“That… might work,” Coris said slowly, his eyes thoughtful. “It’s, what, about two hundred and fifty miles from Talkyra to Yardan, isn’t it?”
“By road, yes,” Zhevons agreed. “It’s only about a hundred and eighty miles in a straight line, though. And, frankly, if you try to go by road, they’ll run you down long before you get there. For that matter, they’ll simply send word ahead to Bishop Chermahk in Yardan by semaphore and have him-or Duke Yarth’s armsmen-waiting when you get there.” He shook his head. “You’ll have to go cross-country.”
“That’s going to be hard with a boy Daivyn’s age,” Coris pointed out. “He was a good horseman for his age before we left Corisande, but he’s had very little opportunity to ride since we got here. I think we can deal with that, but none of us know the terrain between here and Yarth.” His expression was worried. “I don’t like the thought of having to recruit a guide on such short notice.”
“That won’t be necessary, My Lord.” Zhevons smiled. “I’m afraid I’m going to be occupied elsewhere, but Their Majesties have decided getting you, Daivyn, and Irys safely to Tellesberg takes precedence over almost anything else. That being the case, they’re prepared to commit whatever resources it takes, and Seijin Merlin’s been on his way here almost since the moment your message arrived in Tellesberg. In fact, he’s probably a lot closer already than you’d believe he could be. You’d be astonished by how quickly he can cover ground when he needs to.”
“ Merlin will be our guide?” Coris repeated very carefully.
“Among other things, My Lord. Among other things.” Zhevons smiled oddly. “I think you’ll find he’s a handy fellow to have around in a lot of ways… and”-the smile disappeared-“he has a remarkably short way with assassins.” .
Sarmouth Keep and HMS Destiny, 54, Sarmouth, Kingdom of Delferahk
“Shit!”
Colonel Styvyn Wahls, Royal Delferahkan Army, clutched wildly at the railing as the entire fortress of Sarmouth Keep seemed to buck under a fresh wash of explosions. He smelled stone dust, powder smoke, wood smoke, blood, and fear, and he shook his head, trying to clear his brain and figure out what the Shan-wei was happening.
He managed to stay on his feet and dragged himself the rest of the way up the internal stair while those infernal guns were reloading. He reached the top of the elevated battery covering the Sarm River estuary and crouched low as he scuttled out towards the dubious shelter of the crenellated battlements.
The sky was salmon and rose in the east, still dark blue in the west, and streaked with blue-gray clouds which hadn’t yet caught the sunlight overhead. The predawn twilight made the blinding fury of the long tongues of flame spurting from the broadsides of the Charisian galleons even more terrifying, and he wondered if that was one of the reasons for their timing.
Bastards have more guts than sense to sail straight up the estuary in the dark, he thought as their royal masts began to catch the dawn light, gleaming golden above the low-lying fog bank of gunsmoke rolling slowly north on the wind blowing in from the sea. The galleons had just enough sail set to hold them motionless against the river’s current while they flailed his fortress with their guns. Damned Charisians! Think they can go any damned where they’ve got three inches of water to sail in!
The thought would have been more comforting if the Charisian Navy didn’t regularly demonstrate that it could go anywhere it had three inches of water to sail in. And Charisian arrogance or not, they were damned well here now.
Another salvo rippled down the side of the third galleon in the Charisian line, each gun obviously individually laid and fired, and Wahls ducked instinctively, trying to ooze out flat on the gun platform behind the battlements’ protection as the exploding shot streaked towards the fortress. An artillerist himself by training, the colonel was almost as astonished by the elevation of the ship’s guns as by what they were firing at him. Their damned, incredible exploding shot arced upward, tracing lines of fire across the half-dark, and dropped neatly over the top of the curtain wall. He kept his head down and prayed the rest of his men were doing the same. He’d already almost gotten himself killed gawking at the round shot skittering around the parade ground like Shan-wei’s bowling balls while sparks and flame spat from them. He’d realized those sparks had to be coming from fuses of some sort barely in time and flung himself to the ground just as they began exploding.
At least fifty of Sarmouth Keep’s understrength garrison had been less fortunate… or slower to react. Half his total manpower had to be out of action by now, and the fury of the Charisian bombardment was only mounting.
He’d tried to man his own artillery and return fire, but Sarmouth Keep wasn’t-or hadn’t been-considered a likely target. King Zhames’ purse was shallower than usual these days, and Wahls’ garrison was made up of old men past their prime, young men who didn’t yet have a clue, and gutter-scraping mercs the Crown could pick up cheap. He did have a reasonably solid core of noncoms, but the total surprise when the first Charisian ship opened fire had panicked most of his men. He didn’t suppose he could blame them for that, since he’d felt pretty damned panicked himself, yet he’d been in the process of restoring order when that first broadside of exploding shot came over the curtain wall and exploded… just as his sergeants had gotten them fallen in on the parade ground. They’d gone down like tenpins-except, of course, that tenpins didn’t roll around on the grass screaming while they tried to hold their own ripped-out guts in place.
The handful of men who’d actually gotten to their guns and tried to man them had fared almost worse than the ones on the parade ground as the Charisians swept in close and hammered the battery embrasures with storms of grapeshot. Sarmouth Keep’s artillery had never been updated, and Colonel Wahls had never encountered the new-style guns the Charisians had introduced. Now he had, and none of the reports he’d heard about them had done them justice. He couldn’t believe the rapidity of those galleons’ fire or the tempest of grapeshot which had silenced his own guns in such short order.
“Sir!” his second-in-command shouted in his ear, shaking him by the shoulder. “Sir, this is useless! The second barracks block’s on fire, and it’s right next to the main magazine! We’re not even getting a shot off, and they’re blowing us to hell!”
The colonel stared at the other man, unwilling to accept what he was saying. But then another wave of exploding shot slammed into his command and he heard fresh screams. His jaw tensed, and he nodded once, choppily.
“Haul down the flag,” he grated. “Then get our people into the best cover we can find- if we can find any!-until they stop shooting at us.”
“Well, that was using a hammer to crack an egg, wasn’t it?” Sir Dunkyn Yairley said mildly as the flag above the battered, smoking, burning keep came down like a shot wyvern.
“Personally, I’m in favor of doing just that, Sir Dunkyn,” Captain Lathyk replied, grinning fiercely. “Not any more eager to kill people than the next fellow, you understand, Sir. But if somebody’s got to get killed, I’d a lot rather it was the other fellow’s people!”
“I can’t argue with that, Rhobair. And Captain Rahzwail did us proud, didn’t he?” the admiral continued, turning to look at HMS Volcano as her crew began securing her guns.
“He did, indeed, Sir. A useful fellow to have along.”
“Agreed.” Yairley gazed at the bombardment ship for a moment, then beckoned to his flag lieutenant. Aplyn-Ahrmahk crossed the quarterdeck and stood waiting respectfully while the admiral examined him.