A Mighty Fortress

by David Weber

  Destinycame back before the wind, then swept even farther to larboard, taking the wind on her larboard quarter instead of her starboard beam, and her topsail yards swung with machine- like precision as they were trimmed back around.

  She’d lost a great deal of her speed through the water, and Archangel Chihiro’s motion had continued to carry her away from Yairley’s ship, along her earlier course. But there was far too much confusion aboard the Desnairian ship for Captain Ahbaht—or, rather, Lieutenant Mahrtynsyn, since Ruhsail Ahbaht had encountered one of Destiny’s round shot—to even consider altering heading. Her officers were still fighting to reestablish control after the incredible carnage of that first broadside when Destiny swept across Archangel Chihiro’s stern yet again, this time from northeast to southwest, rather than southwest to northeast.

  There hadn’t been time for her gun crews to reload, but they didn’t have to. The starboard guns had been loaded before they were run out, and even with so many hands detailed to man the braces, the starboard battery’s officers had been left more than enough crewmen to fire the already loaded weapons. The range was much greater—well over a hundred yards this time. Closer to a hundred and fifty, actually. But not enough closer to a hundred and fifty.

  “Clear away that wreckage! Get it over the side—now!” Sir Hairahm Wailahr shouted.

  A commodore had no business allowing himself to be distracted from his responsibilities as a flag officer. Wailahr might not be a sailor, but he knew that much. Unfortunately, there was damn- all else he could do at the moment, and he actually grabbed one end of the broken length of gangway which had fallen across the upper-deck guns himself. He heaved, grunting with effort, fighting to clear away the wreckage blocking the guns, then wheeled back around, his head coming up, his eyes darting to the wind- shredded smoke astern of his flagship, as HMS Destiny fired her second broadside.

  The next best thing to thirty more heavy round shot came screaming at him. The range was much greater this time, and, unlike the last broadside, many of these shot missed Archangel Chihiro entirely. But some of them didn’t, and one of those which didn’t crashed into the mizzenmast, cutting it cleanly in two eight feet above the deck. It toppled forward, smashing into the mainmast with all its own weight added to the driving pressure of the wind, and the mainmast went with it. Archangel Chihiro shuddered like a mortally wounded prong lizard, then heaved as a torrent of shattered spars and shredded canvas came crashing down across her decks or plunged into the sea alongside. She surged wildly, rounding to the sudden sea anchor of her own rigging, and fresh screams echoed as still more of her crew were crushed under the falling spars or torn apart by the Charisian fire.

  Wailahr staggered clear of the broken mizzen, right hand clutching his left arm. That arm was almost as badly broken as his flagship, a corner of his brain reflected—not that it mattered a great deal at the moment.

  He watched, his eyes bitter with understanding, as the Charisian galleon altered course yet again. She swung back, coming fully back before the wind, her spars once more tracking around as if controlled by a single hand. She leaned to the wind, driving hard as she accelerated once more, and he saw the topgallants blossoming above her topsails. They fell like curtains, then hardened as sheets and tacks were tended, and Destiny came storming past Archangel Chihiro.

  Wailahr turned, looking for Blessed Warrior.

  He knew Captain Mahntain must have been taken at least as much aback by the Charisians’ unexpected maneuvers as Ahbaht and he himself had been. Blessed Warrior had altered course almost automatically when Destiny opened fire, swinging around onto a westerly heading as originally arranged. Unfortunately, that was the only part of Wailahr’s original arrangements which had worked as planned. Worse, neither Destiny nor Archangel Chihiro were where he’d expected them to be when he planned his original tactics. Now Blessed Warrior was well to the southwest of her original track . . . and Destiny, edging around to north by northwest, was already heading to pass astern of her—and with the advantage of the weather guage, as well—rather than finding herself broadside- to- broadside with both of her opponents at once.

  The Charisian galleon’s starboard broadside flamed and thundered yet again as she swept past Archangel Chihiro, heading for her second victim. The foremast, already weakened by the loss of the stays which had once led aft to the vanished mainmast, pitched over the side, leaving Archangel Chihiro completely dismasted. The ship rolled madly, drunkenly, corkscrewing indescribably as the sudden loss of all her tophamper destroyed any vestige of stability, only to snub savagely as she brought up short against the wreckage still anchored to her side by the broken shrouds. Lieutenant Mahrtynsyn was still on his feet, somehow, shouting commands, driving parties of his surviving seamen to clear away the wreckage. Axes flashed and thudded, chopping through tangled cordage, fighting to free the ship even while other sailors and Marines dragged sobbing, screaming, or silently writhing wounded out of the debris.

  Destiny’s passing broadside added still more torn and broken bodies to her cruel toll, but it was obvious Archangel Chihiro had become little more than an afterthought to the Charisian vessel. Wailahr’s flagship was a broken ruin, so badly mangled, with so many of her people dead or wounded, that she could be gathered in anytime Destiny got around to it. The enemy had more important concerns at the moment, and Hairahm Wailahr’s jaw clenched with something far worse than the pain of his broken arm.

  He knew Tohmys Mahntain. If there was a single ounce of quitter in Mahntain’s entire body, Wailahr had never seen even a hint of it, and BlessedWarrior was already altering course. Her sail drill lacked Destiny’s polished precision, and the ship wallowed around to her new heading unhappily, sails flapping and thundering in protest. Her maneuver managed to turn her stern away from her enemy before Destiny could rake her as she had Archangel Chihiro, and her starboard guns ran out defiantly. Yet gallant and determined as Mahntain undoubtedly was, the awkwardness with which his ship came onto her new heading only emphasized how little comparison there was between the skill level of his crew and that of the Charisian galleon slicing towards him. He wasn’t simply outgunned and outweighed; he was out classed, and a part of Sir Hairahm Wailahr wished he still had an intact mast and signal halyards. Wished he could order Mahntain to break off the action and run for it.

  Or surrender,he admitted to himself with bleak, terrible honesty as he watched Sir Dunkyn Yairley’s ship stoop upon her fresh prey like a hunting wyvern. He can’t break off—can’t outrun her or avoid her. And since he can’t—

  Fresh thunder rolled across the icy afternoon sea as the Charisian galleon, as merciless as the kraken emblem of the Ahrmahks flying from its mizzen yard, opened fire yet again.

  .VII.

  Archbishop’s Palace,

  City of Tairys,

  Province of Glacierheart,

  Republic of Siddarmark

  It was the coldest winter Zhasyn Cahnyr could remember... in more than one way.

  Cahnyr was a lean man, and God had wasted very little fat when He designed him. As a result, he usually felt the cold more badly than many others did, and he’d always thought his assignment to the Archbishopric of Glacierheart, in the mountains of Siddarmark, was evidence that God and the Archangels had a sense of humor.

  Of late, that humor had seemed somewhat harder to find.

  He stood gazing out of his office window on the second floor of his palace in the city of Tairys. It wasn’t much of a palace as the great lords of Mother Church usually reckoned such things. For that matter, Tairys, despite its unquestioned status as Glacierheart Province’s largest city, was actually little more than a largish town by the standards of wealthier, more populous provinces.

  The people of Cahnyr’s archbishopric tended to be poor, hard working, and devout. Most of the limited wealth Glacierheart could boast came from the province’s mines—which, unfortunately, produced not gold, silver, sapphires, or rubies, but simply coal. Cahnyr had nothing against coal. I
n fact, in his opinion, it had far greater intrinsic value than any of those more pricey baubles, and Glacierheart’s coal was good, clean- burning anthracite. It was an... honest sort of product. The sort which could be set to purposes of which he was fairly confident God approved. One that provided homes with desperately needed warmth in the midst of winter ice and snow. One that at least a few foundry owners here in Siddarmark were beginning to experiment with, turning it into coke in emulation of the current Charisian practice.

  Yet there were times when the archbishop could have wished for something a bit gaudier, a bit more in keeping with the vain desires of the world. One that would have provided his hardworking, industrious parishioners with a greater return. And one which did not, despite all the Order of Pasquale could do, send all too many of those parishioners to early graves with black lung.

  Cahnyr’s mouth twitched at the familiar thought, and he shook his head.

  Of course you wish that, Zhasyn,he scolded himself, although the scold was on the mild side, its hard edges worn down by frequent repetition. Any priest worth his cap and scepter wants his people to live longer, healthier, richer lives! But be grateful God at least gave them coal to mine and a way to get it to market.

  That thought drew his eyes to the Tairys Canal, frozen hard now, which connected the city to the Graywater River. The Graywater was navigable—for barge traffic, at least—for most of its four- hundred- mile length, although there were several spots where locks had been required. It linked Ice Lake, northwest of Tairys, with Glacierborn Lake, two hundred miles to the southwest. From there, the mighty Siddar River ran sixteen hundred miles, snaking through the final mountains of Glacierheart, then through the foothills of Shiloh Province, and into Old Province to the capital city of Siddar itself. Which meant barges of Glacierheart coal could be floated down the rivers all the way to Siddar, where it could be loaded aboard coasters and blue- water galleons for destinations all over the world.

  Most of it was used right here in the Republic, either dropped off at one of the river ports as it passed, or carried clear to Siddar City before it was sold. Of the portion that wasn’t disposed of in any of those places, the majority was shipped up the East Haven coast as far as Hsing- wu’s Passage, then west, through the passage, to serve the insatiable winter appetite of the city of Zion. The fact that it could be sent by water the entire way made its delivery price competitive with overland sources, even when those sources were much closer to hand and even in far off Zion, and its quality made it highly prized by discerning customers. Most of its purchase price got soaked up by the merchants, shippers, and factors through whose hands it passed, of course. Very little of the final selling price found its way into the hands—the gnarled, callused, broken-nailed, coal- dust- ingrained hands—which had actually wrested it from the bowels of Glacierheart’s mountains. But it was enough, if only barely, and the people of Cahnyr’s archbishopric were grateful to get it. They were a provincial people, with only the most imperfect knowledge of the world beyond the craggy, snow- topped palisades of their mountain horizons, yet they knew they were better off than many other people on Safehold.

  That was one of the things Cahnyr loved about them. Oh, he loved their piety, as well. Loved the pure joy in God which he heard in their choirs, saw in their faces. But as much as he loved those things, as much as he treasured them, it was their sturdy in de pen dence, their stubborn self- reliance, that truly resonated somewhere deep inside him. They had a sense of self- sufficient integrity. Always quick to help a neighbor, always generous even when their own purses were sadly pinched, there was something in them that demanded they stand upon their own two feet. They knew what it meant to earn their own livelihoods by the sweat of their brows, by backbreaking labor in the deep and dangerous mines. They entered the labor force early, and they left it late, and along the way, they learned to value themselves. To recognize that they had given good value and more for those livelihoods. That they had managed to put food on their families’ tables. That they had met their obligations, and that they were beholden to no one but themselves.

  Clyntahn and Trynair and Rayno have never understood why I love these people so,the archbishop thought now, his eyes sweeping the mist- shrouded, snow-covered mountains. Their ideal is what Rayno gets in Harchong—serfs, beaten-down people who “know their place.” Cahnyr’s face hardened. They like knowing their “flocks” aren’t going to get uppity. Aren’t going to argue with their secular and temporal masters. Aren’t going to start thinking for themselves, wondering why it is that Mother Church is so incredibly wealthy and powerful while her children starve. Aren’t going to start demanding the princes of Mother Church remember that they serve God... and not the other way around.

  Cahnyr knew the vast majority of his fellow prelates had never understood why he insisted on making two lengthy pastoral visits to his archbishopric every year, instead of the one grudging flying visit per year most of them made. The fact that he voluntarily spent the winter in Glacierheart, away from the amenities of the Temple, the diversions of Zion, the political maneuvering and alliance building which were so central to the vicarate’s existence, had always amused them. Oh, one or two of them realized how he’d come to love the spectacular beauty, the cragginess of towering mountains, snowcaps, and dense evergreen forests. Waterfalls that tumbled for hundreds of feet through lacy banners of spray. The deep, icy cold lakes fed by the high mountain glaciers from which the province took its name. A few others—mostly men he’d known in seminary, when he’d been far younger—knew of his long- standing interest in geology, the way he’d always loved studying God’s handiwork in the bones of the world, his plea sure in spelunking, and the hushed cathedral stillness he’d found in deep caverns and caves.

  Yet even the ones who knew about those sides of his nature, who could dimly grasp what a man like him might see in an archbishopric like his, still found his preference for Glacierheart and his lengthy visits to its uncouth, country-bumpkin inhabitants difficult to understand. It was so eccentric. So... quaint. They’d never understood the way he drew strength and sustenance from the faith which burned so brightly here in Glacierheart.

  Nor had they ever understood that the people of Glacierheart—nobles (such as they were and what there were of them) and commoners alike—knew he genuinely cared about them. Those other archbishops, and those vicars, didn’t worry about such minor matters. Even the best of them, far too often, considered that they’d done their jobs and more by keeping tithes within survivable bounds, seeing to it that enough other priests were sent to their archbishoprics to keep their churches and their priories filled, making certain their bishop executors weren’t skimming too much off their parishioners. They were no longer village priests; God had called them to greater and more important duties in the administration of His Church, and there were plenty of other priests who could supply the pastoral care they no longer had time to give.

  Which is precisely how this entire business in Charis managed to take all of them so completely by surprise,Cahnyr thought grimly. He shook his head, eyes hard on the horizon—harder than the ice and snow upon which they gazed. The idiots. The fools! They sneer at efforts to reform Mother Church because she’s working just fine . . . for them. For their families. For their power, and for their purses. And if she’s working for them, then, obviously, she must be working for everyone else. Or for everyone else who matters, at least. Because they’re right. They aren’t priests anymore . . . and they don’t even realize what an abomination in God’s eyes a bishop or a vicar becomes when he forgets that first, last, and always, he’s a pastor, a shepherd, a protector and teacher. When he gives up his priesthood in the name of power.

  He made himself step back from the anger. Made himself draw a deep breath, then gave himself a shake and turned away from the window. He crossed to the fireplace, opened the screen, and used the tongs to position a couple of fresh lumps of coal on the grate. He listened to the sudden, fierce crackling sound as the flam
e explored the surfaces of the new fuel and stood warming his hands for a few moments. Then he replaced the screen, walked back to his desk, and seated himself behind it.

  He knew the real reason his anger against the corrupters of Mother Church turned so easily into a white- hot fury these days, crackling and roaring up like the flames on his grate. And he knew his anger was no longer the simple product of outrage. No, it was rather more pointed and much more . . . personal now.

  He closed his eyes, traced the sign of the scepter across his chest, and murmured yet another brief, heartfelt prayer for his friends in Zion. For the other members of the Circle who he’d been forced to leave behind.

  He wondered if Samyl Wylsynn had discovered the traitor’s identity. Had he uncovered the deadly weakness in the walls of the Circle’s fortress? Or was he still guessing? Still forced to keep his knowledge to himself lest Clyntahn realize he knew what was coming and strike even more quickly and more ruthlessly?

  I shouldn’t say it, Lord,the archbishop thought, but thank You for sparing me Samyl’s burden. I ask You to be with him and protect him, and all of my brothers. If they can be saved, then I ask You to save them, because I love them, and because they are such good men and love You so dearly. Yet You are the Master Builder of all this world. You alone know the true plan of Your work. And so, in the end, what I ask most is that You will strengthen me in the days to come and help me to be obedient to what ever plan You have.

  He opened his eyes again, and leaned back in his chair. That chair was the one true luxury Cahnyr had permitted himself—the one extravagance. Although, to be fair, it would have been more accurate to say it was the one true extravagance he had allowed himself to accept. Eight years earlier, when Gharth Gorjah, his longtime personal secretary, had told him the people of the archbishopric wanted to buy him a special Midwinter gift and asked him for suggestions, Cahnyr had commented that he needed a new chair for his office because the old one (which was probably at least a year or two older than Father Gharth) was finally wearing out. Father Gharth had nodded and gone away, and the archbishop hadn’t thought very much about it. Not until he arrived for his regular winter pastoral visit—the long one, when he always spent at least two months here in Glacierheart—and found the chair waiting for him.