The Map of All Things (6 page)

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.

When he looked at the young townspeople, the active fishermen, the boys longing to go out to sea, he realized that many of them had not yet been born at the time of the devastating Urecari raid.

Without a word, he led Javian to the end of one of the old docks, not one of the newly rebuilt structures or the expanded wharves. Criston gestured out to the harbor opening and restless waves far beyond. He kept his voice low, musing to himself, although the young man listened with eager attention.

“I used to stand here and watch my father set off to sea every day in his fishing boat. I'd wave to him until I couldn't see him anymore. My mother would always tell him to be careful, and then she'd pray for Aiden to watch over him. But one day my father didn't come back. His boat sank, lost at sea in a storm—or maybe the Leviathan found him.”

He blinked furiously, but his eyes continued to burn. When he was younger, he had so wanted to be like his father. He had even purchased his own sailing boat to follow in Cindon Vora's footsteps, taking cargo back and forth to Calay. But that was before the
Luminara
… before everything.

“There were times when I'd sit here, on this dock, under the starlight with Adrea. I'd show her the constellations, and we'd talk about the wide world that neither of us had ever seen. The lands and seas seemed endless but reachable. The world was exciting.” He looked down at Javian. “So I understand your longing to sail off on the
Dyscovera
, I really do.”

The young man frowned and looked away. “We understand each other in many ways, Captain. But I ran away from home for entirely different reasons.”

“Are you going to try to see your father again before we depart?”

“No.”

Two bulky Soeland ships, former whalers now converted to patrol vessels, came into the harbor and dropped anchor away from the crowded docks; farther out to sea, Criston could see three sailing ships that were clearly of Uraban design, keeping station with two other Soeland patrol vessels; their colorful silken sails were patched, hulls repaired with fresh wood.

The people in town cheered the arrival of the ships. Stony-faced Destrar Tavishel himself rode in the first boat to shore. “Two more enemy vessels captured for the Tierran navy!” When he stepped onto the rocky beach, the people of Windcatch whistled. “Another Aidenist victory—and another seventy prisoners to be put to work in our camps.”

Rowboats shuttled the downcast captives to holding areas; the foreign men were tied together in strings like fish on a line, shuffling along, knowing they had no hope of escape. Destrar Tavishel had become a legend for his skill in intercepting Uraban ships, capturing their crews, and delivering the spoils of war to villages along the coast. Tavishel took little for himself, drawing satisfaction from hurting the followers of Urec, wherever he found them.

Javian looked with wide eyes at the captured ships and the many Uraban slaves, and Criston stared, trying to feel moved by the sense of celebration. “When I left here many years ago, Windcatch was a quiet place.”

Inside a new inn, he bought the young man a small cup of local kelpwine and a large one for himself, then they shared a bowl of the traditional stew of dried seaweed and shellfish. Criston recognized no one, including the bartender. It had been so many years since he'd left home, eager to sail off on the
Luminara
. Back then, expecting that nothing would change, he hadn't taken the time or trouble to notice his daily life. Now it was too late.

Stepping out of the inn, he looked toward the hill overlooking the town and the rebuilt Aidenist kirk. Yes, he would find Ciarlo there. “Follow me. There's someone I need to see before we go.”

The two trudged up the worn path to the house of worship. A cast-iron fishhook as tall as Javian graced the kirk's entrance. The window shutters were open wide to air out winter's leftover mustiness. In the garden beds out front, rows of seeds had been planted in newly turned soil, and fine green tendrils were already sprouting.

A man in prester robes limped out of the door, paused upon seeing Criston, then gasped. “I hoped you would come for one last visit before you sailed off again.”

Criston embraced Adrea's brother, but the sudden lump in his throat made it impossible to speak. Finally, he said, “I went away on the
Luminara
because I wanted to see what was out there, but I didn't realize the price I'd have to pay.” He stepped back, just looking at the other man. “This time, I have a different reason.”

“You can't fool me, Criston. This time, you think you have nothing to lose.” Then he broke into a smile. “Just greet Holy Joron for me when you see him, all right? I'll be waiting right here for Ondun to return.”

Remembering his companion, Criston introduced Javian. Ciarlo looked at the fourteen-year-old, adding the years in his mind, surely imagining how old Adrea's child—Criston's true son—would be now, if the raiders hadn't taken her. But both Adrea and the baby had probably died long ago. And Javian was much too young.

Turning to hide the tears in his eyes, Ciarlo effusively invited the two into the kirk. There, a dark-haired young boy nearly bowled them over, his arms wrapped around a half-empty cask of oil. Ciarlo reeled out of the way. “Careful, Davic! Spilled whale oil is not a mess
I
have any intention of cleaning up.”

The boy gulped and stuttered; he looked to be about eleven years old. “S-sorry, Prester Ciarlo, but you said that once I finished—” He caught himself, noticing the two strangers beside the prester. “Oh!”

Ciarlo laughed. “This is my enthusiastic helper Davic.”

“Pleased to meet you.” The boy steadied himself, bobbing his head toward the visitors. “I filled all the kirk's lamps, Prester, and I swept your office, like you asked. Then I stacked the books neatly.”

“Good enough. Now, put the oil back in the shed. Take a handful of dried peas and plant them in a row outside, and then you can be done for the day.” Ciarlo turned back to Criston, shaking his head indulgently. “You aren't the only one to take on a young lad who needs guidance in his life. This boy came to Windcatch six months ago after his family was killed in a Urecari raid on a nearby village. He had nowhere else to go. I found him here in the kirk, wanting to pray.” He tousled Davic's dark hair. “He assists in the dawn services each morning. Maybe one day he'll even want to become the town's prester. I could train him just as Prester Fennan trained me.”

Criston's expression hardened at the sharp memory. On the day of the Urecari raid, the town's previous prester had sacrificed his own life to give his lame apprentice time to hide.

Though the two boys were separated by only three years, Javian wanted to be considered an adult, while the other boy was more interested in play time, now that his chores were done. Davic bounded away outside, but Javian stayed with Criston.

For a late midday meal, they broke bread in Ciarlo's small parsonage adjacent to the kirk. Criston and his brother-in-law talked about nothing of consequence, basking in the shared company. Though neither man was old, both had lined and creased faces, aged more by harsh memories than by time itself.

When the low sun spilled a golden path across the sea, Criston excused himself and left the kirk. “There's one more visit I have to make.”

The graveyard on the hill outside of town had grown in the intervening years; a new section of eleven graves all dug in a single month when the gray fever swept through Windcatch. Criston went to a particular wooden post with its fishhook symbol, where he studied the weathered name of TELHA VORA, his mother. Another nearby post memorialized his beloved Adrea, though her body had never been found.
Maybe
she was still alive. Criston squeezed his eyes shut. He would never know.

As he sat there, saying goodbye for what might be the last time, Criston renewed his solemn promise to send Adrea letters. He would keep throwing the bottles into the sea, where he hoped the tides would bring them to their destination… wherever that was.

There was too much uncertainty. Whether Adrea was alive or dead, whether he would ever come back to Tierra, whether they would find what they sought. After the sinking of the
Luminara
, when Criston had been lost, he had felt like this. Adrift.

Back then he had taken refuge in his prayers, clinging to a fishline of hope that he would get home to Adrea. This time, though, he had no ties to bring him back to the known world….

He and Javian stayed the night with Ciarlo in the parsonage, then before the morning services they trudged back down to the town so they could take passage on the next cargo boat heading back to Calay. The
Dyscovera
would be waiting for them.