A Mighty Fortress (120 page)

It was just after midday when the first Dohlaran galleon came into sight from
Dancer
’s quarterdeck. There were four of them, actually, and the two leading ships had been exchanging long- range fire with
Talisman
for over an hour before Manthyr found them with his own spyglass. It was unlikely
Talisman
’s long fourteens were going to inflict serious damage at such extended range, and even less likely the Dohlarans’ lighter twelve- pounders were going to accomplish a great deal. Especially when none of the pursuers could bring more than two guns each to bear, compared to
Talisman
’s four stern chasers. The possibility always existed, of course, and as
Dancer
’s own lamed condition demonstrated only too clearly, damage aloft could impose severe constraints on a ship’s ability to maneuver. More than that, the breeze was stiff enough, and everyone was carrying such a heavy press of canvas, that even damage which would normally have been minor could quickly become serious.

But
Talisman
hadn’t been lucky enough to inflict that sort of damage on any of her pursuers, and as the range had dropped, Captain Klahrksain’s reports had become ever more detailed . . . and hopeless.

There were at least thirty Dohlaran ships back there. For that matter, Manthyr could see the topgallants of at least twenty of them from his own quarter-deck now. And, unlike his own ship,
they
were obviously undamaged.

How the hell did Thirsk pull that off?
a corner of Manthyr’s brain wondered almost conversationally.
He sure as hell can’t have been through what
we
went through! So how . . . ?

Saram Bay, he decided. That was the only answer, given the relative positions of the two forces and the Dohlarans’ present heading. They’d managed to get into the bay’s shelter, ridden out the storm, and then come hunting again.

And this time, they’d gotten lucky.

There wasn’t a defeatist bone in Sir Gwylym Manthyr’s body, but he was a realist, and even adding
Talisman
to the ships already in company with
Dancer
, he’d have only eight. Eight . . . and only four of them were truly anything he’d call maneuverable.
Rock Point
and
Dancer
certainly weren’t.
Damsel,
one of his converted merchantmen, had lost her fore and main topmasts. She was in little better shape than
Dancer,
and her repairs had been going more slowly.
Avalanche,
yet another converted merchantman, had lost her jibboom and bowsprit when she buried her head in a massive wave. The total sail area she’d lost wasn’t all that vast, but headsails were particularly important when it came to maneuvering. Almost worse, she’d lost all four of the essential stays which set up from the complex structure of the foremast to the bowsprit, providing every bit of its forward support, which seriously weakened the entire structure of her rigging. Her crew had steeved a spare main topgallant yard as a stubby substitute, lashing it to the remnants of the shattered bowsprit, but it projected forward for barely twenty feet. That was a poor substitute for the bowsprit and jibboom’s original
ninety
feet of length. They were rigging the new stays now—or working on it, at any rate—but even once they’d done that, her foremast would be far more fragile than before the storm.

Dasher
and
Destruction
, his remaining two galleons, were undamaged aloft. In this sort of weather, with any sort of head start, they should be able to show a clear pair of heels to any Dohlaran galleon ever launched. Except that none of their consorts could do the same thing.

Gwylym Manthyr had considered his limited options and alternatives carefully. And then, unflinchingly, he’d made his decision.

“Hoist the signal to
Dasher
and
Destruction,
if you please,” he said quietly.

“Yes, Sir,” Lieutenant Rahzmahn replied, equally quietly.

Within minutes, the gaily colored bunting was streaming to the wind, stiff and starched as so much hammered metal. Manthyr didn’t look up at the signal himself, although he saw some members of
Dancer
’s company craning their necks as the flags broke. Every man aboard knew what the signal said; Manthyr had agreed with Raif Mahgail that they had a right to know—know both what their admiral had decided, and why he had decided it.

The answer was simple enough.
Dancer, Rock Point, Damsel
, and
Avalanche
couldn’t run.
Dasher, Destruction
, and—possibly—
Talisman
could. So those who couldn’t were going to cover the escape of those who could.

A battle at eight- to- one odds could have only one outcome. On the other hand, the short end of ten- to- three odds was no better, when all was said. For that matter, it wasn’t at all certain
Talisman
would be able to disengage from her pursuers, after all. But this way, those who
could
get free would have the best chance to do that, and at least Thirsk was said to be an honorable man. When the time came for Manthyr’s ships to strike, he hoped they’d find that was true.

He watched
Dasher
and
Destruction
setting more sail, beginning to lean more heavily to the press of their canvas while
Rock Point, Damsel,
and
Avalanche
turned towards the invisible coast of Tiegelkamp, far to the north, taking the wind almost dead aft as they formed line of battle ahead and astern of
Dancer . . .
directly across the Dohlarans’ course.

“Hoist Number One, Captain Mahgail,” Manthyr said, watching
Talisman
surge closer and closer to his truncated line. All four of Klahrksain’s pursuers were firing their bow chasers now, and he even saw a wind- shredded puff of gunsmoke from the forecastle of yet another of the Dohlaran galleons, much farther astern.

He heard cheers as the signal—“Engage the enemy”— broke from
Dancer
’s yardarm, but they were more subdued than usual, those cheers. No less determined, but without the high, confident dragon’s snarl of sublime Charisian confidence, the knowledge that Charis reigned supreme wherever there was saltwater. He didn’t blame the men for that. Indeed, his heart swelled with pride as they produced a cheer at all, even as he wept inside for what he was about to demand of them.

He stood as the endless minutes ticked past, listening to the approaching gunfire, watching
Talisman
foam ahead, watching the white water burst around her cutwater, the clouds of spray fly like sun- struck diamonds. She was close enough now for him to see splinters fly when a Dohlaran round shot slammed into her quarter galley. He could see holes in her spanker, her mizzen topsail, her main topgallant. Severed shrouds trailed over the side, hanging from her mizzen chains as evidence yet another Dohlaran shot had found its target. And he could see the damaged mainmast leaning dangerously, even under its reduced canvas, despite the spare mainyard her crew had fished to it in an effort to strengthen it.

She came closer, charging towards the line of her consorts, and Manthyr heard her crew cheering as her crippled sisters prepared to cover her escape. He saw Captain Klahrksain standing on his quarterdeck, raising his hat in silent salute to the ships standing to die so his own ship might live.

Her pursuers slowed abruptly, unwilling to sail directly into the prepared broadsides of four waiting Charisian galleons, and the distance between them and
Talisman
grew suddenly wider as the Charisian ship drove straight through the gap Manthyr had deliberately left between
Dancer
and
Damsel
.

He wasn’t surprised to see the quartet of Dohlarans split, two trying to work around ahead of his short line while the other two tried to pass astern of it. He didn’t doubt that if they could get close enough, find the position they wanted, they’d rake his leading and trailing ships heavily as they passed. He didn’t intend to give them that opening, and he doubted they expected him to. They were simply continuing their pursuit of their original quarry—slowed, forced to drop astern, by the roadblock of Manthyr’s battleline, but not stopped. He could only hope the delay he’d imposed would be sufficient for
Talisman
to regain enough ground to stay away from them at least until dark.

Or, for that matter, for
Dasher
and
Destruction
to fall back enough to cover her,
he thought grimly.

He hoped it would work out that way, but it was out of his hands, now. His duty and his task, like his options, had become brutally simple, and he remembered the Battle of Darcos Sound. Remembered the decision a monarch had made that day. The example and the challenge a dead king had presented to his navy and his kingdom.

“We’ll have that final signal now, Dahnyld,” he said, almost softly, and another hoist of flags replaced Number One. It was a longer hoist, using more flags, because one of the words wasn’t in the numerical vocabulary and had to be spelled out in its entirety, yet it was only three words.

For a moment, there was no sound except wind and wave. Even the gunfire of
Talisman
’s pursuers had died away as their new headings took her out of the play of their chasers. But then, as men aboard the other ships of Gwylym Manthyr’s short, doomed line read those flags, or had them read to them, the cheering began. The hard, harsh, defiant,
savage
cheering—the wolf howl’s cheering—he’d known those three words would awaken. He felt himself taking off his own hat, waving it over his head, waving it at those signal flags, and the flagship’s cheering redoubled.

Such a simple message, yet one whose meaning, whose significance, no Charisian could ever mistake, just as Manthyr knew the men of his ships had not mistaken it.

“Remember King Haarahld,” it said. And as he listened to those cheers, he knew that was all it had to say.

Imperial Palace,

City of Tellesberg,

Kingdom of Old Charis

It was very quiet in the Tellesberg Palace library. The sun had set, darkness was settling over the landscaped grounds, and the tall grandfather’s clock in one corner ticked loudly, steadily, in the stillness. Crown Princess Alahnah slept in her bassinet at her mother’s side, although it wasn’t going to be long before she roused again, demanding her next meal.

Merlin Athrawes was glad she would. All of them needed that reaffirmation of life and hope and growth. Needed it badly, at this particular moment.

“I should have insisted on sending more ships,” High Admiral Lock Island said quietly over his com from his distant flagship.

“We didn’t have them to send, Bryahn,” Domynyk Staynair replied, equally quietly. “Not then.”

“Besides, it’s not as if it would’ve made a lot of difference,” Cayleb said. “Not in this situation. And it’s not as if Gwylym made any mistakes, for that matter. The problem is that
Thirsk
didn’t make any, either.”

“That and the storm,” Merlin agreed, subvocalizing over his own built- in com from his post just outside the library door. “I think that at the very worst he could have fought a running engagement clear back to Claw Island if he’d had all eleven ships concentrated when Thirsk happened across him. Assuming he couldn’t simply have outrun the Dohlarans.”

“Of course it was the storm.” Cayleb nodded. “But it wouldn’t have mattered against someone like the Harchongese—or even against the Desnairians, at this point—because
they
wouldn’t have been at sea when it hit.” His nod turned into a headshake. “We all knew Thirsk was their most dangerous admiral. The relationship he’s managed to forge with Maik makes him even more dangerous, since it covers his back against his political enemies, but we always knew he wasn’t going to make the mistakes the rest of their so- called naval commanders are going to make.”

“At the moment, it’s rather cold comfort to have the accuracy of our predictions confirmed,” Lock Island said bitterly, and once again, Merlin found himself in complete agreement.

Gwylym Manthyr’s stand had successfully covered
Dasher
and
Destruction
’s escape, even though the two of them had dropped back to protect
Talisman
. Caitahno Raisahndo had realized none of his consorts were going to be able to join him . . . and that his quartet of galleons were no match for three purpose-built Charisian war galleons. Once he’d accepted that, he’d turned back to join the general assault on Manthyr’s crippled line of battle.

In fact, the only real flaws in Thirsk’s handling of the engagement, if they could be called “flaws,” were the way his captains had permitted themselves to all be drawn in against Manthyr’s line and the lack of order as his ships crowded in to engage the Charisians. In their eagerness to get to grips, his captains flung themselves on the formation right in front of them and allowed the ships which had kept running to escape. And as they swarmed around Manthyr’s short line, they’d gotten in one another’s way, turning what should have been the methodical de mo li tion of a vastly outnumbered force into a wild melee.

It wasn’t really anyone’s fault. Thirsk’s order for a “general chase” had undoubtedly been the correct one. Rather than limit his entire fleet to the speed of its slowest unit, it had freed his faster units by ordering every ship to pursue in dependently. But it also meant his own flagship had been too far astern of those faster consorts for him to exercise tactical control once action was actually joined. His division commanders had made efforts in that direction, but most of them were still too new to their own command responsibilities—and to the potential control their new signal systems permitted—to impose true discipline.