Blood and Iron: The Book of the Black Earth (Part One) (3 page)

On the third day after he awoke in the village, Horace was allowed out of the house where he'd been confined since his capture. He didn't know what had changed, but he was grateful for the reprieve. Walking along dirt pathways between the huts, he felt almost normal. His weakness had left him by the second morning, thanks to a steady diet of bread, rice, and the malty beer these people drank with every meal.

This morning he'd been given a new set of clothes in the native style, a skirt of homespun weave, a lightweight tunic, and a pair of sturdy sandals. At first he'd felt silly putting on the skirt, which ended just below his knees, without anything underneath except his loincloth. He couldn't help imagining what a stiff wind would expose, but after a little while he'd begun to feel more at ease. The material was cooler than his wool uniform, the sandals more comfortable than military boots.

The past couple days he had tried to make the best of his situation. He kept his eyes and ears open, hoping to learn about his captors. He still anticipated that he might be rescued or escape, and the information could be useful.

Seagulls cawed as he strolled about. Two peasant spearmen shadowed his footsteps. There seemed to be a rotation among the house guards, but he'd begun recognizing their faces and given them each a nickname. Today he was guarded by Potato, named for the unfortunate shape of his head, and an old man Horace had taken to calling Grandfather, who looked to be at least eighty years old and had only two front teeth, both of them brown. Horace tried to ignore them as much as possible. The beach was half a mile on the other side of the large hill that dominated the center of the village. Horace shaded his eyes and looked up to the house atop the tor. No flag flew from the rooftop. Though he was sweating under the hot midday sun, Horace decided to satisfy his curiosity and started toward the mound at a quick pace. His guards hurried to keep up. Grandfather puffed with every other step and used his spear as a walking stave.

His guards stopped him before he could reach the big house, but Horace didn't mind. He'd really just wanted the view. The hill was steeper on the western side facing the ocean. Horace looked out to the water, hoping to see a set of familiar sails, but the skyline was unbroken. The sea was sapphire blue under the bright sunlight. White-capped waves slapped against the shore, empty except for several fishing boats. He didn't know exactly where he was, but he guessed it was well south of Etonia. The fleet must have swung off-course during the storm and run into Akeshian waters.

Despite the gorgeous day, he couldn't help thinking back to the night of the storm. The black clouds swirling over the ship, the wind roaring in his ears, the strange green lightning, and then the sudden shock of hitting the water. He should have drowned, but instead he'd been saved. Was that the hand of the Almighty? Notwithstanding what the priests back home said, he'd never felt the divine at work in his life before. And why him? The mere thought of redemption dredged up painful memories from his old life.

Pushing the dark thoughts away, Horace looked down on the beach where a group of fishermen hauled their boats out of the surf. One was the father of the family sheltering him. He looked much like any of the fisherman Horace had seen in his lifetime in Arnos.

Is that the face of my enemy?

Horace turned to his guards. Potato was scowling as if angry for the exercise, but Grandfather leaned against his spear like he had no better place to be. With a nod to them, Horace headed back.

A group of armored soldiers was gathered outside the home of his hosts when they arrived. When they sighted the walking party, the soldiers surrounded Horace. The door opened, and the wife slipped out with a small bundle wrapped in white cloth. She ran up to the soldiers, and they allowed her to extend the bundle to Horace. He took it. The cloth was warm to the touch. Inside was a small loaf of bread.

Horace nodded and said, “
Kanadu.
”
Thank you.

The wife went back inside. Her son's small face peered out the slatted window. The family had been kind to him during his brief stay. He wished them well.

The soldiers goaded Horace onward. They turned down a path that led to a large circle of bare ground outside the village. A dirt road led away to the east. Several peasant men in simple smocks and skirts stood in a ragged line beside the circle. Each carried a wicker basket strapped to his back. Horace was made to wait while the soldiers stood about, chatting to each other. He looked for a piece of shade to escape the midmorning sun, but there was nothing convenient unless he went back into the village, and it didn't seem like they would allow that. So he stood by himself and tried to be patient. The air was redolent with the odor of fish coming from the baskets.

After a bell, or half an hour, the clop of hooves sounded from the village. An older soldier in heavy armor walked ahead of a procession of oxen. The animals were piled with bundles and boxes. Behind them rode a man on horseback. Horace recognized him as the commander who had come to his hosts’ dwelling three days back. He looked more regal atop his white steed, which was possibly the most elegant horse Horace had ever seen. Its limbs were slender, its lines sleek and graceful, unlike the more muscular horses he'd seen back home. A round steel shield, its face polished to a mirror shine, hung on the saddle.

The commander spoke, and the soldiers formed a square around Horace. With hand motions they urged him to start walking down the road. He gazed down its length and saw nothing but barren land stretching into the unknown east. Away from the sea and home.

He stood his ground. When he did not move, the soldiers cast glances between themselves. The peasants whispered in hushed voices.

One of the soldiers, who had two bronze slashes emblazoned on his breastplate, looked to the commander and then hurried over to Horace. He pointed down the road. “
Kanu harrani sa alaktasa!
”

Horace crossed his arms and stayed where he was. He wasn't going to follow them like a sheep to his own execution or whatever deviltry they had planned. If they wanted him to move, they'd have to carry him.

The marked soldier grabbed him by the shoulder with one hand and shoved. Horace kept on his feet by twisting around. Everyone was watching. Horace stood up straight and crossed his arms again. The officer's face bunched
into a fierce expression. He drew back his shield. Horace lifted his arms to protect his face, but a shout rang out.

“
Kima parsi saalak!
”

Horace braced himself as the commander climbed down from his horse. He considered trying again to communicate but didn't have time to form any ideas before the commander walked over and struck the officer across the face with an open hand. The officer stood at strict attention without responding. Horace curled his hands into fists, feeling the tug of the scars on his palms, when the commander turned to him.

If he raises a hand to me, I'll punch him in the mouth. I don't care if it gets me killed.

But the commander merely pointed down the road and spoke a long string of unintelligible words in a calm voice. Horace lowered his arms. He could continue to resist, and probably be tied over the back of one of the oxen, or fall in line. By the time the commander climbed back into the saddle, Horace decided that going along was the wiser course. He started walking.

After a while, he calmed down and started to enjoy the sensation of moving in a specific direction. Since waking up in this strange land, he'd felt lost. He still didn't know where he was going, but he was going
somewhere
. The road was mainly packed sand. Although not as impressive as the stone highways of his homeland, relics from the days when the Nimean Empire had ruled most of the civilized world, the road was straight and level. But there were no markers that he could see, no way to tell what lay ahead.

The soldiers set an easy pace, spears resting on their shoulders. They had the look of professionals. Their gear was well-maintained, and they possessed the easy manner of men long accustomed to their duty. The officer, who stalked around the formation as they marched, actually appeared younger than the rest of the soldiers. The commander was younger, too. Horace guessed they were both in their mid-twenties, which would make them about the same age as him. Their banter reminded Horace of his time spent hanging around the crusaders. If he ignored the difference in languages, he could almost believe he was back aboard the
Bantu Ray
, listening to their war stories. To hear the soldiers tell it, there had always been hostility between the east and west,
but a sudden increase in piracy on the Midland Sea a few years ago had convinced the western nations to expand their navies. When Arnossi warships inevitably encountered Akeshian vessels, the conflict turned to war. No one was sure which side attacked first, but soon afterward the fathers of the True Church preached that Akeshia was an evil realm that needed to be conquered and converted. When Prelate Benevolence II called for a holy war, the faithful responded in the tens of thousands, boarding ships to seek their salvation in a far-off land.

Sweat ran down Horace's face. The sun burned near its zenith, battering him with its rays. He'd never felt heat so intense in Arnos, not in the worst days of summer. As they traveled inland, the ground became rocky and barren. The few trees to be seen were dry, leafless things with claw-like branches. An hour past midday, even walking had become a chore, and Horace found himself swaying with every step. He didn't realize the column had stopped until he almost ran into the soldier in front of him. Horace put out a hand to steady himself, and got it slapped away with a harsh word, but he was too tired to complain. His throat felt like it was choked with dust.

A peasant walked down the line with a bucket and gave every man a drink from a ladle. Horace licked his lips until it was his turn. The warm water tasted of wood and metal, but he gulped down his share anyway and eyed the drops that fell on the ground with longing. The commander remained in the saddle and flicked his quirt at flies while a peasant watered his steed. The rest of the villagers sat on their heels at the rear of the group, weighed down by their burdens. After a couple minutes, the officer barked a phrase. The villagers jumped to their feet and got back in line. The soldiers formed up, and the company set off again.

Horace didn't know how much longer he could go on. His feet dragged. His head began to ache. Finally the sun sank behind the plains, and the commander called for a halt. Horace collapsed on the hot ground, his legs shivering and twitching. When the water-bearer came by, he barely had the will to lift his head. The water splashed off his lips, most of it going into the earth, but he was too exhausted to care. Another man handed out bread. Horace took a piece and held it to his chest as he closed his eyes.

It would have been easy to fall asleep, but he didn't. He estimated they had traveled about twenty miles today. Tomorrow they would likely travel twenty more, getting farther away from the coast with every step. He couldn't let that happen if he ever wanted to see home again. He had to escape.

Footsteps crunched nearby and then faded around to the other side of the camp. Horace cracked open his eyes. The peasants had bedded down around the fire. Most of the soldiers had done the same, except for the commander, who sat apart from the rest, leaning back against his saddle on the ground. The officer spoke with the sentry pacing around the camp, and then lay down in the open space between the commander and the men. Snores whispered around the camp as people fell asleep, one by one. All except for the sentry, who marched in a wider circle with his spear propped on his shoulder.

Horace counted as the trooper performed his watch. Each circuit around the camp took him between eighty and one hundred breaths to complete. Horace lay still as the sentry came around again. When the man had passed by, Horace stole a quick glance around the camp. All heads were on the ground. This was his chance.

He crawled away from the fire on his hands and knees. Darkness enveloped him within ten paces. After another ten, he stopped and listened. There was nothing to indicate that he'd been seen leaving. No cry of alarm. He took a moment to orient himself, using the rising moon to locate due west. Then he took off.

Though his legs were tired from hiking, a renewed rush of energy coursed through him. The light of the stars and moon was enough to guide him across the uneven ground. Following the road directly was too obvious; they'd catch him for sure. His captors might expect him to head north toward Etonia, so he chose to go south for now. Horace trotted at a quick pace but did not run. He had to conserve his strength. Come morning, he wanted to be back at the coast. He would avoid settlements as he made his way westward, except for stealing what food and water he needed at night.

While he made plans for survival, his right foot caught in a hole he thought was just a shadow. Horace pressed his lips together to suppress a yell of surprise as he pitched forward. He caught himself as he landed, and something
pierced the palm of his left hand. With a muffled shout, he climbed to his feet clutching that hand. He didn't feel any blood, but it hurt like hell. Massaging the injury, he started off again, this time being more careful of divots. He spent more time watching the ground than his surroundings, but the landscape was not much to look at, especially at night. A couple times he spotted the glow of yellow eyes in the distance, but they vanished before he got close. Something fluttered off to his left—perhaps a bird taking flight—but he didn't see anything move. As Horace looked back to the ground in front of his feet, loud hoofbeats pounded a dozen paces ahead of him. A bright light appeared from a shuttered lantern to reveal a rider on horseback.