With Halberd, that was seven of his twelve screw-galleys gone, and he’d been wrong about how long the three-deckers would hold their fire. They weren’t using their lower deck guns, but like Raisahndo’s Hurricane, they had heavy rifles in pivot mountings on their upper decks. But whereas Hurricane showed a pair of 8-inch Fultyn Rifles, each of the Charisians was big enough to mount three, and they were longer and slimmer than the Dohlaran guns—long enough their muzzles projected far beyond their bulwarks when they were trained out on the broadside.
They also fired far, far faster than his own 150-pounders. In fact, they fired at least twice as rapidly as their own ironclads’ broadside guns. Breechloaders—they had to be, like the ones in their accursed armored steamers—and they were fiendishly accurate. Thank God there were only six of them!
Smoke erupted from Mace’s bows, and bared his teeth as all three forward guns fired as one. Her captain had obviously decided to disregard the safety restriction that prohibited firing all of those massive guns simultaneously. That restriction had even more point than usual in the current sea conditions, but Captain Clymyns clearly calculated that there was no tomorrow for his ship, whatever happened. The ironclad had denied him the quartering approach he’d wanted, maneuvering with the impeccable skill of the Imperial Charisian Navy to force him to approach through the very heart of her broadside firing arc, instead. Yet even though they’d held him under fire the whole way, he’d done it, Now he was end-on to her, barely ninety yards clear, presenting only his bow armor to her guns while he blazed away. His gunners were good … and just as determined as their captain. Not a shot missed. Hahlynd could actually see the massive round shot strike her target’s armor … and rebound. The trio of 10-inch projectiles shrieked away, baffled. One of them shattered into at least five pieces.
And then four of the ironclad’s guns fired back.
Mace disintegrated in a bubble of fire and smoke. Pieces of debris arced across the sky, trailing lines of smoke, rising as much as three hundred feet before they spiraled back down into the icy water in feathers white, and Hahlynd heard Ahlfryd Mahgyrs swearing viciously beside him.
“Clymyns deserved better,” he heard his own voice saying, and wondered why. It wasn’t like anything he could possibly say at this point was going to matter, but he went right on speaking. “I think we’ll be in range in about two more m—”
The 6-inch shell from HMS Zhenyfyr Ahrmahk’s forward pivot gun punched through HMS Sword’s frontal armor like an awl through butter. It detonated, the ready charges for her 10-inch smoothbores erupted in sympathetic detonation, and the forward forty feet of Pawal Hahlynd’s flagship shattered in a cloud of smoke, debris, and spray.
* * *
“They’re changing course, Sir,” Captain Trahvys said heavily. Caitahno Raisahndo only looked at him, and the flag captain shrugged. “They’re coming onto the wind, Sir. Not making any more sail, but—”
He shrugged, and Raisahndo nodded.
Of course the ironclads were coming onto the wind. They’d delayed long enough to deal with Hahlynd’s screw-galleys—only two of them were left, and he didn’t blame their skippers for spending more effort trying to evade the ironclads’ fire than trying to close. It was clear they weren’t going to damage the damned things, whatever they did. About the best they could hope to do now was to delay the bastards, convince the Charisians to spend a little more time on their own destruction in hopes their more conventional consorts could get to grips with the blocking force.
But that wasn’t going to happen. The ironclads and their division mates were turning to run in front of the rest of his squadron, timing the move with consummate professionalism. They weren’t even making any more sail, because they didn’t want to stay away from him forever. They only wanted to stay clear until the rest of Sarmouth’s squadron, coming up steadily behind Raisahndo’s formation, arrived to close the trap.
And there wasn’t one damned thing he could do about it.
The columns coming up astern were overtaking him rapidly, even with his royals set, and they were close enough his lookouts had been able to confirm that neither of the ships leading the original Charisian line had been ironclads after all. The Dohlaran admiral’s mouth twisted bitterly. Just like the sneaky bastards to convince me bombardment ships were ironclads in order to drive me into the real ironclads—not to mention those damned three-deckers. Not that it’s going to matter very much.
And, of course, there was the fact that the ship leading the closest Charisian division was another ironclad.
They’re going to shove that division into our backs like a dagger while their friends in front of us hold us for the kill. And their third division’s coming up fast on our lee quarter. We’re like a kraken in a net, waiting for the axe.
“General signal to reduce sail,” he told Trahvys. The flag captain looked at him, and he shrugged. “We’ve lost the race, Lewk, and we’re driving so hard our line’s started to scatter. Time to reduce to fighting sail and get ourselves reorganized. No point taking any more damage aloft than we have to, and the bastards will have to come into our range if they want us.”
“Yes, Sir.” Trahvys’ voice was level, almost as if he didn’t realize what Raisahndo’s decision truly meant.
“And while we’re doing that, bring the Squadron to north-northwest,” Raisahndo continued, and smiled thinly. “Let’s see how long it takes those frigging ironclads to catch up with us for a change.”
“Yes, Sir.” Trahvys saluted, then raised one hand, beckoning for a signalman, and Raisahndo turned to Commander Kahmelka.
“Go below,” he said quietly. “Take Ahrnahld with you, and make sure all our confidential papers and codes go overside with a grapeshot or two to keep them company.”
“Yes, Sir.” Kahmelka’s eyes were unflinching. “They won’t find anything useful, Sir. I guarantee it.”
“I know, Gahryth. I know.” Raisahndo patted the commander’s shoulder. “And while you’re at it, ask Father Symyn to join me on the quarterdeck.” He smiled bleakly. “I think we need someone to put in a good word for us.”
.VI.
Royal Palace,
City of Gorath,
Kingdom of Dohlar.
“Well, this is a frigging disaster!” Aibram Zaivyair snarled, waving the dispatch, then hurled it down on the council table so hard the staple ripped out and the pages scattered. “Do you want to explain how this one happened, My Lord?”