107 Ishalem

From atop God's Barricade, Soldan-Shah Omra stared at all the dead faces dumped like overripe melons at a rubbish heap—the harvest of Kel Unwar's foolish action.

After Unwar's rash decisions to kidnap and kill the hostage prince, Omra could only guess the terrible consequences his people would have to face. Considering what was done to Tomas, he had expected a ruthless response, but Queen Anjine's sheer venom stunned him nonetheless. Omra had arrived back in Ishalem in time to watch Tierran soldiers deliver cartloads of severed heads. One thousand innocents!

Now the kel stood beside him, blind to how he himself had been a catalyst for this tragedy. “Even after the appalling massacre at Fashia's Fountain, I did not imagine the Aidenists could possess such untapped depths of cruelty.” Unwar's voice was raspy, his throat apparently still sore from the shouting and weeping he had done upon hearing the news. “Look what they have done!”

Omra's fury flowed through him like molten metal from the smelters of the Gremurr mines. He wanted to grab the man by the neck and hurl him off the top of the wall for his ill-considered action—he had provoked this! But Omra needed the man, and he couldn't even publicly reprimand him: Aidenist barbarities had nearly driven the Urabans mad with the need for retaliation, and killing the young prince now seemed insufficient by far.

The brewing unrest in Ishalem was like a firepowder bomb, primed to explode. Unable to restrain themselves, slave masters had executed dozens of Tierran captives before Omra sent guards into the work camps with a written command to spare the prisoners—not out of mercy, but because the laborers were needed to excavate the great canal. Instead, the guards and supervisors settled for whipping the slaves bloody and driving them to the point of collapse.

He and Unwar were alone on the top of the wall, looking down at the mounded heads. Crows and gulls had settled in for the feast, and by now most of the eye sockets were empty, the flesh rotting in the hot summer sun. “You know what instigated this, Unwar. I am not pleased that you acted without my guidance. You have guaranteed many more years of war.”

The provisional governor was not apologetic. “Fashia's Fountain was the spark that caused this, Soldan-Shah. Not I.”

Omra scowled. “And the Aidenists would cite something else before that, and before that, and before that. No one remembers the first spark anymore.” His shoulders slumped.

“Rest assured that we were not to blame, Soldan-Shah. I will send soldiers to gather up the heads. We'll build a memorial pyre—”

“No, leave them there. This wall is God's Barricade, but the Aidenists have given us a second barrier. Let it be a wall of skulls. If ever they approach Ishalem again, these bleached bones will remind them of what they have done.”

When fishing boats raced into the western harbor to announce the approach of many fearsome vessels, Omra raised the alarm. The Tierran navy had come to capture Ishalem. Gongs were struck, bells rung. The Aidenist prisoners were locked away intheir pens once more, while Kel Unwar rallied his soldiers. Faithful Urecari streamed over to the Oceansea docks and launched any vessel that could sail, to protect their holy city.

Omra took his place at the bow of a war galley and the crew pulled at the long oars and rowed out of the harbor. As the jagged bow sliced through the water, he called to his men, “We will turn the harbor red with Aidenist blood!”

The men cheered, the drums pounded, and the ships moved forward to meet the oncoming fleet.

With surprise, Omra realized that the strange vessels were sailing up from the south, by way of Lahjar and Ouroussa. He saw dozens of sails, perhaps as many as a hundred ships. He used a spyglass to study the rigging, the shape of the hulls, the accordioned gray sails, then grasped the war galley's rail to steady himself in surprise and relief. A hundred well-armed ships, a formidable force. “It's the Nunghals—Asaddan and Ruad have returned!”

Foreign vessels filled the Ishalem harbor and anchored out in the deeper water. Cheering Urabans welcomed their guests and built fires in braziers at the sites of the churches under construction, adding powders to color the smoke.

Omra opened the storehouses, having workers haul out barrels of honey and casks of wine. Bakeries worked around the clock. Cows, sheep, and pigs were butchered and roasted. After long months at sea, the Nunghals fell to the strange repast with great gusto.

“What did I tell you?” Asaddan shouted above the clamor of the gathered Nunghals in the huge banquet hall. “Was I exaggerating?” Even though he had constantly told stories about the wonders of Uraba, the Nunghals were awestruck by the unusual sights in Ishalem.

During the voyage from the southern sea, Asaddan had flitted from one ship to another, like a popular man at a clan dance. No longer suffering from seasickness, he taught the shipkhans and crew a few words of the Uraban language, while also proclaiming the (exaggerated) exploits of Ruad. The once-disgraced shipkhan was clad in fine garments now, a hero among his people, and the soldan-shah gave him and Asaddan seats at the head of the main table.

“It was a close thing, Soldan-Shah.” Asaddan gnawed on a rib bone, peeling off a few scraps of meat. Though he'd consumed a great deal of red wine, his goblet kept being refilled. “These other men were skeptical, remembering how poor Ruad had crashed his ship long ago.” He reached over to wrap his arm around his friend's shoulders, giving him a vigorous hug, even though Ruad understood little of what he'd said. “Now all that is forgiven and forgotten.”

Omra picked at his food, thinking of the tragedies that had occurred since Asaddan's last visit here. “You could not have come at a better time.”

The next morning, he led a representative group of Nunghal shipkhans out to view the canal across the isthmus. With Asaddan translating, Omra said, “Someday soon, my fleet of ironclad warships will sail from the Middlesea out into the ocean. And with your hundred vessels added to our own navy, we will at last overrun Calay harbor and squash the blight of Aidenism.”

Next, he took them to God's Barricade. The towering seven-mile-long wall astonished them; neither the nomadic clans nor the seafaring families had ever built anything so massive or enduring. From the wall, Omra told them the horrific story and showed them the decaying heads of innocent Urecari prisoners strewn on the ground. “What more do you need to know about how evil the Tierrans are?”

The Nunghal captains muttered to each other, and Asaddan spoke for them all. “Urabans are our friends and our new trading partners. Of course we will help you against your enemies.”