The subterranean chamber stank of feces and rot mingled with moldering straw, as if its last occupant had died within, which Horace suspected might have been the case.

His new cell was not as large as the last one, and the lack of windows left it decidedly darker. The walls were stone blocks fitted together with very thin lines of mortar. He could barely reach the ceiling on his tiptoes. He had been given an old blanket, which he used as a pallet over the cold floor stones. He tried sleeping—God knew he was tired enough to sleep for days—but every time he closed his eyes he saw the same graphic image of himself wrestling on the floor with his hands wrapped around Lord Isiratu's neck. Finally, he stood up and used the piss-bucket in the corner.

After relieving himself, he went to the door. It was heavy with rough beams bound in rusty iron. Long grooves were scratched down the wood like someone had tried to claw their way out. Horace tried not to think about what could drive a person to that. He had enough problems without adding madness.

Starting with why in the Almighty's name did I attack Isiratu? It was the worst thing I could have done. Now they're sure to cut off my marbles, followed by my head.

He could still recall the pressure that had squeezed his skull when the Akeshian lord stared into his eyes, and the incredible rage that had accompanied it. Now, hours later, he found it difficult to believe that Isiratu had been using some kind of mentalism on him. It was more likely that he'd been feeling the effects of prolonged exhaustion and thirst. But it had felt so real.

Horace pounded on the door. He listened for footsteps or voices, but nothing came through the thick beams. He kept at it, alternately punching and kicking. After several minutes, a metallic clatter announced that he had been heard, and the door swung open. Harsh yellow light from a lantern blinded him, and he retreated a few steps with his hands held over his face.

“Minu shomana?” a rough voice demanded.

“Water! I need some Prophet-damned water!”

The turnkey, or whoever he was, shouted something else and then slammed the door. Horace resumed pounding, but the guard didn't return. He stopped when his hands became too sore to continue. Finally, frustrated and more tired than before, he sat down on his blanket. They obviously didn't intend to kill him, or they would have done it already.

Unless they're devising a public execution.

He dozed off with his back against a wall. The clatter of the door lock woke him abruptly. Instead of the jailor, a slim man entered. He wore only a simple linen kilt and leather sandals and carried a candle instead of a lamp. Still, the tiny flame seared Horace's eyes. The man set something down on the floor and took the piss-bucket with him as he left. There was a splashing sound, and then the man returned with the empty bucket.

Horace stood up.

“Can you help me?” He switched to Nimean but still got no response. Then he noticed the iron collar around the man's neck. Another slave.

The slave left without saying a word. Horace lunged for the door, but the turnkey reappeared and slammed it shut in his face. The sound of the lock turning made Horace sick to his stomach. He beat on the door and shouted until his throat ached. Then he roamed around his cell, blood pumping and fists clenched.

It was a long time before he was calm enough to inspect the bowl the man had left on the floor. Sitting on the blanket, he dipped his fingers inside and felt a cold, sticky goo. He tasted it with the tip of his tongue. The substance had a consistency like gruel but no flavor. He finished the bowl in three large finger-scoops before he remembered the cup. It held tepid water, which he gulped down. Then he sat on the floor. With nothing else to do, he drifted off again.

When he woke he couldn't tell if he had slept for minutes or hours. He'd dreamt of home. Lying on the cold blanket, he clung to the memories, replaying the better ones again and again in his mind even though they scoured his soul. He recalled the day of his son's birth, savoring every moment of that experience until at last he came to the part when the midwife placed Josef in his arms for the first time. He rolled over and pressed his face against the stone wall as tears gathered in the corners of his eyes.

After another sleep, he relieved himself in the bucket again and tried to suck a few drops of water out of the empty cup. He licked the dried film of gruel from the bowl. Then he dozed some more.

The opening door jarred him awake. Horace sat up and blinked as a pair of soldiers entered. They grabbed him by the arms and hauled him out of the cell. He hung limp in their grasp as they shuffled him past rows of doors, from some of which issued faint groans and muttered whisperings. The guards carried him up many steps until a golden glow appeared above. Even before he could feel it on his skin, Horace knew it for sunlight. He started walking on his own, feeling the strength return to his legs. By the time they passed through the doorway and out into the light, he was standing upright.

They brought him out to a walled courtyard. The sky was glorious blue like a sheet of glass without a trace of clouds. The clay pavement was hot, but after the chill of his cell, Horace reveled in the warmth. A line of twenty or so men and women waited in the courtyard under guard, chained together by the neck. They varied in age 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 other an 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 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 hours, despite the brutal heat, and long into the evening before a halt was called. While the soldiers made camp, the prisoners were herded together. The guards brought out wooden mallets and spiked the coffle chain to the ground. Then one sentry kept watch while the rest of the guards ate and relaxed.

Horace collapsed. The smells of cooking were intoxicating, but he couldn't even summon the energy to sit up when a servant brought their evening meal. He sucked down the two ladles of water he was allowed and ate lying on his back. It was more of the flavorless mush, but he hardly cared. He longed for the solace of sleep, for a few sweet hours when he could forget he was alive at all.

As he closed his eyes, a soft voice whispered in his ear. “I am Gaz.”

Hearing the words spoken in stilted Arnossi made Horace bolt upright. Beside him sat the short, bald target of the guard's abuse, with his legs folded under him. His head gleamed in the firelight.

After a glance at the guard, who was busy eating his supper, Horace replied, “I'm Horace. You speak Arnossi?”

“Yes, a little. Good to mat you, Sire Horace.”

“Huh?” Then Horace understood what the man had meant. “Oh, yes. Good to meet you, too. Are you Akeshian?”

The small man scratched under his armpit as he bowed from the waist. “Indeed. I am born in J'gunna. You will please tell about your land? I am very want to know.”

“Ah, sure.” Horace rubbed his forehead. After days without anyone to talk to, he had a hundred questions. “But first, where are they taking us?”

“We are on road to Nisus. We are….” Gaz pursed his lips and looked up at the purple sky. “Gift. Yes? We are gift.”

Horace didn't like the sound of that. “A gift for who?”

Gaz said a word that sounded like amanamatturi, but Horace didn't catch it all. “Is that another lord?” he asked.

“No, no. Is the god son.” Gaz pointed up to the sky. “Son, yes?”

It took Horace a moment to understand. “The sun! The sun god.”

Gaz nodded while Horace tried to put the pieces together. They were being taken to a place where they would be given to a cult of sun-worshippers. It wasn't as shocking as he might have guessed. The pagans’ worship of false gods was the driving force behind the Great Crusade. He had listened to the Archpriest of Avice deliver a sermon on the front steps of the basilica the day they set sail. The words still rang in his head.

“The pagan masses of the East are beyond our Prophet's redemption. Their souls cannot be saved by the staff, and so their existence must be ended by the sword. This Great Crusade is the instrument of the Almighty. Go forth, my sons, and suffer no heathen to live.”

“If you're Akeshian,” Horace asked, “why are you a captive?”

“Yes, yes. I am Akeshai. I am slave.”

After several attempts, Horace finally got the man to comprehend his question. “I am very poor,” Gaz said. “You understand? Sell ox. Sell farm. Then nothing left to sell. Must sell self.”

That made no sense at all. “Wait. You sold yourself?”

Gaz wore a dejected look as he nodded. “Yes. Master demanded it, or take my life.” He touched his collar. “Better than death, yes?”

Horace wasn't sure he agreed, but he kept that to himself. He spotted a copper disc hanging from Gaz's wrist by a thin leather cord. The disc had squiggly lines drawn on its flat surface. “What's that?”

The man held up the talisman. “Gigim'libbu. A charm against spirits. You get one. Very good protect your qa from night-demons.”

Night demons? “What kind of hell is this place?”

“Yes, you are man of the gods. But we Akeshai see this as the natural way. The zoanii rule from heights, and rest must suffer in this life. If we serve well, we be birthed again after our long resting. You understand?”

Horace didn't, but he was getting the sense that there were a great many things about this land he didn't understand. He was about to ask what 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.