106 Farport, Soeland Reach

The worst of the hurricane struck the Tierran coast from Erietta southward, barely grazing the islands of Soeland Reach. And Soelanders did not let such weather deter them from their activities.

When he finally learned what the abhorrent Curlies had done to Prince Tomas, Destrar Tavishel swiftly set course for home. His mood was black with the need for vengeance. Though the news inflamed his rage, Tavishel did not shout in anger or smash things. Instead, he locked himself inside his cabin, where he could think. And they tried to place the blame on his actions? Those animals would have found another reason to cut off the boy's head even if he and Jenirod hadn't struck the heathen fountain.

The queen's retaliation of dumping a thousand Urecari heads was a good start, but not enough. He had ideas of his own. By the time his patrol ships anchored at Farport, he already had rough drawings completed. He was not an engineer like Destrar Unsul of Erietta, but the concept was plain. He would find someone to build it.

Once in port, Tavishel halted all unnecessary work, and his carpenters spent weeks building mangonels—compact but powerful catapults—from any suitable wood, cutting down the island's remaining tall trees or commandeering fresh Iborian wood from the lumberyards. Nothing had a higher priority.

While the storm churned the Oceansea and then petered out as it moved inland, Soeland work crews anchored the broad-based mangonels to the decks of the patrol ships. Tavishel had seen what such devices could do against solid barriers, and he saw no reason why the small catapults could not be used from his sturdy ships, provided his men reinforced the top decks and anchored them securely enough. The Soeland carpenters added so many thick support beams underneath the main deck that the crewmen had trouble moving about below.

During the refit project, Tavishel barely spoke to his second wife, who was a stranger to him anyway. He slept only a few hours each night, eager to sail for the isthmus as soon as the modifications were completed. His anger was not a capricious thing that faded easily. Even so, he did not want to delay.

From his stone house overlooking the rugged port, Tavishel listened to the sounds of hammers, saws, and winches. Since he never took his meals in the dim, echoey dining room, Tavishel's wife brought him a tureen of chowder in his study. Though they spoke little to each other under any circumstances, she joined him for the meal. He dutifully complimented his wife's cooking, but she seemed like a faint shadow to him. His original wife and children still felt more real….

Burnet, his master carpenter, summoned him down to the docks. “The first mangonel has been completed and installed, Destrar, and is ready to be tested. I've anchored and reinforced the throwing arm and base, but no one quite knows what will happen until we use it.”

“We shall see for ourselves. I'll gather a skeleton crew, and we can head out to deep water for a test.”

His men loaded the decks with hundreds of small whale-oil casks, which could be set aflame then hurled from a catapult basket to smash into enemy fortifications. The whaling season had just ended, and their oil stockpiles were at their peak; this year, Soeland Reach would not be selling all of the harvest to Calay and other Tierran ports.

When the catapult ship sailed out of Farport, the water was choppy, the breeze scouring and cold. Goosebumps prickled the destrar's shaved scalp, more from anticipation than chill.

Groaning and laughing with the strain, the bearded Soelanders cranked their winches, tightened ropes against the pulleys, and drew down the catapult's throwing arm. The metal wheel clanked, one tooth at a time, until the bent and resilient wood quivered with pent-up energy. A redheaded sailor hefted a small keg of whale oil, set it into the catapult's basket, and used his flint and steel to strike a spark on a wadded rag thrust through the bung hole. As soon as the rag smoldered, the redheaded sailor scrambled backward.

Tavishel did not wait. “Launch, before the whale oil explodes.”

The master carpenter released the throwing arm, and the mangonel swung upward with a great groan and crack. The keg of whale oil sailed through the air, reached the top of its arc, and tumbled toward the water. It caught fire midway down, and when the flaming keg struck the water, it shattered, spilling ignited oil across the waves.

“Imagine if that were to fall onto Urecari rooftops,” Tavishel growled to Burnet. They could anchor off the coast of Ishalem, out of arrow range, and bombard it for days, if necessary.

His crews had much to learn about this method of warfare, but those skills would come with practice. Once all ten ship's catapults were installed, Tavishel would float empty barrels out on the waters and have his crews practice hitting their targets. While sailing the refitted ships down to Ishalem, he would drill his crews repeatedly. Fortunately, the flaming oil made absolute accuracy unnecessary. He simply needed to hurl the barrels into the city. Anywhere.

The master carpenter knelt on the deckboards, where the body of the catapult had been anchored, and ran his callused fingers along a fresh crack in the wood. “We're not ready yet, Destrar. Even with the additional crossbeams, the force of the release is going to cause damage. We can use each catapult four, maybe five times before we destroy the deck.”

Tavishel frowned. “That won't be enough. What is the solution?”

“Iron crossbars, I believe. Thick plates to distribute the stress to the ship's ribs and deckboards. I'll make it work, Destrar.”

He squared his shoulders in resignation. “Well even if you cannot… four or five shots of flaming barrels, coming from ten ships, would spread enough whale oil and fire to bring Ishalem down again.” Tavishel showed his teeth as he actually smiled. “I want to sail soon. Can your work be done in a week?”

Burnet remained silent as he did mental calculations. “I'd need extra men.”

“You will have every person on the Soeland islands, if you need them.”

“Then I'll be done within a week.”

Tavishel had seen the site of the holy city when it was merely a barren, burned wasteland—a terrible place, bleak and hopeless. But a blackened scar was preferable to having it possessed by Urecari heretics. “If we soak the earth with enough blood, even Ishalem will become a fertile place again.”