The Map of All Things (10 page)

19
Middlesea Coast, Outside of Olabar

Back from the Nunghal lands, Imir announced that he had something to show Soldan-Shah Omra—an intriguing “special demonstration.” His skin still looked pale from recently shaving his hair and beard. “My travels aren't just for my amusement and enrichment, you know. I never stopped thinking about how to strengthen Uraba.”

Together, they rode away from Olabar accompanied by a retinue of guards and advisers. “But the Tierrans also strengthen themselves. We fight them, they fight us,” Omra said. “We need to do more than just be strong, Father—we need a way to win.”

“Then I may have your solution. Just you wait.” Imir grinned and kicked his horse to a faster pace. “Have I told you stories about my father and his attempted raid on Tierra by riding overland north of the isthmus?”

“Many times,” Omra said, but it didn't stop Imir from continuing.

“Your grandfather Shieltar took a hundred horsemen into the hills, convinced he could find a way around the old Pilgrims' Road and strike deep into Aidenist lands before anyone knew they were coming. But the hills were rugged, the weather terrible, and as they pressed northward from Ishalem, the terrain forced them west, back toward the coast. Shieltar encountered a small cluster of homes—not even big enough to call a village, I suppose—and they set fire to a few buildings.

“But the Tierran farmers came out and defended themselves. One of them shot an arrow into Shieltar's breast… a lucky shot, no doubt. Not a fatal wound, but a debilitating one, and your grandfather was forced to call a retreat. His riders withdrew, avoiding pursuit… but got lost in the foothills. By the time they found their way back to Sioara, the soldan-shah's wound was infected and festering. A sikara healer cauterized it and saved his life, but it pained him until the end of his days.”

“Yes, I remember him complaining and telling the story when I was just a boy,” Omra said. “He never stopped blaming the Aidenists.”

Once he got started, Imir loved to tell his stories. “And then there was your great-grandfather, Soldan-Shah Untra, who fought an amazing naval battle against Tierran warships off the coast of Khenara.”

Before his father could go into detail, Omra broke in. “And before that, Oenar had
his
clashes… and each one was in response to something the Tierrans did to us. This conflict with the Aidenists is a constant spiral, spiraling out of control. But my war is different from those previous generations'. This isn't just a few skirmishes. This could be the end of all things. Unless we change it.”

“Oh, we will.” Imir grinned. “I needed to take you far away so no one else sees this. I expect it to be rather spectacular.”

They rode for an hour along the coast, finally approaching a small camp in dunes that were covered with salt grass and low succulents. A handful of industrious men stacked a large pile of wooden barrels out in an open area. Omra couldn't tell what they were doing.

A mousy Saedran man fussed over the barrels, rapping them with his knuckles, leaned close to sniff the contents. When they arrived at the camp, the Saedran man approached them, bowed to the soldan-shah, then looked at Imir with palpable awe. His voice cracked and stuttered as he spoke. “My Lord, my
Lords
!” His hair stuck out in brown patches around his ears. “The demonstration is ready! We have never tried an experiment so large—I hope we do not crack the world itself.”

Omra raised his eyebrows in surprise, and Imir laughed again. “We'd better sit far away. Omra, this man is an apothecary, Killin na-Fas. This recipe he's brewed—according to my instructions—will change the face of the world.”

“Or crack it in half,” Killin repeated soberly.

Brushing the apothecary's concerns aside, Imir pointed to a high dune in the distance. “We can observe from there.” The group of advisers followed them as they rode off to the rise of sand.

Below, Killin na-Fas checked the piles of barrels one more time, then laid out a long cord that extended well away from the kegs. The nervous Saedran shooed the other workers away, and they all ran to dunes on the outskirts.

Omra shaded his eyes, trying to see. “What is he doing?”

“Hush. Just watch!” Their horses nuzzled the succulent weeds but did not find them appetizing.

With a flint and steel, Sen Killin struck a spark on the long rope. As soon as a tiny curl of smoke rose from the fuse, he ran for his life, sandaled feet kicking up clouds of dust and sand.

Omra chuckled at the comical sight, but the Saedran apothecary looked genuinely frightened. The soldan-shah leaned over the pommel of his saddle, watching as the smoke crawled along the cord toward the piled barrels.

Imir leaned close, spoke in a conspiratorial voice. “I've already told you about Nunghal firepowder. Remember how they use it to make brilliant fireballs in the sky for their own enjoyment?”

“You haven't stopped talking about it for five years.”

“Well, Khan Jikaris finally gave me the recipe.” Imir hunkered deep into the saddle, heels down, grabbing pommel, mane, and reins. “Watch what it can do.”

The smoking line reached the barrels. The explosion was like all the thunderclaps of a thousand thousand storms. Fire blasted in every direction, heaving a pillar of smoke and displaced sand into the air, higher than the towers of the Olabar palace.

The group of horses shied, reared, and screamed, their eyes rolling in fear. Omra, sitting too high out of the saddle, was nearly thrown and barely managed to keep hold of the reins. Next to him, having been prepared for the explosion, his father was laughing like a delighted child.

The workers nearest the detonation fled as far and as fast as they could, shielding their heads. After he had wrestled his horse back under control, Omra stared in awe as black smoke rolled toward them like a sandstorm. Seconds later, they were pelted by an unexpected rain of dust, clods of dirt, and splinters of barrels. When the smoke and dust began to clear, he nudged his skittish mount into a gallop to see the aftermath.

On the edge of the blast area, Killin na-Fas stood dumbly with eyes wide, his face coated with dirt and sand, hair sticking out in all directions like a dandelion puff. At the soldan-shah's approach, Killin tried to smear his hair down, which only made it worse. “My Lord, were you impressed?”

“Extremely so.”

Where the kegs had been piled, a wide crater yawned in the sand, a giant scar gouged into the world. Omra stared into the deep hole, where water began to seep into the bottom, leaking from the nearby Middlesea.

Imir laughed uproariously as he rode up behind his son. “It was magnificent!” He clapped his hands. “Imagine the Aidenist army facing that, eh! They'll be so terrified they'll drop their fishhooks where they stand.”

Omra remained fascinated as the water continued to fill the bottom of the crater. In the back of his mind he mused about something else. “Work crews would have taken days to make such an excavation… yet this was blasted in an instant.” He gave the former soldan-shah an enthusiastic smile as plans began to form in his mind. “Your firepowder may have other uses as well, Father.”

20
Calay

Since it was nearly time to leave, Criston sought out Prester Hannes, whom he had rescued and befriended in a high mountain meadow so many years ago. Fully aware of the tribulations the prester had endured, and how his faith remained a bright candle throughout the most furious storms of suffering, Criston knew the measure of the man. He did not doubt Hannes's strength.

The
Dyscovera
needed a man like him.

In Calay's main kirk, as the soldiers continued to come home from the Ishalem battlefield, Prester-Marshall Rudio had changed the usual droning tone of his sermons, replacing it with real anger. A fire of indignation had been lit under the old church leader as he now realized—as did all Aidenists—that the enemy would continue to hold and desecrate the holy city.

Trying to rally the faithful, the prester-marshall assigned groups of young presters to pray in shifts around the clock, constantly begging Ondun to help the faithful against the heretics that had infested Ishalem. They beseeched God to swoop down with His holy sword and exterminate all the followers of Urec.

But Criston had other business at the kirk.

The presters and scholars were surprised when he asked to see Hannes, but they invited him through the echoing stone halls to the seminary quarters. “He has few visitors, sir,” said the skinny young man who escorted him. “In fact, he has few friends even among the presters.”

Criston gave a sharp answer. “Hannes has endured more tribulations than you can imagine. Do not judge him so harshly.”

The young man looked abashed. “I am sorry, sir. I will ponder that during this evening's devotions.”

When the door opened, Criston saw that his friend's cell was small, dim, and austere—perfectly suited to a solitary man's tastes. By the glow of a stubby candle, the prester hunched over two large books, the Book of Aiden and a weathered copy of Urec's Log, in which he furiously wrote comments and refutations. In recent years, Hannes had become an expert in the opposing faith, using his knowledge to point out the rival book's numerous flaws and contradictions.

When Hannes glanced up with a scowl at the interruption, Criston instantly remembered how close the man had come to death before being coaxed back from the brink. Though the prester remained gaunt and haunted-looking, the hollows were not so dark around his eyes, and his flesh had filled out, but his tense posture still showed a ready combativeness to defend his beliefs.

Hannes's expression changed to one of surprised recognition. “It's… you!” He stood, showing a genuine smile. “I haven't seen you in years.”

Smiling warmly, Criston stepped into the cell. “We've both changed a lot since those hard days.”

“These are still hard days.” Hannes closed the book, as Criston caught a glimpse of the extensive scribblings in the margins. “Have you heard? I just found a way through the Corag mountains. I went back, retraced my steps, and came back with my faith stronger than ever.”

Criston could never forget finding the man, dressed in tatters, frostbitten and starving, in one of the high mountain meadows. Criston had nursed him back to health, heard his tale, and delivered him safely to civilization again.

Floating in the wreckage of the
Luminara
, Criston had endured an ordeal as horrific as this man's. Lost far out at sea, he had never truly believed he would be rescued, and yet Prester Jerard had helped him cling to hope. Few others could understand adversity, and salvation, the way he and Hannes could. They shared a bond.

“That's why I came. You survived where anyone else would have died. You achieved the impossible.”

Exactly what the
Dyscovera
hoped to do.

Hannes showed no pride. “I had to. Aiden kept me alive for a purpose.”

“That's why I need you. I don't doubt that you stayed alive for a reason—and now that reason is clear to me.”

Now the prester was interested. “Ondun speaks to you as well?”

“Doesn't He speak to everyone, in His own way?” Criston sat down on a wooden stool, the only piece of furniture besides the narrow sleeping pallet. “When I heard that you had just returned to Calay, I knew it was a sign from Ondun. The
Dyscovera
will sail shortly, and we need you.”

Hannes seemed distracted. “The new ship? Yes… I heard about that.” It was obvious the prester had been paying little attention to the outside world.

“I am her captain. And I require someone familiar with the Book of Aiden. Someone I know… someone whose faith I need not question.”

Hannes was astonished. The last they'd seen of each other, Criston had lived alone, tending sheep in the isolated mountains. “You're the captain of the
Dyscovera
? But you were just a… hermit. A shepherd.”

“I'm a different man now. I've emerged from the darkness, and the king has given me the mission of finding Holy Joron. I want you to join my crew. Sail with me to the edge of the world.”

Hannes scarcely knew what to say. “But the Gremurr mines, the path through Corag. Nothing can stop the armies of Aiden now.”

“You have already shown them the way. But if we rediscover Terravitae, if we stand before Holy Joron—isn't that a greater victory against the enemy? Ask yourself, which is the better use of your abilities?”

Hannes's eyes shone with a different light now. “Yes, if Joron still has the powers that Ondun gave him, and if we tell him all the atrocities committed by the Urecari, he will surely rise up and ally himself with us!”

The stubby candle flickered from a stray breeze that crept through a loose casing in the window. “Yes, I will go with you to Terravitae. I'll be your crew's spiritual guide, and I will be Aiden's emissary to Joron. After all the tribulations in my life, I've earned it.”

21
Bora's Bastion, Alamont Reach

The slave camp covered—and ruined—acres of fertile river flatlands that would have been better used for growing crops, Shenro thought. Inside the fences lived more than two thousand followers of Urec who had been seized in raids of their coastal towns or captured along with their ships at sea. Within the sturdy fences, the provisions were meager, the tent shelters squalid, people crowded in conditions that the Alamont destrar would not have inflicted on cattle.

On the other hand, cattle had a definite value.

And after what he had just learned of their race's treachery at the Ishalem wall, turning what should have been a glorious reconquest of the holy city into a humiliating rout, Shenro was not of a mind to show sympathy to these pathetic Curlies.

Now that winter was over, the prisoners required little in the way of shelter; besides, Urecari didn't deserve comforts. After all, up and down the Tierran coast, countless murdered Aidenist villagers were not “comfortable” in their cold graves. None of those recently betrayed soldiers at Ishalem were “comfortable.”

No, he would not show any sympathy. There must be some way to make them pay, to balance the accounting sheets, for what the Urecari had done.

With a pinched look on his face, Shenro rode the fenceline with his guard patrol. Because he sat on such a fine horse, every camp prisoner could tell that he was an important man. Some even recognized him as the destrar, the man who controlled their destinies.

Shenro rode a gradual circuit of the perimeter so that he could see their haunted expressions. The sharp smoke from small campfires could not mask the odor of all those close-packed human bodies. His men provided the captives with shovels to dig their own latrines; the shovels were inventoried and collected nightly, so the prisoners could not dig their way out and escape. No follower of Urec could be trusted.

Every day, carts brought barrels of river water for the camp's cooking, bathing, and drinking needs, but that was all Shenro provided. If the captives wanted food, they had to work. He would not whip them into toiling in the wheat fields or marshy rice paddies. The Book of Aiden denounced slavery, and therefore the prisoners' work had to be voluntary.

But if they didn't work, they didn't eat.

Another “volunteer” crew filed through the gates, escorted out to the crops under the watchful eyes of a dozen archers. Outside the main entrance, Shenro had erected a newly commissioned bronze statue of a brave horseman, symbolizing the ninety vengeful riders who had raced from Bora's Bastion to Ishalem to overthrow the Urecari invaders… only to be slain by the enemy. The people of Alamont were proud of those fallen warriors, and the statue was a reminder of why the prisoners had to be held inside the fences, why these Urabans had to atone for the crimes of their people.

The foreign prisoners, though, looked on the statue with an entirely different emotion, hating what it symbolized. The work crew shuffled past, few of them even glancing at the sculpture. This group would spread buckets of human and animal manure onto the croplands; other teams would pull up spiny thistles with their bare hands. Once they put in a day of work, the captives received a meal of watery porridge and perhaps some leftover catfish from the river markets. Shenro found it a gratifying irony to see these enemies of Aiden planting and harvesting crops to feed the army that would defeat them.

A handful of Urecari fanatics steadfastly refused to accept the work option. Although occasionally workers smuggled food to them, most of the fanatics remained defiant to the last and refused to eat. With no qualms, Shenro let them die.

After three cases of cholera had appeared in the past month, Shenro grudgingly set up sick tents and encouraged better hygiene in the camp. As Urabans, they were naturally infested with vermin. He and his men rode along with a sharp eye on the crowds, alert for any signs of fever or malady. While their health mattered little to him personally, a plague in the camp might spread to Bora's Bastion and his own people.

From behind the fence, a woman stared at him, her shadowed eyes ablaze with hatred. Shenro did not flinch, but rather met her stare. It was easy to maintain his resolve by remembering that nearly four thousand good soldiers had recently fallen at the Ishalem wall because of Urecari treachery. The enemy played by such inhuman rules, they couldn't possibly be considered human.

Destrar Shenro had developed his own plan to make the Curlies pay for what they had done. He hated to waste resources, but some things were required by a higher morality….

Satisfied with what he had seen, the destrar rode back to his tall main house, which overlooked the boat and barge traffic on the river. He called for Captain Jillac, the manager of the prison camp. The two often met to discuss the prisoners and the daily tasks required of them to earn their food. Today, however, Shenro had something else in mind.

Jillac arrived, his garments moist with sweat from his day at work, but Shenro didn't mind. The destrar poured them each a glass of good Alamont wine. “How many prisoners currently reside in our camp, Captain?”

Jillac didn't pause to consider. “Two thousand three hundred and sixteen, although we may have lost a few more since this morning, when we hauled out five bodies.”

“What did they die of? Cholera again?”

“Starvation, I think. Or just plain stubbornness. I don't worry too much about a dead follower of Urec.”

Shenro pressed his lips together, deep in thought. The galling defeat at Ishalem—the haunted look on Subcomdar Mateo Bornan's face—convinced him what had to be done. “I have long been a student of military history, Captain, but I've never heard of atrocities that match what the Curlies have inflicted on us in this war.”

Jillac nodded. “You'll get no argument from me, my Lord.”

“All those prisoners—we've fed them, given them a new home, even offered to instruct them in the light of Aidenism. We could have executed them outright instead of taking them under our wing.”

“They are primarily civilians, sir, not enemy soldiers.”

Shenro set down his goblet with a hard click. “Any person who wears the unfurling fern is an enemy soldier in his heart, even if he carries no weapon.”

“I wasn't making excuses for them, Destrar.”

“Unfortunately, we need those workers, and Destrar Siescu in Corag will be assigning others to hard labor. I can't waste them all, but an accounting still needs to be made.” Shenro leaned back in his chair. “Distribute numbered discs to each person inside the fences. Every camp guest from captured soldiers and old men to women and children—all two thousand three hundred and sixteen of them.”

Jillac began scribbling on a small slate board he kept with him, frowning as he worked out the details in his mind.

“Let me know when it's finished, and then I would like to address the prisoners. Please see that we have a Urecari translator available.”

“Yes, Destrar.” Jillac departed, and Shenro remained wrapped up in his hard decision while he finished his wine.

As the sun set behind rolling hills, Shenro stood atop a wooden platform that had been built outside the camp's front gate. The blaze of color in the sky gave a rich, fiery glow to the new bronze statue of the martyred horseman.

From twenty feet above the ground, Shenro could see the squalid tents and cookfires inside the camp fence. Beside him, a wide-bellied cauldron held chits marked with numbers identical to the ones distributed among the prisoners.

He addressed the captives from his perch. “Four hundred of you will be chosen for a special duty.” Beside him on the platform stood a Uraban merchant, a simpering and cooperative man who hoped to improve his status in the camp. The translator repeated the words in Uraban gibberish.

A separate fenced area like a large corral had been set aside adjacent to the main camp. There were no facilities, since the holding area was only temporary. That day, bearlike Sazar had unloaded three large riverboats, which remained tied up to the docks at Bora's Bastion. Seeing the empty riverboats, the prisoners muttered amongst themselves, convinced that the four hundred chosen would be taken elsewhere. Shenro thought it best to keep them guessing.

As he called out numbers one at a time, those selected came forward, some of them trading numbered discs because families wanted to stay together. Some insisted on staying in the Alamont camp, while others begged to be allowed to go. Amongst two thousand people, it was hard to find a particular number when someone refused to come forward; out of impatience, Shenro soon had the men grab any person at random.

It was full dark by the time the separate stockade was crowded with the chosen ones. Captain Jillac lit torches around the camp. As the captives grew restless, the buzzing of their jabber increased. They were hungry, impatient, fearful.

At last, the selection was done. Four hundred people out of 2,316. The Book of Aiden called for a payment of debts, especially blood debts, but Shenro could not justify one for one. Four thousand loyal Aidenist soldiers had died at Ishalem. One Uraban captive would have to atone for ten Tierran warriors. He did not see these captives as innocents—even the women and children.

He raised his voice to a shout. “Four thousand good soldiers recently died at Ishalem because of Urecari deceit. They sacrificed their lives trying to regain the holy city in the name of Ondun.” The destrar spoke with such fervor that the stumbling translator had difficulty keeping up.

As the Uraban merchant repeated the announcement, the selected captives in the corral began to guess what Shenro meant to do, and the uproar grew louder. Mothers grasped their children. Inside the fences, the Urecari prisoners began hurling their numbered discs, which pattered around the wooden platform.

Shenro did not flinch as he finished his well-considered speech. “For Ondun's sake, we must balance the scales. There can no longer be such an unjust deficit of lives.”

Four hundred… it was not such a large number. One for ten. And it was just.

Captain Jillac's fifty archers, each with a full quiver of arrows, surrounded the separate corral. “Draw your bows!”

The merchant translator on the platform quailed and begged Shenro not to do this, but the destrar cuffed him on the side of the head, then pushed him off the platform. The man tumbled twenty feet to the hard-packed ground, and Shenro heard a snap of bone as the merchant's ankle broke. The man began wailing in pain, no longer concerned about those trapped in the corral.

The selected ones tore at the fence, trying to rush forward.

Shenro issued the command himself. “Loose your arrows!”

With a singing hum from above, the strings twanged and a merciless rain of arrows lanced into the pen. A second volley came close after the first, and then a third, showering down on the four hundred prisoners. The unfortunate captives dropped like scythed stalks of wheat. Some men or women attempted to shield their children and died, their backs prickling with the deadly quills. More arrows came, more bodies fell. Men, women, children—they were all the same. Numbers.

Inside the larger camp, the remaining Urecari howled in outrage, but Shenro's soldiers used cudgels to beat back the mob. There would be plenty of them left to send to Destrar Siescu in Corag; he would get his road through the mountains.

The blood looked black in the orange torchlight. “Archers, continue until every one of these prisoners has fallen. Four hundred—that is the price Ondun demands.”

After it was done, he sent footsoldiers in among the fallen with daggers to dispatch any who still lived. Many Alamont soldiers looked queasy about what they were asked to do, but Shenro felt no sympathy for them; as members of the Tierran army, they would need to become hardened to the horrors of a battlefield.

The merchant translator was still squirming on the ground with his broken ankle; Captain Jillac thrust a sword through his chest to silence him.

On his high platform, Shenro felt detached and distant. His skin prickled with the powerful realization of what he had done, but he could feel nothing inside. Though he no longer had a translator, he spoke again. “That is the blood you owe for Ishalem. That is the price you must pay for your crimes against Tierra and your sins against God.”

Shenro climbed down from the speaking platform and walked back to his main house that overlooked the river, his gaze fixed forward. He did not doubt that he would have to balance the scales again.