Read Online Blood and Iron: The Book of the Black Earth (Part One) by Jon Sprunk - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Jon Sprunk
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hard-packed dirt. The river ran alongside the highway, its brown waters rippled with a gentle current.
Where were they taking him? He had expected an execution, maybe with some kind of trial before a magistrate, but not another journey. And Lord Isiratu was coming with them, so it must be someplace important.
Horace studied the big man in front of him. From the powerful muscles moving under his dark skin, he looked strong enough to haul Isiratu's wagon all by himself. Long scars crisscrossed his shoulders and down his back. Many of them were old and gray, almost blending into his skin, but a few showed the stark whiteness of being new. Horace felt the dimpled surfaces of his palms. He knew the impact that scars could have. What was this man's story? He clearly wasn't Akeshian. Horace had heard of dark-skinned peoples who lived on the southern continent, but he'd always assumed they were myths.
I thought the stories about warlocks and sorcery were myths, too.
Judging by the sun's low position in the sky, shining right into his eyes, the time was approaching midmorning. They were traveling east again, the opposite direction Horace wanted to go. He longed to see the ocean. He imagined the smell of the sea air and the sound of the waves hitting the beach. And he would have welcomed an ocean breeze now. His simple clothes were lightweight, but he still sweated profusely. Every time he reached up to wipe his forehead, his hand hit the chain running from his collar and he got angry all over again.
To take his mind off of his situation, Horace tried talking to the big man. He waited until the guards were bunched up near the front of the line and pitched his voice low. “Hey. Can you understand me?”
The giant didn't respond, but the pair of men chained in front of him looked back. The one on the left was about Horace's height with a long, hawkish nose; the other was short and spindly with a bald head. Horace had a hard time guessing his age, but by the lines on his face, he had to be at least forty.
The bald man started to reply, until a violent blow caught him across the side of the head. The guard drew back his arm for another whack as the little man howled and held his bleeding face. A surge of anger overcame Horace. Before he could think it through, he ran forward and pushed in front of the victim. The whip cut into his raised forearm. Horace had never been much of a fighter, even as a child, but the sharp pain drove him to lash out. His fist connected with the guard's forehead, which was—unfortunately—protected by the low visor of his helmet. Horace recoiled from the burst of new pain across his knuckles, but the guard kicked his legs out from under him and put him on his back. Horace threw his arms over his head as the short whip beat up and down his body. He tried to roll away from the blows, but the neck chain kept him from going very far.
When the beating finally ended, Horace breathed heavily through a bloody nose. His arms and legs were covered with painful welts. The guard standing over him shouted a command, and he crawled to his knees. All the furious energy had drained from his body, leaving him listless and weak. He started to get a foot under him when a large hand reached down. Horace took it and was lifted to his feet. The dark-skinned man looked even more formidable up close.
Horace extricated his hand from the big man's grasp. “Uh, thank you.”
The giant turned around without speaking. The guard glowered at them both but kept his whip by his side, and the line resumed its march.
Hours rolled by as they trudged under the blazing sky. The tracts of farmland gave way to arid plains covered with dusty earth and scrub grass. A clump of low hills arose against the haze of the northern horizon. The river twisted away southward until its bends were lost from sight. The road kept running due east as far as Horace could tell, deeper into the wastes.
Lord Isiratu's procession traveled through the midday
Where were they taking him? He had expected an execution, maybe with some kind of trial before a magistrate, but not another journey. And Lord Isiratu was coming with them, so it must be someplace important.
Horace studied the big man in front of him. From the powerful muscles moving under his dark skin, he looked strong enough to haul Isiratu's wagon all by himself. Long scars crisscrossed his shoulders and down his back. Many of them were old and gray, almost blending into his skin, but a few showed the stark whiteness of being new. Horace felt the dimpled surfaces of his palms. He knew the impact that scars could have. What was this man's story? He clearly wasn't Akeshian. Horace had heard of dark-skinned peoples who lived on the southern continent, but he'd always assumed they were myths.
I thought the stories about warlocks and sorcery were myths, too.
Judging by the sun's low position in the sky, shining right into his eyes, the time was approaching midmorning. They were traveling east again, the opposite direction Horace wanted to go. He longed to see the ocean. He imagined the smell of the sea air and the sound of the waves hitting the beach. And he would have welcomed an ocean breeze now. His simple clothes were lightweight, but he still sweated profusely. Every time he reached up to wipe his forehead, his hand hit the chain running from his collar and he got angry all over again.
To take his mind off of his situation, Horace tried talking to the big man. He waited until the guards were bunched up near the front of the line and pitched his voice low. “Hey. Can you understand me?”
The giant didn't respond, but the pair of men chained in front of him looked back. The one on the left was about Horace's height with a long, hawkish nose; the other was short and spindly with a bald head. Horace had a hard time guessing his age, but by the lines on his face, he had to be at least forty.
The bald man started to reply, until a violent blow caught him across the side of the head. The guard drew back his arm for another whack as the little man howled and held his bleeding face. A surge of anger overcame Horace. Before he could think it through, he ran forward and pushed in front of the victim. The whip cut into his raised forearm. Horace had never been much of a fighter, even as a child, but the sharp pain drove him to lash out. His fist connected with the guard's forehead, which was—unfortunately—protected by the low visor of his helmet. Horace recoiled from the burst of new pain across his knuckles, but the guard kicked his legs out from under him and put him on his back. Horace threw his arms over his head as the short whip beat up and down his body. He tried to roll away from the blows, but the neck chain kept him from going very far.
When the beating finally ended, Horace breathed heavily through a bloody nose. His arms and legs were covered with painful welts. The guard standing over him shouted a command, and he crawled to his knees. All the furious energy had drained from his body, leaving him listless and weak. He started to get a foot under him when a large hand reached down. Horace took it and was lifted to his feet. The dark-skinned man looked even more formidable up close.
Horace extricated his hand from the big man's grasp. “Uh, thank you.”
The giant turned around without speaking. The guard glowered at them both but kept his whip by his side, and the line resumed its march.
Hours rolled by as they trudged under the blazing sky. The tracts of farmland gave way to arid plains covered with dusty earth and scrub grass. A clump of low hills arose against the haze of the northern horizon. The river twisted away southward until its bends were lost from sight. The road kept running due east as far as Horace could tell, deeper into the wastes.
Lord Isiratu's procession traveled through the midday
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