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

by Jon Sprunk

  Jirom's troopers looked to him, and he considered the price of disobeying, but then changed his mind. “Double file!” he called out.

  The men rushed into the new formation with practiced ease. The kapikul said something to his officer and then rode ahead up the line with his bodyguards.

  “Half rations for two days!” the officer shouted before kicking his steed to catch up with the others.

  Jirom bit down on his tongue to keep from saying something he and his squad would regret, but that didn't stop him from fantasizing about putting a spear through the officer's back. Or Hazael's, for that matter.

  “Looking good, lads!”

  Heads turned as Emanon appeared among them. The rebel captain was all smiles as if this were a pleasant stroll instead of a brutal march into the heart of the most dangerous desert north of the Zaral. But everyone perked up at his arrival. One of the troopers started to step out of formation to greet the captain, but Jirom stopped him with a shout.

  “Back in line!”

  The soldier, Partha, glared at Jirom from under the cloth wrapped around his head but resumed his position. Emanon went over to clap him on the shoulder and share a word. Then he came to Jirom. “The men look good. They're responding well to you.”

  “Is that so?”

  Emanon scratched the whiskers under his chin. He was growing out his beard in a scruff of black with some gray poking through. “Well, perhaps you're a bit hard on them. We're revolutionaries. We aren't used to military discipline, eh?”

  “Didn't you tell me I could run this platoon how I saw fit?”

  “Aye. I did.”

  “Then let me run it.”

  Emanon held up his hands and laughed. “So be it. I just came to tell you to be ready.”

  Jirom looked around at the leagues of desert all around them. “What? Escape? Are you insane?”

  “Not now, but everyone needs to be ready. We'll be arriving soon.”

  That caught Jirom's attention. They had set out from Erugash three days ago, a convoy of four hundred troopers, sixty-some officers, twenty-one supply wagons, and a complement of cooks, armorers, and drovers. They spent the first day on the river, sailing west in a convoy of barges, and disembarked at a small hamlet with no name. Then they marched northwest. The soldiers hadn't been given a destination, only a general heading, but Emanon's contacts had ferreted out these details within an hour on the road. They were going to a town called Omikur. According to the rumors, that was where the invader army was holed up. Jirom hadn't welcomed the news that they were marching for a fight so soon, but there wasn't much he could do about it.

  He shaded his eyes to peer over the heads of the soldiers marching ahead of him. It took him a minute, but he finally spotted a dark smudge against the horizon. That had to be Omikur, unless it was another mirage. “We won't reach it before nightfall.”

  “Word is that we'll stop an hour before sunset to make camp and approach the town in the morning.”

  “Understood. What about getting us extra water rations?”

  Emanon pointed over his shoulder. A wagon loaded with clay jars rolled up from the rear of the column. “Already taken care of. And I have something else for you. A piece of information from Erugash. Your friend, Horace, has joined the queen's court.”

  A knot formed in the center of Jirom's chest. “What are you talking about?”

  “That's what my sources are saying. He's the new First Sword of Her Majesty's Guard. I don't have to tell you that's a sensitive post. She must trust him an awful lot.”

  Jirom shook his head, only half-listening now. What did this mean? Had Horace gone over to the Akeshians?

  “All right,” Emanon said. “I have other people to see. Keep your eyes open and remember: Be—”

  “Ready. Yes.”

  Emanon clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Right. See you later.”

  The rebel captain jogged ahead, sliding through the ranks as easily as an eel through a murky riverbed.

  Jirom watched him go, wondering how much he could trust Emanon's information. He couldn't believe that Horace would embrace a people who had put a collar around his neck. Then Jirom thought back to the sandstorm and how Horace had faced it. After that, the pale Westerner had been a different man. Had he changed so much he would follow a tyrant like the queen of Erugash?

  The sun glared down as the army marched onward.

  The call to halt came down an hour before sundown, just as Emanon had predicted. Troops dropped their packs and fell out of formation at once, most of them dropping to the ground where they stood.

  “Get up!” Jirom shouted at his unit before they could fall asleep.

  Heads lifted, but no one moved. Jirom leaned over, his back crying out in agony after the long march, and picked up the man closest to him. Silfar's eyes opened wide as he was hauled to his feet. Jirom growled in the soldier's face, “Get out your spade and start digging.”

  Every night on the march, no matter where they were or how long they'd traveled, Jirom forced his platoon to dig a trench around their campsite before they bedded down. Six feet deep and six across. He would have had them install stakes, too, but he couldn't get his hands on enough disposable wood. His men had refused the first night, until he put three of them on their backs with bloody lips and busted noses. The second night they'd tried to go over his head to Emanon, but the captain shrugged and left. Part of him didn't blame them. Twelve hours on the road in this terrain was enough to kill a man, but if he let up discipline for even one night, he'd lose them for good.

  “Up!” he shouted. “On your feet and get this camp squared away!”

  With groans and curses, they obeyed. Despite the pain shooting down the backs of his legs, Jirom got in the trench with them as he did every night and came out as sweaty and fatigued as everyone else. Then he got them fed and let them sleep in peace, taking the first watch for himself.

  The sun was setting behind Omikur's ramparts. Lights twinkled in the towers studding the long curtain wall. Jirom wondered about the people inside. He'd heard that the crusaders had allowed the town's inhabitants to leave in peace when they occupied the town. About half had taken the offer, leaving with as much food and water as they could carry, but the rest—as many as a thousand people—had chosen to stay. Why?

  Jirom knew Akeshian tactics, having fought against them enough times in the past. He had seen it firsthand. The people inside, the civilians, had to know they would receive no mercy when the legions took back the town. Many would die. Savagely, painfully. The soldiers would sate themselves with rape and looting, and the survivors would be sold into slavery. It was madness to resist.

  “Hail!” a voice called from across the trench. “Do I need to know a password before I can cross?”

  Jirom scowled at Emanon. “Yes. It's ‘asshole.’”

  The rebel captain scrambled across the ditch. Brushing off his hands, he surveyed the sleeping soldiers. “I'm amazed you didn't have to kill anyone tonight.”

  “Me too. How many did we lose today?”

  Two men had fallen down dead on the first day of the forced march, and six more on the second day. Jirom's platoon hadn't lost anyone yet, mainly because he made sure they got plenty of water throughout the day.

  “Thirteen,” Emanon replied.

  Jirom let out a sigh, too tired to make more of a comment. What could be said? Nothing. The dead were dead, and the living had to keep on going. “Well, we're here. Now what?”

  “We've been attached to the Third Legion, the Queen's Silver Demons,” Emanon said.

  “Charming name.”

  “They're charming lads, I'm sure. They've had the town under siege for almost a fortnight now. Earthworks and siege weapons. Your kind of stuff.”

  Jirom grunted. “Any luck with the gates?”

  “Not from what I've heard. Omikur's a tough nut to crack. The walls are thirty feet high in most places and at least ten paces thick. The gates are sheathed in iron.”

 
; “How many defenders?”

  “The command is guessing about two thousand.”

  “That means three thousand, at least.”

  “More. My friends tell me there are freed slaves on those walls.”

  “That's why they didn't leave when they had the chance. The foreigners offered the slaves their freedom.” A thought occurred to Jirom. “You aren't planning to sneak inside and join the defense, are you?”

  Emanon laughed and shook his head. “No, I'm not that crazy. I feel for those poor bastards inside, but I'm not suicidal.”

  “So what are we going to do?”

  “Just follow orders for now. And be—”

  “—ready,” Jirom finished for him. “Don't you ever get tired of saying that?”

  Emanon grinned in response. Jirom was about to ask for more details on the secret plan when a boom exploded above their heads and bright green light illuminated the sky. Black clouds formed over the town, despite the fact that the sky had been clear all day. A powerful wind sprung up out of nowhere, showering the camp in sand and the unsettling stench he had come to associate with sorcery.

  Lightning struck several times in succession, most of the jagged green bolts landing inside the city. Horns blared in the gathering night as fires sprung up within the walls. The wind continued to whip over the camp, tugging on blankets and cloaks. Jirom's unit was awake now, every man standing and staring at the pyrotechnic barrage. Jirom thought he should say something, but there were no words for it, only a sense of dread in the pit of his stomach. The storm lasted for the better part of an hour, and then slowly died down, the lightning coming less frequently until it ended altogether. The clouds dissipated to reveal a firmament of twinkling stars. The wind was the last thing to go, taking with it with the reek of black magic.

  Jirom looked around his camp. His men were mumbling to each other, their faces shadowed with worry. He cleared his throat. “Czachur, get a fire going! Minach, you're on watch!”

  The commands snapped some life into the soldiers, and before long most of them were settled on the ground around a growing fire. Jirom wished he had some way to take their minds off what they'd just seen, but he didn't have the heart to assign them any more camp chores.

  Emanon touched his elbow. “Get some sleep. We'll be up early tomorrow.”

  Jirom nodded, though sleep seemed leagues away. He watched the rebel captain leave the same way he had come, over the trench and off into the night. Jirom found his gear and unrolled his trail blanket. Lying on the rough material cushioned by the sand, he gazed up at the night sky. All the constellations were out. If he blocked out the camp sounds, he could almost believe he was somewhere else, perhaps even back home. But then the afterimages of the storm flashed through his head and destroyed the pleasant illusion.

  With a sigh, he closed his eyes and tried to ignore the pain chewing into his lower back.

  Horace shifted to find a better position, but the ache in his shoulder made returning to sleep impossible. With a groan, he kicked off his sheets. He had been dreaming again, something he had come to fear of late. From the bits he remembered, he and Sari had been picnicking at one of their favorite spots, a grassy hill outside Tines overlooking the bay. In the dream, they ate pastries and drank oloi. Neither said anything, but Horace couldn't stop staring at her. Even now, with the dream fading from his mind, her beauty struck him as unearthly. His yearning for her overshadowed the soreness in his arm.

  He sat up as the door opened and bit back a yelp as he wrenched his shoulder in the process. A young serving man entered with a bowl and a tall clay pitcher in hand.

  “Sobhe'tid, Belzama,” the man said. Good morning, Storm Lord.

  Horace plucked at the sling binding his arm to his chest. “Sobhe'tid, Teukomen.”

  The servant opened the shutters, letting in a deluge of morning. Horace declined his offer to assist him in dressing. Once he was alone again, he swung his legs over the side of the low bed. He flexed the fingers of his right hand to get the blood moving and was rewarded with painful tingles under the layers of bandages. The past few days had been a whirlwind. After the attack of the demon-creatures, he had been given alternate accommodations, which Horace didn't mind in the least. He didn't know if he would have ever been comfortable sleeping in that suite again. The queen gifted him with a new home, one of the estates that surrounded the palace. The house was gorgeous, more angular and blocky than an Arnossi manor, but still possessing the clean, solid lines of Eastern architecture. Built entirely of salmon-colored marble, the manor gleamed like mother-of-pearl in the sunlight. He couldn't believe that it now belonged to him. He'd grown up with a small degree of affluence, but his father could never have afforded a manor estate such as this.

  He went to use the water closet outside his new bedroom. Through the small window over the latrine hole, he saw the enclosed garden below. Like many Akeshian homes, this one was built around a central courtyard. Broad green fronds shaded the pavestones around a spraying fountain carved to resemble a great, long-nosed beast he had been told was an elephant. He had a magnificent view of the city over the stone walls. The palace rose above everything only a short distance away. All this luxury—he didn't know how to react to it. Only weeks ago he had been a captive with a collar around his neck. Now, he congregated with lords and a queen.

  It's all because of the magic. Without it, I'd be back in irons before lunchtime.

  The jingle of metal reminded Horace of another gift that had come with the house, one that thrilled him quite a bit less. A soldier in scale armor strode across the courtyard, his head moving from side to side as he patrolled the grounds. Her Majesty had sent him a squad of ten soldiers handpicked from her own bodyguard. They were supposed to belong to him now, along with twenty house slaves including a cook and a horse-master. Horace had wanted to return the slaves and bodyguards until Alyra convinced him it would be a grave insult to the queen. So, he had freed the slaves instead and offered them gainful employment, paid for by the generous stipend he received as First Sword. Alyra seemed to approve.

  As the sentry disappeared into an archway toward the kitchen, Horace finished his business in the water closet. He had not seen the queen in the last two days since taking ownership of the estate, though he'd sought an audience each morning since the attack. Her staff kept him at the estate, and he was still too banged up to protest. But he wanted answers.

  The pitcher on the sideboard held cool water. He poured a measure into the bowl and washed up one-handed. The face that peered back at him from the polished glass mirror over the basin was still bruised, with small cuts around his eyes and across his cheekbones, but otherwise was little the worse for wear. Going to his wardrobe, he settled for a loose robe tied with a sash and a pair of slippers rather than attempting to put on a proper outfit with all the ties and toggles.

  As Horace exited his personal chamber, two soldiers flanking his doorway saluted with a fist over their chests. The taller of them was Pomuthus, the captain of his guard. They followed Horace down the winding staircase to the garden. It was a gorgeous morning. He spent a few minutes enjoying the flowers, which reminded him of the tiny herb garden Sari had planted behind their old townhouse in Tines. It was a good memory, one of many that came to him at the oddest moments. He was able to take pleasure in it without guilt or biting melancholy rushing over him.

  Humming a seaman's chantey, Horace walked past a tree with pendulous orange globes hanging from its branches. He'd never seen such a fruit before coming to Akeshia, but he had come to love the tart juice and meat inside. Using his power, he extended a ribbon of the Imuvar dominion to summon a zephyr. The breeze tugged at one of the low-hanging fruit and pulled it off the branch. He tried to use the power to catch the fruit, but the wind slipped from his mental grasp and the orange orb splattered on the pavestones. With a sigh, he plucked another fruit with his good hand and stopped by the flower beds to pick a long-stemmed lily before going inside.

  In the kitchen,
the cook was working over an array of pots and ovens. Horace procured a tray and a tall cup to hold the flower. He placed the orange fruit on the tray, along with a paring knife and a carafe of juice. The cook brought over a plate of fresh-baked rolls with a shy smile. Beads clacked, and the gardener, Shulgi, entered the kitchen. The man was quite old and stout with a crooked back. Hideous red boils covered his round face. He usually hid under the brim of a wide straw hat, as he did this morning.

  “Sobhe'tid,” Horace said, wanting to put the man at ease.

  The gardener bowed low and rose painfully. “Sobhe'tid, Belzama.”

  As the man shuffled over to the oven for his breakfast, Horace balanced the tray in his good arm and went to find Alyra. Her suite was on the upper floor in what was called “the mistress chamber.” The term had been almost enough to make him blush until Alyra explained that “mistress” didn't carry the same connotation in Akeshia as it did back home. Any female relative was given the title if she was unmarried and living under the same roof as a male.

  A female servant was exiting Alyra's room as Horace reached the landing. She bowed and scurried off but left the door open. He was trying to figure out how he could knock without a free hand when Pomuthus rapped on the doorframe with a firm staccato. Horace nodded his thanks to the man and waited. After a few seconds, her voice carried out to him. “Mannu hi?”

  “It's me,” Horace said. “May I come in?”

  The door opened all the way, and Alyra stood there in a nightgown of peach-colored silk. “Good morning, Horace.”

  “Sobhe'tid, boleta,” he said in greeting.

  “Beleti,” she corrected and stepped aside to allow him to enter.

  “Beleti,” he repeated. “Damn. I thought I had it perfect.”

  “Don't fret. You're getting much better, if one can overlook your accent.”

  He set down the tray on a small mahogany table. “That bad?”

  Alyra scrunched up her face like she's bitten into a sour tart. “Dreadful.”