A slave, the lowest of the low 

'Riding ponies wasn't this hard,' Allara thought ruefully. She wanted to lie down and never wake up. Every muscle in her body hurt. Allara was stiff and sore. Every movement hurt so much that she tried to stay completely still. Her garron plodded along. Sureback, she'd named her.

Allara found it ironic that she was the tired one when all she had done was sit. Sureback was the one doing all the walking. She had borne Allara since morning with only a single stop for water and fodder. The horse appeared to be no worse for the wear.

Sureback was one of the hundreds of thousands of barbarian horses The Thunderbolt had captured. It was short, stocky, and smaller than the average Bhaandini horse. It was more of a large pony than a proper horse but it made up for its lack of size with sheer hardiness. Sureback didn't eat much and could march all day without trouble. She plodded along steadily, her horseshoes making clop-clop sounds on the elevated roadway, The Conqueror's Path. It was one of the greater Rhexian misnomers.

The Conqueror's Path may have been no more than a patch of trampled grass centuries ago when The Conqueror marched along it, but that wasn't the case anymore. It was the longest road in the A Hundred Realms, spanning more than a thousand miles. It went over hundreds of bridges and passed by countless villages, castles, towns, and cities.

The section of road Allara was on was wide enough for six wagons to ride side by side and as straight as an arrow. A drainage ditch flanked the road on her left-hand side. Water from the smaller streams was redirected into the ditch.

Every mile or so, water from the ditch passed through large culverts under the road and on towards The Luche a couple of hundred feet to Allara's right. She couldn't see it because of the dense riverine vegetation but she could hear the unmistakable rush of water.

An endless herd of animals grazed on the lush grasses and shrubs on either side of the road, continually spurred forward by the thousands of herders The Thunderbolt must have hired to perform this one task. There were cattle, horses, goats, and sheep stretching from horizon to horizon. The barbarians had crossed The Drapes in full force, bringing everything they owned with them. They had come to conquer and stay. Until they lost the war.

Allara was near the front of the baggage train, surrounded by a column of familiar strangers stretching out backward and forwards further than she could see. She hadn't seen Bogdyr in four days. He was somewhere in the column but she had no idea where.

Allara wished she had Sylvia but Sylvia had feigned an illness after the first day and now got to ride in a wagon. Allara had tried the same trick but her flirting skills weren't as good as she had assumed. The Baenarite officer in charge of the sick wagons had chased her away and back to the saddle it was.

Allara had no idea where she was. She barely cared about her surroundings anymore. She just hopped onto her saddle in the morning and let Sureback lead wherever she willed.

She had been so happy when Bogdyr brought her the news. He had been deliriously happy, "The Thunderbolt has asked me to enlist in the army. He was very impressed by my performance during the bullfighting. Told me I had the instincts of a warrior."

"What did you say?"

"I said yes. What other answer could there possibly be?"

"Will I ever get to see you?" Allara had asked.

"Yes. He said you can come."

"To join the army with you?" she had teased.

"No. You can come with me south. He said he will find you a position in his household in Pharasandria."

"His household?" Allara had asked excitedly, not daring to believe it. The thought dredged up memories of another planned trip to Pharasandria that had never materialized but Allara quickly squelched them.

"You're going to be in his household too?" she had asked Bogdyr.

"No. I'll be staying in Caedmyria."

"But that is so far."

"It's not. Pharasandria is only 30 miles south of Caedmyria. That's three or four hours by ship, a day on a horse. I can come see you all the time."

"Why can't you stay in Pharasandria?"

"The barracks for Baenarite recruits are in Caedmyria. I have to pass three months of drill and weapon training before I can wear the stripes. The Thunderbolt could have sent me to train in a corner of the country a thousand miles away. But he didn't. Perhaps you want to stay here?"

"Of course not," Allara had answered quickly. She had no desire to stay at The Roost. Too many bad memories.

The news had gotten even better when Sylvia excitedly told her she was going to Pharasandria too. The Thunderbolt had been so impressed with her baking that he wanted her to apprentice for his aging cook. Allara had eaten Sylvia's fruitcake on Aedusia. It was heavenly. But most importantly, she wouldn't be friendless in the big city.

Allara had been given the option between sailing south to Caedmyria on a barge or taking a horse. She had stupidly chosen to go on horseback because she thought the option more adventurous. When she first came to Confluencia with Lady Varinia, they had sailed up The Luche on a barge. Allara thought making the reverse trip on horseback would be a nice touch. No minute had passed in which she didn't regret that decision.

In an attempt to distract her mind from her soreness, Allara fingered the small leather coin purse around her neck. She felt them. They were still there. The two coins Bogdyr had given her. A fifth of what he got after his manumission. Freedom gold, he called it.

She often admired the coins when she was alone. She liked the intricate engravings, the abnormally perfect grooves of the reeded edge, and the way the coins caught and scattered the light. If she closed her eyes she could still picture them: two perfect circles of gold. Shiny and new. They had King Daegan's portrait on the front with the words, "Daegan XIII. Subaephyr. The Good." The reverse featured Siiruch, Aemlilon's double-headed eagle, flying out of the sun with the words "Guardian of All Aeduiana'' forming a ring around it.

It was the most considerable sum of money Allara had ever owned or touched. She had never held more than a few silver stallions at a time all her life. Quietly, she often repeated a mnemonic she had learned as a child over and over, 'One eagle is a hundred stallions, one stallion is a hundred pence, one pence can buy a plum.' Then she would add, 'I have two eagles, I have 200 stallions, I have 20,000 pence. I have 20,000 plums'.

Children were allowed to sing such little songs. Adults like Allara were expected to be more sedate. But she was just so excited. It wasn't enough gold to buy even a cheap horse but Allara still felt rich. She thought of all the nice things she could buy with her gold. She didn't want to buy those things. She just liked to know that she could.

Allara passed two girls with a basket full of assorted goods picking spilled coins off the ground while a woman she could only assume was their mother stood and watched with a sour expression. She carried a larger basket on her head and held a goat on a leash. Two men held the reins of two draft horses pulling a covered wagon. The older man watched the girls with the same sour expression as the woman while the younger man was too busy ogling at passing soldiers.

The spilled coins were coppers. Allara only saw a single silver stallion. As she picked it up, the younger of the girls muttered in a sing-songy voice, "One stallion is a hundred pence, one pence can buy a plum." The girl couldn't have been older than ten. Allara blushed with embarrassment.

Allara's attention was drawn by shouts of, "Thief! Thief! Thief!" coming from a herder on the left side of the road near the woods.

A detachment of Baenarites peeled off the column, leaped over the ditch, and galloped into the dense woods where most of the livestock was grazing. Who would be so stupid as to try stealing from The Thunderbolt? Allara wondered.

Yet she could still see the appeal. The livestock grazed away from the column and often wandered into the woods beyond. With the dense vegetation and the overworked herders, a local thief with good knowledge of the surrounding woods could easily sneak away with a sheep or two and no one would be any wiser. Now that she thought about it, Allara was pretty certain someone had done it at some point and gotten away with it. There were so many animals that she doubted anyone even knew their exact number.

Minutes later, the Baenarites reemerged. Allara was surprised to see Bogdyr among them. She hadn't known he was so close. They had five captives in tow. "It's the Criss-Cross Bandit!" Someone yelled.

The Criss-Cross Bandit was more myth than man. An outlaw who had evaded capture for 20 years, he was said to have two intersecting diagonal cuts on his face and no nose. He was accused of so many crimes that there was no way he was guilty of them all. It just wasn't feasible. Few thought he was even real to begin with.

Yet when the captives got close Allara could see that one of them fit the description of the infamous bandit. A grizzled man of at least forty, dressed in rags, covered in mud, with a pockmarked face that had two intersecting diagonal scars. The scars started at the corners of his eyes, intersected around where his nostrils should have been, and terminated at the sides of his mouth. These were no ordinary scars. Someone had deliberately put those marks on his face.

The bandit's three companions were younger but their faces were no less hardened. The last one was scarcely more than a child. None of the four looked like a very successful bandit. Their clothes were little more than rags and their boots were falling apart. They were malnourished and even their confiscated weapons looked crude.

"What will you do with them?" Allara asked Bogdyr.

"We're taking them to The Thunderbolt."

"Where's he?"

"Luche Bend," a Baenarite who had galloped back from the front of the column answered. The stripes on his cloak were red and blue instead of black, marking him as an officer. A khamsiner (commander of fifty). "It's a couple of miles up the road."

"You should come," Bogdyr said.

"I don't know," Allara complained. "Everything hurts."

"It gets easier," he consoled.

The Baenarites strapped the highwaymen to the backs of their horses and galloped up the road. Bogdyr kept pace with Allara. He wore his recruit's cloak, black as night with a single red stripe down the middle.

"Where have you been?" she asked accusingly. "I've barely seen you."

"They have me supervising the herders with my Kumyr."

"What's a Kumyr? A ten?"

"A squad of ten men. We march together, train together, fight together, share a tent, all that. I have to stay with them on the march or I'll get flogged. Military discipline."

"How are they?"

"They're not bad."

"They're not picking on you?"

"A little but nothing I can't handle."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes. I am The Bullslayer," he responded with an arrogant smirk. "I don't need my little sister defending me."

"I'm not your little sister. I am older than you."

"And I am bigger than you. That makes you little, from my perspective."

Allara wanted to slap him so hard but his horse towered over hers and made her feel even tinier. She tried a glare but the pace of the horses made that impossible. It became harder to talk as the horses sped up so they galloped in silence.

The dense woods soon gave way to orchards and freshly harvested fields. Every so often they would pass by a farmer plowing a field with a team of oxen or draft horses for the autumn crop. The villages got progressively larger as they inched closer to Luche Bend.

The riverine vegetation thinned as well. It was replaced by wooden jetties, the occasional kilns, workshops, and mills, dozens of mills. The jetties were crowded with rivercraft loading and unloading all manner of goods.

The river was an endless stretch of grayish-white water, seemingly without end. The Luche was five miles wide near Luche Bend but the water of the river seemed to touch the sky.

Boats of all shapes and sizes sailed up and down the river, from canoes and small fishing boats to barges and even large ocean-going vessels. The vessels headed downriver drifted along with the current while those headed upstream relied on a combination of sails, manatees, and oars.

The foot and wagon traffic increased as well. Officers had to halt the column at regular intervals to allow locals to cross the road from one side to the other with their wagons and herds. The throng thickened the closer they got to their destination.

The city walls finally appeared in the distance. The mighty river curved around the large hill upon which the city had been built, making it look almost like an island. They had to pass through a maze of wooden stands and stalls stretching on and on for what felt like a mile before arriving at the gates proper.

This market had all sorts of goods: pottery, jewelry, hides, animal pelts, tanned leather, cloth, ornate shoes, spices, perfumes, olive oil, whale oil, barrels with a hundred sorts of wine, raw steel, finished tools, weapons, armor, clay bricks, livestock, birds, both common and exotic, clay and wooden tiles, furniture, exquisite carvings, dyes, glassware, ceramics, ornate eating utensils, charcoal, fish, slaves, rugs, carpets, and a thousand different medicines and herbs. It was a cacophony of sights, sounds, and smells.

They slowed down to a crawl as they navigated the packed market. "Doesn't Luche Bend have a proper market?" she asked absently.

"The Thunderbolt is in the main square. We have to make use of this space today," a man roasting sweetmeats on a charcoal grill answered. He waved a skewer of the aromatic meats under Allara's nose and her stomach growled. "Try this," he urged. "30 pence for all five pieces. You won't get a better deal."

"Later," Allara promised, hurrying to keep up with Bogdyr as they passed through the gates and navigated Luche Bend's stone streets.

They found The Thunderbolt was holding court in the main square, a wide-open area in the middle of the city ringed by temples, public baths, and guildhalls. He was surrounded by a massive crowd. He sat on a marble throne, resplendent in calfskin boots with silver fastenings, smoke gray trousers, a patterned blue and scarlet coat embroidered with golden thread, and a cloak of purple velvet.

Sir Devnath Vaechbhurg, Queen Diopetha's brother flanked him on the left. The position of honor on The Thunderbolt's right was taken by his third cousin Caedmyr Luchebhurg, Lord of Luche Bend. Behind the trio was arrayed the usual collection of Baenarite commanders, clerics, and local nobility.

Lord Caedmyr was as alert as The Thunderbolt, listening while a local potter went on about how the priestesses of his local temple were frustrating his and his wife's attempts to adopt a child. The queen's brother barely paid any attention. He was bored and fidgety.

"Is he a respectable man?" the Thunderbolt asked Caedmyr Luchebhurg.

"Certainly, Your Highness. Sylar Georghinus is an upstanding citizen. As his wife Mariana."

"Why didn't you deal with this before?"

"The archmikhlin and I have our differences, cousin. Her subordinates are not positively predisposed towards me. My intervention would have done Sylar more harm than good," Caedmyr Luchebhurg answered with a glance at the priestess in an archmikhlin's robes.

This answer elicited chuckles from among the gathered townsfolk. "Why's everyone laughing?" Daryl, a burly Baenarite in Allara's party, whispered at a nearby townsman.

"Young Lord Caedmyr got himself excommunicated for marrying a second wife," the townsman said.

"You can't marry a second wife," Allara whispered back. "No mikhlin will perform the wedding."

"Let's call her a mistress then," the townsman allowed.

"Priests in this town excommunicate you for having a mistress!" Daryl exclaimed a little too loudly and somewhat defensively. "What's wrong with them? Lots of men have mistresses. They're gonna excommunicate us all?"

"Lots of men have mistresses, yes," the townsman agreed. "But you don't say wedding vows to your mistress at the shrine in your castle in front of the ashes of your forefathers, you don't bring her to live in your house, you don't give her better quarters than your legal wife, and you sure don't introduce your mistress to everyone as your wife. That's what got Lord Caedmyr and his mistress excommunicated."

"Aren't they the second house, practically royals?" Daryl asked.

"They are," the townsman said.

Allara had to explain to the less studious Bogdyr that Daryl and the townsman were referring to the Luchebhurg's special status as a collateral branch of The House of The Smith, tasked with providing brides and heirs should the main Rhexbhurg line run out of them. Because they were descended patrilineally from Pharas The Physician, Pharas The Builder's youngest (and favorite) son, they were the only house, other than their Rhexbhurg cousins, who could boast of having golden blood in their veins, golden blood that marked out Aemlilon's descendants.

"How can some lowborn red-blooded priest excommunicate the descendant of a god?" a miffed Daryl asked.

"Priests have done it before," the townsman said. "They excommunicated The Beheader and Aevard The Vengeful and those were fully-fledged kings, not spare Luchebhurg heirs. They made old Aevard walk barefoot for a hundred miles in penance."

"But The Beheader waged war on them," Daryl said.

"The Beheader was something else," the townsman agreed. "But he still didn't win. When the priests started burning themselves, he folded and negotiated."

"Then you shall have my recommendation, Sylar Georghinus," The Thunderbolt's resonant voice interrupted their little conversation. He turned to a priestess behind him, "You will see to it, Archmikhlin?"

"I will, Your Highness," the priestess promised.

The Thunderbolt waved at Allara's party. The crowd parted to let them through, ogling openly at the captives. An excited murmur rippled through the gathered crowd of townsfolk when Daryl took the sacks off the heads of the men. Small Willy rose angrily but The Thunderbolt shook his head and the giant sat down with some reluctance.

Allara caught a glimpse of someone behind Small Willy. A priestess with gray eyes. Eyes like Allara's. And her face… Allara could have sworn… But it couldn't be… She was imagining things. Her mother had been sold into slavery. In Maevi'i. Two thousand miles away. What would she be doing in Luche Bend? In a mikhlin's robes?

It wasn't the first time this was happening. Every time Allara saw an older woman with gray eyes, she always sought similarities to her mother. She tried to stop but it just kept happening.

As Allara obsessed over whether a priestess sworn to lifelong celibacy on the pain of death could be her mother, Daryl recounted how the four highwaymen had tried to sneak away with sheep from the column and how he had captured them and discovered the identity of their leader. Allara left her fantasy and returned her attention to the events in front of her.

the Criss-Cross Bandit dropped to his knees and kissed the cobblestones in submission. "My lord Caedmyr."

The Thunderbolt eyed him curiously. "You disappoint me, Bryan. I would assume that after 20 years of banditry you would be so rich you would never need to steal my sheep."

"Forgive me, Your Highness. I would never have touched them if I knew they were yours. They were so many I thought the herders would never notice. Banditry is too hard these days, Your Highness. The roads are too dangerous for my ilk. Opportunities are rare and pickings are slim. Your cousin here and his father before him string us up on sight."

"Then why don't you make an honest living like everyone else?"

"My face is too recognizable ever since the incident as you well know."

"You know this man, Your Highness?" Sir Devnath asked.

"Sadly, yes," The Thunderbolt said. "I know his entire family." The bandit said nothing. The Thunderbolt glared at him and then at his other companions. "I should have you stoned, Bryan. For all your crimes, I could easily sentence you to death by a thousand darts." The crowd murmured in approval. "But for the sake of your father, I will allow you to go with some dignity. A final act of mercy. For him, not you."

The Criss-Cross Bandit looked up for the first time. "Cut his bonds and give him the sword," The Thunderbolt commanded Daryl. A confused murmur went through the crowd and the soldier looked around in bewilderment. A glare from The Thunderbolt had him scrambling to obey.

Daryl cut the ropes off the bandit's hands and handed him the sword. "Thank you, Your Highness." The Criss-Cross Bandit prostrated himself, sword in hand. Everybody watched with bated breath. The Baenarites had their hands on their sword hilts. Then the bandit raised himself back to his knees and after a short prayer, plunged the sword into his heart. Allara delta familiar awe and terror. The crowd around her seemed to share her emotions.

The Thunderbolt turned his attention back to the bandit's companions. He pointed at the boy. "You, what are you doing with this lot?"

"Nothing, Lord Highness."

"Nothing?" The Thunderbolt pointed at the burly Baenarite. "Daryl here arrested you just for walking beside the road?"

"No, Lord Highness."

"I will ask you again, what are you doing with this lot?"

The boy sobbed. "Was only a smith, Lord Highness. I did no stealing. Only smithing. On my honor, I swear."

"Your honor? Your best friends are thieves and murderers. How can you have any honor?"

The boy sobbed some more.

"How old are you?"

"Thirteen, Lord Highness."

"Why are you not with your parents?"

"They dead, Lord Highness."

"Both of them?"

"My mother, Lord Highness."

"What about your father, your other relatives?"

"Never met my father, Lord Highness. Mother's relations don't want me."

"Why? Is it because you are a thief?"

"No, Highness. Mother was a… um… prostitute."

The Thunderbolt beckoned. "Come." The boy rose and slowly shuffled towards the marble throne. He knelt a few feet from the base of the throne, his head lowered. "Are you lying to me, boy?"

"No Lord Highness," the boy sobbed.

"What's your name?"

"Nobert, Lord Highness. Nobert Farman."

"You smithed for the outlaws?"

"Yes, Highness."

"Are you any good?"

"Only a 'prentice, Lord Highness."

The Thunderbolt waved the boy away. He addressed the Baenarite. "Daryl, take him to Myron." Daryl nodded. Then the Thunderbolt turned to Caedmyr Luchebhurg, "Find a blacksmith to take the boy. I will pay the fee."

"I will," Lord Luchebhurg promised.

"What do you want to do with these?" The Thunderbolt pointed at the remaining two outlaws. "Stones or the rope?"

"A stoning would do them good," Caedmyr Luchebhurg replied without hesitation.

"They're all yours," The Thunderbolt said. He waved at the next petitioner as Luche Bend patrolmen carried the bandit's body away. Daryl took that for a dismissal and left. Allara and the rest of her party followed him. Young Nobert was still shaking.

"He remembered my name," Daryl said excitedly in an almost girl-like voice as soon as they cleared the square.

A second Baenarite slapped him across the back. "That he did Daryl."

"Don't mock me, Petron," Daryl warned. "I'm your superior officer."

"Apologies, my lord Kumyrer," Petron responded with a mock bow. Daryl punched him hard in the stomach and Petron doubled over, coughing.

"I was just joking," Petron complained mid-cough.

"Well, I don't appreciate it," Daryl said. "Mock the recruit if you have to. Come on lad." He gestured at Nobert and led them out of the city.

On a wide plain opposite the city walls, an advance detachment of Baenarites was demarcating the limits of a marching camp while others dug trenches. Within the limits of the camp under construction, Baenarites were setting up their tents, and more still poured in. Squires, servants, and military slaves walked about, carrying water, wine, food, and all sorts of odds and ends for their masters.

Allara knew that Baenarites had strict procedures on how to set up their marching camps and exactly which part of the camp each soldier could pitch his tent but the camp was still a confusing mess of banners and numbers to her. Every regiment and its subunits had a different standard and Allara had long given up trying to tell them apart. There was a system but she just never bothered to learn it. Daryl, who seemed, to know every standard in the army, navigated them through the chaos of the camp until they found Myron without asking a single person for directions or the man's whereabouts.

Myron was a barrel-chested man of medium height bulging with muscles and a right arm was twice as thick as his left. Myron was playing dice outside a tent with half a dozen Baenarites, passing around a wineskin while a lamb sizzled above a small fire. He didn't like being interrupted.

"What do you want?" he barked.

Daryl pointed at Nobert. "His Highness ordered me to bring the boy to you."

"Who's he?"

"Nobert somebody." Daryl turned to the boy. "What's your other name, lad? The bastard name. Farman or Freeman?"

"Farman," Nobert said

"Who is he?" Myron asked again.

"We caught him with the Criss-Cross Bandit," Daryl said, his voice betraying annoyance.

Myron stood. "You? You were with the Criss-Cross bandit?"

"Yes, sir," Nobert answered.

"Sir! Me?" Myron guffawed. His companions joined in. "Sir Myron Martyrnus Smith. That's my new title. You hear that?"

Myron lifted Nobert off his horse with a single arm. "Come, boy. Tell me all about the Criss-Cross Bandit."

Myron gave them a dismissive wave. "Get lost, Daryl. I don't like the way you're looking at my meat."

"We're also looking for Hamyr Robyrus," Daryl said. "He's not in his section."

"Do I look like his shadow?" Myron retorted.

"You don't always have to be such a cunt, Myron," Petron chimed in.

"Watch your tongue, infantry cuck," Myron warned. "We have a lady in our midst," Myron pointed at Allara. "How did a miserable lot such as yourselves stumble upon one so fair? You didn't kidnap her, did you?"

"She's the recruit's sister. The Bullslayer." Petron pointed at Bogdyr. "I suppose your own sister is as ugly as you?" This elicited some laughter.

"Ugly as an infantryman's boot, aye," Myron admitted. "But what do I care Petron? You're the one who has to fuck her." This was met with more laughter.

"Fuck you, Myron," Petron retorted impotently.

"Careful now," Myron responded in a dangerously low voice. "Don't forget who mends your mail."

"There are a thousand smiths in the army."

"And none as good as me."

Daryl turned in a huff and they all followed him. "Goodbye, m'lady. Do forgive our manners. These footsoldier boys have no idea how to act around one such as yourself," Myron said in parting. Allara just nodded and smiled politely, as was expected of a woman.

"Preening cavalry cunts!" Daryl cursed bitterly as they walked away.

"Why do they always have to act so superior?" Petron asked.

"Are our boots that ugly?" another Baenarite in their party asked.

"You should look at them after a 30-day march," Petron said. "Ugliest thing you will ever see."

Bogdyr interrupted the pity party."What did the mare say to the cavalryman?"

Daryl shrugged. "I don't know."

"Wrong hole! Wrong hole!" Bogdyr shouted.

They all burst into rapturous laughter. Petron grabbed his ribs and one of their party fell off his horse, still laughing as he raised himself off the ground.

"How is bestiality funny?" Allara whispered to Bogdyr.

He shrugged. "It's the army. Cavalrymen look down on infantrymen, infantrymen hate cavalrymen, and we all agree that sailors aren't real warriors."

"But why do you hate each other so much?"

"I wouldn't call it hate. Cavalrymen think they're superior soldiers. We disagree. It's mostly harmless but some of them, like Myron, are just nasty people," Bogdyr explained.

Allara pointed at the Baenarites in their party. "Who are these men?"

"My Kumyr. I told you."

"You said they were ten. I only see seven. Plus you."

"One died in the north. He's the one I will be replacing. One got promoted, another one is wounded, and the last one is on leave. His father died."

"What are you two whispering about back there?" Daryl asked.

"Nothing," Bogdyr responded.

"That was a good one, Bullsalayer. You have another?"

"Ahh…" Bogdyr thought for a while then asked, "What do you call a soldier who flees a battlefield the fastest?"

"A coward?" Daryl suggested.

"No, A cavalryman!"

"You're making my day Bullslayer," Petron said between guffaws. "Give us one more."

"What do you call a Maevite with no balls?"

"I know this one," one of the Baenarites pounced. "A eunuch."

"No." Bogdyr shook his head. "The emperor!" This time both Daryl and Petron fell off their horses. They never bothered to pick themselves up. They just kept howling with laughter. Allara felt like she was in a bizarre dream. The joke wasn't that funny.

"Daryl Gerardus!" a voice roared from the left. It was Hamyr, his left arm in a sling. He sat in a chariot driven by a squire. This one was constructed more robustly than the racing variants and thankfully had no scythes. Daryl and Petron immediately picked themselves up, suppressed their laughter, put on serious faces, and saluted.

"Is this how a soldier of the 4th Regiment behaves?"

"No, my lord khamsiner," Daryl answered.

"What is so funny?" Hamyr asked.

"Just a joke the recruit told."

"Let's hear it," Hamyr commanded. Daryl repeated the joke. Hamyr listened pensively. His eyes flickered at the punchline and Allara thought she saw his facial muscles twitch but she couldn't be sure.

"It sounded funnier when The Bullslayer told it," Daryl backtracked.

Hamyr flashed Bogdyr a look and reached below his seat. He handed a leather coin purse to Daryl. "From Lord Luchebhurg," Hamyr explained. "The bounty on the Criss-Cross bandit. 10,000 silver stallions. You forgot to collect it."

Daryl smiled. "Thank you." He emptied gold coins into his hands and eagerly counted them. Twice. "There's only half here," he said uneasily.

"I took the liberty of distributing the other half to your brothers in the unit. Should I ask them to give it back?"

"No, my lord" Daryl said quickly.

"Petron Rymanus, you said the family of Faustyrn Yohanus lives near here?"

"Yes, my lord."

"How far?"

"Four miles."

"Can you take us?"

"Yes. His wife is my cousin."

"Let's go."

"Now?"

"Yes. Now. I just collected his pension and Reggie has his things." Hamyr pointed at another Baenarite behind him who had a horse hitched to a small wagon on a leash.

"How will we say he died?" Daryl asked.

Hamyr eyed Daryl as if the soldier had just defecated in the middle of his house. "He got knifed in a tavern fighting over a whore. Why are you acting like you don't know?"

Petron let out a loud fake cough.

"What is it?" Hamyr asked.

"I may have already told his wife that Faustyrn died in battle."

"May?" Hamyr thundered.

"I… I… wrote her a letter."

"Why would you do that?"

"Faustyrn was my best friend and Clara is my uncle's daughter. We played together all the time as children. What's wrong with letting her believe he died a warrior's death?"

Hamyr glared at him. "I will not compromise my honor by lying, Petron Rymanus. If she asks me directly, I will tell the truth. Please pray that she doesn't."

Petron nodded. Hamyr gave a wave and the procession set off. Allara groaned at the prospect of more riding. She wanted to rest. "Problem, Allara Stefanus?" Hamyr asked.

"I am just not accustomed to riding for so long."

"Come sit with me," he offered.

"You're too kind. I will get used to it."

"I insist. I have plenty of room."

"I haven't washed since this morning, my lord. I stink of horse."

"I have smelled worse."

"My things are in the saddlebags…"

"I'll have my squire watch the horse for you." He ordered the boy off the chariot and took the reins himself. Out of excuses, Allara dismounted and took her place on the cushioned seat beside him, feeling more self-conscious than she had ever been before. She was certain she could smell her own stink. Hamyr smelled as fresh as a rose.

Outside the camp, they were joined by four slaves, two boys and two girls driving five cows and a bull, four horses, 20 goats, and around a hundred sheep. They kept moving around. Allara counted up to 97 the first time, 102 the second time, and 105 the third time. She gave up after that.

The procession set a steady pace. Petron, Daryl, and two Baenarites Allara didn't know marched at the front, the livestock was in the middle alongside Reggie, while Bogdyr and the other three Baenarites made up a rearguard, marching behind Allara and Hamyr in their chariot.

They went along in silence, winding along curling unpaved roads. Despite the bumpy ride, Allara found the chariot more comfortable than the saddle.

"How are you liking the journey?" Hamyr broke the silence.

"Not much. It's harder than I thought."

"You will get used to it."

"That's what my brother says."

"He doesn't seem to suffer much," Hamyr commented.

"He was a herder at The Roost. Rode horses all the time. He's used to it."

Hamyr grunted. After a long silence, Allara felt compelled to speak, "How were the wars?"

"Hard but glorious."

"They say The Thunderbolt burnt the fleet."

"Where did you hear that?"

"The singers. In The Hammer of The Barbarians. They say he had to do it because the Baenarites were too scared to fight. He burned them so they couldn't flee."

"That's a lie."

"But there were a million barbarians and only 30,000 of you."

"Another lie. The Thunderbolt set sail from Pharasandria with 30,000 men but more joined us on the way. By the time we confronted barbarians at Drapes' End, we had 36 regiments. That's 180,000 soldiers. Couple that with all the angry northerners whose homes and fields the barbarians had just destroyed and we easily had a quarter of a million fighting men, same as the barbarians."

"But there were over a million barbarians and only a quarter million of you."

"That number includes women, children, and slaves. Some barbarian women fight but their slaves don't. Fighting men were never more than 300,000. And it wasn't even one army. They all split into their various tribes once they crossed the mountains. Before the final battle where they all united into one army, the largest barbarian forces we had faced had maybe 40,000 horsemen."

"What about the fleet?" Allara asked. "You said The Thunderbolt didn't burn it."

"He burned a couple of old transport ships in the harbor at Drapes' End. Filled them with straw and torched them. That must be where the rumor originated."

"Why?"

"Barbarians were laying siege to Drapes' End. When our fleet arrived, they lined up on the beach. If we had tried to disembark they would have destroyed us. So The Thunderbolt filled a couple of old transport ships with straw, had them towed ahead of the fleet, and set ablaze while we set up ship catapults and trebuchets on rafts."

"How did that help you?"

"The wind was blowing from the sea so the smoke from the burning ships blinded the barbarians. We launched volleys of barrels filled with pitch mixed with a little Aemlilon's Sweat. Archers shot fire arrows at the barrels and ignited them mid-air. The barbarians thought it was raining fire and fled in terror. We buried 25,000 barbarians that day and didn't lose a single man. It was a glorious day."

Allara had heard of Aemlilon's sweat, a sticky silvery liquid that burned so hot it could melt steel. She couldn't imagine it on human skin. "25,000 of them burned alive?"

"No. Only a couple of hundred burned. The others were thrown from their horses and got trampled underfoot by their comrades in the rush to flee the fire. Many more were injured and the townsfolk finished them off. The king decreed that no barbarian should be spared."

"What about the rest of the war?"

That was one question Allara regretted asking. Hamyr launched into the tale. He described every battle and skirmish over the two years of the northern wars in exquisite detail. He was clearly excited but Hamyr couldn't describe battles as well as the songs. But Allara had no choice but to listen to him until they arrived at their destination.

Their party came to a stop at a homestead of eight brick houses neatly arranged around a square central plaza. Petron dismounted and was swarmed by more than a dozen children all trying to hug him at once. Screams of "Uncle Petron! Uncle Petron!" competed with the bleating of goats and lowing of cattle. Even the chicken joined in on the clangor with their incessant clucking. Half a dozen adults stood at a sedate distance.

Petron introduced them to everybody. They were all related to him or Faustyrn. Mothers, fathers, brothers, sisters, a two grandmothers, a great grandmother, uncles, aunts, cousins, nephews, and nieces. Every name seemed to have a duplicate or two. Allara just gave up trying to learn them all.

They were received into an airy house with large wooden windows thrown open to let in the evening breeze. "I am sorry for the stink of my men," Hamyr apologized. "We have been on the road all day and just had to get here."

"They can use our bathhouse and then we can have dinner," Clara, Faustyrn's widow, offered.

"I don't think we will be able to stay that long," Petron said. "We have to break camp in the morning and keep marching."

"We can stay, Petron Rymanus," Hamyr said. "His Highness is visiting a couple of cities on the Mekhrosi side of the river. We camp at Luche Bend for three days."

"Three days?" Petron asked excitedly. "So I can visit my grandmother? She's only a couple of villages over."

"You can. But we're on guard duty tomorrow evening. Be back by then," Hamyr allowed. "But first, what brought us here." He turned to Clara. "Your husband was a brave warrior, Clara Marlonus. He had served his twenty and was eligible for retirement but he extended his service to fight the barbarians. It was heartbreaking for us all when he fell."

Clara started sobbing.

"Take heart in the fact that he died a warrior's death," Hamyr consoled her. "He is feasting with the gods now. I lit his funeral pyre myself. We brought his things. And his ashes."

Reggie opened a chest that contained an urn, a selection of weapons, pieces of armor, and a slew of other personal items.

Clara picked up the urn, cradled it, and started sobbing again. Half the women in the room got teary as the urn was passed around. The men remained stoic though their sadness was evident.

"We also brought the wages for his last month in the army, the savings he had with the regimental guild, and his pension." Hamyr had a hefty leather bag put on the table between them. "The livestock outside and the four slaves are his spoils from the war," Hamyr continued. "His will decreed that you, Clara Marlonus, would get a third of his pension. The remaining two-thirds will be entrusted to the regimental guild for your two sons. They can claim it when they reach manhood." Hamyr handed over a stack of papers.

Clara looked over the papers with teary eyes and then passed them around to her relatives. They reviewed them and nodded in agreement.

"What's this?" Clara's father, asked, pointing at the moneybag.

"Eighteen thousand silver stallions and 57 pence. Clara's third of Faustyrn's pension. I would like you to count it and sign this." Hamyr slid over another sheet of paper.

"And you said there's two-thirds left for when the boys reach manhood?" Clara's father pressed.

"Yes."

"How much is that?"

"Thirty-six thousand and one silver stallions, 14 copper pence."

"How do they claim it?"

"They will go to the regimental accountant in Caedmyria. They will present their father's enlistment and discharge papers along with a letter from a priest or your local townmaster verifying they are who they say they are. His identity tags too. They're in his chest. The papers are all here." Hamyr pulled two sheets of paper studded with seals from the stack he had handed them. "Store them carefully," he told Clara.

Hamyr handed over a roll of fine sheepskin. "This is a deed to 117 acres of farmland. Part of your husband's pension. A gift from the king for his two decades of loyal service."

This was greeted with smiles and nods of approval.

"117 acres?" Faustyrn's father asked, open-mouthed. "I thought common soldiers only got 20 acres?"

"They get an acre of each year of service, yes," Hamyr said. He picked up Faustyrn's medal-studded belt from the chest. "But they get more when they win medals. And Faustyrn Yohanus won a lot of medals. He was one of the most decorated soldiers in the whole regiment."

Hamyr then launched into a lengthy explanation of the land and monetary rewards that came with each of the eleven medals on Faustyrn's belt. While Bogdyr listened intently, Allara let her mind wander. She only heard snippets of what Hamyr said. "Golden Spear… Silver Shield… Bronze Wall…"

"There is one missing," Clara observed after Hamyr was done. "Faustyrn won 12 medals. He wrote to me when he won his twelfth the last year. He was so happy. There are only 11 here. The missing one was bronze. It had a needle and some cloth engraved on it."

"Aah… the Bronze Bandage," Hamyr sighed. "Baenarites don't usually wear it. Or count it as a medal really."

"Why? It's a medal, no?" one of Faustyrn's or Petron's cousins, Allara couldn't be sure, asked.

"They give it to you when you get wounded in battle," Petron explained. "You can wear a silver or a gold bandage but it's considered pathetic to wear the bronze bandage. Every soldier has one."

"Every soldier?" the same cousin pushed, sounding impressed.

"Every soldier, yes. Except for cowards and cavalrymen," Bogdyr quipped.

This was met with gales of laughter from the soldiers and confused smiles from the Coopers. The Baenarites glummed up after a glare from Hamyr but the mood in the room took on a decidedly warm turn.

"Where is this land?" one of the cousins asked.

"Drapia," Clara's father answered. "Is it good land?" he asked Hamyr.

"Yes. I have seen it. The land is flat and the soil nice and black. A stream cuts through the southern border and nearby woods are full of game."

"But it's in Faustyrn's name. Who gets it?" an uncle asked.

"You know the law. Land goes to the eldest son. Unless you own more land here in which case you can convince him to cede it to his brother. Do you own any land here?"

"Only two acres," Faustyrn's father answered. "We rent the rest."

"You won't be paying rent on this parcel," Hamyr promised.

"Who else lives there?" another cousin asked.

"It's a colony for retired Baenarites. You will be in good company. Drapes' End is only a day away by horse. Good roads and lots of streams. Just like here."

"What about the barbarians?"

"Dead. Faustyrn Yohanus killed them all," Hamyr said. The Coopers chuckled at that.

"Why does this one say Trevantum? 50 acres it says. Not 117," a cousin who had been quiet all through waved around a sheet of paper.

"I forgot about that," a flustered Hamyr said. "It's a settlement grant. Not a land grant."

"What's the difference?" the cousin pressed.

"The land grant confirms your ownership of the land for the standard 100 years. That's the 117 acres Faustyrn Yohanus earned," Hamyr explained. "A settlement grant gives you the right to settle the land but you don't own it outright. The king is issuing settlement grants to the families of all the soldiers. We want good Rhexian families like yours to go to Trevantum and civilize those barbarians there. You get as much land as you can farm, up to fifty acres. If you keep cattle and horses, you get an acre for every animal, for goats and sheep it's an acre for every five animals, and for chickens, it's an acre for every twenty birds."

"How much is the rent on this land in Trevantum?" Clara's father asked.

"No rent for the first five years," Hamyr said. "From the sixth to the tenth years, you pay half the rent, 45 silver stallions per acre per year. It's only from the eleventh year that you pay the full rent."

"That's not bad. We pay 100 stallions an acre here. Five years of no rent sounds nice." Clara's father nodded as he examined the paper. "It's only valid for eighteen months!" he exclaimed.

"Eighteen months from the date of issue, which is today, yes," Hamyr agreed. "We want settlers who can get there quickly. If you can't go yourself you can send a relative who needs land. You could gift it to a neighbor or sell it to a stranger as long as the buyer is a citizen. If you don't settle the land in eighteen months it will be reallocated to someone else."

"And my son's land?" Faustyrn's father asked. "Will it be reallocated too if we don't go there in eighteen months?"

Hamyr shook his head. "No. That's all yours."

After some more back and forth, the Coopers signed the papers. The men headed off to the small village bathhouse while the women went to prepare dinner.

Clara invited Allara to use her private bath behind the house. It was screened by a barn and a wooden partition. It was an oval clay tub but as it was large enough for her to lie flat and submerge herself completely, Allara couldn't wait to jump in. She had been wiping herself down with a washcloth and a bowl of water for five days in a tent she shared with nine other women. A dip in a clay tub was a luxury.

The water was cool but soothing. Allara scrubbed herself with a hard bar of white soap she found on the rim of the tub. She drained the tub, refilled it, and just sat luxuriating in the water. She inspected herself. Her saddle sores were not as bad as she had feared and the cool water seemed to soothe them.

Allara lay in the tub, lost in thought until a worried Clara came to check on her. It was getting dark. "Are you alright?" Clara asked.

"Yes," Allara answered as she climbed out of the tub. The water had gotten chilly. "I haven't had a proper bath in a long time."

Clara led her into the house, chattering on inanely about all manner of subjects. Allara listened politely and nodded whenever it felt appropriate. Clara lent Allara one of her dresses. From the vibrant yellow color, the soft linen, the floral and silver lace embroidery, and the neat way in which it had been folded and stored, Allara knew it was one of her host's favorites.

It was the kind of dress a woman would wear to a feast, the temple, or to a wedding. It wasn't the kind of dress you lend a guest staying in your house for a single night. Allara tried to refuse and borrow something simpler but Clara insisted.

"You have been so good to us. I want you to wear it."

"I only accompanied them."

"I know. But you're all my guests. You brought blessings to a house wrecked by sadness. I want you to wear my favorite dress. It would look great on you."

Allara relented. Then Clara took it upon herself to comb and oil her hair. "Why is it so short?"

"I cut it," Allara said.

"Why? You have such great hair. Let it grow. I assure you will have the silkiest black curls south of The Drapes."

Allara blushed. She thought of telling Clara why she cut her hair but decided against it. Why let everyone know she was a slave when The Thunderbolt had told her she needn't wear her collar anymore? People treated her so much better when they thought she was just the sister of a Baenarite, a freeborn woman of respectable rank. Not a slave, the lowest of the low.