Hell's Foundations Quiver (67 page)

Abernethy sighed heavily and closed his eyes in brief, silent prayer. Then he opened them again and looked back across the table at the bishop militant.

“Is there anything else we can do?” he asked quietly.

“Not without violating our orders to stand fast,” Wyrshym replied, with far more candor than most AOG commanders would have exposed to their army's intendant. “I realize the Mighty Host's supposed to be marching to our rescue, but, frankly, there's not a chance in hell it could get here before mid-June or early July even if it didn't have Green Valley to worry about at Five Forks. And if it doesn't get here by the end of next month, the heretics won't have to
attack
us at all; they can just sit where they are and let us starve.”

“Do you really think they'll do that?”

“If I were in their boots, that's
exactly
what I'd do.” Wyrshym's expression was grim. “Why take casualties when they can let hunger win the battle for them? It's worked in enough sieges, and that's effectively what this is, as long as we stand fast. On the other hand, we can't be sure what Green Valley's situation is at Five Forks, and they may be feeling a little nervous about having him stuck out at the end of such a long limb. For that matter, we don't know what's happening south of Wyvern Lake, either, really.”

His lips twisted and he patted them with his napkin, then folded the fabric over precisely and laid it on the table.

“My boys are doing their damnedest to keep an eye on Stohnar, but let's not fool ourselves. They're cold, they're hungry, they're more poorly armed than the enemy, and the heretics hold the high ground. I'm sure you've seen even more chaplains' reports than I have, Ernyst. All the faith in the world can't compensate for empty bellies, frostbite, and lack of fires. They're trying, and they'll fight hard to hold their ground, but there's a big difference between that and pressing home patrols—and taking casualties—looking for information they figure won't make much difference in the end. So Stohnar could've been reinforced by eighty or a hundred thousand men without us knowing a thing about it. As for Fairkyn, Nybar's down to his last few messenger wyverns, but his last report indicates the heretics've settled for keeping him pinned, at least for now. They may be figuring to starve
him
out without losing men, either, but it's also possible they're simply waiting until their own reinforcements come up before they go ahead and assault.

“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
un
happiness 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 disaster!”

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.”