Read Online Blood and Iron: The Book of the Black Earth (Part One) by Jon Sprunk - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Jon Sprunk
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from young adult to a couple old enough to be his grandparents. All of them appeared to be Akeshian, or easterners at any rate.
Horace was hauled to the end of the line where a squat man in a leather apron waited. The smith held up an iron collar, open on one side. Horace tried to pull back, but the guards wrestled him to the ground. He bucked and kicked as the cool metal slid around his neck, but the guards didn't relent until the collar had been hammered closed. When they finally released him, he sat up and put his hands to his neck. The collar was thicker than his thumb and heavy. A rivet sealed the opening where it fit together.
The soldiers hauled Horace to his feet and connected him to the back of the line by attaching a heavy chain to his collar. None of the other chained people bothered to look back at him.
Horace was tugging on the chain, testing its strength, when a racket of creaks and clomping hooves announced the arrival of a large wagon pulled by a team of four oxen. The wagon was painted scarlet red with brass accents and tall wheels. Two drivers sat in the front, one holding the reins, and the otheran unstrung bow with a quiver of arrows between his feet. A company of soldiers marched behind the wagon in double file.
A large hand parted the gauzy curtains that covered the wagon's window, and Lord Isiratu peered out. His son and the priest sat inside with him.
Horace shaded his eyes and asked no one in particular, “What's going on?”
One of the guards wheeled around and punched him in the side of his face. Points of light flashed before Horace's eyes as he fell back on the hard ground. Glaring at his attacker, he put a hand to his throbbing cheek. He itched to respond in kind, but the surrounding guards eyed him with obvious anticipation.
Before he could stand back up, a loud bellow erupted from the doorway leading to the dungeon cells. The soldiers in the courtyard drew wooden truncheons from their belts. As they stepped toward the entrance, a large man in armor tumbled out, skidding across the ground in a clatter of metal scales. The soldiers poured into the doorway, and the sound of heavy blows echoed from inside. Horace held his breath as he listened. There was another bellow, almost like a growling animal, and then silence.
Eight soldiers marched out the doorway, wrestling a man out into the courtyard. The prisoner was huge, almost a head taller than any of his captors. Black stubble covered his shaved head. Slabs of muscle bunched under ebony skin. His face was marred by the marks of a recent branding. Blood trickled from a split lower lip.
An officer gestured, and the aproned smith released Horace from the chain. Then they shoved the giant, who was already collared, in front of Horace, and both of them were joined to the coffle line. The big man breathed loud and heavy, as if he was ready to resume the violence. Horace backed away as far as the leash would allow.
The wagon driver flicked the reins and started the vehicle moving, followed by the column of soldiers, out a wide gate to the street. The captives came last. The collar chain compelled Horace to keep up or risk being dragged along. The guards strode up and down the line, urging the captives onward with liberal use of their whips. Being at the tail end of the line, Horace had nowhere to hide. The first few blows caused him to curse, but they were no more painful than slaps, and he learned to ignore them.
Onlookers on the street bowed as the wagon rolled by and then straightened up as it passed to gawk at the rest of the procession. Horace fumed at the looks they gave him, like he was less than human. He squeezed his fists tight until his nails bit into his palms, but the pain took his mind off the humiliation.
The buildings became longer and lower until the procession finally passed under a stone archway that marked the town's limits. The road beyond was wider than the one that had brought Horace to the town, but it was still
Horace was hauled to the end of the line where a squat man in a leather apron waited. The smith held up an iron collar, open on one side. Horace tried to pull back, but the guards wrestled him to the ground. He bucked and kicked as the cool metal slid around his neck, but the guards didn't relent until the collar had been hammered closed. When they finally released him, he sat up and put his hands to his neck. The collar was thicker than his thumb and heavy. A rivet sealed the opening where it fit together.
The soldiers hauled Horace to his feet and connected him to the back of the line by attaching a heavy chain to his collar. None of the other chained people bothered to look back at him.
Horace was tugging on the chain, testing its strength, when a racket of creaks and clomping hooves announced the arrival of a large wagon pulled by a team of four oxen. The wagon was painted scarlet red with brass accents and tall wheels. Two drivers sat in the front, one holding the reins, and the otheran unstrung bow with a quiver of arrows between his feet. A company of soldiers marched behind the wagon in double file.
A large hand parted the gauzy curtains that covered the wagon's window, and Lord Isiratu peered out. His son and the priest sat inside with him.
Horace shaded his eyes and asked no one in particular, “What's going on?”
One of the guards wheeled around and punched him in the side of his face. Points of light flashed before Horace's eyes as he fell back on the hard ground. Glaring at his attacker, he put a hand to his throbbing cheek. He itched to respond in kind, but the surrounding guards eyed him with obvious anticipation.
Before he could stand back up, a loud bellow erupted from the doorway leading to the dungeon cells. The soldiers in the courtyard drew wooden truncheons from their belts. As they stepped toward the entrance, a large man in armor tumbled out, skidding across the ground in a clatter of metal scales. The soldiers poured into the doorway, and the sound of heavy blows echoed from inside. Horace held his breath as he listened. There was another bellow, almost like a growling animal, and then silence.
Eight soldiers marched out the doorway, wrestling a man out into the courtyard. The prisoner was huge, almost a head taller than any of his captors. Black stubble covered his shaved head. Slabs of muscle bunched under ebony skin. His face was marred by the marks of a recent branding. Blood trickled from a split lower lip.
An officer gestured, and the aproned smith released Horace from the chain. Then they shoved the giant, who was already collared, in front of Horace, and both of them were joined to the coffle line. The big man breathed loud and heavy, as if he was ready to resume the violence. Horace backed away as far as the leash would allow.
The wagon driver flicked the reins and started the vehicle moving, followed by the column of soldiers, out a wide gate to the street. The captives came last. The collar chain compelled Horace to keep up or risk being dragged along. The guards strode up and down the line, urging the captives onward with liberal use of their whips. Being at the tail end of the line, Horace had nowhere to hide. The first few blows caused him to curse, but they were no more painful than slaps, and he learned to ignore them.
Onlookers on the street bowed as the wagon rolled by and then straightened up as it passed to gawk at the rest of the procession. Horace fumed at the looks they gave him, like he was less than human. He squeezed his fists tight until his nails bit into his palms, but the pain took his mind off the humiliation.
The buildings became longer and lower until the procession finally passed under a stone archway that marked the town's limits. The road beyond was wider than the one that had brought Horace to the town, but it was still
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