68 Off the Coast of Tierra
After nearly three weeks of visiting every coastal village worth the name, Tomas felt he had seen and met half the population of Tierra: presters, mayors, fishermen, shopkeepers, craftsmen, farmers. It gave him a sense of how the land and people fit together under the sign of the Fishhook.
Even so, he was glad when the royal cog reached the southern end of the processional route, then headed out to sea and to catch the northerly current that would carry them back home to Calay. Finished with the formalities, Guard-Marshall Obertas untied his hair and packed away his dress uniform, which would not be needed again until they pulled into the home harbor.
Tomas stood next to the royal guardsman on the open deck to catch the fresh breezes. The past few weeks had changed the young prince. How much older he felt! He had carried the queen's news, broken bread with the people of Tierra, met with to the village leaders. A real prince… and also a real sailor. He knew King Korastine would have been proud of him.
Obertas relaxed next to him on the deck, listening to the wind stretching the sails, the hiss of spray dancing from the bow and across the hull. “It was a worthy mission, my Prince. And it was accomplished well.”
“What's next after we get home? Do you think Anjine will send me inland by riverboat to Erietta, Alamont, and Corag? Or off to the Soeland islands? I want to see all the reaches.”
“I thought you were anxious to sleep in your own bed again.”
Tomas considered this. “I suppose I'd like to settle down at home for a while—but not too long.”
From atop the mainmast, the lookout shouted, “Sails ho! Two points to port.”
Tomas and Obertas shaded their eyes and tried to spot the ships farther out to sea. Since the royal cog had encountered plenty of merchant and fishing vessels, the crew reacted with little excitement until the lookout cried out again, his voice cracking. “Colored sails! I see the Eye of Urec!”
Obertas let out a shrill whistle. “To arms, everyone!!”
“But we're far north of the Edict Line,” Tomas protested. “They shouldn't be here.”
“Five Uraban ships,” the lookout confirmed. “And they've spotted us. They're coming around to bear.”
Obertas ran to the cog's captain. “The prince's safety is our greatest concern. Run before the wind! We'll fight only if we have to.”
The captain had a pale, queasy expression. “We can try to run, sir, but those ships are lighter, faster, and more agile than we are—and they're war galleys, crewed by oarsmen to add speed. They can turn quickly and go whichever direction they want without being at the mercy of the winds.”
Obertas told his fellow guards, “Don your armor and get ready for the fight of your lives.” With the painted Eyes blazing on their sails, the enemy warships closed in.
* * *
After the ra'vir boy had provided vital information about the prince's procession, Kel Unwar took no chances. He had been charged with the defense of Ishalem, both as provisional governor and as chief engineer of the wall and the canal. He knew his priorities. In less than a day, he selected five of the best and fastest warships anchored in the Ishalem harbor, picked seasoned crews, and set off after his prey. He vowed that the Tierran prince would not slip through his fingers.
According to Davic, Prince Tomas sailed with only a small contingent of guards, foolishly believing himself safe in Tierran waters. Unwar, though, did not believe in safety. Confidence was an illusion; protective measures and preconceptions were irrelevant against a powerful enemy. He knew what he wanted to accomplish, in Urec's name, and he wasn't afraid to take risks.
His five war galleys struck out to sea from Ishalem, riding the swift northerly current up into Tierran waters. Unwar had to intercept the royal cog when it was most vulnerable. Heading back to Calay after a successful voyage, the crew and the escort guard would be complacent, weary, thinking only of getting home.
As soon as they sighted the cog, Unwar had his captain signal the other four vessels in the attack group, pulling them closer, running up the sails and telling the oarsmen to prepare for careful maneuvering in a close fight. Under a sunny sky in calm waters, they could never take the cog unawares: this would be an outright race, and a fight.
Unwar peered through the spyglass as the distance narrowed. Noting the flurry of the Aidenist crew, the extra sails being raised, he laughed. “Ah, they've seen us—but too late. It's only a matter of time.”
The Urecari fighters sharpened their scimitars on whetstones and donned bright clothes; every man wore an emerald sash of Yuarej silk. As the ships closed, Unwar reminded his crew, “Prince Tomas must be taken alive at all costs, and preferably unharmed. Other than that… do what is necessary. Any prisoners we take will be set to work digging my canal. Kill them if you must, but I'd rather have them laboring for the glory of Urec than simply feeding the fishes.” Using coded signal flags, he dispatched a similar message to the nearby ships.
Unwar watched as the war galleys surrounded the other ship. The royal cog was a large, older vessel, heavy and spacious, while the five sleek Uraban ships sliced the waves like predator fish. Kel Unwar had his men take to their benches and use the oars to add speed for the final charge. At the prow of each war galley, a sharpened beak of cast iron gleamed in the sun. With Unwar's ship in the lead, the others flanked the cog, turning to block its passage.
Drumbeats pounded and the oarsmen pulled hard. Unwar's galley rammed the side of the Tierran cog, and the iron beak battered through the hull. As soon as the ships clashed, the Urabans threw boarding hooks and leaped across the gap.
On deck, the small group of Tierran guards stood to meet them, swords raised and ready to put up a valiant defense. Unwar took up his own scimitar and, adding his yell to those of his men, boarded the cog, looking for Prince Tomas.
Watching the enemy ships close in, Tomas's growing terror made him sick. With a grim face, Obertas gave the prince reassurances, but they were not believable. Finally, he admitted, “I won't lie to you, my Prince. This will be a hard fight.”
Knowing that battle was imminent, Obertas coached his men and rallied all of the crew. They were outnumbered at least three to one. The man in the lookout nest kept scanning the waters, hoping to spot a Tierran patrol ship. Had they been closer to shore, they could have signaled one of the lighthouses, but out here they were all alone.
As soon as boarding hooks grappled the ships together, the Tierran men shouted out to reinforce their confidence.
“Stand firm, shoulder to shoulder, swords raised!” Obertas yelled.
Tomas drew the dagger his grandfather had given him. His palm was sweaty on the hilt of mammoth ivory. “I can fight, too.”
Obertas looked at him with admiration and regret. “No, my Prince. We have sworn to give our lives for your protection. You must let us defend you.”
The Urecari came now, howling, blades flashing, but the royal guardsmen did not flinch, did not break ranks. The anxious Tierran sailors were the first to meet the impact, swinging boathooks, jabbing with harpoons and spears, attacking with makeshift clubs. More than a dozen enemy raiders fell to the deck, bleeding, but the cog's crewmen suffered even greater losses.
The attackers who survived the first clash pushed toward the group of royal guards at the stern. More Urecari men boarded, and more.
A second war galley crashed into the cog's bow with a sickening crunch, and the other three enemy ships closed in for the kill. Within moments, Tomas could see they would be overwhelmed.
Though flushed, Obertas wore an implacable expression, knowing exactly what he had to do. As his guards struck the first raiders who came at them, he pushed Tomas roughly into his cabin. “Barricade yourself inside. Block the door and don't come out!”
Tomas still held his dagger. “I can help defend myself. If we've lost anyway, let my blade—”
“Don't argue with me. You are the prince, and you must be protected at all costs. Go! Block the door now.”
After Tomas backed into the small cabin, Obertas said, “We'll guard this door with our lives, but if the enemy should manage to get past me, I promise to hurt them enough that you can take care of the rest of them with your dagger, all right?”
“Yes, Guard-Marshall, thank you. May… may the Compass guide you.” Tomas slammed the door and threw the crossbar. He then moved his chair, his cedarwood trunk, everything he could against the door. It formed a meager barricade at best.
From the other side of the door, he heard the battle cries, the bone-rattling sound of steel against steel, wet chopping sounds and groans of pain that seemed to go on endlessly. Uraban voices dominated the babble more and more with every moment. He heard Obertas snapping orders, rallying his men… then Tomas didn't hear the man's voice anymore.
The sounds of battle fell into a lull, but Tomas knew it wasn't over.
Heavy fists pounded on the cabin door, creaking the boards, pushing against the crossbar. Shoulders slammed against the barrier, and the wood splintered. With a startling thunk, the blade of a battle ax smashed through the door. With repeated chopping, the weapon broke a hole through the planks. Heavy hands tore apart the splintered wood and reached inside to grab the crossbar.
Tomas darted forward with his dagger, slashing at the hands, making them retreat with unintelligible curses. But it was only a brief delay. More men smashed the door open at last. Tomas backed into a defensible corner as Obertas had taught him, brandishing his bloody dagger before him.
Now the enemy faced him. Outside, he could see bodies strewn on the deck: familiar men who had traveled with him on the procession. Even Guard-Marshall Obertas lay among the corpses. All had died to defend him, refusing to be captured.
The lead Urecari man grinned at the boy, seeing no threat from the prince's ivory-handled dagger. Tomas slashed and danced forward, intending to sell his life dearly. “You won't take me alive!”
The Urecari man merely struck his arm a stinging blow with the flat of his scimitar. The boy's hand went numb, his fingers useless, and the dagger flew aside. Tomas was not a warrior, just a young boy. A prince.
Laughing, the Urecari swarmed forward to grab him.