by Jon Sprunk
I'll just have to win another one tomorrow.
He rolled off the giant and went to the doorway, feeling every ache in his body. He took his place in the fourth row of the formation. The positions were based on seniority, how long you had survived in the camp, but the guards evidently had some discretion because they moved men around daily. The benefits were tangible: the top squad was treated the best and were often allowed to skip grueling exercises like the Hill. Even better in his eyes, every sennight the first squad of each company graduated from the camp to join the queen's legions.
Jirom stood still as the guards checked the columns, which took almost half an hour. Anyone who grumbled received a baton to the back of the head. The entire camp was assembling on the parade ground. Full-camp reviews such as this were done every morning at first light and every night before the men turned in. This was a change in the routine. Was it another execution?
“Hey,” the man next to Jirom whispered. He was short but thick-chested and covered in rust-red hair. “You better watch yourself.”
Jirom clenched his right hand into a fist. “Why is that?”
The man jerked his chin back toward the mess tent. “What you did in there. Algo has friends among the guards. You better sleep with your eyes open.”
“If he has so many friends, why hasn't he been picked to leave yet?”
The man leaned closer and dropped his voice. “’Cause he likes it here. And the guards hold him back.”
“Why do you care what happens to me?”
The man shrugged. “Who says I do? Look, I saw you help that kid with the busted foot. Not too many people would do that here. So maybe I'm helping you with some advice.”
“All right. I'll be careful.”
A baton smashed into Jirom's shoulder.
“Shut your mouth, you black dog!” a guard shouted in his ear. “You don't talk in formation or I'll have your tongue!”
Jirom swallowed his ire until the guard marched away to harass someone else. A hush fell over the ranks as Kapikul Hazael arrived, followed by the slave who carried his sheathed sword. Hazael stopped in front of Jirom's company and eyed the troops of the first rank, hands clasped behind his back.
“Form up!” an officer shouted.
Boots stamped on the ground as dozens of camp guards rushed to surround the company. Every guard was armored in hardened leather from head to boot; each carried a bared sword. An itch tickled the back of Jirom's scalp. This was new. His hands clenched and unclenched as his heart beat a little faster.
“Every sixth man!” the company commander yelled.
Jirom glanced down the line as a crew of guards rushed past. They seized the short man beside him, who happened to be standing in the sixth position of his row. Along with the other unfortunates, he was rushed to the front of the company. Jirom anticipated what would happen next as the chosen men, all thirty-some of them, were forced to their knees before the kapikul. The short man wrestled with his holders and managed to throw one of them off, but four guards jumped in and pinned him to the ground. Jirom's feet shifted as the instinct for survival warred with his sense of honor.
Their commander addressed the assembly. “This company has been deemed unsatisfactory. By order of our Great Leader, an example will be set so that every man will know the price of failure.”
The entire camp watched in silence as the kapikul drew his sword from its ornate scabbard. The last rays of the sun reflected in the polished assurana blade in glimmers of orange and gold. Jirom took a step. He knew he couldn't make a difference against the dozens of guards surrounding the company.
But if I set an example, the rest might rise up.
No one else moved as Kapikul Hazael went down the line with quiet efficiency. The kneeling soldiers were forced to bend forward. One by one, their heads were lopped off. Blood glittered in the air each time the assurana blade rose up. After the first couple executions, those farther down the line started to struggle, and extra guards came up to hold them. Some of the men yelled; others begged. A few broke down and cried as their turn approached. Jirom saw Horace in his mind, facing the desert storm, defying its power. Before he knew it, he was pushing through the ranks. His first targets were the guards holding down the short man, who continued to scrap and kick and bite. If he could free that one, maybe a few others would see it and make a stand for their lives. He didn't have a plan beyond that. He knew it was suicide, but he'd rather die fighting than live in fear.
Jirom grabbed the nearest guard by the back of his jerkin and heaved him away. He kicked another in his stomach. The other guards holding the short man raised their swords, and Jirom rushed at them. They all crashed to the ground together. Jirom slammed one guard's head against the ground and punched him in the teeth for good measure, and then head-butted the other in the face. That guard rolled over, clutching his nose. His sword landed at Jirom's feet.
Jirom glanced down at the fallen weapon. If he picked it up, he might kill a few of the guards, but he would surely be killed in the end. Then again, this might be his last, best chance to die on his feet with a weapon in his hand. To die like a warrior.
Just as he started to reach down, something struck the back of his head. Points of light burst in front of his eyes, and an intense feeling of nausea stirred in his stomach as his legs gave way. Another blow rocked his skull to the side, and the ground rushed up to collide with his face.
Sweat dribbled down Jirom's face and neck, dripping onto his thighs as he sat in the tight space.
He had been locked inside one of six iron boxes positioned atop of the canyon's southern wall, exposed to the sky. Large enough for a man to sit inside, but not to stand or lie down, each was its own encapsulated hell. It had been only a couple hours, judging by the angle of the sunlight filtering through the rectangular slot in the box's door, but already his legs were cramping. Yet the heat was worse. There was no escaping the feeling of being inside an oven. Even his lungs burned from breathing in the sweltering air.
This is where I'll die. Cooked like a hen.
His head still throbbed from the blows that had knocked him out. He tried not to touch the tender spots, but every time his head tilted back against the side of the box, a sick feeling roiled in his stomach. While he suffered, his mind wandered. He relived the events of his life, seeing his family again in their small home on the edge of the great plain. He recalled the day he had left, and his first battle. Faces passed through his mind, the faces of the men he'd killed during those wild, bloody days, and the faces of the men who had marched by his side. He saw cities burning and the violence that followed as the victors took out their pain and fear on the survivors. He smelled the stench of death and knew that this time it had come for him.
A scratch at the door of the box stirred his senses. Shifting like a drunkard, he hunched forward. A face appeared at the screen covering the slot. Jirom might have expected a guard, or even the kapikul, come to taunt him, not the scraggly man peering at him through the wire mesh. He was dark-skinned for an Akeshii, and not unhandsome in a dangerous sort of way. Black whiskers covered his chin. His eyes were a peculiar color. At first glance they looked black, but a closer look revealed the deepest green Jirom had ever seen. They stared into the box without a trace of compassion.
“What's your name?” asked a voice as hard as those piercing black-green eyes.
Jirom stared back. Talking required energy, and he had little to spare.
“Here.” The man held the mouth of a small bladder to the screen.
Jirom smelled the water as he leaned forward and pressed his lips to the screen. The tepid drink tasted better than wine. When it was gone, he sat back with a sigh. “Thank you.”
“That was quite a show,” the man said. “I can't decide if it was the bravest thing I've ever seen, or the dumbest.”
Jirom rapped his knuckles against the top of the box. “Judge by the result.”
“Aye. You got a powerful desire to die?”
“Not particularly.”
“But you've soldiered before.”
Jirom nodded. His past didn't matter anymore. Nothing mattered but getting out of here and being free again.
“You know what they're preparing us for? War.” The man smiled. “War against the infidels, they say. But I think they mean to use us elsewhere.”
Elsewhere? What did that mean? Into the southern continent? Akeshia had tried that before and gotten its imperial nose bloodied. The ragtag slaves he'd seen below in the camp weren't going to accomplish any grand conquest. No, it had to be something else. What would the queen of Erugash want? He thought of Ceasa, the seat of the empire. Was Queen Byleth preparing to make a play for the Chalcedony Throne? It was insane. But what if she succeeded?
The man nodded as if reading his thoughts. “Listen. I've been watching you. You know how to fight and you're not stupid, despite that stunt today. Tell me, are you willing to fight those bastards again if it meant a chance to get out of here?”
“Open this door and you'll get your answer.”
“Anxious, eh? Can't say that I blame you, but you'll have to stew in there a little longer. But don't fret. They'll let you out in the morning. Maybe give you a little thrashing and then back into the ranks you'll go.”
“I'm not to be executed?”
The man grinned, making him look somewhat like a jackal. He was missing his upper left canine tooth. “No. I imagine they'll be promoting you. They like fighters here. The nastier, the better.”
“So when do I get to fight our captors?”
“Soon. I got myself an outfit with one thing in common: we all hate the empire enough to risk our lives fighting it. There are a lot of slaves who feel the same way. That sound like something you want to be a part of?”
“Maybe, but I have a request.”
“The slave in the box has a request? What is it?”
“The kapikul. I want him for myself.”
“You go for the throat, don't you? All right. That's a deal—when the time is right. And I say when it's right. Agreed?”
It was Jirom's turn to smile. “Agreed.”
As the man started to move away, Jirom had a thought. “Wait!”
The black-green eyes returned to the screen. “Quiet down! You trying to get me tossed in there with you?”
“What about the slaves taken into the city? I know a man inside. He's a friend.”
“Is this friend as tough as you?”
“Tougher,” Jirom said.
“Do you know where he is?”
“The palace.”
“The queen's palace? Then mourn for him and be done with it. The palace is locked up tighter than a royal virgin's cunny. I can't waste lives on a doomed rescue mission.”
Jirom backed away from the door. “Then leave me. I'll get to him myself.”
“Listen. It will be hard enough to get away ourselves. I don't like leaving good men to die, but it's not possible.”
“Give me one chance,” Jirom said. “He's…special.”
The man hissed in a language Jirom didn't know, which was surprising. He thought he'd heard every profanity that existed. “All right. You'll get your chance, but you need to be patient.”
“I have your word?”
The man pressed his hand to the mesh. “On the honor of my name and the names of my forefathers.”
Jirom reached out to the screen. “Then I will follow you, for good or ill.”
“Good for us, and ill for our enemies. I'll see you tomorrow when they let you out of this cage. We'll talk more then, and maybe work up a plan to get your friend out when the time comes.”
“It is agreed. My name is Jirom, son of Khiren.”
The man touched his forehead. “I'm Emanon.”
The face vanished from the screen. A distant voice called out, but no one answered.
As Jirom settled back in the box, thunder rumbled overhead. It shook the box with tiny vibrations. Outside the slot, the daylight was finally waning. A storm was coming, and though he was locked inside this box he felt exposed to the elements. As he prepared for a long night, plans turned around in his mind. Plans of how to escape this camp and find the man who had given him hope.
He held tight to Sari's hand as the people closed in around them. They tried to run, but the crowd was too thick. Everywhere Horace turned, townsfolk stood with their backs to him. He could hear Josef talking behind him, but his son's words were nonsense. Baby-talk, even though Josef was seven…
No, he just turned three years old last…last….
He tried to pull Sari closer, but something was holding her back. He was afraid to turn around, afraid of what he might see. Her hand was hot in his grip, blistering his palm. She was speaking to him, too, but her words were carried away on the wind. Somewhere in the distance, a woman screamed.
Horace bolted upright. His heart thumped in his chest like it wanted to break free. He saw it again so vividly, that last day in Tines. He held onto that moment, savoring the pain because it was better than feeling nothing, until the images faded. A sigh rattled in his chest as he opened his eyes.
The cell had no lamp and no window, but enough light filtered under the door for him to make out its narrow confines. The floor was cold stone beneath him. There was no bed to lie on, no benches or chairs. Nothing except a noisome hole in the corner. The only way in or out was through the door, and that was locked and barred from the outside.
They had left him in fetters. The metal gleamed bright in the dark cell. Horace had tried pounding the chains against the floor, tried scraping them against the walls, but he couldn't so much as scratch them.
It was difficult to say how long he'd been confined here. He guessed four or five days, long enough for the cold of the floor and walls to seep into his bones. He'd tried some simple calisthenics on the first day to keep his blood moving, but not much since then. He didn't see the point. So he spent more and more time thinking about the past, reliving the best moments of his life. Childhood recollections like holidays and namedays, the day his father had been recognized with a formal commendation signed by the king, the day his first ship was launched, his wedding day, Josef's birth. Tears gathered in his eyes as those powerful remembrances took hold of him. But eventually the fear crept back into his mind. What were they going to do to him?
The door creaked, and Horace scuttled closer. A bottom panel swung open, and bright light streamed through, burning his eyes. Blinking through the protection of his fingers, he saw a copper plate shoved through the opening, followed by a small pot.
“Hey!” Horace's voice echoed off the walls. “When are you—?”
The panel slammed shut before he could finish his question.
He sat back as the footsteps tromped away from his door. He was alone again. He leaned down to the plate and found a cold glob of pasty substance that smelled like curdled porridge. The water in the pot had a metallic taste, but he drained it anyway. As soon as he set down the vessel, he regretted drinking it all. He'd be thirsty again soon, and no amount of beating on the door would get him more. Every time they served him, Horace tried to talk to his jailors, but they never responded.
Sometimes he heard noises through the walls, like people talking, too low to make out the words. Other times he thought he heard laughing. At some point he started talking to himself to pass the time, playing out conversations he'd had in the past. He imagined there were two Horaces. One was optimistic he would eventually be freed and returned to Arnos, but the other constantly berated him for such romantic gibberish. He would never see his home again. He was going to die in this cell. The two sides bickered in his head, and sometimes he would stop, frozen in terror, as he realized he was muttering both sides of the argument out loud.
After finishing the mush, he licked the water pot to be sure he hadn't missed a drop. Then he stretched out on the floor with his hands folded across his stomach. The chains clinked as they settled around his middle. He slowed his breathing and focuse
d on staying perfectly still, imagining that if he didn't move a muscle maybe he would die in this pose. He wondered what the jailors would say.
Such a dignified corpse. Why can't the other prisoners die so quietly as this one?
His eyes grew heavy as he imagined himself gliding through the sky on a cushion of clouds. Minute by minute, the tension drained from his body. This was freedom. Whether he lived or died, his captors couldn't claim his spirit. An odd sensation formed behind his breastbone, a feeling of lightness as if he were actually about to float off the floor. A kernel of cool heat penetrated his chest, flaring up briefly each time he took a breath. Horace focused on the tiny seed of sensation. Was this the zoana that Gaz and Jirom had been telling him about?
The knot of icy warmth vanished as the door opened and a party of soldiers in full armor entered his cell. Horace stood up, blinking against the light of several torches. Without a word, they escorted him out into the corridor where waited a short man with deep wrinkles on his face and a gray beard down to his chest. He wore pale-green robes and a square-brimmed hat. With a sniff, the robed man headed off down the passage, and the soldiers escorted Horace after him.
Horace didn't remember much from when he was first brought down to these dungeons under the palace, but he paid better attention this time. The hallways were arched and dressed in smooth stone. They passed through three doors, including a big iron door at the end, before climbing a long flight of stairs. Horace was winded by the time they reached the top, but he felt good. Calm, like nothing could disturb him. He could face anything.
Even death?
A note of doubt skittered across the surface of his mind as they passed through a series of halls and lavish chambers. Horace walked as tall as he was able, though his legs shook a little. His captors took him up another set of staircases. Arched windows let in light and gave Horace a spectacular view of the city as they rose higher and higher.