On a bright sunny day with a brisk breeze, Captain Shay called for the sails to be trimmed for a gentle approach to the city
of Ouroussa, where they hoped to find eager customers. The hold of the
Fishhook
contained barrels of whale oil from Soeland Reach, large spools of hemp rope from Erietta, grain from Alamont, and, in a
special locked chest in the captain’s cabin, beautiful metal-worked jewelry made by the skilled smiths of Corag Reach. Though
the bangles and ornaments would be sold to the followers of Urec, the Corag metalworkers had subtly hidden a tiny Aidenist
fishhook on each piece of jewelry.
Captain Shay would sell his cargo at prices greatly reduced from what the other Uraban merchants and middlemen could offer.
With fast vessels, intrepid Tierran sailors braved the uncharted currents and sailed directly to Uraba’s coastal cities, bypassing
the much slower overland merchants (much to their consternation).
Near the ship’s wheel, Criston paused to look at the two compasses mounted on a sheltered pedestal, a traditional magnetic
compass that always pointed toward magnetic north and a magical Captain’s Compass that always pointed
home
. The silver needle of the Captain’s Compass came from the same piece of precious metal as an identical needle in the Tierran
capital city of Calay. These twinned needles remained linked to each other by sympathetic magic, as all things in Ondun’s
creation were said to be linked.
Now, as the
Fishhook
closed in on Ouroussa, the crew saw a flurry of activity in the distant harbor; a ship with a bright red sail set out to
meet them, sailing toward the open water. Captain Shay gestured to Criston. “Go aloft and have a look, Seaman Vora.” Shay’s
dark hair ran to his shoulders, and instead of wearing a full bushy beard like most ship captains, he kept his neatly trimmed.
Nimble and unafraid of heights, the young man scrambled up the shroud lines to reach the lookout nest. During the voyage,
Criston had enjoyed spending time high atop the main mast overlooking the waters; he had even seen several fearsome-looking
sea serpents, but only at a distance.
As the Uraban ship approached, Criston noted its central painted icon on its square mainsail, the Eye of Urec. He spied additional
movement in the harbor, where two fast Uraban galleys launched, their oars extended, beating across the water at a good clip.
They spread apart, approaching the
Fishhook
from opposite directions.
Captain Shay called for a report, and Criston scrambled back down the lines to relate what he had seen to Captain Shay. “I
couldn’t see many crewmen aboard the main ship, Captain. Maybe they just want to escort us into port.”
“Never needed an escort before. These aren’t waters that require a pilot.” Shay snapped orders to his crew, and all twenty-eight
men came out on deck to stand ready. “Once they know what we’re offering, they’ll welcome us with open arms, but don’t let
your guard down.” He turned back to the young sailor. “This could be a very interesting first voyage for you, Seaman.”
“It’s not my first voyage, sir. I’ve spent most of my life on boats.”
“It’s your first voyage with
me,
and that’s what counts.”
Criston’s father, a fisherman, had been lost at sea, and Criston himself had served aboard many boats, working the local catch
but dreaming of more ambitious voyages. Though young, Criston owned his own small boat for carrying cargo up to the Tierran
capital of Calay, but the prospect of paying off the money-lenders seemed daunting. So when the
Fishhook
had passed through Windcatch on her way south and Captain Shay asked for short-term sailors to accompany him on a two-month
trip to Ouroussa, offering wages higher than he could make on his own boat, Criston had jumped at the chance.
Not only would it help him pay off the debt, but it would give Criston a chance to see far-off lands. And when he returned
to Windcatch with his purse full of coins, he would finally be able to marry Adrea, whom he had loved for years. Once the
Fishhook
unloaded her cargo in Ouroussa, Criston could be on his way home…
As the scarlet-sailed Uraban ship closed to within hailing distance, he spotted a man standing near the bow dressed in loose
cream-colored robes, his head wrapped in a pale olba. Only five crewmen stood with the man on the foreign vessel’s deck. The
robed man shouted across to them in heavily accented Tierran. “I am Fillok, Ouroussa’s city leader. What goods have you brought
us?”
Shay lowered his voice to Criston. “Fillok… I know that name. I think he’s the brother of the soldan of Outer Wahilir, an
important man. Why would
he
come to meet us?” He frowned in consternation. “Men who consider themselves important sometimes do brash things, and it’s
rarely a good sign.” The captain raised his voice and called back across the water, “We are on our way to port. I can give
your harbormaster a full list.”
“It is my right to inspect your cargo here and now! How do we know your boat is not filled with soldiers to attack Ouroussa?”
“Why would we do that?” Shay asked, genuinely perplexed.
If Fillok did not change course, his ship would collide with the
Fishhook
within minutes. Captain Shay eyed the two swift war galleys coming toward them from both port and starboard. “This doesn’t
feel right, Vora. Go up there and have another look.” The young sailor slipped away and scrambled back up the ropes to the
lookout nest.
Tierran traders often made great profit from selling to Uraban cities, but many vessels vanished, more than could reasonably
be accounted for by storms and reefs. If Fillok were an ambitious and unprincipled man, he could have attacked those traders
and seized their cargoes. No one in Tierra would know.
When Criston reached the lookout nest and peered down at the foreign ship, he was astonished to see far more than just the
five Uraban sailors standing at the ropes. At least a dozen armed men crouched out of sight behind crates and sailcloth on
the deck; the hatches were open, and even more Uraban men crowded below, holding bright scimitars. Criston cupped his hands
around his mouth and yelled at the top of his lungs, “Captain, it’s a trap! The ship is full of armed men!”
Shay shouted to his crew, “Set sails! All canvas, take the wind
now!
” Already on edge, the men jumped to untie knots, pull ropes, and drop sails abruptly into place.
Criston’s warning forced Fillok into abrupt action. The Ouroussan city leader screamed something in his own language, and
hidden men burst into view, lifting their swords. Shrill trumpets sounded a call to battle. Ropes with grappling hooks flew
across the narrow gap between the two ships; several fell into the water, but three caught the
Fishhook
’s deck rail. Answering horns and drumbeats came from the two closing war galleys, and the rowers picked up their pace.
Shay reached down to grab a long harpoon stowed just below the starboard bow of the
Fishhook
. The Tierran men armed themselves with boat-hooks, oars, and stunning clubs. Criston clambered back down to the deck, ready
to join the fight. He held a long boat-knife to defend himself, though its reach was much shorter than that of a Uraban scimitar.
Criston ran to the straining ropes that bound the ships together, just as five Urabans jumped across the gap with an eerie
inhuman howl. Ducking the wide swing of a Uraban sword, he sawed at the first rope until it snapped and immediately set to
work on the second one.
The
Fishhook
’s sails were fully extended now, giving her a much greater canvas area than Fillok’s small Uraban ship. The ropes creaked
as the Tierran vessel tried to break away. One of the Tierran sailors went down, bleeding from a deep gash in his head.
Ignoring the mayhem around him, Captain Shay cocked his arm back and let the long harpoon fly toward the other ship. Where
its sharp iron tip plunged directly through Fillok’s chest. The Ouroussan city leader staggered backward, grabbing the harpoon’s
shaft in astonishment, before he collapsed into a pool of blood on his own deck.
The Uraban attackers howled in rage upon seeing their leader killed. They piled against one another, preparing to leap across
and slaughter the Tierrans. Racing in from shore, the two war galleys closed in a pincer maneuver.
Criston sawed with his knife until he severed the third grappling rope, and like a freed stallion, the
Fishhook
lunged free, separating from the Uraban ship as many of the enemy fighters leaped across. A dozen men tumbled into the deep
water, and only two managed to cling to the side of the
Fishhook,
clutching nets and an anchor rope. Leaning over the rail, Criston lopped off fingers with a knife slash, and the screaming
men slid into the water.
Though he was as white as a sheet, Captain Shay’s voice did not waver as he shouted, “All speed—head north! Out to open sea!”
The
Fishhook
began to pull away.
Only three enemy soldiers remained on the deck. Captain Shay’s crew quickly dispatched them and dumped the bodies overboard.
With Fillok killed—the brother of the local soldan!—the remaining Uraban sailors were in a frenzy aboard his ship. The drums
of the approaching war galleys beat furiously, but the
Fishhook
’s sails pushed the cargo ship faster. The coastline began to dwindle in the distance, but Criston knew the uproar would not
die down. “Captain, what just happened? Why did they do that? We came only to trade.”
“They wanted our cargo, and now they’ll want our hides as well.” Shay looked sick. “Fillok’s brother will go to Soldan-Shah
Imir and demand blood. I suppose the blood of any Tierran will do. We have to get to King Korastine as quickly as possible.”
He gave the young sailor a weary smile as he turned the wheel and aligned the course with the Captain’s Compass. “When we
pass Windcatch, I can drop you off, Mr. Vora. But for the rest of us…” He shook his head, still frowning. “I think we just
started a war.”
The royal ship sailed southward through the night, following the Tierran coastline. She was a single-masted cog with her square
sails trimmed so that she made slow headway under the stars. Because the route down to the holy city of Ishalem was so well
charted, with lighthouses to mark hazardous stretches, the captain was comfortable with proceeding in the dark.
Even so, King Korastine of Tierra could not sleep, caught between hope and anxiety about the upcoming meeting with Soldan-Shah
Imir. After the disastrous clash between Captain Shay’s trading ship and the Uraban privateers, he could just as easily have
been leading warships down to ransack Ouroussa and sink enemy ships in the harbor.
Instead of leaping headfirst into war, the Uraban leader had dispatched his best ambassador, a man named Giladen, to search
for a peaceful solution. Though neither leader would admit it, both knew that Captain Shay should not have gone where he did;
they also knew that Fillok should not have attacked a peaceful trading ship, and that a harpoon in the heart was exactly what
he deserved. Though their respective populations were inflamed, both the king and the soldan-shah believed they had a chance
to salvage the situation.
Long past midnight, Korastine stood on the raised bow platform and gazed into the misty shadows that lay ahead, imagining
their destination.
Ishalem
. The sacred city built on the narrow isthmus that connected the continents… the most ancient settlement in the known world,
considered holy by both the Aidenist religion and the rival Urecari religion.
Korastine wrapped weathered hands around the wooden balustrade. He was a thin man, wise-looking, barely forty. His long hair
and neatly trimmed beard were light brown, salted with graying strands. He could already see what he would look like when
he grew old, and times like these aged a man more swiftly.
In Ishalem, he and the soldan-shah would sign a treaty blessed by the Aidenist prester-marshall and the head sikara priestess
of the Urecari church. After so many years of turmoil, they would divide the known world in half, clearly defining the two
spheres of influence. That would settle the matter for all time, and at last there would be peace.
So why couldn’t he sleep? Why did his stomach insist upon knotting itself with doubts? With a heavy sigh, he tried to convince
himself that he was just being a fool, stung by too many disappointments, too many misplaced dreams.
The mist intensified the salt-and-seaweed smell in the air. The whispering laughter of gentle waves against the hull planks
was soothing. Though there were hammocks below, most crewmen chose to sleep on the open deck. A puff of breeze luffed the
sail-cloth, making the masts and rigging creak.
Korastine barely heard the soft barefoot tread ascending the steps to the forecastle platform. He turned to see his beloved
eleven-year-old daughter rubbing sleep from her eyes. “Are we almost to Ishalem, Father?”
“We’ll be there in the morning.” He reached out to hug her, and she comfortably folded herself into his arms.
Princess Anjine had straight brown hair, parted in the middle. When she was at court in Calay, she brushed her hair many times
nightly, as her mother had once insisted, but on the five-day voyage, the girl didn’t bother with such silliness, and the
king couldn’t blame her.
Though Queen Sena had been dead from pneumonia for half a year now, Korastine and his wife had often disagreed on the raising
of their only child; the queen insisted that Anjine ought to be ladylike and courtly, while Korastine wanted the girl to focus
more on leadership—while also being allowed some measure of her own childhood. As an uneasy compromise, the princess had learned
both.
Knowing how much was at stake with the upcoming treaty, the king insisted that Anjine accompany him now. He could never forget
the responsibility he had to his people and to his daughter. One day, he would leave Tierra in Anjine’s care, and he did not
want to give her a broken, war-torn land.