Though he was exhausted and bruised, Destrar Broeck did not sleep much during the voyage back north. The sword cut on his thigh made his leg stiff, and if he turned too quickly, the stitched gashes in his side made him wince. He hoped the injuries healed quickly, so he could fight at full strength once the ironclads reached Ishalem. He decided he would yank out the sutures if they bothered him too much.
The recent attack wasn’t the first time Broeck had shed Urecari blood. He had heard their screams as his mammoths stampeded through Gremurr. But torching all those ships in Olabar harbor, a direct blow to the soldan-shah’s capital—ah, that victory tasted incredibly sweet.
Aboard the Raathgir, which had been designated as the new flagship, the destrar was acutely conscious of the calendar. Queen Anjine had a schedule for the main war, and regardless of how much destruction he had caused at Olabar, the real goal was to conquer the holy city. No longer burdened by the slow captured boats that had served as fireships, his six remaining ironclads sailed swiftly. All of his men were restless and excited, ready for their rendezvous at Gremurr and then onward to Ishalem.
Hobbling across the deck to loosen the muscles in his healing leg, Broeck thought about how much Iaros had matured. When he first brought his nephew to King Korastine not so long ago, Iaros had been gawky, socially clumsy, and full of himself. Now, though, he called out commands and guided his sailors with skill and confidence. Normally the young man would have looked to his uncle for advice, second-guessing his own decisions, but he did not hesitate now. He might even be a worthy successor as Iboria’s next destrar.
Broeck grinned as he devised a way to honor his nephew. He limped into his cabin, closed the door, and poured a basin of water. He used a cake of pale soap to lather his chin and cheeks and took up his razor-sharp dagger. He scraped his chin with the blade, smiling to think of the look on Iaros’s face as soon as he saw.
Broeck toweled off his face and went out into the open air. Iaros was holding on to the rigging ropes at the ship’s side, pointing toward the smoke of the smelters and the coastline of Gremurr.
“Nephew, I have a gift for you!”
Iaros turned, and his mouth dropped open. He began to laugh. “You look like a fine, handsome man, Uncle!”
Broeck stroked his two long mustaches that matched his nephew’s. “You always wanted to start a new style. I think it may catch on.”
The other sailors looked at their destrar and guffawed, and Broeck singled out those who laughed loudest. “You, you, and you—I command you to shave your chins! Let’s see if you think it so ridiculous on your own faces.”
The men balked, but they had to do as the destrar commanded. Soon enough, every man aboard had scraped away whiskers and beards, leaving only mustaches. Broeck considered it a gesture of solidarity.
When the six ironclads tied up to the Gremurr docks, old Firun came to greet them. He counted the ships. “What happened to the Wilka?”
“Sunk,” Broeck said, “but she took the soldan-shah’s personal warship with her! A fair exchange, I’d say.”
The old servant hesitated, then asked in a quiet voice, “And the boy and his mother—Ulan and Shetia?”
“Set free. They should be safe enough.” Broeck cleared his throat awkwardly. “They’re back home.”
Weary fighters disembarked onto the docks, and the conversation swelled to a loud buzz as they told tales about the fireships and the victory over the Curlies. The dog that had belonged to Ulan, now adopted as the camp mascot, barked happily, running up and down the shore.
Broeck would allow the men only a short rest before they resupplied the ships. He shouted from the end of the pier, “No time to waste! Eat, rest, clean yourselves, for tomorrow we overhaul all six ironclads. Every able-bodied fighter will go aboard this time—to Ishalem!”
The soldiers had unloaded Urecari swords from the storehouses to practice fighting, and by now even the former slaves were skilled at slashing and stabbing. With snows closing the mountain road through Corag, no one could make it back to Tierra along that route until spring, but if these men were victorious at Ishalem, they could have passage home whenever they liked.
By now Queen Anjine and the whole Tierran army must be at the wall, and Comdar Rief ’s navy would have blocked the western harbor. It was time for his armored warships to complete the trap.