The frigid wind across the steppes felt wonderful. When Destrar Broeck drew a deep breath, his nostrils burned with the chill. “Ah, so much better than dust and scrub brush, Iaros. Good riddance to Gremurr, I say—this is the weather I prefer.”
Each man rode a shaggy mammoth northward into the wasteland dotted with snow, boulders, and low tundra grasses. Iaros twined his fingers in the beast’s thick russet fur. “It’s good to be home, Uncle. Iboria needs its destrar. All those attacks, the military camp, the prisoners—it wears on a man. I’d rather attend to the business of shipping Iborian lumber south.”
Broeck looked ahead to the wide steppes. The mammoths marched ahead, crunching through drifts, and picked up speed as they smelled the redolent peaty marshes they considered home.
“I always feel better after a survival quest,” Broeck said. “Relying on myself and my skills, the cold, the endurance—it cleanses a man’s mind and heart. We’ll both feel whole again, I guarantee it.” He self-consciously stroked his naked chin.
Iaros’s lips quirked in a smile. “The mustaches are very striking on your face, Uncle. I hope you keep the style.”
Broeck snorted. “It leaves my chin cold. There’s a reason Ondun put hair on our faces…but I’ll keep it this way for now.” He was amused that the style had indeed begun to catch on across Iboria.
The men had already made plans about how to restore prosperity to Iboria Reach. They planned to increase timber cutting and float large rafts of Iborian pine down the coast of Tierra. In their most ambitious plan, the two men meant to deliver wood in an epic journey through the Ishalem canal all the way to the Middlesea ports. Thanks to Broeck’s fiery raid, Olabar harbor was in tremendous need of extra materials, and Soldan-Shah Omra would pay well for the wood and the work (although Broeck would have to dance a fine line about how much he could charge without insulting the Urabans, since he was the one who had burned the city in the first place).
The shaggy beasts trumpeted when they saw a cluster of wild mammoths ahead. They trotted forward, happy to return to the herd. “Time to dismount,” Broeck said. “From here, you and I are on our own.”
They slid down from the high furry backs, taking their packs, blankets, dried food, and firestarting materials. He and his nephew would live off the land for a time. They carried spears to hunt walrus or seals when they reached the frozen waters to the north and weapons to defend against the great white bears, should they encounter one.
Broeck suspected he might find a camp of nomads following the mammoth herd. The nomads would likely welcome them, share their campfires and food, but he turned away from the wandering beasts and struck out in a different direction. “This way, Iaros.” He preferred to be alone.
He shifted the pack on his shoulders, he adjusted the mittens on his hands. “In two days, we’ll come upon the ice cliffs. If we’re lucky, we might find another ice dragon. A man is fortunate to see Raathgir once in his life…but I can dream.”
Iaros looked concerned. “You already killed an ice dragon and took its horn. Is it wise to hunt another?”
Broeck laughed. “Not to kill it—just to find it. I want to make sure Raathgir is still here to protect the land.”
The two men set off into the cold steppes.