The Key to Creation (5 page)

Ciarlo greeted him, offering explanations even before the man could ask. “I’ve come here to tell you of wonders.”

The man’s face flushed. He straightened the maroon olba on his head, tightened the silken sash that held his shirt closed over his potbelly. “You are not welcome here. Why do you come to this town?”

“Because Aiden guides me.”

A woman in the red robe of a sikara strode down an intersecting street and said in a loud voice, “Cover your ears against his lies!”

In his travels, Ciarlo had received varied receptions from the sikaras; if not tolerant, at least they had not called for his death or imprisonment. Not yet. This one, though, looked very angry.

The woman’s arrival gave the official all the impetus he needed, and he ordered the guards to grab Ciarlo. When he clung to his two books, the mayor yanked the volumes out of his hands. Squinting down at the pages, the mayor saw Tierran writing and looked as if he had swallowed a large insect. “What is this?”

“The Book of Aiden,” Ciarlo said proudly. “I can read it to you. I will teach you, and all of your people.”

The mayor threw the books to the dirt. “Gag him and bind his arms. Make him watch while we burn this blasphemy.”

At first Ciarlo did not resist, but when the official tore pages from the books to make a pile for burning, he struggled to break free. A rag stuffed into his mouth by one of the guards prevented him from crying out. Without being asked, a lampmaker doused the torn pages with scented oil and set them ablaze. Ciarlo felt great sadness to see the Book of Aiden perish, but far more grievous was the loss of the unique Tales of the Traveler, each sentence in Aiden’s own handwriting. Those stories were irreplaceable.

In only moments, the fire consumed the paper. Curls of ash drifted along the streets like funeral veils.

Ciarlo’s shoulders sagged. He wanted to weep, but he was not weak, and he would not give up. He tried to convince himself this was merely another trial that Aiden had given him. The roads, and his beliefs, had brought him to this place, and he was here for a reason.

“Throw him down a well!” a shrill woman yelled.

“Why not stone him right here?”

“Or chain him out in the sun until he repents and accepts the word of Urec.”

The sikara offered a hard smile. “I
could
instruct him. We have many implements to assist us.”

Ciarlo struggled, more frightened by the thought of indoctrination than torture.

“No.” The official turned to his guards with a flourish of one hand toward the sea. “The
Moray
came to port last night.”

Some of the townspeople chuckled; quite a few seemed disappointed. The guards dragged Ciarlo along the street toward the docks. He tried to speak of Aiden on the way, but the gag muffled his words.

They approached a long galley tied up to the longest dock. Its silken sails were furled. Striding out onto the pier, the mayor whistled toward the ship. “Captain Belluc, are you still in the market for workers? You go through men quickly.”

A bronzed man with a single earring came out on deck to greet them. He sized up Ciarlo. “I can always use new men at the oars.”

“And you always pay gold.” The mayor smiled. “Part of which goes to the church, of course.” He extended his hand, and Belluc placed shining yellow coins in his palm. “This one’s an Aidenist, so you won’t need to pamper him.”

“I don’t pamper my men, Aidenist or not.”

Through the galley’s open hatch, Ciarlo could make out a dark, stuffy hold filled with long benches and shackles at the ends of long oars. When the guards finally took the gag from his mouth, he spluttered, “I came here to preach.”

The bald captain raised his eyebrows and laughed. “You’ll be too busy rowing to preach.” He called to two other sailors aboard the galley. “Take him below and put him in chains with the others.”

Corag Mountains

The rocky Gremurr coastline was no place to keep a herd of shaggy beasts that required tons of food each day. After defeating the Urecari at the mines, the battle mammoths were restless, unruly, and dangerous. Destrar Broeck dispatched his nephew Iaros to guide the big creatures back home to the high cold steppes.

Mateo joined him on the trek, along with two hundred freed Aidenist prisoners who desperately wanted to go home. Other Tierran captives were too weak to make the long journey, having been driven to exhaustion by their bloodthirsty Uraban workmasters, and so they remained behind to help defend the mines if necessary. Once they recovered, the prisoners of war would make the return journey to Tierra the following spring. Now that Gremurr was under Tierran control, the mines would not be such a hellish place—at least for Aidenists. For Urecari prisoners of war, it would be a different story.…

Mateo was glad to be going back to Calay at last, where his new wife Vicka was waiting for him. He had spent too little time with her since their wedding. After remaining aloof for decades through a succession of superficial relationships, he had chosen to settle down with the daughter of the blacksmith Ammur Sonnen. No woman could match Anjine, the standard by whom he measured all others, but Vicka Sonnen came close.…

He accompanied the lumbering monsters along the rough new road into the Corag mountains, still haunted by the things he had been forced to do in this war. He felt some reluctance to return home, since the guilt weighed so heavily on his shoulders.

But taking these refugees back to their families, who had surely thought their loved ones dead for so many years, would help heal his heart. Days ago, Jenirod had ridden off with his report for Anjine. Soon the queen would know that Mateo was alive and that he had helped secure a major triumph for Tierra. She would be waiting for him when he came home.

He and Iaros rode Eriettan horses, while a few of the men rode on the swaying mammoths. In a nervous habit, Iaros stroked his ridiculously long mustache. “That was a victory to be proud of, wasn’t it, Mateo? We did a good thing.”

“Don’t ever doubt it. God was on our side.” Mateo looked behind him at the hundreds of shuffling Tierran prisoners. “Ask any of those refugees—I think they’ll agree.”

The lead mammoth raised its long trunk and trumpeted, a sound so loud it echoed up the mountain canyons. Mateo was afraid the noise might trigger an avalanche from the snowy slopes, but Iaros didn’t seem concerned.

When the group reached the top of the pass, Iaros looked north, beyond the gray mountains. “I’ll be in charge of Iboria Reach for as long as my uncle stays in Gremurr.” He dropped his voice. “But I must confess, the local problems of Iboria don’t seem nearly so pressing, given the state of the war.”

Mateo smiled wistfully, recalling his year of soldier training under Broeck. “The Iborian people are independent, Iaros. They can take care of themselves.”

When they halted for a meal, Mateo distributed every bit of their remaining food, so the refugees would have full bellies for the march into Stoneholm. “Give someone else my share. I can do without for now. These people have missed too many meals over the years.”

A grin appeared between the tails of Iaros’s long mustache. “Then I’ll do without, too.” His stomach suddenly growled, as if to challenge his resolve.

As the former captives ate, Mateo and Iaros strolled among them, offering encouragement about the long march ahead. They packed up and moved on. An early season snow dusted the path through the high meadow, but the mammoths trampled it down. Some of the prisoners from the northlands shared legends about ancient frost giants, who came with the winter cold and could freeze a man solid in between the words of a sentence, but the day was warm and they laughed at the stories.

Before nightfall, the group reached Stoneholm, the capital city of Corag, built into the mountain under an overhang. A rider came out to meet Mateo and Iaros. “Our scouts spotted you and rushed back to inform Destrar Siescu. He has prepared a victory feast, which awaits you when you arrive.”

“A feast is well and good,” Mateo said to the messenger, “but they’ve been on low rations for quite a while, so bland and wholesome food would be best. Also, make sure there are lodgings, or at least tents and campfires for everyone.”

“It’s already done. Destrar Siescu sent word throughout the Stoneholm warrens asking for families willing to share their homes. For any who need to sleep outside in tents, we have extra blankets.”

The freed Gremurr slaves burst forward with increased energy as they reached the city built into the mountainside. Corag residents came out to welcome them, commemorating the victory, cheering the refugees and the soldiers. Mateo’s heart warmed to see thirty of the haggard refugees reunited with their own families from Corag. He had come to know these tough, whip-thin men during the march along the mountain road, and he knew which ones had grown up in the rugged mountains. He watched the Corag men bound forward like gaunt antelopes, while women in woolen shawls and spun skirts came running out, calling names, searching the returning prisoners for familiar faces.

Laughing and weeping, women kissed their shaggy and dirty men. Children stared at unfamiliar fathers while the mothers spilled out a flood of words that had been pent up for years. Most of the returning Corag slaves just clung to their wives or sweethearts, rocking them back and forth. Warm tears filled Mateo’s eyes, and he drew a deep breath, let it out slowly. He would be home soon, too. The palpable joy in the air heartened the others, who now looked forward to the long trek back to Calay.

The bald, pale-skinned Siescu came out to meet Mateo and Iaros with a grin wide enough to stretch the skin on his angular face. “This is cause for great celebration, gentlemen. We are glad to have you.” The Corag destrar looked skeptically at the herd of large and restless russet beasts. “But your mammoths stripped the vegetation clean the last time they came through. They won’t find much forage. You’ll have to move along as soon as possible.”

“My soldiers will guide them back to the steppes tomorrow,” Iaros promised.

Siescu led them to his cavernous hall, where an ever-present fire blazed in the huge hearth. Tureens of hot soup and platters of steaming bread were laid out on the long table. He clicked his tongue against his teeth. “You must be frozen to the bone after that long journey. You can be warm in here.”

Mateo ate his soup, a broth of some unknown meat enhanced by sliced root vegetables. The warmth and nourishment felt very good. “Destrar, can you send riders ahead to the river in the morning to secure one of Sazar’s barges? That would make the journey easier for our returning friends.”

“Consider it done,” Siescu said. “We are all part of this war, and I sense it will soon be over.”

Tearing into a chunk of bread, Iaros raised his chin. “I’ve decided that Iborians can take care of themselves, and I’ll return to Gremurr after all. My uncle needs me more.” When Mateo looked at him in surprise, the other man shrugged. “Capturing Gremurr was only the first part of the battle—now we have to hold it. They are already growing short of supplies.”

Destrar Siescu considered for a long moment. “I’ve got a hundred soldiers to send with you—and I will go along, too. And a load of supplies. I don’t much like to leave my hall this late in the season, but I want to see these mines before winter arrives. Raga Var can lead us safely over the pass.”

“Winter will soon close the pass, Destrar.” The mumbled voice came from someone not accustomed to speaking before a large group of people. Mateo spotted the shaggy-looking guide in tattered fur garments. “If we are going back to Gremurr, we’d better leave quickly.”

Gremurr Mines

Destrar Broeck had never been much of a sailor, but now that he’d captured seven warships, he enjoyed hunting on the open Middlesea.

The ironclad vessels were quite different from the barges and carracks frequently used along the Tierran coastline, and the Uraban rigging style made the ships handle in unexpected ways, which was why Broeck insisted on so many shakedown voyages. Should there be open naval battles against the Curlies, he needed his fighters to be familiar with their commandeered ships.

Now, at the end of another successful patrol voyage, the ironclad sailed back to the docks at the mine complex. Behind it came two newly seized Uraban cargo ships, which would drop anchor with the other enemy vessels he had captured—seventeen so far.

Gremurr harbor was full of ships that Broeck’s ironclads had seized in the Middlesea waters. While most were not suitable for naval warfare, at least they would no longer be delivering cargo to the Urabans. Sooner or later, as word spread, maritime traffic would avoid Gremurr entirely. Traders would be afraid to sail from port to port on their regular commercial runs. And that was a good thing, too.

Broeck smiled. Soldan-Shah Omra must be trying to figure out how to recapture the mines, but his minimal navy in the Middlesea could never stand against his own ironclad juggernauts. Isolated and protected by mountains, closed off by the isthmus of Ishalem, Uraban cities along the Middlesea coast had never faced an Aidenist attack and therefore had no defenses.

In the meantime, the destrar was eager to move. Regardless of how many enemies he had slain during the conquest of the mines, Broeck didn’t feel he had avenged his grandson Tomas. Besides, although he needed to ensure that the mines continued producing vital metals for the Tierran war effort, he was a warrior, not a mine manager.

The high cliffs of the Gremurr shore were coated with a fresh layer of soot now that the smelters and refineries were operating again, and the air stank of sulfur and smoke. Standing on the ironclad’s deck, Broeck regarded the bustle of activity with satisfaction. While he missed the cold, clean air of the north, even this tainted breeze had a heady quality that reminded him of a battle well fought and enemies crushed.

The armored warship tied up beside the other six ironclad vessels at the long pier, and sailors threw boarding ramps across to the dock boards. As Broeck tromped down the pier, his new mining chief, Firun—a former household slave of the defeated Uraban overlord—came out to greet him, knowing the destrar would want a report. From the smile on the old man’s sunburned face, Broeck could see that the report was a good one.