The Map of All Things, page 6
part #2 of Terra Incognita Series
The small-statured man did not even need to check. “Why, my Lord, the orange vessel carries the former soldan-shah himself. The red balloon belongs to the Gahari family.”
The soldan of Missinia felt a wave of relief to know that Imir—his brother-in-law—would soon be returning. He shaded his eyes, looking up. “Prepare a traditional reception feast, and you'd better make it an extravagant one.”
Drifting along with painstaking slowness, the airborne vessels took two more hours to arrive at Desert Harbor. Gentle breezes delivered the orange balloon well in advance of the second coracle. High above, the figures in the wicker basket doused the central brazier and let the silk balloon sack deflate. As the coracle descended, the men threw coils of rope down to ground workers who had pounded stakes into the patchy grass.
When the basket was anchored, former soldan-shah Imir swung himself over the coracle's side and dropped to the ground, where he swayed unsteadily on knees unaccustomed to solid land. “What a pleasure to be back on Uraban soil again!”
Xivir came forward to embrace him, sending up a flurry of brown dust and grit from the other man's dirty traveling clothes. “Welcome home.”
“Please tell me you have a bath and food—most importantly a bath.”
Burilo came up to shake his uncle's hand. “We have already drawn water from the wells, my Lord. Cauldrons are heating it over a fire.” Xivir's son was Omra's age—the two had been boys together—and Burilo had already proven himself to be a good administrator, a wise man, and a fitting soldan-in-training to rule Missinia.
The three men walked toward the bath tent. “Was your journey successful?” Xivir asked.
“Oh, yes.” The older man's eyes sparkled. “More than I had hoped, more than you can imagine.”
When the second coracle drifted in half an hour later, caravan leaders and representatives of the Gahari merchant family swarmed forward with slate boards to tally the goods. Curious camp workers unloaded the cargo, while traders squabbled over the division of the profits.
Imir had made the desert trek three out of the past five years, and by now he had grown quite fond of the nomadic people; he knew their culture, their customs, and had even learned to speak passable Nunghal (though Khan Jikaris teased him for his silly accent).
Given the freedom to travel, and relieved of political responsibilities, the former soldan-shah felt more content now than when he'd ruled all of Uraba. He did not miss the press of advisers and emissaries with their accompanying rivalries, nor the tragedy of scheming wives and assassination attempts. His only disappointment on these trips was that Sen Sherufa na-Oa did not accompany him. The Saedran scholar would have been a great companion during his explorations—not only because she spoke the native language far better than he, but also because Imir was quite fond of her company. However, while she encouraged him to bring back any information about the unknown southern half of the continent, Sherufa didn't personally enjoy the rigors of traveling.
Nevertheless, Imir clung to hope….
Entering the shade of the bath tent, he gulped down a flask of cool well water, then savored a cup of good Missinian wine. Burilo directed servants to pour buckets of heated water into a wooden tub, while a young woman added aromatic herbs and oils.
With a groan and a sigh, Imir shucked his filthy travel clothes, let them fall to the ground, and nudged them away with his toe. “No need to wash the garments—just burn them.” He sank into the steaming tub of water with a contented sigh, closed his eyes, and slid his entire head beneath the surface, scrubbing the dirt from his stubbly gray hair and beard. Traditionally, Imir kept himself clean-shaven when in Uraba, but never bothered once he boarded a sand coracle.
He spluttered to the surface again, shaking his head and spraying water from his lips. Burilo and Soldan Xivir pulled up tripod stools with leather seats and waited to hear more of his travels.
Imir's eyes were hard, and his expression had changed from a smile of delight to a predatory grin. “You'll be happy to know that we spotted two bandit camps as we flew over, and I noted their positions.”
Burilo looked eager. “We will raid them and crush them, as we've done before. They've been a thorn in our sides for far too many years. In fact, the bandits harassed Desert Harbor only a week ago, but we drove them off.”
Soldan Xivir shifted uncomfortably on his stool. “We interrogated one of the captives. Before he died, he told us the name of their new leader: Norgo. Each time we kill one, another springs up. More severed heads for my growing collection back in Arikara, I suppose.” He placed his hands on one knee. “But enough of that. You said that your mission was more successful than you had dreamed. What did you mean by that?”
Imir enjoyed the relaxation of the warm water, though he was anxious to join the first caravan back to Olabar, given his vital news for Omra. He blew air through his lips again. “After years of pleading, I finally convinced Khan Jikaris—well, a great deal of gold convinced him—to give me what I wanted.” He smiled enigmatically. “I have the recipe and process for making firepowder. Now we can blast the Aidenists from the face of the world!”
9 The Wall of Ishalem
From the parapets of God's Barricade, Omra stared at the mob of enemy soldiers on the terminus of the Pilgrims' Road. His scouts had given him several days' warning, but the size and speed of the Tierran advance took him by surprise. His scouts had not exaggerated the strength of the oncoming force; the army of Aiden could well crash through the gap in the wall and overwhelm Ishalem.
Previous Tierran attempts to retake the city had been disorganized groups of undisciplined men whose rowdy anger petered out by the time they reached the imposing wall. Kel Unwar had built a remarkable, invincible defense, and the sight of it alone was sufficient to deter most Tierran raiders.
But this was no unruly raiding party, no group of foolhardy blusterers with more bravery than brains. Omra muttered, “So, King Korastine has finally found his balls.”
“Or Princess Anjine found hers.” Kel Unwar chuckled beside him. “Tierran females are more like oxen than women.”
Omra shot him a sharp glance. “My First Wife is Tierran.” Unwar blanched and fumbled for an apology, but the soldan-shah dismissed the comment. “You will be forgiven, Kel—if your wall holds.”
“It will hold, Soldan-Shah, though I wish they had waited a few months, until construction was complete. As it is, they will try for the gap, and we have to defend it at all costs. I suggest we send men outside to hold it against the 'Hook advance. We can set up obstacles and lure the enemy into range.” He looked up and down the wall where groups of archers took their places, stringing their bows; young helpers ran along the parapets, making sure that the tall narrow baskets beside the bowmen were filled with arrows.
Omra nodded his disapproval, but knew he had to prepare for the worst. Ten thousand attackers—swordsmen, archers, horsemen! Even the wall might not be sufficient to hold back such a crush. And if they broke through the gap in the barricade and rushed into the city…
He had been prepared for this over the past few days. “Mount cavalry and distribute swords to the crew masters at the construction sites. In fact, arm all the faithful Urecari here in the city. And lock away the Aidenist slaves so they can't possibly attempt treachery in the heat of battle.”
Unwar scrambled down the scaffolding and whistled for his subcommanders to give them new orders.
By the rockpiles and construction sites, the Tierran slaves began shouting insults to their captors, but after Unwar ordered five of them killed, the rest fell silent. Guards put them into leg irons and herded them into the middle of the city, to the large pit excavated at the site of the former Aidenist kirk. The big hole in the ground would hold them, for now.
Omra paced the top of the wall, studying the colored flags of his enemy, the gleaming armor and snorting horses. From their positions on the parapets, several eager Uraban archers drew back their longbows and let premature arrows fly, though all of them fell short of the front ranks of the army. Omra shouted, “Cease firing! Hold your arrows!”
Unfortunately, the damage was already done. Those impetuous shots now clearly delineated the range of Uraban weapons, and the Tierran commander halted his horses where they were safe. From there, he could issue orders and prepare for the main charge against the wall.
The great stone barrier extended westward down to the breakwater of the Oceansea and east across the narrow isthmus to the shore of the Middlesea, seven miles away. Though the two ends of the wall had not yet met, leaving a point of vulnerability at Ishalem, the gap would create a bottleneck. Even if the ten thousand enemies breached the defenses, they would be limited in how swiftly they could flood through into Ishalem. During the turmoil, Omra's archers could inflict heavy casualties from atop the wall.
But as he watched the angry Aidenists and heard the defiant clashing of sword hilts against shields, Omra realized that heavy losses would not matter to a sufficiently zealous opponent. These Fishhook followers were fanatics who wanted to destroy the unfurling fern wherever they saw it.
The battle ahead would be a grim one, indeed.
However, now that Urec's sacred Map had been found in the vault beneath the ruined kirk, his faith had been reaffirmed. Once he got back to Olabar, Omra would analyze the Map in detail, but he would keep the discovery secret until he had dealt with these Aidenists.
A hush fell over the men atop the wall, and Omra saw a dark-cloaked figure approaching—a mysterious, ominous silhouette that wore black gloves, black robes, and a featureless silver mask. The Teacher showed no hint of his features or his physique; he was a specter, inspiring fear in those who saw him. But Omra did not fear this man. By training and unleashing ra'virs on the Aidenists, the Teacher had singlehandedly caused more damage to Tierran morale than any dozen coastal raids or military skirmishes.
The Teacher's voice came muffled from behind the silver mask as he looked out at the massed army beyond the wall. “I shall be interested to watch this.”
Nobody had ever seen the Teacher unmasked. Many claimed he must be horribly disfigured, perhaps suffering from leprosy; then again, those might have been rumors fostered by the Teacher himself. Omra considered it more likely the man merely wanted to keep his identity secret: it added to his mystery, increased fear, kept others off balance.
Omra responded with a grim nod. “It will be a bloody battle, and we will be hard-pressed to defend Ishalem. I know how well those Aidenists can fight.”
“You have nothing to fear, Soldan-Shah. Urec will take care of his faithful. Without their leaders, even an army of that size will be impotent. Tell your own swordsmen and riders to be ready to charge out onto the battlefield when the moment is right.”
“Charge?” Omra looked back at the enormous Aidenist army. “Why should I order the men to leave the protection of the wall?”
“You want to destroy the Tierrans, don't you?” With a swirl of dark garments and a glint of sunlight on the silver mask, the Teacher stalked off down the wall.
Omra stood impatiently while his servants helped him into battle armor, covered with a clean white tunic embroidered with a Golden Fern. His sword was sharp, his shield freshly painted, his olba wrapped tightly around his head. He mounted his battle-ready mare and rode to his forces crowded at the gap in the wall.
As the afternoon light took on a deeper gold, Uraban soldiers stood hooting and jeering from the safety of God's Barricade, trying to lure the enemy closer. The Tierran front lines pushed forward to stop just short of where prematurely fired arrows prickled the ground. Across the flat expanse, battlefield presters walked the lines of Aidenist soldiers, waving their hands in meaningless blessings.
Omra saw the man in the lead, obviously their comdar, with young standard-bearers on both sides carrying bright flags. The old military leader bellowed something in a challenging voice, words that the soldan-shah didn't understand. Generals and subcommanders called out to their cavalry, their footsoldiers. Swords and spears were raised.
Omra called out to his men; Kel Unwar issued orders. The Uraban warhorses trotted forward, a few hundred of them to make a stand at the gap in the wall. He glanced up at the wall behind him, saw the Teacher standing there in silhouette.
When the Tierran battle horns blew, Omra turned to his well-trained men and yelled, “Stand fast! Protect the wall at all costs.”
Before the archers could begin their deadly rain of arrows, from atop the high wall came a strange cry from the Teacher, an ululating wail that pierced the hot, sluggish air.
As the Aidenist soldiers prepared to charge, the two young standard-bearers beside their main commander drew their swords. In unison, they ran the Tierran commander through, plunging their blades between his chestplate and back guard. They found his vulnerable spot again and again, and the leader of the Aidenist army fell dead before the rest of the soldiers even realized what has happening.
Another general, bearing the standard of Alamont Reach, thrashed left and right, but his young standard-bearer thrust a blade under the older man's chin, nearly decapitating him.
It happened in an instant, throughout the Aidenist ranks. Responding to the Teacher's eerie call, fighters turned on their own comrades—young men stabbing their military leaders, killing the Aidenist soldiers on either side of them with no regard for their own safety.
Ra'virs! Omra realized that the Teacher had planted dozens of ra'virs among the Tierran troops. Serving as pages, flag-carriers, and aides, these boys had gotten close to their unsuspecting leaders. Within the first critical moments of surprise, more than half of the Aidenist field commanders were slain.
As shock, confusion, and horror stalled the enemy advance, Omra knew he had to press his advantage. The Teacher had been right. With their chain of command in shambles, the unwieldy Aidenist army would not know how to react. Now was the time to press his advantage.
He howled the command to charge, and his armed riders rushed through the gap in the wall and plunged into the sudden turmoil the ra'virs had created. He spared only one glance back at the proud figure of the Teacher atop the parapets.
Even before he struck his first enemy, Omra felt a glow of warmth inside. This battle would be a bloodbath.
10 Windcatch
Before the departure of the Dyscovera, and the very real possibility that he might never return home, Criston felt obligated to visit Windcatch, the village that had once been his home. Adrea's home. A place of love and a place of loss, filled with memories, shadows, and ghosts.
Back in Shipbuilders' Bay, while the new vessel's quartermaster saw to loading the supplies and the sailmaster began hanging the sheets on the yardarms, Criston took passage aboard a small merchant vessel that was heading south to his old hometown. Javian asked to go along, so eager to help that Criston could not deny him. “Let me visit your village, Captain. I want to see where the raiders attacked. I promise I'll be helpful.”
Criston hadn't wanted any witnesses to the emotional impact the place might have on him, but he agreed to take the earnest young man. On the short voyage, Javian made a point of assisting the merchant ship's captain, intent on proving how well he would serve as the Dyscovera's cabin boy. He ran errands and worked as hard as any member of the real crew, much to their amusement. Criston never regretted his decision.
Four months ago, the two had sat on the dock in Shipbuilders' Bay, eating apples that Criston had bought from a farmer's cart. The young man matched him bite for bite, imitating his movements. Back then, the Dyscovera was only a framework in the construction area, surrounded by piles of fresh Iborian lumber. Shipbuilders pounded the planks to the hull supports. Looking at the great sailing vessel taking shape, Criston had mused, “So, boy, would you like to sail on her when she's finished?”
Javian's entire face had lit up. “Of course, sir!”
“I might be in need of a cabin boy, if you think you can handle the hard work.”
“I can handle hard work.”
“And follow orders?”
“Anything you ask, sir!”
“I'll hold you to that.”
Javian had tried to prove himself every day since….
When the small merchant ship docked in the Windcatch harbor, Criston saw an unfamiliar place filled with strangers. Porters lifted crates and unloaded supplies from the hold. Shopkeepers came forward to study the newly arrived wares; villagers hovered around to receive mail packets from Calay and other coastal towns.
Criston drank in the details that were so common and yet so strange. Home. The little seaport town seemed the same… but different. The dozens of houses and shops burned in the raid had been rebuilt, but the new ones didn't look right. The docks had been greatly expanded, but many slips were empty, with most of the fishing boats out for the day's catch. Drying nets hung on plank racks on the gravelly shore.
Criston smelled only the faintest lingering scent of rot. “Lucky we weren't here a month ago. When the migratory seaweed spoils in the water, the stink is so bad it drives even the fish away.” He kept a jovial tone in his voice, but his heart ached with the memory of the many times he, Adrea, and her brother Ciarlo had waded out to harvest the kelp. Now that near-forgotten normalcy seemed as imaginary as the tales told by grizzled old seamen in dockside taverns.
Over the years since returning to civilization, Criston had gone back to Windcatch off and on. The first few times, he had kept to himself, expecting someone to spot him on the street and call out his name. But no one did. Soon enough, he realized he needed no disguise. The people here no longer remembered much about him, his old mother, or Adrea. Most Windcatch families had lost much in the raid—nineteen years past now—and many other deaths and tragedies had happened since, through violence or natural causes. Hurricanes, fevers, an accidental fire that had burned an entire section of docks. His town had moved on from its tragedies.
