Blood and Iron: The Book of the Black Earth (Part One) (8 page)

“It's a long tale.”

Horace leaned back on his elbows and stretched out. “I'm a good listener.”

The big man looked up at the deepening sky. The first stars were out, twinkling like fireflies above the valley. The wind had picked up, strong enough to make the brazier flames flutter. “I was with a mercenary unit out of Maganu, one of the few sane outfits to come out of that Death-loving country. After putting down an uprising in Bylos, we were hired by an expatriated prince of Isuran to take back his city. The enemy was a rival prince with dreams of empire. The sacking took only two days, but that's when the real trouble began. An Akeshian legion showed up on the doorstep. What we didn't know was that our royal employer had received an Akeshian envoy the previous year, and had hung him from the city walls as a testament to his independence. The Akeshii had returned to answer the insult in blood.

“Our employer, of course, demanded our protection….”

As Horace listened to Jirom's tale of battle and deceit, he realized how little he knew about the world. He'd spent his entire life thinking Arnos was the center of civilization, but these past few days he had come to realize that his homeland was just a small piece of a vast puzzle connecting millions of lives. Had he not been shipwrecked, he would have never met this man sitting next to him. “So the Akeshians took the city?”

Jirom nodded as he finished his cup of water. “Aye. They had us outnumbered more than ten to one. At the end I killed our employer for betraying us,
but most of my unit was dead by then. The conquerors gave me a choice: the collar or the stake. I chose to live.”

I chose to live.

The words echoed in Horace's mind. Would he have made the same choice? He couldn't say for sure.

“You and I are survivors,” Jirom said. “Alike in mind, I think.”

“I don't know about that. You're…well, you're the scariest man I ever met. I'm just a sailor.”

“No. I don't know much about you, but I already know you are more than that. You have a strong spirit.”

The big man held out his hand. Horace took it and squeezed firmly.

“Sleep well, Horace-of-Tines.”

“Good night, Jirom of the Zaral.”

Jirom lay down and closed his eyes, but Horace stayed awake for some time, watching the twilight turn to true night. He thought about what Jirom had said about them both being survivors. What was the point of surviving if everyone and everything you loved was taken from you? What awaited him in the future except more of the same, the empty loneliness that corroded his every waking thought and plagued his dreams with visions of the life he'd lost? If he had learned anything from the shipwreck, it was that he no longer feared death. In its place had emerged a new fear, of being alone in this world.

He reclined on the firm ground. Exhaustion from the long day dragged on his thoughts. As he closed his eyes, he said a silent prayer of thanks for another day, and for the new friend he had made.

Dark clouds gathered in the east, like ink smudges marring the horizon. Horace shaded his eyes as he studied the storm front and prayed it wasn't a mirage.

“It feels like we're marching into the ovens of Hell.”

The caravan had left the Valley of Souls before dawn, hastening up the canyon road and onto the desert plain as if in a rush to put the city of the dead behind it. Horace, for one, had been sorry to leave. The necropolis was peaceful and inspiring at the same time. Yet, as the sun pounded the caravan with its merciless rays, the misery drove away thoughts of the tranquil burial ground.

“I would suggest you pray,” Jirom said, beside him. “But even the gods aren't crazy enough to visit here.”

Horace smiled, but he couldn't summon the energy to laugh. He didn't know how much longer he could go on. With each passing mile, the urge to give up and lie down grew more powerful.

“Be strong,” Jirom said, as if he could sense these thoughts. “Focus on the ground in front of you and don't think about the individual steps.”

“You talk like you've done this before.”

“Many times. You have to march to find work when you're a mercenary.”

A warm breeze blew over the caravan as Jirom started a story about another desert he had crossed while soldiering. Horace studied the clouds ahead. At first, he thought it was a trick of the morning light, but now he noticed they were a strange, green hue. They grew darker and taller with the passing minutes, until Horace realized they were coming in this direction. Fast.

A cry went up from the front of the column. Horace couldn't pull his gaze away from the advancing storm. He'd spent most of his life on and around the water. He knew weather, but he'd never seen anything like this. Not since the night the
Bantu Ray
went down and he'd washed ashore here.

The soldiers hurried to surround the wagon. Some took spikes and
hammers from their packs, and others retrieved coils of rope. Working quickly, they threw the ropes over the wagon and spiked both ends to the ground. The drivers rushed to cover the draft animals with tarpaulins.

The slaves dropped to the ground. Horace followed along, but he and Jirom stayed up on their knees to see while the others pressed their faces to the sand. The clouds were still approaching. Every few seconds an emerald glow would highlight their billowing masses. He heard the first thunder boom when the front was still a couple miles away. The strength of it reverberated in his chest. His hands started to shake.

Within minutes the sky was awash in roiling clouds. Sand flew in all directions as the storm smashed into the procession like a tidal wave. At the front of the caravan, the soldiers huddled around the wagon as if to protect its wooden sides with their bodies, but several of them scurried back as the wagon door opened. Lord Isiratu and Lord Ubar climbed down. Horace watched, shading his eyes with both hands, as the two noblemen walked out in front of the procession. Ubar looked nervous, grasping the folds of his long skirt as if forcing his legs to keep from bolting, but Lord Isiratu strode with confidence into the face of the storm.

The two noblemen stopped twenty yards ahead of the lead oxen. Horace's mouth fell open as Lord Isiratu raised his right hand toward the clouds. A tingling warmth suffused Horace's chest directly behind his breastbone. The sensation grew into a stabbing ache as it expanded throughout his body. At the same time, a powerful urge gnawed at the back of his mind, a yearning to lash out, to scream and rage and destroy.

What the Hell is happening to me?

Then a blast of wind slammed into him. Unprepared for its force, Horace tumbled backward in a cloud of stinging, choking sand. He tried to stop his momentum, but he couldn't find purchase in the loose ground. He yelled, knowing there was no one to help him. The urge to hurt something bled into his frustration and fear. Then the coffle chain yanked hard against his collar.

Fighting to keep from being strangled by his collar, Horace could hear chanting through the howling tumult. He managed to get to his knees, but he froze as a solid wall of sand rose from the desert floor. The wall grew into a semicircular rampart curving around Lord Isiratu and Ubar and the front of
the procession. The wind abated for a moment, allowing Horace to catch his breath. Then the wall exploded, crumbling to the ground as if it had been kicked over by a malicious titan. The wind returned in a roaring rush. While his father staggered backward, Lord Ubar made clawing gestures with both hands. An inky fog billowed up from the ground around him, but the storm scattered the mist before it could accomplish anything.

Horace tried crawling back to the huddled slaves. The sand slipped away beneath him, and he felt himself sliding backward. Then a strong grip seized his wrist. Jirom pulled him back into the crowd of cowering slaves. Horace nodded in thanks. The big man smiled back.

Ahead of them, the wagon rocked from side to side and the oxen bellowed. Isiratu and Ubar stood firm against the storm's fury, their clothes fluttering in the wind. Horace gasped through his teeth as the pain in his chest returned. His vision darkened for a moment, and he felt like he was back onboard the
Bantu Ray
, battered by the wind and waves. He shook the memory away, but when his eyesight cleared, everything had changed. The storm clouds overhead had turned midnight black. Emerald bolts of light passed between them, almost too fast to see. It was beautiful and terrifying at the same time. Horace felt the urge to reach up, as if he could touch the swelling clouds. He imagined the tickle of the lightning across his skin, the smell of ozone and moisture entering his lungs with every breath.

He didn't realize he had stood up until he felt the hand tugging his arm. Jirom kept a strong hold on him, but Horace shook his head. The impulse to move—to
do
something—compelled him. He pulled free and rose to his full height. He sensed some sort of connection to the storm, as if the energy flowing through him was reflected in the clouds above, or maybe it was the other way around. He reached up with his fingers spread.

Horace gasped as a blinding light exploded in front of his eyes. Searing agony ripped through his body like he had been dropped into a vat of acid. His muscles writhed, contracting so hard he thought his sinews were going to pull free from his bones. His lungs froze in mid-breath. Yet, through it all, the alien energy continued to pour out of him. Or into him. He didn't understand what was happening. He wanted it all…to…just…

Stop!

Thunder boomed in his ears. The wind disappeared. The wagon settled down, and the whipping sand wafted back to the ground. Horace looked around. The sky was clear once more. The sudden stillness was deafening.

Lord Isiratu was on his knees, his head bowed as if suffering under a gigantic weight. Streaks of blood ran down his face. Ubar stooped beside his father, blood staining several spots on his robe. The soldiers left the cover of the wagon to surround the nobles, helping Isiratu to his feet. Lord Ubar assisted, too, but his gaze was focused on the slave line, staring right at Horace. As the soldiers helped their masters back to the wagon, Horace sat down on the ground. The other slaves backed away from him as far as the chain allowed—even Gaz. They whispered to each other while watching him with wide eyes. Only Jirom seemed unconcerned; he had turned around to face the wagon.

Horace looked down at his hands. The vibrations were gone, the surge of energy departed, but he couldn't forget what it had felt like coursing through him. He'd never experienced anything like it before.
He
had stopped the storm with nothing more than his mind. It was insane, and yet he had no other explanation.

Horace's stomach rolled over as he saw Lord Ubar approaching with four soldiers. Their eyes were fixed on him, and there was no place to hide. He started to get up, but the soldiers raced ahead, drawing swords as they formed a line between him and the young noble.

Ubar pushed past his guardians. Trickles of blood ran down the front of his robe, but he didn't seem hurt beyond that. The young noble pointed to the now-clear sky and said, “
Minat in'azama qatiya? Kima nepalu simmu im?
”

“The storm,” Jirom said. “He wants to know what you did.”

Horace wanted to shout that he didn't know, but he was too tired to fight. He held out his hands, palms up. They looked normal, showing no sign of the power that had flowed through them only minutes ago. Ubar nodded, and then he motioned to one of the soldiers, who put away his weapon and brought out a set of long iron tongs and a hammer. Horace flinched when the soldiers came over to him but held still as he understood what they wanted. In a few moments, his collar came off.

Horace felt his bare neck as the soldiers stepped back. He was free again. Or was he?

Ubar spoke a few more words and gestured to the front of the procession. Then he and two of his bodyguards went back to the wagon. The other two remained with Horace. They put their swords away but otherwise gave every indication of watching over him.

“What happened?” Horace asked.

The chain jangled as Jirom stood up. “You are a free man.”

“But why? What did he say?”

The other slaves were getting up, too, but they kept their distance.

Jirom shrugged his broad shoulders. “They don't know what to do with you. You're a slave and a foreigner, but you also have
zoana
, so you can't be a slave. He wants you to remain with the caravan until Lord Isiratu makes a judgment.”

“What's a zoana? What kind of judgment?”

But the guards had returned, shouting and plying their whips, and the slaves started moving after the wagon again. Jirom gave him a resigned look before following the coffle.

Horace watched the caravan go, not sure what he was supposed to do. If he was truly free, he could leave. Yet he doubted the soldiers were going to let him walk away, free or not, especially with this talk of
zoana
, whatever it was.

With an eye on the horizon, he set off after the procession.

“
Zoana
is black magic.”

Jirom sat across from Horace, chewing on a crust of black bread. The caravan had stopped at a small oasis of palm trees around a burbling spring. The other slaves refused to talk to him. Even Gaz wouldn't look him in the eye.

Horace squinted at Jirom. “What?”

A smile crossed the big man's chapped lips. “The power that our masters wield. They call it
zoana
.”

“And they think that I…”

The idea was so far beyond Horace's existence that he had a hard time crediting it. Magic was the stuff of legends about the elder days when terrible monsters supposedly walked the land. No one believed in such things anymore. Yet these people did, and they believed he possessed it. But he didn't feel any different than before.

No, that's not true. There's something different about me. Something changed during that sandstorm.

Horace tried to recall the storm, hoping to figure out what had happened to him, but it was difficult to see the incident in his mind. Instead, bits and pieces flashed before his eyes, which only added to his confusion.

He looked over at the pavilion erected between the tall trees. Lord Isiratu had been transferred from the wagon to the huge tent. “What made those gouges on Isiratu's face? I've seen it happen before.”

“They get those wounds when they use their sorcery,” Jirom replied.

“Who gets them?”

“People like you who wield the
zoana
. Sorcerers.”

“I'm no god damned magician!”

Jirom leaned close enough that Horace felt his imposing presence. “We all saw what you did. You turned away the storm with your magic. That is why the lords fear you now.”

Horace pondered that for a minute. If they truly feared him, he could use that.

A soldier approached from the direction of the tents. The slaves looked up with apprehension as the trooper stopped in front of Horace and held out a wooden bowl covered with a linen cloth. Horace glanced at Jirom, but the big man sat quietly without giving any clue what this might be. Clearing his throat, Horace took the covered bowl. It was cool, as if it had been kept on ice. As the soldier walked away, Horace pulled away the cloth. Inside were half a dozen small white eggs on a bed of lettuce. His mouth watered at the sight.