Blood and Iron: The Book of the Black Earth (Part One) (27 page)

“You may wish to see this, Majesty.”

Mulcibar had left Gilgar's robe open. A symbol was branded over the dead wizard's heart of a circle around some wriggly lines.

The queen bent over the body. “The mark of a secret society?”

“I have only suppositions at this point,” Mulcibar answered.

“I expect answers, my lord,” Byleth said, the steel back in her voice once again.

“Yes, Majesty. I will unravel the truth.”

Horace wanted to sit down. He was exhausted, both body and soul. “What do we do now?”

The queen shaded her eyes with a hand. “Now we go home.”

Horace squinted against the rising sun as a flying ship descended from the sky. A lean man in a black robe stood at the bow railing. That was all Horace could tell until the vessel landed with a soft splash on the river. A gangplank extended from the deck, and the robed man disembarked.

“Lord Astaptah!” Byleth exclaimed as she went to meet him.

Horace found himself pulled along to meet a man who was taller than he had looked from a distance. His complexion was duskier than the typical Akeshian. A long, hawkish nose, bald scalp, and protruding cheekbones lent him a predatory appearance more suited to a bird of prey than a person, an appearance emphasized by his yellowish-brown eyes. They were flat like round pebbles, absorbing the daylight and giving nothing back.

The queen squeezed Horace's arm. “Astaptah, I want to introduce you to
our guest from across the Great Sea. Horace, this is Lord Astaptah, my personal…counselor.”

Horace put out his hand. “I've heard the name mentioned, but I don't think we've met.”

Lord Astaptah gave Horace a measuring glance, and then he looked to the queen. “We should depart with haste. Events conspire at Erugash.”

“Very well,” Byleth said, and she boarded the ship with Lord Astaptah.

Mulcibar limped over. “Do you remember on the night of the storm when I warned you to be wary?”

“I remember you advised me to pick a side.”

The nobleman nodded toward Lord Astaptah's departing figure. “Whichever side you choose, make sure you don't turn your back on that one.”

An avalanche of gravel slid past Jirom's ankles as he lifted the heavy stone onto the pile. Then he stepped away to make room for the next man in line. Today's exercise was moving the Hill, in its entirety, from one side of the camp to the other. The companies took turns hauling rocks and rolling the larger boulders under the blaze of the midday sun.

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 light 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.