by David Weber
And, he admitted to himself, he'd been too concerned with the potential difficulties of simply penetrating Crag Reach to consider how terrifying a night attack in a "secure anchorage" must be. Especially on a night such as this one promised to be . . . and on the heels of the sort of nightmare day the men on the receiving end of it had just endured.
It was still a questionable decision, he reflected. It could be argued either way, and rightfully so. Yet he was coming to suspect that Cayleb Ahrmahk would always prefer the more audacious solution to almost any problem. That could be a bad thing, but only if the prince allowed his instincts to overrule his cold calculation of potential advantages and disadvantages. And despite Merlin's initial reaction, that wasn't what was happening here.
It looks like he's inheriting more than just a throne from his father, Merlin thought, remembering Haarahld's cool, calculating response to the horrendous odds against his kingdom. I wonder if there's a gene for this sort of thing?
"All right, Your Highness," he said finally, his tone rather more formal than had become the norm. "If you're determined to do this, I suppose the least your tame 'wizard' can do for you is help."
"That's the spirit!" Cayleb said, smacking him on the water-streaming backplate of his cuirass, and turned to look over his own shoulder.
"Captain Manthyr! General signal: 'Form line astern of me. Prepare for night action. Repeat to all units.' Then let's get our night lights lit and hoisted while we've still got a little daylight. After that," he bared his teeth at the flag captain, "I want you to change course."
V
Crag Reach,
Armageddon Reef
Earl Thirsk stifled a groan of pure exhaustion as he lowered himself into the chair. His belly rumbled, with a sudden sharp pang, as the aroma of the hot food his valet had managed to put together reminded him he hadn't eaten since breakfast, the better part of thirty-six hours ago.
He started to reach for his wineglass, then stopped, and his mouth twitched wryly. The last thing he needed on a completely empty stomach was wine, and he picked up a large buttered roll, instead.
He bit into it, and at that instant, it was the most delicious thing he had ever tasted. He forced himself to chew slowly, savoring it rather than wolfing it down like a half-starved slash lizard, then swallowed with a sigh of pleasure.
He leaned forward, gathering up his fork and knife, and cut a piece of the broiled mutton on his plate. It followed the roll into his mouth, and he closed his eyes, chewing blissfully.
It was a small enough pleasure after a day like this one, he thought, and swallowed. He allowed himself a small sip of wine, and grimaced as it washed the mutton down.
He didn't know even now exactly how many ships he still had under his command. The best estimate he'd been able to put together was that there were between forty-five and eighty, including what he thought were all the surviving supply ships. That wasn't very much out of a combined fleet which had numbered over a hundred and seventy only that morning.
He forked up a steaming bite of buttered potato, although the food suddenly seemed less tasty, despite his hunger, as he contemplated the day's endless chain of disasters.
He didn't know how many of the other ships of the fleet had actually been lost, but he knew the number was high. He'd personally seen King Rahnyld's corpse-littered wreck—and the wave-washed bodies floating away from it—just before the shattered hulk rolled over and sank. He'd seen the funeral pyres of at least another dozen ships, billowing up where they'd either taken fire in the midst of combat or been set ablaze by the Charisians. He hoped the enemy had at least allowed their crews to take to any surviving boats before firing their ships behind them, but he wasn't even certain of that.
He paused a moment, then shook his head, irritated with himself.
Yes, you know they did allow the crews of at least some of their prizes to abandon first, he told himself. Hell, you've got over a hundred and ninety survivors aboard Gorath Bay, alone!
Which was true enough. But the number his own ship had picked up only underscored all of the hundreds—thousands—of other men who'd been aboard Malikai's other galleys.
He cut another piece of mutton and put it in his mouth, chewing methodically.
He'd seen nothing but sinking wrecks and blazing hulls as his flagship sailed along in the wake of the running battle. The Charisian galleons appeared to have left no surviving galleys behind them. They'd been twice as fast as his own ships, especially after they'd set their topgallants, and they'd used that speed to chase down their prey relentlessly, steadily overtaking—and sinking—every galley in their path. There'd been nothing at all he could do about that, but it was probably just as well they'd been too fast for him to catch, he told himself grimly, remembering the old story of the hunting hound who'd "caught" the slash lizard.
He shook his head again, this time in still-stunned shock. The survivors Gorath Bay had picked up had confirmed what he'd already realized. Somehow, the Charisians had figured out a way to fire heavy cannon three or four times as rapidly as anyone else in the world. He was still trying to get his mind wrapped around the consequences that implied for the art of naval war, but Prince Cayleb—and several of the survivors had identified the Charisian crown prince's flag aboard one of those deadly galleons—had delivered a brutal demonstration that those consequences would be . . . profound.
At least Thirsk had managed to get the ships still in company with Gorath Bay into the shelter of Crag Hook. Even here, behind the stony barrier of the curved headland, his flagship jerked and snubbed harshly, uneasily, at her anchor. Pelting rain drummed on the skylight overhead and ran gurgling off the decks and through the scuppers, and he could hear the wind whining in the galley's shrouds and lifting blowing spray.
The lamps swayed on their gimbals above him, flooding the familiar comfort of his great cabin with warm light, and he remembered other nights. Remembered sitting here, smoking his pipe, enjoying a cup of wine or a tankard of beer, warm and comfortable and made even more aware of it by the sound of rain or the sigh of wind.
But there was no comfort tonight. There was only the awareness that he'd won no more than a breathing space. Cayleb would deduce where he was without any difficulty. And having deduced it, he would do something about it.
From the survivors' stories, and his own observations, he doubted very much that Cayleb had lost more than one or two of his galleons, at most. The young Charisian prince had just won what was undoubtedly the greatest, most one-sided naval victory in history, and unlike Malikai, Cayleb was a seaman. The Royal Charisian Navy knew about finishing the tasks to which it set its hand, and the prince was unlikely to pass up the opportunity to make his victory complete. Within a day or two, Thirsk would see those galleons standing into Crag Reach, and when he did, it would be his turn to see his ships shot to pieces in front of his eyes.
But they won't win as cheaply against us as they did against Malikai, he promised himself.
He'd already issued orders for every galley to rig springs to their anchor cables as soon as it was daylight. The springs—hawsers led out of gunports and attached to the ships' anchor cables at one end and to their capstans at the other—would allow any of his ships to turn in place by simply winding the hawser around the capstan. It would enable them to aim their guns in any direction, which was about the best he could hope to do. His artillery still wouldn't be able to fire as quickly as Cayleb's obviously could, but Cayleb wouldn't be able to bring all of his firepower to bear simultaneously, either.
And next time, Thirsk thought grimly, what he can do to us won't come as a complete surprise, either.
He stabbed his fork into another potato and bared his teeth.
As soon as it was light, he would start putting parties ashore to find suitable spots for shore batteries, as well. It wasn't going to be easy, but he was confident he could find at least some—and given the steepness of the hillsides rising beyond the beach, probably high enough to give his guns
greater reach. Once they were in place, the price Cayleb would pay for any victory would climb steeply.
It was even possible, he told himself, that if he could make the probable price high enough, Cayleb might decline to pay it. After all, he'd already shattered this prong of the allies' planned offensive, and his galleons had to represent a huge part of Charis' total naval strength. Given the choice between heavy losses in return for the destruction of an already defeated foe or returning with his own ships intact to support the rest of the Charisian Navy against the combined forces of Corisande, Emerald, and Chisholm, he might well choose the latter.
And you really want to convince yourself of that, don't you, Lywys? he told himself with a sour snort.
He swallowed yet another bite of potato, then blinked in groggy surprise as he realized it was the last bite. He'd also managed to consume the entire thick slice of mutton and the side of green peas. And, he discovered, peering into the empty bread basket, at least another three rolls.
He laughed and shook his head tiredly. Clearly, he was even more exhausted than he'd thought he was, and it was time he got some desperately needed sleep.
Things may not look any better in the morning, he thought, but at least a few hours of sleep on a full belly will leave me in better shape to deal with them.
He finished the glass of wine, stood, and stumbled off to his sleeping cabin.
VI
HMS Dreadnought,
Off Armageddon Reef
Merlin Athrawes stood in the mizzenmast ratlines, eight feet above the quarterdeck, and peered into the darkness.
The wind, as he'd predicted, had continued to rise, but it actually seemed to be tapering off slightly now. It was down to "only" about thirty-four miles per hour, but the rain was even heavier then it had been earlier. Even his artificial eyes couldn't see very far through the almost solid wall of rain and spray.
It was a pity, he thought, that PICAs didn't come equipped with radar. Still, he supposed it would've been a bit much to put radar emitters powerful enough to do him much good under these conditions into PICAs intended to wander around the environs of a high-tech civilization.
"Owl," he subvocalized, climbing back down to the deck and grasping one of the lifelines rigged across it.
"Yes, Lieutenant Commander?"
"I need that imagery now."
There was no response, and Merlin grimaced.
"Begin feeding the previously specified imagery," he said, quite a bit more snappishly.
"Yes, Lieutenant Commander," the AI replied, totally unperturbed by his tone, and a detailed, see-through schematic blinked into existence across his field of view.
Unlike Merlin's eyes, the SNARC's sensors were perfectly capable of penetrating the stormy darkness, and Merlin felt an undeniable surge of relief as he saw the icons of all thirteen of Cayleb's galleons. Precisely how the merely mortal lookouts aboard any one of those ships had been able to keep sight of the poop lanterns and the additional lanterns suspended from the mizzen peak of the ship in front of them was more than Merlin was prepared to explain. But somehow, they'd done it.
Now it was up to him to get them into the sheltered waters of Crag Reach.
He considered the schematic's terrain imagery. It looked as if Dreadnought was just about on the proper heading, but "just about" wasn't nearly good enough.
"Owl," he subvocalized once more.
"Yes, Lieutenant Commander."
"Add current wind vector and vector and course projections for Dreadnought to the imagery and update continuously."
"Yes, Lieutenant Commander."
The requested arrows and dotted line appeared effectively instantaneously, and Merlin snorted. Then he made his way across the steeply tilted, pitching quarterdeck, moving hand-over-hand along the lifeline, to where Cayleb stood with Captain Manthyr beside the helmsmen. There were two men on the wheel, and a third seaman stood ready to lend his weight, as well, if it should prove necessary.
Manthyr really should have been getting some rest of his own, Merlin thought, but the flag captain hadn't even considered the possibility. Dreadnought was his ship. Everything about her was his responsibility, and now that he'd seen to the immediate needs of his men, he was undoubtedly standing there silently praying that his crown prince wasn't quite as insane as he seemed.
Merlin's mouth quirked at the thought, but perhaps he was doing the captain an injustice. What Cayleb had accomplished already this day (with, of course, Merlin's modest assistance) seemed to have given every man aboard the flagship a near idolatrous faith in the prince's seaman's instinct. If he wanted to sail them straight towards a cliff-girt lee shore in the middle of a midnight gale, they were prepared to do just that . . . although Manthyr obviously intended to stay right here and personally keep an eye on the entire process.
Cayleb himself appeared totally unworried by anyone's possible concerns about his mental stability. The prince's feet were spread wide apart as he clung to another lifeline for balance with his right fist, and he'd draped an oilcloth poncho over his cuirass and mail. The wind whipped the loose fall of the poncho, rain and spray ran from the rim of his morion-like helmet like a waterfall, and the light gleaming up from the binnacle's illuminated compass card lit his face from below. There were lines of fatigue in that face, and his cheekbones were gaunt, etched against the tight skin, yet his mouth was firm and confident, and the glow in his brown eyes did not come solely from the binnacle light.
He might, Merlin realized, be a very young man, but this was the sort of a moment for which he'd been born.
Cayleb looked up at his approach, and Merlin leaned close, half-shouting in his ear.
"We're pointing too high! The wind's backed a little to the east, and we need to come about a point and a half to leeward!"
Cayleb nodded, and Merlin walked over to where Ahrnahld Falkhan stood, half his body illuminated by the glow of the great cabin skylight, watching Cayleb's back even here.
Cayleb waited several minutes, then bent deliberately over the binnacle, squinting at the compass. He straightened and gazed up at the set of the barely visible sails, then stood in obvious thought for a second or two before he turned to Manthyr. No one could possibly have heard what he said to the flag captain, but the conversation lasted only a minute or so. Then Manthyr leaned close to his helmsmen.
"Make your course southwest-by-west!" he bawled through the tumult.
"Aye, aye, Sir!" the senior helmsman shouted back. "Sou'west-by-west, it is!"
He and his companion eased the wheel, spoke by spoke, eyes locked to the compass card. Holding an exact heading under any conditions was impossible for any sailing vessel. In this weather there wasn't any point even trying, but they were highly experienced helmsmen. They'd stick as close to it as anyone could, and Merlin smiled in satisfaction as Dreadnought's projected track extended directly into the deepwater channel north of Opal Island, between Crag Hook and the much smaller Crescent Island.
Or, he reminded himself, into what was a deepwater channel eight hundred years ago, at least.
"He did that well!"
Merlin turned to look at Falkhan as the Marine shouted in his ear. They could see one another's faces clearly in the glow of the skylight, and Merlin raised one eyebrow.
"Who did what well?" he asked.
"Cayleb," Falkhan replied with a grin. He wiped water from his face and shook his head. "Those men will never guess you gave him the course correction!"
"I don't know what you're talking about!" Merlin replied as innocently as anyone could under the current conditions of wind and sea.
"Oh, of course not, Seijin Merlin!" Falkhan agreed with an even broader grin, and Merlin laughed. Then he sobered.
"You're right, he did do it well!" he shouted back. "And that's more important than ever!"
"Agreed!" Falkhan nodded vigorously. Then he glanced at the prince, and his smile was deeply approving. "He's growing up, isn't he?" he said to Merlin.
"That he is!
" Merlin agreed. "That he is!"
Falkhan was right, he reflected, and in more ways than one. Cayleb had already demonstrated his own tactical and strategic insight, and also his willingness to back his own evaluation of a situation. He wasn't deferring to Merlin's suggestions—not unless he happened to agree with them, at least. He was using Merlin's abilities . . . then making his own decisions.
And the young man was showing an impressive attention to detail, as well. He'd deliberately sailed further east than he had to before turning back towards Armageddon Reef. He'd added at least two more hours to the total transit time, and Captain Manthyr had used that time to get the galley fires relit and feed every man as much hot soup, stew-thick with rice and vegetables, as he could eat.