Symkee to take over the larboard battery. But then something smacked him sharply on the shoulder.
“Go, Hektor!” His head whipped around as Admiral Yairley smacked his shoulder a second time. “Go!” the admiral repeated, and actually smiled. “Captain Lathyk can have you back for the moment!”
“Aye, aye, Sir!”
The ensign leapt into the disciplined madness, knowing better than to disrupt the choreographed training by shouting unnecessary orders. Instead, he watched the gun crews, his eyes trying to be everywhere at once, ready to intervene if something went wrong.
But nothing went wrong. Destiny ’s gunners had trained for two hours every day during their weary voyage from Tellesberg to Iythria. They’d polished old skills and learned new ones as they grappled with the novel concept of exploding shells, and Aplyn-Ahrmahk watched as the number two on each gun removed and pocketed the lead patch protecting the fuse before the shell was loaded. The fuse times had been set by Payter Wynkastair, Destiny ’s gunner, before the ship ever cleared for action, and at the end of the action, the number two on each gun would be required to hand over those patches as proof the shells had been properly prepared for firing.
“Run out! Run out!”
One by one the galleon’s surviving guns were brought back to battery, and gun captains all along the line raised their left hands, right hands gripping the firing lanyards.
Captain Plyzyk clawed his way up from his knees, shaking his head like a dazed prizefighter while he tried to make his brain work. He didn’t know what had hit him, and he probably never would, but he was pretty sure whatever it was had broken his right shoulder blade.
And even at that, he realized, he was better off than his ship.
Smoke-much of it wood smoke now, not just powder smoke-streamed from shattered holes ripped through Saint Adulfo ’s timbers and planking. Some of those holes looked big enough for a man to walk through. They weren’t, of course, but they looked huge compared to the much smaller holes round shot punched through a ship. Splintered and broken wood was everywhere, torn canvas and severed lengths of rigging littered the deck, he heard voices screaming in mingled agony and terror, and at least half the midships upper deck twelve-pounders had been knocked over like toys. The bulwark in front of them was simply gone; the deck edge looked like a cliff shattered by a hurricane, and he realized three or four of the Charisians’ infernal “shells” must have impacted almost together to produce that damage.
But there was plenty of other damage to go with it, and someone grabbed him, dragging him bodily out of the way as his galleon’s mizzenmast came thundering down.
“Fire!” somebody screamed. “Fire in the cable tier!”
Plyzyk staggered back to his feet once more, wondering who’d just saved him from being crushed by the falling mast, but it was an almost absent thought, lost in the terrifying thought that his ship was on fire.
“Away firefighting parties!” he bellowed, and the seamen who were detailed for that very purpose went rushing below with buckets of water and sand.
Langhorne! She can’t take much more of this, he thought. She -
“Fire!” Hektor Aplyn-Ahrmahk shouted.
Destiny ’s second broadside smashed into Saint Adulfo like an avalanche, but this was an avalanche of iron and fire and a deadly freight of gunpowder. The six-inch shells slammed through the Desnairian’s planking, and this time all of them exploded.
One of Ensign Applyn-Ahrmahk’s shells exploded almost directly under Ehrnysto Plyzyk’s feet, and for him, the fate of his ship became forever moot. . VIII.
Duke Kholman’s Office, Port of Iythria, Empire of Desnair
Daivyn Bairaht watched in stony-eyed silence as the two officers in Charisian uniform were ushered through the door of his office.
“Your Grace, Admiral Sir Dunkyn Yairley and his flag lieutenant, Ensign Aplyn-Ahrmahk,” their guide, Captain Byrnahrdo Fahrya, told him. “Admiral Yairley, His Grace the Duke of Kholman.”
Yairley and his ensign were immaculate, looking as if they’d dropped by for a state dinner, Kholman thought bitterly. Fahrya was another matter. His uniform was torn and filthy, reeking of powder and wood smoke. His expression was grim, tight and strained, but he was lucky to be alive. His ship, Holy Langhorne, had taken fire, burned to the waterline, and sunk under the devastating Charisian assault. She was scarcely the only Desnairian galleon that had happened to, and from the look of things Fahrya had spent some time in the water before he’d been recovered by the victors. He’d obviously done what he could to straighten his hair, wash his hands, wipe the powder grime from his face, but the contrast between him and the two faultlessly attired Charisians’ dress uniforms could not have been sharper.
Or more deliberate, the duke reminded himself as he realized he could even smell the Charisian flag officer’s fresh cologne. Yairley must’ve made damned sure the two of them would be as neat as pins. He obviously recognizes the value of setting the stage properly.
“Admiral,” he made himself say, his tone courteous but cold, and bowed very slightly in greeting.
“Your Grace,” Yairley responded with an even slighter bow, and Kholman’s jaw tightened at that abbreviated bow’s subtle insult to his aristocratic rank. Of course, it was possible- possible! -it hadn’t been Yairley’s intention to do any insulting. Then again…
“Before anything else,” he said, “allow me to express my personal thanks for High Admiral Rock Point’s message about Baron Jahras.”
“I’m sure I speak for the High Admiral when I say you’re most welcome, Your Grace,” Yairley said. “I regret the severity of the Baron’s wounds, but my understanding is that, barring any unforeseen complications, the healers are confident he’ll recover in time.”
And once he learns how to write left-handed, Kholman thought harshly. But at that, he’s lucky to be alive. And maybe the fact that he’s lost an arm will help protect him when Clyntahn gets word of this .
“I hope you’re right,” he said out loud. “However, I doubt you came ashore just to tell me my brother-in-law is likely to survive.” He showed his teeth briefly. “Somehow I don’t think you’re likely to tell me the same thing about my Navy.”
“With the exception of the floating batteries at the western end of Baron Jahras’ line, I’m afraid all your ships have struck,” Yairley said gravely, and despite the way he’d braced himself internally, Kholman flinched visibly.
At least the Charisian hadn’t said “all your surviving ships have struck,” although that would have been more accurate. According to Kholman’s most recent report, nineteen galleons and twelve of the floating batteries had burned, blown up, burned and blown up, or simply sunk as the result of battle damage. He didn’t know how many of the others were damaged, or how badly, and he didn’t even want to think about the human cost, but he knew it had been huge. For that matter, he’d sent over a thousand replacements into the maelstrom before he’d accepted he was simply incurring additional casualties in a lost cause.
All the fortifications on Sickle Shoal and Triangle Shoal had also surrendered, although they hadn’t hauled down their flags until they’d taken massive damage. That was what the reports said, at least, and Kholman had no reason to doubt them. Especially since only one of the four fortress commanders-General Stahkail, inevitably-was still alive and unwounded. Those accursed… bombardment ships were also why they’d lost so many of the floating batteries. The conventional Charisian galleons had declined to venture into the shoal water beyond the main shipping channel to engage them, but the bombardment ships had taken up positions where the batteries’ guns couldn’t reach them and started dropping those damned exploding shells on top of them. Their percentage of hits hadn’t been high, but every hit they had scored had been devastating.
Of course that word-“devastating”-pretty much summed up the entire battle, didn’t it? Once the eastern end of Jahras’ line was blasted out of the way, the Charisians had poured galleons through the gap. They’d doubled the
