The Key to Creation (24 page)

But he was gone.

She understood exactly why.

Though Anjine longed for him, she swiftly rebuilt the tumbled wall around her emotions. Yes, Mateo had understood, and done without question the correct thing—as always. She went to the narrow window, from which she could see the Military District where soldiers were mounting their horses in preparation for departure.

Yes, today the army was scheduled to head south for the siege of Ishalem. She knew Mateo would be among the many small figures there, riding alongside his comrades bound for the holy city…and away from her.

Anjine knew he wouldn’t be gone forever. They would be together again soon, with a different and just as singular goal. As the queen of Tierra, she intended to join the massed army for the final battle that would destroy the followers of Urec.

With a wan smile on her lips, Anjine straightened her hair. Maybe she could slip back to her quarters before Enifir noticed. In any case, she would never speak of this, and she would command her lady-in-waiting to keep her silence as well.

She and Mateo would meet in Ishalem in a few months.

Middlesea

Sailing two of the ironclads south, Broeck and his nephew prowled the open Middlesea. He had no intention of just kicking pebbles on the shore for months while Queen Anjine moved the rest of the Tierran army and navy into position. A warrior didn’t bide his time. While he waited, he continued his Aidenist reign of terror upon the luckless Urabans. By now the Curlies feared these armored warships more than any sea monster.

Since neither Broeck nor Iaros could read the tangled loops of Uraban writing, they didn’t know (or care) what the foreigners had originally named these ironclads. Iaros had selected a traditional Iborian name for his vessel—
Raathgir
, after the famous ice dragon. For himself, Broeck had named his flagship
Wilka
as a memorial to his wife, lost but not forgotten. Years ago, Wilka had frozen to death in an unexpected Iborian snowstorm while out picking frostberries. This ironclad was hard and strong, yet graceful, as Wilka had been.

Though he would not strike the eastern side of Ishalem until the appropriate date, the Middlesea coast offered plenty of alternative targets. Since Soldan-Shah Omra must be planning some kind of attempt to recapture the mines, Broeck intended to make the first move and keep the Curlies reeling. With the
Wilka
, the
Raathgir
, and his five other armored vessels, he would soon launch a strike the enemy would never forget.

He and Iaros sailed along, their ships within shouting distance of each other. The Middlesea was uncharted territory for them. By simple geographical logic, if they continued far enough south, they would find the opposite coast. Within two days, they spotted the Middlesea shore—a sight not seen by free Tierran eyes for a generation.

Standing at the
Wilka
’s bow, Broeck peered through his spyglass. As he adjusted the cylinder’s focus, he saw waves striking a milk-sand shore, and the colorful sails of many ships that pulled into a bustling harbor. Broeck could make out the city’s buildings, the tall minarets of huge Urecari churches, and a shining palace that he’d seen only in fanciful pictures. He felt a flush of heat on his cheeks. Olabar, the capital of Uraba, the seat of the soldan-shah.

The waters were calm, and in the still air Iaros’s voice rang out as he called across the gap between ships. “Uncle, are we going to attack?”

Broeck took a long moment to answer. How he longed to sail into Olabar harbor and strike the unsuspecting Urecari. That would teach the Curlies a lesson after all the harm they had caused. But it would be a futile gesture, no matter how glorious it might seem. Even unprepared, Olabar had enough fighters and ships to drive back the
Wilka
and the
Raathgir
. And Broeck had to keep his fleet intact for the attack on Ishalem.

“Not today,” he shouted back. “But soon.” He clenched his jaw and whispered, too low for Iaros to hear, “Not soon enough.”

Within a week, Broeck planned to deal Uraba a crippling blow. He would make the soldan-shah and his followers reel with pain and despair before the Aidenists delivered the coup de grâce at Ishalem. That, at last, would make Broeck happy.

“Come about,” he told his navigator with great reluctance. “We sail back to Gremurr.”

“So soon, Destrar? We still have much scouting to do.”

“I don’t want to be seen—it’s broad daylight. Our sails have no doubt been spotted, but they probably don’t know who we are. Let’s not give them an inkling of their danger.”

On the voyage back to their stronghold on the northern coast, the ironclads encountered three wide-ranging Uraban fishing boats. Broeck ordered them seized, their crew trussed up like cargo sacks on the deck after a brief and ineffective struggle. Tierran soldiers boarded the small boats and piloted them back toward Gremurr, where they would join the other captured vessels.

Iaros came aboard the
Wilka
, impatient and full of questions. He gave a disparaging look to the small craft. “Uncle, what good will those fishing boats do for our war effort? The captives won’t even be much help working in the mines.”

Broeck assessed the three sturdy boats. True, they were not large, not powerful, not swift. “With those little boats, Iaros, we may just win our most important battle. I have a plan.”

Corag Mountains

After departing from Gremurr, Destrar Siescu and his scout toiled into the isolated mountains, following the icy trail. Raga Var bounded ahead of the two pack ponies to study the path conditions, while Siescu shivered and walked along.

The cliffs around them were steep and slick with snow. Picking his way, Siescu could not imagine how armored mammoths had made the passage, but the shaggy army had not been hindered by snows as they crossed over the passes.

Storms occurred with increasing frequency this time of year, and conditions worsened with each snowfall. Calendars down in Calay would not mark the turning of the season for another month yet, but winter set in much earlier in the high mountains.

In normal times, Siescu would have ensconced himself in Stoneholm with stockpiled firewood and full storerooms so he wouldn’t have to emerge again until spring. Though he had insisted on delivering this load of swords to the Tierran army before the battle at Ishalem, in truth he just wanted to get home and warm himself in the comfort of familiar surroundings.

Siescu kept his head down as the biting wind numbed his cheeks. It had been warmer back at the mines. He locked his gaze on the rocky trail in front of him, on Raga Var’s widely spaced footprints in the snow. He daydreamed about the throbbing heat in the forges back at Gremurr, then he thought of his giant cheery fireplace in the main hall at Stoneholm. He looked up from his woolgathering, startled to see the scruffy scout standing before him. “Destrar, I don’t like this weather.”

Siescu shivered. “It’s damned cold, that’s for sure.” When he saw genuine concern on Raga Var’s face, the fact gave him pause. He had never seen the scout worried about anything.

Mountain weather patterns changed swiftly. Even so, Siescu was surprised to see how quickly the sky had turned a cottony gray. Icy fog settled into the canyons, followed by a veil of snow. Behind him, the nervous mountain ponies snorted and stomped.

“We need to pick up the pace, Destrar. Move as quickly as you can.” Raga Var looked from side to side. “This will be a bad spot for weathering a blizzard.”

“It might blow over quickly,” Siescu said.

“No. It’s a blizzard. We need to get off this pass. Half a mile beyond, there’s an elbow of rock where we can take shelter. I might even be able to find enough wood for a fire.”

“A fire! That sounds nice. Let’s go, then.”

The footing was treacherous; snow and ice packed the trail. The sky now had an angry opacity, and a thick whiteness flurried down. The wind skirled feathers of snow along the ground, and before long Siescu could barely see the path in front of him.

Raga Var came back to grab his arm and pull him along. Behind them, the pack animals snorted, trying to find their footing. One of the ponies stopped and refused to go farther. When Siescu tugged on the lead rope, the pony backed away, resisting. One of its hooves slipped as a rush of snow cascaded from the cliff.

Raga Var grabbed Siescu. “Let go of the rope!” He pulled the destrar to shelter as the shower of ice and snow came down, scaring the ponies, which turned and bolted. Rocks tumbled down with more snow, and he could no longer see what had happened to the animals. Both were gone.

Siescu stared in shock, but the scout drew him on, urgently trying to keep him moving. “This way, Destrar. We still have to go over this defile, and then we’ll find shelter, I promise.”

Raga Var seemed frightened now, and Siescu was so cold he couldn’t even feel distressed at the loss of the ponies. “Freezing…Do you think it’s getting colder?”

The wind howled, and the snow was thicker than before. Raga Var trudged several steps ahead, waited for Siescu to catch up, then trudged a little farther. Finally, the path widened, and large gray rocks jutted out. The scout pulled him around a corner, where the wind became blessedly quieter, although the cold seemed even more bone-chilling than before.

“This is the most sheltered place I can find, Destrar. You can sit here.” The scout found two large boulders and guided Siescu to them, brushing away the snow with his bare hands. The rock shelter trapped and circulated the wind, blowing the snow around in endlessly changing patterns. Though he moved with clear anxiety, Raga Var didn’t even seem cold. “We’ll be protected from the worst of the storm.” He gazed into the thick, blinding whiteness. “Though after the snow passes, we will have difficult going the rest of the way along the road.”

“We must be close to Stoneholm,” Siescu said. “It’ll be warm there.”

“We’re still two days’ journey out, Destrar.”

“Oh. That is…unfortunate.” He huddled down, pulling his cloak and furs closed against the chill, then looked around, dazed. “I had another blanket, but it was with the ponies.”

Raga Var’s face showed genuine concern for him. “Would you like a fire, Destrar? I’ll try to find wood, some scrub brush, kindling.”

Siescu’s teeth chattered. He looked up, saw only swirling snow. “You’ll never find wood in this whiteout.”

“I’ll find wood, Destrar. Just stay here and wait for me. I’ll bring you a fire.”

“Yes, then…a fire would be nice.” He hunched over, pulling his warm garments close, but he couldn’t stop shivering. Raga Var bounded off and within seconds vanished in the swirl of snowflakes.

Raga Var was gone less than an hour, searching in cracks where hardy mountain vegetation would grow. He returned to the sheltered place where he had left Destrar Siescu, worried that he’d been away too long. In his arms he carried dry scrub, twigs, grasses—enough to start a small campfire, he was sure, though it wouldn’t burn long. Regardless, the destrar would be pleased to have the fire. Raga Var hoped it would be enough.

When he came back to the clearing, he saw Siescu still sitting hunched in his cloak and furs. Always cold, the man had never stopped digging deep mines in hopes of finding the last spark of the cooling Fires of Creation. Raga Var had never understood the obsession.

After living most of his life in the wilds, the scout knew how to endure shifting temperatures and could make himself comfortable no matter what situation he was in—although now, he had to admit, it was bone-chillingly cold. The blizzard intimidated him, and he doubted even he could find the narrow mountain road after such a snowfall. They were in a very bad situation.

He dropped the pile of twigs and kindling in front of Siescu, pleased with himself. “See, Destrar? I told you I’d find enough for a fire.” He bent over, took out his flint and steel, and shielded the pile of combustible material with his own body. He struck three times until a strong spark leaped out, catching the grasses. “This will warm you, Destrar. Just a moment more.”

Though Siescu didn’t answer him, the scout continued to nurse the fire until the blaze caught and flames rose bright and golden in the swirling blizzard. “Here, Destrar, lean forward, and warm yourself.”

But Siescu didn’t answer. When Raga Var investigated, he found that the Corag destrar would never move again. The man had frozen entirely solid. Even his eyes, though wide open, were solid ice.

It was not possible in such a short time, yet Raga Var could not doubt what he saw. The blizzard had stolen all the heat from Destrar Siescu’s body, leaving only this icy statue, frozen through to the marrow. Siescu’s pale, hairless face was lined with frost.

Raga Var sat back heavily, but kept adding twigs to the fire, building it brighter. He looked into the petrified face of the man who had been so kind to him. “I’ll just sit here awhile, Destrar,” he said. “I’ll feed the fire for you until I run out of wood, so it can keep you warm.”

Outside of the small sheltered area, the storm continued to worsen, and impenetrable winter settled in over the Corag mountains. In the wind’s voice, Raja Var thought he heard a frost giant laughing.

Arikara

Arikara, the capital of Missinia, had once been a magnificent city of clay-brick towers and arched gateways, open courtyards and busy marketplaces. But when the former soldan-shah arrived with his three granddaughters, he saw only wreckage and death.

Even the driftwood reader’s dire predictions and Burilo’s report had not prepared Imir for such devastation. Swaths of Arikara’s buildings had fallen into piles of rubble; thick walls were shattered, support beams broken, roofs collapsed. It was as if an angry Ondun had smashed the city flat.

When the traveling party rode up, Adreala cried out in dismay. Cithara looked surprised and saddened; Istala began to pray aloud.

Imir pulled up his horse. “The whole city will have to be rebuilt.”