“Might be a little of both, Sir,” Sympsyn offered. “If I was them, I’d see about putting some shot through our masts and spars while I waited for the galleons to catch up.” He shrugged. “Might not achieve anything, but you never know till you try. And if what happened in the Kaudzhu Narrows is any guide, they’ll probably try to swarm in once the action’s general and go for our rudder.”
Darys nodded, still rubbing his chin. The rescued handful of survivors from Kahrltyn Haigyl’s crew all agreed that the screw-galleys had gotten in close on Dreadnought—close enough to be out of the play of her guns—and then hung off her quarters, pounding steadily away at her rudder, and that persistent pounding had ultimately paid off. He didn’t doubt they’d try to repeat the performance here … if they could. But there was a world of difference between a single, unsupported galleon—no matter how well armored she might be—and what the Dohlarans faced this afternoon.
In fact, there was an even bigger difference than they might yet realize.
“I think that’s exactly what they’ll try to do,” he agreed. “Although,” he added judiciously, “I also doubt they’d mind a bit if we decided to avoid the threat by breaking off and letting their galleons by us.”
“They’d probably drop dead of heart failure, Sir,” Sympsyn said dryly. “I suppose that’d be one way to take them out without firing a single shot.”
Darys chuckled, but his flag captain had a point. A very good one, in fact. Whatever else might be true, the Royal Dohlaran Navy and the Imperial Charisian Navy had come to hold one another’s tenacity in lively respect.
Not a whole lot of quit in either of us, I guess, he thought. And of course, in our case, there’s the minor matter of what Dunkyn would have to say to me. He snorted. Come to think of it, I’d rather face the round shot!
* * *
So much for the best possible outcome, Pawal Hahlynd thought with a certain bitter amusement.
In the months since the Kaudzhu Narrows, some of Risahndo’s officers had expected—or claimed to expect—the Charisians to refuse to expose unarmored galleons to his screw-galleys now that they’d demonstrated how dangerous they were. They’d argued the Charisians’ regular galleons would back off, opt to hold the range open, whatever their ironclads might do. The more optimistic had even suggested the screw-galleys’ threat might be enough to strip the unarmored ships away entirely, leave the ironclads to take on the entire squadron by themselves. Hahlynd, on the other hand, hadn’t believed that for a moment—that wasn’t the way Charisian seamen were built—but he’d been willing to concede at least the possibility that they’d be … more tentative after the Narrows.
Until now, of course.
The Charisians had turned, all right, but only to open their broadsides. The range was little more than twenty-four hundred yards now, but his screw-galleys would do well to mark a target at much over six hundred under these conditions of wind and sea. The Charisians were far larger, heavier ships—twice the length of his own, with a beam to match—which made them much steadier gun platforms. Coupled with their rifled guns, that equated to a major advantage in effective range, and he watched the lead ship’s outline shifting, lengthening from a narrow, bows-on silhouette to show its full long, lean length … and gunports. Her next astern followed her around, showing an identical profile, and his jaw tightened as the third Charisian turned. She had none of the telltale rust streaks visible on the two leaders, marking the spots where wind and the weather had worn away their armor’s protective paint, but—
“Signal to Admiral Raisahndo,” he said.
“Yes, Sir?”
“‘Confirm two leading galleons are ironclads,’” Hahlynd dictated. “‘Estimate at least two three-decked ships in company.’” He heard someone suck in sharply at that, but he never lowered his glass or looked away from the Charisian ships.
“Add one more signal,” he added.
“Yes, Sir?”
“‘Engaging.’”
* * *
“So they are going to try to use the screw-galleys as their battering ram, My Lord,” Captain Lathyk said.
He and Sarmouth stood side-by-side in Destiny’s mizzen rigging, each with an arm looped through the shrouds for safety’s sake while they peered through their double-glasses.
“I think at least part of this is Hahlynd exercising his discretion,” the baron said now. “Raisahndo’s still trying to run; he’s too smart to do anything else. I’m sure he’d be delighted if he managed to inflict damage on us, but Hahlynd’s primary mission was to kick the door open for their galleons and then hold it open as long as he could. Engaging Tymythy and tying him up, forcing him to maneuver against the screw-galleys rather than letting them get in close the way they did against Dreadnought, would be one way to do that. For that matter, it’s even possible they thought they could bluff him into breaking off and letting them through rather than risk a repeat of the Narrows.”
“Never going to happen, My Lord,” Lathyk said flatly.
“Of course it wasn’t … and they knew it as well as we did.” Sarmouth never lowered his double-glass. “Doesn’t mean they didn’t have to try. And if they’d pulled it off it would’ve been worth losing every one of his screw-galleys. I suspect they thought they had a better chance of that than they really did, too. Unless I miss my guess, Hahlynd’s only just now realized what Tymythy has with him.”
Lathyk made a wordless sound of agreement, and Sarmouth wondered exactly what was going through Pawal Hahlynd’s brain at this moment.
The Dohlaran admiral understood the odds, the actual balance of combat power, as well as anyone on the Charisian side. And he also had to know this day was effectively the Royal Dohlaran Navy’s death ride. He’d seen Dreadnought up close, seen her in action. After that experience, he could have had no illusions when the first steam-powered ironclad turned up in the Gulf of Dohlar. He was one of the Dohlaran admirals who’d made a point of using his brain from the very beginning and, like Raisahndo, he was one of Earl Thirsk’s closest allies. For that matter, Greyghor Whytmyn, who was married to Thirsk’s younger daughter, Hailyn, was Hahlynd’s nephew by marriage. And, like his friend the earl, Hahlynd could have been under no illusions about why his nephew had been summoned to Zion. He knew—he had to know—the Group of Four was losing and that the Kingdom of Dohlar was about to pay a terrible price for its loyalty to the Temple. Yet there was no more give, no more surrender, in Pawal Hahlynd than there was in Lywys Gardynyr. He would do his duty, however grim, to the very end, without flinching.
Damn, I wish we didn’t have to kill men like that just to get to scum like Clyntahn, the baron thought bitterly. Not enough for that fat son-of-a-bitch to murder God only knows how many millions of innocent ‘heretics,’ himself. Oh, no! He’s got to put us in the position of killing good, honorable men if we want to stop him.
And now it’s time for me to go kill a few thousand more of them.
He lowered his double-glass but his gaze stayed on the suddenly tiny sails of the screw-galleys, driving unwaveringly to meet Admiral Darys’ division.