21 Bora's Bastion, Alamont Reach

The slave camp covered—and ruined—acres of fertile river flatlands that would have been better used for growing crops, Shenro thought. Inside the fences lived more than two thousand followers of Urec who had been seized in raids of their coastal towns or captured along with their ships at sea. Within the sturdy fences, the provisions were meager, the tent shelters squalid, people crowded in conditions that the Alamont destrar would not have inflicted on cattle.

On the other hand, cattle had a definite value.

And after what he had just learned of their race's treachery at the Ishalem wall, turning what should have been a glorious reconquest of the holy city into a humiliating rout, Shenro was not of a mind to show sympathy to these pathetic Curlies.

Now that winter was over, the prisoners required little in the way of shelter; besides, Urecari didn't deserve comforts. After all, up and down the Tierran coast, countless murdered Aidenist villagers were not “comfortable” in their cold graves. None of those recently betrayed soldiers at Ishalem were “comfortable.”

No, he would not show any sympathy. There must be some way to make them pay, to balance the accounting sheets, for what the Urecari had done.

With a pinched look on his face, Shenro rode the fenceline with his guard patrol. Because he sat on such a fine horse, every camp prisoner could tell that he was an important man. Some even recognized him as the destrar, the man who controlled their destinies.

Shenro rode a gradual circuit of the perimeter so that he could see their haunted expressions. The sharp smoke from small campfires could not mask the odor of all those close-packed human bodies. His men provided the captives with shovels to dig their own latrines; the shovels were inventoried and collected nightly, so the prisoners could not dig their way out and escape. No follower of Urec could be trusted.

Every day, carts brought barrels of river water for the camp's cooking, bathing, and drinking needs, but that was all Shenro provided. If the captives wanted food, they had to work. He would not whip them into toiling in the wheat fields or marshy rice paddies. The Book of Aiden denounced slavery, and therefore the prisoners' work had to be voluntary.

But if they didn't work, they didn't eat.

Another “volunteer” crew filed through the gates, escorted out to the crops under the watchful eyes of a dozen archers. Outside the main entrance, Shenro had erected a newly commissioned bronze statue of a brave horseman, symbolizing the ninety vengeful riders who had raced from Bora's Bastion to Ishalem to overthrow the Urecari invaders… only to be slain by the enemy. The people of Alamont were proud of those fallen warriors, and the statue was a reminder of why the prisoners had to be held inside the fences, why these Urabans had to atone for the crimes of their people.

The foreign prisoners, though, looked on the statue with an entirely different emotion, hating what it symbolized. The work crew shuffled past, few of them even glancing at the sculpture. This group would spread buckets of human and animal manure onto the croplands; other teams would pull up spiny thistles with their bare hands. Once they put in a day of work, the captives received a meal of watery porridge and perhaps some leftover catfish from the river markets. Shenro found it a gratifying irony to see these enemies of Aiden planting and harvesting crops to feed the army that would defeat them.

A handful of Urecari fanatics steadfastly refused to accept the work option. Although occasionally workers smuggled food to them, most of the fanatics remained defiant to the last and refused to eat. With no qualms, Shenro let them die.

After three cases of cholera had appeared in the past month, Shenro grudgingly set up sick tents and encouraged better hygiene in the camp. As Urabans, they were naturally infested with vermin. He and his men rode along with a sharp eye on the crowds, alert for any signs of fever or malady. While their health mattered little to him personally, a plague in the camp might spread to Bora's Bastion and his own people.

From behind the fence, a woman stared at him, her shadowed eyes ablaze with hatred. Shenro did not flinch, but rather met her stare. It was easy to maintain his resolve by remembering that nearly four thousand good soldiers had recently fallen at the Ishalem wall because of Urecari treachery. The enemy played by such inhuman rules, they couldn't possibly be considered human.

Destrar Shenro had developed his own plan to make the Curlies pay for what they had done. He hated to waste resources, but some things were required by a higher morality….

Satisfied with what he had seen, the destrar rode back to his tall main house, which overlooked the boat and barge traffic on the river. He called for Captain Jillac, the manager of the prison camp. The two often met to discuss the prisoners and the daily tasks required of them to earn their food. Today, however, Shenro had something else in mind.

Jillac arrived, his garments moist with sweat from his day at work, but Shenro didn't mind. The destrar poured them each a glass of good Alamont wine. “How many prisoners currently reside in our camp, Captain?”

Jillac didn't pause to consider. “Two thousand three hundred and sixteen, although we may have lost a few more since this morning, when we hauled out five bodies.”

“What did they die of? Cholera again?”

“Starvation, I think. Or just plain stubbornness. I don't worry too much about a dead follower of Urec.”

Shenro pressed his lips together, deep in thought. The galling defeat at Ishalem—the haunted look on Subcomdar Mateo Bornan's face—convinced him what had to be done. “I have long been a student of military history, Captain, but I've never heard of atrocities that match what the Curlies have inflicted on us in this war.”

Jillac nodded. “You'll get no argument from me, my Lord.”

“All those prisoners—we've fed them, given them a new home, even offered to instruct them in the light of Aidenism. We could have executed them outright instead of taking them under our wing.”

“They are primarily civilians, sir, not enemy soldiers.”

Shenro set down his goblet with a hard click. “Any person who wears the unfurling fern is an enemy soldier in his heart, even if he carries no weapon.”

“I wasn't making excuses for them, Destrar.”

“Unfortunately, we need those workers, and Destrar Siescu in Corag will be assigning others to hard labor. I can't waste them all, but an accounting still needs to be made.” Shenro leaned back in his chair. “Distribute numbered discs to each person inside the fences. Every camp guest from captured soldiers and old men to women and children—all two thousand three hundred and sixteen of them.”

Jillac began scribbling on a small slate board he kept with him, frowning as he worked out the details in his mind.

“Let me know when it's finished, and then I would like to address the prisoners. Please see that we have a Urecari translator available.”

“Yes, Destrar.” Jillac departed, and Shenro remained wrapped up in his hard decision while he finished his wine.

As the sun set behind rolling hills, Shenro stood atop a wooden platform that had been built outside the camp's front gate. The blaze of color in the sky gave a rich, fiery glow to the new bronze statue of the martyred horseman.

From twenty feet above the ground, Shenro could see the squalid tents and cookfires inside the camp fence. Beside him, a wide-bellied cauldron held chits marked with numbers identical to the ones distributed among the prisoners.

He addressed the captives from his perch. “Four hundred of you will be chosen for a special duty.” Beside him on the platform stood a Uraban merchant, a simpering and cooperative man who hoped to improve his status in the camp. The translator repeated the words in Uraban gibberish.

A separate fenced area like a large corral had been set aside adjacent to the main camp. There were no facilities, since the holding area was only temporary. That day, bearlike Sazar had unloaded three large riverboats, which remained tied up to the docks at Bora's Bastion. Seeing the empty riverboats, the prisoners muttered amongst themselves, convinced that the four hundred chosen would be taken elsewhere. Shenro thought it best to keep them guessing.

As he called out numbers one at a time, those selected came forward, some of them trading numbered discs because families wanted to stay together. Some insisted on staying in the Alamont camp, while others begged to be allowed to go. Amongst two thousand people, it was hard to find a particular number when someone refused to come forward; out of impatience, Shenro soon had the men grab any person at random.

It was full dark by the time the separate stockade was crowded with the chosen ones. Captain Jillac lit torches around the camp. As the captives grew restless, the buzzing of their jabber increased. They were hungry, impatient, fearful.

At last, the selection was done. Four hundred people out of 2,316. The Book of Aiden called for a payment of debts, especially blood debts, but Shenro could not justify one for one. Four thousand loyal Aidenist soldiers had died at Ishalem. One Uraban captive would have to atone for ten Tierran warriors. He did not see these captives as innocents—even the women and children.

He raised his voice to a shout. “Four thousand good soldiers recently died at Ishalem because of Urecari deceit. They sacrificed their lives trying to regain the holy city in the name of Ondun.” The destrar spoke with such fervor that the stumbling translator had difficulty keeping up.

As the Uraban merchant repeated the announcement, the selected captives in the corral began to guess what Shenro meant to do, and the uproar grew louder. Mothers grasped their children. Inside the fences, the Urecari prisoners began hurling their numbered discs, which pattered around the wooden platform.

Shenro did not flinch as he finished his well-considered speech. “For Ondun's sake, we must balance the scales. There can no longer be such an unjust deficit of lives.”

Four hundred… it was not such a large number. One for ten. And it was just.

Captain Jillac's fifty archers, each with a full quiver of arrows, surrounded the separate corral. “Draw your bows!”

The merchant translator on the platform quailed and begged Shenro not to do this, but the destrar cuffed him on the side of the head, then pushed him off the platform. The man tumbled twenty feet to the hard-packed ground, and Shenro heard a snap of bone as the merchant's ankle broke. The man began wailing in pain, no longer concerned about those trapped in the corral.

The selected ones tore at the fence, trying to rush forward.

Shenro issued the command himself. “Loose your arrows!”

With a singing hum from above, the strings twanged and a merciless rain of arrows lanced into the pen. A second volley came close after the first, and then a third, showering down on the four hundred prisoners. The unfortunate captives dropped like scythed stalks of wheat. Some men or women attempted to shield their children and died, their backs prickling with the deadly quills. More arrows came, more bodies fell. Men, women, children—they were all the same. Numbers.

Inside the larger camp, the remaining Urecari howled in outrage, but Shenro's soldiers used cudgels to beat back the mob. There would be plenty of them left to send to Destrar Siescu in Corag; he would get his road through the mountains.

The blood looked black in the orange torchlight. “Archers, continue until every one of these prisoners has fallen. Four hundred—that is the price Ondun demands.”

After it was done, he sent footsoldiers in among the fallen with daggers to dispatch any who still lived. Many Alamont soldiers looked queasy about what they were asked to do, but Shenro felt no sympathy for them; as members of the Tierran army, they would need to become hardened to the horrors of a battlefield.

The merchant translator was still squirming on the ground with his broken ankle; Captain Jillac thrust a sword through his chest to silence him.

On his high platform, Shenro felt detached and distant. His skin prickled with the powerful realization of what he had done, but he could feel nothing inside. Though he no longer had a translator, he spoke again. “That is the blood you owe for Ishalem. That is the price you must pay for your crimes against Tierra and your sins against God.”

Shenro climbed down from the speaking platform and walked back to his main house that overlooked the river, his gaze fixed forward. He did not doubt that he would have to balance the scales again.