Aboard the flagship of the Tierran naval fleet—seventy-three vessels ranging from large carracks to heavy cogs to swift patrol caravels—Comdar Torin Rief studied the waters of the Oceansea. According to the charts, his warships would reach the holy city in three days. The warm sea looked peaceful, but blood had stained this water red many times over the past two decades.
According to the plan, the Aidenist navy would blockade Ishalem’s western harbor, perhaps capture some of the foreign merchant ships. Rief ’s primary goal was to close off the harbor so that the Uraban occupiers would have no ready supply of weapons, food, and other cargo. The siege couldn’t be entirely effective, though, since the Curlies still had overland routes as well as the port on the Middlesea side of the isthmus. Nevertheless, Rief ’s blockade would cause hardship, wreak havoc, strike fear—and send a message to the soldan-shah. With Queen Anjine’s army encamped along the wall and swelling in numbers, the Urecari would sense Ondun’s anger gathering against them like a summer thunderstorm.
However, as the ships sailed south, the crew were worried about what the Curlies might unleash against them. Everyone knew that Destrar Tavishel and his Soeland warships had been annihilated by some terrible Urecari weapon. Tavishel’s sturdy whaling vessels should not have been easy targets, but every one had been splintered and burned. None of Tavishel’s crew had survived, as far as Rief knew.
Information about the disaster was sparse, but the comdar suspected the Urecari had a weapon fueled by explosive firepowder. The recipe for the incredible substance had only just been brought back to Calay with the Gremurr refugees; while firepowder was too new for him to grasp its full possibilities for war, Queen Anjine had already made plans.…
From Sapier’s Glory, his flagship, Rief stared across the sunlit water. The dapples of golden light had a hypnotic effect. He was a tall and thin man with unusually black hair for a Tierran; his narrow face sported a scar from a previous battle. Once appointed comdar of the Tierran military, Rief had maintained a crisp, professional demeanor, and never let himself be seen out of his formal uniform.
Torin Rief was a quiet man who liked to plan his conversation rather than let words just spill from his mouth. From an early age he had studied warfare, and his fascination had rapidly become practical instead of theoretical. He’d fought against the Curlies in several engagements, one on land, two aboard patrol ships. The enemy had wounded him and cut off two of his fingers, but he had killed many of them to make up for it.
Rief rarely saw his wife and three children—of late, he didn’t want to. She had gotten pregnant and given birth to a son, their first, but Rief had been out on campaign, sleeping in military camps, when the child was conceived. He knew how to count months as well as any other person.
She tried to tell him that the baby was a miraculous blessing from Aiden, insisting that she had not been unfaithful to him, but he rebuked her for embarrassing him with such silliness. Rief did not publicly call her an adulteress, or denounce the son as a bastard; he merely went off on a new campaign, knowing he would be at Ishalem for many months.
He could not stop wondering whether the other two children were his. He let her keep his name and her counterfeit honor, knowing that he had made far worse sacrifices in the name of the war. She might have her lovers and her shame, but he would have Ishalem and history.…
The crews went about their familiar daily work, exchanging and embellishing stories about their previous engagements against the Curlies. The recountings grew more extravagant and more unbelievable as the days passed. Comdar Rief listened with a wry smile that he kept to himself: if such tales were true, then he had a crew of titans who would surely sweep away the enemy with a mere glance.
Every Tierran mainsail in the fleet was painted with the Fishhook, a sinuous curve tipped with a deadly barb. He liked to think that the hook’s point was sharp enough to gouge out the Eye of Urec that all Uraban sails displayed.
During the voyage, Rief thought of happier days when merchant ships had sailed back and forth, trading with exotic foreigners, when pilgrims went freely to Ishalem. Even in those good times, though, the Urecari had been hiding their hatred; they did not want a life of peace and harmony with their rivals, never believed in showing tolerance toward the followers of Aiden.…
When the fleet reached the Edict Line marked on their navigation charts, Rief gave orders to tack eastward toward Ishalem, and announced to the crew, “We’re in enemy waters now.” The men peered over the side into the blue Oceansea, as if expecting to see an obvious change.
From the lookout nest, the young man called down, “There’s a ship on the port horizon, sir. A colored sail—the Eye of Urec!” His voice cracked, not with excitement but with the embarrassing changes of puberty.
Rief shaded his eyes, trying to spot the vessel. “Change course. Let’s do a little hunting before we reach Ishalem.”
The seventy-three Tierran ships struck out toward the lone foreign vessel. The men gathered their swords and knives, sharpening the edges for a heated battle, though it became obvious that the target was merely a fishing boat, not any kind of military threat. “Capture it anyway,” Rief said.
Standing next to him, the first mate mumbled, “And what if that vessel carries one of the fiery Urecari weapons, sir? The thing that destroyed Destrar Tavishel’s fleet?” Damnably, his voice was loud enough for others to hear.
Rief made a scornful sound, but already a chill had gone down his spine. “Why would a fishing boat carry such a devastating thing?”
“Could be a decoy, sir. Maybe they mean to lure us close to a ship that looks helpless.”
As he heard the sailors mumble, Rief realized that others had formed the same speculation. He was a cautious man, and he did not forget Tavishel’s hubris. If nothing else, the Soeland destrar’s disastrous failure provided a warning, an example, for the comdar. “Proceed with caution. Look sharp.”
As the Tierran vessels closed in on the Uraban fishing boat, the foreigners aboard waved their hands. They looked panicked, obviously unable to get away.
The first mate considered. “They seem to be surrendering, Comdar.”
“Yes, they seem to be, but it could just be a ruse. I’m not going to take the chance. Archers, light your arrows!”
Five of his men strung their bows and dipped their arrows in pitch, while bowmen aboard adjacent warships scrambled to get their own weapons, anxious to participate. “Loose your arrows when ready.”
Two of the archers were so eager that their smoking arrows fell short and plunged into the water, but most of the shafts struck the foreign boat.
Although the panicked Uraban fishermen flailed colored rags in an attempt to signal, the rain of arrows hammered into the sails, the deck, the rigging. As the fire caught and spread, another wave of arrows peppered the boat. Either through intent or by happy accident, dozens of shafts skewered the pitiful Uraban fishermen, pinning them to the deck as smoke began to rise.
“Enough—stop wasting arrows!” Rief called. The fishing boat was already ablaze. There would be no taking of prisoners or confiscating cargo.
The first mate pursed his lips. “It seems they don’t have the weapon that destroyed Destrar Tavishel.”
“I suppose not. But it was a good exercise anyway.”
The Tierran fleet sailed away as flames consumed the fishing boat, leaving a tall smoky stain in the sky. Though they were still far out at sea, lookouts in the high lighthouses on the Ishalem coast could probably see it. The Curlies would know that something bad had happened.
Rief ordered the ships forward, closing in on Ishalem.