Destrar Broeck had made a serviceable home for himself at Gremurr in the villa of the former Uraban mine administrator.
The man (or more likely, his wife…did he even have a wife?) had decorated the home in traditional Uraban style, but Broeck’s men pulled down the silk drapes and the Unfurling Fern tapestry. He replaced the furniture with blocky benches and plank tables so the house didn’t look quite so foreign. Since he had no Iborian pine to work with, Broeck made do with scrap wood.
The destrar met daily with his lieutenants to discuss the defense of Gremurr, even though the soldan-shah had no warships left in the Middlesea. Omra didn’t have the means to launch a retaliation, but Broeck kept the ironclads on constant patrol nevertheless.
In the rare evenings when he wasn’t with Iaros or Destrar Siescu or one of the mine foremen, he liked to sit alone before a small fire. The local wood gave off a spicy resinous fragrance and too much smoke. Even though the nights were cool with the approach of winter, the climate was much milder than the destrar’s home in frozen Iboria. He wanted the light more than warmth.
Since arriving in Gremurr with men and supplies, Destrar Siescu had taken up temporary residence in one of the other homes. Sooner or later Gremurr would become an established part of Corag Reach. Broeck certainly had no intention of staying here to carve out a new domain for himself. Miserable place!
Siescu spent most days with his expert metalworkers inside the smelter buildings; the Corag destrar liked to stand near the molten metal, and he built up blazes in all his fireplaces so that when Broeck visited him he often had to step outside just to get away from the heat. It was a mystery to him how a man could be cold all the time.…
Now, alone and quiet, Broeck finished his dinner and pushed aside the chipped ceramic bowl. The camp cooks had produced another acceptable though odd-tasting meal with the supplies on hand, leaving only watery leftovers for the Curly captives. Unfortunately, the mammoths had smashed as many supply tents as military headquarters, and now the conquerors faced depleted food stores and diminished rations. Broeck also dispatched soldiers into the hills to hunt mountain goats, dwarf antelope, and grouse, so they could occasionally supplement their supplies with roast meat.
Whenever they seized Uraban cargo vessels or fishing boats, those stores were added to the camp supply tents. Urabans might have considered some of the odd items delicacies, but they all tasted strange to Broeck. But it was much-needed food. However, each time he brought a captured boat back to Gremurr to join the ever-growing cluster of ships at anchor, there were extra Uraban mouths to feed as well.
Many of his men didn’t understand why he cluttered the small harbor with so many useless vessels. “What is the military value in such garbage?” Iaros had asked, not out of scorn but genuinely perplexed. “Why not just sink them out in deep water?”
Broeck responded, “I have an idea, but I haven’t finished my plans yet.”
The younger man stroked his long mustaches and nodded. “Ah.” It was all he needed to know. He trusted his uncle.
Over the past several months, Broeck had grown rather proud of his nephew. Though clumsy in social matters, Iaros was hardworking and fervent, and he had benefited greatly from this adventure away from home. (Broeck did not shower the young man with too much praise, though; Iaros had a tendency to be vain.)
His quiet evening was soon interrupted when Iaros rushed inside accompanied by two camp guards. Broeck looked up from his scribbled tally sheets and complicated inventory lists. His nephew’s face was flushed with excitement, although the young man did have a tendency to overestimate the urgency of most situations. “Uncle, we caught a young boy stealing food from one of the supply tents! The guards grabbed him before he could get away.”
Broeck perked up. Now this was interesting. “What is a boy doing in this place?”
“I don’t know, Uncle, but he’s a wildcat—shouting and fighting. It took three guards just to hold him.”
“My soldiers need more training if it takes three of them to capture a boy. Who is he? What does he say?”
“We can’t understand him. He keeps spitting out Uraban words.”
“That would be expected, if he’s Uraban,” Broeck said dryly. “Send for Firun. He can translate.”
Iaros grinned as if his uncle had just complimented him. “He’s already coming.”
A pair of camp guards hauled a scrawny, dark-haired boy into the main room. He tried to yank his arms free from his captors, but they held him tight. Though the lad’s clothes were well made, sewn from good fabric, they were dirty and worn. He looked as if he hadn’t eaten in days. His face was thin, and his dark brown eyes flashed with anger. A soldier grunted as the boy jabbed an elbow into his stomach. Broeck noticed that another guard had a bruised and swollen lip.
Running his fingers along his bearded chin, Broeck regarded the boy with curious amusement. “Where in the world did you come from? This isn’t a place for children.”
The boy squirmed and kicked with undiminished energy and anger. He looked around at the room and seemed upset by what he saw there.
Finally old Firun came in. He took one glance at the young captive and his eyes widened.
Broeck said, “Firun, ask him what he wants. What is a child doing in this forsaken place?”
Instead of speaking to the captive, Firun addressed Broeck in a tired voice. “His name is Ulan, and he is the son of Tukar, the soldan-shah’s brother.” Seeing no recognition on the destrar’s face, he clarified. “Tukar was the former administrator of the mines.”
“The man I killed?” Broeck remembered cutting off Tukar’s head and sending it back to Olabar on a battered ore barge. In all the chaos after seizing the mines, he hadn’t talked much to the prisoner, simply convicted and executed him. Broeck did recall, though, that Tukar had gone to his death bravely, resigned to his fate. The man had not asked for mercy, nor had he mentioned a son who had escaped the mayhem. Tukar must have been hoping the boy would survive out in the hills.
“Ask him why he came here,” Broeck said.
“Isn’t it obvious? He’s hungry. He wanted food.”
“Ask him anyway.”
The old servant spoke in Uraban, and the boy answered. They seemed to know each other. Then Broeck recalled that Firun had been the mine administrator’s household servant. He should have thought to ask more questions earlier.
“Ulan says he was trying to feed his dog. He claims his father told them to escape into the wilds for their own safety as soon as the Tierran attack began. He says it’s his obligation to take care of his mother. And…he wants to know what you did with the rugs on the floor, the red ones.”
“The rugs?”
Firun’s brows knitted. “When he and his parents lived in this house, they had two large red rugs from Olabar, prized possessions made by a famous weaver. I remember them well, Destrar. The family was proud of them…very little civilization out here at Gremurr.”
“Oh, those.” Broeck scratched his hair. “I got rid of them, and the hangings on the wall, the ones with the Unfurling Fern. I don’t want my home looking like a church or a brothel.” He leaned forward, glowering at the boy. “He’s got more to worry about than my decorating tastes.”
Iaros said with an edge of uncertainty, “Uncle, our war is not with children. Must we really punish this boy?”
Broeck’s eyes flashed. “The Curlies started the war against children! Or have you forgotten how they chopped off my grandson’s head? Tomas was only ten years old!”
Iaros swallowed hard.
Ulan obviously didn’t understand what the men were saying, but he watched the conversation, flicking his eyes back and forth.
After another commotion outside the door, a woman entered, striding ahead of two Tierran soldiers who tried to hold her. Her face was dirty, her clothing in tatters, her hair bedraggled, but she was proud, her back straight. She stepped forward in cool surrender and spoke a musical rush of incomprehensible words, which Firun translated. “This is Shetia, Ulan’s mother, the wife of Tukar. She says she surrenders herself and offers her life in exchange for her son’s.” She moved closer to Ulan, who also stood in quiet defiance.
Broeck frowned. “I never claimed this boy’s life as mine to give or take.”
“How many others are hiding out in the hills?” Iaros wanted to know. “We should send search parties out with the first light of day to scour the hills for any refugees or deserters.”
“I request mercy for these two, Destrar,” Firun said. “You’ve already executed Tukar. Shetia and Ulan treated me well, and they do not deserve to die for who they are.”
“My grandson didn’t deserve to die for who he was, either,” Broeck said. The knife edge of that tragedy would never be dulled.
Shetia spoke again, and Firun translated. “She knows that you are the one who killed her husband, Destrar, and she says she is not afraid.”
Ulan managed to free one of his hands and reached out to take his mother’s.
Watching this boy, Broeck could not stop thinking about Tomas. Despite his anger, the destrar felt his heart begin to soften. “We are not animals. I do not murder women and children. Iaros, find a place for these two. Make sure they are comfortable, given fresh clothing and food—some of the Uraban stuff that no one else wants to eat.”
Firun translated for Shetia and Ulan, and the boy made another demand. Firun chuckled as he turned to Broeck. “Ulan insists you take care of his dog as well. Apparently it’s tied to a tree back at their camp.”
Broeck surprised himself with a faint smile. “Yes, we’ll take care of the dog as well.”