He watched those mastheads coming on unflinchingly, knew those ships had to be taking dozens of hits ... and recognized that it didn't matter.

More and more round shot smashed into Destiny's sturdy hull. Many of them, especially from the lighter twelve-pounders, failed to penetrate, although no one aboard the Charisian ship realized that was partly because the Desnairian gunners were firing with reduced charges because they distrusted their own artillery. Even with the understrength charges, however, the twenty-five-pounders were another matter. Aplyn-Ahrmahk heard splintering crashes and the screams of wounded men from the crews on the gundeck's long thirty-pounders as those heavier shot punched through, and a four-foot section of Destiny's midships bulwark exploded inward in a tornado of splinters and shredded hammocks. Then- "Heads below! Main topgallant's coming adrift!"

The admiral and the ensign looked up in time to see the entire main topgallant yard, shot clean through right at the slings, begin its fall. The two halves of the yard slipped downward, then plunged like broken javelins, still joined by the shredded remnants of the sail. The braces, secured to the ends of the yard, stopped it before it actually hit the nettings stretched over the deck to protect against falling debris, and it dangled untidily, swinging like an ungainly pendulum in a tangle of canvas, broken wood, and cordage.

"Get aloft and secure that wreckage!" Boatswain Symmyns bellowed, and men went swarming up the rigging to capture and tame that pendulum before it could plunge the rest of the way to the deck with lethal consequences.

"Stand by to anchor!" Captain Lathyk shouted. "Hands to buntlines and clewlines! Stand by the larboard broadside!"

Seamen moved through the smoke and the turmoil with disciplined haste. The crews of the larboard guns crouched down, getting as much out of the way as they could. With only topsails and jib set, Destiny needed only a fraction of the men normally required to make or take in sail, which was just as well under the circumstances, Aplyn-Ahrmahk reflected. At least five of the galleon's larboard guns had already been knocked out of action, her decks were splashed with blood, he saw at least a dozen bodies lying where they'd been dragged out of their mates' way, and casualties were piling up at the healers' station on the orlop deck.

"Larboard your helm!" the captain shouted. "Take in fore and main topsail!"

Destiny turned to starboard as the wheel went over, presenting her waiting larboard broadside to the Desnairian galleon HMS Saint Adulfo, the fifth ship in from the eastern end of Jahras' line.

"Let go the larboard anchor!"

The sheet anchor rigged from the larboard cathead was released. It plunged instantly, but this time the cable was flaked out on the gundeck, not the upper deck, and run not from the hawsehole, but through a stern gunport. The galleon continued past the point at which the anchor had been dropped under her jib alone, sailing out her cable while the men on the gundeck stayed carefully out of the way of the thick hawser rumbling and roaring out the gunport. Then the cable hit the stoppers, halting its run, and Destiny shuddered and jerked as the anchor's flukes dug into the bottom and held. The cable snapped taut, and Chief Kwayle and his waiting party pounced, nipping the bitter end of the spring to it.

"Made fast!"

The call came up from below, and Lathyk nodded.

"Take in the jib! Veer the cable, Master Symkee! Take tension on the spring!"

Captain Ehrnysto Plyzyk, of the Imperial Desnairian Navy, watched the Charisian galleon stop moving. She edged a bit further to windward under bare spars as her topsails were brailed up and her jib dropped, and his stomach muscles tensed. She was veering a little more cable, he realized, and when she finished, she'd have the slack she needed for the spring she'd undoubtedly rigged to control her heading just as the springs on his own anchors controlled Saint Adulfo's. And when that happened....

"Pound her, boys!" he bellowed, jabbing his sword like a pointer at the Charisian half-obscured by his own gunsmoke. "If you want to live, pound that bitch!"

"Stand by the larboard battery!" Lieutenant Tymkyn shouted.

A hurricane of round shot hammered his ship, although only HMS Loyal Defender, Saint Adulfo's next ahead, was able to turn to lend her guns to Saint Adulfo's defense. Holy Langhorne, astern of Saint Adulfo, might have assisted her as well, but she no longer had any attention to spare. Captain Bahrdahn's Undaunted had fetched up to windward of her, and Tymkyn heard the thunder of Undaunted's artillery as the other galleon came into action.

Still, between them, Saint Adulfo's and Loyal Defender's broadsides mounted forty-four guns to Destiny's twenty-five ... or what would have been twenty-five if she hadn't been so heavily hit on the way in. In fact, she probably had no more than eighteen or nineteen guns, and Tymkyn peered through the smoke, waiting for the spring to bring her fully around. He wasn't going to waste that first broadside by firing one second before he was sure all of his guns bore on the target, and- The twelve-pound shot from Saint Adulfo's starboard battery struck Destiny's youthful third lieutenant just below midchest and tore his body in two.

Aplyn-Ahrmahk saw Tymkyn flung aside in a spray of blood and torn flesh. At almost the same instant, he realized Trahvys Saylkyrk, Tymkyn's assistant in command of the larboard battery, was down as well-wounded or dead, he couldn't tell. Up until his elevation to Admiral Yairley's flag lieutenant, that had been Aplyn-Ahrmahk's duty station when the ship cleared for action, and old reflexes took over. He didn't stop to think; he simply acted, leaping up onto the larboard gangway. His feet slid in Tymkyn's fresh blood despite the sand scattered over the decks for traction, and he clutched at the main shrouds for balance to keep himself from falling.

"As you bear, lads!" he screamed, then waited two more heartbeats.

"Fire!"

Saint Adulfo heaved as another broadside blasted out of her smoke-streaming gun muzzles, and there was a sharper, louder report from forward as her number three gun blew up despite the reduced charge. Fortunately, the gun tube simply split lengthwise. Half its crew was killed, the ready charges being brought up for it and the number four gun were touched off in sympathetic detonation by the flame gushing from the shattered cannon, wounding four more men, but it could have been worse. Indeed, it had been worse the last time one of Saint Adulfo's guns burst.

But that didn't change the fact that it had burst, and at the worst possible time, Captain Plyzyk thought bitterly. The entire forward half of his starboard battery was thrown into confusion by the sudden-and fully understandable-terror a bursting gun always produced.

"More hands to the forward guns!" he shouted. "Let's get some fresh-!"

The Charisian galleon fired at last.

HMS Destiny's larboard side belched flame and smoke. She'd closed to within less than fifty yards of Saint Adulfo before she anchored, and the air trapped between the two ships was a fiery maelstrom as her broadside fired for the first time. A quarter of her company lay dead or wounded before she fired her first shot, and even as Aplyn-Ahrmahk shouted the command, a twenty-five-pound round shot cut through her mainmast three feet above the deck. The mast toppled into the smoke like a weary tree, and rigging parted, broken ends lashing out, flailing like maddened serpents. Men who got in the way of that heavy, tarred cordage were swatted casually from their feet, usually with broken bones and torn flesh, and others scrambled madly for safety as the entire massive complex of the mainmast came thundering down. The fore topgallant mast followed it, and the galleon staggered as if she'd just lost her rudder all over again.

But the men on her larboard guns ignored the chaos and confusion. They paid no heed to the damage control parties racing to cut away the wreckage and drag the injured and dying out of the tangles of fallen cordage. They were totally focused on their guns, for this was the reason Destiny had taken so much damage. This was what she'd come to do, and as they heard the youthful ensign's familiar voice, they did it.

Ehrnysto Plyzyk saw the Charisian mainmast start to topple and opened his mouth to cheer. But before he could, the smoke between the two ships lifted on a fresh furnace blast, and this one didn't come from his guns.

The deck hammered against the soles of his shoes. It was the first time he'd ever felt heavy shot striking a ship, and a corner of his mind recognized the difference between the recoil from his own guns and the sharper, lighter, and yet somehow more ... vicious shock of enemy fire.

And then sixteen of the eighteen shells which had struck his ship exploded almost simultaneously.

"Reload! Reload!"

Aplyn-Ahrmahk heard the gun captains' shouted commands and looked around, trying to find Lieutenant Symkee to take over the larboard battery. But then something smacked him sharply on the shoulder.

"Go, Hektor!" His head whipped around as Admiral Yairley smacked his shoulder a second time. "Go!" the admiral repeated, and actually smiled. "Captain Lathyk can have you back for the moment!"

"Aye, aye, Sir!"

The ensign leapt into the disciplined madness, knowing better than to disrupt the choreographed training by shouting unnecessary orders. Instead, he watched the gun crews, his eyes trying to be everywhere at once, ready to intervene if something went wrong.

But nothing went wrong. Destiny's gunners had trained for two hours every day during their weary voyage from Tellesberg to Iythria. They'd polished old skills and learned new ones as they grappled with the novel concept of exploding shells, and Aplyn-Ahrmahk watched as the number two on each gun removed and pocketed the lead patch protecting the fuse before the shell was loaded. The fuse times had been set by Payter Wynkastair, Destiny's gunner, before the ship ever cleared for action, and at the end of the action, the number two on each gun would be required to hand over those patches as proof the shells had been properly prepared for firing.

"Run out! Run out!"

One by one the galleon's surviving guns were brought back to battery, and gun captains all along the line raised their left hands, right hands gripping the firing lanyards.

Captain Plyzyk clawed his way up from his knees, shaking his head like a dazed prizefighter while he tried to make his brain work. He didn't know what had hit him, and he probably never would, but he was pretty sure whatever it was had broken his right shoulder blade.

And even at that, he realized, he was better off than his ship.

Smoke-much of it wood smoke now, not just powder smoke-streamed from shattered holes ripped through Saint Adulfo's timbers and planking. Some of those holes looked big enough for a man to walk through. They weren't, of course, but they looked huge compared to the much smaller holes round shot punched through a ship. Splintered and broken wood was everywhere, torn canvas and severed lengths of rigging littered the deck, he heard voices screaming in mingled agony and terror, and at least half the midships upper deck twelve-pounders had been knocked over like toys. The bulwark in front of them was simply gone; the deck edge looked like a cliff shattered by a hurricane, and he realized three or four of the Charisians' infernal "shells" must have impacted almost together to produce that damage.

But there was plenty of other damage to go with it, and someone grabbed him, dragging him bodily out of the way as his galleon's mizzenmast came thundering down.

"Fire!" somebody screamed. "Fire in the cable tier!"

Plyzyk staggered back to his feet once more, wondering who'd just saved him from being crushed by the falling mast, but it was an almost absent thought, lost in the terrifying thought that his ship was on fire.

"Away firefighting parties!" he bellowed, and the seamen who were detailed for that very purpose went rushing below with buckets of water and sand.

Langhorne! She can't take much more of this, he thought. She- * * *

"Fire!" Hektor Aplyn-Ahrmahk shouted.

Destiny's second broadside smashed into Saint Adulfo like an avalanche, but this was an avalanche of iron and fire and a deadly freight of gunpowder. The six-inch shells slammed through the Desnairian's planking, and this time all of them exploded.

One of Ensign Applyn-Ahrmahk's shells exploded almost directly under Ehrnysto Plyzyk's feet, and for him, the fate of his ship became forever moot.

.VIII.

Duke Kholman's Office, Port of Iythria, Empire of Desnair Daivyn Bairaht watched in stony-eyed silence as the two officers in Charisian uniform were ushered through the door of his office.

"Your Grace, Admiral Sir Dunkyn Yairley and his flag lieutenant, Ensign Aplyn-Ahrmahk," their guide, Captain Byrnahrdo Fahrya, told him. "Admiral Yairley, His Grace the Duke of Kholman."

Yairley and his ensign were immaculate, looking as if they'd dropped by for a state dinner, Kholman thought bitterly. Fahrya was another matter. His uniform was torn and filthy, reeking of powder and wood smoke. His expression was grim, tight and strained, but he was lucky to be alive. His ship, Holy Langhorne, had taken fire, burned to the waterline, and sunk under the devastating Charisian assault. She was scarcely the only Desnairian galleon that had happened to, and from the look of things Fahrya had spent some time in the water before he'd been recovered by the victors. He'd obviously done what he could to straighten his hair, wash his hands, wipe the powder grime from his face, but the contrast between him and the two faultlessly attired Charisians' dress uniforms could not have been sharper.

Or more deliberate, the duke reminded himself as he realized he could even smell the Charisian flag officer's fresh cologne. Yairley must've made damned sure the two of them would be as neat as pins. He obviously recognizes the value of setting the stage properly.

"Admiral," he made himself say, his tone courteous but cold, and bowed very slightly in greeting.

"Your Grace," Yairley responded with an even slighter bow, and Kholman's jaw tightened at that abbreviated bow's subtle insult to his aristocratic rank. Of course, it was possible-possible!-it hadn't been Yairley's intention to do any insulting. Then again ...

"Before anything else," he said, "allow me to express my personal thanks for High Admiral Rock Point's message about Baron Jahras."

"I'm sure I speak for the High Admiral when I say you're most welcome, Your Grace," Yairley said. "I regret the severity of the Baron's wounds, but my understanding is that, barring any unforeseen complications, the healers are confident he'll recover in time."

And once he learns how to write left-handed, Kholman thought harshly. But at that, he's lucky to be alive. And maybe the fact that he's lost an arm will help protect him when Clyntahn gets word of this.

"I hope you're right," he said out loud. "However, I doubt you came ashore just to tell me my brother-in-law is likely to survive." He showed his teeth briefly. "Somehow I don't think you're likely to tell me the same thing about my Navy."

"With the exception of the floating batteries at the western end of Baron Jahras' line, I'm afraid all your ships have struck," Yairley said gravely, and despite the way he'd braced himself internally, Kholman flinched visibly.

At least the Charisian hadn't said "all your surviving ships have struck," although that would have been more accurate. According to Kholman's most recent report, nineteen galleons and twelve of the floating batteries had burned, blown up, burned and blown up, or simply sunk as the result of battle damage. He didn't know how many of the others were damaged, or how badly, and he didn't even want to think about the human cost, but he knew it had been huge. For that matter, he'd sent over a thousand replacements into the maelstrom before he'd accepted he was simply incurring additional casualties in a lost cause.

All the fortifications on Sickle Shoal and Triangle Shoal had also surrendered, although they hadn't hauled down their flags until they'd taken massive damage. That was what the reports said, at least, and Kholman had no reason to doubt them. Especially since only one of the four fortress commanders-General Stahkail, inevitably-was still alive and unwounded. Those accursed ... bombardment ships were also why they'd lost so many of the floating batteries. The conventional Charisian galleons had declined to venture into the shoal water beyond the main shipping channel to engage them, but the bombardment ships had taken up positions where the batteries' guns couldn't reach them and started dropping those damned exploding shells on top of them. Their percentage of hits hadn't been high, but every hit they had scored had been devastating.

Of course that word-"devastating"-pretty much summed up the entire battle, didn't it? Once the eastern end of Jahras' line was blasted out of the way, the Charisians had poured galleons through the gap. They'd doubled the line of Desnairian ships, sailing along it and engaging it from both sides, pouring their accursed exploding shells into their victims. They hadn't bothered to anchor the way the ships who'd initially broken the line had. Instead they'd simply smashed one ship after another into splintered, all too often burning wreckage. By the time they'd worked their way along half the line, ships were striking their colors before they were even fired upon. Kholman didn't want to think about how Zhaspahr Clyntahn was likely to react to that, but no reasonable man could possibly condemn them when they'd seen half their entire Navy turned to driftwood in barely two hours by a weapon they couldn't possibly match.

"I see," he said out loud, then stiffened his spine. "May I ask what message High Admiral Rock Point has sent you to deliver to me, Admiral Yairley?"

"You may," Yairley said gravely. "Admiral Rock Point has sent me to require the surrender of all of your remaining harbor fortifications, your shipyards, sail lofts, ropewalks, cannon foundries, and naval supplies."

"That's preposterous!" The protest exploded out of Kholman before he could stop it, but he glared at the Charisian. "I have a garrison of over twenty thousand men in and around this city! You may have defeated-even destroyed-our Navy, but the Army is still fully capable of defending the soil of the Desnairian Empire!"

Neither Yairley nor the wiry young ensign standing respectfully at his side so much as turned a hair. They simply waited until he'd finished and stood glowering at them, at which point Yairley shrugged very slightly.

"First, Your Grace, your garrison may or may not be able to defend this city. I mean no disrespect to the Imperial Army, but I rather doubt it would find itself as effective against the Imperial Marines and Army battalions aboard High Admiral Rock Point's transports as it was against the Republic the last time you clashed with the Siddarmarkians. Second, however, we have no need to land troops to destroy your shipyards, at the very least. Admittedly, the foundries might be somewhat more difficult targets, but I remind you of what happened to your outer fortifications. The Imperial Charisian Navy is fully capable of carrying out the same sort of bombardment of your waterfront batteries and warehouses and, for that matter, the shipyards themselves, without putting a single Marine into Iythria. High Admiral Rock Point has instructed me to point out to you that by requiring the surrenders I've described, he's attempting to minimize the loss of Desnairian life and collateral damage to civilian property."

"I've had reports of what happened to the first of your ships to engage ours, Admiral," Kholman replied in a chilly tone. "And you wouldn't have the advantage of surprise this time around. No doubt you could destroy the shipyards-or damage them severely, at any rate-with a bombardment, but you wouldn't do it without losses of your own! And I doubt you have the range to bombard the cannon foundries and our other facilities at all."

"You might be surprised in that regard, Your Grace. Nonetheless, the High Admiral has instructed me to inform you that his terms are not negotiable." The Charisian admiral's brown eyes looked levelly into Kholman's, and if there was any bluff in them, the duke couldn't see it. "He will destroy those facilities-all of them-before he withdraws from Iythria, Your Grace. The degree and extent of additional damage inflicted is, in large part, up to you. Whether or not he'll succeed in his mission is not."

"He has a high opinion of himself and his capabilities, doesn't he?" Kholman inquired acidly, and Yairley surprised him with a slight smile.

"I suppose he does, Your Grace. On the other hand, he's earned the right to it, I believe. If you don't think so, you could discuss the matter with Earl Thirsk, or perhaps Bishop Kornylys or Admiral of the Broad Oceans Sun Rising. Or, for that matter"-his eyes stabbed Kholman suddenly-"Baron Jahras."

"That's an impressive catalog of defeated foes," Kholman said in a somewhat milder tone. "As it happens, I mean that sincerely. But it's not enough to convince me to simply roll over in the face of such demands. If he believes he can accomplish them by force of arms, I invite him to make the attempt."

"Your Grace," any trace of humor had vanished from Yairley's expression and voice, "I strongly suggest you reconsider that position." He raised one hand in an oddly courteous gesture before Kholman could respond. "I'm speaking for myself, not High Admiral Rock Point, when I say that, Your Grace. The High Admiral truly is trying to minimize bloodshed and destruction here in your city, but he has no intention of shedding Charisian blood unnecessarily in the attempt."

"I'm afraid he's going to find it is necessary," Kholman said coldly. "I have a duty to my Emperor ... and to Mother Church." He suppressed an urge to bite his own tongue for the way that came out, as if the Church was only an afterthought. "I'm responsible for defending this entire city, not simply commanding the naval forces which you've already defeated, Admiral Yairley."

"Then I'm afraid I have an additional message for you, Your Grace." Yairley's voice was flat now, cold. "High Admiral Rock Point instructs me to inform you that should you choose to force him to bombard and invade your city, he will unfortunately find it necessary to free himself of the distraction of your surrendered vessels and fortresses first. In that event, he'll be forced to burn his prizes and blow up the fortresses."

This time Kholman managed not to wince physically. He doubted there was any way the Empire was getting any of those ships back, anyway. In fact, it would actually be better from his perspective if Rock Point did burn them. At least that way he could point out to the Group of Four that unlike Kornylys Harpahr's ships, none of his would find their way into Charisian service against Mother Church!

"The High Admiral must do as he thinks best," he said. "If he truly intends to burn all of those ships, I'll make arrangements to take off their crews. I'm sure we can arrange a proper parole for them."

"I'm afraid you didn't fully understand the High Admiral's position, Your Grace. Under the circumstances, he regrets to point out to you that it won't be possible to land any of his prisoners or remove them from their vessels before he burns their ships."

For an instant, it totally failed to register. Then it did, and Kholman's face went white as the threat sank home. There were almost thirty thousand men aboard those ships, and that didn't even count the crews of the floating batteries or the harbor fortresses which had surrendered!

"You can't be serious!" he heard his voice say.

"On the contrary, Your Grace. The High Admiral is deadly serious." There was no emphasis at all in Yairley's voice ... which made it the most terrible voice the Duke of Kholman had ever heard.

"That's monstrous!"

"As monstrous as King Rahnyld's decision to hand prisoners of war over to the Inquisition to be systematically tortured and murdered?" Yairley asked softly.

"I had nothing to do with that!"