How firm a foundation s-5

by David Weber

  Why God? a voice demanded bitterly deep inside him. Why did You let us come this far only to fail now?

  God didn’t reply. Or not immediately, at any rate. But then “Take ’em, lads!” another voice shouted, and someone cried out in alarm, then screamed in anguish.

  “Zhaksyn, make sure none of them get past us!” that same voice shouted-an extraordinarily young voice, Coris realized, but one which carried a hard ring of command.

  Another matchlock fired, and then there was a different sound-a flintlock. A fresh muzzle flash stabbed the night, and suddenly half a dozen flintlocks went off almost as one, firing from the hillsides, upslope from and on either side of the dragoons who’d been hidden in the woods.

  “Bayonets!” that voice yelled out of the darkness. “Up and in, boys! Up and in! ” it shouted, and the night was abruptly ugly with the clash of metal, the terrible wet sounds of steel driving into human flesh, with screams and curses.

  “Quarter!” someone bawled suddenly. “Quarter! Sweet Langhorne! Quarter! ”

  And then, that abruptly, it was over.

  Silence fell, broken only by the crash and surge of the waterfall and the whimpers of the wounded, and Coris stood very slowly in the fragile stillness. Other sounds began returning to the night, as if creeping cautiously back into it, and he heard rough, sharp voices ordering surrendered men to their feet, herding them together, taking their weapons. It would, he decided, be prudent to remain where he was and avoid any… misunderstandings until that process was completed, and his eyes narrowed as someone stepped out of the darkness into the moonlight.

  It was difficult to be certain in such poor light, but the newcomer certainly looked as if he wore the uniform of a Charisian naval officer, although it was obviously somewhat the worse for wear. He paused and cleaned his sword on the tunic of a fallen dragoon, then sheathed the weapon with smooth, economical grace. Coris was still staring at him when he heard a splashing sound.

  “If you don’t mind, Phylyp,” Irys Daykyn said tartly, her teeth chattering slightly, “I’d really appreciate a hand.”

  He turned quickly, reaching down to take Daivyn as she and Raimair boosted the shivering, obviously frightened boy out of the icy mountain water. The prince flung his arms around Coris’ neck, clinging tightly, and the earl patted his back reassuringly.

  “It’s all right, Daivyn. It’s all right now,” he said soothingly.

  “I know,” Daivyn said in a tight voice, and nodded once, convulsively, but he never relaxed his hold, and Coris looked helplessly down at Irys over her brother’s shoulder.

  “Allow me, Your Highness,” someone else said in a pronounced Charisian accent, and the newcomer in the naval uniform was suddenly beside him, reaching down both hands to Irys. She looked up at him for a moment, then reached to take the offered hands. The Charisian wasn’t especially tall or broad-shouldered, but he boosted her effortlessly out of the water. Then he reached down again and hoisted Tobys Raimair out, as well.

  “That was quick thinking, getting them below ground level that way when the shooting started,” he congratulated the sergeant. It was still a ridiculously young-sounding voice, Coris decided, but it was also crisp and decisive. A very reassuring voice, all things taken together.

  “Excuse me,” its owner continued, turning back to Coris, Irys, and Daivyn. He bowed gracefully. “Lieutenant Aplyn-Ahrmahk, Imperial Charisian Navy, at your service. If you’re ready to go, I have two boats waiting about a mile downstream from here. It’ll be a little crowded,” teeth gleamed faintly in the moonlight which was finally probing into the darkness at the foot of the waterfall, “but I believe you’ll find the accommodations preferable to these.”

  “I believe you’re right, Lieutenant,” Coris said gratefully. “In fact-”

  “Beg pardon, Sir,” another voice interrupted, and Aplyn-Ahrmahk-and did that name indicate this youngster was who Coris thought he was?-turned towards the interruption with a frown.

  “What is it, Mahlyk?” he asked in a no-nonsense tone.

  “Beg pardon for interrupting, Sir,” the other voice belonged to what could only be a professional Charisian petty officer, “but I think this is important.”

  “And what, exactly, is ‘this’?” Aplyn-Ahrmahk prompted.

  “Well, Sir, Zhaksyn put the arm on this priest here when he tried to scamper off downstream,” the petty officer said, dragging a prisoner into the moonlight. “And we found the officer in command of this here ambush, too, Sir. Seems somebody ”-the petty officer kicked the prisoner to his knees, and Coris saw the priest’s cap and cassock-“blowed the poor bastard’s-beg pardon for the language, Your Highness”-he bobbed Irys a brief bow-“blowed the poor bastard’s brains out. ’Twasn’t any of us, because from the powder burns, whoever it was shot him from behind and real up close and personal, like. And a funny thing, Sir, but this here priest? He’s got blood and brains splashed all over his right arm.”

  “Does he now?” Aplyn-Ahrmahk said in a deadly soft voice.

  “I’m a priest of Mother Church!” the captive thundered suddenly, surging up as he started back to his feet. “How dare you-?!”

  He went back down again, this time squealing in pain, as the petty officer casually, and with brutal efficiency, stamped down-hard-on the back of his right knee.

  “A priest, are you?” Aplyn-Ahrmahk said in that same deadly voice. “And a servant of the Inquisition, no doubt?”

  “A priest of any order is still a priest of God!” the prostrate cleric shouted furiously, both hands clutching at the back of his knee. “And he who lays a hand on any priest of God is guilty of blasphemy!”

  “An inquisitor, all right,” Aplyn-Ahrmahk said, and looked past the petty officer still standing over the Schuelerite. “Zhaksyn, go find me the senior prisoner. Bring him here.”

  “Aye, Sir.”

  “I tell you, you’re all-!” the priest began again, and Aplyn-Ahrmahk looked at the petty officer.

  “Mahlyk?” he said quietly.

  “My pleasure, Sir,” the petty officer said, and kicked the priest none too gently in the belly. The inquisitor doubled up into a ball with a shrill, whistling cry of pain and then lay grunting and gasping for breath while the petty officer watched him with a mildly interested air.

  The priest was just starting to get his breath back when the man named Zhaksyn returned with a Delferahkan dragoon. The man had been wounded, and a rough dressing around his upper left arm was stained black with blood in the moonlight, but the shock of such abrupt defeat when victory had seemed certain was obviously more debilitating than any sword cut.

  “This here’s the senior sergeant, near as I can tell, Sir,” Zhaksyn said.

  “Thank you.” Aplyn-Ahrmahk turned to the Delferahkan. “ Are you the senior prisoner?” he asked.

  “Aye, that I am… Sir,” the Delferahkan said. “Leastwise, I am if the Lieutenant’s really dead.”

  “Oh, he’s dead, mate,” the petty officer said. “Shot in the back of the head, and from real close, too.”

  “What?” The Delferahkan looked back and forth between Aplyn-Ahrmahk and the petty officer. “That don’t make no sense… Sir. The Lieutenant, he was behind us. And the Father said he was dead before any of you lot started shooting from the hills! I thought the shot had to come from here.”

  He jabbed the index finger of his good hand at the rocky edge of the pool.

  “That’s exactly what you were supposed to think, Sergeant,” Aplyn-Ahrmahk said grimly. “This Schuelerite bastard murdered your lieutenant in order to turn what should have been an orderly surrender into a massacre. And it would have worked if we hadn’t already been here keeping an eye on things-and you-when your lot first arrived, wouldn’t it?”

  “Well, I don’t know as how-” the sergeant began uncomfortably, then stopped. “Aye, Sir,” he admitted in a lower voice. “Aye, it would’ve, that it surely would.”

  “This is all lies!” the priest sputtered suddenly, still more
than a little breathless from that kick in the belly. “Lies by heretics and blasphemers-by excommunicates! Sergeant, you can’t take their word for this! Why, it probably was one of them, deliberately shooting poor Lieutenant Wyllyms down from ambush without warning, just to discredit me! Is it my fault I was standing so close to him I was splashed with his blood when they killed him?!”

  The sergeant looked down at the priest for a moment, then met Aplyn-Ahrmahk’s eyes in the moonlight.

  “He weren’t the very smartest officer nor I ever served under, the Lieutenant,” he said, “but he were a good lad, an’ he always tried to do what was right. Didn’t always manage it, but he tried, Sir. And in a fair fight, all the holes would’ve been in the front, not the back like this. It ain’t right, Sir.” He shook his head, his voice stubborn. “It ain’t right.”

  “No, it isn’t, Sergeant,” Aplyn-Ahrmahk agreed. “So I have only one more question for you.”

  “Sir?” the Delferahkan said a bit cautiously.

  “This man is obviously a Schuelerite,” Aplyn-Ahrmahk said. “Can you confirm that he’s also an inquisitor?”

  “Aye, Sir,” the Delferahkan replied. “That he is. Attached to Colonel Tahlyvyr special by Bishop Mytchail. Heard him telling the Colonel myself, I did.”

  “Think what you’re doing, Sergeant!” the priest snapped. “By God, I’ll see you put to the Punishment for collaborating with heretics! I’ll-”

  The Delferahkan flinched, but then his shoulders hunched stubbornly and he glared down at the priest.

  “He’s an inquisitor, Sir,” he said firmly. “Sure as sure.”

  “Thank you, Sergeant.” Aplyn-Ahrmahk nodded to the Delferahkan, then looked at the petty officer. “Stand him up, Mahlyk,” he said flatly.

  “Waste of good sweat, Sir,” the petty officer said. “He’ll only be back down in a minute or two.”

  “Even an inquisitor should have the chance to die on his feet, Stywyrt,” Aplyn-Ahrmahk replied in a voice of iron.

  “What?” The priest stared up at him in shock. “What did you just say?”

  “You and your friend Clyntahn should pay more attention to proclamations coming out of Tellesberg,” Aplyn-Ahrmahk said coldly. “Some of those men you tortured and butchered in Zion were friends of mine, and every damned one of them was innocent. Well, the blood on your cassock says you’re not, and my Emperor and Empress’ policy where inquisitors are concerned is very clear.”

  “You can’t be-I mean, I’m a priest! A priest of Mother Church! You can’t just-”

  “I know priests,” Aplyn-Ahrmahk told him as Stywyrt Mahlyk hauled him to his feet by the collar of his cassock. “I even know a Schuelerite priest-a good one, the kind who truly serves God. And that’s how I know you aren’t one, whatever that fat, greedy bastard in Zion might say.” He drew a pistol from his belt and cocked it. “If you want to make your peace with God, you have thirty seconds.”

  “ Damn you! Who do you think you are to threaten a consecrated priest of God! You wouldn’t dare -!”

  “You don’t want to make peace?” Aplyn-Ahrmahk said. “Fine.”

  His hand rose, his finger squeezed, and Dahnyvyn Schahl’s eyes were just starting to widen in disbelieving terror when his head disintegrated. The body dropped like a sring-cut puppet, and Aplyn-Ahrmahk turned to Earl Coris and Princess Irys.

  “I apologize for the delay,” he said as the muzzle smoke of his pistol wisped away on the cool, damp breath of the fall. “Now, I believe those boats are still waiting for us.”

  FEBRUARY, YEAR OF GOD 896

  Nimue’s Cave, The Mountains of Light, The Temple Lands, and Tellesberg Palace, City of Tellesberg, Kingdom of Old Charis

  “So just exactly how was it you were planning to get home again without raising any eyebrows?” Cayleb Ahrmahk asked, leaning back in the rattan lounge and gazing up at a spectacular sunset.

  His daughter lay curled on his chest, her nose pressed into the angle of his neck while she slept with the absolute limpness possible only for small children and cat-lizards, and Empress Sharleyan’s crochet hook moved busily as she looked across at him and smiled.

  “Why should I get home without raising any eyebrows?” Merlin responded over the com plug in his ear. “I’m a seijin- the mysterious, deadly, probably magical Seijin Merlin!” There was a clearly audible sniff. “I come and go, and no man sees me pass.”

  “You’re getting remarkably full of yourself, aren’t you?” Sharleyan inquired sweetly.

  “Well, I think I’ve done fairly well the last few five-days,” he pointed out.

  “That’s true, I suppose,” Cayleb said judiciously. “I especially liked the bit with the voices shouting to each other there at the end, on top of the gunshots. No wonder they thought all of you were right in front of them!”

  “If you’ve got a programmable vocoder for a voice box, you might as well use it,” Merlin replied smugly, but then he sighed. “Actually, though, I think I’m blowing my ego out of my ears because I’m bored and I want to come home.”

  Sharleyan looked across at Cayleb, and her expression softened.

  “We’re looking forward to seeing you at home,” Cayleb assured him, speaking for them both. Then he shrugged-very gently, so as not to disturb the sleeping child next to his heart. “I agree sending you personally to oversee Irys and Daivyn’s rescue was the right move, but having you operate openly that far away’s inconvenient as hell in a lot of ways.”

  “I’ve noticed that myself,” Merlin said dryly. “I’m thinking about adding a few extra members to Master Zhevons’ ensemble cast. It can be a pain covering for absences on my part while Zhevons-or someone else, for that matter-runs around in the middle of Howard, but it saves us from having to account for all of this damned ‘transit time’!”

  “I see your point, but I think it was a good thing you were ‘running around in the middle of Howard’ this time,” Sharleyan said soberly, and Merlin shrugged.

  “I’m inclined to agree, given my own modest contribution to getting them out of Talkyra and delivering them to the rendezvous, but Hektor did pretty well himself, didn’t he?”

  “Yes,” Cayleb agreed. “Yes he did. Especially for someone as young as he is.”

  “This from the gray-bearded septuagenarian sitting on the throne of Charis, I see,” Merlin replied, and Sharleyan giggled.

  “All right, so I was only a couple of years older than he is now when you took me in hand,” Cayleb acknowledged. “But he still did a damned good job.”

  “No question about that,” Merlin acknowledged, and there wasn’t.

  Faced with the loss of all of the expedition’s senior officers, Aplyn-Ahrmahk had decided to continue the mission, despite the risk of additional encounters with the Delferahkan militia. So he’d transferred all his wounded into four of the six boats and sent them back downstream with orders to remain in the middle of the current as much as possible. The Sarm wasn’t an enormous river, but it was broad enough that troops armed with the relatively short-barreled, smoothbore matchlocks dragoons carried would play hell trying to hit a target in midstream. Artillery would have been a different matter, but the Royal Delferahkan Army had no new model field artillery. For that matter, it didn’t have very much artillery at all, and the cumbersome, slow-firing pieces it did possess lacked the mobility to intercept boats moving at the better part of twelve miles an hour under sail and oars while the river’s current worked for them instead of against them.

  He’d also ordered the boats to travel in daylight to make it abundantly clear to any observer that they were straggling back to Sarmouth in disorder as quickly as they could get there. As he’d hoped, the Delferahkans had pursued the retreating boats with their cargo of wounded and clearly dispirited passengers as vigorously as they could all the way back downriver. Meanwhile, he and the remaining two boats had continued upstream unnoticed, moving only under cover of darkness, and with Stywyrt Mahlyk’s cutter towing the second boat all but empty. Proceedi
ng with barely thirty men was an obvious risk, but it had let him save room in the second boat for the passengers he’d intended to collect.

  It had also left him far shorter-handed than he could have wished when he encountered the unfortunate Lieutenant Wyllyms’ dragoons. Luckily, he’d arrived at the rendezvous fifteen hours before Colonel Tahlyvyr’s regiment moved into the area and he’d posted pickets well out from his carefully hidden boats. They’d spotted Wyllyms’ troopers moving into position early enough for Aplyn-Ahrmahk to arrange his own counter-ambush. Even so, he’d had to wait for the dragoons-who’d still substantially outnumbered his own people-to emerge from the woods and bunch up before he could pounce. In the end, he’d ordered the attack with impeccable timing, and, frankly, the cold-blooded patience with which he’d waited for exactly the right moment was even more surprising out of someone his age than the initiative, in Merlin’s opinion.

  “What do you think about Bishop Mytchail’s reaction to what happened to that poisonous piece of work Schahl?” Cayleb asked after a moment.

  “I think it was inevitable.” Merlin shrugged. “I happen to agree with the policy, but it was obvious from the get-go the inquisition was going to take the view that all of its inquisitors were purer than the new fallen snow, the blameless, stainless victims of those vicious, vile, Shan-wei-worshipping, baby-murdering Charisian heretics.” His mouth twisted in distaste. “The farther away people are from where the atrocities take place, the more likely they are to buy that line of dragon shit, too. Owl’s remotes are still getting our version tacked up on convenient walls all over both continents, but the Church is going to have the inside track when it comes to convincing the faithful for quite a while. Look at the way they’re handling that business in Siddarmark!”