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In the witch-light that dispelled the darkness of night, Pel Muldure could see the enemy drawing farther away. He was not surprised that the scar-covered madmen were escaping. They knew the Ma-teel sought vengeance; there would be no mercy for any islander caught alive in the city their invasion had come close to obliterating.
Muldure, too, wanted revenge – for the deaths of his crew members and the loss of his ship. It infuriated him that he and the others had survived the Sea of Storms, only to face death and destruction at the hands of an enemy that wasn’t even theirs.
Of course, with his surviving shipmates, he could build another ship. But that would take time. And once a new ship was seaworthy, where would he sail it? Back into the Sea of Storms?
That didn’t matter so much now. What mattered most to him was catching and killing as many of the invaders as he could.
Not so brave now that your walking lumps of clay are gone, are you? he thought vindictively.
He cast a glance toward Lyann, who was running at his side. Her clothing had been cut to shreds, and gore spattered nearly every inch of her exposed skin. She had several open wounds, but no blood flowed from them. She should have been too exhausted to move. But she wasn’t. And neither was he.
He knew such stamina was unnatural; that rage alone could not account for it. Clearly, it was a gift bestowed by the same sorcery that created the light; and like all such boons, its price would be tallied later. For now, though, he was satisfied that he still had a chance to kill a few more of the invaders before they were gone.
The Matile and the White Gull crew formed a ragged, intermingled line of pursuit. Military discipline had long since vanished; Matile officers ran alongside ordinary soldiers without issuing commands. Streams of civilians joined them, ranging in age from small boys and girls to elderly men and women. Some of them wielded weapons they had picked up from corpses; others made do with sticks, clubs and pieces of broken masonry. The hatred Muldure saw on their faces made him happy he wasn’t an Uloan, and didn’t look like one.
Far behind came the Tokoloshe and their paler-skinned Dwarven kin. Although their arms were stronger than those of almost any human, the legs of dwarvenkind were not nearly long enough to keep pace. They labored on, hoping that the final battle would not be over by the time they reached it.
No cries of triumph rose from the throats of the pursuers. And the Uloans’ “Retribution Time” chorus had long since fallen silent. The only sound in the city was the pounding of feet against the stones of the streets and the harsh inhalation and exhalation of breath from pursued and pursuers alike.
Soon the docks came into view. The wharves were strewn with corpses from the earliest stage of the battle, before the invaders had broken through Khambawe’s first line of defense. The Ishimbi statues appeared to glare down at the Uloan ships, which had already moved to a safe distance from the docks. From the decks of the sea-craft, crewmen tossed ropes that dropped down the hulls, then stretched like snakes on the surface of the water. The ropes would provide rescue for those among their fleeing comrades who managed to live long enough to reach them.
Leaping over the corpses, the surviving Uloans hurried toward their ships. Before diving into the water to make their escape, they turned to face the Matile one last time. When the first of their foes came within throwing distance, the Uloans hurled a lethal hail of weapons. Scores of spears, daggers, even swords hurtled toward the Matile. Those who were quick enough raise their shields in time survived. Those who had no shields, or could not lift them swiftly enough, died or were grievously wounded.
Then the Uloans began to dive into the water and swim toward the lifelines. The Matile who survived their foes’ final fusillade charged forward, intent on putting whatever laggards they could find to the sword. Cries of frustration rose from their throats as they realized they were not going to reach the Uloans in time.
And no one heard the creak of stone coming to life ... not until the Ishimbi statues began to move ....
The sudden animation of the Ishimbi brought everyone to a halt. For a long moment everyone, Matile and Uloan alike, stood frozen, eyes wide in fear and wonder as the Ishimbi walked toward the harbor. Legs that had no feet dented the docks; arms that had no hands moved as though they were reaching for the enemy. It was as though a stand of trees from the distant forest had come to life and were marching to the aid of Khambawe.
The bottom of an Ishimbi’s leg crushed a luckless Matile who was too awestruck to step aside. As if the man’s death were a signal, the city’s defenders scrambled out of the walking statues’ path.
Many Matiles cried out in exultation when they realized that an ancient legend had inexplicably come to life. It was said that in their last effort to help their people during the Storm Wars, the Jagasti had brought the Ishimbi to life and used them to spare Khambawe from destruction.
Now, the legend was repeating itself.
“The Jagasti have returned to us!” the Matile shouted. And they joyfully cried out the names of their normally aloof pantheon.
But the Fidi – Believers and non-Believers alike – whispered the name of another deity.
“Almovaar ....”
In sudden terror, the Uloans who were still on the docks leaped into the water. The splashes of their frenzied swimming echoed above the sounds of the Ishimbis’ slow progress. When the gigantic statues reached the edge of the docks, they simply stepped into the air. Then they plunged straight down into the harbor.
The sound of their landing in the water echoed like a series of thunderclaps. Gouts of water geysered upward and landed like a torrent of salty rain on the faces of the Matile and the Fidi. Waves rolled out from the point of their landing, drowning many Uloans before smashing into their ships. The ships rocked wildly, but remained afloat.
Cautiously, the Matile made their way to the dockside. They saw the Uloan sea-craft retreating, even as the survivors swam frantically toward the lifelines. The ships moved more slowly than they had when they entered the harbor, for there were no jhumbis left to pull the oars with inhuman speed. Already, the swiftest-swimming Uloans were dodging oar-strokes and clambering up the sides of the hulls.
Then the featureless heads of the Ishimbi broke the surface of the water like those of gigantic fish. The statues rose higher, until their dripping, handless arms became visible. Then they moved forward. And the muffled thud of their leg-stumps against the harbor’s bottom reached the ears of Matile and Uloan alike. Their advance toward the ships was as inexorable as the approach of the rainy season, and even though they did not move swiftly, they pushed their way through the water faster than the Uloan oarsmen were able to row.
As though with one voice, the Uloans screamed out their hopeless fear. They begged Legaba and Jass Imbiah to save them. But those cries went unanswered as the Ishimbi reached their ships. Oars splintered like sticks against the Ishimbis’ adamantine forms. Then the Ishimbis’ arms struck their first blows against the hulls.
The ships shuddered as though in agony. Huge holes appeared where the Ishimbis’ arms hit – above and below the water’s surface. The Ishimbis struck again and again, turning the stout timbers of the ships into kindling. Scores of Uloans fell into the water like ants from a hill torn apart by the claws of a badger. Some sank; others struggled desperately to the surface of the water, where they stared in dread and resignation at the destruction that surrounded them in the city they believed they were destined to destroy.
Rapidly, the ships disintegrated, then sank. When the last vessel of the invading fleet went down to the bottom of the harbor, the Ishimbis stopped moving. It was as though they were ... waiting.
In silence, the defenders of Khambawe lined up at the edge of the docks and stared out at a scene of sheer desolation, starkly illuminated by the night-sun the power of Almovaar had placed in the sky.
Floating scraps of wood and sail-cloth were all that was left of the Uloans’ ships. Human forms bobbed amid the flotsam – most of them dead, others alive. Some of the survivors swam aimlessly, pushing corpses and wreckage aside. Others simply floated and stared at the sky. And there were those who shouted defiance and waved their fists at their enemies.
The defenders, Matile and Fidi alike, looked at each other. They knew what the Ishimbi were waiting for; they knew what had to be done. Although their blood had only shortly before pulsed with the lust to kill, they loathed the thought of undertaking the final, gruesome task that lay before them.
Still, it had to be done ...
Soldiers stripped off their cumbersome armor. Everyone, military and others alike, put aside their heavier weapons, took up whatever knives and daggers they could find, and placed them between their teeth. Then they jumped into the water and swam toward the defeated, weaponless Uloans, who remained hopelessly defiant while they waited to be slain.