disproportionate slaughter on the enemy.
After the Tierran forces retreated in disarray, the Uraban wounded were brought back into the city where their injuries could be tended by healers; the Tierran dead and injured were left where they lay on the bloody battlefield outside the wall. Fading moans continued throughout the night, while great cheers rang in the streets of Ishalem as the followers of Urec celebrated their victory.
The next dawn, Omra stood atop the wall again to stare at the churned battleground. He had not slept, not even cleaned himself. He did not feel his numerous cuts and bruises, did not care about the drying red stains on his skin and clothes; his olba had come unwound and hung in loose scraps down his neck. He would leave the myriad enemy corpses to rot on the blood-soaked Pilgrims' Road. Hungry seabirds had already begun wheeling in from the Oceansea, contemplating their feast.
When the shrouded Teacher joined him, Omra spoke to the blank silver mask. “You have done Uraba a great service. Name your reward.”
The Teacher bowed slightly. “The blessings of Urec are my reward. The spilled blood of evil Aidenists is my reward. Their cries of pain and screams of fear throughout the night… yes, those are my reward.”
“And nothing else?” Omra wasn't surprised. The Teacher had always needed little, asked for little, yet performed a great service.
The stranger's identity was secret even from Omra. Years ago, Kel Unwar had delivered mysterious letters written in a firm, unstylized hand, proposing a new method to infiltrate and destroy the 'Hooks from within. “Soldan-shah, I believe you should read these,” he had said. “The letters were brought to me by an unknown man. I don't know why he chose me as his conduit… but perhaps you should hear his ideas. This could be our path to victory.” Omra—only the zarif at the time—had read the suggestions with interest, then amazement.
With Unwar acting as intermediary, Omra had arranged a meeting in a darkened section of Olabar on a moonless night, and the masked figure told him the story of the
ra'vir
bird, which laid its eggs in another bird's nest, and later the hatchlings would kill their rivals. “We can do that with children, my Lord. Tierran children… malleable minds that we make our own. We need only the material to work with.”
And the Teacher had been absolutely right. The turmoil and fear wrought by the secret infiltrators caused as much damage as an outright military assault.
Now, on the wall in the brightening morning sunlight, the face behind the silver mask remained silent for a long moment. He contemplated the proffered reward, then said, “Yes, Soldan-Shah, there is something I would like. Allow me to create a new, larger training camp for
ra'virs
here, not far from Ishalem.”
Omra did not hesitate. “I'll have Kel Unwar divert work teams immediately. I leave for Olabar tomorrow, but you shall have whatever you desire.”
“Even before the workers finish the wall?”
“We'll whip the Tierran slaves hard enough to do both jobs.”
The Teacher nodded slowly. “That is their purpose in the world.”
Reaffirming Kel Unwar as the provisional governor of Ishalem in his absence, Omra took the swiftest dromond across the Middlesea, eager to return to his palace, his wives, and his children. Home.
When he arrived in the capital, priestesses set braziers upon the stone steps of the main church, adding chemical dusts to the coals so that bright smoke rose up with tempting scents and unusual colors. Ur-Sikara Erima herself emerged to deliver the triumphal sermon, expressing great passion as she spoke with the lilting twang of her Lahjar accent. “For truly we are blessed, for truly Ondun sees our great soldan-shah as another son following in the footsteps of His favorite, Urec.”
As he made a slow procession back to the minarets of the palace, Omra let his people applaud him, but when he entered his own chambers, he
After the Tierran forces retreated in disarray, the Uraban wounded were brought back into the city where their injuries could be tended by healers; the Tierran dead and injured were left where they lay on the bloody battlefield outside the wall. Fading moans continued throughout the night, while great cheers rang in the streets of Ishalem as the followers of Urec celebrated their victory.
The next dawn, Omra stood atop the wall again to stare at the churned battleground. He had not slept, not even cleaned himself. He did not feel his numerous cuts and bruises, did not care about the drying red stains on his skin and clothes; his olba had come unwound and hung in loose scraps down his neck. He would leave the myriad enemy corpses to rot on the blood-soaked Pilgrims' Road. Hungry seabirds had already begun wheeling in from the Oceansea, contemplating their feast.
When the shrouded Teacher joined him, Omra spoke to the blank silver mask. “You have done Uraba a great service. Name your reward.”
The Teacher bowed slightly. “The blessings of Urec are my reward. The spilled blood of evil Aidenists is my reward. Their cries of pain and screams of fear throughout the night… yes, those are my reward.”
“And nothing else?” Omra wasn't surprised. The Teacher had always needed little, asked for little, yet performed a great service.
The stranger's identity was secret even from Omra. Years ago, Kel Unwar had delivered mysterious letters written in a firm, unstylized hand, proposing a new method to infiltrate and destroy the 'Hooks from within. “Soldan-shah, I believe you should read these,” he had said. “The letters were brought to me by an unknown man. I don't know why he chose me as his conduit… but perhaps you should hear his ideas. This could be our path to victory.” Omra—only the zarif at the time—had read the suggestions with interest, then amazement.
With Unwar acting as intermediary, Omra had arranged a meeting in a darkened section of Olabar on a moonless night, and the masked figure told him the story of the
ra'vir
bird, which laid its eggs in another bird's nest, and later the hatchlings would kill their rivals. “We can do that with children, my Lord. Tierran children… malleable minds that we make our own. We need only the material to work with.”
And the Teacher had been absolutely right. The turmoil and fear wrought by the secret infiltrators caused as much damage as an outright military assault.
Now, on the wall in the brightening morning sunlight, the face behind the silver mask remained silent for a long moment. He contemplated the proffered reward, then said, “Yes, Soldan-Shah, there is something I would like. Allow me to create a new, larger training camp for
ra'virs
here, not far from Ishalem.”
Omra did not hesitate. “I'll have Kel Unwar divert work teams immediately. I leave for Olabar tomorrow, but you shall have whatever you desire.”
“Even before the workers finish the wall?”
“We'll whip the Tierran slaves hard enough to do both jobs.”
The Teacher nodded slowly. “That is their purpose in the world.”
Reaffirming Kel Unwar as the provisional governor of Ishalem in his absence, Omra took the swiftest dromond across the Middlesea, eager to return to his palace, his wives, and his children. Home.
When he arrived in the capital, priestesses set braziers upon the stone steps of the main church, adding chemical dusts to the coals so that bright smoke rose up with tempting scents and unusual colors. Ur-Sikara Erima herself emerged to deliver the triumphal sermon, expressing great passion as she spoke with the lilting twang of her Lahjar accent. “For truly we are blessed, for truly Ondun sees our great soldan-shah as another son following in the footsteps of His favorite, Urec.”
As he made a slow procession back to the minarets of the palace, Omra let his people applaud him, but when he entered his own chambers, he
Similar Books
