Blood and Iron: The Book of the Black Earth (Part One) by Jon Sprunk

bowl to Jirom, who took an egg and plopped it into his mouth with a smile. He also offered some to Gaz and the other slaves, but they turned away as if afraid to be seen conversing with him. Horace shrugged.
    If that's the way you want it.
    While he and Jirom shared the meal under the dimming sky, Horace learned how Jirom had served in several armies before he was captured by the Akeshians, and how he'd fought in the arena. Jirom wasn't so forthcoming about the circumstances that had led to him being attached to this lot of slaves, but after the big man went to sleep, Gaz shuffled over to tell Horace that the brand on Jirom's cheek marked him as a murderer. Such men, Gaz warned, couldn't be trusted, and Horace wondered what the small man said about him behind his back.
    Horace watched the sky. With his collar off and the temperature starting to drop, he could almost pretend he was back home. The breeze rustling through palm leaves could be the roar of the waves. He closed his eyes and tried to conjure images of his wife and son, but his life with them felt like so long ago, like it belonged to someone else and he was watching from the outside.
    Footsteps in the sand brought him back to the real world. Two soldiers came over and motioned for Horace to accompany them. He complied, but slowly, stretching his arms above his head before he followed them. They led him through the camp to a smaller tent staked out beside Lord Isiratu's pavilion. Horace frowned as they indicated he should enter. This tent had been erected for Lord Ubar and was guarded by a cordon of bodyguards. What did the noble's son want with him? Had the judgment been rendered already? Not wanting to be forced, Horace ducked inside.
    Two lamps sat on the tent's floor, which was covered in thick carpet from wall to wall. Stepping on the rugs with his dirty sandals felt felonious, but there was no other option. Horace tried not to track too much sand onto the fine weaves. Lord Ubar sat on a broad cushion. He wore a clean purple coat brocaded with silver thread. His hair had been brushed and oiled. Horace ran a hand across his head and grimaced when his fingers came away covered in a film of sweat and grit.
    Nasir sat beside Lord Ubar, wearing a crimson stole over his robe. Apattern of golden sunbursts was stitched into the silk. Ubar gestured to the floor. “Please. Sit.”
    He had a thick accent, but Horace could understand him fine.
    A slave girl—quite fetching with her black hair held back with jade pins—rushed forward to place a cushion in front of Horace. With a nod to her, he sat down and tried not to notice the cloud of dust that settled around him. “Thank you for the extra food. And for my freedom.”
    Nasir translated this to Ubar, who nodded. Horace caught a few of the words that passed between them as Nasir related the young noble's reply. “It is the law that zoanii cannot be enslaved. Please forgive me, Inganaz , but you are an outlander and possibly a spy.”
    “Inga—?” Horace glanced at Nasir. “What did he say?”
    “ Inganaz . It means ‘He who does not bleed.’ I believe it refers to your lack of immaculata after the storm.”
    “Yes,” Horace said. “About the immaculata, what are—?”
    Lord Ubar resumed talking through the translator. “My father is still recovering from the storm-of-chaos. But when he is well, he will decide your final status. Until then, you will remain free, but under guard.”
    Horace didn't like the sound of “final status,” but he didn't have a chance to inquire further as Lord Ubar launched into a flurry of questions. “Who are the most powerful zoanii in your country? Do they all support the invasion of our land? Is the zoana common in your country? Where were you trained?”
    Horace held up his hand. “Hold on. I don't understand most of what you just asked me.”
    “Please tell us which questions you did not understand.”
    “You can start by explaining the zoanii and zoana . One of the