117 Oceansea, Near Ishalem

Standing at the bow of his Soeland patrol ship, Destrar Tavishel felt the strength of Ondun Himself. His ten refitted vessels closed in on Ishalem like hungry wolves about to pounce on a tender young rabbit. His decks and cargo holds were filled with small kegs of whale oil, each one ready to be rigged with a cloth fuse.

Master Carpenter Burnet had anchored, reinforced, and tested all the catapults back in Farport, pronouncing them fit for war. His crews had spent more than a week practicing, sailing around the islands and hurling kegs at artificial targets. Their aim remained sloppy, but once the ships entered the harbor, they could spatter the city walls with flaming kegs. The spilled oil, fire, and wind would do the rest.

A crewman came running up, his long red hair blowing in the warm wind. “Destrar, we have sighted Ishalem.”

Tavishel squinted through the gauze of lingering mist and could see white walls of fresh-cut stone and construction scaffolding. What had once been an Aidenist harbor was now crowded with foreign ships emblazoned with the glaring Eye of Urec. Tavishel closed his eyes and invoked the assistance of Aiden's spirit against such obvious desecration. “The Curlies will keep soiling our sacred land unless we stop them.”

Facing the brisk wind, he regarded his determined sailors. “Crank down the throwing arms and prepare the mangonels. Ready a line of men from the holds to the hatches to the deck so we can reload with oil kegs as quickly as we can shoot. We should be in range within the hour. Victory is ours.”

The men pulled on the ropes and turned the cranks, bending back the small catapult's wooden throwing arm until it groaned with strain. The ratcheting wheel clicked one tooth at a time, quivering with pent-up energy like a cliff panther about to spring.

In the distance, they heard tinny sounds of banging alarms, and bright signal fires shone from the tall stone lighthouse outside of Ishalem. Aiden's Lighthouse! Oh, how those people deserved to burn!

Inside Ishalem, the people—perhaps the soldan-shah himself—would know that the Aidenists had come truly to conquer this time. No mere skirmish, but a full-scale bombardment.

“Ships approaching from the south, Destrar!” called the lookout. “Twenty—fifty, or more!”

“What ships?” Tavishel shaded his brow and peered toward Aiden's Lighthouse, where he saw many large, bulky sailing vessels approaching the harbor. He was confounded. “What sort of design is that?” They were squarish vessels with incomprehensible rigging and gray pleated sails.

“They may outnumber us, but we have the mangonels. Turn to an attack posture. We'll bombard them with our first round and frighten them off.”

The word was shouted across to the other nine Soeland ships, and individual captains prepared their catapults. Sailing toward the much larger enemy fleet, Destrar Tavishel smiled; he was about to surprise the enemy.

Aboard Ruad's ship at the lead of the large Nunghal fleet, Asaddan shook his head. The sibilants hissed through the gap in his teeth. “Soldan-Shah Omra was correct to warn us that the Aidenists could attack at any time.”

The shipkhan was neither impressed nor fearful. “Ten ships, cousin? If that is the most powerful navy they can muster against Ishalem, the Urabans have little to worry about.” He glanced curiously at Asaddan. “What is your experience with these Tierrans? Are they as evil as Omra suggests?”

“Who could be that evil? My friend Saan is a Tierran, by blood, and his mother came from a Tierran village. They certainly aren't evil. Still, you saw all the severed heads dumped at the wall. A thousand innocent victims! What sort of people could do that? Their hearts must be blackened by their own hateful thoughts.”

The line of Nunghal vessels drew closer, blocking the Tierran ships from the Ishalem harbor. Crowded on deck, the Aidenist sailors scurried about, toying with some kind of device.

“What sort of gadget is that?” Ruad asked. “Have you ever seen such a machine?”

With a sharp jerk and spring, the catapults' throwing arms knocked forward, hurling small barrels into the air toward the Nunghal line. Two Tierran warships launched their projectiles first; then, as if startled into action, the other eight marauder vessels followed suit.

The barrels tumbled through the air, smoking and flaming. They caught fire and struck the water well short of the Nunghal vessels. When the kegs smashed into the water, flaming pools of oil spread outward.

Asaddan peered curiously as the Tierrans struggled to winch back their catapults again, drawing down the thick throwing arms to launch a second round. He scratched his head. “How quaint.”

Ruad narrowed his eyes, much more cautious. “Yes, but what if Aidenist ships managed to enter the harbor and throw those flaming barrels into the city? We don't know the true range of those weapons.”

The Aidenists launched a second volley, this time much more coordinated. The barrels flew farther, and Asaddan yelped in surprise as a whistling, tumbling keg spun overhead and overshot Ruad's ship. Two of the Aidenist shots were lucky enough to strike their targets. One keg smashed into the broad gray sails of a Nunghal ship and spilled fiery oil across the rigging. With astonishing speed, the great vessel caught fire. The other Aidenist projectile shattered against the hull of another vessel, also spreading fire. The Nunghal sailors hauled up buckets of seawater, working frantically to douse the flames.

The shipkhan of the first vessel soon saw that his ship was doomed; he had the presence of mind to steer away from the other crowded Nunghal-Su ships even as his crew abandoned ship. The seafaring clans were familiar with the dangers of spreading fire in close-packed vessels.

Appalled, Ruad whistled for his men to load the cannons that were normally used to protect against sea serpents. “Fortunately, we have a much greater range.” Ruad whistled for his crew. “Send word down the line.” The shipkhans of the other vessels armed their cast bronze cylinders with firepowder.

Asaddan did not take his eyes from the ten enemy ships, stunned by what he had seen. “This seals the decision. Soldan-Shah Omra is our friend, and it's clear that these Aidenists intend to cause havoc.”

“We'll earn our alliance with Uraba by taking care of the problem,” Ruad said with a dark grin. “A single broadside should be sufficient.”

After the second volley of flaming barrels struck, Tavishel wasted no time. “You men, load the mangonels with a third round! They will be terrified by what we can rain down upon them.” As the ten Soeland vessels continued to close the gap, the third round from the catapults would sow great devastation amongst the opposing fleet.

Aboard the foreign ships, the shaggy crewmen extended strange black cylinders through openings in their hulls. Tavishel frowned as he watched.

Fire spat from the opposing vessels, accompanied by a ricocheting sound of continuous thunder, boom after boom after boom. Tavishel looked up wildly to hear a whizzing sound, the screaming of impossibly fast projectiles hurtling through the air.

Explosions bombarded all ten of his ships. Hot stones or iron balls slammed into masts, cut into sails, shattered hulls. On Tavishel's ship, men screamed and dove away from their half-cocked mangonel, releasing the throwing arm just as the side brace snapped in half. The arm of the collapsing catapult snapped downward like a striking viper, ripping its anchor bolts and smashing into the deck.

An eruption threw Tavishel to the opposite side of the ship. Sharp wooden stakes flurried around him like snowflakes in a blizzard; he was cut and stabbed, but felt no pain. The screams, crashes, and roars deafened him. As his warship lurched and writhed from the bombardment, he struggled into a sitting position and saw mangled crewmen all around him. Looking through hazy black smoke, he realized that all ten of his vessels had been smashed into flotsam.

Fires caught on the numerous kegs of whale oil filling the holds. Nearby, one of the Soeland vessels exploded, as all of the flammable kegs caught. A clotting geyser of orange flames burst from the hatches. Men screamed as they burned like torches, covered in spilled oil.

Tavishel grasped a broken rail to pull himself up. Water rushed in through the breached hull, racing the spreading fire to see which could devastate the vessel first. With an inexorable groan, the mainmast toppled over, taking the rigging ropes along with it. The sails turned to sheets of flame.

The bulkhead collapsed in front of him, and the destrar plunged into the sea amid the spreading debris. Fire raced and skipped across the floating pools of oil. Tavishel tried to swim, but could get nowhere, for some reason. He looked down, and saw with shock that the lower half of his left arm was gone. Everywhere, he heard screams and continuing explosions. The Soeland vessels collapsed into their own infernos.

The enemy ships did not even bother to fire a second round.

Floating, dazed, and dying now, Tavishel stared dumbly toward the distant shore. There, in the brightening sunlight, he thought he could see Ishalem.