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

by Jon Sprunk

  After a few moments, the commander finished his conversation, and the company got underway. Horace was famished, but his thirst was even worse. He thought about using gestures to ask one of the soldiers for a drink, but they weren't wearing their field kits. No waterskins or packs; just armor, weapons, and shields. Like they were marching into battle. That got his attention.

  The streets were packed with people, mainly commoners carrying produce and driving domesticated goats and oxen. There were few horses, making the commander stick out. People moved aside for him, or perhaps it was the multitude of spears marching behind him. The company paused at an intersection of broad avenues as a pair of palanquins with gauzy silk curtains crossed in front of them. The men bearing them were naked save for breechclouts and sandals. Their oiled limbs gleamed in the morning light. Horace noticed that each bearer also wore an iron collar. He hadn't made the connection at the townhouse between the old man and his muscular bodyguards, but now it was clear.

  Slaves.

  Slavery wasn't unknown. The practice had been legal centuries ago under the old Nimean Empire, but many of the western nations outlawed it after they broke free of the imperial yoke. Yet slavery was evidently still alive and well here in the east. He couldn't help but imagine what it would feel like to wear a metal collar.

  The company entered a large open square. The buildings facing the plaza were grander than most of the others Horace had seen so far, but the palace directly across from where he stood was by far the most ostentatious. Though not very tall—three stories at most—it sprawled across the entire length of the square with a double row of columns supporting an impressive entablature that reminded Horace of classic imperial architecture with eastern accents.

  At the center of the square, hundreds of workers struggled with a rope-and-pulley crane to erect a stone statue. Horace couldn't tell what it was going to be, but based on the four massive legs rising from the base, the final product would be gigantic. A small crowd watched the construction, but most of the people seemed to be here on some kind of business. Merchants hawked their wares from tents and wooden stands to shoppers passing by. The clamor echoed off the brick and stone walls.

  The company made their way through the teeming masses to face a line of soldiers guarding the entrance of the grand palace. The commander dismounted to present a small clay tablet, and the soldiers waved them through.

  Beyond the arcade of columns, two tall bronze doors stood open. Stone statues flanked the entrance. The effigies were bizarre, having human heads with long, curled beards on lion bodies. They were also quite old by the look of them.

  Through the doors they passed into a long atrium. Rectangular skylights open to the heavens illuminated the chamber. The walls were covered in vibrant paintings depicting a procession of people bringing various goods—sheaves of wheat, fruit baskets, even a herd of sheep—to a huge building that Horace initially took for a palace. Yet he soon realized it was a temple. There, men in yellow vestments took the spoils and placed them on a burning altar, where the smoke from the offerings was inhaled by a row of towering men and women on tall thrones. A great sun dominated the sky above the tableau.

  Horace would have liked to study the drawings, but his escorts pressed onward. They climbed a broad staircase to the second floor and entered an antechamber where a group of people waited—men in crisp white shirts and kilts with necklaces of gold and lapis lazuli; the women in colorful gowns, some of them so sheer Horace had to stop himself from staring. Before he could make a fool of himself, he was ushered through another doorway into a more spacious chamber.

  Chill air met him at the threshold, like he had stepped out into a frosty autumn evening in southern Arnos. Horace froze while the sweat from the day's heat cooled on his face. A high ceiling and large windows along the far wall made the room feel open, as if they had gone outside onto a shaded veranda, but the breeze was not enough to explain the sudden drop in temperature.

  It has to be my mind playing tricks. Maybe I've suffered some kind of heat exhaustion.

  Shivering slightly, he followed his escort farther into the chamber. The floor was pale hardwood, polished to a high sheen. Three men sat on cushioned divans, with sentries and slaves posted along the walls. The man seated in the middle had a gray mustache and beard, both trimmed and brushed neatly, but his head was completely bald. He wore a brocaded shirt with gold stitching that couldn't disguise his stocky build and a long skirt down to his ankles—all in black silk. Wide pads flared out from his round shoulders like wings. The man sitting on the left was also bald, but his gleaming scalp was stamped with several tattoos in carmine ink, the most notable being a sunburst over his forehead. His robes were golden yellow with ivory buttons down the front and tied with a white slash. The third man was the youngest of the group, perhaps fifteen or sixteen years of age, but he already had a full mustache. Of the three, he was the only one who still sported a full head of hair, pulled back in an oiled queue. The young man's eyes were a light—almost clear—shade of brown.

  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 t
urning 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.