The Key to Creation (52 page)

“These are all ancient and sacred relics,” King Sonhir said.

“Valuable, too,” Dolicar added. He was fascinated by the lock on the petrified wooden trunk. “I could possibly pick that lock. Let’s see what’s inside the chest—there might be a message for whoever finds these two men.”

“We should not damage or disturb any of these objects,” said Sen Aldo. “Anything we do here could have grave repercussions. We must be very careful.”

Criston was the first to step forward, fascinated by the bound book resting on top of the chest. He touched the cover, smudged away a tiny film of frost, then picked up the tome. When Criston opened the cover, the leather binding creaked and snapped, stiff with cold. “It’s an account of their voyage back. This is the Book of Aiden and Urec.”

“Sikaras and presters need to read this,” Saan said. “It will tell us what really happened. This is proof.”

“It’s just a book,” Hannes said. “Anyone could have put it there…just like the obelisk on that island.”

“It is a priceless record. We have to study it,” Sen Sherufa said. She glanced over at Hannes. “You can read it as well, Prester.”

“I have already read the Book.” He turned his attention to Criston. “How can you so easily change your own beliefs, Captain?” He looked around, his expression now beseeching. “This is not what we were supposed to find in Terravitae. These discoveries will shatter the beliefs of all Aidenists—and Urecari as well. We can’t allow that.”

“There’s no need to rush,” said Criston. “Each of our ships has sailed a year to get to this place. Let’s study the relics and learn more before we take drastic action.”

“More importantly,” Saan said, holding Ystya’s hand, “we’ve got all of Terravitae to explore. We just landed, and we need to find Joron, perhaps some evidence of Ondun’s home. There’s a whole continent to see.”

Ishalem Canal

Though the ironclads were trapped in the Ishalem canal, Destrar Broeck had no intention of failing in his mission. Ishalem was his target, and his armored warships had already penetrated to the heart of the holy city. He wasn’t going to let rows of chained powderkegs stop his assault.

“Iborians have never needed ironclads to win a battle. We’ll go ashore and storm the city on foot!” While the Uraban army faced Queen Anjine’s main force at the wall, his hundreds of soldiers would surprise the enemy from behind.

His orders spread down the line of ironclads, and the men cheered as they lowered boats down into the narrow canal. Some of the eager men simply dove overboard and swam toward the nearby docks.

The ironclads were invaluable military assets, and Broeck disliked simply abandoning these giant warships in the canal. But where could the Urecari take them? In fact, he had half a mind to ignite the line of powderkegs himself, sink the heavy vessels, and clog the strategic waterway just to spite the Curlies.

But the destrar was more optimistic than that, and he wanted to keep the Ishalem canal open for when the Tierrans conquered the city. Comdar Rief could lead the full Tierran navy into the Middlesea and devastate all those enemy ports that had never before faced an outside attack.

However, the trapped ironclads were directly within range of the watchtowers on either side of the canal. From the top of the towers, sentries creaked small catapults forward and turned winches to pull down throwing arms. Iaros yelped a warning as Urabans filled the catapult baskets with large stones and debris.

The first boulder crashed down on the deck of the
Wilka
, sending shattered boards and crewmembers flying. From the opposite bank of the canal, a second watchtower catapult launched its load with a loud
thwack
and whistling cry. A stone block crashed through the
Raathgir
’s mainmast and into the water, narrowly missing some of the Aidenist fighters who were splashing their way to the canal’s edge.

A few of Broeck’s men shot arrows at the watchtowers, but the Urabans took cover on the battlements while they continued to load their catapults. The canal waters were clogged with swimming men and crowded boats. Many Tierran soldiers reached the docks, where they climbed out of the water and turned back to watch the continued catapult bombardment.

Next, the Urabans hurled burning tar-covered timbers that crashed into the ironclads’ sails, setting them aflame. Within moments, a stray spark was sure to catch on one of the floating powderkegs in the line. Broeck shouted for all of his men to jump overboard and make their way to shore by any means possible. “Abandon ship!”

Giant boulders struck three of the ironclads, projectiles large enough to crack even the reinforced hulls. As water rushed in and the flames rose high, the armored ships wallowed and sank in the shallow canal. Another thump sounded, then a buzzing sound rolled overhead just before a block smashed the stern of the
Raathgir
. Iaros was still waving his hands, shouting orders for his men to leave the ship.

Broeck bellowed to his nephew, “Go! Get off of there!”

He saw a flash of light from behind the line of ships, followed by a rumbling roar. Someone had lit the rear lines of powderkegs. Explosions erupted in a steady, deadly succession, one keg igniting after another. The rearmost vessel, and possibly two beyond that, sank. Flames were everywhere. Smoke curled into the sky.

Looking ahead, the destrar spotted two Uraban men swimming along the forward line of chained kegs, holding firebrands up out of the water. The destrar grabbed a bow that someone had dropped on the deck, found a loose arrow, and made his shot.

The arrow knifed into the water near the kegs like a leaping fish, making the Uraban man jump. With greater urgency, the man worked a bung free, pushed a wadded cloth fuse into the top of the keg, and pressed his burning brand against it. Broeck shot three more arrows and received momentary satisfaction when he saw one strike the Uraban in the back. The man floated next to the smoldering fuse of the powder keg.

When the small barrel exploded, it ignited the second, which exploded and caught the next along the chain, and the next. When the other lines detonated as well, the firepowder hurled flames and shards into the air, ripping out the
Wilka
’s bow. Broeck was thrown to the deck, his skin sliced in a thousand places, his hair singed, maybe even on fire. He forced himself back up to his hands and knees.

The watchtower catapults launched a renewed storm of huge stone projectiles.

Iaros barely knew how to swim—the waters of Iboria Reach were too cold to consider such a thing—but now he thrashed across the canal to the shore. Though his heavy leather armor, shield, and sword dragged him down, he gasped and paddled and kept going.

The firepowder explosions deafened him, and he ducked his head under the water to avoid the rain of debris. He pulled himself up again, coughing, and swam forward. A stubby pier was close at hand, and when he grasped the wet piling, he felt safe again.

Around him, many fellow soldiers climbed out of the canal, their bloodthirsty mood sodden as they looked back at the smashed and burning warships. Iaros climbed up onto the dock, panting, dripping—and turned to see the
Wilka
a flaming wreck, her bow destroyed. The sails were an inferno, and she canted to port as her hull filled with water through a ragged dark hole in the side.

Iaros stared in dismay, as if someone had wrenched his heart from his chest. He could still discern a figure on the deck—his uncle!—struggling as the warship heeled over. The flames were high, and the ship was collapsing like a wounded mammoth. He could do nothing to help Broeck. Another catapult projectile—a giant block of whitewashed stone, colorfully decorated with…frescoes?—crashed into the
Wilka
’s deck, sending up a geyser of sparks and splinters.

On shore, the men roared in anger and prepared to run through the streets intent on revenge. Iaros stood in nauseated shock, but he knew that if he did not lead the soldiers now, they would run off without a plan and divide into smaller groups, which would be slaughtered one by one. He had to rally them into a single charge. Yes, that was what Destrar Broeck would want him to do.

The burning hulk of the
Wilka
continued to sink, and he watched the destrar go down with his ship. Iaros swallowed hard to realize that
he
was the Iborian destrar now. He had never expected this day to come so soon.

And as the new destrar, Iaros would not let his first act be the loss of his men! He shook dripping water from his hair, brandished his sword, and shouted to the hundreds of Tierran soldiers who were already ashore. It was time to lead them deep into Ishalem.

Ishalem Wall

A constant whicker of arrows flew from the long-range Alamont bows, and Uraban soldiers fell from the stone wall like rows of harvested wheat.

“I don’t think they much care for our surprise, my Queen,” Shenro said in a smug tone. Jenirod sat on his saddle, his face pale but satisfied.

As she watched, Anjine could not help smiling. The horse shifted restlessly beneath her, uneasy from the commotion, but she squeezed her thighs and yanked the reins, bringing the mare under control. “Two more volleys, then move forward.”

“Get those wagons ready!” Subcomdar Hist shouted.

Field commanders repeated the queen’s orders, and footsoldiers cleared the way for overloaded horse carts to come forward. The large battering rams lay on the road, untouched. The Alamont archers shot more arrows, continuing the mayhem, though all of the Urabans on the wall had already fallen or fled. The far-flung arrows passed over the barrier and pattered indiscriminately into the streets of Ishalem, where they were no doubt taking a great toll.

The queen watched, her jaw set, her eyes bright. The blue-and-green Tierran banner flapped behind her. Dray horses strained against the traces, and the heavily laden carts rumbled forward.

  * * *

Despite the enemy army hammering God’s Barricade, Kel Unwar could think only of Alisi. He had seen to it that Soldan-Shah Omra was safe, and now he had to concentrate on his sister. No one else knew the Teacher’s secret.

“Don’t take me to a surgeon.” She clutched at his arm with a gloved hand. “Don’t let them take my mask…or see me.”

Even if he managed to convince a Uraban surgeon to leave the polished silver mask in place despite her choking on blood, her garments would have to be cut away in order to remove the arrow. With one look at her body, her breasts, the surgeon would know the truth. Alisi could never allow that.

During the panicked retreat from the hailstorm of arrows and the chaos of screaming wounded, Unwar dragged the Teacher’s limp body to a small storage building nearby. He kicked in the door, pulled her inside.

Though the arrow protruded from her chest, Alisi said she did not think it had pierced her lung. Working intently, his expression grave, Unwar used his dagger to slice the fabric of her dark robe and expose the arrow shaft.

“It’s not bad—the bone stopped it. I can cut it out.” He wasn’t lying to her. Unwar had been a battlefield commander, and he knew about emergency medicine. He looked down at the knife, and his voice became quiet as he braced himself. “This is sharp. I’ll be as quick as I can.”

“I am used to pain. I’ve had enough of it, and what you do can’t possibly be worse than the abuse I suffered from the Aidenists. Do it.”

“I hate that they’ve hurt you again,” he said through clenched teeth.

Unwar cut with the dagger tip, extending the wound just enough that he could work the arrow back and forth; he finally tugged it free with a grating, sucking sound. Alisi nearly fainted, but she uttered only a quiet whimper and kept the rest of the pain within, as she always did.

She bled, but not as much as Unwar had expected. He unwrapped his olba, cut the cloth into strips, and bound her wound around her shoulders and chest; the olba soaked up the blood and kept her arms immobile.

“I’ll live, brother—but not if the Aidenists break through. You have your duty. Go, and defend Ishalem.”

Unwar knew well enough not to argue with her. Understanding his obligations, he raced back to the wall.

In the lull after the Uraban defenders died or fled from the storm of arrows, Anjine’s soldiers seized the opportunity. Jenirod grabbed the lead. “Hurry, men—get those wagons to the wall and the gate!” The seven carts creaked forward on the weed-overgrown road, and the dray horses snorted.

Behind the high wall, moans rose from the wounded and dying. A few surviving soldiers poked their heads out from the parapets to see what the Aidenists were doing. Spotting the barrel-loaded wagons, a young Uraban soldier waved his hands and shouted, “Soldan-Shah! Soldan-Shah!” Ten arrows peppered his body and drove him backward before he could give any details.

Anjine’s sword felt light in her hand. The carts seemed to go so slowly! The wooden wheels bumped over rocks, and the horses strained until the large wagons were up against the stone wall and towering gate. “In the name of Aiden,” she whispered, “this barricade must fall.”

On the wall, a group of Urecari soldiers struggled to shoot arrows and throw rocks down at the vulnerable drovers, but the Urabans were wounded, and their aim was poor. Several arrows stuck into the piled barrels, and one grazed Jenirod’s mount, leaving a red wound on its flank. He wrestled with the reins to control the horse. “Hurry! Unhitch the horses and light the fuses!”

While Aidenist soldiers held shields over their heads as best they could, the wagonmasters worked at the quick-release Eriettan harnesses. The wagonmasters jumped onto the freed horses and rode away, while the huddled soldiers struck sparks to the fuses with flint and steel.

“Light only one on each wagon—the rest will take care of themselves!” Jenirod shouted.

Finally the fuses caught, and the soldiers ran away as if pursued by monsters, holding their shields behind them to protect against Uraban arrows. Jenirod turned his mare about, scooped up a young soldier who had fallen behind his comrades, and pulled him across his saddle. Uraban sentries clamored for help, and Jenirod smiled as he galloped back toward Anjine and the front line of waiting troops.