by David Weber
And whether they’re really idiots or not, the fact that they’re sleeping in instead of manning the firing steps is going to cost them when the time comes, he reflected more grimly.
His smile would not have looked out of place on a hungry lion, and he raised his glasses once more, gazing down at the bridge and willing the engineers to work even faster.
April 6
Commander of One Hundred Verchyk Gorsatan contemplated the day’s paperwork with sour disgust. It wasn’t that he objected to paperwork per se; as an officer who’d come up through logistics, he was really more of an administrator than a warrior, anyway, and he knew it. In fact, he was very good at paperwork, and as a general rule, he took a quiet pride in the fact that it was men like him whose ability to manage supply chains, troop movements, and transportation resources—and generally massage the system—made possible advances like the one Two Thousand Harshu had driven so brilliantly forward until that unfortunate business at Fort Salby.
Which, although he had no intention of pointing it out, had clearly been the fault of the warriors, not the despised bureaucrats who kept them fed.
No, the reason Gorsatan objected to the reports floating in his crystal’s depths this morning was that warrior or not, he recognized the shit storm certain to descend upon his head at some point in the still thankfully indeterminate future. What made it even more revolting was the fact that none of it would be his fault, despite the fact that he was the one who’d be holding the can when that storm inevitably made landfall.
The only good news, he reflected, was that even more of it would descend upon Hadrign Thalmayr, who deeply deserved every single thing that was going to happen to him. That had become abundantly clear to Gorsatan since his arrival as Thalmayr’s replacement at Fort Ghartoun. Fifty Varkan and Fifty Yankaro, the senior officers of the fort’s rather tattered garrison, had done their best to gloss over Thalmayr’s excesses. Their very silence on the subject of prisoner misconduct, torture, and violations of the Kerellian Accords spoke volumes, however. Gorsatan was well aware he wasn’t regarded as one of the Union of Arcana Army’s sharpest blades, and he suspected he’d drawn Fort Ghartoun at least in part on the theory that he wouldn’t poke into matters which predated his own assumption of command. For that matter, he didn’t want to stick his nose into things which were none of his affair, and he especially didn’t want to turn over any rocks that might reveal scorpions ready to sting his hand or Two Thousand Harshu.
Much as he respected Harshu, however, he knew those scorpions were waiting, and that their venom was going to be painful. And, despite that same respect, he’d come to the conclusion Harshu would deserve whatever came his way. Gorsatan was well aware that Harshu had never approved Thalmayr’s personal, vicious cruelty. But he was equally well aware that Harshu had, at the very least, turned a blind eye to the activities of Alivar Neshok. How the two thousand could have thought for a moment that men like Thalmayr wouldn’t take Neshok’s brutality as a license to commit their own atrocities passed Gorsatan’s understanding. Verchyk Gorsatan had never seen a better illustration of the old Chalaran proverb about a fish rotting from the head.
And when it all hit the fan and the inevitable investigators arrived at Fort Ghartoun, he’d be one who went down in the Army’s memory either as the man who’d provided the information that started the catastrophic implosion of the career of an officer he deeply admired or else as the man who’d tried to conceal evidence of profoundly criminal activity in an effort to protect an officer he deeply admired.
Whichever way it worked out, it was exceedingly unlikely he would ever advance beyond his current rank. Assuming, of course, that it wasn’t suggested very strongly to him that he might, perhaps, seek a civilian career, instead. And civilian career opportunities for Andaran officers effectively drummed out of the Army were few and far between.
It was ironic, but the officers who’d actually mutinied and for all intents and purposes gone over to the enemy actually had far better long-term career prospects than Gorsatan, who hadn’t had a single thing to do with Thalmayr’s excesses. If, that was, they survived long enough for the investigations to exonerate them, and the fact that they’d managed to get clean away suggested they might. Two Thousand Harshu had detached an entire air-mobile battalion to search for Fifty Ulthar, Fifty Sarma, Fifty Yankaro, and the escaped Sharonian prisoners. They hadn’t been able to begin their search until Thalmayr reached Karys, however, and by the time they did, the mutineers had vanished. Precisely how they’d accomplished that remained a mystery, although Gorsatan inclined toward the theory—shared by Valchair Stanohs, the thousand who’d been detached to find them—that the Sharonians must have devised a way to mask or deactivate the casualty recovery spells. They’d certainly managed to elude the most assiduous searches, not just in Thermyn but in Failcham and New Uromath, as well, and they obviously hadn’t passed through Hell’s Gate into Mahritha. That meant they damned well ought to be in range for the overflights to trigger the recovery spells if they hadn’t been turned off somehow, and those spells were specifically designed to be impossible for anyone except a highly trained magistron with the security keys to deactivate.
That, fortunately, was one thing that wasn’t Gorsatan’s problem, and he allowed himself one more grimace before he drew a deep breath and called up the first report.
* * *
“You realize we’re about to use a sledge hammer to crack a walnut, Sir, don’t you?” Company-Captain Traivyr chan Fyrkam, 2nd Battalion, 12th Dragoon Regiment’s executive officer, observed with a wry smile.
“Actually,” Battalion-Captain Hymair chan Yahndar replied judiciously, “we’re about to use a sledge hammer to pulverize a walnut, Traivyr. Or I damned well hope so, anyway.”
Chan Fyrkam nodded. Chan Yahndar’s verb was a better choice, and if it had been in the company-captain to feel sympathy for any Arcanan ever born, he probably would have felt at least a modicum for the aforementioned walnut. Unfortunately for Arcana, chan Fyrkam had actually met Crown Prince Janaki and fallen under the Calirath spell. Janaki’s death was personal for him, just as it was for so many other members of the Imperial Ternathian Army. The Union of Arcana’s soldiers owed Sharona a debt, and Traivyr chan Fyrkam looked forward to collecting it in full.
“Is Company-Captain chan Esmahr ready, Tahnthair?” Chan Yahndar asked, turning to his battalion operations officer.
“Waiting for the order, Sir,” Platoon-Captain Tahnthair chan Lyscarn said.
“And Company-Captain chan Mahsdyr and Company-Captain Lyrkad are in position?”
“Yes, Sir.” Chan Lyscarn sounded just a tad overly patient, but chan Yahndar chose not to mention it. The platoon-captain had done his usual excellent job of coordinating the attack plan’s details. Making sure they all functioned properly might be chan Yahndar’s responsibility, but it was chan Lyscarn’s job.
The battalion-captain looked down at the large-scale, detailed, and painstakingly accurate map of Fort Ghartoun on the flat rock before him, its corners weighted down by handy stones.
The fort lay in the White Snake Valley, the depression running roughly northeast to southwest along the serpentine course of the White Snake River. The portal to New Uromath cut diagonally across the valley on a northwest to southeast line little more than a mile south of the fort. Like the much larger Tyrahl River, the White Snake flowed into the portal and disappeared, but Fort Ghartoun was three miles from the stream’s nearest approach. Although the terrain east of the fort offered valleys, ridgelines, and seasonal watercourses for cover, it was nowhere near as heavily forested as the steeper, more rugged slopes between the fort and Snow Sapphire Lake, eight or nine miles to the west of it. Approaching it from the east—and especially from the northeast—without being detected had been a ticklish proposition, and chan Yahndar had been glad he was using horses and not Bisons for the final approach. Hiding those vehicles would have been a much more ticklish proposition, and even on horseback he’d been
unable to get his men as close to the fort as he would have preferred. Still, they’d gotten one hells of a lot closer than they ought to have gotten against an alert opponent…even one who didn’t have dragons and eagle-lions
Now, as he gazed down at his map, a meditative index finger tapped the crayon mark which indicated Grithair chan Mahsdyr’s Gold Company. Given how successfully—even brilliantly—chan Mahsdyr had led the advance all the way across four universes, there’d been no question who’d earned the opportunity to lead the assault on Ghartoun, and Gold Company lay roughly three and a half miles southeast of the fort, between the White Snake and a ridgeline hiding it from the flat terrain around the fort. Ulysar chan Lyrkad’s Silver Company was deployed on Gold Company’s right flank, a mile and a half farther back—the terrain was more open and less forgiving northeast of the fort, and he hadn’t been able to get as close—while Company-Captain Lerkhali chan Dasam’s Bronze Company was deployed another three miles north-northeast of Silver Company, more to prevent anyone from scampering off in that direction than to participate in the attack itself. Company-Captain Vynchair chan Zelmahdyn’s Copper Company formed 2nd Battalion’s reserve, although a reserve was probably about as necessary as teats on a boar hog, given the Distance Viewers estimates of the fort garrison’s strength. The Arcanans had no more than three companies—indeed, little more than two full strength companies—in the fort, and it was obvious they had no idea what was coming.
He snorted at the thought, and his finger moved back to the position of Company-Captain Temyk chan Esmahr’s 103rd Battery, Imperial Ternathian Horse Artillery, located on a bend of the White Snake six miles east of the fort. The mortars of Company-Captain Namair chan Jersyk’s weapons company had been moved up to support chan Mahsdyr and chan Lyrkad, but chan Esmahr’s horse artillery had its part to play, as well, although it had proved impractical to get his six Ternathian 37s into position for direct fire on Fort Ghartoun. Fortunately, chan Esmahr had been reinforced. In addition to the pair of 4.3” howitzers of his own Steel Section, the Steel Section of the 116th Horse Artillery had been attached to his command. That gave him four of the weapons, and they had the range to reach Fort Ghartoun easily from their present position. Which meant eighteen mortars and four howitzers were poised to open fire on the fort the instant he gave the command. He was sure chan Jersyk and chan Esmahr would have preferred to register their weapons ahead of time, but one couldn’t have everything, and chan Yahndar had complete faith in their gunners.
And the poor bastards’ve humped their guns and mortars over sixteen thousand miles to get here. It’d be a shame if they didn’t get to fire a shot.
That was good for an actual chuckle, not just a snort, and he looked back up at chan Lyscarn.
“Well, if everybody’s ready, I suppose we should see about passing that order, Tahnthair,” he said.
* * *
Temyk chan Esmahr twitched as Battalion-Captain chan Yahndar’s Flicker dropped the message canister neatly into the basket by his elbow. He snatched up the small steel tube, twisted it open, and glanced at its contents. Then he looked up at Platoon-Captain Horahstyr chan Wayshyr.
“Open fire!” he snapped.
* * *
“Open fire!” Company-Captain Namair chan Jersyk barked, looking up from the message slip in his hand.
* * *
Verchyk Gorsatan had exactly zero warning.
One instant he was dashing his signature across the latest report from Fort Ghartoun’s cooks; the next instant four howitzer shells and eighteen mortar bombs came slicing out of a cloudless morning sky. It was true that chan Esmahr and chan Jersyk had been denied any ranging shots, but they and their men were very good at their jobs and there’d been plenty of time to position their weapons with finicky precision. Two of the 3” mortar bombs fell outside the fort’s palisade. They were the only shots that did.
None of Gorsatan’s men had any more warning than their CO. Half were still in the mess hall, and aside from the dozen or so sentries on the walls and in the fort’s watchtower—none of whom had seen a single thing—not one of them was even armed. The cascade of high explosive and steel thundering down upon them was as terrible—and as totally unexpected—as any attack the AEF had launched on its way up-chain to Fort Salby, and the gunners and mortar crews had all the ammunition they could want.
The explosions and deadly splinters of steel turned the fort’s interior into a holocaust. Commander of One Hundred Gorsatan’s chair crashed over backward as he leapt to his feet, his eyes wide. It was impossible. It couldn’t be happening! Not here—not so many thousands of miles behind the front line! But it was happening, and warrior or not, it was his job to do something about it.
His mouth tightened and he crossed his office in two strides, yanked the office door open, and started through it.
The thirty-two-pound 4.3” shell sliced through the cedar shingles above him at a velocity of approximately eight hundred and ninety feet per second.
* * *
“Now!”
The bugles began to sound—high, fierce, and strong—and 1st Platoon, Gold Company, 2nd Battalion, 12th Dragoon Regiment, came over the ridgeline in a line of mounted men. The company’s other platoons followed them, dust rising from the hooves of the horses which had carried them so far. The Imperial Ternathian Army’s cavalry were dragoons. Oh, there were still officially lancer “Arpathian” lancer regiments in the ITA, but they were indistinguishable from dragoons these days, except for the uniforms. No Ternathian mounted formation had delivered an actual cavalry charge in seventy years, but there was a time and a place for everything.
Gold Company had five miles to cover, and it was in a hurry.
* * *
“Mother Jambakol!”
Sword Falstan Makraik clutched at the observation tower’s railing as the interior of Fort Ghartoun erupted like twice a dozen volcanoes. Blast fronts and shrieking splinters ripped through the observation tower’s floor, and he heard screams behind him. The fire seemed to be coming from the east, and he raced around to that side of the platform, ignoring the white-hot steel death hissing past him, trying desperately to locate its source.
Nothing. He could see nothing, and he swore again, even more foully than before. The godsdamned Sharonians and their godsdamned artillery! No Arcanan heavy weapon could fire over obstacles that way, but the Sharonians could! Only how could they be here?!
The screams, the chaos, and the blood raging across the fort’s parade ground in bubbles of Shartahk’s own hellfire was total. The garrison was already disintegrating, at least a dozen men flinging themselves through the open gate, running madly away from the inferno towards the beckoning safety of the portal to New Uromath. Makraik twisted around in that direction, lips drawn back in a furious snarl. He understood exactly why they were running, and it wasn’t simple cowardice, whatever his emotions might insist, but that couldn’t change the way he felt. He opened his mouth to curse them…then closed it with a snap as a solid line of mounted men came sweeping in from the southeast behind the high, shivering howl of the Wolves of Ternathia, sabers gleaming in the morning light.
* * *
“Battalion-Captain chan Yahndar has the fort, Sir!” Company-Captain chan Korthal announced sharply.
Arlos chan Geraith looked up from his discussion with his staff and brigade commanders, brown eyes narrowed, and chan Korthal grinned hugely.
“Second Battalion didn’t lose a man, Sir—not one—and the Distance Viewers and Plotters confirm that none of the Arcanans got away!”
“Arcanan losses?”
“The Battalion-Captain says initial reports are that they were very heavy, Sir.” There was less delight in chan Korthal’s reply, but he met chan Geraith’s eyes unflinchingly. “His current estimate is that at least half the garrison was killed, and many of the survivors are wounded.”
“Not too surprising, given chan Yahndar’s artillery, especially if the bastards never guessed it was coming, Sir,�
� Brigade-Captain chan Quay remarked. The 12th Dragoons was one of his regiments, and his expression was grimly satisfied.
“No, it isn’t,” chan Geraith agreed. “Your boys did well, Renyl.” He looked back at the chan Korthal. “What about their hummers?”
“The Distance Viewers say a shell or a mortar bomb must’ve landed directly on the hummer coop early in the attack, Sir.” Chan Korthal shook his head. “None of the Arcanans got to them to send off a message.”
“Good.” Chan Geraith’s voice was even more satisfied than chan Quay’s expression, and he turned back to his senior officers.
“As of this moment, we’ve just cut the Arcanans’ line of communications, gentlemen,” he said, resting the heel of his left hand on one of his bone-handled revolvers. “It’ll take them while to figure that out, though—or I hope to all the gods it will, anyway! And there’s always the pesky little problem of their dragons, isn’t there?”
His staff and brigade commanders chuckled harshly, and he thumped the palm of his right hand on the map before them.
“Renyl, your boys’ve had the lead all the way from Fort Salby. I don’t see any reason they shouldn’t keep it now. I want you on the way to Hell’s Gate within the next six hours.”
“Yes, Sir!”
“Shodan,” chan Geraith turned to Brigade-Captain chan Khartan, 2nd Brigade’s CO, “I want the Twenty-Third on the way with Renyl. Three regiments should be enough to look after themselves, especially if the Arcanans are as lax in Hell’s Gate as they were here. I don’t want anyone shoving a hand into any buzz saws, but I want that swamp portal, and I want it nailed down hard. Clear?”
He looked back and forth between the two brigade-captains, his eyes hard, and they nodded back.
“Clear, Sir,” chan Quay said for both of them, and chan Geraith frowned at the map again.
“For the moment, I want you and the Ninth right here at Fort Ghartoun to secure this portal, Shodan. There’s probably going to be dragon traffic through it sometime in the next day or two, and what I really need you to do is to stop it dead, if you can.”