by Jon Sprunk
Jirom braced himself. “What's that, Captain?”
“What happens when the war is won?”
Jirom pushed back his seat and stood up. Longar and Three Moons watched him but didn't move. Emanon stood as well.
“When we win this war,” Jirom said, “every slave in this empire will be freed. Every king and queen of Akeshia will come in person to bow at our feet. And you, Captain, will collect the biggest bonus in history.”
Captain Ovar climbed to his feet. “Well, then, gentlemen. I believe we have a deal. When do we march out?”
Emanon took a long drink from his cup and slammed it down. “Why wait?”
Ismail glanced over as Yadz dropped his shovel and kicked it across the ground. “This is bullshit! Why the hell are we even doing this?”
“Because those are our orders?” Kasha answered from the hip-deep trench he'd been digging for the past hour. The ditch bent at a right angle near the middle for no reason.
Ismail went back to work. His ears, however, remained open as he listened to the others complain.
Yadz snatched up his canteen. After a long, gulping pull, he let out a deep groan. “I'm so sick of all this marching and digging shit. Why can't we go into town, too? I'd like to see the sights. Maybe find a girl to tickle. Or have something better to drink than dirty water.”
Kasha straightened up. “Yeah, Corporal. Why can't we? I could go for a tall drink in a cool saloon.”
Corporal Idris raised his voice as some of the other troopers chimed in. “Quiet down! You're not going because the captain don't want you mucking things up. So shut up and keep digging. Yadz, I swear if you don't have that trench dug by nightfall I'm going to bury you in it.”
Those words compelled Ismail to dig with renewed conviction. The corporal was big and mean and covered in scars. Ismail had whip scars of his own, but the corporal had knife wounds and punctures and one long gray slash down the side of his face that crumpled his cheek into a permanent crater. The corporal didn't talk about that one, but the other men said he'd gotten it at Omikur. Ismail had heard a whole lot about that battle. Enough to make him damned glad he hadn't been there. The survivors walked differently than everybody else. They looked different, too. There was something in their eyes, like they'd been to the other side of the grave and Death had sent them back. Still, Ismail couldn't help but agree with Yadz. He'd only been with these rebels a few days, and already he was tired of marching and digging trenches, too.
He had been born a slave on a large plantation east of Nisus, where he'd worked in the fields until he was full-grown. He fell in love with another slave, Peira, and in defiance of the rules they lived together as husband and wife in secret. When Peira got pregnant, their master sold Ismail to the army. As he was put in chains and loaded onto a wagon, Ismail had looked back at his wife, heavy with their child, sobbing on her mother's shoulder.
He'd been on his way to the training camps when the rebels struck their caravan. At first he thought they were just bandits, hardly more than fifty of them wearing scraps of mismatched armor and no uniforms. Of course, he'd heard of the slave rebellion. Stories of their exploits passed among the plantations from slave to slave. In his imagination they had been a vast horde of angry faces eager to spill blood. The reality was sobering. Still, they fought like evil spirits. When they had given him the choice of either walking away or joining them, he agreed without hesitation. At last, to be free.
But freedom was a strange thing. Before his rescue, he'd only known it as an idea, as distant from his reality as the moon above the earth. Now that he possessed it, he felt almost drunk with the possibilities, and also more than a little terrified. The world suddenly seemed so much bigger than it had before, able to swallow up a man if he wasn't careful.
He'd thought the rebels were going to ride off to another country with the gold they'd stolen. He wasn't exactly pleased when he found out they were heading deeper into the desert. Apparently, this unit had some kind of hideout among the dunes and cacti. That's when the doubts had started creeping into his head. This was a mistake. But I'm stuck again, just as much a slave as when I was wearing a collar.
He looked over at the town, half a mile from their campsite. It wasn't much. Just a clump of buildings along a dusty desert road. He didn't know how they survived out here. He didn't see any fields, just barren ground as hard as clay and too dry to support anything but scrub grass and pricker-bushes. What did the people eat? Rocks?
An hour later, his trench was dug to the corporal's satisfaction, and Ismail lay down inside, hands resting across his stomach, waiting for the mess call. The sun's rays couldn't reach him at the bottom of the hole, and tonight promised to be as cold as last night. From beyond the confines of his little nook, Corporal Idris was threatening Yadz with physical violence, but it seemed distant, like the yelling was coming from miles away. Ismail was tempted to close his eyes and complete the feeling of seclusion, but a thought had lodged in the back of his mind and refused to leave him in peace.
Sitting up, he peeked over the top of his trench in the direction of the town again. So close, and yet it seemed like another world. He'd never get there without being seen, at least not until nightfall. And if he was caught leaving, he'd have to face the corporal's wrath. Maybe the sergeant's, too.
And don't even think about the lieutenant. He's the biggest, meanest one of them all, with that big red sword and mountains of muscles. He looks like he could twist off a man's head if he got the notion. If half the stories they tell about him are true, then he's done a lot worse than that. No, sir. I'll just stay nice and comfy in my little—
“Greetings, brother.”
Ismail jumped back as a rebel from another squad knelt beside his trench. He was a small man with a delicate face, almost feminine. His skin looked gold in the waning sunlight. He wore the same sand-colored garb as the other veterans, though his clothes were cleaner than most and well mended.
The rebel touched his chest. “I am Seng. One of Sergeant Mahir's scouts. You are thinking about the village there, yes?”
Ismail shook his head. “No, not at all. I was just watching for danger, you know? Never know when danger will appear right in front of your nose.”
“There is no need to obfuscate, brother. I, too, would like to see what lies within. Alas, our commanders have not sanctioned it. What are we to do?”
“Not much, I suppose. It ain't worth getting our heads thumped by the corporal.”
“Yes, dereliction of duty is a heinous thing.” Seng leaned down a little closer and lowered his voice. “But surely a little look around would not harm anyone, eh?”
“Sure. Just stretch the legs and have a little peek. But how do we—?”
“Leave that to me, brother.”
Seng got up and walked over to Mahir, the sergeant in charge of the scouts. They talked for a few minutes, until Ismail began to get nervous. Then Seng headed back toward him.
“The matter is taken care of,” Seng said.
“What do you mean, taken care of?”
“I asked my commander to consider you as a recruit for the scouts. He has graciously authorized me to take you on a short training operation this evening.”
“What training operation? Oh! You mean—”
“Yes, brother. We are free to reconnoiter the town.”
Ismail suspected he was being pranked, but the small man seemed genuine. “Really?”
“It is a certainty, brother. Shall we go?”
He didn't wait to be asked twice. Leaving his shovel and field kit behind, he scrambled out of the hole. Then, on second thought, he reached down to fish out his sword and buckled the belt around his waist.
“I do not believe we will need that,” Seng said, indicating the weapon.
“Better to have it and not need it, right?”
“As you wish.”
Seng led the way past the maze of trenches to the outer pickets where bored sentries amused themselves by tossing stones out in
to the scrub. The small scout nodded to the nearest watchmen, and they nodded back. And just like that he and Ismail left the camp.
Ismail kept looking over his shoulder, fully expecting to hear shouts of alarm, but everything remained quiet. He spent so much time looking back he almost lost Seng in the gathering twilight. The small man's clothing blended seamlessly with the landscape. Ismail spotted a hint of movement, and quickly followed it until he saw the back of Seng's head in front of him. He kept close thereafter.
Seng was amazing. Not just good at melting into the terrain; he also moved as quiet as a field mouse. Ismail tried to emulate him, but his efforts weren't so graceful. His every footfall sounded like a stomping wildebeest in comparison. He lost count of how many times he tripped over a rock or brush root. Through it all, Seng remained patient, as if this really was some kind of training exercise. As the minutes passed, Ismail found himself taking it more and more seriously, going as far as trying to walk in the scout's footsteps. Suddenly, Seng stopped, and Ismail almost ran into him. The sun had sunk behind the western plains, leaving the sky streaked in shades of blue and purple.
Seng pulled him down into a crouch.
“What's wrong?” he asked in a hushed whisper.
The scout pointed to a cluster of flat roofs. They had reached the town already. Lights shone in several windows, looking awfully inviting to Ismail. He thought back to his old master's plantation and his wife.
As they watched, a small party of men left the town. Squinting, Ismail realized it was the captain's gang, heading back to camp. He felt a sudden urge to race back to his trench.
“Be calm,” Seng whispered.
Then he pressed something into Ismail's hand. It was small pouch. Inside he felt the unmistakable discs of money. It felt like a tidy sum. Certainly more than he'd ever held before. “What's this?”
“You are not happy joining the insurrection, yes?”
Was this part of the test? “‘Course I am. I don't want to be a slave no more.”
“No need to be slave or soldier. Take the money and find a new life.”
Ismail looked down at the pouch. All at once, a tremendous weight settled in his chest. No one had ever given him such a personal gift. No one except Peira. “I…I can't, okay? The captain freed me. I don't know how, but I got to pay him back. And I want to fight. I do! It's just…no one's ever looked out for me before. You know?”
A soft hand touched his shoulder. “We walk a difficult path, brother. No one would blame if you wished to depart.”
“Thanks. I just wish I knew what the captain was planning. Then maybe it would set things right in my head.”
The sounds of crunching boot steps and jingling gear caught his ear. A few seconds later, a second group of men left the town. Six dozen or maybe more. They carried lanterns as they trod in loose rows, and by their light Ismail could see the gleam of weapons and armor, shields and helms. No uniforms though. Mercenaries by the look of them. But why are they heading toward the camp?
“I believe,” Seng whispered, “the captain has found a use for the gold shipment.”
Ismail imagined how that would change things. Holy Mother Kishar, we just doubled our numbers. Even if they ain't worth a damn in a fight, we might scare the masters to death showing up with such an army.
He handed the pouch back. “Here, keep the money. I'm staying for now. With these new recruits, things are going to get easier. I'm sure of it.”
Seng tucked the money into his sand-colored tunic. “As you say, brother. Shall we investigate this hamlet?”
“Nah. I'm for heading back. I want a better look at those mercs.”
“As you say, brother.”
Leaning on the rail of the royal pleasure barge, Horace stared across the river. Gentle breezes created ripples across its silty brown waters. Long-legged ibises strutted along the shore hunting for fish. Dragonflies as long as his hand flittered above the forest of reeds and water blossoms.
The river's power brushed against the bottom of the boat, sluggish yet powerful. That quiet strength reminded him of the dream he'd been dreaming just before the attack. He'd been flying above the earth in the midst of a chaos storm, immune to the mundane problems of the people below. He couldn't get it out of his head.
Yet now he was back in his own body, surrounded by his troubles. The last two days had passed slowly as they traveled along the river. Not that the barge was a poor mode of travel. On the contrary, it was a grand vessel. Almost two hundred feet long with graceful lines, it was propelled through the river by forty oarsmen in the ship's waist. All slaves, unfortunately, but Horace tried not to think about that. Some other time, he might have enjoyed this trip, with the smells and the sounds of water all around him. Yet the attack had left him feeling edgy and tense, as if an invisible noose were slowly tightening around his neck. Lord Mulcibar, before his disappearance, had told him that Akeshian politics were a cutthroat business. Horace only wished the old man was still here to advise him. Lord knows I could use some advice these days.
The queen's command that he crush the slave rebellion was paramount in his thoughts. He didn't know if he could do it, not the way she wanted. He needed to find a way to make her see they were people. Better yet, he wished he could convince her to free them all. That was the crux of her problem, but she would never accept it. Nor would the nobles or the merchants or the owners of the vast farms outside Erugash. Their entire way of life relied upon the existence of slaves. How could one man change an entire society? It was impossible. Yet if he couldn't, then he feared he would lose Alyra forever. Just a short while ago, he'd thought they were meant to be together, a second chance at love.
Maybe we're too different to make it work. We want different things, although most of the time I can't understand what she truly wants. For me to leave the court and abandon this new life I've made? Then what? She can't believe the queen, or any of the empire's rulers, would just let me walk away. Without the queen's protection, we'd be swamped under endless waves of assassins. And now, with my powers proving unpredictable, how long before one of those attempts succeeds?
He pressed his temples with the heels of both hands, wishing he could squeeze away his stress.
“By the gods, I'm ready to be off this boat.”
Horace glanced over at Lord Ubar, who had come to join him at the larboard railing. A bandage was wrapped around his forehead. The young nobleman had not had a relaxing voyage, spending most of his time in his bunk belowdecks or leaning over the sides, throwing back up what little food he could get down. His copper skin had taken on a greenish tinge. Though Horace thought the weather was pleasant, Lord Ubar looked like he was freezing, wrapped up in a long cloak with a fur collar.
“It shouldn't be long now,” Horace replied.
“Does the Typhon call to you?”
Horace gazed back down into the murky waters. He considered telling Ubar about his failure to control his zoana during the attack on the villa, and how he'd been too afraid to attempt summoning the power ever since. No, I don't think you want to hear that. Much better to continue to see me as your secret weapon, defender of your queen and city. Better, that is, until I fail at the wrong time and someone pays for it with their life. You're a good man, Ubar, but you don't have the answers I need. And I'm starting to doubt anyone does.
“I don't see anything except water and silt,” he lied.
Ubar nodded toward the rear of the vessel. “I suppose you must be eager to be away from these siku masaku, too. Eh?”
“Siku masu…?”
“It means a tight place.”
“Ah, close quarters. Yes, I am.”
He looked past the noble to the pavilion set up on the aft deck. Brass poles held aloft a sheet of purple silk to shade Her Majesty and a few others, sitting in chairs and couches as they sipped chilled wine from golden cups. To Horace, it looked like a scene out of a painting about the decadence of the old world. The queen sat amid her courtiers, laughing and gesturing a
s if she were having the time of her life instead of running from the latest attempt to end her existence. They had spoken only briefly since leaving the villa. The queen had insulated herself within a cocoon of bodyguards and sycophants—scions from the noble houses of Erugash. He got the feeling she blamed him for the attack and wondered if she was waiting for him to fall on his sword.
Not me, Your Excellence. If you want me dead, you'll have to do it the old-fashioned way. Although I doubt you'd do it yourself. Am I going to wake up some night to find Xantu standing over me? Perhaps I should hire some additional guards for the house.
Looking around, Horace noticed the person absent from the deck. Although he didn't know for sure what was behind the queen's diffidence, it didn't bother him nearly as much as Alyra's behavior. Since the attack, she had gone out of her way to avoid him, too. Without the queen's ability to keep him at bay with a wall of soldiers and zoanii, Alyra simply disappeared whenever he tried to speak with her, which was an impressive feat on a ship. After a few tries to find out what was wrong with her, he'd stopped altogether and spent the majority of the voyage alone, eating or reading by himself, and watching the scenery pass by. Like Ubar, he was ready to make landfall, if only to escape the pervasive tension that hung over the barge. “I'm just wondering if it's ever going to end.”
When Ubar patted his stomach and made a face in sympathy, Horace pushed back from the rail. “Not the trip. I mean the assassination attempts. The feeling I get whenever I walk into a dark room that there's someone waiting to kill me. Things were bad before, but it seems worse now. I'm hardly sleeping. I worry that the food has been poisoned.”
“Life is a one continuous race we will never win. We can only persevere to the finish.”
“Another nugget of wisdom from your dead philosopher?”
Ubar smiled and shrugged. “I had excellent tutors.”
“We're all going to die anyway, so why worry about it?”
“Something like that.”
“That's the worst advice I ever heard.”
