Panic spread through the city as Tierran invaders swarmed into the streets. Ishalem was an anthill of confusion. Some people fled, while others rallied and fought back. Enemy soldiers came not just from the blasted wall, but also from the ironclad ships in the canal.
Ur-Sikara Kuari ordered the sturdy wooden doors of the main Urecari church thrown open so that refugees could take sanctuary. Soldan Vishkar had built the great structure as a place of worship with fortress-thick walls, and the people believed Urec would protect them. In the meantime, Asaddan took a ceremonial pike used to hold the Unfurling Fern banner, yanked off the fabric, and positioned himself at the church’s main doors as if he alone could guard against the Tierran army.
Anxious people crowded in to fill the huge worship chamber, babbling and wailing. Their voices spontaneously broke into familiar hymns, and the ur-sikara led prayer chants every hour. Kuari presented a particularly brave and strong face for them, letting her followers draw hope, although she was not convinced that even the massive building would save them.
Withdrawing to her anteroom where Istar and Ciarlo sat listening to the tumult outside, the ur-sikara said in a low voice, “When the Tierrans take over the city, they will defile this place first. Remember, the church stands on the former site of the main Aidenist kirk. This ground was sacred to them.”
Though he could hear the mayhem in the streets, Ciarlo insisted that the ur-sikara’s worries were unfounded. “Followers of the Fishhook know the word of Aiden. No true believer would cause the kind of carnage that you’re afraid of. We don’t harm innocents.”
Ur-Sikara Kuari let out a snort of derision. “How do you expect me to take you seriously, when you speak such foolishness? After all the monstrous things your people have done?”
Ciarlo let out a frustrated sigh. “Adrea, tell her it will be all right. They are Aidenists.”
Istar placed a hand on each of her brother’s shoulders, as if lecturing a child. “That may be what the Book of Aiden says, Ciarlo, but that isn’t the way all Aidenists behave. The same is true for the Urecari. Both Aiden and Urec must have turned from us in disgust by now.”
Kuari paced the anteroom. “I don’t expect Aiden or Urec to magically solve our problems. We created this mess ourselves. It is our responsibility.”
Istar looked at her brother and the ur-sikara, knowing that Omra was out there somewhere, fighting against her own former people. She realized that she might have to do something herself.
Scattered contingents of the Tierran army spread into neighborhoods, setting fires and attacking anyone who stood against them. When the first line of troops rushed the main church, Ur-Sikara Kuari shouted for the panicked stragglers to hurry inside. Asaddan barricaded the sturdy doors as the Aidenist invaders ran up, swords drawn; he slammed the crossbar home moments before sword hilts and gauntleted fists pounded on the door.
“See that all the other doors are secured,” Kuari called out.
The big Nunghal prowled the perimeter of the chamber, carrying the long pike. A broken roof tile hurtled through one of the windows from the outside, and when a zealous Aidenist soldier tried to crawl through the broken window, Asaddan jabbed at him with the blunt end of the staff, smashing the man in the teeth. The soldier screamed and dropped away.
Ciarlo still wore nondescript robes and a hood to hide his pale hair and blue eyes, but many Urecari refugees looked askance at him. Others glanced suspiciously at Istar and her Tierran features. She stared back at them, confronting their silent accusations. There wasn’t much she could say.
Soon the hammering on the main wooden doors became a heavy pounding that made the hinges rattle.
“They’re using a battering ram,” Istar said.
Ten blows, and then twenty. Finally, a pale crack splintered down one of the thick planks like a streak of lightning.
“They’ll be inside before long.” Asaddan stood with his pike ready. “I suggest the rest of you find someplace to hide, or a way to defend yourselves.”
Another heavy blow from the battering ram, loud shouts from the soldiers outside, and the crack in the door widened. Ur-Sikara Kuari stepped forward, looking fearsome. “I will stand and defend my church.” The refugees scrambled to the back of the main worship chamber, hoping to remain unseen, while some crowded around the ur-sikara, ready to give their lives.
Ciarlo placed himself between Kuari and the door. “Let me talk to them—I can make them leave us alone, if they are true Aidenists.”
“Ciarlo, they’ll kill you,” Istar said.
He gave his sister a beatific smile. “My faith is an anchor.” The battering ram smashed again, and the crossbar fell out of its cradle. The planks split apart, and Aidenist soldiers began to hack at the debris with their swords. Someone thrust a staff and colorful flag through the gap; Istar recognized the banner of Alamont Reach.
Looking annoyed rather than frightened, Asaddan seized the staff and yanked it out of the man’s hands, tossing it with a clatter into the worship chamber. The soldiers howled, redoubled their efforts against the door, and pushed their way through the broken planks.
The leader of the small fighting group was thin and haughty, his eyes shining, his hair wild. He spoke in Tierran, although he couldn’t have expected the refugees to understand him. “I am Destrar Shenro of Alamont Reach. I claim this church in the name of Aiden.”
Ciarlo surprised them by planting himself in front of the soldiers, holding out both of his hands. “By the Fishhook, I command you not to harm these people! I speak on their behalf, in the name of Aiden.” He fumbled for the pendant at his throat and yanked back his hood to reveal his blond hair.
Shenro didn’t pause. He ran forward, swung his sword without even looking at his target. Ciarlo stumbled backward, too close to get out of the way. But the downsweep of Shenro’s blade was blocked with a loud clang as Asaddan brought the pike into the sword’s arc. The Alamont destrar staggered, his arms jarred by the impact of the counterblow.
Asaddan swung his pike to smash the side of the destrar’s head, then skewered Shenro through the chest, driving him to the ground. He ripped the weapon back out and held it before him to face the oncoming charge.
The other Alamont soldiers pushed their way inside the church, but the crowded refugees battered them with poles and heavy candlesticks. The Nunghal was a tornado, sweeping his pike from side to side, stabbing them and pushing the bodies back through the door. It was over quickly, and four Tierran men lay dead. The other six—and only six, for it had been a small contingent—fled.
Ciarlo was on his knees, praying over the Alamont destrar. He touched the Fishhook pendant to the dying man’s lips. The ur-sikara stood behind him. She did not look smug. “You aren’t even a follower of Urec, and he tried to kill you.”
“I’m not a follower of Urec either,” Asaddan said, propping the bloody pike upright. “But I defended my friends.” He was barely even winded.
Kuari pointed to the crowds in the church. “We need to barricade that door again and protect all the windows. They will be back.”