’s own hell for Mother Church, and for that fat bastard sitting in the Grand Inquisitor’s chair. They damned well deserve a chance—just a chance! It wouldn’t be much of a chance without better supplies, especially at this time of year, but it’d be more than they’d have sitting here while the heretics’ artillery blows them apart … or every one of them starves, anyway.
“Yes, Ernyst,” he said, after a moment. “A few more regiments might make the difference between holding the Army together and watching it break up. That’s something worth bearing in mind. Thank you for pointing it out to me.”
He smiled at his intendant, and Abernethy smiled back. They weren’t joyous expressions, those smiles, and yet Bahrnabai Wyrshym drew enormous comfort from them.
JUNE
YEAR OF GOD 897
.I.
Delthak Works, Barony of High Rock, Kingdom of Old Charis
“I think that’s just about everything,” Ehdwyrd Howsmyn sighed, rolling his swivel chair back from his desk and stretching enormously. It was as close to dark outside his office windows as it ever got at the Delthak Works, but the gaslight illumination inside that office, for all its brightness, could be hard on weary eyes and the hour was late. “I hope it is, anyway. I promised Zhain I’d be home in time for supper tonight … if she agreed to serve it an hour or so later than usual. And since she did—”
He grimaced, and Nahrmahn Tidewater and Zosh Huntyr chuckled. Zhain Howsmyn’s husband’s demanding schedule would have tried the patience of a saint. She didn’t really like the hours he worked—more because of how hard he drove himself than for any other reason—but she also tried not to place even more demands upon him. Still, she did insist he come home for supper and get something remotely like a good night’s sleep at least two nights out of every five-day. He’d been forced to disappoint her in that regard more times than he liked to think about, but he tried hard to avoid doing it any more often than he absolutely had to. And when he promised her he wouldn’t, he moved heaven and earth to keep his word.
“Mind you,” he told his senior artificers as he closed the last production report folder and climbed out of his chair, “she’s been willing to cut me a little more slack since she found out about the dukedom. I’m not inclined to press my luck, though. So, if you gentlemen will excuse me?”
“Personally, I’m in favor of keeping Mistress Zhain happy,” Huntyr told him. “Especially if that keeps her from taking out her unhappiness on us!”
“Zosh, I’m shocked! Are you seriously suggesting I would attempt to blame you for my tardiness? How could you even think such a thing?!”
“Probably has something to do with the fact that you did just that when you got home late after playing with Taigys’ latest toy,” Tidewater suggested.
“Well, I see no point in standing around here being insulted!” Howsmyn said with a grin, starting for the office door. “So on that note—”
He broke off as an unearthly, shuddering wail froze him in mid stride. His eyes went wide, and Tidewater and Huntyr bounced up out of their chairs with shocked expressions. A second high, keening wail joined the first, and all three men turned as one and ran for the door.
* * *
It was like looking into a volcano.
The roar of the flames was like one of the blast furnaces, but this was no blast furnace. The thick, black pillar of smoke rose into the night like a foretaste of Hell, lit from below by lurid billows of flame, and the heat radiating from the blaze was like a physical blow.
Manufactories, especially ones like the Delthak Works, were always dangerous places. No one knew that better than Ehdwyrd Howsmyn, and he’d invested as much time thinking about ways to protect his workers—and his workshops—from the endless chain of disasters just waiting to happen as he’d ever spent on ways to speed production. The people in his employ knew that, and they appreciated it deeply, even though he himself was never satisfied. Intellectually, he understood that all the precautions in the world couldn’t keep accidents from happening. He even understood that despite the size, scope, and furious pace of the Delthak Works, his workers suffered far fewer injuries than were common in much smaller manufactories whose owners had spent less time thinking about safety procedures and organizing emergency response crews.
At the moment, that was extraordinarily cold comfort.
The fire brigade had responded at the first wail of the sirens. They’d been on-site, already coupling their hoses to the fire mains that crisscrossed the Delthak Works, and the first streams of water had gone hissing into the flames even before he reached the disaster. But there were limits in all things, and his jaw clenched as he realized where the fire was and just how huge the blaze had already become.
“Master Howsmyn!”
He turned as someone called his name. It was Stahnly Gahdwyn, the Delthak Works Fire Brigade’s commander. Gahdwyn had been the assistant commander of the Tellesberg Fire Brigade before Howsmyn stole him away for the Delthak Works, and the commander had embraced the new and improved firefighting equipment available here like a miser diving into a knee-deep pile of gold coins. He was a squared-off plug of a man, with dark hair and brown eyes and a left hand badly scarred from a long-ago Tellesberg blaze, and he regarded fires as a personal enemy, not some impersonal act of nature.
“What happened, Chief?”
“Don’t know yet, Sir.” Gahdwyn removed his steel helmet and ran his fingers through his hair. “I’m afraid it may’ve been the gas lines.”
“I didn’t hear any explosions!”
“No, Sir.” Gahdwyn shook his head. “I’m thinking we had a major rupture, but not an explosion. When my first lads got here, there was a column of fire blasting right up out of the middle of it all. Standard procedure’s to shut down the gas mains whenever we have a fire, and given how quickly that ‘column’ went away when we did, I’m thinking that had to be the source. And if it was, it’s Langhorne’s own grace we didn’t have an explosion. By now, though, it’s deep into the structure itself, and Shan-wei knows there’re enough oil baths and other flammables in there—not to mention wooden joists, beams, and rafters—to keep it burning all night.”
“Shit,” Ehdwyrd Howsmyn said with quiet, heartfelt intensity.
“Yes, Sir.” Gahdwyn put his helmet back on and squared his shoulders. “I’ve called in all of the backup crews. I think we can keep it from spreading, but I’d be lying if I said it looked good here.”
“I know.” Howsmyn rested one hand on the fire brigade commander’s powerful shoulder. “I know. Do what you can, Chief.”
* * *
“My God!” Brahd Stylmyn said. “My God, what a disas
ter!”
Howsmyn doubted Stylmyn even realized he’d spoken aloud. The engineer sagged with exhaustion in the gray predawn light as he watched the firefighters working to extinguish the last of the blaze. Like Howsmyn himself, he was covered with soot and his clothes were spotted with burn marks, but Stylmyn’s badly burned left hand was wrapped in a filthy bandage, as well.
“It could’ve been worse,” Howsmyn told him. Stylmyn turned his head to look at him, and the industrialist shrugged resignedly. “We could’ve lost the entire foundry.”
Stylmyn grimaced, his soot-streaked face bitter, and Howsmyn shrugged again.
“I said it could’ve been worse; I didn’t say it was good,” he said. “And we won’t really know how bad it is until the rubble cools and we can do a thorough inspection. Whatever happens, though, it’s going to play hell with the King Haarahlds.”
“You never said a truer word, Sir … damn it,” Stylmyn agreed. Then he squared his shoulders. “Best you go home and get a hot shower, Sir. Eat some breakfast, too, while you’re at it. By then, maybe I’ll have a better idea of the damage for you.”
“You’ve got assistants of your own, Brahd.” Howsmyn looked at his chief engineer sternly. “Get that hand looked at by the healers, and get a shower of your own. I don’t want to hear about you being back here for at least four hours. Understood?”
Stylmyn’s expression tightened. For a moment, he hovered on the brink of defiance. But then he shook himself and drew a deep breath of still-smoky air.
“Happen you’ve got a point,” he agreed wearily. “Meet you back here at … nine o’clock or so?”
“That sounds good to me.” Howsmyn patted him on the shoulder. “And now, I need to go home and explain to my wife where I’ve been all night.”
* * *
“You were right when you told Stylmyn it could’ve been worse, Ehdwyrd,” Merlin Athrawes said several hours later.
“Unfortunately, I was also right that ‘could’ve been worse’ isn’t remotely the same thing as ‘good,’” Howsmyn said bitterly. “I can’t believe I let this happen!”
“Don’t be silly, Ehdwyrd!” Sharleyan said sharply over the com link. Her image frowned ferociously in Howsmyn’s contact lenses. “It’s a miracle we haven’t had more accidents like this, given how frantically we’ve been—you’ve been—expanding your facilities!” She shook her head. “When I think of all the things that could have gone wrong over the years…!”
“Sharley’s right,” Cayleb said firmly. “And at least we can be pretty sure this really was an accident, not something like the Hairatha Works happening all over again.”
“And at least no one was killed, Ehdwyrd,” Paityr Wylsynn said very quietly. “Your evacuation procedures and your fire brigade and fire mains saved a lot of lives last night. I think you need to bear that in mind when you get ready to start kicking yourself. Industrial accidents happen, no matter how careful we are. I’m just grateful it happened where someone like you had put enough thought into dealing with it to prevent a disaster from turning into a catastrophe.”
“Agreed,” Domynyk Staynair said firmly from the sternwalk of his flagship.
“How bad a hit are we actually going to take?” Nimue Chwaeriau asked from her modest but comfortable bedchamber in Manchyr Palace.
“Fortunately, the barrel foundry for the Army contracts is practically undamaged,” Howsmyn said after a moment. “We’re probably going to lose at least a couple of five-days while we clean up the mess, strip everything down to inspect it, and then get everything back up and running, but I doubt it’s going to be much worse than that.
“The bad news is on the Navy side.” His expression was grim. “All but two of the ten-inch mounts were caught in the fire. I’ve got the pair of barrels we used for the initial trials and proof firings that I could put with the one the shops had already finished, but I’m really not comfortable at the thought of using them aboard ship. Even we did, we’d still only have the main battery for one King Haarahld. The other mounts’ recoil cylinders are going to have to be torn down and rebuilt, at the very least, and we’ll need to go over every inch of the gun tubes themselves. That’s bad enough, but we had half the ten-inch and at least half of the eight-inch still in the production queue, and until we rebuild the machinery, we can’t complete them. For that matter, the buildings themselves will almost certainly need to be torn down and rebuilt.” He grimaced. “We may be able to salvage some of the barrel shop, but the entire roof’s gone, and every bit of wooden framing—rafters, studs, floors: everything—is pretty much shot. We can probably use canvas tarps for temporary roofs and get the machinery—or replacement machinery, more likely—back up and running on the old foundations while we build a completely new shop next door, but it’s going to be a mess however we tackle it.”
“Probably a good thing Ahbaht’s decided to take those screw-galleys in hand, then,” Rock Point said philosophically. “We need to keep the Dohlarans pruned back until we’re ready to take an axe to Gorath Bay itself.”
Howsmyn grunted in sour acknowledgement and climbed out of his chair, swaying just a bit with fatigue. He walked to the window that let him look out over the charred skeleton of his barrel foundry. From this elevation, looking down on the damage, it seemed impossible that it could ever be repaired, but he shook his head stubbornly and reminded himself how many other “impossible” things he and his people had already accomplished.
“Best guess,” he said finally, “this is going to push the completion on the King Haarahlds back by at least three months, probably more like four, or even five.” He tasted the admission’s bitterness, made even worse in some ways as he remembered his last conversation with Eysamu Tahnguchi. “I’ll have a lot better idea in a couple of days.”
“Well, if that’s the way it is, then that’s the way it is,” Cayleb said, much more philosophically than any of them actually felt, and smiled tightly. “It’s not like we don’t have other things to do while we wait, is it?”
.II.
HMS Defiant, 56, Jack’s Land, and HMS Dreadnought, 30, Gulf of Dohlar
“You sent for me, Sir?”
“Yes,” Sir Dahrand Rohsail said, turning from the stern windows’ panoramic view of Stella Cove, the Royal Dohlaran Navy’s anchorage on the west coast of Jack’s Land. His flagship, Defiant, lay to her anchor between Ribbon Island and the cove’s shore, her stern towards the larger island as the steady westerly wind blew into the anchorage. That was the one true weakness of Stella Cove; although the smaller islands offshore offered some protection against heavy weather out of the west and Ribbon offered additional shelter inside the anchorage itself, it was far from perfect.
“Yes, I did, Markys.” He gestured at the thin sheet of paper lying on his desk’s blotter. “Take a look at that.”
Markys Hamptyn, his flag captain, gathered up the sheet—the sort that wyvern-carried messages were written on—and unfolded it. He recognized the handwriting of Admiral Caitahno Raisahndo’s secretary, and one eyebrow rose. Raisahndo and Rohsail cordially disliked one another, but they’d also learned to respect each other, and Raisahndo was Rohsail’s second-in-command. At the moment, that meant his flagship, Demonslayer, was stationed at Saram Bay with the other half of Rohsail’s Western Squadron to protect the southern coast of North Harchong and the Border States.
He scanned the tersely written message quickly, then read it through a second time, much more carefully, before he looked up at his admiral.
“I see why you wanted to see me, Sir.”
He laid the dispatch back on the desk and crossed to stand beside Rohsail at the windows. Twenty-five more galleons shared the anchorage with Defiant, all but two of them purpose-built war galleons rather than the converted merchantmen which had composed the majority of the Royal Dohlaran Navy the last time the Imperial Charisian Navy had come calling in the Gulf of Dohlar. Two of them, including Defiant herself, were prizes which had been taken from the Charisians upon that occ
asion. In fact, HMS Defiant of the Royal Dohlaran Navy had once been HMS Dancer, of the Imperial Charisian Navy, the flagship of the heretical admiral who’d led that incursion. It had taken months to repair all of the damage she’d suffered in the Battle of the Harchong Narrows, but Dohlar’s shipwrights had learned quite a bit from analyzing her construction. Among other things, they’d finally learned the secret of how to copper their own ships below the waterline, and shared that information with the rest of Mother Church’s shipyards and their secular allies.
“From the sound of it, they must’ve taken everything they had at Talisman,” Hamptyn said after a moment.
“Agreed.” Rohsail folded his hands behind him, pursing his lips as he considered the information the messenger wyvern had borne from Saram Bay. “In some ways, it’s a pity the Harchongians didn’t have any of our Jack’s Land messenger wyverns. We’d have found out a lot sooner if they’d been able to send us word directly.”
“Yes, Sir, we would have,” Hamptyn agreed. “On the other hand, Admiral Raisahndo wouldn’t have known about it as quickly. There’s something to be said for that, assuming we’re going after them.”
“That is the question, isn’t it?” Rohsail said dryly.
He looked out at the anchored ships for several more seconds, then sighed and turned away from the windows. He crossed to his chart table and stood frowning down at it with Hamptyn at his shoulder.