The six ironclads sailed straight toward the mouth of the new canal, and Destrar Broeck did not know whether to trust his eyes. Back at Gremurr, the freed Tierran slaves had talked about the soldan-shah’s absurd scheme to excavate a waterway across the isthmus from the Middlesea to the Oceansea. Now, with Ishalem before him, Broeck could only stare. “It’s true. By the Fishhook, they have done it!”
Broeck saw the dawning opportunity, a change of plans that would allow his men to inflict even greater mayhem: instead of just striking the eastern harbor, miles from where the Tierran army was attacking the wall, he could lead his warships into the very heart of Ishalem! He raised a fist high. “Let’s show these Urabans how much damage their own warships can cause.”
Since returning to Gremurr, Broeck had taken command of one of the remaining vessels and designated it the flagship, since his noble Wilka now lay at the bottom of Olabar harbor along with the wreck of the Golden Fern. Although some claimed it was bad luck to reuse the name of a sunken ship, Broeck wasn’t superstitious. He insisted on also christening the second flagship after his lost wife; he had no interest in other names.
The sails of all six ironclads displayed a defiant Fishhook as they cruised into the canal. Because the channel was narrow, the Wilka led the fleet in single file, with Iaros captaining the Raathgir behind it. They would push as far as they could go into the city, and they would fight all the way.
“Call out the archers,” he shouted. “Flaming arrows where needed, but if you’re just shooting at people, plain arrows will do well enough.”
When the ships entered the waterway, Urecari citizens sounded the alarm and pointed in horror. Intermittent wooden watchtowers lined the banks of the canal, and silhouetted sentries lit torches or flashed messages with signal mirrors. Broeck laughed deep in his chest—what a surprise this must be! Battle horns rallied the citizens, but he didn’t care. Unless the soldan-shah possessed another juggernaut like the Golden Fern, these warships were unstoppable. In fact, he hoped the Curlies would raise alarms loud enough to let Queen Anjine know that he and his warships had arrived.
He heard a commotion rippling from the rearmost ironclads, and sailors relayed a message by shouting along the line. Broeck went to the stern of the Wilka and saw Iaros waving from the bow of his ship. “Destrar! They’re blocking us off!”
Ahead of him, Uraban men in rowboats left stubby piers and pulled across the waterway to cut in front of the Wilka—towing a line of kegs chained together, like floats to hold up a fishing net. Some kind of barrier?
Broeck chuckled, knowing his ships could cruise right over the top of the obstruction. Then he realized what the kegs must contain. “Archers! Stop those rowers at all costs!”
Without asking the reason for the destrar’s sudden alarm, his sailors shot volley after volley of arrows. They killed the man in the first rowboat, but the Urabans were laying down three lines of casks, and the third one was farthest away and hardest to hit. When the first rowboat failed to draw its line across the canal, two more Uraban men dove into the water from shore, recklessly swam out to the boat, climbed aboard, and finished rowing to the opposite pier. The chained barrels now connected one side of the waterway to the other.
“Strike down our sails!” Broeck shouted. “Drop anchor before we ride up on those kegs. It’s firepowder!” The crew scrambled to furl the sails, and chains rattled as anchors plunged to the bottom of the shallow canal. The Raathgir stopped so abruptly that the following ironclad rammed her stern.
Broeck scrambled up the Wilka’s mainmast so he could look down the line of his armored warships. Chains of firepowder kegs lay both before and behind them. His fleet was neatly bottled up in the middle of the enemy city.