David Weber - The Road to Hell

Now that, Toralk thought, was a generous understatement. Getting heavily laden transports past Sharonian artillery would be about as “complicated” as operations came.

“In the meantime, though, we need to plan for a rapid withdrawal,” Harshu went on unflinchingly. “I know it goes against the grain to give up all the ground between here and Thermyn, but I’m afraid we’re unlikely to have much choice. We do still have the advantage in tactical mobility. It took them four months to reach the Karys portal; we could’ve made the same movement in two weeks, assuming we could’ve gotten across the damned ocean in the first place. Not only that, we have to assume they moved as quickly as they could from the moment Fifty Jerstan sighted them to the moment they hit Fort Brithik, and that tells us that moving cross-country those vehicles of theirs can’t have a speed much greater than, say, twenty miles an hour. If we pull back from here, we’ll have to fight our way through the portal into Failcham, and that’s going to be ugly. The transports will have to make at least three trips to ferry all our people through the portal, and we’ll take losses every time they do it, but at least we won’t have to fight a rearguard all the way across Karys. Once we break contact here, we’ll have the speed to stay in front of any pursuit they could drive down the Cut even if we hadn’t seeded its walls with demolition spells to close it behind us.

“I’ve already sent hummers to Governor mul Gurthak telling him that if we’re forced to retreat from Karys I hope to fight a mobile campaign against any Sharonian forces in Failcham and Thermyn until a fresh offensive from Hell’s Gate can reach us. In the meantime-”

He paused, his eyes narrowing, as someone rapped very lightly on the office door and his eyes narrowed. Then the door opened and a message clerk stepped through it hesitantly.

“Yes?” The one-word question was sharper than usual, clearly irritated by the interruption, and the clerk came to attention and saluted.

“I’m sorry, Sir,” he said quickly, “but I thought you’d want to see this message as soon as possible.”

Harshu’s face smoothed into non-expression as the clerk’s tone registered and he held out his hand to accept the message crystal. He gazed down into it for two or three heartbeats, then his jaw tightened and he nodded to the clerk.

“You were right, Javelin,” he said. “Dismissed.”

The clerk disappeared, and the two thousand looked bleakly at his senior subordinates.

“It would appear our options are even more limited than I’d thought,” he said. “That was a hummer message from Five Hundred Klian in Mahritha. Apparently the brigade sitting on the Failcham-Karys portal wasn’t operating alone. Another brigade-or possibly an even stronger force-rolled over the Hell’s Gate picket two days before the hummer from Fort Brithik could reach them. Twelve hours later, they hit the Hell’s Gate-Mahritha portal in overwhelming force. The Thousand commanding the portal garrison had less than four hours’ warning before the attack rolled in, and according to Five Hundred Klian, he was probably outnumbered by at least three to one.”

Icy stillness hovered about him, and his nostrils flared.

“It would seem, Gentlemen,” the words came slow and measured, “that the Sharonians now control every portal between us and Mahritha.”

April 27

“Specialist vos Hoven,” Commander of Twenty-Thousand Sogbourne said, peering intently at the prisoner in the witness box, “you were present, were you not, at the confrontation which has been dubbed ‘The Battle of Toppled Timber’ in the popular journals?”

“Yes, Sir, I was there.” The prisoner’s manner was very humble, very un- shakira -like. Helfron Dithrake mistrusted it-and vos Hoven-more every time the man spoke. He supposed it was possible for the close relative of two line-lords and a clan-lord to learn humility after spending several months in the brig. But he was more inclined to believe such a man would have spent his time brooding on the wrongs done to him and his exalted pedigree…unless a caste superior had shown him the error of his ways, so to speak.

Given the other Olderhan mess involving that yellow dragon and the deaths surrounding it, Helfron Dithrake was inclined to believe someone had either coached vos Hoven or had put the fear of eternity into him so effectively to permanently break his pride. Whether it had ensured his honesty remained to be seen.

“I understand you were transferred into Hundred Olderhan’s company at the same time as Fifty Garlath?”

“Yes, Sir, I was.”

“I understand, as well, that you’d served under Fifty Garlath for some time?”

“Yes, Sir. Several months, Sir.”

“What is your evaluation of Fifty Garlath’s ability as a commander?”

Bok vos Hoven pursed his lips and appeared to give the question serious consideration. “Well, Sir, I’d have to say Fifty Garlath wasn’t nearly as able a commander as Hundred Olderhan.”

“Really? What prompts that evaluation?”

“Well, Sir, under Hundred Olderhan’s direction, the Fifty was a lot more efficient than he’d ever been. And he followed book procedure a lot more closely. We certainly got things done a faster than we ever had, before.”

“I see. In your estimation, then, Garlath was a better officer under Hundred Olderhan’s direction than he was under his previous Commander of One Hundred?”

“Yes, Sir. Absolutely, Sir.”

“Very good. Now, then, how would you evaluate Fifty Garlath’s efficiency the morning your platoon trailed the Sharonians to their camp?”

“Well, Sir, I know this much. The Hundred kept the Fifty on a very short leash. He quoted book regulations repeatedly, in a very abrupt manner.”

“Then the Hundred’s temper was fraying?”

“Yes, Sir, I’d say that, Sir.”

“Due to?” Sogbourne invited speculation, curious to see how vos Hoven would respond.

“We were all under stress, Sir, wondering what had killed poor Osmuna, wondering what other terror weapons these people-or creatures-might possess, how far ahead of us they were, how many of them there might be. It was nerve wracking, Sir, for all of us, and the Hundred seemed affected more than the rest of us.”

“Are you saying,” Sogbourne asked in a curious tone that masked his intense disgust, “that the Hundred was overwhelmed by fear?”

“It certainly looked that way to me.”

“Why?”

Bok vos Hoven blinked. “Well, Sir, he was jumpy as a frog in a pond full of crocodrakes, for one thing.”

“Jumpy as a frog?” Ten Thousand Rinthrak echoed. “In what way?”

“He kept watching the trees, nervous-like. Kept barking at the Fifty to stay on point, to stop dawdling. I was worried we were going to run up their backsides before he was satisfied.”

“The general idea, when trailing an escaped killer,” Rinthrak said in a severe voice, “is to catch him.”

“Well, yes, Sir. That’s true. But there’s hasty prudence and there’s hasty folly, Sir, and I can tell you I wasn’t too happy about the way he was rushing us ahead, like that, with barely a moment’s pause to consider any nasty surprises they might’ve laid in our path.”

Sogbourne frowned. Given the charges this man faced and the source of those charges, he’d expected vos Hoven to characterize Jasak Olderhan’s actions in the worst possible light, and so far those expectations hadn’t been disappointed. Unfortunately, there was a serious dearth of eyewitnesses to question, let alone question closely about nuances like vos Hoven was trying to impart. Or, perhaps, insinuate.