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

by Jon Sprunk

  The camp had been locked down tight since the rebel attack in the city. No accusations had been leveled, but everyone was tense. The guards were extra-vigilant in their duties, and the slaves attacked their training with renewed enthusiasm.

  Jirom rubbed his sweaty head as he trudged back for another load. His back ached like a dozen tiny men with pickaxes were digging into his lower spine. He twisted from side to side as he walked, hoping to loosen the mass of knots back there, but it only made the pain worse. A man with an armload of small stones passed him going the other way. Their shoulders collided, and the other man rebounded, spilling some of his cargo. Jirom bent down, stifling a groan as his back protested, to help pick up the fallen rocks.

  The other man didn't say a word. He had a wiry build and long bangs of black hair that hid his eyes. Jirom started to mumble an apology when the other man shot to his feet and hurried away, leaving the mess of rocks on the ground. A guard glanced over and shouted for the line to keep moving.

  With a sigh, Jirom picked up the stones and started back toward the new Hill. He hadn't seen Emanon since morning roll call, which wasn't unusual—the rebel captain was somehow able to move about the camp without drawing attention—but Jirom had expected him to make an appearance at some point.

  After depositing the stones onto the pile, Jirom headed back across the parade ground. It was another six hours until the evening meal break, and if the gods were merciful he would be able to spend the rest of the night in his bunk recovering from today's exertions.

  A loud voice shouted behind him. “Make way!”

  Everyone scattered as a column of armored soldiers burst onto the field. Kapikul Hazael strode behind them. The camp commander wore a scarlet uniform jacket with wide shoulder cuffs over a white skirt. A round gold medallion hung on his chest, and a black skullcap shaded his head. The dog-soldiers waited as the commander's procession passed through their lines. The kapikul had almost reached the edge of the parade ground when he stopped before a gray-haired soldier. The old man was sturdy; perhaps he had once been a coppersmith or a quarry mason, but his arms trembled under the weight of a stone as large as a bread loaf. The kapikul stood before the soldier without speaking. Minutes passed by. Several of the men shifted as they tried to hold onto their burdens. The old dog-soldier looked straight ahead with sweat running down his weathered face. Finally, his arms gave out and he dropped the stone with a heavy thud. The kapikul gestured, and two guards seized the old man by the arms and dragged him toward the long path of the canyon wall, up to the hot boxes.

  The commander looked around the grounds and then departed with a stiff walk. When the last of the kapikul's guards stepped off the field, the dog-soldiers returned to their task.

  Jirom was going back for another load when a whistle blew two short bursts. Rest break. Most of the dog-soldiers slumped to the ground. One squad at a time, they were escorted to the camp well. Jirom's was the second group chosen to go. As he walked in line, he looked up to the cliffs above. Emanon was supposedly working on a plan to get them out of the camp for good, but tomorrow was choosing day when the first rank from every company would be taken out to join the army. Jirom was in the third rank now, and he didn't see any way to advance in just one day.

  His squad gathered around the stone well and took turns drawing up the small pail on a rope and quenching their thirst. Jirom held back until everyone else had drunk. When it was his turn, the first pail went over his head in deluge of sweet relief. Then he tossed the container back into the well. The rest of the squad left as he hauled up the pail for his drink. He relished the moment of solitude. One of the things he didn't miss about camp life was the lack of privacy.

  Footsteps announced the arrival of the next squad. Jirom set down the pail and turned, then stopped as six large dog-soldiers lined up in front of him. Three carried long sticks, and one swung a length of chain in a lazy circle. Algo, the giant, stood in the center of the line, glowering from under his thick brows. Jirom hadn't seen him since the day he tried to steal his victory meal.

  “Don't hurry off,” said the man swinging the chain. He had a gap between his front upper teeth. “We want to talk to you.”

  Jirom crossed his arms and inched his feet apart into a wider stance, but otherwise made no move.

  The man with the chain looked to Algo. “You insulted our friend here, meshi. That was a mistake. Now you have to pay the price.”

  The six men rushed together in a group. Algo was the first to reach him, the big man lunging with his hands outstretched. Jirom backed up to put the well between him and them. Three of the men followed Algo in pursing him head-on while the other pair circled around the other side. Jirom pivoted and ran at the two. Both carried wooden rods. They halted when they saw him coming, but he lowered his head and threw himself at them. Their off-balance swings missed as his momentum took them to the ground in a tumble of flailing limbs. An errant knee struck Jirom in the nose, sending jolts of pain across his face. He punched the offender in the stomach hard enough to make the man double over and put him down with a punch to the mouth that split both lips and spurted blood across all three of them. The other man grabbed him around the throat, but Jirom threw him off with a violent shake and scrambled to his feet. As the second man got up on his knees, Jirom kicked him in the chest and sent the dog-soldier tumbling over the low wall and into the well. His shout was punctuated by a distant splash.

  Jirom backed away as the other four men caught up to him. Two grabbed his arms while Algo stood in front of him. Jirom aimed a kick that glanced off the big man's thigh, and then lowered his chin as the first blows arrived. Algo's huge fists struck him on the forehead and the bridge of his nose, causing bright stars to flash before his eyes. Jirom shifted his weight and yanked hard, and he carried the men holding his arms down to the ground. The breath hissed from his mouth as the dog-soldiers fell on top of him. When Algo straddled him, Jirom caught one of the big man's wrists and wrenched it backward hoping to break it, but Algo simply lifted him off the ground with that arm and kept punching him with the other. Each blow made his head ring.

  “Drop him!” the man with the chain called out.

  Algo threw Jirom down on his back. The remaining men grabbed Jirom's arms and pinned him to the ground. The rusty chain slithered around his neck to hold him in place. The soldier with the split lips appeared over Jirom, a small knife in his hand. He slashed, and a line of pain cut across Jirom's stomach.

  Jirom tensed as the knife lunged again, but it never made contact. A brown arm appeared around the knife-fighter's throat. Czachur grinned over the fighter's shoulder before he yanked the man backward. Jirom threw off the men holding his arms and grabbed the wrists of the fighter holding the chain around his throat. He flipped the chain-fighter over, climbed on top of him, and started punching without holding back, cutting his knuckles on the dog-soldier's teeth and cheekbones.

  When he was through, Jirom stood up. A few yards away, Silfar and Partha were holding Algo down while Jerkul pounded the big man's skull with a wooden club. The last two dog-soldiers had run off. Jirom picked up the fallen knife and tossed it into the well where one of his attackers could still be heard splashing below. A cut about twelve inches long stretched across his stomach below his navel. It bled profusely but didn't look too deep.

  Jerkul dropped the bloody club and came over. “You all right? Czachur saw them jump you and came to get us.”

  Jirom nodded to the young man. “My thanks.”

  The younger man smiled back.

  He's handsome but so young. Damn me, I'm getting old.

  Jerkul helped him up. “Come on. We'll get you patched up at the barracks.”

  The rebels strode away after delivering a few more kicks to the fallen dog-soldiers. As Jirom followed them, he spotted a face peering down from a window in the headquarters building. He stopped and stared back at Kapikul Hazael until the commander turned away from the window.

  Jirom awoke to the sound of a li
ght footstep. Before the last dregs of sleep had left his brain, he was reaching out to grasp the intruder. His hands encountered broad shoulders sheathed in muscle. Jirom sat up and suppressed a groan as his lower back protested.

  “Bad dreams?” Emanon asked in a low voice.

  The barracks was still asleep. Snores echoed off the rafters. Only a faint sheen of dawn's light shone through the slatted windows.

  “Where have you been?” Jirom asked.

  Emanon knelt beside his bunk. He wore a sleeveless homespun tunic with a sweat stain in the center of the chest. “I've been busy working on our way out. We need to be included in the next shipment of troops to the front.”

  “I don't know how you'll be able to do that.” Jirom stretched to loosen the kinks in his shoulders and back. His entire body felt bruised. “Unless you convince the commander to send the entire company.”

  “That's beyond my abilities, but what I cooked up should do.”

  Jirom cocked his head to the side. “You sure come and go as you please around here. I wish you'd show me that trick.”

  “And spoil the mystery?” When Jirom glared, Emanon held up a hand in surrender. “All right. I have a hidden cache of silver. I use it to bribe the guards and other people I need to do me favors. I also keep my ears open for things I can use against our jailors.”

  “Blackmail and bribery.”

  Emanon gave him a wink. “They work every time.”

  Jirom was about to ask why they didn't just bribe the camp commander when whistles sounded from the yard. It was time for morning roll call. Emanon helped him up from the bed, and they walked out of the barracks house. Jirom took his place in the third rank as dog-soldiers fell in around him, rubbing their bleary eyes. Yet he noticed something strange as the company assembled. The two ranks in front of him were empty. He was tempted to look back to see if they were late in arriving, but the officers were already circulating through the formation, barking orders and passing out blows with their truncheons to those who didn't move fast enough. Jirom stood with his eyes trained forward.

  “You ready to travel?”

  Jirom stole a quick glance around. Emanon stood at attention to his left. Czachur, Jerkul, and a few other rebels he recognized stood to his right. Jirom wanted to ask what in the name of the gods was going on when the company officer called out, “Third rank! Advance two positions!”

  Jirom's stomach was wrapped up in knots as he stepped forward along with Emanon and the others.

  “First rank!” the officer shouted. “Report to the quartermaster's supply immediately and prepare to move out!”

  The men of the first row from each company started jogging toward the south end of the camp. Jirom followed beside Emanon and asked in a low voice, “What just happened? Did you kill the men ahead of us?”

  The rebel captain smirked. “Nah. That would've called too much attention. While we were in Erugash I got some yergrub root from my contact. I slipped it into their dinners last night. They'll survive, but they aren't going anywhere for a while.”

  “So what's next?”

  “Telling you would spoil the fun.” Emanon winked. “But be sure to pack an extra pair of boots.”

  They arrived at the quartermaster behind a crowd of dog-soldiers. Officers formed them into a queue, and each man stepped up to receive a large burlap sack. But no weapons, Jirom observed. When it was his turn, Jirom asked, “What's the load?” as he accepted his sack. It weighed at least four stone.

  “Move on!” barked the burly man in the leather apron behind the window.

  Jirom found a spot along the wall of the supply building where he could set down his satchel. He untied the hemp cord holding it shut and peered inside. Under several pieces of boiled leather strips with trailing thongs that appeared to be rudimentary armor, he found an iron helmet, a faded purple tunic, several bricklike packages that looked like trail rations, two stoppered bladders, a small digging spade, and a copper handpick. At the bottom was a pair of hobnailed boots.

  The graduating dog-soldiers were soon herded toward the camp gates high atop the canyon wall. Now that freedom from this hellhole was close at hand, Jirom reflected back on his time here. A lot of men had died trying to get to where he stood now, but he felt no pride. This was not his army; he was just a slave forced to serve. Yet at least he was free of this place and its denizens.

  Emanon came over, bringing with him a dozen rebel fighters. “Jirom, you're going to be commanding these men in the field.”

  Jirom frowned. That hadn't been discussed before. “I don't need a promotion. Let Jerkul lead them.”

  “He has his own squad,” Emanon said. “I'm putting them in your hands.”

  Jirom squinted at the fighters. “Fine. But I run the squad my way. That means no interference.”

  Emanon slapped him on the shoulder. “Of course, Jirom. They're all yours.”

  Jirom ground his teeth together as the rebel captain walked away through the crowd. He didn't want this responsibility, but he had agreed to follow Emanon's orders.

  “All right,” Jirom said, pitching his voice to the men in front of him. “If everyone has their gear, get into formation with the others. We don't want to draw attention to ourselves.”

  As the squad started to comply, Jirom turned toward the sound of hoof beats. Kapikul Hazael rode up on a brown mare. The camp commander wore his usual uniform with a voluminous white cloak that flowed down past his steed's flanks. Several retainers followed him, also on horseback. The bad news was delivered by one of the officers.

  “This unit will be honored by the presence of the kapikul, who rides with us to glory!”

  Jirom's hands opened and closed as the commander rode to the forefront of the company. If he'd had a weapon, he might have tried to get close enough to use it, consequences be damned. Instead, he joined his squad and made sure the men were ready to march. He didn't know where they were going, but he could bide his time.

  The boots of the Queen's Guard pounded the floor as they marched down the hallway in the direction of the slave quarters.

  Alyra counted to thirty and then slipped out of the vacant storeroom where she'd been hiding. She had almost walked straight into the patrol but was fortunate that she'd heard them before they spotted her. The corridor was now clear, yet she hesitated, wondering if this was a smart decision.

  Go on. This is no time to let your nerves get the better of you.

  After Horace had been summoned by the queen and Alyra learned that they would be going on Her Majesty's flying barge, she had stewed for a little while, imagining all the things a woman of power and hedonistic urges like Byleth could inflict on Horace. Then she received a note from her palace contact. It said simply, Lord Astaptah has left the palace.

  Taking the coincidence as divine intervention, Alyra had shaken herself out of the pointless worrying and decided to take advantage of having the evening free at the exact time when Lord Astaptah was away. This might be her best opportunity to get inside the vizier's chambers.

  She'd changed into a dove-gray tunic and covered it with a short, hooded cloak. Her only accessories were a small pouch, retrieved from under her bed, and a thin-bladed dagger she tucked into the back of her belt-sash and hoped to heaven she wouldn't have to use.

  With her heart pounding in her chest, she made her way through the palace via seldom-used corridors and halls. After bypassing the kitchens, she entered into the forbidden hallways. Remembering her way from the last time she had followed Lord Astaptah, she found the dead-end corridor. Only she knew it wasn't a dead-end.

  Alyra fumbled in the dark for her pouch, the contents of which had been smuggled to her through the network of agents in case she should ever get this far. She pulled out a small, thin rod and a square of rabbit fur. She rubbed the rod with the fur, praying for success. Since it could only be used once, she'd never had the chance to try it before. She breathed a sigh as the rod began to glow. Cool white light emanated from the tip, like a miniatu
re lamp without the oil. Holding the light aloft, she hurried down the short passage to the stone wall at the terminus. The middle of the wall was hot to the touch, just like before. With the light, she was able to make out the outlines of a wide doorway but no opening mechanism.

  Alyra opened the pouch again and took out the larger object inside, a black silk bag. It was soft and pliable in her hand. When she had described the stone door to her contacts, along with her suspicion that it might be triggered by zoana, they had given her this. The bag had come with two warnings. First, that its contents were unstable and should be kept away from open flames, sunlight, and her skin. And second, that its effects could not be guaranteed. She undid the laces holding it shut, and a pungent smell like burning brimstone leaked out.

  She bent down and poured out the contents, careful to keep her face far back. A line of fine white sand filled the crease between the floor and the front of the door. Alyra stood back, tucking the empty bag back in her carrying pouch, and wondered how long the stuff would take to work, if it was going to work at all—

  She jumped as a sharp sizzle burst from the sand. White smoke rose into the air as the sand popped and crackled like a campfire. Alyra snuck a glance over her shoulder, afraid the noise would attract unwanted attention, but the sounds died down quickly. When she looked back, the wall looked entirely different. The door's frame was outlined in silver lines. Twisting shapes covered its face, as well—curling lines, interconnected geometric designs, and some kind of writing. Alyra couldn't decipher the script. It didn't even look Akeshian.

  Of course. Astaptah came from the south. It makes sense his notations would be foreign, too.

  Alyra was looking for a way to open the illuminated portal when the stone door swung forward. She backed out of the way as a wave of hot air washed over her. Beyond the doorway yawned a dark tunnel with stone steps leading down. Standing at the top, she suddenly wondered what Horace was doing, if he was all right. The thought came out of nowhere, but it was accompanied by a simple and uncomfortable truth. She wished she could tell him about her true mission in Erugash.