The Road to Hell # Hell's Gate 3

by Weber, David

  Much as he respected Harshu, however, he knew those scorpions were waiting, and that their venom was going to be painful. And, despite that same respect, he’d come to the conclusion Harshu would merit whatever came his way. Gorsatan was well aware Harshu had never approved Thalmayr’s personal, vicious cruelty. But he was equally well aware that Harshu had, at the very least, turned a blind eye to the activities of Alivar Neshok. How the two thousand could have thought for a moment that men like Thalmayr wouldn’t take Neshok’s brutality as a license to commit their own atrocities passed Gorsatan’s understanding. Verchyk Gorsatan had never seen a better illustration of the old Chalaran proverb about a fish rotting from the head.

  And when it all hit the fan and the inevitable investigators arrived at Fort Ghartoun, he’d be one who went down in the Army’s memory either as the man who’d provided the information that started the catastrophic implosion of the career of an officer he deeply admired or else as the man who’d tried to conceal evidence of profoundly criminal activity in an effort to protect an officer he deeply admired.

  Whichever way it worked out, it was exceedingly unlikely he’d ever advance beyond his current rank. Assuming, of course, that it wasn’t suggested very strongly to him that he might, perhaps, seek a civilian career, instead. And civilian career opportunities for Andaran officers effectively drummed out of the Army were few and far between.

  It was ironic, but the officers who’d actually mutinied and for all intents and purposes gone over to the enemy actually had far better long-term career prospects than Gorsatan, who hadn’t had a single thing to do with Thalmayr’s excesses. If, that was, they survived long enough for events to exonerate them, and the fact that they’d managed to get clean away suggested they might. Two Thousand Harshu had detached an entire air-mobile battalion to search for Fifty Ulthar, Fifty Sarma, and the escaped Sharonian prisoners. They hadn’t been able to begin their search until Thalmayr reached Karys, however, and by the time they did, the mutineers had vanished. Precisely how they’d accomplished that remained a mystery, although Gorsatan inclined toward the theory—shared by Valchair Stanohs, the thousand who’d been detached to find them—that the Sharonians must have devised a way to mask or deactivate the casualty recovery spells. They’d certainly managed to elude the most assiduous searches, not just in Thermyn but in Failcham and New Uromath, as well, and they obviously hadn’t passed through Hell’s Gate into Mahritha. That meant they damned well ought to be in range for the overflights to trigger the recovery spells if they hadn’t been turned off somehow, and those spells were specifically designed to be impossible for anyone except a highly trained magistron with the security keys to deactivate.

  The chances of finding them without those recovery spells was nonexistent, and Two Thousand Harshu needed every dragon—and man—he had in Karys, so Stanohs and his battalion had returned to the front, leaving the fugitives to whatever concealment they’d found. There were times Gorsatan suspected Thousand Stanohs had ended that search as soon as he had because deep inside he didn’t want the mutineers found.

  That was one thing that wasn’t his problem, however, and he allowed himself one more grimace before he drew a deep breath and called up the first report.

  * * *

  “You realize we’re about to use a sledgehammer to crack a walnut, Sir, don’t you?” Company-Captain Traivyr chan Fyrkam, 2nd Battalion, 12th Dragoon Regiment’s executive officer, observed with a wry smile.

  “Actually,” Battalion-Captain Hymair chan Yahndar replied judiciously, “we’re about to use a sledgehammer to pulverize a walnut, Traivyr. Or I damned well hope so, anyway.”

  Chan Fyrkam nodded. Chan Yahndar’s verb was a better choice, and if it had been in the company-captain to feel sympathy for any Arcanan ever born, he probably would have felt at least a modicum for the aforementioned walnut. Unfortunately for Arcana, chan Fyrkam had actually met Crown Prince Janaki and fallen under the Calirath spell. Janaki’s death was even more personal for him than it was for every other member of the Imperial Ternathian Army. The Union of Arcana’s soldiers owed Sharona a debt, and Traivyr chan Fyrkam looked forward to collecting it in full.

  “Is Company-Captain chan Esmahr ready, Tahnthair?” Chan Yahndar asked, turning to his battalion operations officer.

  “Waiting for the order, Sir,” Platoon-Captain Tahnthair chan Lyscarn said.

  “And Company-Captain chan Mahsdyr and Company-Captain chan Lyrkad are in position?”

  “Yes, Sir.” Chan Lyscarn sounded just a tad overly patient, but chan Yahndar could live with that. The ops officer had done his usual excellent job of coordinating the attack plan’s details, but while making sure those plans functioned properly might be chan Lyscarn’s job, it was chan Yahndar’s responsibility.

  The battalion-captain looked down at the large-scale, detailed, and painstakingly accurate map of Fort Ghartoun on the flat rock before him, its corners weighted down by handy stones.

  The fort lay in the White Snake Valley, the depression running roughly northeast to southwest along the serpentine course of the White Snake River. The portal to Failcham cut diagonally across the valley on a northwest to southeast line little more than a mile south of the fort. Like the much larger Tyrahl River, the White Snake flowed into the portal and disappeared, but Fort Ghartoun was three miles from the stream’s nearest approach. Although the terrain east of the fort offered valleys, ridgelines, and seasonal watercourses for cover, it was nowhere near as heavily forested as the steeper, more rugged slopes between the fort and Snow Sapphire Lake, eight or nine miles to its north-northwest. That made approaching it from the east without being detected a ticklish propositional—though they were still at least not on the direct aerial route from New Uromath to Failcham—and chan Yahndar had been glad he was using horses, not Bisons, for the final approach. Hiding those vehicles would have been a much more ticklish proposition, and even on horseback he’d been unable to get his men as close as he would have preferred. Still, they’d gotten one hells of a lot closer than they ought to have against an alert opponent…even one who didn’t have dragons and eagle-lions.

  Now, as he gazed down at the map his Distance Viewers had last updated less than two hours earlier, a meditative index finger tapped the crayon mark which indicated Grithair chan Mahsdyr’s Gold Company. Given how successfully—even brilliantly—chan Mahsdyr had led the advance all the way across four universes, there’d been no question who’d earned the opportunity to spearhead the assault on Ghartoun, and Gold Company lay roughly three and a half miles southeast of the fort, between the White Snake and a ridgeline hiding it from the flat terrain around the fort. Ulysar chan Lyrkad’s Silver Company was deployed on Gold Company’s right flank, a mile and a half farther back—the ground was more open and less forgiving northeast of the fort, and he hadn’t been able to get as close—while Company-Captain Lerkhali chan Dasam’s Bronze Company had circled around to deploy another three miles north-northeast of Silver Company, more to prevent anyone from scampering off in that direction than to participate in the attack itself. Company-Captain Vynchair chan Zelmahdyn’s Copper Company formed 2nd Battalion’s reserve, although a reserve was probably about as necessary as teats on a boar hog. The Distance Viewers had spent the last twenty-four hours further refining their detailed estimates of the fort garrison’s strength, and the Arcanans had little more than two full strength companies. Even better, it was obvious they had no idea what was coming.

  He snorted at the thought, and his finger moved back to the position of Company-Captain Temyk chan Esmahr’s 103rd Battery, Imperial Ternathian Horse Artillery, located on a bend of the White Snake six miles east of the fort. The mortars of Company-Captain Namair chan Jersyk’s weapons company had been moved up to support chan Mahsdyr and chan Lyrkad, but chan Esmahr’s horse artillery had its part to play, as well, although it had proved impractical to get his six Ternathian 37s into position for direct fire on Fort Ghartoun. Fortunately, chan Esmahr had been reinforced. In ad
dition to the pair of 4.3" howitzers of his own Steel Section, the Steel Section of the 116th Horse Artillery had been attached to his command. That gave him four of the weapons, and they had the range to reach Fort Ghartoun easily from their present position. Which meant eighteen mortars and four howitzers were poised to open fire on the fort the instant he gave the command. He was sure chan Jersyk and chan Esmahr would have preferred to register their weapons ahead of time, but one couldn’t have everything, and chan Yahndar had complete faith in their gunners.

  And the poor bastards’ve humped their guns and mortars over sixteen thousand miles to get here. It’d be a shame if they didn’t get to fire a shot.

  That was good for an actual chuckle, not just a snort, despite the tension singing in his nerves. This was the point at which the race really began, he thought. The instant his attack kicked off, Division-Captain chan Geraith’s Voice would pass the word to Brigade-Captain chan Sharys to begin his own advance on Fort Brithik. And as soon as someone got word to the Arcanan forces in Karys or Hell’s Gate.…

  He inhaled deeply and looked back up at chan Lyscarn.

  “Well, if everybody’s ready,” he said calmly, “I suppose we should see about passing that order, Tahnthair.”

  * * *

  Temyk chan Esmahr twitched as Battalion-Captain chan Yahndar’s Flicker dropped the message canister neatly into the basket by his elbow. He snatched up the small steel tube, twisted it open, and glanced at its contents. Then he looked up at Platoon-Captain Horahstyr chan Wayshyr.

  “Open fire!” he snapped.

  * * *

  “Open fire!” Company-Captain Namair chan Jersyk barked, looking up from the message slip in his hand.

  * * *

  Arlos chan Geraith looked up as the Flicked message landed in Merkan chan Isail’s in-basket. The division’s chief of staff opened it quickly, but even before he could scan it, the sudden bark of artillery told the division-captain what it said.

  “All right, Lisar,” he told Company-Captain chan Korthal. “Inform Brigade-Captain chan Sharys’ Voice our attack’s begun. He’s to begin his own advance immediately.”

  “Yes, Sir!”

  * * *

  Verchyk Gorsatan had exactly zero warning.

  One instant he was dashing his signature across the latest report from Fort Ghartoun’s cooks; the next instant four howitzer shells and eighteen mortar bombs came slicing out of a cloudless morning sky. It was true chan Esmahr and chan Jersyk had been denied any ranging shots, but their Distance Viewers, Mappers, and Plotters had established ranges and bearings as accurately as if they’d actually paced off the distances, and there’d been plenty of time to position their weapons’ range and bearing stakes with finicky precision.

  Two of the 3" mortar bombs fell outside the fort’s palisade.

  They were the only shots that did.

  None of Gorsatan’s men had any more warning than their CO. Half were still in the mess hall, and aside from the dozen or so sentries on the walls and in the fort’s watchtower—none of whom had seen a single thing—not one of them was even armed. The cascade of high explosive and steel thundering down upon them was as terrible—and just as totally unexpected—as any attack the AEF had launched on its way up-chain to Fort Salby, and the gunners and mortar crews had all the ammunition they could want.

  Explosions and deadly splinters of steel turned the fort’s interior into a holocaust. Commander of One Hundred Gorsatan’s chair crashed over backward as he leapt to his feet, his eyes wide. It was impossible. It couldn’t be happening! Not here—not so many thousands of miles behind the front line! But it was happening, and warrior or not, it was his job to do something about it.

  His mouth tightened and he crossed his office in two strides, yanked the office door open, and started through it.

  The thirty-two-pound 4.3" shell sliced through the cedar shingles above him at a velocity of approximately eight hundred and ninety feet per second.

  * * *

  “Now!”

  The bugles sounded—high, fierce, and strong—and 1st Platoon, Gold Company, 2nd Battalion, 12th Dragoon Regiment, came over the ridgeline in a line of mounted men. The company’s other platoons followed them, dust rising from the hooves of the horses which had carried them so far. The Imperial Ternathian Army’s cavalry were dragoons. Oh, there were still officially “lancer” regiments in the ITA, but they were indistinguishable from dragoons these days, except for their uniforms. No Ternathian mounted formation had delivered an actual cavalry charge in seventy years, but there was a time and a place for everything.

  Gold Company had five miles to cover, and it was in a hurry.

  * * *

  “Mother Jambakol!”

  Sword Falstan Makraik clutched at the observation tower’s railing as the interior of Fort Ghartoun erupted like twice a dozen volcanoes. Blast fronts and shrieking splinters ripped through the observation tower’s floor, and he heard screams behind him. The fire seemed to be coming from the east, and he raced around to that side of the platform, ignoring the white-hot steel death hissing past him, trying desperately to locate its source.

  Nothing. He could see nothing, and he swore again, even more foully than before. The godsdamned Sharonians and their godsdamned artillery! No Arcanan heavy weapon could fire over obstacles that way, but the Sharonians could! Only how could they be here?

  The screams, the chaos, and the blood raging across the fort’s parade ground in bubbles of Shartahk’s own hellfire was total. The garrison was already disintegrating, at least a dozen men flinging themselves through the open gate, running madly away from the inferno towards the beckoning safety of the portal to New Uromath. Makraik twisted around in that direction, lips drawn back in a furious snarl. He understood exactly why they were running, and it wasn’t simple cowardice, whatever his emotions might insist, but that couldn’t change the way he felt. He opened his mouth to curse them…then closed it with a snap as a solid line of mounted men came sweeping in from the southeast behind the high, shivering howl of the Wolves of Ternathia, sabers gleaming in the morning light.

  * * *

  “Battalion-Captain chan Yahndar has the fort, Sir!” Company-Captain chan Korthal announced sharply.

  Arlos chan Geraith looked up from his discussion with his staff and brigade commanders, brown eyes narrowed, and chan Korthal grinned hugely.

  “Second Battalion didn’t lose a man, Sir—not one—and the Distance Viewers and Plotters confirm that none of the Arcanans got away!”

  “Arcanan losses?”

  “The Battalion-Captain says initial indications are that they were very heavy, Sir.” There was less delight in chan Korthal’s reply, but he met chan Geraith’s eyes unflinchingly. “His current estimate is that at least half the garrison was killed, and many of the survivors are wounded.”

  “Not too surprising, given chan Yahndar’s artillery, especially if the bastards never guessed it was coming, Sir,” Brigade-Captain chan Quay remarked. The 12th Dragoons was one of his regiments, and his expression was grimly satisfied.

  “No, it isn’t,” chan Geraith agreed. “Your boys did well, Renyl.” He looked back at the chan Korthal. “What about their hummers?”

  “The Distance Viewers say a shell or a mortar bomb must’ve landed directly on the hummer coop early in the attack, Sir.” Chan Korthal shook his head. “None of the Arcanans got to them to send off a message.”

  “Good.” Chan Geraith’s voice was even more satisfied than chan Quay’s expression, and he turned back to his senior officers.

  “As of this moment, we’ve cut the Arcanans’ line of communications, gentlemen,” he said, resting the heel of his left hand on one of his bone-handled revolvers. “It’ll take them a while to figure that out, though—or I hope to all the gods it will, anyway! And there’s always the pesky little problem of their dragons, isn’t there?”

  His staff and brigade commanders chuckled harshly, and he thumped the palm of his right hand on the ma
p before them.

  “Renyl, your boys’ve had the lead all the way from Fort Salby. I don’t see any reason they shouldn’t keep it now. I want you on the way to Fort Mosanik within six hours. And I hope you won’t mind the fact that I’ll be tagging along with you.”

  “Oh, I think the boys and I can stand that, Sir!” chan Quay assured him.

  “Good. Shodan,” chan Geraith turned to Brigade-Captain chan Khartan, 2nd Brigade’s CO, “I want the Twenty-Third on its way with Renyl. Three regiments should be enough to look after themselves, especially if the Arcanans are as lax in Failcham as they were here in Thermyn. I hate leaving you and the Ninth behind, but someone has to mind the store here at Ghartoun until Brigade-Captain chan Bykahlar’s infantry can get here to relieve you. As soon as they do, I want you on the way to Karys, too. In the meantime, there may well be dragon traffic through this portal sometime in the next day or two even if chan Sharys nails Brithik as cleanly as we just did Ghartoun, and what I really need you to do is to stop it dead, if you can. Clear?”