Hell's Gate-ARC

by David Weber

  It was even up to the formidable task of carrying male members of the Ternathian imperial family.

  All of that had made it the Empire's first choice as a cavalry mount for centuries, although Janaki's roan, a truly superb example of the breed, hugely outclassed the horses which might be found in the typical cavalry or dragoon regiment.

  It was said that when the Empire ran into the Arpathians, the most prized booty any septman raider had been able to claim had been Shikowr stock to be incorporated into their own world-famous breeding programs. Having seen Platoon-Captain Arthag's Palomino alongside Prince Janaki's Shikowr, Kinlafia believed it.

  "Which suggestion was that, Your Highness?" the Voice replied finally, gazing up at Janaki.

  "The one about seeking a career change."

  "Oh." Kinlafia smiled. "That suggestion."

  "I see you're already practicing the fine art of evading direct answers," Janaki observed. "Is that a good sign, or a bad one?"

  "That depends on a lot of things, I imagine, Your Highness," Kinlafia said in a much more serious tone, turning his attention back to the muddy trail before them as it began to climb once more.

  "Janaki," the crown prince corrected yet again, but Kinlafia shook his head.

  "Your Highness, I deeply appreciate your invitation to use your first name. And perhaps one of these days, if I do go into politics, and if my career prospers the way you seem to feel it might, I may even take you up on the offer—in private, at least. But I don't feel comfortable doing it yet. For that matter, it probably wouldn't be a very good habit for me to get into. I imagine there are quite a few sticklers, not all of them in Ternathia, who'd hold that sort of lesse majesty against me at the polls."

  "There might be, at that," Janaki agreed after a moment. "And the fact that you're thinking that way suggests to me that you are indeed considering seeking a seat in whatever new parliament comes out of this situation."

  "Yes, Your Highness," Kinlafia sighed. "I am." He shook his head, his expression rueful. "I can't believe I am, but I am. And it's your fault."

  "Guilty as charged," Janaki conceded cheerfully. Then his smile faded. "There's a reason I've been pressing you about it, though."

  "A reason, Your Highness?"

  "Yes. It's going to take us quite a while to reach Fort Brithik with these ambulances. The going's better after that, but we're still not going to set any speed records through the mountains, especially if they decide to send the wounded clear to Fort Raylthar instead of holding them at Brithik. If you're seriously contemplating taking my advice, then I think you should also consider going on ahead of the column. You'd make a lot better time on your own. In fact, if you think your backside is up to it, I have the authority to authorize you to use remounts from the PAAF liveries along the way."

  "Why?" Kinlafia looked back across at the prince. "I mean, why is it important for me to rush ahead that way?"

  Janaki didn't reply immediately. Instead, he turned in his saddle and looked back down the trail behind them. For a wonder, it wasn't raining for once here in New Uromath, not that anyone expected that to last. Fortunately, Sharonians in general and the PAAF in particular had amassed an enormous amount of experience in how to move people and material through even highly unprepossessing terrain.

  Each party which had passed through on its way to Company-Captain Halifu's fort and the portal which had acquired the so-far informal name of Hell's Gate had done at least a little to improve the going for whoever might come after. Company-Captain chan Tesh's main column had done the lion's share of the work, in no small part because it had been accompanied by freight wagons (which had to get through somehow). No one in his right mind would call the trail a "road," but at least the worst of the ravines and gullies had been crudely bridged, the worst of the unavoidable swampy bits had been corduroyed with felled trees, and a right-of-way of sorts had been hacked out, just wide enough for two of the standard Authority freight wagons—or one of its ambulances—to pass abreast.

  Unlike the freight wagons, the ambulances had broad, fat pneumatic tires, made out of the relatively newly developed heat-treated rubber, and the best shock absorbers and springs Sharona could design. Given the nature of the terrain, even the best sprung vehicle was going to jolt a wounded man agonizingly from time to time, but overall, the ride was remarkably smooth. The ambulances were also far lighter than the freight wagons, which, coupled with their wide tires, gave them a much lower ground pressure and made them far easier for their mule teams to haul.

  Despite all of that, the four ambulances attached to Janaki's POW column were undeniably slowing it down. Kinlafia understood that perfectly. What he didn't understand was why Janaki was worried about it. Personally, the Voice would be just as happy if it did take him a little longer to get back to Tajvana. He dreaded the inevitable encounters with reporters, once he got there, almost as much as he dreaded the visit he already knew he was going to have to pay to Shaylar's parents.

  "I don't know exactly what's happening back home any more than you do," Janaki said finally, turning back to him. "I do know things are going to have to move quickly, though, and the railhead was most of the way to Fort Salby before all of this began. Even going ahead without us, it's going to take you at least the better part of two months to reach Salby, which means that by the time you get there, the line will certainly be completed. So from there, you can get all the way home in another two or three weeks. But that's still close to three months, Darcel. Three months for the political situation to change and elections to be scheduled. I want you home before that happens, if we can possibly manage it."

  Kinlafia frowned ever so slightly. He'd come to accept that Janaki truly believed that Darcel Kinlafia actually had something to offer to his home universe's political leadership at a time like this. And he'd also come to realize that, despite a certain inevitable trepidation, he wanted the job. Yet he couldn't quite shake the suspicion that there was more than simple political calculation behind the crown prince's ardent desire to get him elected to office. Like any Voice, Kinlafia was acutely sensitive to the emotions of those about him, though he would never dream of violating Janaki's privacy by deliberately probing the prince's. But because he was sensitive to them, he knew the other man's focus on his own possible political future carried with it an almost physical (and highly personal) sense of urgency.

  He considered asking what lay behind that urgency, but decided—once again—that it would be presumptuous. So instead of worrying about the question he couldn't answer and wouldn't ask, he focused on the rest of Janaki's argument. And the more he thought about it, the more he realized that Janaki, as usual, had a point.

  Janaki chan Calirath watched the thoughts moving behind Kinlafia's eyes. He was pretty certain Kinlafia was aware that he hadn't shared all of his reasons for urging the Voice to seek office, and he was grateful to the other man for not pressing him on the point. If Kinlafia had asked, Janaki would have answered, as best he could; the problem was that he still couldn't come up with anything he would consider even remotely satisfactory as an explanation. The Glimpse he'd experienced several times now simply refused to clarify. That was frustrating enough for Janaki, who'd had no choice but to grow accustomed to the fragmentary nature of the visions his Talent presented. It would have been far more frustrating, and probably more than a little frightening, for Kinlafia. Especially since even though it had refused to clarify, it had become even more urgent feeling. And especially given the fact that while having Kinlafia there would be good for Andrin, that didn't necessarily mean it would also be good for Kinlafia.

  Whatever it was that the Voice was going to do for Andrin, though, it was important, and Janaki loved his sister. Which meant Parliamentary Representative Kinlafia was as good as elected, as far as Crown Prince Janaki was concerned.

  "All right, Your Highness," Kinlafia agreed finally. "I'll take you up on your offer. Both your offers." He looked at his watch, then glanced up at the sun sliding steadily wes
tward overhead. "I'll stick with the column for the rest of the day and bivouac with you tonight. Then I'll move on ahead tomorrow."

  "Good." Janaki managed to keep his relief out of his voice as he smiled at the other man. "That'll give me time to dash off a couple of more notes of introduction for you before you disappear. One of them—" he smiled wickedly at the Voice "—will be addressed to my father. He has a little political influence of his own, you know."

  Shaylar and Jathmar stood on the Arcanan ship's foredeck as the vessel moved steadily towards another wooden pier. This one extended out from a considerably larger fort, built on the southeastern curve of a bay which, according to Jathmar's Mapping Talent, was over thirty miles wide from north to south and over sixty from east to west. Shaylar was almost positive that it was on the southern coast of the big island of Esferia—the same island Jasak and Gadrial called Chalar—which dominated the New Farnal Sea and the Gulf of New Ternathia. On Sharona, Esferia was a prosperous transshipment point for commerce between Chairifon and New Ternathia and New Farnal, but on Arcana Chalar was the home of the greatest maritime empire in the planet's history.

  They could see the broad arc of a portal well inland, beyond the river that meandered down out of the hills to the raw-looking town clustered against the fort's eastern face. It was hard even for Jathmar to judge distances, but it looked as if the portal was perhaps fifteen miles inland, in which case it must have measured about ten miles across. It was easy enough to see the portal's boundaries, though. The sky on this side was a cloudless, scorchingly hot tropical blue; on the other side, it was night . . . with a violent thunderstorm raging. Even as she watched, she could see the crackling flare of lightning lashing the stormy bellies of the clouds on the far side, and an outrider of thunderheads thrust through the portal to this side. Where she stood, the sun was hot and warm, the breeze gentle; along the fringe of the portal, powerful gusts of wind swept treetops into dancing fury on a tempest's breath, and rain born in an entirely different universe came down in sheets.

  Shaylar shivered at the sight, but it was one of the bizarre juxtapositionings one got used to traveling between universes. Which didn't make the thought of venturing into it any more pleasant.

  Actually, she was much more interested in what she could see closer to hand as their vessel slid alongside the pilings.

  This fort—Fort Wyvern, Jasak had called it—was considerably larger than the one they'd left behind. That didn't make it huge, by any stretch of the imagination, but it was clearly a more substantial, longer established structure. It had to have been here for a while, judging by the size of the town nestled up against its inland perimeter, but there was much less of the sense of bustle and frontier energy which would have clung to most Sharonian settlements.

  At first glance, the entire town looked like some primitive farming village, with no sign of the steam- or water-powered local industry which would have sprung up in any Sharonian-explored universe. But as she and Jathmar continued to study it, they quickly realized just how deceiving first appearances could be.

  They were close enough to get a decent look at what was obviously the local shipyard, for example. It wasn't very large, and there were only three vessels under construction, but Shaylar felt her eyes opening wide as she studied it. She'd seen enough Sharonian boatyards located in equivalent settlements to know what to look for, but there was no sign here of the steam or water-powered sawmills and forges she would have found in one of them, nor did she hear or see any axes or adzes.

  Instead, she saw big timbers levitating themselves effortlessly into the air, hovering there while some unseen force slabbed them into neatly trimmed planks which stacked themselves to one side. Tearing her eyes away from that fascinating sight, she saw workmen engaged on an entire series of equally improbable activities.

  Two men were shaping what were obviously framing timbers for the largest of the vessels under construction, but they were doing it without any tools Shaylar could recognize. Instead, each of them held what looked like simple hand grips at either end of a shaft of shining crystal. The grips were mounted at right angles to the shaft, which was about eight feet long and an inch in diameter. It swelled into a thicker cylinder—perhaps a foot long and seven or eight inches across—at its central point, and the workmen were moving that thicker cylinder carefully across the timber they were shaping while chips and sawdust flew away from it in bizarrely silent clouds.

  Other pairs and small groups of workmen were dealing with other jobs—jobs which would have been accomplished with snorting steam or raw muscle in Sharona. Here, though, they were done with more of that eerie "magic" of Gadrial's, and the implications were frightening. There couldn't have been more than thirty men working in that shipyard, but the biggest of the three vessels they were constructing was probably three hundred feet long. That was smaller than the ship on which she and Jathmar presently stood, but it was still a substantial hull, and unlike the smaller ships being built beside it, it was not sail powered. Back in Sharona, the construction crews working on a project that size would have been far bigger. If Arcana's "magic" allowed that much greater productivity out of its workforce . . .

  "We'll be going ashore shortly," Jasak announced, walking up behind them. "I'll have to report to Five Hundred Grantyl, the base commandant. I'm sure he'll want to . . . meet both of you. I don't imagine we'll stay long, though."

  "That doesn't look very pleasant," Shaylar offered, waving one hand at the violent storm raging across the portal threhhold.

  "No, it doesn't," he agreed. "The other side of the portal is in what I believe you call Uromathia in your home world. The temperature's not too bad there, but we'll have some mountains to cross to reach the next portal. We'll have to wait for the weather to clear before we can leave, and we'll have to bundle up for the flight."

  "Flight?" Jathmar repeated, and Jasak nodded.

  "We're going to be spending a lot of time on dragonback," he told them. "That's one reason I hope Windclaw's reaction to you had something to do with your head injury, Shaylar."

  "So do I," she replied, just a bit tremulously, although she'd come to the conclusion that Windclaw had probably reacted less to her head injury than to her efforts to use her damaged Voice Talent to communicate with Darcel. Those efforts had coincided with both of the transport dragon's determined efforts to eat her, and she was just as grateful, in a guilty sort of way, that there couldn't be anyone within her range now.

  "In case it didn't have anything to do with the concussion, though," she offered with a wan smile, "I'd personally vote for traveling on horseback!"

  "Oh, no, you wouldn't," Gadrial told her. Shaylar looked at the other woman, standing beside her with the hot breeze stirring her hair, and Gadrial made a face. "Believe me, I've already made this trip, and it's going to be a pain. They haven't extended the slider rail beyond Green Haven, and that's something like twenty thousand of your miles from here. And it's sixty thousand more miles from Green Haven to New Arcana, so even with dragons to get us as far as the sliders, it's going to take something like four months to get to Garth Showma. You don't even want to think about making that trip on horseback!"

  "No, I don't imagine I would," Shaylar replied, trying to hide her shock at what Gadrial had just said. It was less than forty thousand miles from New Uromath to Sharona. She and Jathmar had already realized that the Arcanans had clearly been exploring the multiverse longer than Sharona had, but still . . .

  "Well," Jasak said as the boarding gangway once again lifted itself out of its brackets and settled into place between the ship's deck and the pier, "I suppose we might as well tell the captain goodbye and get ourselves ashore."

  Division-Captain Arlos chan Geraith broke off his conversation with Division-Captain chan Manthau as the conference room door opened. They turned away from the snowcapped mountains, visible along the northern horizon outside the window, and stood respectfully silent as Corps-Captain Fairlain chan Rowlan, commanding officer of the F
ifth Corps of the Imperial Ternathian Army came through the open door, followed by his chief of staff and his senior logistics officer.

  chan Rowlan headed directly for his chair at the head of the conference table. The corps-captain was of little more than moderate height for a nativeborn Ternathian, and he normally moved with a certain deliberation, as if to compensate for his lack of height. There was no sign of that today, however. His movements were quick, almost urgent, and his expression was grim.

  Which doesn't exactly come as a tremendous surprise, now does it, Arlos? chan Geraith told himself sardonically. There was real, if trenchant, humor in the question, but he was entirely too well aware of his own grim worry—and anger—simmering away beneath it.

  "Good morning," chan Rowlan said to chan Geraith and his companions. "I'm glad you were all on the base this afternoon, but time's short. So let's get seated and get to it."

  chan Geraith crossed to the table and took his own seat. Fifth Corps' other two division-captains—Yarkowan chan Manthau of the Ninth Infantry and Ustace chan Jassian of the Twenty-First—seated themselves to his left and right respectively, and he reflected (not for the first time) on how different the Ternathian military was from that of its only true rival, Uromathia. Uromathians were much more addicted to flashy uniforms, rank insignia, and salutes—not to mention bowing and scraping properly to one's superiors. Ternathians, by and large, preferred to get on with the job in hand. They'd been doing it for a very long time, after all. There weren't very many current-service units in any army which could trace their battle honors in unbroken line of succession for over four thousand years.