Tierran military experts fleshed out the queen’s plan and set up schedules—when the army must be at full strength encamped at the Ishalem wall, when the navy could form its complete blockade of Ishalem’s western harbor, and when Destrar Broeck needed to arrive with his armored ships on the opposite side of the isthmus. The Urabans would be caught in the middle of all three forces—but only with the proper timing.
Working with her personal scribe, Queen Anjine drew up a document that laid down the detailed schedule leading to the battle and beyond. The coordination and preparation for such a large operation would take months, but the onset of winter in the Corag mountains made it imperative that messengers head off immediately to guarantee at least one of them would get over the pass so that Destrar Broeck knew his part.
To keep the vital information from falling into Uraban hands, Anjine’s lady-in-waiting Enifir translated each copy into an obscure Iborian dialect—which Broeck could read, but would be gibberish to anyone who wasn’t from the northern reach. The riders raced off on fast horses, each separated by a day, heading up into the Corag mountains.
For most of his life, Jenirod and his father had not gotten along well, and he had only recently come to the bitter conclusion that he was mostly to blame. Destrar Unsul was a wise leader of Erietta Reach, tending to the tedious day-to-day matters that cocky Jenirod had always found boring. It shamed the young man to remember how he and his friends had snickered at Unsul’s dull life. Now Jenirod had to admit that he’d been an annoying, immature ass. If the war ever ended, he would go back to Erietta and study his father’s windmills and irrigation improvements with a new eye.
First, though, the Urabans had to be defeated.
Jenirod bunked in the barracks so he could help Comdar Rief plan the massive three-pronged assault on Ishalem. He wanted to be available at all hours, should any of the leaders ask his advice. To the best of his abilities, Jenirod had given a full accounting of the size and apparent capabilities of the seven captured ironclads. He estimated the production capacity of the Gremurr mines and smelters, and offered his best guess as to how many freed prisoners—and potential soldiers—Broeck could enlist for his own part of the operation. When Jenirod talked, his voice was bleak. The boyish thrill of war had been burned out of him.…
He ate a lunch of soup and fresh bread at the officers’ table in the mess barracks, and Destrar Shenro joined him, grinning as he sat down. “Isn’t it wonderful for Alamont and Erietta to have a true enemy after so many rivalries between our reaches?”
The Alamont destrar had let his hair grow long, perhaps because he thought it made him look more like a warrior. Jenirod, however, had learned that long hair merely gave enemy combatants something to grab, which was not a particularly good idea in real fighting.
“Rivalries are very different from warfare,” Jenirod said. “I didn’t understand the difference before, but now I certainly do.”
Shenro made a habit of attending strategy sessions with Comdar Rief and his advisers. He fancied himself a military historian, but he had no actual battlefield experience (though he longed for it). Alamont was Tierra’s only landlocked reach, and most Urecari attacks came by sea. The more Shenro proposed audacious military advances on Uraba, the more Jenirod was reminded of himself only a few months earlier.
“We understand about war and suffering,” Shenro said. “Ninety of my brave men rode off to seize Ishalem after the soldan-shah invaded it, and they were all slaughtered. Martyrs for Aiden.” He sighed and shook his head. “Soon enough my people can avenge that sacrifice.”
Jenirod gave a noncommittal nod. Now that he considered those ninety dead Alamont riders from a new perspective, he concluded that their lives had been wasted. Brash and poorly prepared, vastly outnumbered, without a plan. If the Urecari had not killed those riders, then they would have been the fools. But he didn’t expect the people of Alamont to see it that way.
“I remember the old days,” Shenro said wistfully, “when my father used to tell me about the beautiful women of Erietta.”
“Yes, they are beautiful.” Jenirod recalled how the ladies had swooned over him during Eriettan horse cavalcades.
Shenro recounted the story of how the brother of an Alamont destrar, many generations ago, had grown enamored of a beautiful Eriettan girl. “When she declined his marriage proposal—a political thing, I suppose—the smitten man rode to your reach, kidnapped the girl, and took her back to Alamont. One of our presters wed them in the middle of the night.” Shenro chuckled at the tale. “That almost led to open war between our reaches until the king stepped in and forced the Alamont destrar to offer his own daughter in return as wife to an Eriettan nobleman.”
Jenirod grunted, not amused by the story. “That deal still favored Alamont, since the Eriettan girl was much lovelier than your destrar’s daughter.”
Shenro answered with a good-natured laugh. Then with wolfish hunger he pressed for details of who had been slain at Gremurr and how they had died. “It must have been glorious! Our poets and minstrels have plenty of material for new works. This is a good reason to celebrate.”
“Nobody felt much like celebrating.” Jenirod continued to eat his soup and bread. “Let me tell you about my own battle experiences.” He set his spoon aside, and Shenro listened eagerly. “When I was betrothed to Queen Anjine, I wanted to impress her by winning a great victory in her honor. Destrar Tavishel and I set off to desecrate one of the heathen shrines as a way to thumb our noses at the Curlies and show them that we’re not afraid of their Urec.”
Shenro nodded. “Yes, Fashia’s Fountain—I’ve heard of it. You killed many of them.”
“We killed many women and pilgrims—none of them fighters. I thought I would turn into a soldier that day. Instead, I just felt like an animal. They screamed for mercy, but we didn’t grant it. Their blood fouled a pure spring. Fashia’s Fountain was a beautiful place, a crystal pool with a waterfall.” Jenirod blinked; his eyes burned, and his ears rang with the echoes of dying Urecari priestesses and pilgrims.
“And even after that,” Shenro said, picking up the story and still oblivious, “the Curlies didn’t surrender and leave us alone. They killed Prince Tomas. Obviously, they will never learn their lesson.” He grinned. “I can’t wait until our army marches.”
Jenirod went back to eating his soup with a heavy heart. It seemed the Alamont destrar was also incapable of learning a lesson.