The Key to Creation (27 page)

He had crafted the suit with great care. After Vicka’s death, Ammur must have buried himself in his work, intent on completing the armor, but she could see his unbounded sadness. She held up the helmet and felt proud. “Thank you, Ammur Sonnen.”

After the apprentices had spread out the components, the blacksmith said, “We must fit it, Majesty…if now is a convenient time?”

She picked up the breastplate, looked at the thin, flexible gauntlet. “Yes, now is a good time.” She felt a
need
to wear it, to be a warrior, protected by the blessings of Aiden as well as the love and care of her finest craftsman.

Enifir hurried in. “I will assist in dressing the queen.”

Ammur was flustered. “We are not
dressing
the queen, we are
armoring
her.” He retrieved a satchel of tools from his apprentices and took up his tongs, pliers, and hammer as if each were a surgeon’s implement. He and his young helpers worked to fit the queen’s armor, strapping on the cuirass, buckling the greaves, sliding the gauntlets into place over her hands.

With each piece that covered part of her body, Anjine felt more protected, more sheltered…and more walled off. That was how she needed to be, as the queen. She had to think of the big picture, of Tierra, of Ishalem, of the enemy. When the hard plate covered her chest, shielding her heart, she allowed herself to think of Mateo and how he had gone off alone. Soon, he and the army would reach the Ishalem wall.

Only yesterday, Anjine had dispatched Comdar Rief with the full Tierran navy. By now, one of her couriers should have gotten through the Corag mountains to deliver her message to Destrar Broeck. One of the three riders had returned, disheveled and disappointed that he had been unable to get through the snowy passes, but she had heard nothing from the two that were sent ahead of him.

She vowed that this would not be a disorganized strike, no matter how energetic her warriors might be. A few years ago, ninety foolhardy riders from Alamont Reach had dashed off on horseback to reclaim Ishalem, only to be slaughtered. And the more recent humiliating rout of the Tierran army at the wall, betrayed by
ra’virs
in their midst, had been another lesson. Anjine did not intend to fail again.

Not until she had won this war and crushed the Urecari enemy would she let herself think of Mateo. The human part of her missed him and longed to be with him, but the queen within chastised her for pondering personal happiness rather than the survival of her land and people.…

When the armor was fully fitted and in place, Anjine moved her arms and legs, then turned about. Ammur Sonnen regarded her movements with a critical eye, and added a finishing touch by attaching an embroidered cape displaying the green and blue colors of Tierra.

Enifir brought a looking glass, and Anjine performed a slow rotation, feeling comfortable and strong inside her carapace. “I am a formidable queen, a soldier for Aiden.”

“Yes, Majesty, you are,” said Ammur.

She would command her army to knock down the Uraban barricade that blocked the Aidenists from the holy city. Though the blacksmith’s eyes were still red and his cheeks gaunt, he gave her a faint hard smile, a satisfied smile. The apprentices stared at her with undisguised awe.

Enifir let out a long sigh. “Majesty, you have never looked so beautiful—or so terrifying. You will strike awe and fear into the hearts of the Urecari.”

“Good, that is how it should be.”

The Road to Ishalem

The Tierran vanguard had been marching south for weeks, and Ishalem was directly ahead. Though weary, the soldiers were well provisioned, and more supply trains would follow as the army camp swelled at the wall. The initial enthusiasm upon leaving Calay—loud fanfares, waving banners, cheers of townspeople, and the easily given promises of young women—had fallen behind them now, and they settled into a routine of travel. As they approached their destination, however, the marching men picked up the pace.

Mateo rode in the lead between Destrar Shenro and Jenirod. Each day put him miles farther from Anjine, but no closer to contentment. He concentrated on his duty; that, at least, was a thing he could hold on to.

At the southern boundary of Tierra, the terrain became scrubby and rocky, the dry air full of dust. The old Pilgrims’ Road was rutted and overgrown because little traffic went to the wall anymore. Though the army was still too far away from God’s Barricade for the enemy to see them, Mateo was sure that outriding Uraban scouts had spotted their arrival. The Curlies would be gathering their defenses, preparing to meet another impulsive Tierran attack…but Queen Anjine had a plan much more ambitious than the Urabans had seen before.

Mateo looked around as he rode, squinting in the bright sun. Not so many months ago, he had come down here to set up a squalid camp for a thousand doomed Urecari prisoners. He told himself over and over that this time it would be different.…

The presters accompanying the troops held their Fishhook banners high. The marching soldiers came to a halt in the late afternoon to set up their last camp, which would be the army’s main base for the next several months. They moved about in a well-practiced flurry of activity, pitching tents, making fire rings, gathering scrub brush, lighting campfires, and digging latrines. Itinerant presters moved from one group to another, offering blessings and sharing the camp food.

Engineers and scouts had ridden into the nearby hills to scavenge trees for the lumber with which to build catapults and siege engines. Supply wagons rolled in, and would continue to do so as more food and material came by boat or by road. Destrar Sazar had set up dropoff points for deliveries along the river routes. This was one of the largest-scale operations Tierra had ever attempted.

Meanwhile, in nearby Ishalem, the followers of Urec would be heading to their sunset church services.

Sooner or later, if Anjine was true to her promise—and she would be—the queen would join the army for the final campaign, after all of her pieces were in place. He longed to see her, and he dreaded seeing her. Every time Mateo thought of Anjine and the love he could no longer hide, he was reminded of Vicka, too. The two of them hadn’t even had a chance.…

But Mateo couldn’t afford to think of either woman right now. Though the actual fight wouldn’t begin for some time yet, defeating the enemy consumed his attention and energy.

As the soldiers set up camp, Destrar Shenro tossed his long brown hair and wandered among his men. After talking to a pair of tired, dusty Alamont riders who had joined the march only that day, Shenro came to Mateo with a gleam in his eye that suggested secrets. “Subcomdar, come with me before the light fades. I have something to show you.”

Mateo was ready to set up his headquarters tent, eat his evening meal (preferably alone, but he knew Jenirod would likely join him), then rest. He generally spent little time among the men at night, avoiding their campfire stories and evening songs. He did not want to dampen the unabashed enthusiasm of the mostly untried soldiers. “Is it important?”

Shenro smiled. “It’ll show you how to take Ishalem and win the war. It’s going to make a great deal of difference to our plans for storming the wall.”

Mateo did not have any immediate plans for storming the wall; their multi-pronged assault was not scheduled for more than two months yet.

Jenirod came up to the officers’ tents just in time to hear the comment. “That’s a bold statement, Destrar. You’ve found a way to bring Ondun back and sweep the enemy from the world?”

“Oh, nothing so extreme—but it should impress even an Eriettan.”

Jenirod raised his eyebrows. “Then it must be impressive indeed.”

Like an excited boy, Shenro led the two men out of the camp and into the grassy hills. The two dusty riders also joined him, each carrying a standard bow slung over his shoulders, as well as a long, thin package wrapped in canvas. The small group trudged through knee-high rustling grasses, circled a hillside, then emerged in a broad meadow studded with gray boulders.

Shenro whispered to the two riders, who answered with confident nods. They laid their long canvas packages on the ground, while Mateo and Jenirod exchanged curious looks.

Like a showmaster beginning a performance, Shenro placed his hands on his narrow hips. “These fellows are skilled archers from Bora’s Bastion. Everyone knows that Alamont archers are the finest in the Tierran military.” The destrar scanned the meadow, then pointed to a clump of lichen-spattered rocks overgrown with grasses. “You see those boulders? Would you agree that’s about the typical range of a bow shot?”

When he was younger, Mateo had trained under Destrar Shenro and practiced for many months shooting arrows out on the Alamont prairies. “A bit far, but I could probably make that shot, depending on the wind.” He didn’t see why the man was so excited.

“These two men will demonstrate.” Shenro rubbed his palms together. “And then we’ll move to the interesting part.”

Each rider removed his traditional bow, drew an arrow from his quiver, nocked it, and pulled back the string. Without taking careful aim, they loosed their shots. Mateo shaded his eyes in the low light. The arrows flew upward, then plunged down to clatter on the target rocks.

“I’ve seen Alamont archers many times,” Mateo said. “This is nothing new.”

Unable to restrain either his smile or his excitement, Shenro motioned for the men to unroll the canvas packages, each of which contained a new longbow made of laminated strips of hardwood, curved and then recurved.

Mateo bent forward to inspect them. “I’ve never seen a bow like this before.”

“It’s a new design we developed in Alamont, a carefully guarded secret. Anyone who saw or worked on the project was held in closed quarters and remains under house arrest.”

Jenirod was startled. “House arrest? Isn’t that a bit extreme?”

“As security, not punishment. Too many
ra’virs
have already harmed us, and we dare not let the enemy discover these new bows. You’ll see why.”

When the two riders took up the new longbows, stringing them required all of their strength. With their odd, doubly curved profiles, the bows stood nearly as tall as the strong men who carried them. Once strung, they thrummed with energy.

“Now watch,” Shenro said, his eyes gleaming. “Men, please impress my guests.”

Without saying a word, the archers each nocked an arrow and drew the string back, straining as they did so, then released. The arrows soared out, flying high—and kept going. The shafts had barely begun their downward arc by the time they passed the target boulders. The arrows dwindled in the distance and landed well past the rocks at the far edge of the prairie. They went so far Mateo could barely see where they struck.

“That’s twice the range of a normal bow!” Jenirod exclaimed.

Shenro was smug and happy. “Now you see why we can’t let
ra’virs
discover these? My archers are well practiced, and can hit a target so far away you can barely see it. Won’t that be a nice surprise to spring on the enemy at the wall?”

“Yes, it will,” Mateo said. “We’ll have to factor this into our plans. How many of those bows do you have?”

“I’ve had craftsmen working without rest for the past month, ever since we tested and proved the new bow design. These men just came from Bora’s Bastion with their report. A hundred specially trained archers with a hundred new longbows will join us in camp within the next week or so.”

Even Jenirod was pleased. “And you’ve kept it a secret all this time?”

“I didn’t want the men to travel with the rest of the army. There’s always the chance that someone might talk.”

Shenro told his men to unstring the bows and wrap them in the canvas before anyone could see. In the deepening dusk, no hidden observer could have made out the details anyway. “Ah, Subcomdar, I tell you this is going to be a glorious campaign.”

“I hope you’re right.” They returned to camp. Tomorrow, the Tierran military would begin the siege of Ishalem.

Sapier’s Glory

Aboard the flagship of the Tierran naval fleet—seventy-three vessels ranging from large carracks to heavy cogs to swift patrol caravels—Comdar Torin Rief studied the waters of the Oceansea. According to the charts, his warships would reach the holy city in three days. The warm sea looked peaceful, but blood had stained this water red many times over the past two decades.

According to the plan, the Aidenist navy would blockade Ishalem’s western harbor, perhaps capture some of the foreign merchant ships. Rief ’s primary goal was to close off the harbor so that the Uraban occupiers would have no ready supply of weapons, food, and other cargo. The siege couldn’t be entirely effective, though, since the Curlies still had overland routes as well as the port on the Middlesea side of the isthmus. Nevertheless, Rief ’s blockade would cause hardship, wreak havoc, strike fear—and send a message to the soldan-shah. With Queen Anjine’s army encamped along the wall and swelling in numbers, the Urecari would sense Ondun’s anger gathering against them like a summer thunderstorm.

However, as the ships sailed south, the crew were worried about what the Curlies might unleash against them. Everyone knew that Destrar Tavishel and his Soeland warships had been annihilated by some terrible Urecari weapon. Tavishel’s sturdy whaling vessels should not have been easy targets, but every one had been splintered and burned. None of Tavishel’s crew had survived, as far as Rief knew.

Information about the disaster was sparse, but the comdar suspected the Urecari had a weapon fueled by explosive firepowder. The recipe for the incredible substance had only just been brought back to Calay with the Gremurr refugees; while firepowder was too new for him to grasp its full possibilities for war, Queen Anjine had already made plans.…

From
Sapier’s Glory
, his flagship, Rief stared across the sunlit water. The dapples of golden light had a hypnotic effect. He was a tall and thin man with unusually black hair for a Tierran; his narrow face sported a scar from a previous battle. Once appointed comdar of the Tierran military, Rief had maintained a crisp, professional demeanor, and never let himself be seen out of his formal uniform.