There was nothing left in the target area. Just … nothing at all. It was one huge, overlapping sea of craters, without a single one of the scores of targets which had filled it. He saw a single intact axle from one of the freight wagons; but for that, there were only splinters, overlapping craters, and the still-drifting clouds of smoke. And as he stared at that barren spectacle of devastation, Allayn Maigwair realized exactly what he’d heard in Lynkyn Fultyn’s voice.
* * *
“Well, that was certainly impressive,” Sharleyan Ahrmahk said dryly from her Tellesberg bedchamber.
“I’d go a lot further than just ‘impressive,’ Your Majesty.” Aivah Pahrsahn’s voice over the com was much more somber than Sharleyan’s. “‘Terrifying’ comes to mind, really.”
“And with good reason,” Nimue Chwaeriau put in from Manchyr. She stood on a Manchyr Palace balcony where Irys, who’d discovered the joys of morning sickness, was sharing a late breakfast—of dry toast and tea in Irys’ case—with the Earl of Coris. “That’s the most concentrated destruction anyone’s ever seen out of a purely Safeholdian weapon system.”
“Can they produce enough of them to use in that sort of quantity on the battlefield?” Coris asked.
“Yes and no,” Ehdwyrd Howsmyn replied. “Yes, they can manufacture them in large enough numbers to use on the battlefield. No, they can’t manufacture them in large enough numbers to use them with that … density of effort on a regular basis. For set piece battles, where they can make preparations and manage their logistics well in advance, yes. As a routine ‘on call’ artillery application, probably not.”
“And if they put them into production and stockpile them over the winter?” Cayleb Ahrmahk asked from Siddar City.
“In that case, yes,” Howsmyn acknowledged. “At least for next year’s opening battles. On the other hand, without the machine tools we’ve been able to build and power—both hydraulically and pneumatically—their production rate’s going to be slow compared to ours, Cayleb. They still aren’t going to be able to produce millions of these things. Thousands, yes. Even tens of thousands. But not in the sorts of quantities the Russians used back on Old Earth.”
“Someone’s been studying his military history,” Merlin Athrawes observed with a chuckle. “Someone who didn’t know what the Mississippi was the first time I mentioned converted ironclads to him.”
“Self-defense, Merlin,” Howsmyn retorted. “You—and Nahrmahn, now, damn him—keep dropping these obscure references on us. I’ve had to do a little studying, in my copious free time, to protect myself. I’m just grateful Nimue doesn’t abuse us poor, backward Safeholdians the way you two do!”
“I’m a much nicer person than he is,” Nimue said primly. “Besides, I don’t want to confuse you with too many distractions at once.”
“I think that’s an insult,” Howsmyn said.
“No, just an explanation,” Merlin said before Nimue could respond. Then his voice turned more serious. “Actually, I think your estimate’s probably pretty close to accurate, Ehdwyrd. I’m not going to count on that, given Brother Lynkyn’s record for bettering even his own projections, but I think you’re definitely in the ballpark. The problem as I see it is that those smaller, hundred-and-fifty-cell launchers he’s working with are actually more dangerous than the ones he just demonstrated to Maigwair. They need a shorter logistics tail, they’re faster and more maneuverable, they can operate in terrain where those monster freight wagons can’t, and they’ll be a lot harder for anyone without SNARC reconnaissance to spot when they move up.”
“And they’ll use up rockets at a lower rate, which means production may be able to stay in front of usage,” Cayleb acknowledged gloomily.
“What are the chances of his succeeding with that bigger coast defense variant he and Maigwair discussed?” High Admiral Rock Point asked.
“Those could be nasty,” Merlin replied. “They’re not going to have the kind of armor penetration a ten-inch shell does, of course. On the other hand, they’ll be plunging fire whenever they hit a target, and even the King Haarahlds’ deck armor is a lot thinner than their side armor. And if he really does start producing ten- or fifteen-inch rockets, even with gunpowder warheads they’ll be a handful. That’s not going to happen tomorrow, or even next five-day, though. His emphasis is going to have to be on battlefield applications, at least until he knows about the King Haarahlds.”
“He’ll have production problems when he tries to scale up that far, too,” Howsmyn put in.
“Well, what about our answer to them?” Earl Pine Hollow asked.
“Sahndrah?” Howsmyn invited.
“Our rockets will outperform their rockets by a substantial margin,” Doctor Sahndrah Lywys responded. “We’re finally getting the smokeless propellants into volume production, although the ‘volume’ part of that description is still smaller than I’d really like, and we’ll have a lot more power and a much more consistent burn time, as well. That should translate into both more range and better accuracy than anything they can build. And unlike artillery shells, rockets are perfect vehicles to deliver dynamite—” she used the term deliberately, and several members of her audience smiled “—warheads, so even with black powder propellant, each of our rockets will be much more destructive than one of theirs.”
“And we can manufacture them much more quickly,” Howsmyn agreed. “And, as Sahndrah says, we ought to be able to get better range performance out of them, as well. But everybody needs to understand that this is going to be a situation in which we have an advantage in degree, not in kind.”
“Ehdwyrd’s right about that,” Baron Green Valley interjected from his headquarters at Lakeside. “And that means it’s going to improve their capabilities more than it’s going to improve ours. Their starting point was so far behind ours that it’s a much greater incremental increase in their combat power than fielding an improved version of rocket artillery’s going to be for us.” He grimaced. “I’ve been doing a little research of my own, and if they manage to recruit up and train all of the reinforcements Maigwair and Duchairn are planning on, then equip them with these damned rockets, someone as smart as Rainbow Waters is likely to hit on the notion of duplicating the Red Army’s World War Two tactics.”
“Another research student, I see,” Nimue said.
“I’ve been tutoring him,” Nahrmahn Baytz told her from Nimue’s Cave. “Owl and I have had a lot more of that ‘copious free time’ of Ehdwyrd’s than you flesh-and-blood—well, the other flesh-and-blood—types do.”
“It wouldn’t happen to be that you’ve been ‘tutoring’ Ehdwyrd, as well, would it?” Merlin asked suspiciously.
“Nonsense.” Nahrmahn’s image grinned at the rest of them. “All I did was answer a few questions for him.”
“And, I might add, answer them with insufferable smugness,” Howsmyn said.
Several people chuckled this time, including Merlin. But then he shook his head, his expression more serious.
“I hate to say it, but it sounds to me as if we don’t have much choice but to put our own version of Brother Lynkyn’s Katyushas into production as a counter.”
“With all of our other production requirements, we’re not going to be able to exceed their production volume despite our greater production rate,” Howsmyn warned them. “We may not even be able to match their production volume, now that they’re getting all of those open-hearth steel plants up and running.”
“They’ve got production constraints of their own,” Cayleb pointed out. “And everything we’ve seen indicates their finances are in even poorer shape than we’d thought.”
“Cayleb’s right,” Green Valley said. “And since Sahndrah’ll have the new propellants into something approaching volume production by spring, Ruhsyl and I should have the capability to deal with Brother Lynkyn’s little surprise.”
“The keywords there are ‘something approaching volume production,’ Kynt.”
“Agreed. But they will be be
coming available, along with more of the breech-loading artillery. That’s going to restore a lot of the artillery advantage those damned Fultyn Rifles have pared away, and our artillery tactics are already a lot more flexible than theirs are. So if Nahrmahn’s little brainstorm about fire control works out anywhere near as well as he keeps assuring us it will, we ought to be able to cope with anything the Temple Boys come up with over the winter.”
“You’re probably right,” Cayleb said after a moment. “I hope to God you are, at any rate. I’d still prefer to be able to bloody Rainbow Waters’ nose before snowfall, though.”
“Not going to happen, I’m afraid,” Green Valley said regretfully. “He’s too smart to come out where we can get at him, and our logistics have taken too big a hit with the concentration camp inmates and the Temple Boys’ scorched-earth policies where the transportation system’s involved.”
“I know that, and liberating those camps was the right trade-off to make,” Cayleb acknowledged. “That doesn’t mean I don’t regret the lost opportunity.”
“That’s the way wars are,” Merlin observed sadly. “You never have the resources to do everything you’d like to do, and then the fellow on the other side comes along and screws up the plans you’ve already made for what you think you can do.”
“Like the Kaudzhu Narrows, you mean?” Rock Point’s voice was bitter, and Merlin shrugged.
“Exactly like the Kaudzhu Narrows, Domynyk. Or like Rainbow Waters’ refusal to come out and play with Kynt and Duke Eastshare. Or like the frigging Sword of Schueler, for that matter.”
“And with all due respect, Domynyk,” Baron Sarmouth said, entering the conversation for the first time as he stood with his flag lieutenant on Destiny’s sternwalk, “we intend to do our modest bit to … compensate for the Kaudzhu Narrows very shortly now.”
SEPTEMBER
YEAR OF GOD 897
.I.
Trosan Channel, Gorath Bay
“Anything to report, Zhorj?” Lieutenant Cahnyr Ahlkofahrdoh asked.
“No, Sir.” Lieutenant Zhorj Symmyns saluted HMS Tide’s first lieutenant as he came on deck to relieve him. “That fishing boat the lookout reported headed off to the northwest just before sunset, but that’s about all.”
“Can’t blame her for that.” The first lieutenant snorted. “Probably out of Erech, not Dohlar, so I don’t suppose there’s any reason he should trust our intentions. For that matter, if I were a fisherman, I’d stay well clear of any warship, if I could!”
“Me, too,” Symmyns agreed. “Aside from that, though, we haven’t had any excitement all afternoon. And so far, it’s been a pleasant evening, too.”
“For some, at least,” Ahlkofahrdoh said. He regretted the comment the instant he made it, but he couldn’t un-say it, and Symmyns grimaced in agreement.
Very few of Tide’s company were pleased with their present duty. That wasn’t to say any of them would have considered protesting their orders, but there was a difference between that and eagerly obeying them. Even Captain Ohkamohto, who was firmly of the opinion that any heretic deserved whatever he got, had been less than delighted when Earl Thirsk selected him as the senior officer in command of the small, heavily escorted convoy.
Ahlkofahrdoh walked to the taffrail and stood beside the post supporting the center stern lantern’s three-foot-tall, glassed-in housing. The lantern itself was a good three feet above his head, and he shaded his eyes against its illumination as he looked astern through the darkness from Tide’s high poop deck at Prodigal Lass, the merchant galleon the Royal Dohlaran Navy had taken into service temporarily as a transport. She was easy enough to find, picked out of the night not just by her masthead lights but also by the lamplight spilling from the scuttles and skylight of her large, midships deckhouse. The glow reached upward, gilding her lower masts and rigging with a faint patina of gold, and he grunted in satisfaction. Commander Rubyn Mychysyn, in command of her naval crew—including the gunners for the dozen wolves which had been hastily mounted along her rails—was an excellent ship handler. The merchant ship wasn’t the handiest vessel Ahlkofahrdoh had ever seen, but Mychysyn, as always, was maintaining meticulous station astern of the escort flagship.
HMS Truculent, the regular Navy transport carrying the rest of the Charisian prisoners, was a bit farther astern of Prodigal Lass than she ought to have been. Not badly so—she’d started closing up again as the daylight faded, and Ahlkofahrdoh could pick out her masthead lights without much difficulty, as well, although her deck lights were impossible to see from here—but Commander Urwyn Guhstahvsyn’s seamanship had impressed him less favorably than Mychysyn’s over the last seven days.
You’ll only have to worry about Guhstahvsyn’s ship handling for another five-day or so, he reminded himself. The convoy was just under two-thirds of the way from Gorath to the port of Esku on the Bay of Erech, where the heretics would be handed over to the Temple Guard detachment responsible for moving them the rest of the way to Zion. At that point, the Royal Dohlaran Navy would wash its hands of the prisoners and Tide would return to more normal duties.
And don’t pretend getting shut of Guhstahvsyn’s the only thing you’re looking forward to when that happens, either, he thought grimly. Or that you’re going to feel clean again afterward, whatever you do. Heretics or no, they’re sailors—just like you and all of your men—and they fought for what they believe in and for their emperor and empress exactly the same way you fight for Mother Church and your king.
He reminded himself not to discuss that with Captain Ohkamohto and turned his attention to the rest of the escort.
Captain Fraidareck Chalkyr’s Challenger had lost her fore and main royal masts in a sudden squall three days after leaving Gorath. Chalkyr had been mortified, yet it was scarcely his fault. Ahlkofahrdoh knew that because he’d been on deck when the squall came raging down on the convoy. Challenger had been well up to windward, and the savage gust front had hit her first, with no more than a minute or two’s warning. Chalkyr had done well to avoid being completely dismasted, under the circumstances, and what had happened to his ship had warned her consorts of what was coming. Without that, they would undoubtedly have suffered severe damage of their own.
The sudden blast of fury that had cost Challenger her royals had also carried away her main topgallant and sprung her main and fore topmasts, however, seriously compromising her ability to carry sail. Given their orders to deliver the prisoners as quickly as possible, Ohkamohto had ordered him to return to port for repairs rather than slowing the rest of the convoy, which had reduced the escort squadron from five galleons to only four. Ahlkofahrdoh knew he hadn’t liked doing that, but the Inquisition’s orders had left little choice. Besides, four ought to be more than enough, given what had happened to the heretics’ navy, and Ohkamohto had deployed them carefully.
Captain Zhorj Kurnau’s Saint Ahndru led Tide by four or five ship lengths, all four of her stern lanterns burning brightly through the night. Saint Ahndru was a fifty-four, marginally more heavily gunned than Tide, but Captain Sir Lywys Audhaimyr’s fifty-six-gunned Riptide was the most powerful unit of the escort and Captain Ohkamohto had her positioned up to windward. She was close enough Ahlkofahrdoh could just see the lantern light gleaming from her scuttles and the half-dozen gunports which had been opened for ventilation, even from deck level, whenever waves lifted both of them simultaneously. She was well placed to come down on the wind if anything untoward happened, and Captain Bryxtyn’s Saint Kylmahn, one of Tide’s sister ships, was somewhere astern of the transports, watching the small convoy’s back. Ahlkofahrdoh couldn’t see her lights at all, but Honshau Bryxtyn was one of the most reliable officers he’d ever met. In fact, even though every officer in the Royal Dohlaran Navy knew Earl Thirsk was bitterly opposed to their current mission, whether he’d been foolish enough to say so this time or not, he’d still picked five of his best galleon captains to carry it out.
And we’ll all be glad to get back to Gorath Bay … the
sooner the better, Ahlkofahrdoh thought.
* * *
Baron Sarmouth took the cigar from his mouth, blew a smoke ring for the stiff breeze to shred, and nodded.
“I think it’s about time, Rhobair,” he said.
“Aye, aye, My Lord!” Rhobair Lathyk touched his chest sharply in salute and turned away. “Pass the word—quietly,” he said. “Hands to sheets and tacks.”
The captain’s fierce anticipation echoed in the half whispered acknowledgments which came back to him, and Sarmouth replaced his cigar, folded his hands behind him, and positioned himself by the aftermost quarterdeck carronade, where he’d be as out of the way as possible.
He looked across Destiny’s starboard bulwark to where the fishing boat Snapdragon held station on his flagship. The small schooner-rigged vessel wasn’t much to look at. At thirty-two feet, she was little more than three times the length of her namesake, and her previous owners had spent no more on her upkeep than they’d absolutely had to. Yet that unprepossessing craft was Lieutenant Hektor Aplyn-Ahrmahk’s first independent command.
Sarmouth smiled at the thought. And again, as he considered the fishing boat’s name. No living Safeholdian had any idea why the snapdragon—the warm-blooded, oviparous mammalian Safeholdian analogue to Old Earth’s leatherback sea turtle—had received that particular name, but Sarmouth knew now, thanks to Owl’s records.
Pei Shan-wei’s sense of humor had occasionally gotten the better of her, and she’d bestowed the name partly because of the snapdragon’s rather dragon-like head but mostly as a private joke because of its improbable looking, multi-hued leathery carapace. However whimsical the name, however, form followed function, and aside from its extra set of fins, the snapdragon’s body form was quite similar to the leatherback’s, although it was much larger. Fully mature body lengths of nine feet were common, and occasional examples closer to eleven feet had been recorded. Despite the humor in the name Shan-wei had given it, it was a formidable predator, even more dangerous than most species of krakens, and so perhaps the fishing boat’s name had been aptly chosen after all.