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

by Jon Sprunk

  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 p
alm 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.

  Horace sprinted to his right. The commander wheeled his steed around and raced alongside him. Horace zigged around a low bristle bush and tried to put some distance between them. He was watching the commander's approach out of the corner of his eye when something hit him square in the chest. Stars burst before his eyes as he fell backward. The edges of his vision turned black like he was losing consciousness, but he was still awake when he struck the ground with enough force to rattle his teeth. A dark silhouette stood over him holding a club. Horace groaned as more soldiers appeared. They picked him up by the arms and dragged him back.

  The peasants were all awake when they returned. They watched as the soldiers dumped him beside the campfire. Horace folded his legs underneath him and wondered what was going to happen next. He expected he would be tied up to keep him from running again. He'd heard rumors of things that were done to runaway slaves, including permanent maiming. He hoped they wouldn't take it that far.

  The commander conferred with the officer, and then one soldier—the one who had been on sentry duty—was seized. He was stripped of his armor, and ropes were tied around each of his wrists. As two soldiers held his arms outstretched to their fullest extension, the officer produced a short, thick whip with four leather tails. Horace's stomach coiled into knots as he eyed the fearsome instrument. The punishment was swift and brutal. Horace flinched at the first strike, which tore a long furrow across the sentry's shoulders. He started to turn his head, but a soldier kneeling behind him grabbed him by the hair and forced him to face forward. Another soldier placed the point of a dagger against his throat. Horace had to watch as the whip cracked again and again, until the victim's back was a mass of oozing stripes. The sentry grunted with each strike, but did not scream.

  When it was over, the victim was released. He crawled over to his pile of gear and collapsed. The soldiers holding Horace let him go. He glanced around as he rubbed his neck where the dagger had pricked him. The camp was returning to how it had been before, although this time three soldiers were put on sentry duty, two patrolling in circuits while the third stood nearby, watching over him. Horace ground his teeth together. The peasants were lying down again; some had even fallen asleep already. The commander was back in his blanket while a soldier groomed his horse. It was all orderly and neat.

  Horace wanted to shout at them. He wanted to scream in their faces. However, he was too exhausted to make the effort. Weary deep down in his bones, he lay down on his side facing the fire. The flames danced, slowly turning the pile of dung biscuits into black ash. Stray thoughts stole across his mind. Memories of his family, sharp as daggers. He pulled them close as he drifted into a troubled sleep.

  Horace awoke with a sense of ominous dreams, convoluted and portentous, but could remember none of them.

  The ground was cool beneath him. The officer walked among the group, shouting and kicking the men awake. Water and bread were distributed. Horace accepted both this time, his thirst and hunger driving him to make the best of the situation. The commander sat apart on a small cushion, eating something from a wooden bowl. When everyone had been fed, they started off again.

  A soldier remained by Horace's side all day. His feet were still sore from yesterday, but he kept up with only a slight limp as the sun climbed higher and the temperature rose. He was able to sit up and take his evening meal with the others. He listened to the peasants talk in hushed voices while they ate. Although he couldn't understand them, by watching their gestures and listening to their tones, he imagined they were complaining about having to hike in the dust behind the soldiers.

  One of the peasants saw him watching them and called it to the others’ attention. They stared at him until he turned away, feeling even more isolated. He sighed as he laid down. Three paces away, a soldier stood watch.

  The stars shone like beads of molten silver. Many nights he'd sat on the Ray's deck, staring up at the sky like this. Horace imagined what his life might have been like if he hadn't taken the carpenter's post. Without something to occupy his time and his skills, he probably would have drunk himself to death by now. His mind worked backward to happier times, in Tines before the outbreak of plague, back when he was still working in the royal shipyards. Every evening he'd return home to listen to his wife tell him about her day and play toy soldiers with Josef on the rug in front of the hearth. It seemed like a lifetime ago.

  The next day they sighted a river, mud-brown and wider across than a bowshot. It came up from the south and ran due east. Small boats plied its waters, some with sails and others powered by long paddles at the stern. Huge fields of gold and brown stretched from its banks for miles on both sides. Peasants in long skirts walked among the rows of wheat and barley, plucking weeds and ministering to an ingenious system of ditches and wooden dams that conducted water from one field to another. Like the peasants of the village, they seemed not so different from the serfs of his homeland. There were men and women working together, old and young, and even some children, all sharing the labor. Large, hive-like buildings with no windows were scattered among the fields.

  Horace was so intent on his surroundings that he didn't notice the town they were approaching until the officer shouted an order and the column picked up the pace. Jostled along, Horace craned his neck to see. Buildings appeared a couple miles ahead of them. The settlement sat on a table-flat plain. The outer wall formed a perfect square protecting an area not quite as large as Tines, which was small as northern ports went, but many towers and narrow rooftops were nestled together inside the walls.

  The company closed the distance in less than an hour. Horace was soaked in sweat by the time they reached the walls. The gate guarding the road was open, but a squad of men-at-arms in steel breastplates stood before it.

  The commander reined up before the sentries and exchanged words. Horace eyed the waterskin hanging from the commander's saddle and was considering making a grab for it when the sentries finally waved the column through. Passing under the gate's shaded archway was a blessing, but a momentary one. The heat met him again on the other side as he was herded through crowded streets lined with rows of cloth awnings and recessed doorways. Because of the closeness of the avenues and the height of the buildings around him—some rising five or six stories above the street—Horace couldn't make out much of the town beyond the jagged skyline. Most of the buildings were constructed of brick and had flat roofs. The streets were dried mud, pitted with potholes and wheel ruts, though they were cleaner than he might have guessed. Horace wondered what they did with the sewage. He had never seen so many people pressed together, not even in the markets of Avice. They streamed past him on both sides like schools of fish.

  The commander led the party down several twisting streets until he stopped before a door that didn't look much different than any other. It was painted green, but the town had doors and window shutters of all colors. Horace noted a pictogram drawn above the lintel, of a black horseshoe with the open end down and a horizontal line drawn under the legs.

  The commander went inside. The rest of the soldiers fanned out around the doorway, facing outward, while the peasants crouched in the shade of the building and swatted at flies. On the other side of the avenue, a team of young boys with sticks were corraling a herd of goats.

  Horace leaned against a wall and wondered when the pl
easantries would end. For the most part, his captors had treated him well, but he was an enemy on their soil. He expected imprisonment, quite possibly involving torture, followed by a summary execution. That was how his homeland would have handled a prisoner of war unless they had some hope of ransom. Horace studied the soldiers. Did these people assume he was a high-ranking officer? They shouldn't have, considering he had been shipwrecked in a simple seaman's uniform. It was a stretch, but possible. He could play the part of a landed aristocrat, if it would get him back to civilization.

  The door opened, and three young men with short-cropped hair hurried out. Each wore a long skirt, like the men in the fields, but of bright white cloth embroidered with crimson scrollwork along the hem, and no shirts. Their smooth chests glistened in the bright sunshine like oiled clay. The young men ushered the soldiers inside with many bows and nods, and they brought Horace with them.

  The door led into a roofless courtyard paved in mosaic tile. A small fountain burbled against the wall to his right, surrounded by leafy plants and young trees planted in clay pots. Oblong yellow fruit hung from their branches. Horace looked up to several balconies above, their iron handrails framing a square of azure sky.

  Voices approached, and the commander entered through a wide archway on the other side of the courtyard accompanied by a heavyset man with a sagging gray mustache. The hem of his simple robe swept across the floor. The commander indicated Horace, and the older man clapped his hands. Two large men wearing cloth kilts and leather harnesses entered. Each had an iron collar around his neck and a short sword hanging from his side. At a word from the old man, they came forward and grasped Horace by his arms. He didn't have time to resist before they hauled him through a side archway and down a flight of dark steps. Not that resistance would have helped. The muscular guards handled him with ease, walking him down a hallway and down another flight of stone steps. The air was cool down here, at least. The light became scarce, but when they tossed him into a small room, he was able to see by way of a narrow window in the ceiling.