The Key to Creation (33 page)

Broeck’s voice was harsh. “Maybe I want to tell them something else.”

Abashed by the sudden rebuke, Iaros turned quickly. “I’ll get them, Uncle.”

Shetia and Ulan were brought on deck to where the destrar sat on his barrel. The woman wept at the sight of the fiery skyline, and the boy looked horrified and awed. He turned to the bearded destrar, his ghostly face backlit by the fire. “Olabar?” Ulan pointed. “Olabar?”

Broeck doubted the boy had ever seen the Uraban capital before. What a way to remember it now! “Yes, that’s Olabar, lad—your soldan-shah’s city.”

Shetia wiped her tears and faced Broeck, her face ruddy with anger. It was the first time he had seen such passion in her. “You kill us now?” The woman drew Ulan closer to her, ready for whatever fate awaited them.

One of the sailors accompanying them, a former mine slave, looked back and forth, not sure what he was expected to translate.

“No, I won’t kill you,” the destrar replied. The interpreter repeated the words, but Shetia brushed him aside. Broeck said to the translator, “Tell her this: I didn’t bring you here to gloat, either. It would be shameful to rub your nose in this, not befitting of a fighter. This is war, and a victory for our side. It had to be done. But…you don’t belong in the middle of it. I wouldn’t want you hurt.”

Shetia and Ulan glanced at each other in surprise at the translation.

He added, “I’m setting you free.”

Surprise animated his nephew’s face. “But Uncle, those are valuable hostages!”

“They are a woman and a child, and I’m going to turn them loose. Prepare one of the ship’s boats. They can make their own way back to the city.”

“Aye…Destrar.” Iaros hurried to do Broeck’s bidding.

Shetia shook her head in surprise. She spoke, and the interpreter relayed, “She says she thought you would torture them.”

Broeck’s brows knitted together, and he lowered his voice. “We’ve all been tortured enough.” He cupped Ulan’s chin in his broad palm. “You’ll need to find someone else to play
xaries
with, young man.”

Whenever he looked at this boy, the aching loss of Tomas filled his chest. He closed his eyes and drove away the image of his blond grandson. He had gotten to know Ulan and his mother, and as the course of honor he refused to take the revenge that would have been his right. He had at last discovered a line that even he did not want to cross.

“Go now, the boat is ready. Row into the harbor and find someone to help you. These are your people.”

His cut leg hurt too much for him to stand up, and it would have been awkward and inappropriate for him to embrace the boy and his mother. He simply watched as Shetia and Ulan climbed into the ship’s boat and were lowered over the side into the water. With all the ships and the soldan-shah’s sailors, someone would find them soon enough. Broeck had no intention of staying there to make sure.

“We’re done, here. Turn the fleet and head north across the Middlesea. We still have work to do before we join the queen at Ishalem.”

Ishalem Wall

Anjine had not been to Ishalem since the conflagration destroyed not only the holy city, but all their hopes as well. The Edict had been an ill-advised gesture of peace based on the naïve belief that the followers of Urec could be trusted.
Twenty years.

This time, Queen Anjine took the land route, accompanying the third wave of soldiers marching south. Most of this group came from training camps in Iboria and Soeland, rushing to answer her call for fighters. These thousands of additional troops would join the thousands already camped at the Ishalem wall, building up a breathtaking force that would bring down the barricade once and for all.

The journey from Calay was long and arduous, the camps rough. Since she was queen, a detachment of men pitched her tent for her, but she refused to ride in a wagon like a packet of goods. She was the queen of Tierra, an example to these soldiers who had sworn their lives in the service of the Crown and Fishhook. She would not let them think she was some vapid and pampered princess who sent them off to die without understanding the consequences of her decisions.

Instead, she rode a seasoned Eriettan warhorse or walked beside her fighters, letting them know that she understood both their fervor and weariness. She assured them that she wanted the war to end as much as any of them did—not in peace, but in victory.

She ate the same camp food as the soldiers did, accepting whatever supplies the army shared, though she often felt nauseated. Hard traveling did not suit her, but she told no one about her queasiness and hid how difficult the march was for her.

At the halfway point of the journey, the road ran along a river where the marching troops met up with a barge captained by Destrar Sazar himself; the flatboat was so laden with supplies that it rode low in the water. Anjine was glad to see him. “If you miss a dropoff, Destrar, then my army doesn’t eat.”

“I have the full schedule, Majesty. Keep sending your supply carts to the cache points, and I will deliver sacks of grain, baskets of vegetables, sausages, and anything else my boats can gather from the other reaches.”

Anjine had met with her destrars, ordering them to maintain a constant flow of supplies so that the troops at the Ishalem wall would not go hungry. Destrar Sazar promised that his river clans would deliver all necessary goods to prearranged supply stops, as far south as his boats could go before the rivers drained into the Oceansea. Additional cargo ships sailed down the coast, stopping to unload crates of food on shore, which were then transported to the ever-growing army camp.

It was an intricate and tedious plan, fitting together like the components of a Saedran machine. She had to time the waves of her troop movements to coincide with the availability of supplies. Her battle commanders, destrars, and advisers helped with the carefully balanced arrangements, but Anjine oversaw it all.

Even so, her heart distracted her. On the long journey, Anjine couldn’t stop thinking of Mateo. She forced her thoughts back to happier days in their youth when they’d taken care of each other and laughed at hardships and embarrassments. Now, when she arrived with these soldiers at the Ishalem wall, Mateo would be waiting for her. A flurry of hard-to-quell emotions filled her, and during the three-week trek to the border she thought much about seeing him again.

Anjine hadn’t said a word to Mateo since the night they had made love. He’d vanished with the dawn, marching off without pledging his love, without bidding her farewell. Anjine pondered again and again what she would have said to him, given the chance. She didn’t even know if he thought of that night with joy or regret, with weighty guilt or wistful pleasure. The prospect of seeing him again frightened her more than the thought of facing a city full of angry Urecari.

Anjine hoped his feelings were the same as hers.

Finally, the marching army arrived at the Ishalem camp at midafternoon. Scouts had ridden ahead to announce the queen, and Anjine could hear the occasional crash as the catapult bombardment of the wall continued with renewed vigor in her honor.

Anjine donned her crown and fur-lined cape and tried to put all thoughts of Mateo from her mind. She was the ruler of Tierra now, the commander of this army, the woman who would defeat Soldan-Shah Omra and punish the Urabans for their crimes against God. The catapults had done only cosmetic damage to the thick wall so far, but at least the hammering boulders would keep the Curlies awake.

As she rode up, Destrar Shenro came to meet her, looking like an excited boy on Landing Day. He led her to a large headquarters tent, while a group of soldiers set up her personal camp. She ducked into the command tent and was immediately struck by the odors of sweat, paper, and candle wax. The army’s officers met here nightly for long discussions about the final assault due to take place in several weeks. To her disappointment, she did not see Mateo. “Where is Subcomdar Bornan?”

“On patrol, Majesty,” Shenro said. “But we will see him by nightfall.”

The news disoriented her. He should have known of her impending arrival—had Mateo intentionally chosen to be out of camp? Was he avoiding her? She pushed the thought aside, telling herself that Mateo wasn’t her concern right now; Ishalem had to be her focus. “I would like to see my enemy. Is the soldan-shah in residence?”

“Oh, there are enough enemies on the wall, Majesty,” replied Hist, “but we aren’t sure Omra is among them. We’ve seen men in formal clothes strutting up and down the barricade, clearly officers or noblemen of some importance, but they all wear those cloths wrapped around their heads, and we don’t know what the colors mean.”

Anjine drew a long breath. “Well, I don’t want the Urecari to have any doubt that Queen Anjine of Tierra has come to defeat them. I’m not going to hide. Fetch my suit of armor from my pack train. I will don it myself.” An entire army of men had accompanied her south, but now Anjine discovered to her consternation that she needed Enifir or her ladies-in-waiting, who had remained behind at the castle. She had not wanted to drag them off to a battlefield, expecting they might get in the way. Now, though, she would make do. “Also, find a competent page who can help me secure the components when I’m finished.”

As soon as her tent was ready, Anjine had her armor brought in and unwrapped from the canvas that protected the polished metal pieces from rain. She sorted the components on her cot, donned her woolen underlayers and padding, and pulled on the pieces as Ammur Sonnen had shown her: cuirass, greaves, helmet, gauntlets.

Though the armor was light and delicate by the blacksmith’s standards, it felt heavy. Anjine was strong, though, and she wore it proudly. When she called the page in to help, he seemed in awe of her, nervous about touching the queen, but she said, “Young man, I need your help…and you can’t be very helpful if you fawn over me so much.” Fumbling, the boy finished adjusting the straps and buckles.

As Anjine stepped out to approving gazes, the page draped her cape over her shoulders. Destrar Shenro laughed and pronounced her magnificent. With the sun lowering in the sky, she said, “Ready our flags. I want to stand before the great gates while there’s still enough daylight for those cowards to see me. Standard-bearers!”

Jenirod, Shenro, and Hist brought the camp’s highest-ranking prester to bear the Fishhook standard. Shenro held two flags, one for Alamont Reach and one for all Tierra; Jenirod bore the flags of Erietta and another Tierran standard; Hist carried the Crown and Fishhook.

After several men helped Anjine mount her horse and balance in the saddle, she gazed through her open visor and announced, “I have brought along something very important.” Two presters from Calay came forward with the pearlescent ice-dragon horn, which had formerly resided in the main Aidenist kirk. “Raathgir protected our city, and now he will bless our soldiers and grant us a victory at Ishalem.”

Their procession left camp and headed for the no-man’s-land outside the Ishalem gate. Clad in fine armor that glowed in the dying sun and surrounded by standard-bearers and military commanders, Anjine truly felt like a queen.

At the sight of the formal honor guard, the banners, and the queen in her full kit, Uraban sentries jeered from atop the wall. The Curlies summoned other men who wore olbas and sashes of various colors, presumably higher-ranking officers. Anjine had hoped the ice-dragon horn might glow with power, as when she’d driven away the sea serpents in Calay harbor, but the relic did not respond. No matter, her faith and determination would have to serve.

Though well out of arrow range, she could hear the Urabans, so she knew they could hear her as well.

“You should fear us!” Her voice was blade-sharp and clear, though she wasn’t sure any of them could understand her. “You should fear us, because Ondun is on our side. And I, Queen Anjine of Tierra, have come to defeat you.”

Olabar Harbor

After the loss of the
Golden Fern
, Soldan-Shah Omra quickly changed into dry clothes provided by the war galley’s captain, but his ordeal was not finished. Before the last of the waterlogged fighters had been pulled onto the deck, he commanded the oarmaster to strike a sharp, swift beat to return to the piers. Though he longed to pursue the enemy ironclads as they sailed away, his overriding responsibility was to defend his city against the flames. He would not let Olabar burn to the ground as Ishalem had!

Omra had sunk the Tierran flagship, but the Aidenists were not fleeing to Gremurr in humiliation and defeat. No, the enemy had caused unspeakable damage, and they knew it. This sneak attack had decimated Uraba’s naval capability—not just warships, but
all
shipping in the Middlesea. His land would be decades recovering from this loss.

“How many more reasons do I need to hate them?” he said quietly to the galley captain.

The other man shook his head. “We’ve long had more reasons than we could possibly need.”

Half of the war galley’s crew had been killed or wounded by the rain of Tierran arrows, which left the oars sparsely manned, but the drumbeat set a rapid pace nevertheless. The rowers groaned and sweated as they pulled the ship into the harbor, dodging obstacles. The jagged metal prow crashed into the smoldering wreck of a small fishing boat, knocking it aside so the galley could reach a section of docks not yet touched by flames.

The rest of the harbor was an inferno, and many vessels still tied to the piers were ablaze and foundering. Greedy fires spread from ship to ship, and burning tatters of sails, borne on the firestorm winds, drifted to new targets, setting new blazes.

The random courses of the unmanned fireships were wreaking havoc, spreading fire indiscriminately from one pier to another. The flames ate the pilings and dock boards, and would-be rescuers couldn’t get close enough to the water to fill buckets for dousing the blaze.

The churches of Olabar rang their bells in a constant, deafening alarm. People flooded from every quarter of the city, responding to the orange glow in the night. Guards mingled with soldiers and craftsmen, fishwives and old men, all desperate to stamp out the spreading blaze. The fire was everywhere, as was the noxious smoke. Coughing men called out conflicting instructions.