The Road to Hell - eARC

by David Weber

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  March 16

  It was even colder than he’d expected it to be, and the ice-edged wind didn’t help a bit.

  The snow-covered plains stretched away in every direction, as far as the eye could see. It was no longer actively snowing—there was that much to be grateful for, he supposed—and a brilliant sun burned down out of a cloudless blue sky. It offered at least the specious illusion that there was warmth somewhere in the world, and Arlos chan Geraith stood on the running board of his Steel Mule headquarters vehicle, his head haloed in sun-struck breath steam, and slapped his gloved palms together for warmth.

  He stopped pounding his hands together, pushed back his parka’s fur-lined hood, and raised the field glasses hanging around his neck to sweep the impossibly distant horizon, although that was purely a reflex action on his part. His scouts were ten miles out from the main column, with Plotters and Distance Viewers scattered among them; nothing was going to get past them unnoticed.

  He lowered the glasses and glanced around their overnight laager. Tiny vortexes of white danced above the previous day’s powdery snow, which had covered without concealing the deep tracks scores of vehicles had cut into the virgin prairie, and he grimaced. That pounded down swath gave new meaning to the term “bison wallow,” and he doubted even a blind Arcanan dragon pilot could miss that broad spoor if he happened to pass overhead. That hadn’t happened yet—that they knew of, at any rate—and hopefully, it wouldn’t happen, either.

  He snorted at the thought, expelling another spurt of steamy breath, and looked at the vehicles parked around him. The Bisons and Mules were firing up for the day’s travel, sending up the wind-shredded scent of burning kerosene, and heat shimmer danced over their exhausts. The Bisons were all the Mark Two, kerosene-fired variant; their flash boilers could produce enough pressure to be up and moving from a cold start in less than five minutes even in these weather conditions, although it took a bit longer to reach full pressure, and he imagined more than one crew had the heavily insulated hatch into the boiler compartment latched back this morning to take advantage of the welcome heat.

  The Bisons’ tracks were heavy with snow, and he heard sledge hammers pounding as the crews broke up the ice that had a tendency to form around drive sprockets and track bogies before firing them up. That ice had broken—or thrown—more than a few tracks, but the Bison’s tracks seemed more tolerant of that particular form of abuse than the Steel Mules could say. The halftracks’ crews had to spend even more time and effort on keeping them moving, and the long route back to the railhead as dotted with at over a hundred and fifty abandoned Mules. No doubt most of them would be recovered and put back into service eventually; in the meantime, they—like at least fifty or so Bisons—had been stripped for spares to keep their more fortunate brethren running.

  At the moment, the broad, flat backs and the roofs of the Bisons around him and the enclosed box trailers were crusted with snow, and more snow had gathered in the folds of the canvas tarps covering the flatbed trailers. Many of the flatbeds had been fitted with an adapted version of the PAAF’s and Trans-Temporal Express’ cold weather wagon covers: multiple layers of canvas separated by tightly woven blankets of Kyaira cotton from the Chuldair tree. The fiber was light, water resistant, and a good insulator, and the covers provided a shell that was both weathertight and windproof and did an excellent job of retaining heat. Fitting the Steel Mules with the covers had been relatively straightforward; since the always logical Portal Authority had sized their wagons to the same dimensions as a standard steam dray and the Mules were based on the same standard dray chassis, the covers could be easily fitted to them. The Bison trailers were harder, since no one had considered providing that sort of protection for something that size, but the Authority and TTE workshops had managed to provide at least enough of them to meet the Army’s minimal needs.

  The Steel Mules were just as snow burnished as the Bisons, and he saw several vehicle crews doing morning walk-around inspections. Two of the Bisons were parked to one side with their outer engine hatches hooked back on both sides while mechanics leaned in and did something to the boilers or the fire boxes. He wasn’t sure which it was, but he knew they were lucky to have only two of the massive vehicles on the disabled list this morning. Breakdowns had been manageable, so far, at least…but they were suffering more than enough mechanical failures to make him nervous. Worse, the breakdown rate was increasing, and it had become evident several weeks earlier that the 3rd Dragoons still didn’t have enough trained maintenance people of its own. He’d borrowed all the mechanics he dared from Ganstamar Yanusa-Mahrdissa, and he knew the TTE engineer would have given him more if he’d asked for them, but it was even more important to keep the logistics corridor behind his advance open and steadily growing. The TTE crews who’d taken over responsibility for that corridor and the chain of supply dumps dotting his back-trail needed enough mechanics to keep their own drays and the Bison Ones they’d acquired from 5th Corps up and running. If the price of supplying his men with all the supplies—especially fuel—they needed was to slow their rate of advance, he’d just have to smile and bear it.

  And at least he hadn’t had to do that yet, he reminded himself.

  His command group was traveling with the 16th Dragoon Regiment—Regiment-Captain Teresco chan Urlman’s command and the second regiment in Renyl chan Quay’s 1st Brigade. The 12th Dragoons, 1st Brigade’s other regiment, was six days and six hundred miles east of his present position, closing in on the Thermyn portal, while the 9th Dragoons, leading Brigade-Captain Shodan chan Khartan’s 2nd Brigade, was about twenty-five miles behind him. The 23rd Dragoons (2nd Brigade’s second regiment), followed just thirty miles behind the 23rd. But the lead elements of Brigade-Captain chan Sharys’ 3rd Brigade, unfortunately, trailed almost a hundred miles behind the 23rd, while Brigade-Captain chan Bykahlar’s infantry brigade had only reached Kelsayr the day before yesterday.

  A foot crunched, breaking through last night’s fresh snow to the crusty layer of ice beneath it, and he turned his head to look over his shoulder.

  “Why do I think you have another message from Corps-Captain chan Rowlan, Lisar?” he asked with a slightly skewed smile as Company-Captain chan Korthal came to attention and saluted.

  “Perhaps because of my cheerful expression, Sir,” his staff Voice replied.

  “Oh, come now!” chan Geraith chided. “The Corps-Captain isn’t that bad!”

  “It’s not so much the Corps-Captain. Or not as directly him as it is Platoon-Captain chan Valdyn, anyway,” chan Korthal said. “He’s a very good Voice, you know, Sir, but he does like to add his personal commentary on how the Corps-Captain’ s day is going. I think the phrase he used this time was ‘snowbear with a sore tooth,’” he added with a grin which might have been just a bit devoid of sympathy for his fellow Voice.

  Chan Geraith shook his head reprovingly, but his heart wasn’t in it. Chan Korthal and Zendar chan Valdyn, Corps-Captain Fairlain chan Rowlan’s Voice, were very close friends. Unlike the dark-haired, dark-complected chan Korthal, who’d been born within sight of the Fist of Bolakin in southern Narhath and thought a day below fifty degrees was a foretaste of the Farnalian demon Gynarshu’s frozen hell, the red-haired, very fair-skinned chan Valdyn had been born and reared in the northern reaches of the Republic of Hanyl in New Ternath. He probably would have found their present surroundings downright balmy…which, of course, was why he was still stuck at Fort Salby, where Corps-Captain chan Rowlan had established his current forward headquarters.

  It was difficult to imagine two people who looked less like one another, but the Voices were very much alike under the skin. In particular, both of them shared the same…respectfully irreverent outlook, and chan Geraith was very much afraid that chan Valdyn’s chosen simile was probably well taken. Of course, chan Rowlan wasn’t exactly a towering giant—not for a Ternathian, at any rate; he was only a few inches taller than chan Geraith himself—but his gro
wing impatience at being stuck so far behind his corps’ lead elements probably made him seem quite a bit larger. In fact, on a bad day, he probably did remind chan Valdyn of the enormous white bears of his homeland.

  “I think it would be wise of you and the Platoon-Captain to refrain from exchanging observations about the irascibility of your superior officers,” he said now, as severely as he could.

  “Yes, Sir. Of course, Sir!”

  The earnest sincerity of chan Korthal’s response was undermined by the twinkle in his eye, and chan Geraith sighed. He hadn’t expected anything else, nor did he truly want it. The Imperial Ternathian Army was less invested in excruciating military courtesy and protocol than many militaries—the Imperial Uromathian Army and (for that matter) the Imperial Ternathian Navy came rather forcefully to mind. It understood discipline and the consequences of insubordination, but as a rule, it preferred its people got on with the job rather than salute one another at the drop of a hat, and both he and chan Rowlan were even less concerned with taut punctilio than was the Ternathian norm.

  There were times when that bit both of them on the arse, but it also produced enthusiastic, engaged subordinates. All things considered, that was well worth any…minor quirks in those subordinates’ gallop.

  “So how, aside from his irascibility quotient, is the Corps-Captain this fine morning?” he asked. “I assume your good friend chan Valdyn didn’t contact you just to describe the state of the Corps-Captain’s dental work, you understand.”

  “Actually, Sir,” chan Korthal said much more seriously, “Tymar’s transcribing the latest dispatches right now. He should have the morning’s traffic in the next half hour or so.”

  Chan Geraith nodded. Chan Korthal was fully capable of reproducing every Voice message he’d received verbatim, or even relaying them mentally to anyone who (unlike Arlos chan Geraith, who lacked even a trace of Talent) could Hear them directly. Normally, however, unless the message was truly urgent, he delivered it initially not to its addressee but to Javelin Tymar chan Forsam, chan Geraith’s staff Scribe. Scribes were capable of producing flawless transcriptions of anything they’d seen or heard, which was essential for message distribution and record purposes. What made chan Forsam especially valuable was that, unlike all too many Scribes, he also had a minor Talent for Mind Speaking. That meant he could take “dictation” directly from a Voice, and he was a highly skilled typist, capable of over a hundred and fifty words a minute. In fact, that typing speed and his Mind Speaking Talent were the primary reason he’d been assigned to the unTalented chan Geraith. The division-captain couldn’t Hear chan Korthal directly, but between them, the Voice and the Scribe could get him written copies of any critical dispatch very quickly indeed.

  Of course, the current message traffic was enough to keep even the two of them busy for several hours a day, chan Geraith reflected.

  “Just give me the highlights for now, then.”

  “Yes, Sir. I don’t think there’s anything really critical at the moment. Tymar will have the complete movement report for Regiment-Captain chan Isail and Regiment-Captain chan Kymo shortly, but Brigade-Captain chan Bykahlar’s brigade should be detraining at the Resym railhead by sometime tomorrow afternoon, our time. Everything else is pretty much where it was with last night’s situation report.”

  Chan Geraith nodded. No surprises there, thank the gods! In fact, chan Bykahlar was a bit ahead of where he’d expected him to be, based on the 3rd Infantry Brigade’s last reports. He and his people were still a long slog behind 3rd Dragoons’ spearhead, but they’d made up time. Whether or not they’d keep on making it up once they reached the end of the rails would be another matter, of course.

  “That’s good to know,” he said after a moment. “And what have we heard this morning from Battalion-Captain chan Yahndar?”

  “Company-Captain chan Mahsdyr’s lead platoon’s reached Tesmahn, Sir.” The Voice looked around at the icy snowscape, his expression a bit sour. “According to Company-Captain chan Mahsdyr, it’s unseasonably warm. He says it’s a good thing they’re having thunderstorms to cool things off a bit.”

  Chan Geraith hid a smile behind his mustache. A certain irreverence was required for a successful dragoon officer, and young chan Mahsdyr had it in ample quantities. The division-captain never doubted that he’d included that weather report—and commentary—with malice aforethought.

  “Well, maybe the thunderstorms will help keep the dragon problem down, as well,” he observed, the temptation to smile fading.

  “The Company-Captain says they haven’t seen any sign of Arcanans on the ground yet, Sir. And his Plotters and Distance Viewers haven’t spotted any in the air, either.”

  Chan Geraith pursed his lips thoughtfully at that.

  He was glad chan Mahsdyr hadn’t seen any evidence of an Arcanan ground presence, but he hadn’t really been too worried about that in the first place. Given the way Gold Company’s Distance Viewers and Plotters had been reinforced, they were almost bound to detect any ground threat well before it came into visual range. According to the prisoner interrogation reports being passed down-chain in a steady stream, the Arcanans had spells which were considerably superior to binoculars, but they had no equivalent of Plotters or of the Distance Viewers’ ability (depending on the strength of their Talent) to See far beyond normal visual range. Unfortunately, he didn’t know what “visual range” might be for someone mounted on a dragon and several thousand feet in the air. He suspected it was probably greater than any but the most powerful of Distance Viewers could match, and on the broad, level plains between Tesmahn and the Nairsom-Thermyn portal, his advancing patrol would stand out like bugs crawling across a tabletop if happened to fly over them. So the fact that chan Mahsdyr hadn’t spotted any Arcanans yet didn’t guarantee the Arcanans hadn’t spotted him.

  Well, we’ll just have to go on hoping they haven’t and operating on the worst-case assumption that they have…or will sometime very soon now, at any rate, he thought.

  “I’ll want to pass a formal message down-chain to Battalion-Captain chan Yahndar and the Company-Captain after breakfast,” he said out loud, and chan Korthal nodded, making a mental note to remind his superior in the extremely unlikely event that chan Geraith forgot.

  “In the meantime,” the division-captain went on, “I assume Master Yanusa-Mahrdissa’s been his usual efficient self and updated our vehicle availability numbers?”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “In that case, if you’ll step into my office,” chan Geraith twitched his head in the direction of t his headquarters Mule, “we’ll just get out of the cold and enjoy a mug of hot tea while you bring me up to date on that.”

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  March 17

  “Sir, I’m thinking you’d best hear this.”

  Grithair chan Mahsdyr looked up at Senior-Armsman chan Golar from the sustaining (but not very appetizing) ration can of lima beans and yellow corn. Under normal circumstances, he would have been pleased by any excuse to divert his attention from its overcooked contents, but chan Golar’s expression wasn’t that of a man who’d come to exchange idle pleasantries.

  “Hear what, Tersak?” the company-captain said, mess kit fork still in hand. He swallowed and pointed the fork at the young junior-armsman at the senior-armsman’s heels. “Should I assume I won’t like whatever chan Ynclair has to tell me?”

  “Probably not, Sir,” chan Golar replied.

  “In that case, Ignathar, you might as well get started.” He stuck the fork into the can and set it aside. “Whatever it is, at least it’ll distract me from lunch!”

  Chan Ynclair smiled at the company-captain’s tone, but his eyes were serious.

  “Tairkyn got close enough to the portal for a good Plot, Sir,” he said, and chan Mahsdyr’s lips tightened.

  “And when he did, he found something, right?”

  “Right, I’m afraid, Sir.”

  “And did you get close enough to See what he’d Plotted?�
��

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “Well, don’t make me pull it out of you one ‘Yes, Sir,’ at a time?” chan Mahsdyr said a bit tartly.

  “Sorry, Sir. We didn’t See anything on this side of the portal, so we crossed the threshold to take a look at Fort Rensar. Once we were over the threshold, Tairkyn got a good Plot and told me he’d picked up forty or fifty men, a couple of dozen of those unicorn things of theirs, and something he’d never Plotted before, so I took a look. I make it forty-five men, ten of their unicorns, and a coop full of what I guess are those ‘hummers’ you’ve had us looking for. Well, ‘a coop full’ is probably a bit of an overstatement. There’re only six of them.”

  “Wonderful.” Chan Mahsdyr sat back on the rock he was using as a chair and gazed sourly for several long, thoughtful moments into the small fire over which he’d heated his unappetizing meal. Chan Golar and chan Ynclair stood waiting patiently until he looked back up at them once more.

  “Are they parked in Fort Rensar?” he asked.

  “Not exactly, Sir. Looks like the fort burned to the ground when the Arcanans came through. These boys’re camped out on the hill behind it.”

  “Camped out this time of year?” Chan Mahsdyr smiled nastily. “They’re actually under canvas?”

  “Yes, Sir, they are. And they don’t seem too happy about it, either.”

  “Can’t blame them for that, Sir,” chan Golar put in. Chan Mahsdyr glanced at him, and the senior-armsman’s expression was sour. “Not ’s bad as it was crossing Naisom, Sir, but I still wouldn’t half like spending the winter under canvas in these parts. Unless these bastards have some kind of magic windproof tent!”

  “That they don’t, Senior-Armsman,” chan Ynclair said. “They do have some of those glowing rocks they use instead of fires, but these are some very unhappy troopers, and I don’t think blue’s their natural color.”

  “Well, that’s nice to know, anyway,” chan Mahsdyr said thoughtfully. He scratched his chin, then looked up at chan Golar.