The Map of All Things (52 page)

121
Gremurr Mines

The Gremurr mines had fallen, the battle won by the grace of Aiden. The mammoths continued their wholesale rampage through the camp's remaining structures, but the enemy had already been defeated.

Without sympathy, Broeck bellowed for his soldiers to round up the Uraban survivors who had surrendered before the shaggy beasts. “Put them all in chains. Who better to work in these dirty mines?”

“This time, they'll be making swords and armor for the
Tierran
army, in order to shed Uraban blood.” Jenirod was exultant now. “Aiden has smiled upon us this day. Queen Anjine will be proud of what we have done, Mateo. Truly proud, this time.”

“She'll also be glad that we rescued so many kidnapped Tierrans, these poor prisoners of war.” Tomas would never come home, but Mateo hoped that bringing these freed people back to their families would ease her bone-deep pain and grief.

Even though the Urabans had all surrendered, the Iborian destrar was not yet satisfied. Broeck rode his bull mammoth back and forth, looking for something else to trample, but finally slid down from the beast's back. He stepped in front of Mateo and glanced at the rocky cliffs and stony beach of Gremurr's natural harbor. “Very little food here for the mammoths. Iaros will have to lead them back up over the mountain passes. He knows how to handle the beasts by now.”

“You're staying here, then?” Mateo asked.

“Did you see those armored warships in the harbor?” Broeck turned to regard the open waters of the Middlesea. “The fight's not over yet. The Curlies will try to take this place back once they know we've captured it. We should interrogate the guard captains, then put them to the sword.”

“We'll need men to work the mines. Haven't we slain enough?”

“Those who fell today died honorably in battle, but others should face execution for their crimes. Remember what they did to Tomas!”

Yes, Mateo remembered… but how many more executions would it take to fill that empty well of vengeance? “You are in command, Destrar… but I urge you to execute only the worst ones.”

The big Iborian let out a humorless laugh. “That's like asking me to choose the darkest shade of black. We'll learn what we can from them, and I'll decide which ones need to die.”

The freed Aidenist slaves had extinguished the fires and worked to salvage supplies from the damaged tents. There would be a great feast, where the rescued Tierrans could eat as much as they wanted; the Uraban captives, on the other hand, could go without food.

Mateo established a main command tent using canvas from some of the intact barracks. Tearing down any sign of the unfurling fern, soldiers proudly mounted fishhook banners on either side of the opening flap.

For hours, Mateo sat with Destrar Broeck and Jenirod at a field table inside the command tent, discussing how to consolidate the mines. Interrupting them, guards ushered in a Uraban prisoner. He was a stocky middle-aged man with soft skin and a proud bearing that almost managed to mask his apprehension.

“We felt you should speak to this person, sirs. His name is Tukar, the administrator of Gremurr. Apparently, he is also the brother of Soldan-Shah Omra.” The guard was accompanied by a scarecrow-thin former prisoner, who would act as interpreter. Among the freed slaves, they had found many grateful men who could speak fluent Uraban after all their years here.

Broeck rocked back in his field chair, bushy eyebrows lifted with great interest. “Well… a fine hostage.”

Mateo rested his forearms on the table. “Tukar… sir.” He didn't know how to address the Uraban, who was obviously a man of some importance—a defeated man. “Gremurr is an illegal settlement, above the Edict Line. You know you're operating in Tierran territory?”

A translator repeated the words. Tukar nodded, then replied. “I deny nothing. I am proud to have served the soldan-shah and the will of Urec.”

“He'll be a good bargaining chip,” Mateo said, leaning toward Broeck. “As a hostage, he could help protect the mines against a retaliatory attack.”

Waving Mateo aside, the Iborian destrar rose to his feet, his face red with building anger. His decision was already made. He fixed his gaze on Tukar's face but spoke to the translator. “Tell him this and say the words carefully: You Urabans made my grandson, Prince Tomas, pay the price for what others did. As the brother of the soldan-shah, you will understand that
you
must be held accountable for crimes committed by the followers of Urec.” He paused, and his voice came out trembling, raspy. “Soldan-Shah Omra needs to feel the pain that his people inflicted upon all of us—upon me.”

When the translator finished, Tukar's face turned gray, and he swallowed hard.

Down in the harbor, the Tierran army had seized the seven nearly completed ironclad warships. Studying them, Mateo could only imagine how much destruction those vessels could bring to unprotected Tierran coastal towns. By capturing the Gremurr mines, the Aidenist army had also confiscated the most powerful navy in the Middlesea. Since no Aidenist warship had ever sailed these waters, he doubted that the Uraban cities had any defenses from the sea. Mateo and his men could attack whenever and wherever they pleased.

“It still makes no sense,” Jenirod mused. “Why would they build warships
here
? How does the soldan-shah intend to get them to the Oceansea? Or is there some other enemy he's worried about?”

“We're the only ones the Curlies need to fear,” Broeck said, a deep growl in his throat.

“Maybe he meant to have Tierran slaves carry them on their backs across the isthmus and toss them into the Oceansea.” Mateo's sour comment drew a laugh from both men.

Later, they learned from the Tierran captives, and confirmed the information through harsh interrogation of Urecari prisoners, about Soldan-Shah Omra's astounding scheme to dig a canal across the strip of land below Ishalem. A route for ships to sail from the Middlesea to the Oceansea. The idea seemed both ridiculous and impossible.

Mateo didn't doubt it for an instant.

Several ore barges had also tied up to the docks, and Mateo guessed that other ships would soon arrive at Gremurr. The Urabans would learn about the loss of the mines soon enough, and Destrar Broeck intended to deliver the news in his own particular manner—a personal message aimed directly at the soldan-shah. Layer upon layer of revenge, however, had not satisfied the Iborian leader.

A terrified Uraban sea captain had been found hiding in the hold of a dirty ore barge, and Mateo decided to use the man as his messenger. The fearful captain spoke no Tierran, but he groveled and apologized, insisting, through a translator, that he was just a sailor with no involvement in politics and no interest in other religions. The barge captain and a skeleton crew shuffled aboard, looking haunted and beaten; the rest of the sailors would remain in the slave camp and be put to work in the mines.

Broeck faced the captain and spoke in a rush so that the translator could barely keep up. “You, man. Sail to Olabar and tell the soldan-shah that the Gremurr mines belong to
us
. Say that Queen Anjine will no longer tolerate this intrusion on Tierran soil.”

Broeck called his own soldiers forward, and one of them carried the sack with its grisly burden. Standing on the dock, Mateo squinted into the bright sunshine that glared off the water and steeled himself. “I'll do it.”

“No.” There was no flexibility in Broeck's tone. “Tomas was my grandson.” He took the object from the soldier and marched to the prow of the ore barge, where he thrust Tukar's head onto a spike they had mounted there.

The poor man had not struggled, had not wailed; he had died bravely. Now Tukar's lifeless eyes stared across the water, and before long they would gaze upon Olabar again.

The captain and his barge crew couldn't sail away from Gremurr swiftly enough. Mateo watched the dirty ship sail south across the Middlesea.

“We need to make war plans,” Jenirod said. “After we finish armoring those seven ships, we can raid the coast of the Middlesea. If we capture Sioara and establish our own outpost there, the Tierran army will have an easier way to cross into Uraba.”

“I'd prefer that we strike Olabar directly,” Broeck said.

“We have plenty of options,” Mateo said. “When we strike, we won't do it merely to inflict pain or exact vengeance, but to win this war. Victory is ours.”

The men walked back to the command tent. After all the destruction, death, and conquest here at Gremurr, Mateo didn't feel very triumphant, but he was coldly satisfied.

122
Off the Coast of Ishalem

It was nearly dusk by the time the fleet of Nunghal ships returned to Ishalem's western harbor. A victory light shone from the spire of what had once been Aiden's Lighthouse. Their cannon bombardment had utterly destroyed the Tierran attackers. By now, sea breezes had cleared most of the smoke on the water, but flames still burned from some of the wreckage and floating oil.

Two muscular Uraban men rowed Soldan-Shah Omra out to meet Shipkhan Ruad, where he asked to be taken aboard the large ship. “I would like to see what remains of those foolhardy warships. The 'Hooks came to Ishalem with hatred in their hearts, and received destruction in return.” He drew a deep breath, smelling the lingering acrid firepowder from the Nunghal cannons. “Ondun is stern, but He is just.”

Now that the reality had set in, Asaddan and Ruad were shaken by what they had seen and done. They had never witnessed, much less taken part in, such violence and bloodshed. When the sun was swallowed by the sea, the water turned orange, enhancing the angry fires that still fed on the shattered Tierran fleet. As dusk deepened to purple, Ruad guided his ship, taking the soldan-shah out to where the enemy vessels had sunk.

Omra stood at the bow, his face dark and grim. The catapults rigged to the foreign decks and the barrels of flammable oil made the Aidenist scheme all too plain. From the shore, the moment he'd seen them loose their first volleys of flaming oil-filled kegs, Omra had understood that the evil Aidenist captain meant to burn Ishalem again! And this after they had committed the barbaric atrocity of beheading a thousand innocent Urecari prisoners of war!

The rage felt like firepowder ready to explode within him; he no longer held any resentment toward Kel Unwar for what he had done to young Prince Tomas. These Aidenists were like mad dogs that needed to be struck down, and Omra could find no mercy in his heart. “Take me there. Let me gaze upon what remains of their ships and crews.” His sense of justice demanded that he witness it with his own eyes.

Ruad's vessel approached the flickering flames that lingered on pools of spilled whale oil. All of the Aidenist attack ships had sunk, leaving only a widening archipelago of smoldering flotsam and jetsam that dispersed into the waves and currents.

Asaddan shook his shaggy head. “Listen, you can hear some of them screaming. Men are still alive and clinging to the wreckage.”

Omra stared ahead, lost in his hatred. “I hear nothing. My ears were made deaf by the screams of the Uraban prisoners they murdered.”

Asaddan looked unsettled, nauseated, but not from any seasickness. He stepped away from the soldan-shah, as if afraid of him.

As Ruad's ship picked its way forward, Nunghal crewmen saw floating spars, tattered and charred sails, large splintered hull boards, and mangled bodies. Pale-skinned Aidenists drifted facedown, while several survivors clung to broken barrels or crates, or draped themselves over splintered yardarms. A few of the pathetic men waved and begged for rescue, but Omra glowered at them, unmoved.

Shipkhan Ruad closed his eyes and shook his head. “What destruction we have wrought. Nunghal cannons are to defend our ships from sea serpents. They have never been used for such things before.”

“What you have wrought is God's vengeance,” Omra said. “You saw what they intended to do to Ishalem. They received what they deserved. You have never seen actual war before, or its cost.”

In the water, a man with a shaved head and squarish beard clung to a broken spar. Omra could see that one of his arms had been blown off, but the man still lived. He lifted his bloody stump and stared with glazed eyes up at the gray-sailed vessel. His tattered coat held the marks of a sea captain. Omra wondered if this had been the leader of the entire ruthless attack.

If so, he felt a steely thrill of pleasure to know that the enemy commander had lived long enough to see his utter defeat. Before he died out here, alone, the man would
understand
how Ondun Himself had turned against the Aidenists and their evil ways.

The Tierran captain lifted his head and stared blearily. From high up on the passing Nunghal ship, Omra gazed down upon him with no empathy.

“Soldan-Shah, shall we pick up the survivors?” Ruad asked in an anxious voice. “There are many men floating here. We should take them back, tend to their injuries—even if you keep them as prisoners.”

By the light of the scattered fires in the deepening night, Omra saw triangular dorsal fins slicing through the water, circling the wreckage. The sharks had scented the blood of the dead and injured, and once full darkness fell they would have a generous and brutal feast.

Omra hardened his heart. “No. Turn the ship and sail back. I have seen enough.”

Asaddan was aghast. “You mean just to abandon them? They're still human beings.”

The comment earned him a glare from Omra. “I dispute your claim that they are human. If your ships had not stopped them, all of Ishalem would be ablaze right now. We will leave these men to the fates they chose for themselves.”

Shipkhan Ruad gave the order, and the Nunghal ship sailed away from the fading fires. Behind them, they heard the sudden splashing of sharks, and the screams of hopeless men.

“That is the price they must pay.”

123
Olabar, Main Urecari Church

Since the sikaras already hated her, Lady Istar could not issue the arrest order herself—there would be far too much of an uproar already—but the former soldan-shah had no such qualms. Imir took several of the highest-ranking priestesses into custody, where they could be interrogated about Villiki's schemes.

In the palace, Kel Rovic guarded Naori and the soldan-shah's two heirs, watching over them night and day. Because he was worried that sikara agents would try some additional violence, every morsel of food was checked for poison; the “volunteer” tasters were drawn from the most belligerent sikaras in the prisons.

The suicide of Ur-Sikara Erima had sent the priestesses into a panic. Those who had attained the highest positions of power were now suspects, which left the church with no effective leadership. Any sikara who spoke out against Imir's reactionary decrees found herself immediately seized.

With all three of her daughters safely at her side, Istar made her way through the main church's secret corridors and chambers in search of clues that Villiki might have left behind. Riders were dispatched to Ishalem with urgent messages informing Soldan-Shah Omra about what had happened. But before her husband returned home, Istar wanted to understand the depths of Villiki's plans.

Cithara led her mother to the hidden chamber where the woman had lived. Without hesitation, Istar broke into Villiki's private trunk, ransacked her wardrobe and drawers, searched her possessions. Following them, young Istala gazed about herself with superstitious fear. All of her dreams and her faith in the church had crumbled around her—Fashia's Fountain desecrated, the ur-sikara dead, the church caught harboring a murderous traitor.

Lady Istar felt sorry for what her youngest daughter had lost.

From beneath Villiki's writing table, Cithara reverently withdrew a bound book whose interior pages had all been torn in half. “Mother Istar, I saw Villiki write in this very special book. It is connected somehow with the
Al-Orizin
.”

Recognizing the sympathetic journal from which the ur-sikara occasionally read during church services, Istar sat down by the light of perfumed candles. Here, at last, were the true messages Saan's ship had sent back. She pored over the handwritten entries, scheming notes that Villiki had exchanged with Sikara Fyiri. These words were nothing at all like what she had heard Erima read aloud to the congregation. Some paragraphs described daily activities aboard the
Al-Orizin
; others were ruthless discussions of what Villiki planned to do here in Olabar. Istar read each line with great fascination. Even these distorted descriptions gave her a view into what Saan was doing on his long voyage.

Most thrilling of all, though, was the final entry, written in a different hand from Fyiri's. “This is Sen Sherufa na-Oa, chartsman of the
Al-Orizin
. Captain Saan has now acquired possession of this logbook, and henceforth all messages transmitted to Olabar will be accurate—unlike those of Sikara Fyiri.” The Saedran woman went on to describe at great length their encounter with the island, the witch Iyomelka, and her claims of being the wife of Ondun and the mother of a mysterious young girl.

Istar smiled, suddenly understanding the reason why Ur-Sikara Erima had stopped reporting messages from the ship. Apparently, Villiki had never bothered to write back once she knew the logbook had been taken from her pawn Fyiri.

Istar smiled at her daughters. “Saan needs to know what has happened here, and we can trust Sen Sherufa to report precisely what we write. We can be in contact with your brother again—real contact.” She tapped the torn pages of the journal, pondering possibilities. “Because the two journals are linked, if
I
write a message here, will the words appear for Sherufa to see—and Saan? Or must a sikara do the writing?”

“I'm not certain, Mother, but you could try,” Istala said. “What happens to this volume, happens to its counterpart.”

Though she was perfectly capable of writing for herself, she slid the book over to her youngest daughter. “Show us what you learned from the priestesses, my dear one. We'll write your brother a letter and explain all that has occurred. He'll know that we are now in secure contact with each other.”

In spite of her ordeal, Istar drew a deep breath and felt a joy inside her. Just by touching these pages, she could touch Saan. She now knew her son was still alive, still healthy, still exploring. “And don't forget to tell him that we love him.”