Hell's Foundations Quiver by David Weber Read Free Book Online Page A

Traykhos and Shairn. Scores of fleet, weatherly schooners were swarming out to sea, and the situation was growing steadily more serious. Just six days ago, although Rock Point hadn’t yet received official word, over a dozen of those cruisers—half of them navy ships, not just privateers, and acting with far better coordination than he cared to think about—had swamped a convoy from Tellesberg to Siddar City. The outnumbered escort had managed to prevent any of the half-dozen troopships under its care from being seriously damaged and had actually sunk two of the raiders, but no less than six cargo ships had been cut out despite all they could accomplish. One of the escorting schooners had been destroyed, as well, and two others—and one of the three defending galleons—had been damaged.
    There’d been no survivors from any of the merchantmen or from HMS Thistle . The only “good” news from that perspective was that all of the wounded had been slaughtered out of hand rather than returned to Desnair for the Punishment. The captured cargoes, however, had provided Desnair with five thousand precious M96 rifles, almost a hundred three-inch mortars, and two entire batteries of four-inch rifled field guns … among other things. Charis was only lucky the damage hadn’t been still worse—and that the overwhelmed escorts had been able to protect the troopships. But Rock Point couldn’t count on that happening the next time around, and what had been a constant, niggling trickle of losses in other privateer attacks was growing steadily more serious.
    Rock Point grimaced around his pipe stem, then struck a Shan-wei’s candle and lit it. He took time to be sure it was drawing properly, savoring the sweet taste of the smoke, before he waved out the candle and dropped it into an ashtray. Then he sighed heavily and admitted the disagreeable truth.
    Even with the Navy straining every sinew, he simply didn’t have the escorts to put every merchantman into a convoy. Over a third of all Charisian merchantmen were still forced to sail independently, and while almost all of them were now armed, they were scarcely regular men-of-war. Nor did Rock Point have the ship strength to blockade such an enormous coastline in order to prevent the raiders from getting to sea to attack them. That was the reason Shain was in the Gulf of Jahras … and also the reason the high admiral wouldn’t be sending the first new Cities off to Claw Island, after all. No, he was going to have a better use for those ships considerably closer to home. Or a more pressing one, at least. Sharpfield was just going to have to make do until more of the Cities were available, and it was entirely likely the King Haraahlds would be ready by then, as well.
    Sir Domynyk Staynair didn’t like it, but that was just the way it was. And however much he respected Thirsk’s capabilities, at least when Sharpfield did receive his reinforcements, there wasn’t going to be one damned thing Dohlar could do about it. And in the meantime.…
    Zhaztro’s not going to like it, either, he reflected, drawing on his pipe. I imagine he’s going to squawk about it—respectfully, of course!—when I break the news to him, too. But he’ll get over it, especially when he considers the consolation prize. And —the high admiral smiled grimly— he’ll do one hell of a good job once he does .

 
    .IV.
    West of Allyntyn, Northland Province, Republic of Siddarmark
    The cold was bone-numbing.
    At least there wasn’t any wind, but even without the extra chill factor, the midday temperature had climbed no higher than twelve degrees on the Fahrenheit scale, and it was already falling steeply once more. After sunset it would drop to twenty degrees below zero—or lower—on the same scale, and the wind would be picking up once more as another arctic front began making its way through sometime