Off Armageddon Reef

by David Weber

  They say you learn more from a defeat than from a victory, he thought grimly. Well, in that case we've learned a lot today, and I intend to see to it that all of us "allies" draw the same conclusions from our lesson.

  What had happened to Tanlyr Keep this afternoon would serve as a very pointed reminder of the need for all of them to learn to function as a single, coordinated force. That would probably be worth what it was going to cost him and Corisande in prestige and moral authority.

  Probably.

  FEBRUARY, YEAR OF GOD 892

  I

  Broken Anchor Bay,

  Armageddon Reef

  "Unknown ships entering the anchorage!"

  Gahvyn Mahrtyn, Baron White Ford, jerked upright in his chair as the lookout's shout echoed down through the open skylight. King Gorjah II, the flagship of the Tarotisian Navy, moved uneasily to her anchor even here, in the shelter of Demon Head. Which was fair enough; everyone aboard her was much more than merely uneasy just to be here.

  Someone knocked sharply at the great cabin's door, and he heard his valet open it. A moment later, one of the flagship's lieutenants appeared in his private chart room.

  "Excuse me for disturbing you, My Lord, but—"

  "I heard, Lieutenant Zhoelsyn." White Ford smiled thinly. "Should I assume our unknown visitors are our long-awaited Dohlaran friends?"

  "That's what it looks like, My Lord," Zhoelsyn acknowledged with a smile of his own.

  "Well praise Langhorne," White Ford said lightly. "Please tell Captain Kaillee I'll be on deck in about fifteen minutes."

  "Of course, My Lord."

  Lieutenant Zhoelsyn withdrew, and White Ford raised his voice.

  "Zheevys!"

  "Yes, My Lord?" Zheevys Bahltyn, the baron's valet since boyhood, replied.

  "My new tunic, Zheevys! We have a duke to impress."

  "At once, My Lord."

  * * *

  Two hours later, White Ford stood on King Gorjah II's aftercastle in the cool spring sunlight and watched the Dohlaran Navy rowing slowly and heavily into Broken Anchor Bay. The bay, even though sheltered from the northeast wind by the projecting finger of Demon Head, was no glassy mirror. Outside the bay, ten-and-a-half-foot waves, whitecaps, and spray showed only too plainly what sort of weather awaited the combined fleets.

  Not that White Ford had needed the reminder. He'd lost two galleys, with all hands, just getting here. And from the looks of the Dohlaran galleys straggling into the more sheltered waters of the bay, they'd had an even worse time of it than he had.

  Several of the ships he saw flew command streamers, but none of them showed the red and green stripes of the fleet flagship. Then, finally, he saw a mammoth galley, dwarfing those about her, creeping around the southern headland. The single yard her mast crossed was too small, obviously a jury-rigged replacement for the original, and she towered above her smaller consorts. In fact, she was double-banked, something White Ford hadn't seen in at least twenty years, and he shook his head in disbelief as he watched waves sweep higher than the lower oar bank while jets of white water cascaded from her pumps.

  "What is that thing, My Lord?" Captain Zhilbert Kaillee asked quietly beside him, and the baron snorted.

  "That, Zhilbert, is the flagship of the Dohlaran Navy. The King Rahnyld."

  "King Rahnyld," Kaillee repeated, and White Ford chuckled.

  "At least we named our flagship for a previous king," he said. "And unless I miss my guess, that monstrosity must've cost almost as much as two more reasonably sized galleys. Not to mention the fact that she has to be Hell's pure bitch to manage in a seaway."

  "To say the least," Kaillee murmured as white water burst over the enormous galley's cutwater and swirled back around her struggling sweeps.

  "But they got her here somehow," White Ford pointed out. "Even if they are a five-day late."

  "For my money, My Lord, they did a damned incredible job to get her here at all."

  The baron nodded, gazing at the sea-slimed hulls, the occasional empty oarport, the patches of bare planking which marked hasty repairs. Just watching the way the Dohlarans moved through the water, it was obvious their bottoms were badly fouled from the long voyage, which must have reduced their speed even further.

  He wondered once again what lunacy had possessed the genius who'd planned this campaign. It would have made so much more sense to send the Dohlarans up the western coasts of Howard and Haven, then straight to Tarot, where the host of minor repairs they so obviously required could have been seen to. But, no, they had to come here, to the most haunted, ill-fated, unlucky place on the face of Safehold, and sail directly from here against their enemies.

  "Well, I suppose the real fun starts now," he told Captain Kaillee, and there was no more humor in his tone.

  * * *

  Earl Thirsk watched from his place behind Duke Malikai as Baron White Ford and his flag captain were shown into King Rahnyld's great cabin.

  The Tarotisian admiral was a small man, shorter even than Thirsk himself and slender, with dark eyes and dark hair, just starting to silver. Zhilbert Kaillee, the commander of his flagship, could have been specifically designed as a physical contrast. Nearly as tall as Malikai, he was far more massive, almost block-like, with enormous shoulders, and probably outweighed the duke by at least fifty or sixty pounds, none of it fat.

  The two of them were followed by a small cluster of more junior captains and senior lieutenants, and Malikai greeted them with a broad, welcoming smile. Thirsk doubted the duke was even aware of that smile's patronizing edge.

  "Admiral White Ford," Thirsk murmured as it was his turn to clasp the Tarotisian's hand, and a flicker of amusement danced in the smaller man's dark eyes.

  "Admiral Thirsk," he replied, and Thirsk's mouth twitched in an effort not to smile at the Tarotisian's slight but unmistakable emphasis. White Ford had greeted Malikai as Duke Malikai, which was certainly correct, but obviously he'd recognized that however nobly born Malikai might be, he was no seaman.

  Thirsk and the baron stood there for a few seconds, hands clasped, each recognizing a fellow professional, and then the moment passed and White Ford moved on. But Thirsk treasured that brief exchange, which seemed to promise a potentially sane ally. He hoped it did, at any rate, because he suspected he was going to need one.

  * * *

  "I apologize for our tardiness, Baron White Ford," Duke Malikai said, as the formal after-dinner council of war got down to business. "I'm afraid the weather on our original route was worse than anticipated. I was forced to choose an alternate passage."

  "I anticipated that that was the probable cause, Your Grace," White Ford said. "As you know, the semaphore system kept us reasonably well apprised of your progress. Given the weather we encountered on our own passage here, I wasn't surprised you were delayed. Indeed, I'm gratified you lost as few ships as you did."

  "That's very understanding of you, Baron." Malikai smiled. "I'm sure I speak for all of us when I say I hope the worst of the weather is behind us now, and—"

  "I'm sure we all do hope that, Your Grace. Unfortunately, it's most unlikely that it is."

  Malikai closed his mouth with an expression which was both surprised and perhaps a bit affronted by White Ford's polite interruption. He looked at the Tarotisian for a moment, as if unsure how to respond, and Earl Thirsk cleared his throat.

  "I'm sure you and your navy are much more familiar with the weather in these waters, Admiral White Ford," he said, and White Ford shrugged.

  "We seldom come this far south, ourselves, of course. No one comes to Armageddon Reef unless he has to. But we are rather familiar with weather in the Parker Sea and the Cauldron. And at this time of year, weather seems to beget weather, as they say. This northeasterly may veer, possibly all the way round to the northwest, but it isn't going away. Or, rather, there's going to be another one, probably at least as strong, on its heels."

  "That sounds . . . unpleasant," Thirsk observed in a carefully neutral tone
, not even glancing at Malikai. For once, the duke appeared to have enough sense to keep his mouth shut, and the earl devoutly hoped it would stay that way.

  "It's not that bad for galleons," White Ford said with a casual little wave of his hand. "It's not often we get seas much over fifteen or sixteen feet. But it can get a bit—what was the word you used, My Lord? Ah, yes. It can get a bit unpleasant for galleys."

  There was a sudden, thoughtful silence from the Dohlaran end of the great cabin, and Thirsk had to raise his own hand to hide his smile.

  "We do get the occasional full gale, as well, of course," White Ford continued. "When that happens, the waves can hit as much as thirty feet, but they're more common in the fall than in the spring. And you practically never see a hurricane in these waters, even in the fall."

  "Since you're so much more familiar with the weather in these latitudes, My Lord," Thirsk said, choosing his words and his tone with care, "would you care to comment on our course from this point?"

  "Well, since you ask, Admiral," White Ford said, "I'm afraid I feel we would be ill advised to cross the Parker Sea north of Tryon's Land, as our original orders specify. The weather's unlikely to cooperate with us, and we've both already lost ships and men. I'm no fonder of Armageddon Reef than any other sane human being, but my advice would be to continue around Demon Head, then pass between Thomas Point and the most southern of Shan-wei's Footsteps and hug the eastern coast of the Reef through Doomwhale Reach and the Iron Sea until we're at least as far east as MacPherson's Lament."

  "Excuse me, Baron," Malikai said, "but that would add many miles to our voyage, and wouldn't we risk being caught on a lee shore if the wind does stay in the northeast?"

  At least, Thirsk thought, it was a question, not an arrogant statement of objection.

  "Yes, it would add some miles to the trip, Your Grace," White Ford conceded. "But the weather in the Parker Sea isn't going to moderate very much, whatever we want. And the weather south of MacPherson's Lament is going to be worse—considerably worse. We don't have any choice about swinging south of the Lament, into the Iron Sea, and while there's something to be said for skirting around through Tryon Sound and avoiding as much as possible of the Iron Sea, we'd still have to cross the Parker Sea to get there."

  He paused, as if to see if his explanation was being followed. Malikai said nothing, and the Tarotisian continued.

  "We're going to be looking at foul weather, whichever route we take, Your Grace, and while we'll certainly find ourselves traveling along a 'lee shore,' the entire coast of the Reef is broken up by bays and inlets. If we hit the sort of weather that's already cost us so many ships, we'll probably be able to find cover, someplace we can anchor and ride it out." He shrugged once more. "As I say, Your Grace, these waters aren't kind to galleys."

  There was silence in the great cabin. King Rahnyld's massive bulk shifted uneasily, even here, at anchor, as if on cue, and every ear could hear her the steady sound of the pumps, still emptying her bilges of the water she'd taken on through her lower oarports.

  Thirsk knew Malikai couldn't be pleased to hear White Ford say exactly what Thirsk had been arguing all along. Still, the long, painful voyage to this point seemed to have been capable of teaching even the duke a little wisdom. It was a pity he hadn't had enough of it earlier to gather the sort of information Thirsk had before they ever set out. He might even have had the wit to argue against their proposed route from the outset. Still, Thirsk was a great believer in the proposition that it was better for wisdom to come late than never to come at all.

  Of course, the fact that White Ford was an allied fleet commander, not simply one more subordinate, even if the entire Tarotisian Navy amounted to less than a quarter of Malikai's fleet, probably gave his words additional weight.

  "Baron White Ford," Malikai said finally, "I bow to your greater familiarity with conditions in these waters. What matters most is that we reach our destination in a battle-ready condition, and from what you've said, it would seem to me your proposed route is more likely to deliver us in that condition."

  Thank you, Langhorne, the Earl of Thirsk thought very, very sincerely. And thank you, Admiral White Ford.

  * * *

  "What do you think, My Lord?" Captain Kaillee asked as he and White Ford stood on King Gorjah II's aftercastle and watched the long chain of galleys rowing out of Broken Anchor Bay.

  "Of what?" the baron asked mildly.

  "What do you think of our allies?"

  "Oh."

  White Ford pursed his lips thoughtfully, studying the fleet as he considered his flag captain's question.

  His flagship's motion was uneasy, to say the least, but at least the seas had moderated a bit in the two days since the Dohlarans' arrival. The galley's bows threw up a cloud of spray as she drove into a wave, but her sweeps moved steadily, strongly.

  The bigger Dohlaran galleys coming along astern moved more heavily. In some ways, their larger size helped, but it was obvious to White Ford that they'd never been designed for the open sea. Their narrow, shoal hulls, typical of coastal-water designs, produced a vessel which was fast under oars but dangerously tender under sail . . . and less than stable, even in seas this moderate. He doubted they'd ever been intended to operate outside the Gulf of Dohlar, and by his estimate, the odds of their losing at least another half-dozen of them before they reached MacPherson's Lament were at least even.

  "I'd say," he told Kaillee judiciously, "that the sooner that ridiculous flagship of theirs sinks, the better."

  The flag captain's eyebrows rose. Not so much in surprise at White Ford's judgment, but at how openly his admiral had expressed it. White Ford saw his expression, and chuckled without very much humor.

  "This entire notion of our 'sneaking up' on Haarahld from the south is ridiculous," he said. "Only an idiot would think he isn't going to have scouts posted all along the passage between Silver and Charis. So, in the end, it's going to come down to our combined strength against his combined strength in a head-on attack. Would you agree with that much?"

  "Of course, My Lord."

  "Well, if Thirsk had been in command of the Dohlarans, he would have found some plausible reason his ships had to continue clear up the coast to the Gulf of Mathyas. Which would have meant we could have taken the entire fleet up through the Anvil, in which case we probably wouldn't have lost anyone to simple bad weather. But Malikai's going to stick by his orders, come hell or high water. He's already done that, and I don't see any reason to expect him to change his style now. Which means he's going to command his forces like the landlubber he is. And that means Haarahld's people are going to ream us all new ones. Oh," he waved one hand, "we'll take them in the end. The odds are just too heavy for it to come out any other way. But we're going to lose a lot more ships, and a lot more people, with that idiot giving the orders."

  Kaillee sat back on his mental heels, chewing on his admiral's acid analysis, then sighed.

  "What?" White Ford asked.

  "Nothing, really, My Lord." Kaillee shook his head. "I was just thinking how nice it would be if I could come up with a reason to disagree with you."

  II

  South Parker Sea,

  Off Armageddon Reef

  The Earl of Thirsk watched the clouds of seabirds and wyverns following the fleet like banks of gunsmoke. He had no idea how many of them made their nests along the deserted coasts of Armageddon Reef, but he'd never seen so many of them in one spot in his entire life. They wheeled and climbed, swooped and dove, exploring the ships' wakes for any scrap of garbage, and the mingled cries of the birds and the high, somehow mournful whistles of the sea wyverns came clearly through the sound of wind and wave, the occasional order and response, the creak of timbers.

  The sun was settling into the west, beyond the barely visible smudge of Armageddon Reef. White Ford's warning that more heavy weather was coming had been justified, but they'd been past Demon Head and closing on Anvil Head, heading across the hundred and forty-mile mou
th of Rakurai Bay, by the time the fresh heavy swell came rolling in. It had still been more than Thirsk's own galleys and crews were accustomed to—or, at least, than they had been accustomed to before beginning this insane trip—but at least they'd had the wind broad on the port beam. That meant they'd been able to ship oars and hold a reasonably steady course under double-reefed sails alone, despite the galleys' heavy rolling.

  The difference that had made, even for the lumbering bulk of King Rahnyld, had been remarkable. Thirsk still felt like a new-hatched wyvern who'd strayed out into water too deep for it, but he was beginning to think White Ford's advice might actually get them all the way to MacPherson's Lament without losing another ship. They'd already passed Thomas Point, passing between it and the southernmost of the islands known as Shan-wei's Footsteps, which had made everyone happy. No one had wanted to take cover in Rakurai Bay if they had any choice at all.