“No,” Adamek replies. “Shizar is Luka’s birthplace, her childhood home. She returned there after she finally left him. Slome’s from SoZima.”
“Where?”
“Southern Zima,” Adamek says. “When they first got married, it was a huge deal. The fact that he was of a lower class was already an issue. But a NoZiman marrying a SoZiman is practically unheard of.”
Nazirah sighs. “There’s even racism between pure Zimans?” she asks. “Life for intermix in Zima must be unbearable.” Adamek doesn’t respond. “How do you know her?”
Luka and Aldrik enter the truck, preventing Adamek from answering. The engine roars to life and they begin traveling down the desolate road. “It’s been a long time, Luka,” Aldrik says, peering nostalgically out the window.
“Not long enough,” she snaps. “What happened to your hair?”
“Salty wench.”
Luka focuses on Adamek. “Don’t think your siding with this rebellion erases the past between us,” she hisses. “I am the laughingstock of Zima because of you! Shizar took you in when you were younger, not that we had much of a choice. Yet you repay our kindness by killing countless NoZimans, under the guise of maintaining the Median order? It is a pity you have amnesty; much of Shizar is eager to see you dead, myself included.”
“I know it,” Adamek says simply.
Nazirah observes their interaction closely. Solomon said that Adamek trained in Zima. Could it have been in Shizar? It would make sense why Luka hates him so much.
“Aldrik,” Luka says, “what updated news of the southie rebellion? I have heard of the turmoil in Eridies.”
Aldrik shakes his head. “You’ve heard of the slum fire, then? And the redistribution of food? Eridian intermix and refugees are migrating to headquarters by the thousands, essentially seceding from the nation. The Chancellor is in an absolute uproar. He’s dispersed troops throughout the southern half of Eridies, trying to quell the turbulence before the rest of Renatus realizes what’s happening.”
“What?” Nazirah cries, panicking. “Rafu is in anarchy?” Nazirah thinks of everyone she’s left behind, of Cander and Caria and the remaining Caals. She thinks of her small cottage, waiting in solitude on the beach. She thinks of home.
“It’s a very recent development,” Aldrik says. “A small battalion, spearheaded by Ivan Grigori, Lord Grigori’s bumbling oaf of a brother. They have started a slow march towards Krush, burning everything in their path from homes to infrastructure. It is a scare tactic, Nation, an attempt to intimidate us. The Commander did not want to burden you while still on campaign.”
“Screw my brother!” Nazirah shouts angrily. “We need to go back and help them! The rest of my family is there!”
“If you’re talking about the Caals,” Aldrik says, “they’ve already been relocated to the compound, yesterday afternoon.”
“But why are we continuing with this campaign?” she cries. “If the troops are marching to Krush, they are clearly preparing to attack headquarters! We should return to the compound and fight!”
Aldrik is abnormally patient. “Nation,” he says, “our role all along has been providing the catalyst for these outbreaks to occur, which we have accomplished in two territories. Osen is already on the path by itself, but we can forge valuable alliances in Zima. Everything we do on campaign will help the rebels much more than three extra soldiers in the field ever could.”
“I know, but –”
“The Commander has dispersed support forces and aid throughout lower Eridies, including many Deathlandic mercenaries. He’s recalled the recruits from assignment. The compound is well guarded … it can withstand much more than you probably think. We need to continue this campaign for a few more days. Giving up now will only help the Chancellor.”
Nazirah pinches her arm under the pelt, keeping the tears at bay. “I understand,” she says.
They ride in silence. The truck hums along, singing doldrums. Outside, the landscape erodes, turning glacial. Once they make headway into Zima, the light weakens. Even in midday, it slants and shatters, losing intensity. Deep fir trees shadow rolling hillsides, covering them like an emerald beard. The road elevates and the truck gains altitude. The hills become steeper, morphing into mountains … a range of dusty peaks.
A strange white cloud forms on the ground. At first, Nazirah assumes it is cotton, but quickly realizes it is snow. She yearns to jump out of the truck, to touch, play, roll around, and sink into that foreign powder. Sink so far into its soft embrace that no one can ever find her again.
The wind picks up, whistling around them. It shakes the vehicle as they continue scaling the mountainside. Nazirah peers out the window, staring into a chasm dropping hundreds of feet below.
Luka smirks. “It is a very deep ravine, southie,” she says.
“That’s not my name,” Nazirah snaps.
“I meant no offense,” Luka says. “We NoZimans consider everyone else a southerner. Especially someone from Rafu, the furthest south one can go.”
“How inclusive of you,” Nazirah says. Luka’s liquid eyes turn to steel.
Aldrik intervenes. “As Luka was saying, the Zimans must drill very deep into the mountainside. Their quarries plunge to incredible depths in order to excavate the minerals left behind so many centuries ago.”
“So our goal is winning over the mine owners?”
“Exactly,” Aldrik says, stroking his beard. “Zima is particularly rich in iron ore, which can be refined into steel. The whole of Renatus gets its steel from only a few Lordships throughout Zima. It will be a huge advantage to the rebels if we can convince them to send it to us instead of the Medis. Just think of how the territories could build the rebellion’s defense, weaponry, and infrastructure.”
“You always absurdly simplify things,” Luka scoffs. “The majority of mine owners yield to Ivan Grigori’s reign of terror. The Medis pay the Grigoris handsomely for their loyalty. The chances of them joining us are slim, regardless of the depth of Adamek’s pockets. They are inaccessible.”
“Then what chance does the campaign have here?” asks Nazirah.
“Unfortunately for Shizar, but fortunately for us,” Aldrik replies, “the Medis don’t seem to care very much about the welfare of NoZima. They have only taken pains to secure the loyalty of SoZimans closest to the Mediah border. We have a better chance of winning over the mine owners here. Morgen and I are meeting with some of them late tomorrow afternoon. If all goes well, we’ll be leaving the following morning. The faster we can escape this siren’s den, this viper’s nest, the better.”
Luka shoots Aldrik a harsh, sideways glance. “If I may interrupt your soliloquy,” she snips, “I would like to welcome the southie to Shizar.”
The truck plateaus onto a snowy road, passing through the gate of what appears to be a small city. Shizar is built into the mountainside, overlooking the ravine. It is fortified by walls of boulders, cannons, and towers. Rolling towards the city center, they pass thousands of scanty, stone houses. Men by the hundreds schlep home from their long workday in the quarry, light skin painted black with soot and grime. Burly women chop wood with sharp axes, preparing their homes for the frozen night ahead. Everywhere, Nazirah sees bright blue eyes, fair heads, flushed faces, and chapped fingers. She thinks nostalgically of alabaster cliffs, of sun drenched cottages, and of creaking swing sets on the beach. This campaign, now more than ever, has made Nazirah appreciate the place she calls home.
Assuming it still stands.
Nazirah sees a large stone manor looming in the distance, probably Luka’s home. “What should I be doing, then?” she asks, after a moment. Aldrik didn’t mention her attending the meeting with the miners.
“I am the steward, the protector, over all that you see,” Luka responds passionately, “as was my father before me. Conditions here are grim, to say the least. Life is hard. And since Ivan overthrew his brother … everything has deteriorated. This has been our most desperate winter yet.”
“I’m very sorry to hear that,” Nazirah says honestly, not entirely sure where Luka is going with this.
“You have come here in a hopeless time,” Luka continues, “a time of famine and violence. I am afraid for my people, who have nothing to eat and no prospects. I am afraid of the drastic measures they might take.”