The Road to Hell - eARC

by David Weber

  “I swear, Tersak, you’d complain if they hanged you with a golden rope!” chan Mahsdyr said, and the senior-armsman’s chuckle acknowledged the hit.

  Chan Golar had been with chan Mahsdyr for almost two years now, and he and the senior-armsman understood one another well. At the moment, they sat in their saddles on the bank of the Rathynoka River in what ought to have been the Darylis Republic in New Farnalia, gazing west at the never-boring spectacle of yet another door between universes. The Resym side of the Resym-Nairsom Portal was several miles west of the location of the town of Shdandifar, but the Nairsom side—as chan Golar had just none-too-obliquely observed—lay just outside what would have been the small bison-ranching town of Ulthamyr in the Republic of Roantha, well over three thousand miles north of and twelve hundred feet higher than their present location. Here in Shdandifar, the afternoon temperature was in the high nineties; in Nairsom, the temperature was well below freezing, with lazy snowflakes drifting down a steel-gray sky. This particular portal had obviously been around a while, since the portal wind speed was no more than ten or twelve miles per hour, and what there was of it was out of Resym and into Nairsom. That produced a bubble of warmth on the far side in which there was no accumulation of snow…but it was a rather small bubble.

  “Awful cold ’round a man’s neck, those golden ropes, Sir. Or so they tell me. Never tried one, m’self.”

  “Yet, at least.” Chan Mahsdyr observed cheerfully. “There’s always time.”

  “True enough, Sir. On the other hand, it really is goin’ t’ be a shock for the horses, not t’ mention the men, you know.”

  “Now there, Tersak, you’ve got a point,” chan Mahsdyr acknowledged less than happily.

  His dragoons had brought along the heavy winter uniforms and cold weather equipment they’d need for the six hundred-mile trek between Lake Wernisk and Ulthamyr, but their horses had not. And those same horses had just completed a grueling twenty-eight hundred mile journey between Shdandifar and Paditharyn, during which the temperature had seldom dropped much below seventy degrees and had occasionally risen into the high nineties. They were thoroughly acclimated to that climate, and not even the Imperial Ternathian Army’s Shikowrs were going to take the sixty-degree drop in average temperature anything like well. They’d brought along plenty of heavy blankets to keep their animals well rugged when they weren’t actually riding, but he wouldn’t be at all surprised if they lost some of them over the next week or so.

  “At least the Mules have held up well,” he said now. He wasn’t referring to flesh and blood mules, and chan Golar nodded in emphatic agreement. “The Bisons’ve done better than I really expected, but the Mules have been the real surprise,” the company-captain continued. “I’m beginning to think Division-Captain chan Stahlyr might have a point about those ‘mechanized troops’ of his.”

  “Wouldn’t go that far, Sir,” chan Golar said, stubborn despite his agreement of a moment before, and leaned forward to pat his mount’s shoulder. “Horses’ve been around a lot longer nor tea kettles. Mind, they’ve done well enough so far, and I’ll not deny it, but they’ve got no heart, no guts. Had my skin saved more’n once by a good horse that was too damned stupid t’ know it couldn’t keep goin’, begging your pardon. It’ll be a while before I’m willing t’ trade in my saddle for good.”

  “I don’t doubt that for a second,” chan Mahsdyr agreed with a grin. “And I’m not suggesting we shoot them all next Marniday, either. But just between you and me, I thought the Division-Captain was smoking things he shouldn’t have been when he first came up with this brainstorm. Now—assuming we get across the Stone Carve at Coyote Canyon without the Arcanans spotting us while we’re about it—I think he’s about to go down in history as a military genius. I sure as hells don’t know anyone else who’s ever proposed a frigging eight thousand-mile approach march with a single division!”

  “All due respect for the Division-Captain, and all, but I b’lieve I’ve heard as there’s a thin line, sometimes, ’twixt genius and crazy,” the noncom observed. “Never a doubt in my mind which the Division-Captain is, you understand, Sir!”

  “I’m sure,” chan Mahsdyr said dryly. “In the meantime, I think we’ll go ahead and bivouac. Take time to break out the cold weather gear and inspect it properly before we poke our noses into that nice, cool climate on the other side.”

  “Good idea, Sir,” chan Golar agreed in a considerably more serious tone. “Your permission, , and I think it’d be another good idea t’put at least a picket on the far side, though.”

  “Agreed.” Chan Mahsdyr nodded. “Send chan Parthan and chan Ynclair with it. I’ll want to talk to both of them before they cross the portal, though.”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “Good. And ask Platoon-Captain chan Sabyr to join me here, as well.”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  The senior-armsman nodded, reined his horse around, and trotted back along the column, and chan Mahsdyr dismounted to take the weight off his own horse’s back while he waited. Folsar chan Sabyr’s 1st Platoon was scheduled to take the lead when they set off into Nairsom, and chan Mahsdyr wanted to be certain chan Sabyr and his men had properly prepared themselves. The platoon-captain was experienced, but he was also young, and his senior-armsman was from coastal Teramandor—a long, long way from New Ternathia—and a bit new to his duties as the platoon’s senior noncom. It wouldn’t hurt to tactfully remind both of them of some of the unpleasant realities of winter in Roantha. For that matter, it might not be a bad idea to send chan Sabyr’s entire platoon through as chan Golar’s “picket.” They’d spend a milder night in close proximity to the portal, given the portal wind blowing through from Resym, but it would still be chilly enough to find any holes in their preparations and…underscore the desirability of plugging said holes before they set out for Ulthamyr.

  And it definitely won’t be a bad idea to get chan Parthan and chan Ynclair over to the other side for a looksee, he reflected.

  Chan Parthan was the youngest of the half-dozen Plotters assigned to Gold Company for this little foray, but he was also the most strongly Talented, with by far the greatest range. And chan Ynclair was one of the strongest Distance Viewers chan Mahsdyr had ever encountered. If chan Parthan detected any of the Arcanans’ damned dragons hanging about, chan Ynclair would be able to spot them without difficulty.

  One interesting discovery they’d made in the course of their journey was that a Plotter’s range seemed greater against airborne creatures…and got greater still the higher the altitude at which he searched. Chan Parthan’s current theory was that the “background noise” of other living organisms—including plants, chan Mahsdyr had been surprised to discover—became less and less a factor at higher and higher altitudes. Without that distraction, he could simply Plot farther and more clearly.

  Of course, that might not have come as a surprise to every Plotter. The detection of flying creatures wasn’t something with which anyone except bird watchers and a relatively small number of Plotters assigned to various park services or ornithological research organizations had much experience, however, because most of them were normally concerned with landborne or seaborne critters. Chan Mahsdyr had come to the grim conclusion that it might very well be that neglect of watching for aerial threats which had let the Arcanans take out Company-Captain chan Tesh’s men in New Uromath without anyone’s getting a warning out up-chain. Something had certainly let them get into range and eliminate chan Tesh’s assigned Voice before any alert could be sent, and since chan Tesh’s Plotters and Distance Viewers had almost equally certainly been anticipating landborne threats…

  Whatever had happened in New Uromath, chan Mahsdyr had no intention of allowing that to happen to Gold Company. He did wish he had a better notion of just how far someone on dragonback at an altitude of a few thousand feet could actually see, though. He knew it was possible to see as much as fifty or sixty miles—sometimes even farther—from a high enough mountain, and even with th
e greater range chan Parthan had been able to achieve against aerial targets, that would exceed his reach. On the other hand, how much detail could anyone see from that sort of elevation?

  No one knew the answer to that, and ever since they’d emerged from the rain forest on their way to Shdandifar, he’d been acutely aware of the lack of any sort of measuring stick by which to judge the threat’s true parameters. That was the main reason he’d had binocular-equipped lookouts backing up his Plotters every weary mile of the way. He intended to go right on backing them up, and he devoutly hoped the present overcast visible through the portal would remain with them all the way to Ulthamyr. However he might worry about the horses’ vulnerability to cold, he’d prefer anything much short of a howling blizzard to clear skies and good visibility for any aerial spies the other side might have left behind.

  The handful of hardy souls in Resym who’d ignored the evacuation orders sent down-chain from Lashai had reported no Arcanan presence in that universe to any of 12th Dragoons’ scouts, but chan Mahsdyr was none too certain any of the stay-behinds would have recognized a dragon or an eagle-lion even if they’d seen one. The idea of such creatures remained profoundly unnatural to chan Mahsdyr even after all these weeks, and he’d actually examined their carcasses at Fort Salby. Even if someone here in Resym had seen one of them, why should anyone who’d never heard of them have realized that what he was seeing was much larger than any bird and simply far farther away than he’d thought?

  That thought had loomed large in his mind ever since they’d left jungle’s tree cover, and he was more grateful than ever for the Steel Mules which had been sent after him following his discussion with Ganstamar Yanusa-Mahrdissa in Shosara. They’d overtaken his mounted men without any difficulty, and he’d redistributed his supplies as they’d arrived. The half-tracked Mules could keep up with his dragoons effortlessly, and without the betraying banner of coal smoke a Mark One Bison emitted. So he’d loaded the Mules with fifteen days of everything his mounted troops would require and left the remainder of his supplies aboard the Bison-towed trailers. That should be more than enough to get him all the way from Lake Wernisk to Ulthamyr before he had to call the Bisons forward, and he was all in favor of remaining as invisible as possible while he did just that.

  He hoped none of his men were stupid enough to think he was truly as unconcerned and confident as he pretended, although the game required them to pretend that he’d fooled them. Yet the truth was that everything at least appeared to have gone extremely well so far. Now if only things stayed that way.…

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  February 24

  “Well, another day, another portal.”

  Therman Ulthar looked up from his steaming mug of bitterblack as Jaralt Sarma sat on the large rock beside him. It was a gray, cold evening, moving steadily towards full dark, with a miserable drizzle dusting downward, and the vista through the portal before them was less than welcoming, to say the very least. Especially for Ulthar.

  “The last time I was this way,” he said, “there were trees on the other side of this one. Mind you, I wasn’t paying them a lot of attention at the time. Getting shot with one of those damned rifles puts a damper on your sightseeing. But this…”

  He shook his head, and Sarma grunted in agreement, although the last time he’d crossed that portal the land on the other side had been blackened and still smoking while hooves and dragon wings stirred up torrents of bitter, clinging ash. It had been like a foretaste of Shartahk’s own hell, but he had to admit that even that had looked more welcoming than this.

  It was winter on both sides of the portal, but the other side wasn’t just much colder, with snow falling heavily on a steady wind from the northwest. It was also far bleaker, with snags of burned stumps sticking up through the snow. Some of the bigger forest giants seemed to have survived the torrent of fire which had burned out a thousand square miles of woodland, but if they had, they were clearly in the minority. Either way, it would be impossible to be certain until spring, when they’d either leaf once more…or not. For now, the universe both Arcana and Sharona had agreed to call Hell’s Gate looked very much like its name: a barren, blackened drift of dead trees, burned snags, and blowing snow where the current temperature hovered far, far below freezing.

  “It’s not too late to change our minds and head for Fort Rycharn,” Sarma said after a moment. Ulthar looked at him sharply, and the short, stocky fifty shrugged. “I’m not saying I think it’s a wonderful idea, but at least it’d be warmer. And once we cross over into that”—he twitched his head at the uninviting terrain beyond the portal—“we’re going to be moving hell for leather and any air patrol that spots us is going to wonder what the hells we’re doing. If we made for the Mahritha portal we’d at least be heading towards our people instead of obviously avoiding them! And I’m pretty sure Five Hundred Klian would at least listen to us before he slapped us into the brig.”

  “Something to be said for that, I guess,” Ulthar replied after a moment. “Personally, though, I think the idea really sucks.”

  “That’s one of the things I like about you, Therman. That tact and exquisite sensitivity to the sensibilities of others.”

  “Screw tact. Are you seriously suggesting we do that?”

  “No.” Sarma sipped his own bitterblack. “The notion does possess a certain comfort quotient, though. We’ve been completely off the grid ever since the mutiny, in more ways than one. Don’t you find it at least a little tempting to consider getting back into a world we know about?”

  “No, not at the moment.” Ulthar leaned forward to lift the bitterblack pot from the heating crystal and refresh his mug. “And not just because I don’t think for a minute that the Five Hundred could keep us alive long enough for anyone else to listen to us. We still owe Regiment-Captain Velvelig and his people for the way they were treated, Jaralt. We both gave the Regiment-Captain our word to accept his orders, too, and all the Sharonians have more than pulled their weight getting us this far. Besides, I’ve come to the conclusion the Regiment-Captain’s probably smarter than both of us put together.”

  “And trying to change plans at this point would be a really good way to touch off a firefight we might not survive. You forgot that bit,” Sarma said dryly.

  “I’m damned sure it would touch off a firefight.” Ulthar snorted. “For that matter, at least some of our boys would side with the Sharonians. They’ve done the math on what’s likely to happen if whoever’s behind all this gets his hands on us before we hear back from Duke Garth Showma.”

  “You’re probably right. But I didn’t broach the idea to suggest we should do it, Therman. I’m bringing it up because it’s occurred to me that it’s entirely possible one or two of our people might be thinking that making a run for Fort Rycharn and turning the rest of us in would be a way to get their own arses out of the dragon’s reach.”

  “I don’t think I like that thought very much,” Ulthar said after a long pause.

  “I don’t either, but we need to be thinking about it. And as you just pointed out, Regiment-Captain Velvelig’s smart enough to be thinking the same sort of thoughts. I think it would be a really good idea for the two of us—and Sahrimahn—to make sure we’re on the same page he is.”

  “You’re probably right.” Ulthar’s scowled down into his mug and grimaced. “Damn, I don’t like that thought. I really don’t.”

  “The good news is that I’m probably worrying more than I ought to,” Sarma said. “I mean, if anyone really wanted to desert, he could’ve done it when we crossed into New Uromath.”

  “Yeah, but at that point they’d’ve been in the middle of nowhere, with the rest of us wondering where they’d gone,” Ulthar pointed out. “The entire garrison at that excuse for a portal fort couldn’t’ve been more than fifty or sixty men. If we’d had to take it out instead of sneaking around it, we sure as hells had the firepower for it, and that was the only place they could’ve gone. I’m pretty sure most of them ar
e smart enough to figure out what the rest of us—and especially the Regiment-Captain—would’ve done if we’d figured out they’d gone running to the fort to report us. No,” he shook his head, “if anybody’s really thinking about turning his coat on us, he’ll wait until he has a clear run for Mahritha.”

  “Probably,” Sarma acknowledged. “If it’s any comfort, anybody who might be thinking that way’s almost certainly one of my boys or Sahrimahn’s cavalry. Your Second Andarans are about as all in on this as it’s possible for someone to be!”

  “Well, of course they are!” Ulthar’s frown turned into a grin. “Unlike the rest of you, we know exactly what the Duke’s going to do. By now Arylis has to’ve delivered my report to him, and none of my boys have any doubt about what’s been heading down-chain towards us ever since. So we’re not in any hurry to be throwing ourselves into the dragon’s mouth in the meantime.”

  “Faith,” Sarma observed, sipping bitterblack, “is a wonderful thing. I just hope to Hali it’s not misplaced.”

  * * *

  “Ready to proceed, Regiment-Captain,” Therman Ulthar said an hour later as he reined in his unicorn beside Namir Velvelig and Company-Captain Traisair Halath-Shodach, Velvelig’s senior surviving subordinate. His tone was rather more formal than the one he normally used when addressing the Sharonian he’d come to know so well over the last several weeks. Sarma and Fifty Sahrimahn Cothar came cantering up behind him, their unicorns moving with the almost feline stride to which Velvelig had finally become accustomed.