Blood and Iron: The Book of the Black Earth (Part One) (6 page)

The commander bowed. The older man greeted him with a nod and indicated a spot on the floor beside them. A slave scurried over with a cushion, and the commander sat down with his ankles crossed. No one offered Horace a cushion. He stood while the seated men talked. From time to time they glanced in his direction. At first he ignored them. Yet, as the minutes passed, he began to resent this treatment. After the commander described, with emphatic gestures, a terrible storm with thunder and lightning, the eldest man spoke at some length to the one in yellow robes. When he was finished, the robed man turned to Horace and shocked him by speaking in fluent, if slightly stilted, Arnossi.

“What is your name?”

Horace hadn't heard his native tongue spoken since the wreck. He fumbled with a response before answering, “I'm Horace. Who is—?”

Yellow Robe spoke to the elder before Horace could get out his question. The older man replied, and then Yellow Robe said, “You are part of the Arnossi fleet sent from Ah-vice, yes?”

The man had an odd pronunciation of Avice, but Horace understood him well enough. “Yes. Where am I?”

Yellow Robe cut him off with another question. “How does your nation intend to invade the land of the black earth?”

“What's that?”

“The empire which you call Akeshia.”

“Who are you? And how do you come to speak Arnossi? No one else around here seems to.”

“I am Nasir et'Alamune-Amur, counselor to Lord Isiratu.” He nodded to the elder man in the center seat. “I serve as a translator as well as his lordship's spiritual guide.”

“So why am I here?” Horace asked. “What do you plan on doing with me?”

Nasir turned his head as the older man spoke, and then said, “Lord Isiratu
requires that you draw a map of all the invader strongholds in Etonia and along the northern shore of the Great Sea from Miktonas to—”

Horace hardly listened to what the man was saying. “My ship sank off the coast five days ago. Do you know if anyone else survived?”

Nasir frowned, which pulled the bare skin of his scalp taut. “Lord Isiratu requires—”

“Damn you!” Horace stepped between the two soldiers guarding him. “Tell me if anyone else survived!”

Nasir licked his lips with a narrow tongue, and Lord Isiratu spoke rapidly. Horace noticed the younger man watching him intently with his light eyes. The youth hadn't said anything up to this point, but he must be important if he was sitting here with the lord.

“Please,” Horace said to the youth. “All I want is to know if any of my countrymen survived.”

The others stopped talking and looked to the young man. Then Lord Isiratu nodded with a short grunt. Nasir said, “One other foreigner was found on the beach, but he died not long after.”

Horace sighed. So that was it. He was alone. Without preamble, he sat down on the floor, hunched over his folded legs. The four seated men gazed at him in astonishment. The commander, his face turning crimson, reached for his sword, but a terse word from the lord stopped him.

Nasir cleared his throat. “Lord Isiratu wishes to know why you addressed his heir.” He nodded to the youth. “Lord Ubar.”

“I didn't know what else to do. He just seemed…I don't know. Decent.”

The young man spoke to his father, and then Lord Isiratu rattled off several long sentences in a gruff voice, ending with a slashing hand gesture. Nasir looked to Horace. “My lord repeats his request that you divulge the locations and strengths of your invader strongholds.”

“Are you a fucking parrot?” Horace asked.

“Pardon?”

“Never mind. Tell your lord I have no information. I don't know of any strongholds in this part of the world because we never made landfall on account of the storm.”

Horace frowned as Nasir translated. Lord Isiratu was staring at him, eyes narrowed, his mouth bent into an impatient frown. Horace met the intensity of the lord's gaze without blinking. “And furthermore, tell his lordship that even if I did know these things, I wouldn't tell him for all the gold in the world. Now, if you're going to kill me, just get it over with.”

The commander said something, and Nasir replied, but Horace was focused on Lord Isiratu. Their gazes locked in a battle of wills. Horace squinted, digging in. He'd be damned before he stooped to cowering before this foreign satrap. Yet within moments he felt a strange pressure across his forehead, stretching from temple to temple. He started to reach up to touch it when another spot began to throb behind his left ear. Together they hurt like the worst headache he'd ever had in his life. He ground his teeth together and tried to ignore the pain, but it only increased. Then he saw a peculiar expression on Isiratu's face, as if he were looking at someplace far away in the distance even though their gazes were still entangled. It was unsettling, and a strange thought crossed Horace's mind.

He's doing this to me.

Horace was ready to discard the thought. Yet it might also explain the coolness of this chamber. Magic.

No. No. That's crazy. There's no such thing
—

However, the more the pressure in his head grew, the more he began to believe it might be true. The lord was affecting him without touching him. A chill ran through Horace that had nothing to do with the temperature.

He's touching me with Light-be-damned sorcery.

He'd heard tales of eastern witchery, but experiencing it firsthand was a far different matter. It made him feel dirty inside, like he'd been cut open and soaked in a vat of festering slime. Everyone else had fallen silent. His eyes held captive, Horace couldn't see anything except Isiratu's face, rigid with effort. Horace tried to move, to break the contact, but his body didn't respond. He was trapped as the pressure in his head increased. Any moment the lord would break him, and he suspected he wouldn't enjoy what happened afterward. A growl clawed its way up Horace's throat, but then something caught his attention. A fold of skin in the corner of the lord's mouth was widening. In
less time than it took to draw a breath, it split open into a raw, red crevice. A bead of blood welled from the cut. Horace watched it dribble down the lord's chin. Then something popped in the back of his head. A torrent of anger, lying just beneath the surface of his emotions, flared up inside him. He hated these people, especially this haughty aristocrat with his unholy powers. All of a sudden, Horace's arms and legs were free of the eerie paralysis. He leapt without thinking, diving toward the lord with both hands extended.

Isiratu's eyes widened, but he seemed too shocked to even raise his arms in defense. The soldiers failed to react in time to stop Horace, but something intervened as he closed his fingers around the stocky lord's throat. Cold and hard as iron, it clamped Horace around the middle like a vise and tried to pull him away, but he shook it off. Droplets of blood flew from Lord Isiratu's flabby face as Horace's first punch landed with a wet smack. The nobleman fell backward, and Horace fell onto top of him to continue his assault, swinging both fists. Then a gaggle of men piled on them, and the melee devolved into a jumble of flailing arms and legs.

Horace was hauled off Lord Isiratu and dropped on his back. His right cheek hurt from where someone had kicked him, and he was sure he had bruises down his back and sides. There was no sign of what had grabbed him, but his tunic was wet around the middle.

He started to get back up, ready to renew the fight, until a dozen spears and swords were leveled at him. A shudder wracked his body as the powerful impulse to kill receded, leaving him weak and confused. The soldiers and bodyguards looked ready to murder him out of hand. The commander was on his feet with sword drawn, his face red and angry. Nasir and Lord Isiratu looked aghast, like they had just seen the Prophet dancing naked with their daughters. But the young lordling appeared neither shocked nor upset. Instead, his expression appeared curious.

A slave brought a linen cloth for Isiratu, who wiped his face as he shouted something that Horace assumed were the orders for his execution. The soldiers closed in around Horace. He curled up to protect himself, but they merely picked him up and carried him out of the chamber.

Lord Isiratu's fierce gaze followed him out.

The subterranean chamber stank of feces and rot mingled with moldering straw, as if its last occupant had died within, which Horace suspected might have been the case.

His new cell was not as large as the last one, and the lack of windows left it decidedly darker. The walls were stone blocks fitted together with very thin lines of mortar. He could barely reach the ceiling on his tiptoes. He had been given an old blanket, which he used as a pallet over the cold floor stones. He tried sleeping—God knew he was tired enough to sleep for days—but every time he closed his eyes he saw the same graphic image of himself wrestling on the floor with his hands wrapped around Lord Isiratu's neck. Finally, he stood up and used the piss-bucket in the corner.

After relieving himself, he went to the door. It was heavy with rough beams bound in rusty iron. Long grooves were scratched down the wood like someone had tried to claw their way out. Horace tried not to think about what could drive a person to that. He had enough problems without adding madness.

Starting with why in the Almighty's name did I attack Isiratu? It was the worst thing I could have done. Now they're sure to cut off my marbles, followed by my head.

He could still recall the pressure that had squeezed his skull when the Akeshian lord stared into his eyes, and the incredible rage that had accompanied it. Now, hours later, he found it difficult to believe that Isiratu had been using some kind of mentalism on him. It was more likely that he'd been feeling the effects of prolonged exhaustion and thirst. But it had felt so real.

Horace pounded on the door. He listened for footsteps or voices, but nothing came through the thick beams. He kept at it, alternately punching and kicking. After several minutes, a metallic clatter announced that he had been heard, and the door swung open. Harsh yellow light from a lantern blinded him, and he retreated a few steps with his hands held over his face.

“
Minu shomana?
” a rough voice demanded.

“Water! I need some Prophet-damned water!”

The turnkey, or whoever he was, shouted something else and then slammed the door. Horace resumed pounding, but the guard didn't return. He stopped when his hands became too sore to continue. Finally, frustrated and more tired than before, he sat down on his blanket. They obviously didn't intend to kill him, or they would have done it already.

Unless they're devising a public execution.

He dozed off with his back against a wall. The clatter of the door lock woke him abruptly. Instead of the jailor, a slim man entered. He wore only a simple linen kilt and leather sandals and carried a candle instead of a lamp. Still, the tiny flame seared Horace's eyes. The man set something down on the floor and took the piss-bucket with him as he left. There was a splashing sound, and then the man returned with the empty bucket.

Horace stood up.

“Can you help me?” He switched to Nimean but still got no response. Then he noticed the iron collar around the man's neck. Another slave.

The slave left without saying a word. Horace lunged for the door, but the turnkey reappeared and slammed it shut in his face. The sound of the lock turning made Horace sick to his stomach. He beat on the door and shouted until his throat ached. Then he roamed around his cell, blood pumping and fists clenched.

It was a long time before he was calm enough to inspect the bowl the man had left on the floor. Sitting on the blanket, he dipped his fingers inside and felt a cold, sticky goo. He tasted it with the tip of his tongue. The substance had a consistency like gruel but no flavor. He finished the bowl in three large finger-scoops before he remembered the cup. It held tepid water, which he gulped down. Then he sat on the floor. With nothing else to do, he drifted off again.

When he woke he couldn't tell if he had slept for minutes or hours. He'd dreamt of home. Lying on the cold blanket, he clung to the memories, replaying the better ones again and again in his mind even though they scoured his soul. He recalled the day of his son's birth, savoring every moment of that experience until at last he came to the part when the midwife placed
Josef in his arms for the first time. He rolled over and pressed his face against the stone wall as tears gathered in the corners of his eyes.

After another sleep, he relieved himself in the bucket again and tried to suck a few drops of water out of the empty cup. He licked the dried film of gruel from the bowl. Then he dozed some more.

The opening door jarred him awake. Horace sat up and blinked as a pair of soldiers entered. They grabbed him by the arms and hauled him out of the cell. He hung limp in their grasp as they shuffled him past rows of doors, from some of which issued faint groans and muttered whisperings. The guards carried him up many steps until a golden glow appeared above. Even before he could feel it on his skin, Horace knew it for sunlight. He started walking on his own, feeling the strength return to his legs. By the time they passed through the doorway and out into the light, he was standing upright.

They brought him out to a walled courtyard. The sky was glorious blue like a sheet of glass without a trace of clouds. The clay pavement was hot, but after the chill of his cell, Horace reveled in the warmth. A line of twenty or so men and women waited in the courtyard under guard, chained together by the neck. They varied in age from young adult to a couple old enough to be his grandparents. All of them appeared to be Akeshian, or easterners at any rate.

Horace was hauled to the end of the line where a squat man in a leather apron waited. The smith held up an iron collar, open on one side. Horace tried to pull back, but the guards wrestled him to the ground. He bucked and kicked as the cool metal slid around his neck, but the guards didn't relent until the collar had been hammered closed. When they finally released him, he sat up and put his hands to his neck. The collar was thicker than his thumb and heavy. A rivet sealed the opening where it fit together.

The soldiers hauled Horace to his feet and connected him to the back of the line by attaching a heavy chain to his collar. None of the other chained people bothered to look back at him.

Horace was tugging on the chain, testing its strength, when a racket of creaks and clomping hooves announced the arrival of a large wagon pulled by a team of four oxen. The wagon was painted scarlet red with brass accents and tall wheels. Two drivers sat in the front, one holding the reins, and the other
an unstrung bow with a quiver of arrows between his feet. A company of soldiers marched behind the wagon in double file.

A large hand parted the gauzy curtains that covered the wagon's window, and Lord Isiratu peered out. His son and the priest sat inside with him.

Horace shaded his eyes and asked no one in particular, “What's going on?”

One of the guards wheeled around and punched him in the side of his face. Points of light flashed before Horace's eyes as he fell back on the hard ground. Glaring at his attacker, he put a hand to his throbbing cheek. He itched to respond in kind, but the surrounding guards eyed him with obvious anticipation.

Before he could stand back up, a loud bellow erupted from the doorway leading to the dungeon cells. The soldiers in the courtyard drew wooden truncheons from their belts. As they stepped toward the entrance, a large man in armor tumbled out, skidding across the ground in a clatter of metal scales. The soldiers poured into the doorway, and the sound of heavy blows echoed from inside. Horace held his breath as he listened. There was another bellow, almost like a growling animal, and then silence.

Eight soldiers marched out the doorway, wrestling a man out into the courtyard. The prisoner was huge, almost a head taller than any of his captors. Black stubble covered his shaved head. Slabs of muscle bunched under ebony skin. His face was marred by the marks of a recent branding. Blood trickled from a split lower lip.

An officer gestured, and the aproned smith released Horace from the chain. Then they shoved the giant, who was already collared, in front of Horace, and both of them were joined to the coffle line. The big man breathed loud and heavy, as if he was ready to resume the violence. Horace backed away as far as the leash would allow.

The wagon driver flicked the reins and started the vehicle moving, followed by the column of soldiers, out a wide gate to the street. The captives came last. The collar chain compelled Horace to keep up or risk being dragged along. The guards strode up and down the line, urging the captives onward with liberal use of their whips. Being at the tail end of the line, Horace had nowhere to hide. The first few blows caused him to curse, but they were no more painful than slaps, and he learned to ignore them.

Onlookers on the street bowed as the wagon rolled by and then straightened up as it passed to gawk at the rest of the procession. Horace fumed at the looks they gave him, like he was less than human. He squeezed his fists tight until his nails bit into his palms, but the pain took his mind off the humiliation.

The buildings became longer and lower until the procession finally passed under a stone archway that marked the town's limits. The road beyond was wider than the one that had brought Horace to the town, but it was still hard-packed dirt. The river ran alongside the highway, its brown waters rippled with a gentle current.

Where were they taking him? He had expected an execution, maybe with some kind of trial before a magistrate, but not another journey. And Lord Isiratu was coming with them, so it must be someplace important.

Horace studied the big man in front of him. From the powerful muscles moving under his dark skin, he looked strong enough to haul Isiratu's wagon all by himself. Long scars crisscrossed his shoulders and down his back. Many of them were old and gray, almost blending into his skin, but a few showed the stark whiteness of being new. Horace felt the dimpled surfaces of his palms. He knew the impact that scars could have. What was this man's story? He clearly wasn't Akeshian. Horace had heard of dark-skinned peoples who lived on the southern continent, but he'd always assumed they were myths.

I thought the stories about warlocks and sorcery were myths, too.

Judging by the sun's low position in the sky, shining right into his eyes, the time was approaching midmorning. They were traveling east again, the opposite direction Horace wanted to go. He longed to see the ocean. He imagined the smell of the sea air and the sound of the waves hitting the beach. And he would have welcomed an ocean breeze now. His simple clothes were lightweight, but he still sweated profusely. Every time he reached up to wipe his forehead, his hand hit the chain running from his collar and he got angry all over again.

To take his mind off of his situation, Horace tried talking to the big man. He waited until the guards were bunched up near the front of the line and pitched his voice low. “Hey. Can you understand me?”

The giant didn't respond, but the pair of men chained in front of him looked back. The one on the left was about Horace's height with a long, hawkish nose; the other was short and spindly with a bald head. Horace had a hard time guessing his age, but by the lines on his face, he had to be at least forty.

The bald man started to reply, until a violent blow caught him across the side of the head. The guard drew back his arm for another whack as the little man howled and held his bleeding face. A surge of anger overcame Horace. Before he could think it through, he ran forward and pushed in front of the victim. The whip cut into his raised forearm. Horace had never been much of a fighter, even as a child, but the sharp pain drove him to lash out. His fist connected with the guard's forehead, which was—unfortunately—protected by the low visor of his helmet. Horace recoiled from the burst of new pain across his knuckles, but the guard kicked his legs out from under him and put him on his back. Horace threw his arms over his head as the short whip beat up and down his body. He tried to roll away from the blows, but the neck chain kept him from going very far.

When the beating finally ended, Horace breathed heavily through a bloody nose. His arms and legs were covered with painful welts. The guard standing over him shouted a command, and he crawled to his knees. All the furious energy had drained from his body, leaving him listless and weak. He started to get a foot under him when a large hand reached down. Horace took it and was lifted to his feet. The dark-skinned man looked even more formidable up close.

Horace extricated his hand from the big man's grasp. “Uh, thank you.”

The giant turned around without speaking. The guard glowered at them both but kept his whip by his side, and the line resumed its march.

Hours rolled by as they trudged under the blazing sky. The tracts of farmland gave way to arid plains covered with dusty earth and scrub grass. A clump of low hills arose against the haze of the northern horizon. The river twisted away southward until its bends were lost from sight. The road kept running due east as far as Horace could tell, deeper into the wastes.

Lord Isiratu's procession traveled through the midday hours, despite the brutal heat, and long into the evening before a halt was called. While the soldiers
made camp, the prisoners were herded together. The guards brought out wooden mallets and spiked the coffle chain to the ground. Then one sentry kept watch while the rest of the guards ate and relaxed.