The steel crescent sliced through the air in an elegant arc. Blood spurted onto the ground behind the rolling head. Two hundred men stood as silent witnesses, watching the execution of one of their own.

Jirom had seen beheadings before. Most had been messier. He'd never forget the deserter in Gallean. It had taken the headsman six cuts with his axe to finally chop through the ex-soldier's thick neck. Later, he'd heard that someone had bribed the executioner to use a dull blade. Today was a different story. The camp commander, Kapikul Hazael, had kept his blade sharp. Jirom admired the sword—a two-handed assurana blade with a long, almost delicate, curve. Assurana swords were rare. Passed down from father to son in the oldest Akeshii families, they were said to be unbreakable.

A slave ran forward to wipe the blade, but even after it had been cleaned, it held a scarlet tint Jirom had never seen in steel, as if the metal had absorbed the victim's blood. When the kapikul slid it back into its sheath, it was like watching poetry.

But not for that grunt.

The corpse strapped across the chopping block had been one of them, a new slave recruit training in the queen's army. A dog-soldier, they were called. The lowest rung of the Akeshian military machine. The dead man's crime was being caught stealing food from the officers’ dining hall. In some of the armies Jirom had served with, that meant a few lashes. Here it meant death in front of your comrades. A whistle sounded, and the company fell out. A few soldiers were assigned to untying the corpse and dragging it to the caves to be buried, while the rest, including Jirom, were sent to the Hill as their part of the punishment. Apparently, execution wasn't considered enough of a deterrent to theft.

As he ran across the dusty parade ground, Jirom hoped for a breeze to lessen the brutal heat, but there was none to be found. He ran a hand over the smooth curve of his scalp. At least he'd been able to shave his head when he arrived, but that was about the only good thing. When he first learned of his reassignment to the army, Jirom had welcomed it. He'd served in enough military camps to be confident in his chances for escape. He had started planning how he could get inside the city and find Horace. The younger man had made an impression on him. All during the long trek through the desert, Horace had refused to submit to their captors, no matter how much they tormented him. And what had happened during the storm…Jirom had never seen such courage. Akeshian storms could break the strongest of men, but Horace had faced it on his feet. Not only that, he had defeated it. At that moment Jirom had known this was a special man, what his people called an askari'muhagin. Chosen of the gods.

If a man like that could walk in chains, unbroken, then Jirom, son of the Muhabbi Clan, could do no less. And it had nothing to do with the fact that Horace's light eyes, the color of tropical seas, often visited him in his dreams. He'd spent his entire life running from his feelings about men, but this was something more than physical attraction.

Yet Jirom's plans to find Horace and escape together into the wilds of the desert crumbled when he had arrived at the camp. It was built at the bottom of a round canyon about a mile from the walls of Erugash. Hundred-foot cliffs surrounded the complex. Sentries peered down from the towers built atop the bluffs. It hadn't taken Jirom long to realize the camp wasn't a training facility; it was a death sentence. He'd seen more men die on his first day than in a week fighting in the arena. They died from beatings by the guards, from the brutal regimen of combat exercises that lasted for hours without rest or water breaks, and from each other. There had been six stabbings in his company barracks last night. Jirom had slept sitting up with his back to a wall.

He peered over his shoulder to the execution block. The kapikul was striding away with his retinue of slaves and personal bodyguards, probably back to the cool shelter of his quarters. Jirom glanced at the body being carried away. A sorrowful end to a pitiful life.

Why do you care? You didn't even know his name.

They arrived at the Hill, a steep mound of stones ranging in size from fist-size chunks to boulders as large as draft horses. The guards shoved them into a line along the foot of the Hill. As always, a couple men balked and were beaten down under a crowd of batons. Jirom never tried to resist. Life in the camp was hard enough without calling attention to yourself, but that wasn't always easy. As one of the biggest men in his company, he was a natural target. Most of the other dog-soldiers stayed clear of him, but he saw them watching him, waiting for him to make a mistake.

The whistle cried out again, and the company began to climb. Jirom leapt up the incline. Sharp points of rock stabbed through the soles of his sandals as he scrambled higher. Every day they were forced to climb the Hill. This was the second time today, and the muscles in his thighs and lower back started cramping before he got halfway up, but he kept churning his legs.

He was the first one to the top. As he balanced on the craggy summit, Jirom looked down at the men climbing toward him. The first to reach him was a pale-skinned northerner with a shaggy brown beard. He grabbed for Jirom's left foot and earned a kick in the face. The northerner flailed for balance, but the rocks shifted under his feet and sent him spilling down the slope in a shower of stones. Jirom winced as he heard the crack of a snapping bone, and watched the northerner clutch his leg as he slid down the rest of the way to the bottom.

The point of the Hill was simple. Whoever stayed on the top the longest was the winner, and only he was guaranteed to eat that night. The rest would have to fight over the slops and scraps from the guards’ dinner. Jirom needed that food. Food was life, and as long as he was alive there was a chance for freedom.

Not every man made it to the top. The Hill was treacherous, and many fell down its slopes with broken bones and gashed flesh. Others got involved in scuffles on the way up as they pushed and grappled to get higher. Those who got to the last few steps found Jirom ready to defend his perch. He threw them back down again, though he tried not to be too rough. These men were trapped in the same circumstance as he was, forced to work and grovel under constant threat of death. The worst part was, he didn't see the logic in it. A training camp was supposed to be a place where new recruits were conditioned for battle by building up their bodies and learning how to fight as a unit. Here everything was backward, and the men were lucky just to survive.

Was that the point? To winnow out everyone but the very strongest, the most brutal? How could an army exist under those conditions?

Jirom fought for what seemed like hours. Many of the dog-soldiers were little more than boys, which was the case with most of the armies he'd served in. Throwing them off the mound made Jirom feel sick, but he did it anyway. Finally, the whistle blew again. The men remaining on the Hill started back down. Jirom sat at the top, his chest heaving, his arms and legs throbbing. His back was a solid mass of knots. He might barely be able to walk tomorrow, and yet he would be forced to run and climb and fight, or else he'd join the bodies sealed up in the caves. The cries of the dying reached up to him as the guards put the injured out of their misery—there was no infirmary in the camp. A squad of raw recruits dragged away the dead.

Finally, a guard on killing duty noticed Jirom and pointed a bloody dirk at him. Jirom's knees crackled as he lumbered to his feet and began the long slide down. The same guard made as if to reach for the baton swinging from his belt, but turned away instead. Not wanting to press his luck, Jirom jogged to the parade ground. Most of the company had already disappeared inside the mess tent, but a few still struggled to cross the distance because of their injuries. Jirom could see the panic in their eyes as they glanced back at the guards killing the wounded. A young man, no more than eighteen or nineteen summers judging by the wisps of fuzz on his chin, hobbled on a bad foot. Against his better judgment, Jirom slipped his arm under the youth's shoulder. Acts of kindness were discouraged by the guards, who often singled out the do-gooder for an especially cruel beating, so most of the dog-soldiers kept to themselves.

“Thank you,” the young man whispered as they reached the open entrance of the tent. He had the coppery complexion and straight, dark hair of an Akeshii, but his accent hinted at something more eastern. Perhaps Moldray or one of the Jade Kingdoms. He had beautiful eyes, deep black like cheetah spots.

Jirom slipped his arm out of the embrace. “It was nothing. Can you make it from here?”

“I'll be fine.”

The young man limped inside. The men in Jirom's company found places to sit at the long tables. There they would wait until the officers and guards had eaten. Jirom went to the lone table at the head of the tent. If there was a drawback to winning on the Hill, it was that he had to enjoy his prize in front of the others. While they watched with hungry eyes, a cook brought over a platter and dropped it in front of Jirom. The smell of roasted meat filled his head like nectar, reminding him that he hadn't eaten since breakfast.

“To the victor!” the cook said with a laugh and then tromped off.

The cut of meat wasn't the best, probably a slice off the rump, but it looked like a feast to Jirom, pinkish-brown and oozing juices. He dug right in, using both hands to hold the roast while he tore off chunks with his teeth. The first time he'd won the Hill, he had felt odd eating in front of so many hungry men, but today he devoured it without pause. None of the others would think twice if they'd won.

He was so enjoying the meal he didn't notice someone walking up to him. All Jirom saw was a body. Then a huge hand snatched the meat out of his grasp. The giant of a man standing before his table was nearly seven feet tall and had to weigh at least thirty stone. His small, greedy eyes stared at Jirom as he bit off half the meat haunch in a single bite and started chewing. Jirom had seen this man around the camp. He was in a different company, but he seemed to be allowed to wander about as he wished, and the other dog-soldiers cowered wherever he went. This was the first time Jirom had seen him up close, and he had to admit it was an impressive sight. But that was his food the giant was eating. His food and his respect.

“Put it down,” he whispered. “And walk away.”

The huge man smiled with brown juice running down his chin. “This is my camp, runt. First I'm gonna eat your dinner. And then I'm gonna take you out back and fuck y—”

Jirom shoved hard against the table with both hands and drove the wooden edge into the giant's belly. As the big man staggered back, Jirom leapt to his feet and lashed out with his right fist. His knuckles cracked against the underside of the man's jaw, rocking his head back. The giant wobbled a moment before righting himself. It was like watching a water buffalo try to maneuver—huge and ungainly and liable to crush anything in its path. With a growl, the giant swung a roundhouse punch. Jirom covered his head, but the buffet knocked him to the floor anyway. Ears ringing, he shook his head.

All conversation in the mess tent had ceased. The giant grinned and took another bite of the victory meal. Jirom considered letting it go.

No, to the hells with that.

He kicked out, and his heel made a satisfying crunch as it connected with a kneecap. The giant grunted and tipped sideways. Jirom shot to his feet, ignoring the pain tearing down his lower back, and landed two solid punches before his assailant could react. The giant looked stunned but not seriously hurt. Then his eyes narrowed to thin slits and his massive shoulders hunched. Huge hands gripped Jirom by the neck and squeezed. Jirom pounded on trunk-like forearms to loosen their grip, but without any success. He kicked at the injured knee, only to have his boot bounce off without eliciting a response.

Unable to breathe, Jirom heaved with his entire body. He managed to stand the giant up a little taller, but he didn't have the leverage to lift the bigger man. Feeling consciousness slipping away, he summoned all his strength in a last-ditch effort. Instead of trying to outmuscle the giant, Jirom stepped back with his right foot and twisted in that direction. The sudden change in momentum caused the other man to stumble forward and fall to the floor with a resounding crash. Jirom followed up by dropping all his weight on top of his fallen rival. He was grinding his elbow into the man's throat when the assembly horn sounded. Everyone jumped up and hustled out to the yard. Everyone except Jirom and his foe.

Jirom glanced at the man beneath him, his blood coursing with the rush of violence. The feeling took him back to his days in the arena. He looked over and spotted the dust-covered remains of his meal on the floor. He could still taste the juices on his tongue.

I'll just have to win another one tomorrow.

He rolled off the giant and went to the doorway, feeling every ache in his body. He took his place in the fourth row of the formation. The positions were based on seniority, how long you had survived in the camp, but the guards evidently had some discretion because they moved men around daily. The benefits were tangible: the top squad was treated the best and were often allowed to skip grueling exercises like the Hill. Even better in his eyes, every sennight the first squad of each company graduated from the camp to join the queen's legions.

Jirom stood still as the guards checked the columns, which took almost half an hour. Anyone who grumbled received a baton to the back of the head. The entire camp was assembling on the parade ground. Full-camp reviews such as this were done every morning at first light and every night before the men turned in. This was a change in the routine. Was it another execution?

“Hey,” the man next to Jirom whispered. He was short but thick-chested and covered in rust-red hair. “You better watch yourself.”

Jirom clenched his right hand into a fist. “Why is that?”

The man jerked his chin back toward the mess tent. “What you did in there. Algo has friends among the guards. You better sleep with your eyes open.”

“If he has so many friends, why hasn't he been picked to leave yet?”

The man leaned closer and dropped his voice. “’Cause he likes it here. And the guards hold him back.”

“Why do you care what happens to me?”

The man shrugged. “Who says I do? Look, I saw you help that kid with the busted foot. Not too many people would do that here. So maybe I'm helping you with some advice.”

“All right. I'll be careful.”

A baton smashed into Jirom's shoulder.

“Shut your mouth, you black dog!” a guard shouted in his ear. “You don't talk in formation or I'll have your tongue!”

Jirom swallowed his ire until the guard marched away to harass someone else. A hush fell over the ranks as Kapikul Hazael arrived, followed by the slave who carried his sheathed sword. Hazael stopped in front of Jirom's company and eyed the troops of the first rank, hands clasped behind his back.

“Form up!” an officer shouted.

Boots stamped on the ground as dozens of camp guards rushed to surround the company. Every guard was armored in hardened leather from head to boot; each carried a bared sword. An itch tickled the back of Jirom's scalp. This was new. His hands clenched and unclenched as his heart beat a little faster.

“Every sixth man!” the company commander yelled.

Jirom glanced down the line as a crew of guards rushed past. They seized the short man beside him, who happened to be standing in the sixth position of his row. Along with the other unfortunates, he was rushed to the front of the company. Jirom anticipated what would happen next as the chosen men, all thirty-some of them, were forced to their knees before the kapikul. The short man wrestled with his holders and managed to throw one of them off, but four guards jumped in and pinned him to the ground. Jirom's feet shifted as the instinct for survival warred with his sense of honor.

Their commander addressed the assembly. “This company has been deemed unsatisfactory. By order of our Great Leader, an example will be set so that every man will know the price of failure.”

The entire camp watched in silence as the kapikul drew his sword from its ornate scabbard. The last rays of the sun reflected in the polished assurana blade in glimmers of orange and gold. Jirom took a step. He knew he couldn't make a difference against the dozens of guards surrounding the company.

But if I set an example, the rest might rise up.

No one else moved as Kapikul Hazael went down the line with quiet efficiency. The kneeling soldiers were forced to bend forward. One by one, their heads were lopped off. Blood glittered in the air each time the assurana blade rose up. After the first couple executions, those farther down the line started to struggle, and extra guards came up to hold them. Some of the men yelled; others begged. A few broke down and cried as their turn approached. Jirom saw Horace in his mind, facing the desert storm, defying its power. Before he knew it, he was pushing through the ranks. His first targets were the guards holding down the short man, who continued to scrap and kick and bite. If he could free that one, maybe a few others would see it and make a stand for their lives. He didn't have a plan beyond that. He knew it was suicide, but he'd rather die fighting than live in fear.

Jirom grabbed the nearest guard by the back of his jerkin and heaved him away. He kicked another in his stomach. The other guards holding the short man raised their swords, and Jirom rushed at them. They all crashed to the ground together. Jirom slammed one guard's head against the ground and punched him in the teeth for good measure, and then head-butted the other in the face. That guard rolled over, clutching his nose. His sword landed at Jirom's feet.

Jirom glanced down at the fallen weapon. If he picked it up, he might kill a few of the guards, but he would surely be killed in the end. Then again, this might be his last, best chance to die on his feet with a weapon in his hand. To die like a warrior.

Just as he started to reach down, something struck the back of his head. Points of light burst in front of his eyes, and an intense feeling of nausea stirred in his stomach as his legs gave way. Another blow rocked his skull to the side, and the ground rushed up to collide with his face.

Sweat dribbled down Jirom's face and neck, dripping onto his thighs as he sat in the tight space.

He had been locked inside one of six iron boxes positioned atop of the canyon's southern wall, exposed to the sky. Large enough for a man to sit inside, but not to stand or lie down, each was its own encapsulated hell. It had been only a couple hours, judging by the angle of the sunlight filtering through the rectangular slot in the box's door, but already his legs were cramping. Yet the heat was worse. There was no escaping the feeling of being inside an oven. Even his lungs burned from breathing in the sweltering air.

This is where I'll die. Cooked like a hen.

His head still throbbed from the blows that had knocked him out. He tried not to touch the tender spots, but every time his head tilted back against the side of the box, a sick feeling roiled in his stomach. While he suffered, his mind wandered. He relived the events of his life, seeing his family again in their small home on the edge of the great plain. He recalled the day he had left, and his first battle. Faces passed through his mind, the faces of the men he'd killed during those wild, bloody days, and the faces of the men who had marched by his side. He saw cities burning and the violence that followed as the victors took out their pain and fear on the survivors. He smelled the stench of death and knew that this time it had come for him.

A scratch at the door of the box stirred his senses. Shifting like a drunkard, he hunched forward. A face appeared at the screen covering the slot. Jirom might have expected a guard, or even the kapikul, come to taunt him, not the scraggly man peering at him through the wire mesh. He was dark-skinned for an Akeshii, and not unhandsome in a dangerous sort of way. Black whiskers covered his chin. His eyes were a peculiar color. At first glance they looked black, but a closer look revealed the deepest green Jirom had ever seen. They stared into the box without a trace of compassion.

“What's your name?” asked a voice as hard as those piercing black-green eyes.

Jirom stared back. Talking required energy, and he had little to spare.

“Here.” The man held the mouth of a small bladder to the screen.

Jirom smelled the water as he leaned forward and pressed his lips to the screen. The tepid drink tasted better than wine. When it was gone, he sat back with a sigh. “Thank you.”

“That was quite a show,” the man said. “I can't decide if it was the bravest thing I've ever seen, or the dumbest.”

Jirom rapped his knuckles against the top of the box. “Judge by the result.”

“Aye. You got a powerful desire to die?”

“Not particularly.”

“But you've soldiered before.”

Jirom nodded. His past didn't matter anymore. Nothing mattered but getting out of here and being free again.

“You know what they're preparing us for? War.” The man smiled. “War against the infidels, they say. But I think they mean to use us elsewhere.”

Elsewhere? What did that mean? Into the southern continent? Akeshia had tried that before and gotten its imperial nose bloodied. The ragtag slaves he'd seen below in the camp weren't going to accomplish any grand conquest. No, it had to be something else. What would the queen of Erugash want? He thought of Ceasa, the seat of the empire. Was Queen Byleth preparing to make a play for the Chalcedony Throne? It was insane. But what if she succeeded?

The man nodded as if reading his thoughts. “Listen. I've been watching you. You know how to fight and you're not stupid, despite that stunt today. Tell me, are you willing to fight those bastards again if it meant a chance to get out of here?”

“Open this door and you'll get your answer.”

“Anxious, eh? Can't say that I blame you, but you'll have to stew in there a little longer. But don't fret. They'll let you out in the morning. Maybe give you a little thrashing and then back into the ranks you'll go.”

“I'm not to be executed?”

The man grinned, making him look somewhat like a jackal. He was missing his upper left canine tooth. “No. I imagine they'll be promoting you. They like fighters here. The nastier, the better.”

“So when do I get to fight our captors?”

“Soon. I got myself an outfit with one thing in common: we all hate the empire enough to risk our lives fighting it. There are a lot of slaves who feel the same way. That sound like something you want to be a part of?”

“Maybe, but I have a request.”

“The slave in the box has a request? What is it?”

“The kapikul. I want him for myself.”

“You go for the throat, don't you? All right. That's a deal—when the time is right. And I say when it's right. Agreed?”

It was Jirom's turn to smile. “Agreed.”

As the man started to move away, Jirom had a thought. “Wait!”

The black-green eyes returned to the screen. “Quiet down! You trying to get me tossed in there with you?”

“What about the slaves taken into the city? I know a man inside. He's a friend.”

“Is this friend as tough as you?”

“Tougher,” Jirom said.

“Do you know where he is?”

“The palace.”

“The queen's palace? Then mourn for him and be done with it. The palace is locked up tighter than a royal virgin's cunny. I can't waste lives on a doomed rescue mission.”

Jirom backed away from the door. “Then leave me. I'll get to him myself.”

“Listen. It will be hard enough to get away ourselves. I don't like leaving good men to die, but it's not possible.”

“Give me one chance,” Jirom said. “He's…special.”

The man hissed in a language Jirom didn't know, which was surprising. He thought he'd heard every profanity that existed. “All right. You'll get your chance, but you need to be patient.”

“I have your word?”

The man pressed his hand to the mesh. “On the honor of my name and the names of my forefathers.”

Jirom reached out to the screen. “Then I will follow you, for good or ill.”

“Good for us, and ill for our enemies. I'll see you tomorrow when they let you out of this cage. We'll talk more then, and maybe work up a plan to get your friend out when the time comes.”

“It is agreed. My name is Jirom, son of Khiren.”

The man touched his forehead. “I'm Emanon.”

The face vanished from the screen. A distant voice called out, but no one answered.

As Jirom settled back in the box, thunder rumbled overhead. It shook the box with tiny vibrations. Outside the slot, the daylight was finally waning. A storm was coming, and though he was locked inside this box he felt exposed to the elements. As he prepared for a long night, plans turned around in his mind. Plans of how to escape this camp and find the man who had given him hope.