A Mighty Fortress (140 page)

It had actually taken longer than he’d expected. Despite his experience on the long voyage, it was still vaguely surprising to an army officer, accustomed to how rapidly cavalry and even infantry could be moved about a field of battle, that it could take so long for ships to come to grips with one another.

There were no longer any flames on the horizon. One of his ships had erupted in spectacular, volcanic thunder when the flames finally reached her magazine. The other burning hulks had simply disappeared, burned to the waterline and gone. Over two and a half hours had passed since the rumble of guns had interrupted his chess game, and it was going to take at least another hour for the Charisians to reach him.

He had no doubt his captains had put the respite to good use, and he was grateful they’d had time to cope with the initial shock of the Charisians’ sudden appearance. Despite that, he knew his crews’ morale had to be badly shaken.

And no doubt the
Charisians’
morale’s been bolstered by their success,
he thought grimly.
Well, we’ll just have to see what we can do about that
.

Lock Island and Rock Point had given considerable thought to their formation.

Of their twenty- five galleons, only the twelve Rock Point had taken to Larek had shells in their magazines. For that matter, ten of Lock Island’s thirteen galleons couldn’t have fired the new ammunition if they’d had it. They mounted the “old- style” long krakens with which the Royal Charisian Navy’s galleons had originally been armed, but the shells had been designed for the “new- model” krakens, which fired a thirty- pound shot instead of the older guns’ thirty-
five
- pound shot.

The formation they’d adopted alternated Rock Point’s shell- armed ships with Lock Island’s own galleons. The only exception to that was the lead pair—
Ahrmahk
and
Darcos Sound,
both from Lock Island’s original squadron. So far, there’d been no need for the shells, given the crushing surprise they’d achieved in the initial engagement, and Lock Island had no intention of allowing the other side to know the new weapon existed until he had an opportunity to use it
decisively
. So they were going to fight their way into Harpahr’s sprawling formation with old- fashioned round shot, and only then would Rock Point’s ships switch to shells.

While they last, at any rate,
the high admiral thought grimly.

Now he watched as his flagship drew closer and closer to the Church squadrons and felt himself tightening internally once more.

What ever happens, these bastards are about to get hurt worse than they ever imagined,
he told himself.

The leading Church galleons began to fire.

The range was still long, especially for inexperienced gun crews firing in such poor visibility. The thunder and lightning of their broadsides shredded the night, yet almost all of their twenty- five- pound and twelve- pound shot plunged harmlessly into the sea, and the Charisians held their fire. They sailed through the splashes, flinched at the thudding sledgehammer sounds as the occasional shot actually struck one of their ships. Most of the leading Charisians were purpose- built units, however, with the heavy framing and thick scantlings of true warships. The weak Church gunpowder and lighter shot were no match for their stoutness.

Here and there, round shot wailed through the air above a ship, or punched through a topsail like invisible fists. Shrouds were sliced away, and seamen swarmed up ratlines to splice severed lines. A few shots—a very few, luckier than their fellows—found targets of flesh and blood. A twenty- five- pound shot erupted through
Ahrmahk
’s quarterdeck hammock nettings. One of the carronade gunners dropped without a sound as his head vanished, and two more men on the same gun went down, writhing as their blood patterned the planking.

A casualty party hurried them below to the waiting surgeons and healers, and one or two of the flagship’s men looked at one another uneasily. Most, however, simply stood there, watching the flashes of the enemy’s guns, waiting. The high admiral could hear at least some of them commenting scornfully on the Church gunners’ lack of accuracy, and he found himself grinning as one gray- haired gun captain turned his back on those gunners, pulled down his trousers, and waved his bare buttocks at the enemy.

A roar of laughter went up, mixed with catcalls and some incredibly obscene suggestions for how to improve the insult, and the gun captain redoubled his efforts. It was unacceptable, of course, and his division officer’s snarled rep- rimand recalled him quickly to his own responsibilities, but Lock Island doubted the youthful lieutenant’s heart had really been in it.

“I think they’re just wasting powder and shot, Ahrnahld,” Harpahr said quietly, watching his lead ships fire, and his flag captain shrugged.

“I don’t doubt it, My Lord. On the other hand, there’s no way to stop them from here. It’s possible they’ll get lucky, for that matter—actually kill a Charisian or two, maybe even bring down a spar. And, frankly, I’d rather have them firing, even if they’re not hitting anything, than eating themselves up with worry. Besides,” his teeth gleamed faintly, reflecting the distant broadsides, “in another twenty minutes they’ll be close enough they
will
be hitting something.”

The two fleets’ slow, steady approach was totally different from the initial clash. There would be no ambush, this time. No sudden surprise of artillery thundering out of the night.
This
time both sides knew what was coming, and the Church gunners began to score more hits as the range was slowly but steadily pared away.

A crashing sound, and a chorus of screams from forward, told Lock Island that at least one Church round shot had finally gotten through. It might have found an open gunport, he thought, or it was possible the range had fallen enough for even Church gunpowder to start punching through his ships’ sides.

He glanced at Sylmahn Baikyr. Moonlight poured through rents in the cloud cover now, turning sails to polished pewter, and
Ahrmahk
’s captain stood motionless, narrow eyes measuring ranges, evaluating firing arcs, looking for gaps between enemy ships. The fingers of his right hand drummed slowly, rhythmically, on the scabbard of his sheathed sword. Another round shot ripped through the midships hammock nettings. It killed a Marine, chewed a two-inch semicircle out of the back of the mainmast, then careened off into the darkness somewhere on the far side of the ship.

Baikyr didn’t even flinch. He just stood waiting, and Lock Island felt a sudden surge of warmth—of affection—for his dapper little flag captain.

Still the range fell.
Ahrmahk
’s bowsprit thrust out ahead of her, aimed like some knight’s lance, but at a solid mountain range of moon- washed canvas and waiting broadsides, not at another knight. Gunports began to flash ahead of her—scores of them, hundreds. Round shot howled through the air, punched into her bows, ripped through her sails. More of her crew went down, wounded or dead, and other men stepped into their places. Grips tightened on handspikes, on the staffs of rammers. Knuckles whitened, here and there lips moved in silent prayer, and
still
the range fell.

Even to Lock Island, it seemed incredible that so many guns could throw so many shot at a single target without ripping
Ahrmahk
to pieces. The thudding sounds grew more frequent, louder. Splinters flew. More men screamed. The fore topgallant mast pitched over the side. One of the foredeck carronades took a direct hit and its carriage disintegrated, throwing a deadly sheet of splinters across the deck.

And then, finally, his flagship—still without firing a single shot—began pushing her way physically through the gap between two of the Church galleons.

Harpahr watched the leading Charisian come on like some moonlit, unstoppable juggernaut. His gunners were hitting her—he
knew
they were! Yet she seemed invulnerable, invincible. He saw holes appearing in her sails, and the sea around her was ripped and torn as tons of iron churned its surface. At least some of those shot
had
to be hitting her, had to be killing and maiming her men.

Then her fore topgallant toppled like a felled tree, and he held his breath, waiting to see her turn away at last, clear her own broadside so she could reply to her tormentors.

But she didn’t. She just kept
coming,
and he felt a deep, formless emotion stirring within him. It wasn’t
fear
he felt, yet it was something close. Dread, perhaps. He’d seen battle. He knew the sort of iron discipline it took to absorb that kind of pounding—to see that many cannon thundering away, hurling their hate at you—and still keep coming. He
knew
what he was seeing... and he could already sense the brutal price that courage and discipline were going to exact from his own men.