By Schism Rent Asunder (92 page)

*   *   *

“Very well, Captain Darys,” Rock Point said formally. “I believe it's time.”

“Aye, aye, My Lord,” Darys replied, then turned and raised his voice.

“Master Lahsahl! Open fire, if you please!”

“Aye, aye, Sir!” Lieutenant Shairmyn Lahsahl,
Destroyer
's first lieutenant, acknowledged, and drew his sword.

“On the
up
roll!” he barked, raising the sword overhead.

*   *   *

The ship leading the Charisian line, the one flying the command streamer of an admiral, disappeared behind a sudden wall of flame-cored smoke.

Zhonair ducked instinctively, and something large, iron, and fast-moving whizzed viciously over his head. More iron crashed into the face of his battery, and he heard someone scream. And then, as if the first broadside had been a signal—which it undoubtedly
had
been—every other ship in that line seemed to spurt fire and smoke virtually simultaneously.

The concussion of that many heavy cannon, firing that closely together, was indescribable; the impact of that many tons of iron was terrifying.

The battery's protective stonework was the better part of two centuries old. It had originally been intended to protect catapults and ballistae from similar engines and archery, before cannon had even been thought of. Its replacement with more modern fortifications had been discussed off and on for decades, but the expense would have been enormous, and the dozens of guns
behind
the stonework had been judged sufficient for security's sake.

But that had been before those dozens of guns found themselves opposed to
hundreds
of guns, each of which fired far more rapidly than the defensive batteries could possibly hope to match. The twenty-three ships in Admiral Rock Point's line mounted over thirteen hundred guns. Almost seven hundred of them could be brought to bear on the harbor defenses simultaneously, and Rock Point had planned his approach carefully. Although Ferayd's defensive batteries mounted a combined grand total of over a hundred and fifty guns, only thirty of them would bear on his line as he approached from one end of the waterfront's fortifications.

In the first six minutes of the engagement, each of those thirty guns fired once. In return for their thirty round shot, Rock Point's line fired almost three
thousand
back.

The aged stonework, never intended to withstand that sort of punishment, didn't simply crumble. Huge chunks of stone and mortar flew under the savage impact of better than forty tons of iron, and rock dust erupted from the fortifications' face like a second fog of gunsmoke. And even though the guns' individual embrasures were relatively small targets, obscured by the flying rock dust and the firing ships' own powder smoke, there was no way they could all be missed in that torrent of Charisian fire.

Zhonair crouched behind the battlements, his mind cringing as the incredible bellow of the Charisian artillery seemed to consume the world. Smoke and dust were everywhere, catching at his throat, choking him. The solid stone under his feet quivered, vibrating like a frightened child as the brutal storm of iron scourged it. He couldn't even hear his own guns firing—assuming they were—but he heard the shrill shrieks as a gun less than thirty yards from him took a direct hit.

The Charisian round shot came in just below the muzzle, striking the solid timber of the piece's “carriage,” and the entire gun flew into the air. The tube separated entirely from the carriage, most of which disintegrated into splinters as long as a man's arm. At least a third of the crew was killed outright when the round shot continued on its way, plowing right through their midst. Most of the others were crushed to death when the ten-foot gun tube came smashing down across them once more.

The major stared at the tangled, shattered bloody wreckage which had been eighteen human beings only an instant before. More Charisian fire slammed into his position, again and again. The outer face of the battery wall literally began to disintegrate with the third salvo, and as the range dropped, at least a half dozen of the Charisians began firing grapeshot, as well, sweeping the wall. Dozens of the small, lethal shot came whipping in through the embrasures, and more of Zhonair's gunners disappeared in gory sprays of blood, torn flesh, and shattered bone.

Zhonair thrust himself back to his feet, charging into the midst of the chaos, shouting encouragement. He didn't know exactly
what
he was shouting, only that it was his duty to be there. To hold his men together in this hurricane of smoky thunder and savage destruction.

They responded to his familiar voice, laboring frantically to reload their slow-firing guns while the Charisians slammed broadside after broadside into their position. One of the crenellations shattered under the impact of enemy shot. Most of the stone tumbled outward, crashing down the face of the battery into the water at its foot, but a head-sized chunk of it flew through the air and struck a man less than six feet from Zhonair. The gunner's blood erupted across the major, and he scrubbed at his sticky eyes, trying to clear them.

He was still scrubbing at them when the incoming round shot struck him just below mid-chest.

*   *   *

“Sir, their Marines are ashore in at least three places.”

Lakyr turned towards Lieutenant Cheryng. The youngster's face was white and strained, his eyes huge.

“Only one of the batteries is still in action,” the lieutenant continued, “and casualties are reported to be extremely heavy.”

“I see,” Lakyr said calmly. “And the enemy's losses?”

“One of their galleons has lost two masts. They've towed her out of action, and another was apparently on fire, at least briefly. Aside from that—”

Cheryng shrugged, his expression profoundly unhappy, and Lakyr nodded. The Charisians had worked their way methodically along the waterfront, concentrating their fire on one defensive battery or small group of batteries at a time. Traditional wisdom had held that no ship could engage a well-sited, properly protected battery, but that tradition had depended upon equal rates of fire. He had no doubt that the Charisians had suffered damage and casualties well beyond those Cheryng had just reported, although they obviously hadn't suffered enough to decide to break off the attack. Which was scarcely astonishing. He'd hoped to do better than that, but he'd never had any illusions about successfully standing off the attack.

And I'm not going to get any more men killed than I have to trying to do the impossible
, he thought grimly, and looked at the clock on his office wall.
Three hours is long enough
—
especially if they've already got Marines ashore, anyway. It's not like the King gave me more
infantry
along with the gunners, after all
.

“Very well, Lieutenant,” he said, speaking more formally than he normally did when addressing Cheryng. “Instruct the signal party to raise the white flag.”

NOVEMBER, YEAR OF GOD 892

.I.

HMS
Empress of Charis
,
City of Tellesberg,
Kingdom of Charis

“I suppose it's time.”

Empress Sharleyan Ahrmahk turned from the huge stern windows' panoramic vista of Tellesberg Harbor's incredibly crowded waters at the sound of her husband's voice.

It was the first day of November, a date she had been dreading for five-days, and now it was here.

Cayleb stood beside the dining cabin table which had been one of her gifts to him. She'd managed to commission it without his finding out she had, and the obvious pleasure he'd taken from the surprise had pleased her immensely. Now the hand-rubbed, exquisitely finished wood's exotic grain and patterns gleamed in the single brilliant shaft of morning sunlight falling through the opened skylight, and the thick rugs which cushioned the deck's planking glowed like pools of crimson light in the cabin's shadowed dimness. The bullion embroidery of his tunic flashed and flickered, the sunlight through the skylight struck green and golden fire from the chain of office about his neck, and something was trying to close her throat as she gazed at him.

“I know it's time,” she said, then paused and cleared her throat. “I … just don't want it to be.”

“Me either,” he said with a flash of white teeth in a fleeting smile.

“I know you have to go. I've known you'd be going ever since I arrived in Tellesberg. But”—Sharleyan heard the slight quaver in her own voice—“I didn't expect it to be this hard.”

“For both of us, My Lady.”

Cayleb's voice was quiet, and he crossed to her in two long strides. He caught both her slender hands in his powerful, sword-callused ones, raised them to his lips, and kissed their backs.

“It wasn't supposed to be like this,” she told him, freeing one hand and laying it gently against his cheek.

“I know.” Again, that flashing smile she'd discovered could melt her heart. “It was supposed to be a marriage of state, with you secretly hardly able to wait to see my back despite all of the proper public platitudes.” He shook his head, his eyes glinting in the dimness. “How in the world can I expect to kick Hektor's arse the way he deserves to have it kicked when I couldn't even get
that
right?”

“Oh,” she said as lightly as she could, “I'm sure you'll fumble through to victory somehow, Your Majesty.”

“Why, thank you, Your Majesty.”

He kissed the hand he still held for a second time, then drew her close and tucked an arm about her.

She savored that arm's strength even as she marveled at the depth of the truth hidden in his lighthearted description of what their marriage could have been. What she'd more than half
expected
it to be.

It didn't seem possible. They'd been married for little more than one month. She'd known him for less than three. And yet this parting was like cutting off her own hand.

“I don't want you to go,” she admitted softly.

“And I don't want to leave you behind,” he replied. “Which makes us just like thousands of other husbands and wives, doesn't it?” He looked down into her eyes, and his own were grave. “If we have to ask this of them, I suppose it's only fair that we have to pay in the same coin.”

“But we've had so little
time!
” she protested.

“If God's good, we'll have the years yet to make up for that.” He turned to face her fully, and she laid her cheek against his chest. “And I assure you that I'm looking forward to every one of those years,” he added in a wicked whisper into her ear as his right hand slid down her back to caress her posterior.

That was one good thing about Charisian fashion, she thought. Chisholmian gowns tended to be well buttressed with petticoats against her northern kingdom's cooler climate. Charis' lighter and thinner gowns were far less armored.

“It's a good thing there are no witnesses to discover what a crude and vulgar fellow you really are, Your Majesty,” she told him, raising her head and turning her face up towards his.

“Maybe it is. But it's a very bad thing that I don't have enough time to
prove
what a crude and vulgar fellow I am,” he told her, and bent to kiss her.

She savored the moment, pressing against him, and then—as if on cue—each of them inhaled deeply and they stepped back slightly from one another.

“I truly do hate leaving you behind, for a lot of reasons,” he told her. “And I'm genuinely sorry to be dropping full responsibility on you when you've had so little time to settle in here in Tellesberg.”

“I can't pretend I didn't know a moment like this would be coming, though, can I?” she countered. “And at least I'll have Earl Gray Harbor and the Archbishop to advise me.”

“There's just never enough
time
.” He grimaced in frustration. “You should have had more time. There are so many things I still need to tell you, explain to you.” He shook his head. “I shouldn't have to be dashing off like this with so much still only half-done.”

She started to reply, then settled for shaking her own head with a slight smile. In theory, he didn't actually
have
to “dash off.” His naval and land commanders were perfectly capable of fighting any battles which had to be fought. But there might well be—indeed, almost certainly
would
be—political decisions which needed to be made at the battlefront, promptly and decisively, without the five-days and five-days of delay involved in sending dispatches back and forth across the thousands of miles between Corisande and Charis. Besides, the fighting men of Charis had an almost idolatrous faith in Cayleb Ahrmahk. Not surprisingly, perhaps, given the Battles of Rock Point, Crag Reach, and Darcos Sound. His presence with them, she knew, would be worth a squadron of galleons.

And, just as importantly, it gives us the opportunity to show that this newfangled “Empire” of ours truly is a marriage of equals. The King of Charis may be going off to war, but that war is the Empire's, not just Charis' alone. And the Queen of Chisholm is staying home to govern not just Chisholm, but the entire Empire in his absence … and in her
own
name, as well as his
.

“You do realize, don't you,” she said after a moment, “that this little military excursion of yours is probably going to put a serious crimp into our plans to move the capital back and forth between Tellesberg and Cherayth?”

“I hope it won't be too bad,” he replied seriously. “If we have to, we could probably leave Rayjhis home to serve as our joint regent here in Charis while we officially move the capital—and you—back to Cherayth, I suppose.”

“I think that would be the wrong decision.” She pursed her lips thoughtfully. “I won't pretend I'm not anxious about how well Mahrak and Mother are managing in my absence. But they're very capable people, and the fact that you're going to stage through Chisholm for the invasion is going to give them a chance to meet
you
, the same way your Charisians have met me. And unless I'm seriously mistaken, the fact that you—and your Charisians—trust me enough to leave me here in Tellesberg in your absence to govern the entire Empire is going to more than offset any concern in Chisholm about whether or not the seat of government is going to move back and forth exactly as scheduled.”