It was bitterly ironic. If those storms had arrived only two days earlier, Ahbaht and Haigyl would very likely have gotten the majority of Ahbaht’s squadron—and probably Dreadnought—to safety. If not that, the Dohlarans at least would have paid an even higher price for their victory.
Not that they’d gotten off lightly. Sixteen of Admiral Rohsail’s galleons had been destroyed, six of them with all hands, and four more were almost certainly beyond repair, which amounted to forty percent of his total pre-battle strength. Rohsail’s flagship had been sunk along with them, and Rohsail himself had been badly wounded. In fact, it was unlikely the healers would be able to save his life, which filled Merlin with a vengeful satisfaction. And so did the fact that even though Kahrltyn Haigyl hadn’t lived to see it, his ship had sent Gwylym Manthyr’s old flagship to the bottom.
Eight of Admiral Hahlynd’s fifteen initial screw-galleys had also been lost, most to a combination of battle damage and the stormy seas which had followed the savage engagement. And four of Rohsail’s light cruisers—a trio of brigs and a single schooner—had stumbled into Ahbaht’s surviving galleons the night after the battle. None of them had survived to inform Admiral Raisahndo, commanding the Western Squadron now that Rohsail was out of action, of where he might find the fleeing Charisians. Of course, even if he’d had that information, it would have taken him the better part of a full day just to sort out which of his remaining thirty-galleons were fit enough to be sent after them. He probably couldn’t have come up with more than a dozen of them.
All told, Rohsail and Hahlynd between them had lost twice as many ships as Ahbaht, although many of them had been individually smaller and lighter, and only four ICN galleons had been taken intact—or close enough to it to be repaired, at any rate. One of them, unfortunately, was HMS Vortex, one of Ahbaht’s two bombardment ships. Firestorm had made it out, along with Broadsword, Vindicator, and HMS Thunderhead. That was it, aside from Sojourn, and every one of the galleons was severely damaged. And far worse, what no one aboard Ahbaht’s handful of battered ships yet knew was that Dreadnought had also survived.
No one would ever know exactly how that had happened, since not one of Kahrltyn Haigyl’s officers—aside from a single wounded midshipman—had survived the battle. Paityr Gahnzahlyz would probably have fired the fuse on his own initiative if he’d realized the ironclad had been boarded by the companies of no less than three Dohlaran galleons. Perhaps he had realized, but if so, there hadn’t been enough time between the moment that he did and the moment some idiot of a Dohlaran Marine dropped a lit hand grenade down the main companion just as Gahnzahlyz was headed up it. That grenade had exploded within less than twenty feet of Dreadnought’s magazine, which should by rights have carried out Haigyl’s last order for him. Somehow, by some perverse miracle, it hadn’t. It had killed Gahnzahlyz, however. Merlin had no idea where the gunner had been going or why—not even Owl and the SNARCs had been able to sort the last savage minutes of the fight aboard the ironclad into a coherent picture—yet it seemed likely that Gahnzahlyz’ death explained why the charges in the magazine had never been fired. The officers fighting for their own and their men’s lives on Dreadnought’s deck had known he was waiting to fulfill that last, grim duty; quite probably they’d left that to him and abandoned themselves to killing as many Dohlarans as possible before they went down themselves and Gahnzahlyz’ gunner’s mates had hung on too long waiting for orders from their officers.
No one would ever know, and the why of it didn’t matter. What mattered was that the Royal Dohlaran Navy was now in possession of the only seagoing ironclad on the Gulf of Dohlar or any of its surrounding waters. And that Dynnys Zhwaigair was about to have six-inch rifled guns on Mahndrayan carriages to examine. God only knew where that was likely to lead!
And then there were the five hundred Charisian seamen and officers who’d been captured.
That wasn’t all that many, really … given that there’d been just over seven thousand men aboard the ships which had been captured or destroyed. Ninety-three percent of the seamen and officers manning those ships had died fighting; that tended to happen when the men in question knew what would happen to them if they were surrendered to the Inquisition. At least four or five hundred of them had been killed out of hand when they could fight no more, although the SNARC imagery suggested many of those deaths had been mercy killings, not cold-blooded murder. Despite the ferocity of the Dohlarans’ attack, it was clear some of Rohsail’s officers and men had found they had no stomach for repeating what had happened to Gwylym Manthyr and his men.
“I don’t know how you could stand to watch that,” Aivah said softly. Merlin looked at her, and she gave him a sad smile. “I know you thought you owed it to them, and I suppose it’s only right that someone keep watch over them. They deserved it, I know. But even the little of it that I did watch was terrible. If I’d watched all of it, I think it would’ve destroyed me.”
“You live with what you have to live with,” Merlin told her, and managed a smile of his own. “Nahrmahn reminded me of that rather … forcefully. And you were right, bless your rotund little heart, Nahrmahn.”
“I wouldn’t want to say anything about how frequently that turns out to be the case, since I’m such a naturally modest sort, with an instinctual aversion to using words like ‘infallibility.’ Especially where Ohlyvya might hear about it.” Nahrmahn replied from his virtual reality, and several members of the conference surprised themselves with chuckles.
Cayleb wasn’t one of them, although even he smiled. But then he shook his head.
“This time I want those men back,” he said flatly. “Not another Gwylym this time. This time we damned well find a way to get them back.”
“If we can, we will,” Merlin told him, his tone equally flat. “And if we can’t, Nimue and I will damned well arrange a magazine explosion to send any ship they’re aboard to the bottom. But if they send them overland again—”
“I think that’s unlikely this time,” Nahrmahn said. All of them looked at his image, and he shrugged. “Clyntahn’s going to want them in Zion as quickly as he can get them there. He’ll want the biggest, most spectacular auto-da-fé imaginable to flaunt ‘his’ triumph—especially after what happened to the Army of God—and to be sure he provides a suitable object lesson for anyone whose devotion to the jihad might threaten to waver. Besides, the way he’ll see it, Dohlar’s just destroyed any Charisian naval presence which could prevent it from shipping them to him across Gorath Bay.”
“That,” Rock Point conceded sourly, “is entirely too close to true. Once Sarmouth gets to Claw Island, Sharpfield will have a total of ten galleons—none of them ironclads—under his command. And that’s assuming all four of Ahbaht’s can be repaired out of local resources.”
“What do you think Sharpfield will do when Ahbaht gets back to Claw Island?” Pine Hollow asked.
“If he listens to Sir Dunkyn, the Earl will convene a court of inquiry, find that Ahbaht acted in the highest tradition of the Charisian Navy, and return him immediately to command,” Nimue said crisply. “We need captains like him, and he needs to be put back up on the horse as quickly as possible.”
“I don’t think Lewk’s likely to need Dunkyn’s advice to come to that conclusion on his own,” Rock Point said. “I think the real problem’s going to be whether or not Ahbaht can come back from this in his own head.”
“That’s why I said he needs to get back onto the horse,” Nimue agreed.
Rock Point nodded. Sir Dunkyn Yairley and Hektor Aplyn-Ahrmahk weren’t participating in the present conference for the same reason Sharleyan wasn’t. All three of them were at sea, where it was even later at night (or earlier in the morning, depending on which time zone they happened to be in), and all of them were asleep. It was equally late for Nimue, but she had certain unfair advantages where the need for sleep was concerned.
“All right, we can’t do anything more about that, at least until Ahbaht gets back to Claw Is
land and Sharpfield finds out what happened,” Cayleb said briskly. “So, getting back to Ruhsyl’s surrender terms. Should I take it from what’s already been said that there’s general approval?”
“I could point out, Your Majesty, that there doesn’t need to be general approval as long as you approve,” Pine Hollow said. “Since I’m far too dutiful a first councilor to do anything of the sort, however, I’ll just say that they seem to make sense to me. Leaving aside the exchange provision—which we’re all perfectly well aware he intended primarily as a political and psychological ploy—the only other thing he could have done with them was to carry out reprisals against the rank and file for what happened to General Stahntyn. If Kaitswyrth hadn’t killed himself, I’d recommend executing him for that, at the very least. But with him and Zavyr—and two-thirds of his division commanders and all of his inquisitors—already dead, I don’t really see a point in piling the bodies any deeper, Cayleb. Besides, all those strong backs will come in useful for the harvest. And we’re going to have some canals to repair, for that matter. Ahlverez and Harless’ waifs seem to be working out quite well in that regard. I don’t see any reason the Army of God shouldn’t make a similar contribution to the cause.”
“You’ve got that part right, Trahvys,” Merlin said, amid a general nodding of heads.
The Army of Shiloh’s survivors had been allowed to surrender, for which most of them were pathetically grateful, given what had happened to the Fort Tairys’ garrison and the wretched, ragged semi-starvation to which they’d been reduced even before Eastshare sprang his trap upon them. The Safeholdian rules of warfare permitted prisoners who hadn’t been paroled to be employed at forced labor, with the proviso that they be properly fed. Accordingly, the Desnairian and Dohlaran POWs had found themselves in southeastern Siddarmark—which included eastern Shiloh, the province which had been their destination—working on the massive farms which had sprung up to replace the western cropland lost to the Sword of Schueler.
Those farms would more than replace the food supply which had been so brutally interrupted that first winter, which was a good thing, considering the half million or so prisoners who had to be fed, as well. None of the guards and supervisors riding herd on the POWs were inclined to be overly gentle, especially in Shiloh, but there was very little overt brutality. Discipline was tough, the hours were long, and the work was hard, yet probably not a great deal longer or harder than the conditions most of the Desnairian serfs would have faced back home. And while the prisoners’ freedom of conscience was respected and Temple Loyalist clergy were made available to them, the Church of Charis had seized the opportunity for a little missionary work. Men who’d been as utterly defeated as the Army of Shiloh, the Army of the Sylmahn, and now the Army of Glacierheart might be excused for wondering if God had truly been on their side to begin with, and the Charisian clergy had made some significant inroads among those who’d been in custody longest.
“Do you think Stohnar and Parkair will object to their ‘leniency,’ Aivah?” Cayleb asked.
“I think Daryus would prefer to collect their heads and let the rest of them rot, to be honest,” Aivah replied. “And, frankly, now that I think about it, it occurs to me that he and Greyghor are going to insist that any Army deserters who mutinied during the initial insurrection and then went over to the Army of God should be turned over to face court-martial.”
“Oh, damn! She’s right, Cayleb.” Merlin’s expression was chagrined. “I never even thought about that, and I damned well should have—we all should have. I guess it didn’t occur to me because his cousin pretty much took care of that with the Army of the Sylmahn and it never came up for discussion. But now that someone with a working brain’s suggested the possibility, I’m sure just about everyone in the Republic—the part that stayed loyal to Stohnar, at least—would stand up and cheer if the mutineers in the Army of Glacierheart got the same treatment. For that matter, they’re not covered under your and Sharley’s promise not to seek reprisals against anyone but inquisitors, and they damned well are guilty of mutiny and treason under the Republic’s law.”
“Ruhsyl did include them—at least provisionally—in the terms he offered to the Army of God, though.” Pine Hollow sounded faintly troubled. “Or he didn’t draw any distinctions between them and the AOG regulars, anyway. If we ‘go back’ on the terms he stipulated—and they accepted—does that create bigger problems down the road?”
“No,” Cayleb said firmly. “First, because Aivah and Merlin are right. They are mutineers and they are traitors, and if Greyghor and Daryus want them, then they damned well get them. And, second, because any military commander’s terms are always subject to confirmation by his political superiors, just like Thirsk’s terms to Gwylym were.” The emperor’s mouth twisted around the bitter taste of his own words, but he continued unflinchingly. “In this case, the political superiors in question are our allies, and they and their country have paid a pretty damned horrible price. We ought to’ve given him specific instructions about this before he ever launched his attack, and I’m frankly surprised—now that I think about it—that the Siddarmarkians didn’t insist on our doing exactly that.”
“I think they may have taken it as a given that any mutineers taken in enemy service would automatically be handed over to them,” Green Valley said after a moment. “Which means it’s a good thing Ruhsyl’s dispatch will be coming to you before it goes to Stohnar or Parkair. We’ve got time for you to get out in front and point out to them that this was an oversight and that, obviously, mutinous members of the Siddarmarkian Army aren’t covered by it.”
“That sounds like a very good idea to me, Cayleb,” Pine Hollow said firmly. “We don’t really owe the traitors in question anything, and any problems we may have with the other side ‘down the road’ are a hell of a lot less important than making sure we don’t offend our allies. Especially over something like this.”
“I agree,” Cayleb said, and glanced at the clock on the study wall. “And on that note, I hereby declare this com conference adjourned.”
.VII.
HMS Chihiro, 50, Gorath Bay, Kingdom of Dohlar, and HMS Destiny, 54, Claw Island, Sea of Harchong
The Earl of Thirsk sat back from the report on his desk with a face of stone. He was alone in his day cabin. He’d deliberately sent Mahrtyn Vahnwyk, his personal secretary, off on an invented errand to ensure that he would be alone when he read Caitahno Raisahndo’s report. He’d read the brief initial dispatch the semaphore had transmitted immediately after the battle, so he’d already known a great deal of what this follow-on, detailed report was going to say when the dispatch boat delivered it, just as he’d known why it was from Raisahndo rather than Sir Dahrand Rohsail. And because he’d known what it was going to tell him, he’d also known the last thing he’d needed was for anyone else to see his reaction when he actually read it.
He tried to feel regret that it had been left to Raisahndo to write the final report of the Battle of the Kaudzhu Narrows, but it was difficult. Although Rohsail had adapted far better to the realities of the reformed Dohlaran Navy than Thirsk had once believed would have been possible, he remained rebellious where many of Thirsk’s reforms—primarily those relating to the discipline of enlisted personnel and the earl’s prohibition of capricious use of flogging and the cat—were concerned, and no one would ever mistake him for a Thirsk partisan. His reflex arrogance didn’t exactly endear him to those about him, either. Thirsk un-grudgingly acknowledged the determination and initiative which had made possible the Royal Dohlaran Navy’s greatest victory in at least the last half-century, but he still couldn’t bring himself to like the man.
And berating yourself for that is another way to postpone dealing with what’s staring you right in the face, isn’t it, Lywys? But it’s not going to go away, however much you want it to.
He shoved up out of his chair and stalked aft to stare grimly out Chihiro’s stern windows. The bright, late-afternoon sun beaming down on the city
of Gorath, the colorful banners popping and snapping against the blue sky and puffball white clouds, and the white horses following one another across the harbor on the wings of the sharp northwesterly wind were a stark contrast to the darkness swirling about within him. He tried to recapture the emotions he’d felt when news of Rohsail’s great victory first reached Gorath. There’d been no report then of enemy casualties … or prisoners. He’d been free to think about—feel about—the battle the way any secular admiral might have felt, and what he’d felt had been exultant elation … and somber, proud pain for the price his reformed and reorganized navy had paid to win it.
Yet even then, the exultation had been flawed, for he’d already known (whether he’d wanted to admit it yet) there would be prisoners. Or, if there weren’t, there’d be the knowledge that his navy had slaughtered its defeated foes rather than offering quarter. And the truly hellish part of it, before Raisahndo’s report put the doubt to rest, was that he’d almost hoped it would be the latter.
It hadn’t been. Reading between the lines, he knew quite a few of those defeated Charisians had been killed out of hand, and he found himself wondering how many of the men behind those killings had done it out of fury and hatred … and how many had done it for the same reasons he would have? He’d never know, but he knew now that there were five hundred and twenty-three Charisian prisoners headed back down the canals towards Gorath, and his jaw clenched against the need to curse out loud.
Damn you, Caitahno, he thought harshly. Oh, damn you for doing this to me! Don’t I have enough innocent blood on my hands already?!
He leaned his forehead against the glass, closing his eyes, and forced the bitter, bitter anger to subside. He knew exactly why Raisahndo had opted to send the Charisians back to Gorath via the canals, and he wondered if Zhaspahr Clyntahn’s wrath would descend upon the other admiral. No doubt the Inquisition would be of the opinion that they should have been dispatched directly to Zion by the fastest possible route, and he rather doubted Clyntahn would accept Raisahndo’s reasoning for not doing exactly that.