While Anjine had known intellectually what happened here, she had never witnessed it herself. Mateo puked into the gutter.
The two of them stumbled away from the horrific scenes, no longer laughing, no longer even able to speak.
She pushed the letter aside with a deep frown.
Why
had he brought up that story… and then left out the worst part? It made her wonder what other horrors Mateo was censoring
from his letters. Anjine wasn’t sure she wanted to know…
Now, in the Naval Room, she brushed her fingertips across the ship model on its special shelf, as though by sympathetic connection
she could reach out and touch Mateo onboard the
Raven
.
“Come back safe,” she whispered. “Please, come back safe.”
Hovering around the construction dock in Shipbuilders’ Bay, Sen Leo picked up scraps from the Arkship—shavings from the deck
boards, snippets of rope, tiny swatches of sailcloth—and stuffed them into a satchel. He studied each piece, memorizing its
contours and committing to his mind the origin of the bits. He had a copy of the Arkship plans back in the temple vault, and
another copy in his personal library. Saedran artisans and craftsmen had offered to help him, but he wanted to do the model-building
work himself. This was too important.
Up and down the docks, he heard pounding and shouting, the creak of pulleys, and the crack of wood from the Arkship’s construction
berth. Slowly and meticulously, the massive vessel was taking shape.
“She’s a giant, isn’t she?” said one of the workers, lounging under an eave where he could keep himself dry from the drizzle
but still see the Arkship. “Uses as much material as ten or fifteen battleships. We’d be better off with fifteen battleships,
eh?”
“It’s not my place to criticize the king,” Sen Leo said sharply, “nor is it yours. Who can put a price on discovery and dreams?”
The man grumbled something about Saedrans, and Sen Leo trudged away with his carefully gathered materials. Tugging the hood
over his head, though his long gray hair was already damp, he crossed the bridge back to the Saedran District and took his
samples to the temple.
As he walked, Sen Leo greeted people he’d known most of his life, waving to apothecaries, scribes, painters. Inside the temple,
he passed through the hidden door built into the mosaic and descended to the Mappa Mundi vault. There, he lit additional lamps
and emptied his satchel, spreading the tiny pieces out on the table.
Before him, the sympathetic model was nearly as complete as the Arkship itself. Since the laying of the keel, Sen Leo had
taken pieces of every component, trimmed them to scale, carved each item, and assembled an exact duplicate, bit by bit. Once
the Arkship sailed, this model—held in the castle—would be the only clear link with home.
Using a sharp knife, he whittled one of the wood pieces so that it fit where it belonged on the replica, on the small deck
aft. Before the Arkship departed, he would also make sure to obtain locks of King Korastine’s hair and Aldo’s hair to strengthen
the magical ties between the actual ship, the crew, and the model.
And, if possible, he would go along himself, for if the world was to be opened at last and the Saedran prophecy revealed,
then Sen Leo na-Hadra intended to be there in person.
From the deck of the battered patrol ship, Mateo scanned the sea and the coastline for any sign of Urecari raiders. It had
been more than a week since they’d glimpsed a colorful silken sail, but they all knew the enemy ships were out there, and
the soldiers aboard the
Raven
were spoiling for a fight.
Ship-to-ship battle was terrifying yet energizing, and Mateo had already seen two of his captains die in seagoing engagements.
He was under no illusion that his new rank as first mate would gain him riches or glory, but it did earn him respect, and
he was sure that Anjine would be impressed. But what would she think if she knew how difficult it really was?
Captain Trawna used signal flags to communicate with the five other ships in the patrol group. The watchful vessels plied
the southern waters where Urecari raiders were most likely to strike (although several weeks earlier a surprise enemy fleet
had arced north all the way to the southern tip of Iboria).
From the lookout nest, a sailor called, “Torch! I see a signal torch!” The crewmen scrambled to the port side, gazing toward
the coastline. In the distance they saw a smoky fire and bright orange flame atop the stone tower.
“Haul anchor and set sail,” Captain Trawna ordered, and signal flags passed the message around the patrol group. All six small
vessels stretched their canvas, caught the wind, and picked up speed. In the past six years a new network of signal towers
had been built at regular intervals along the coast, even where no navigation hazards existed. Someone on the shore had issued
a call for help.
The patrol group raced southward, catching the current. Mateo consulted the charts, and after marking the locations of prominent
villages, guessed the site of this unexpected strike: a village called Reefspur.
When the wind tapered off and blew in a contrary direction, the six captains ordered the drums brought out, and the sailors
began rowing to bring the patrol ships to their destination. They had no time to lose.
An extended reef created a calm harbor on the coast, and a thriving village had been built at the site. There, the patrol
group came upon a pair of large Urecari war galleys. The enemy raiders had closed in on Reefspur, expecting little resistance
from the villagers, whom they had already raided a decade earlier. Armed to the teeth, the Uraban soldiers pulled their small
rowboats toward shore, but when the Tierran patrol ships hove into view, the Uraban sailors still aboard the main galleys
banged alarm gongs to call their shipmates back. With a flurry, the raider rowboats turned around, but the Tierran patrol
ships sliced in and cut them off at the harbor’s edge.
Mateo and his exhilarated shipmates looked upon their prey with an almost savage hunger. Two Tierran ships remained in the
outer waters beyond the reef to block any escape route, while the
Raven
and the other three shallow-draft vessels crowded into the Reefspur harbor, driving the two large Uraban war galleys against
the coral breakwater. From the decks, the Aidenist soldiers issued a wordless cry of challenge.
Taking charge of a small squad of archers, Mateo directed them to fire a volley down into the open, overloaded rowboats, killing
dozens of Urabans like penned animals in the Butchers’ District. Several raiders dove overboard to get away, but the arrows
pierced the clear waters, and bristling bodies soon floated to the surface.
Mateo felt no sympathy for the Urecari at all, not after what he’d seen. They deserved the pain and death they received.
Sometimes, following the worst battles, he felt sick regret as he realized how much the war had already changed him. He was
now a person he had never expected to become when he first entered his military training in Alamont Reach. But he was doing
this for Tierra, for his king, and for Anjine. He would die for her, and he had already killed for her—many times.
The hot-blooded Tierrans drew swords and waved their blades at the skeleton crews aboard the Uraban war galleys. Two patrol
vessels pulled alongside the first foreign warship and threw fish-hook grapples to secure the vessels. The Uraban fighters
faced them from the decks, snarling and shouting in their incomprehensible language.
With a heart that felt as cold as Iborian ice and as hard as the steel of his sword, Mateo turned to his captain. “Sir, these
men came to prey upon a defenseless fishing village. Why not treat them like the cowards they are? Why should we let them
defend themselves, when they denied our people that honor?”
Captain Trawna was intrigued, a gleam of bloodlust and revenge showing in his eyes as well. “What do you have in mind?”
Mateo closed his eyes for just a moment, remembering Ilrida’s funeral ship catching fire as it sailed out to open sea, toward
legendary Terravitae. “I say burn them from here. They’re just raiders—our archers have a much greater range. Light our arrows
and torch the war galleys, then stand back and watch them roast.”
“I’m sure the crew would rather take these two as prizes, capture the Urecari as slaves.” Trawna was unsure of himself. “Could
be a tidy profit.”
But Mateo felt no greed within him, no desire for dealing with the troublesome complexities of capturing and repairing these
foreign ships, crewing them, and moving them north to Calay. He could see that the seamen wanted the same thing; many of them
had lost comrades and family members in raids.
“Maybe under different circumstances, Captain. This is not a business, sir, but a war. I am willing to forgo a handful of
coins if it shortens the lives of these monsters. Think of what they’ve done to our villages, what they intended to do here.”
His fellow sailors held their swords, anxious to leap across to the decks of the war galleys. The men were already disappointed
to consider killing the Urecari from a safe distance, but they certainly didn’t want to let the enemy live.
The captain sensed the mood immediately. “Very well, we’ll watch them roast from here.” He gave the order, signaling the two
Tierran patrol ships to withdraw.
Tierran archers fired a volley of blazing pitch-wrapped arrows into the two helpless Uraban war galleys. The arrows clung
to the decks, the masts. Burning shafts plunged through the colorful sails, which blazed quickly, turning brown, curling,
and finally raining fine ashes. Flames blinded the painted Eye of Urec in the center of each sail. Though the Uraban crew
scrambled to douse the fires with buckets of seawater, they could not catch the small blazes fast enough.
In his mind Mateo saw a picture of the ruthless Urecari riders in the streets of Ishalem, throwing torches, spreading the
fire, cutting down Aidenists who had simply wanted to help put out the flames. “If any of those men try to surrender, butcher
them like pigs.”
The
Raven
’s sailors contented themselves with that prospect. Mateo watched with no small amount of pleasure as the enemy raiders died
by water, by flame, by arrow, and by sword. The patrol captains ordered the Tierran ships to drop anchor outside of Reefspur
so the crews could watch until the Urecari vessels were nothing more than floating charred wrecks.
Word came to Olabar that five more Uraban fishing boats off the coast of Khenara had been boarded by Aidenist privateers,
the crews murdered, and the boats captured and taken back to Tierra.
The people in the streets of the capital city howled for revenge, demanding that the soldan-shah launch an immediate attack
on Tierran cities. Down in the square below the palace, they chanted for the death and damnation of all Aidenists. Careful
to remain out of view for the moment, Omra eased out onto the balcony high up on the white tower; he was buffeted by the swell
of voices, the thunderous waves of anger. He had to respond to it all somehow.
In the well-lit, airy chamber behind him, his advisers had gathered for hours to discuss further war plans. Their words strangled
him. He needed to step outside, breathe the fresh air, and see the sun reflecting off the whitewashed buildings that crowded
the city center like kneeling worshippers. When Omra stepped into full view at the balustrade, the resounding wave of cheers
nearly deafened him.
The jubilant sound of the populace was not just an expression of love, respect, and admiration for their soldan-shah. They
wanted him to fight back; they needed him to strike. The people pushed him to show no restraint, but he didn’t know if he
could give them what they demanded.
Inside the chamber, dark-skinned Ur-Sikara Erima sat beside three of her high-ranking priestesses. Hailing from Lahjar, Erima
had lived her life separate from the convoluted church and soldanate politics. Chosen to succeed Ur-Sikara Lukai, Erima was
a woman with no known enemies in Olabar, but also few alliances. In the eight years since assuming command of the Urecari
Church, the mahogany-skinned woman had stood by her beliefs and cemented new connections, while the other sikaras scrambled
to fit into the power structure. To her credit, Erima did not take rash and impulsive actions. In the palace meetings she
spoke little but listened intently, so that when she did comment, her words were well considered and interesting.
Also at the council meeting sat Kel Rovik, the captain of the palace guard, Kel Unwar, the leader of Omra’s horse soldiers,
Kel Zarouk, a veteran of dozens of naval battles, along with representatives of merchant families, town leaders, and all of
the soldanates. Zarouk was grim and impatient, waiting for Omra to return from the balcony. “It is time we take this war seriously,
Soldan-Shah. This is not a mating dance with endless and tentative moves of foreplay.”
Omra turned sharply. “You do not believe I take this war seriously?”
“I… I did not mean that, Soldan-Shah.” Zarouk flushed, averting his eyes. “But we cannot allow the situation to continue.
Think of all the Aidenist atrocities!”
“Have there not been plenty of atrocities on both sides?” Omra muttered, much to their surprise.
From where she sat at the end of the table, Ur-Sikara Erima spoke up at last. “I believe ours are
retaliations,
not atrocities.”
Kel Unwar rested his fists on the tabletop. “I suggest, Soldan-Shah, that we gather all our warships and pull together a navy
greater than the world has ever seen! Sail northward, blockade the Calay Harbor. We have enough soldiers. The Gremurr mines
now provide us all the weapons we need. We could crush the enemy capital once and for all.”
Two of the merchant leaders chimed in enthusiastically. “Yes, that would put an end to this war.”
“You think so?” Omra’s voice had a dangerous, razor-sharp edge. “Can you honestly believe it would be as simple as that? And
afterward, what would we do? If we took over Calay Harbor and attacked their people, do you not think that all five Tierran
reaches would retaliate against us? Do you seriously suggest we could conquer that entire continent with one battle in one
city? We don’t have the soldiers, the time, the weapons—or the fortitude. What you suggest would lead to decades of disaster.
Do you not think I have tried to imagine a simple, straightforward way to victory? Do you not think that King Korastine has
done the same?”