David Weber - How firm a foundation

Plyzyk staggered back to his feet once more, wondering who’d just saved him from being crushed by the falling mast, but it was an almost absent thought, lost in the terrifying thought that his ship was on fire.

“Away firefighting parties!” he bellowed, and the seamen who were detailed for that very purpose went rushing below with buckets of water and sand.

Langhorne! She can’t take much more of this, he thought. She -

“Fire!” Hektor Aplyn-Ahrmahk shouted.

Destiny ’s second broadside smashed into Saint Adulfo like an avalanche, but this was an avalanche of iron and fire and a deadly freight of gunpowder. The six-inch shells slammed through the Desnairian’s planking, and this time all of them exploded.

One of Ensign Applyn-Ahrmahk’s shells exploded almost directly under Ehrnysto Plyzyk’s feet, and for him, the fate of his ship became forever moot. . VIII.

Duke Kholman’s Office, Port of Iythria, Empire of Desnair

Daivyn Bairaht watched in stony-eyed silence as the two officers in Charisian uniform were ushered through the door of his office.

“Your Grace, Admiral Sir Dunkyn Yairley and his flag lieutenant, Ensign Aplyn-Ahrmahk,” their guide, Captain Byrnahrdo Fahrya, told him. “Admiral Yairley, His Grace the Duke of Kholman.”

Yairley and his ensign were immaculate, looking as if they’d dropped by for a state dinner, Kholman thought bitterly. Fahrya was another matter. His uniform was torn and filthy, reeking of powder and wood smoke. His expression was grim, tight and strained, but he was lucky to be alive. His ship, Holy Langhorne, had taken fire, burned to the waterline, and sunk under the devastating Charisian assault. She was scarcely the only Desnairian galleon that had happened to, and from the look of things Fahrya had spent some time in the water before he’d been recovered by the victors. He’d obviously done what he could to straighten his hair, wash his hands, wipe the powder grime from his face, but the contrast between him and the two faultlessly attired Charisians’ dress uniforms could not have been sharper.

Or more deliberate, the duke reminded himself as he realized he could even smell the Charisian flag officer’s fresh cologne. Yairley must’ve made damned sure the two of them would be as neat as pins. He obviously recognizes the value of setting the stage properly.

“Admiral,” he made himself say, his tone courteous but cold, and bowed very slightly in greeting.

“Your Grace,” Yairley responded with an even slighter bow, and Kholman’s jaw tightened at that abbreviated bow’s subtle insult to his aristocratic rank. Of course, it was possible- possible! -it hadn’t been Yairley’s intention to do any insulting. Then again…

“Before anything else,” he said, “allow me to express my personal thanks for High Admiral Rock Point’s message about Baron Jahras.”

“I’m sure I speak for the High Admiral when I say you’re most welcome, Your Grace,” Yairley said. “I regret the severity of the Baron’s wounds, but my understanding is that, barring any unforeseen complications, the healers are confident he’ll recover in time.”

And once he learns how to write left-handed, Kholman thought harshly. But at that, he’s lucky to be alive. And maybe the fact that he’s lost an arm will help protect him when Clyntahn gets word of this .

“I hope you’re right,” he said out loud. “However, I doubt you came ashore just to tell me my brother-in-law is likely to survive.” He showed his teeth briefly. “Somehow I don’t think you’re likely to tell me the same thing about my Navy.”

“With the exception of the floating batteries at the western end of Baron Jahras’ line, I’m afraid all your ships have struck,” Yairley said gravely, and despite the way he’d braced himself internally, Kholman flinched visibly.

At least the Charisian hadn’t said “all your surviving ships have struck,” although that would have been more accurate. According to Kholman’s most recent report, nineteen galleons and twelve of the floating batteries had burned, blown up, burned and blown up, or simply sunk as the result of battle damage. He didn’t know how many of the others were damaged, or how badly, and he didn’t even want to think about the human cost, but he knew it had been huge. For that matter, he’d sent over a thousand replacements into the maelstrom before he’d accepted he was simply incurring additional casualties in a lost cause.

All the fortifications on Sickle Shoal and Triangle Shoal had also surrendered, although they hadn’t hauled down their flags until they’d taken massive damage. That was what the reports said, at least, and Kholman had no reason to doubt them. Especially since only one of the four fortress commanders-General Stahkail, inevitably-was still alive and unwounded. Those accursed… bombardment ships were also why they’d lost so many of the floating batteries. The conventional Charisian galleons had declined to venture into the shoal water beyond the main shipping channel to engage them, but the bombardment ships had taken up positions where the batteries’ guns couldn’t reach them and started dropping those damned exploding shells on top of them. Their percentage of hits hadn’t been high, but every hit they had scored had been devastating.

Of course that word-“devastating”-pretty much summed up the entire battle, didn’t it? Once the eastern end of Jahras’ line was blasted out of the way, the Charisians had poured galleons through the gap. They’d doubled the line of Desnairian ships, sailing along it and engaging it from both sides, pouring their accursed exploding shells into their victims. They hadn’t bothered to anchor the way the ships who’d initially broken the line had. Instead they’d simply smashed one ship after another into splintered, all too often burning wreckage. By the time they’d worked their way along half the line, ships were striking their colors before they were even fired upon. Kholman didn’t want to think about how Zhaspahr Clyntahn was likely to react to that, but no reasonable man could possibly condemn them when they’d seen half their entire Navy turned to driftwood in barely two hours by a weapon they couldn’t possibly match.

“I see,” he said out loud, then stiffened his spine. “May I ask what message High Admiral Rock Point has sent you to deliver to me, Admiral Yairley?”

“You may,” Yairley said gravely. “Admiral Rock Point has sent me to require the surrender of all of your remaining harbor fortifications, your shipyards, sail lofts, ropewalks, cannon foundries, and naval supplies.”

“That’s preposterous!” The protest exploded out of Kholman before he could stop it, but he glared at the Charisian. “I have a garrison of over twenty thousand men in and around this city! You may have defeated-even destroyed-our Navy, but the Army is still fully capable of defending the soil of the Desnairian Empire!”

Neither Yairley nor the wiry young ensign standing respectfully at his side so much as turned a hair. They simply waited until he’d finished and stood glowering at them, at which point Yairley shrugged very slightly.

“First, Your Grace, your garrison may or may not be able to defend this city. I mean no disrespect to the Imperial Army, but I rather doubt it would find itself as effective against the Imperial Marines and Army battalions aboard High Admiral Rock Point’s transports as it was against the Republic the last time you clashed with the Siddarmarkians. Second, however, we have no need to land troops to destroy your shipyards, at the very least. Admittedly, the foundries might be somewhat more difficult targets, but I remind you of what happened to your outer fortifications. The Imperial Charisian Navy is fully capable of carrying out the same sort of bombardment of your waterfront batteries and warehouses and, for that matter, the shipyards themselves, without putting a single Marine into Iythria. High Admiral Rock Point has instructed me to point out to you that by requiring the surrenders I’ve described, he’s attempting to minimize the loss of Desnairian life and collateral damage to civilian property.”