The Road to Hell (Hell's Gate Book 3)

by David Weber

  “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?”

  He looked back and forth between the two brigade-captains, his eyes hard, and they nodded back.

  “Clear, Sir,” chan Quay said for both of them, and chan Geraith frowned at the map again.

  It’s fifteen hundred miles from Ghartoun to Mosanik, he thought, but if the gods love us and every single thing breaks our way, we’ll be halfway to the Karys portal before Harshu finds out he’s lost this one. In the real world, unfortunately, some frigging dragon’s going to fly right over us in the next few days and tell the bastards we’re coming.

  That was not a happy thought, but it could have been one hells of a lot worse. Especially if chan Sharys did take Fort Brithik out cleanly.

  If we have to fight our way to Fort Mosanik, that’s why we’ve got the Bison-mounted pedestal guns and the 37s. And the Arcanans won’t have the advantage of surprise this time, either. If they want to fuck around with my lads when we know they’re coming, they’re welcome to try it!

  “All right,” he said now, returning his attention to his brigade-captains, “chan Bykahlar’s infantry ought to be on the ground here in Thermyn in the next week and a half, and Brigade-Captain chan Gorsad’s only five days behind chan Sharys. “Gentlemen,” he met their eyes levelly, “it looks to me as if we’ve got Thermyn and Hell’s Gate in the bag. And one way or the other, Third Brigade’s going to be rolling into Fort Mosanik in about eight days.”

  He showed his teeth in a sharp edged, hungry smile.

  “I would love to see Harshu’s face when he hears about that!”

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  Solyrkain 18, 206 YU

  Vandiyahr 22, 5054 AE

  [April 910, 1929 CE]

  Not for the first time, Commander of Fifty Yoril Jerstan wished he were a battle dragon pilot. They got all the prestige, all the shiny medals, and—for that matter—all the girls. What transport pilots got was plenty of hard work, precious little thanks, and windburn.

  Transports lacked the cockpits formed into the backs of battle dragons’ enormous, tree-trunk necks, and transport pilots got to ride in saddles, without the carefully sculpted scutes designed to protect strike dragon pilots from the airstream when their mounts reached maximum speed. Visored helmets and heavy leather flight suits made the transport pilot’s lot endurable, and there were times when the wild rush of air around his body as Grayscale’s mighty wings swept onward was as intoxicating as any whiskey. But over the long haul, day after day—especially given the hectic schedule necessary to keep the AEF supplied—windburn got old.

  Quickly.

  He snorted at the familiar thought and reached down to rest one hand fondly on Grayscale’s warm scales. The big transport was slow and not very maneuverable, compared to the swift, agile battle dragons, but he was steady as the sunrise, and just as reliable. And he was in a good mood today, because he knew they were headed down-chain towards the bison herds. He might not be a battle dragon, but he was a canny and capable hunter. Thousand Toralk’s decision to send his dragons to hunt for themselves might not be the most efficient way to keep them supplied, but it worked, and Grayscale thoroughly enjoyed the freedom to chase down his own meat.

  The truth was it didn’t take a lot to make Grayscale happy. He had an unusually placid temperament, even for a transport, and he was normally as cheerful and willing as the day was long. Even his disposition had developed a few rough spots over the last few months, though, especially since the Sharonians stopped Two Thousand Harshu’s advance dead in front of Fort Salby. The sheer drudgery of one endless flight after another—without a sufficient stockpile of levitation spells, the transports’ carrying capacity was so small they had to fly twice or three times as many missions to ferry the same quantity of supplies forward—would have taxed the patience of a saint, and transport dragons were anything but saintly.

  Of course, Grayscale had no way to understand all the downsides of their present situation. He knew he was working harder than ever in his lengthy life; he didn’t know the entire AEF was stuck at the end of an impossibly extended supply line, that no one seemed to be killing himself to provide the additional dragons and spell support Two Thousand Harshu needed, that the Sharonians had demonstrated just how dangerous their bizarre weapons and Talents actually were, and—according to scuttlebutt Jerstan absolutely believed—that they’d managed to kill the Sharonian Empire’s crown prince at Fort Salby. He didn’t even want to think about how that was going to further fan the Sharonians’ fury at Arcana’s “sneak attack”! The last thing they needed was—

  Fifty Jerstan’s thoughts broke off and he frowned, squinting into the late afternoon sun. What in Ekros’ name was that?

  He pressed the sarkolis crystal embedded in his flight helmet. A circular window appeared in the center of the helmet’s face plate, and the earth far below snapped into sharp focus as the helmet linked with the sarkolis embedded in Grayscale’s hide, allowing Jerstan to see what his dragon saw. The cross hair in his field of view was more of an aiming mark than the sighting system it would have been for a battle dragon—Grayscale had enough red dragon in his ancestry to generate a fireball of sorts on command, although it was a pallid, feeble thing—but the principle was still the same, and so was the helmet linkage.

  Now Grayscale turned his head in tandem with Jerstan’s, guided to follow the crosshair by the helmet spellware. Dragons’ eyes were capable of picking up incredible detail even from four or five thousand feet, and Grayscale obediently refocused his vision on the strange, low-lying cloud which had attracted Jerstan’s attention.

  For a moment, it failed to register. His brain simply refused to process the preposterous input. But then Yoril Jerstan snapped fully upright in his saddle despite the buffeting slipstream as he realized what that low-lying cloud was.

  * * *

  Gerun Hostyra was bored.

  He wasn’t about to complain where any of his superiors might hear him, and he thoroughly understood the importance of keeping the dragon trains moving. But given how thin 1st Provisional Talon’s combat strength had become after Fort Salby, it made no sense at all—in his opinion—to detail a pair of desperately needed battle dragons to play “escort” for the transports.

  On the other hand, he was only a lowly commander of twenty-five. It was unlikely Thousand Toralk would appreciate his opinion if he wandered by headquarters to share it with him. Besides, whether or not the transports needed an “escort” this far from the front lines, Sky Sabre wasn’t going to complain about the opportunity to eat fresh bison, and the gods knew a well-fed battle dragon was far less proddy than one with an empty belly. So, on balance, he supposed it was possible Thousand Toralk knew what he was doing, after all.

  Which didn’t make the three-day flight from Traisum all the way back to Hell’s Gate any less boring. For that matter, why couldn’t he and Sky Sabre stop here in Thermyn, spend three or four days hunting, and then pick up a fresh transport flight on its way back to the front? It wasn’t as if—

  The abrupt flash of a double crimson flare above Fifty Jerstan’s transport jerked his attention out of its familiar rut, and he frowned as a second pair of flares burst. He glanced to his left, where Helok Bersil, his regular wingman, flew on the far side of the lumbering transports, and saw Bersil’s head come up into the slipstream, craning around towards
the flares. He seemed just as surprised as Hostyra.

  What the hells did Jerstan think he was up to? He was the senior officer of the flight, as well as Hostyra’s superior in rank, but he was a transport pilot. A trash-hauler. Maybe he had delusions of grandeur, and maybe he thought this was a good time for some weird practice drill, but even he ought to know the double-crimson was never used in training exercises. It was a live-action signal, reserved for actual combat, not a toy for a transport pilot to flash around just because he was bored!

  Then a third double-crimson flashed.

  Hostyra muttered a curse and hit his helmet crystal rather harder than was necessary. He turned his head, staring at Jerstan, and Sky Sabre’s eyes focused on the fifty. Jerstan—and Grayscale—were staring back at him, and as soon as the fifty realized he had Hostyra’s attention, he pointed urgently to the southwest.

  All right—all right, idiot! Hostyra thought grumpily. YSo you want me to see something. What the hells is so frigging impor—

  His eyes widened. Dozens—scores—of bizarre vehicles ground towards him in a huge, rolling cloud of dust. He’d never imagined anything like them! Not even Sky Sabre’s vision could pick out actual numbers through the incredible, low-lying pall of dust, but there must be hundreds of them! Some were enormous, towing huge trailers behind them; others were no bigger than a large freight wagon. But all of them came surging across the barren, blasted desert without any sign of the draft animals upon which the Sharonians relied. They were moving on their own, as surely and steadily as any slider, and if their speed was far lower than a slider’s, it was obvious each of them was picking its own course across the rolling prairie. They were being individually steered, advancing with no indication of whatever bizarre force might be propelling them, and he swallowed as he saw the artillery pieces—the “field guns”—some of those vehicles towed.

  They couldn’t possibly be here, yet they were here…and they were headed directly towards the ruins of Fort Mosanik and the Karys portal, barely seven hundred miles to the northeast.

  Gerun Hostyra stared at the impossible sight for long, endless seconds, trying to digest it. He was only a commander of twenty-five, yet the danger of that enormous column—he and Sky Sabre could see yet another dust cloud rolling along behind the one closest to hand—was abundantly clear. The picket on what had been Fort Mosanik consisted of only a couple of platoons of infantry, and there had to be thousands of men in that oncoming horde. How in Shartahk’s name they could be here, coming from the AEF’s rear, was more than he could even begin to imagine, but he knew exactly what was going to happen when they reached the portal.

  But they’re not there yet, he thought harshly. And they’re not in one of their godsdamned forts with all their frigging artillery dug in to cover its approaches, either!

  He dropped down, pressing even closer to Sky Sabre’s spine, and the big red banked hard left as his fingers stroked in the control grooves.

  * * *

  “No, you idiot!” Yoril Jerstan shouted, even though there was no way in the world Hostyra could have heard him. He groped for his flare projector, triggering off the yellow-yellow-green sequence that ordered Hostyra to break off, but the young twenty-five paid no attention. His dragon’s dive angle only steepened, increasing his airspeed, and Jerstan swore again.

  He fired the break off sequence a second time, and banked Grayscale hard to the right, away from the oncoming Sharonians. The other transports followed him promptly, but Hostyra’s wingman hesitated. He held on in Sky Sabre’s wake for a handful of seconds before he slowly, grudgingly brought his own dragon around to follow the transports back towards Fort Mosanik.

  * * *

  “Action left! Action left!” Platoon-Captain Seljar chan Werkan shouted through the dust-clogged bandana over his nose and mouth, and the drivers of the Steel Mules on which Copper Section’s two field guns had been mounted halted almost instantly, turning away from the column and its blinding dust storm.

  Quickly as they responded, the gun crews were even quicker, stripping off the muzzle covers and breaking open the ammunition locker. By the time the Mules stopped moving, looming up out of the fogbank of settling, wind-shredded dust like sunbaked steel islands, the slim muzzles of the 3.4" “Ternathian 37s” on their specially modified carriages were already swinging towards the black dots so far above them and rising sharply.

  They’d practiced the evolution more times than chan Werkan could count during the long, weary march from Fort Salby and they moved with the smooth efficiency of all those endless drills. Unfortunately, this was the first time they’d had actual targets, and no one—least of all Seljar chan Werkan—knew how well all that training might be about to pay off.

  The training and elevating wheels blurred, spinning under the gunners’ hands, while the barrels angled up to a preposterous seventy-five degrees.

  “Load!” he shouted, and breechblocks clicked with crisp, metallic smoothness.

  Fifty yards to chan Werkan’s right, Silver Section’s gun muzzles tracked the same targets.

  * * *

  Better stay away from those, Gerun, Hostyra thought as Sky Sabre’s eyes picked out the multi-barreled guns mounted atop some of the bigger vehicles. He hadn’t been at Fort Salby himself—he’d been with Thousand Carthos’ command—but he’d had the weapons—“pedestal guns,” he thought the Sharonians called them—described to him in detail.

  Now his steady fingers guided Sky Sabre into a deeper left bank, bearing away from the “pedestal guns” towards the smaller, wagonlike vehicles on the Sharonian column’s flank. Some of them mounted some sort of “gun,” too, but whatever they were, each of them had only a single barrel. They couldn’t be as dangerous as the rapidly firing multiple-barrel weapons.

  * * *

  Most of the Arcanan dragons had broken off, and chan Werkan’s jaw tightened as they headed back towards the Karys portal through which they must have come. So much for surprise, but it was too late to do the bastards any good. There were no horses in the lead echelons of 3rd Dragoon’s column, it was only early afternoon, they were making even better speed across the desert than had been expected, and it was clear, open going all the way to Fort Mosanik. The Bisons and Mules could cover the remaining seven hundred miles in little more than thirty hours, and unless there was already a godsdamned Arcanan Army on the portal, they were damned well screwed.

  And in the meantime—

  * * *

  Three of the 4.3" shells detonated well below Sky Sabre, spraying their potentially lethal clouds of shrapnel harmlessly across the heavens.

  The fourth detonated barely twenty yards from its target.

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  Solyrkain 23, 206 YU

  [April 1415, 1929 CE]

  It was very quiet inside the chansyu hut. The ticking of one of the Sharonian “clocks” would have been deafening, and Klayrman Toralk wondered what thoughts were running through Mayrkos Harshu’s brain. It was impossible to tell from the two thousand’s expression, but they had to be grim.

  Fifty Jerstan’s frantic hummer message, sent from Fort Mosanik, had reached the AEF three days ago. Jerstan himself had arrived with his personal report a day later, his transport dragon obviously exhausted from how hard his pilot had pushed. That arrival had dashed any lingering hope that the original message might have been born of panic and overreaction, because Jerstan had engaged the recording function in his helmet crystal and spent the better part of three hours circling the oncoming Sharonian column…from beyond its apparent artillery range, thus avoiding the fate of yet another overly aggressive young pilot. Commander of One Hundred Tamdaran had analyzed that imagery carefully, and his conclusion was the same as Toralk’s own analysts: there were at least five thousand Sharonians in that column, supplied with scores of artillery pieces.

  Toralk had no more idea than anyone else how they could have gotten there. It was obvious they must have followed the Kelsayr chain, but nothing the AEF had seen on
its advance to Fort Salby or learned in prisoner interrogations had suggested the Sharonians had the capacity to move an entire brigade over seventeen thousand miles in barely four months! Nor did he understand how none of the pickets along that enormous approach route had managed to get off a single hummer message warning of the enemy’s coming.

  Not that it really mattered, he supposed. No. What mattered was that the Sharonians wouldn’t have been stupid enough to send what looked like a single brigade of their dragoons so far into the Arcanans’ rear. The force which had annihilated Fort Mosanik’s garrison a day and a half after Jerstan had spotted it, was a powerful formation, but it was also operating twenty thousand miles from the nearest major Sharonian base at Fort Salby, and its own communications would be vulnerable to air attack…assuming, of course, Toralk could find the battle dragons to attack them and get past Forth Mosanik to reach them. And that meant there were damned well more Sharonians coming up-chain to support the troops who now owned the Karys-Failcham portal.