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

“zo-ah-nee” was when a cry echoed through the camp, followed by coarse laughter. On the far side of the slave ring, three guards were standing over a chained woman, one holding her by the hair. The nearest slaves cowered away from the spectacle as far as they could move. While the other guards watched, the woman's captor tore away her thin tunic. Her shrieks filled the air. Horace could guess what was going to come next. He started to get up.
    “No!” Gaz put a hand on his arm. “You must not.”
    “To hell with that.”
    A few slaves looked up as Horace stood, but he saw no camaraderie in their eyes. Only painful acceptance. That made him angrier. He pulled on the chain attached to his collar as he took a long stride toward the disturbance. The guards took notice. The two watching the show advanced toward him, their hands going to the whips at their belts. The third guard leered as he continued to fondle the protesting woman. Horace didn't have a plan, but he wasn't going to sit by while they molested her.
    The first blow caught him across the chin. He ducked under the follow-up, but the next one landed on his shoulder with enough force to make him grunt. Horace tried to lunge at the guards, hoping to knock them down, but the chain jerked him to a stop. He bent under a barrage of whip blows. When one of the guards grabbed him by the neck, Horace lunged and wrapped his arms around the man. They both tumbled to the ground, but the guard punched Horace several times. Bright spots exploded in front of his eyes as the guard lifted his whip.
    A large hand closed around the guard's wrist and hurled him backward. Horace flinched as a whip cracked, but it didn't land on him. The giant had waded into the brawl, throwing punches. Whips cut into his dark skin, but the big man didn't seem to notice as he picked up a guard by the throat and a leg and threw him into the campfire. Blinking to clear his vision, Horace climbed to his knees. He barely saw the boot coming at his face in time to bring up his arms to block it. Then something hard struck him across the shoulder. The breath rushed from his lungs as he pitched forward. A few paces away, the giant bowed under the weight of several soldiers who had joined the fight. Horace covered up his face as the blows continued to fall.
    They beat him savagely and kicked him dozens of times in his ribs and back. Curled up in a tight ball, Horace lost all sense of time. The blows stopped falling, and there was only pain for what felt like hours, and then…nothing.

“You live!”
    Horace cracked his eyelids and winced. The sun was only a couple fingers above the horizon, but already its light was blinding. He started to sit up and groaned as pain erupted all over his body. His entire back felt like one huge bruise.
    “Slow! Go slow. Here.”
    Gaz knelt beside him holding out a cup. Horace accepted it and savored the warm water. Then he laid back and sighed. What had he been thinking last night?
    I wasn't thinking. Just reacting. Again. What's gotten into me?
    Reacting was all that he'd done since the shipwreck. He felt like a dinghy swept up in a hurricane, at the mercy of the winds, and he didn't like the direction they were blowing him. He needed a plan, some star to set his course by.
    “Must not drag attention to self,” Gaz said.
    “Draw,” Horace said, handing the cup back. “Don't draw attention to yourself.”
    “Yes. Hate them in your heart, but not show it. This is best.”
    Horace stretched his sore shoulders, feeling the skin pull taut across his back. The soldiers strode around the camp, packing up to depart. The big slave who had come to his aid last night sat a couple paces away. Several new bruises marred his skin, but otherwise he looked little worse for wear.
    Then Horace turned his head. Several guards were approaching with their whips held ready. Horace braced himself for another onslaught, though he didn't know how he could survive another beating like he'd