Drenched and exhausted, Iaros slogged along the canal bank. The wet armor was heavy, but adrenaline kept him moving.
From behind, he heard loud booms as the last casks of firepowder exploded. Each one felt like a personal blow to him. The masts and spars of the remaining ironclads were crooked like the clutching fingers of a man thrown alive onto a funeral pyre. The Wilka was nearly sunk, heeled over, engulfed in flames.
Iaros took one last glance back at the canal that was now clogged with burning wrecks. Oily tumbles of black smoke curled into the sky. He saw no sign of Destrar Broeck. The hollowness in the pit of his stomach wasn’t what Iaros expected victory would feel like, but he was the Iborian destrar now, and he would not tarnish his uncle’s memory. He pushed aside his sadness.
Most of the Tierran fighters had escaped from the ironclads and made their way to shore. They were drenched, singed, and stunned, many of them deafened by the firepowder explosions. Now they held their swords aloft, shook water from sodden leather armor, and looked at one another.
Iaros yelled out in a ragged and raw voice, “This is Ishalem, men! The holy city will be ours, but only if you fight—fight for Aiden!” He jabbed the air with his sword, but the responding cheer had little enthusiasm. “What was that? Aiden is frowning at you! Can’t you summon more energy to defeat the Curlies who did this to us?”
The second cheer was louder. Iaros stroked his dripping mustaches and nodded. That would do.
Shouts drew him back to the reality at hand. Now that the ironclads were destroyed, Urecari soldiers abandoned their catapults and climbed down from the watchtowers to defend the canal bank. Their scimitars gleamed like razor-edged silver smiles as they ran toward Iaros and his waterlogged men. “Stand ready to defend yourselves, men. Look at them—they’re the ones who destroyed our ships! By the Fishhook, they are the ones who killed Destrar Broeck!”
With a wild yell, the Tierrans rushed forward to meet the Curly soldiers, stunning them with their ferocity. As Iaros threw himself into the fray, he felt detached and a bit surprised. Fighting had always been a theoretical thing to him. He had practiced and tried to fashion himself as an Iborian warrior, but now he had to put his learning to good use, and found, to his relief, that he was quite proficient at it.
Iaros cut down the first two enemy soldiers before he realized exactly what he was doing. The pure exhilaration of swordfighting—the slashes, the parries, the thrusts, and the sensation of steel sinking into flesh swept through him like a fever. The cries of the dying inspired rather than revolted him. When another Curly fell to his sword, Iaros noticed that he himself was bleeding from a gash high on his left arm. He hadn’t even felt the wound, and he decided he had no time to do so now.
From the streets where he and his men fought, Iaros could see a high point in the center of the city, the largest strategic summit in Ishalem—Arkship Hill, where the wreck of Aiden’s vessel had rested for so many centuries. That, he decided, was where they must go.
Like floodwaters bursting a dam, the Tierran fighters cut through the Urecari soldiers and pressed forward. Swinging their bloodstained swords, they rushed into the heart of the holy city.