by Jon Sprunk
“Lord Astaptah, I have just returned from an unpleasant visit with the Sun Cult.”
Astaptah's amber eyes glowed with an inner fire, twin stars set in deep sockets, as they focused on her. The hood of his robe concealed his head except for a long, sallow face. An odor like stale incense lingered around him.
“Menarch Rimesh from Ceasa,” he said. His voice was calm, as always. Since the day she first met him, bedraggled and half-dead at the foot of her palace, Byleth had never seen Astaptah in an excited state, neither in glee nor rage. His voice never changed its even tone. “I observed him leaving the palace.”
“Did he see you?”
“No. But he did not appear pleased.”
She took several steps toward the windows and then walked back. “That little worm. He stood there in front of my court and requested—no, he demanded!—that I wed that slob from Nisus. They can all rot for as much as I care about their plans and their threats. Do they think I don't know the law? The moment I am wed, my husband assumes the throne of Erugash, and I become nothing but a vessel to bear his royal brats.”
“Perhaps the menarch could meet with an unfortunate fate. The streets of Erugash are not as safe as they once were.”
She glared at him out of the corner of her eye. “If that is an example of your wit, my lord, I am not amused.”
“The longer you can postpone your matrimony, the better our chances for success.”
“How long can I hold out while they hound me day after day? I trusted you. I trusted what you told me, that I could be rid of these priests and the noose around my neck! Why? Because of you and your poisonous advice.”
He tilted his head slightly to one side. “If my presence is no longer desired—”
Byleth waved the back of her hand at him as she continued to pace. She wasn't oblivious to the connection between Astaptah's presence and the amount of tension in her life, yet he gave her something she'd never had before. A chance at true power. “I need what you promised me. I need the weapon.”
“And you shall have it, but these things cannot be rushed. The storm engine is not ready to be unveiled yet.”
She stopped pacing to face him. “But it works, Astaptah. Tell me that it works.”
“It will do everything I promised. Soon. The other cities have come to depend on the gold and soldiers Erugash provides. Denying them has made those rulers uneasy. Pressured by their people and the cults, their crowns rest upon the edge of a knife.”
I will put the priests in their place and cleanse my city of their taint.
“My work,” Astaptah continued, “will strengthen your position and put pressure on the Cult of Amur. Is that not what you wished?”
It was what she wished. It's what she had wanted since she was old enough to realize that she would someday rule this city but saw how the priests constrained her father's power at every turn. She had larger dreams for her reign, perhaps even the beginning of a new imperial dynasty with her as its founder. “We have no complaint of your service, Lord Astaptah. But everything rides on this gambit. The Sun Cult has only grown more powerful since the Godswar. If our plans are discovered, it will mean the end of everything. For both of us.”
“I need better test subjects.”
“I've been sending you all that I can. It's not so easy to make people disappear, even in a city as large as this.”
“The vagabonds and drunkards I receive are next to useless,” he said. “I need quality subjects to take my research to the next level.”
Alyra entered carrying a silver ewer. The queen gestured, and the girl poured two cups. “What would you have me do? Kidnap members of the court?”
Astaptah waved away the wine. “Power is the key. Once the machine is in full operation, neither the priesthood nor the other cities will pose any threat.”
Byleth took a long drink and shook out her hair. “Fine. I will do what I can, but you must move quickly now. We don't have much time.”
The sweetness of the fortified wine took some of the heat out of her temper. She thought of Mulcibar's captive, the western spy. A zoanii, if Isiratu could be believed. His face and limbs were pleasing enough to the eye, but she had sensed no power to him. She made up her mind to interview him again. She deserved a diversion from this tedious politicking. “So how will we handle Menarch Rimesh?”
“I will monitor the menarch's efforts with care.”
“See that you do. Now leave me.”
He started to depart, but Byleth stopped him. “Wait. Why did you insist that we give Isiratu's lands to Xantu and Gilgar?”
Her question appeared to catch him off guard. He paused a long moment before answering. “The sons of Ekuzakir et'Mamaunothos are powerful and amoral, a combination which makes them useful.”
“Yes. Useful as long as they remain loyal.”
“The gift of additional lands and wealth will go far to ensure their continued faithfulness.”
Astaptah was nothing if not logical, but his ideas frightened her as much as they excited her. “And what do you require, my lord, to ensure your continued devotion?”
For a moment, his eyelids widened and gave her another glimpse of the furnaces burning within. “Only to serve you.”
“That's the same answer you gave me on the day I rescued you from starvation and thirst, as I recall.”
“My aims have not wavered since that day.”
Satisfied, she dismissed him and reclined on a padded lounge beside the open windows. A breeze played across her skin. The setting sun inked the heavens in swaths of gold and orange.
She lifted her hand for another cup of wine while she pondered how she would handle the new envoy of the Sun Cult.
The steel crescent sliced through the air in an elegant arc. Blood spurted onto the ground behind the rolling head. Two hundred men stood as silent witnesses, watching the execution of one of their own.
Jirom had seen beheadings before. Most had been messier. He'd never forget the deserter in Gallean. It had taken the headsman six cuts with his axe to finally chop through the ex-soldier's thick neck. Later, he'd heard that someone had bribed the executioner to use a dull blade. Today was a different story. The camp commander, Kapikul Hazael, had kept his blade sharp. Jirom admired the sword—a two-handed assurana blade with a long, almost delicate, curve. Assurana swords were rare. Passed down from father to son in the oldest Akeshii families, they were said to be unbreakable.
A slave ran forward to wipe the blade, but even after it had been cleaned, it held a scarlet tint Jirom had never seen in steel, as if the metal had absorbed the victim's blood. When the kapikul slid it back into its sheath, it was like watching poetry.
But not for that grunt.
The corpse strapped across the chopping block had been one of them, a new slave recruit training in the queen's army. A dog-soldier, they were called. The lowest rung of the Akeshian military machine. The dead man's crime was being caught stealing food from the officers’ dining hall. In some of the armies Jirom had served with, that meant a few lashes. Here it meant death in front of your comrades. A whistle sounded, and the company fell out. A few soldiers were assigned to untying the corpse and dragging it to the caves to be buried, while the rest, including Jirom, were sent to the Hill as their part of the punishment. Apparently, execution wasn't considered enough of a deterrent to theft.
As he ran across the dusty parade ground, Jirom hoped for a breeze to lessen the brutal heat, but there was none to be found. He ran a hand over the smooth curve of his scalp. At least he'd been able to shave his head when he arrived, but that was about the only good thing. When he first learned of his reassignment to the army, Jirom had welcomed it. He'd served in enough military camps to be confident in his chances for escape. He had started planning how he could get inside the city and find Horace. The younger man had made an impression on him. All during the long trek through the desert, Horace had refused to submit to their captors, no matter how much they tormented him. And what had happened
during the storm…Jirom had never seen such courage. Akeshian storms could break the strongest of men, but Horace had faced it on his feet. Not only that, he had defeated it. At that moment Jirom had known this was a special man, what his people called an askari'muhagin. Chosen of the gods.
If a man like that could walk in chains, unbroken, then Jirom, son of the Muhabbi Clan, could do no less. And it had nothing to do with the fact that Horace's light eyes, the color of tropical seas, often visited him in his dreams. He'd spent his entire life running from his feelings about men, but this was something more than physical attraction.
Yet Jirom's plans to find Horace and escape together into the wilds of the desert crumbled when he had arrived at the camp. It was built at the bottom of a round canyon about a mile from the walls of Erugash. Hundred-foot cliffs surrounded the complex. Sentries peered down from the towers built atop the bluffs. It hadn't taken Jirom long to realize the camp wasn't a training facility; it was a death sentence. He'd seen more men die on his first day than in a week fighting in the arena. They died from beatings by the guards, from the brutal regimen of combat exercises that lasted for hours without rest or water breaks, and from each other. There had been six stabbings in his company barracks last night. Jirom had slept sitting up with his back to a wall.
He peered over his shoulder to the execution block. The kapikul was striding away with his retinue of slaves and personal bodyguards, probably back to the cool shelter of his quarters. Jirom glanced at the body being carried away. A sorrowful end to a pitiful life.
Why do you care? You didn't even know his name.
They arrived at the Hill, a steep mound of stones ranging in size from fist-size chunks to boulders as large as draft horses. The guards shoved them into a line along the foot of the Hill. As always, a couple men balked and were beaten down under a crowd of batons. Jirom never tried to resist. Life in the camp was hard enough without calling attention to yourself, but that wasn't always easy. As one of the biggest men in his company, he was a natural target. Most of the other dog-soldiers stayed clear of him, but he saw them watching him, waiting for him to make a mistake.
The whistle cried out again, and the company began to climb. Jirom leapt up the incline. Sharp points of rock stabbed through the soles of his sandals as he scrambled higher. Every day they were forced to climb the Hill. This was the second time today, and the muscles in his thighs and lower back started cramping before he got halfway up, but he kept churning his legs.
He was the first one to the top. As he balanced on the craggy summit, Jirom looked down at the men climbing toward him. The first to reach him was a pale-skinned northerner with a shaggy brown beard. He grabbed for Jirom's left foot and earned a kick in the face. The northerner flailed for balance, but the rocks shifted under his feet and sent him spilling down the slope in a shower of stones. Jirom winced as he heard the crack of a snapping bone, and watched the northerner clutch his leg as he slid down the rest of the way to the bottom.
The point of the Hill was simple. Whoever stayed on the top the longest was the winner, and only he was guaranteed to eat that night. The rest would have to fight over the slops and scraps from the guards’ dinner. Jirom needed that food. Food was life, and as long as he was alive there was a chance for freedom.
Not every man made it to the top. The Hill was treacherous, and many fell down its slopes with broken bones and gashed flesh. Others got involved in scuffles on the way up as they pushed and grappled to get higher. Those who got to the last few steps found Jirom ready to defend his perch. He threw them back down again, though he tried not to be too rough. These men were trapped in the same circumstance as he was, forced to work and grovel under constant threat of death. The worst part was, he didn't see the logic in it. A training camp was supposed to be a place where new recruits were conditioned for battle by building up their bodies and learning how to fight as a unit. Here everything was backward, and the men were lucky just to survive.
Was that the point? To winnow out everyone but the very strongest, the most brutal? How could an army exist under those conditions?
Jirom fought for what seemed like hours. Many of the dog-soldiers were little more than boys, which was the case with most of the armies he'd served in. Throwing them off the mound made Jirom feel sick, but he did it anyway. Finally, the whistle blew again. The men remaining on the Hill started back down. Jirom sat at the top, his chest heaving, his arms and legs throbbing. His back was a solid mass of knots. He might barely be able to walk tomorrow, and yet he would be forced to run and climb and fight, or else he'd join the bodies sealed up in the caves. The cries of the dying reached up to him as the guards put the injured out of their misery—there was no infirmary in the camp. A squad of raw recruits dragged away the dead.
Finally, a guard on killing duty noticed Jirom and pointed a bloody dirk at him. Jirom's knees crackled as he lumbered to his feet and began the long slide down. The same guard made as if to reach for the baton swinging from his belt, but turned away instead. Not wanting to press his luck, Jirom jogged to the parade ground. Most of the company had already disappeared inside the mess tent, but a few still struggled to cross the distance because of their injuries. Jirom could see the panic in their eyes as they glanced back at the guards killing the wounded. A young man, no more than eighteen or nineteen summers judging by the wisps of fuzz on his chin, hobbled on a bad foot. Against his better judgment, Jirom slipped his arm under the youth's shoulder. Acts of kindness were discouraged by the guards, who often singled out the do-gooder for an especially cruel beating, so most of the dog-soldiers kept to themselves.
“Thank you,” the young man whispered as they reached the open entrance of the tent. He had the coppery complexion and straight, dark hair of an Akeshii, but his accent hinted at something more eastern. Perhaps Moldray or one of the Jade Kingdoms. He had beautiful eyes, deep black like cheetah spots.
Jirom slipped his arm out of the embrace. “It was nothing. Can you make it from here?”
“I'll be fine.”
The young man limped inside. The men in Jirom's company found places to sit at the long tables. There they would wait until the officers and guards had eaten. Jirom went to the lone table at the head of the tent. If there was a drawback to winning on the Hill, it was that he had to enjoy his prize in front of the others. While they watched with hungry eyes, a cook brought over a platter and dropped it in front of Jirom. The smell of roasted meat filled his head like nectar, reminding him that he hadn't eaten since breakfast.
“To the victor!” the cook said with a laugh and then tromped off.
The cut of meat wasn't the best, probably a slice off the rump, but it looked like a feast to Jirom, pinkish-brown and oozing juices. He dug right in, using both hands to hold the roast while he tore off chunks with his teeth. The first time he'd won the Hill, he had felt odd eating in front of so many hungry men, but today he devoured it without pause. None of the others would think twice if they'd won.
He was so enjoying the meal he didn't notice someone walking up to him. All Jirom saw was a body. Then a huge hand snatched the meat out of his grasp. The giant of a man standing before his table was nearly seven feet tall and had to weigh at least thirty stone. His small, greedy eyes stared at Jirom as he bit off half the meat haunch in a single bite and started chewing. Jirom had seen this man around the camp. He was in a different company, but he seemed to be allowed to wander about as he wished, and the other dog-soldiers cowered wherever he went. This was the first time Jirom had seen him up close, and he had to admit it was an impressive sight. But that was his food the giant was eating. His food and his respect.
“Put it down,” he whispered. “And walk away.”
The huge man smiled with brown juice running down his chin. “This is my camp, runt. First I'm gonna eat your dinner. And then I'm gonna take you out back and fuck y—”
Jirom shoved hard against the table with both hands and drove the wooden edge into the giant's belly. As the big man
staggered back, Jirom leapt to his feet and lashed out with his right fist. His knuckles cracked against the underside of the man's jaw, rocking his head back. The giant wobbled a moment before righting himself. It was like watching a water buffalo try to maneuver—huge and ungainly and liable to crush anything in its path. With a growl, the giant swung a roundhouse punch. Jirom covered his head, but the buffet knocked him to the floor anyway. Ears ringing, he shook his head.
All conversation in the mess tent had ceased. The giant grinned and took another bite of the victory meal. Jirom considered letting it go.
No, to the hells with that.
He kicked out, and his heel made a satisfying crunch as it connected with a kneecap. The giant grunted and tipped sideways. Jirom shot to his feet, ignoring the pain tearing down his lower back, and landed two solid punches before his assailant could react. The giant looked stunned but not seriously hurt. Then his eyes narrowed to thin slits and his massive shoulders hunched. Huge hands gripped Jirom by the neck and squeezed. Jirom pounded on trunk-like forearms to loosen their grip, but without any success. He kicked at the injured knee, only to have his boot bounce off without eliciting a response.
Unable to breathe, Jirom heaved with his entire body. He managed to stand the giant up a little taller, but he didn't have the leverage to lift the bigger man. Feeling consciousness slipping away, he summoned all his strength in a last-ditch effort. Instead of trying to outmuscle the giant, Jirom stepped back with his right foot and twisted in that direction. The sudden change in momentum caused the other man to stumble forward and fall to the floor with a resounding crash. Jirom followed up by dropping all his weight on top of his fallen rival. He was grinding his elbow into the man's throat when the assembly horn sounded. Everyone jumped up and hustled out to the yard. Everyone except Jirom and his foe.
Jirom glanced at the man beneath him, his blood coursing with the rush of violence. The feeling took him back to his days in the arena. He looked over and spotted the dust-covered remains of his meal on the floor. He could still taste the juices on his tongue.
