After the loss of the Golden Fern, Soldan-Shah Omra quickly changed into dry clothes provided by the war galley’s captain, but his ordeal was not finished. Before the last of the waterlogged fighters had been pulled onto the deck, he commanded the oarmaster to strike a sharp, swift beat to return to the piers. Though he longed to pursue the enemy ironclads as they sailed away, his overriding responsibility was to defend his city against the flames. He would not let Olabar burn to the ground as Ishalem had!
Omra had sunk the Tierran flagship, but the Aidenists were not fleeing to Gremurr in humiliation and defeat. No, the enemy had caused unspeakable damage, and they knew it. This sneak attack had decimated Uraba’s naval capability—not just warships, but all shipping in the Middlesea. His land would be decades recovering from this loss.
“How many more reasons do I need to hate them?” he said quietly to the galley captain.
The other man shook his head. “We’ve long had more reasons than we could possibly need.”
Half of the war galley’s crew had been killed or wounded by the rain of Tierran arrows, which left the oars sparsely manned, but the drumbeat set a rapid pace nevertheless. The rowers groaned and sweated as they pulled the ship into the harbor, dodging obstacles. The jagged metal prow crashed into the smoldering wreck of a small fishing boat, knocking it aside so the galley could reach a section of docks not yet touched by flames.
The rest of the harbor was an inferno, and many vessels still tied to the piers were ablaze and foundering. Greedy fires spread from ship to ship, and burning tatters of sails, borne on the firestorm winds, drifted to new targets, setting new blazes.
The random courses of the unmanned fireships were wreaking havoc, spreading fire indiscriminately from one pier to another. The flames ate the pilings and dock boards, and would-be rescuers couldn’t get close enough to the water to fill buckets for dousing the blaze.
The churches of Olabar rang their bells in a constant, deafening alarm. People flooded from every quarter of the city, responding to the orange glow in the night. Guards mingled with soldiers and craftsmen, fishwives and old men, all desperate to stamp out the spreading blaze. The fire was everywhere, as was the noxious smoke. Coughing men called out conflicting instructions.
As soon as he came ashore, Omra took over, ordering his people to form a line and stop the fire from advancing into the city. Though Uraban architecture typically used stucco, stone, and tile, there were enough wood structures and fabric awnings to maintain the blaze. Fortunately, the evening wind was quiet, blowing out to sea. Maybe something could be saved, he thought.
Omra shouted orders until he was hoarse. Throughout the night, he worked beyond exhaustion, but even as the fires died, his fury blazed brighter. His face was covered with soot, his hands raw and blistered. His clothes were dirty and blood-spattered; without his olba, his dark hair hung free and dripped with sweat. The smoke stung his eyes, making them burn so that he wasn’t sure whether or not he wept.
By dawn, the people had contained the blaze, but the marketplace, the shoreline warehouses, and the wooden piers were a disaster. Out in the harbor, many ships still smoldered, but they were isolated now and would burn out on their own. It would take months or years to remove all of the blackened hulks and make the bay’s draught safe for shipping. Until then, merchant ships could not tie up close to shore, and even the handful of intact vessels would not be able to sail away anytime soon.
There was so much work ahead—so many blazes to extinguish, so much damage to repair, so much loss to assess in goods and ships and lives—that Omra didn’t know how he could deal with it all. He was already fighting a war, they had lost the ironclads and the mines at Gremurr, Tukar had been murdered, Arikara had been leveled, and now this.…The challenge seemed even greater than building a great wall across the isthmus.
He looked at the skeletal wrecks of ships and recalled the driftwood reader’s prediction. His heart ached, for he now believed that the gnarled woman had somehow read Uraba’s grim future in the whorls and rings of the piece of wood. No one could have prevented the destruction of Arikara, but Omra knew exactly whom to blame for this attack on the harbor.
Kel Rovik came up to him, his face soot-blackened, his hair disheveled, his cheek marked with blisters from a blast of fire. He led a woman and a young boy who wore drab clothes and appeared gaunt and frightened. “Soldan-Shah, we found these two in a small boat in the harbor.”
Omra narrowed his eyes, recognizing them. “Shetia—and Ulan! We thought you were prisoners at Gremurr, or dead.”
Shetia bowed. “When the Aidenists came to conquer the mines, Tukar sent us away into the hills to hide, while he remained to fight. But it was no use. We were eventually captured and held prisoner by their leader, Destrar Broeck.”
Omra growled. “Did he harm you? What has he done?”
“He didn’t harm us, but he has done enough. I believe—” she began, and her voice hitched. “I believe he killed Tukar.”
A storm crossed Omra’s face at the reminder. “Yes, Tukar is dead. I’m sorry. I loved my brother and wanted him to come home.”
The boy had a distant look in his dark eyes. “My father was very brave. He didn’t surrender the mines, but the Aidenists took them from him.”
“How did you escape, then? How did you get here?”
“The destrar let us go,” she said. “I think he felt guilty.”
Omra didn’t believe that. “I would not show compassion for him, or any ’Hook.”
“And yet he set us free. He fed us, gave us shelter, kept us alive. We would have starved to death out in the wilderness.”
“He played xaries with me,” Ulan said. “And he took care of my puppy.”
Omra was troubled. “Why would he burn so many of our ships, kill hundreds of people, and yet save you?”
“Only Urec knows.”
Omra turned to Kel Rovik. “Have them taken to the palace, give them whatever they need. Their long nightmare is finally over.” As Rovik led them away, the soldan-shah knew his own nightmare would continue for some time.
Causing a commotion along the shoreline path, a rider tried to force his way toward the soldan-shah, and Omra irritably waved at his guards to let him pass. Due to the confusion and milling people, the rider had taken some time to find Omra. He now presented himself with a quick bow. “Soldan-Shah, I come from Ishalem with news from Kel Unwar.”
Omra just stared at him. After this night, he didn’t want to hear any more news, but the rider spoke anyway. “The Tierran army has laid siege to the Ishalem wall—thousands of soldiers.”
“Their actions insult me.” After the sneak attack on the harbor, this seemed even more appalling. “What do they hope to accomplish? Does Kel Unwar believe they can smash down God’s Barricade?”
“The provisional governor believes Ishalem is safe, Soldan-Shah, but the size of the enemy army suggests they intend a major strike. And their navy has arrived to blockade the harbor.”
Omra fought down his fury. “After last night, I’ll never underestimate the Aidenists’ penchant for destruction. I’ll leave now and go directly to Ishalem.” His instinct was to take a fast ship and head west across the Middlesea, but one look at the smoke-filled harbor reminded him that the Golden Fern had sunk, and most of these vessels would never sail again.
“Get me a horse!” he shouted at Rovik. “I’ll ride to the next town and commandeer a ship there.”
Rovik was startled. “But Soldan-Shah—how can you leave Olabar now?”
Omra’s heart was torn between his capitals. “You’re in charge of recovery operations. I must go back to Ishalem. If we lose there, we lose the world.”