Sweat rolled down his nose and splashed his aching hands.

  Kaleb gulped another lungful of clammy air. Disgusting. He’d rather breathe sulfur. Mosquitoes left his arms specked with itchy welts. Worse, their droning was enough to drive him mad.

  That was, if this drudgery hadn’t already done so.

  He squashed mud and straw into fist-sized clumps. I’m a beetle, rolling dung. He slapped one into a mold, wetted his hands from a basin, and slicked the mud smooth. The bricks would bake in the sun, rank on rank, for fifteen days. Then they’d be rushed to the kilns, fired for another day, and stashed in storehouses.

  What came after didn’t matter. Kaleb would still be here, molding brick after brick.

  One-third straw, one-third mud, one-third man.

  Each hour brought lines of camels and donkeys, their backs bent under sheaves of straw. The weakest of the tribe chopped at the sheaves and passed them along. Amputees, ancients, hunchbacks, rags clinging to their bones like leeches. Mud-slicked children drew buckets with shadoofs, then filled basins for bricklayers.

  The Zirash slithered along like some fat, ponderous slug. Sultry breezes played on the river, rousing stenches earthy, musty, fishy. Herons stalked the shallows, their webbed feet slapping playfully. One met Kaleb’s gaze, its yellow eyes mocking in their aspect. It stood tall and proud, as if to say, “Look at me. I’m free. Meanwhile, you toil in the mud.”

  Kaleb’s jaw clenched. It’d take more than a bird to rattle him, even if it was making a damn good attempt. He’d bigger problems anyway, like the taskmasters at every turn.

  The nearest one was built like a bull, and each stomp sank him half a head into the mud. His skin shaded from olive to bronze in the merciless sunlight. He stopped beside Kaleb, stroking the tails of his whip. “Too much water. Bricks won’t hold.”

  Kaleb had indeed smeared them liberally, but only because his basin was overflowing. It was that brat’s fault, the one working the nearest shadoof. No older than eight or nine, draped in tattered sackcloth. He pushed the counterweight and tottered closer to empty another bucket.

  The taskmaster blocked him. “Mind what you do, boy.”

  The whip cracked out against the boy’s cheek. The shriek that followed sent geese flapping from nearby reeds. He dropped to the mud, pawing at his bloodied face.

  The taskmaster cracked the whip again, this time at nothing. “Go!”

  The boy scurried away.

  The taskmaster turned back to Kaleb. “Be not idle, Toraphite. Go.”

  Kaleb plodded past a troop of Kergalonian soldiers. Though loath to admit, he was in awe of them. Their beards looked fit for statues, curled and oiled. Their kilts were woven from finer linen than he’d ever touched, bedight with beads and tassels.

  He could’ve stood amongst them in another life, could’ve walked with pride. Yet here he wasted away, a shadow of a man.

  Kaleb trudged through turgid tracts of mud, water seeping between his feet and sandals. If he wasn’t careful, the earth would swallow him whole. The sun bloomed harsh and white, not unlike those ugly flowers sprouting from the muck.

  His tribespeople hacked straw, worked shadoofs, molded bricks. Chop, splash, slap. Sometimes the rhythm varied, but it was always punctuated by the crack of a whip. Those who’d succumbed to sunstroke lay sprawled in the mud, dotted with flies.

  Kaleb found a bitter solace knowing he wouldn’t live long. Who’d want to grow old in the brickyards?

  A reed-woven hut squatted uphill, looking like a bloated toad in the sun’s glare. Kaleb squinted. His damn, stupid chieftain stood outside. The old man raised his staff, a show of authority. Shove it up your ass, old man. Better yet, join me in the brickyards. There’s hardly a difference.

  As if hearing the thought, the chieftain shook his head.

  “Goatfucker,” Kaleb spat.

  At the next post he set himself to mixing more mud, more straw. Coughs erupted from his left hand.

  “Keep the mud out of my mouth,” Jaspeth snapped. “We may share this body, but I’m not sharing in your bloody labors.”

  Words were all Jaspeth had. They let him give vent to his own rare breed of bitterness. He might’ve deserved pity, but not from Kaleb.

  “Quiet,” Kaleb shot back, glancing around. “The guards’ll hear us.”

  “Good. You could use some discipline.”

  Without missing a beat, a whip cracked against Kaleb’s neck. He gnashed his teeth to keep from crying out. His mother oft said, “A rod for a child, a goad for an ox, and a whip for a fool.”

  “You’ll lose that hand if it keeps prattling, Toraphite,” said the offending taskmaster.

  Another broke into raucous laughter. “Do you please yourself with that hand, boy?”

  That joke grew stale long ago.

  Kaleb finished the tenth row of bricks, then caught the taskmaster’s nod toward another spot downstream. He sloshed through shallows, swatting at mosquitoes with one hand; the other rubbed his aching neck. He could guzzle ten waterskins, for one grew thirsty in the brickyards. Thirsty, and bone-deep tired. Still, he knelt back into the mud.

  Jaspeth fixed his gaze on someone. “Ah, Tevreb.”

  The girl at the next basin lifted her head. She was pretty, if you could overlook her missing tooth and all the grime that caked her face. That said, she stank as bad as anyone else and her robe hung in tatters. “Didn’t gag him today, Kaleb?”

  “Someone else can do it.”

  She scooped mud from her lap and got back to work. “I’ll skin his tongue. Someone has to keep you out of trouble.”

  “He already brought the taskmasters down on me today,” Kaleb said. “He’ll do it again.”

  “Not if I shove this mud down his throat. Say, did you get back at Sachareb?”

  “No. Some shepherd-looking bastard saved him.”

  Tevreb’s nostrils flared as if they’d caught a sharp scent. “It’s true, then? Sachareb was playin’ host to a Gilgamite, and Yasha drew it outta him?”

  Kaleb nodded. “Ah, Yasha. I’d forgotten about him.”

  She shaved excess clay from her bricks with a chisel. “No secret you hated Sachareb, but he’d been actin’ strange, he had.”

  “Damn drunk.”

  “Not that. I know folks close to him, say he changed. It’d been that Gilgamite’s fault.”

  “Bodes something ill, eh?”

  She nodded. “The Gilgamites had gone quiet for years. Till now, that is. Maybe they smell weakness.”

  He shook his head. “What’d we ever do to them?”

  “They’re vultures, always circlin’, waitin’. If they’re back, we ought to—”

  “—be ready,” Kaleb finished.

  Tevreb crinkled her nose, like she’d bitten into something sour. “What’d that Gilgamite look like, anyway?”

  “Not much. Yasha killed it.”

  She swallowed. “My father told me to stay away from Yasha.”

  “My mother said the same.”

  “I reckon he’s in league with those Gilgamites. Yesterday was all for show. Yasha wants to lull us into trustin’ him.”

  “I saw him work his powers.”

  She dragged her wrist across her brow, leaving a muddy streak. “They say he controls the air itself and changes his form at will and heaven knows what else. You only gain those powers by consortin’ with dark forces, Kaleb.”

  “I’ve bigger worries, like the Kergalonians.”

  Tevreb put a finger to her lips. “Careful. If I can hear you, so can they.”

  “Good,” Kaleb huffed. “I’ll ask why they need so many damn bricks.”

  Trumpets blared at high noon. Everyone else snapped to attention, but Kaleb sighed. Must every self-important bastard announce his coming with a fanfare?

  One taskmaster cracked his whip wildly, pacing like a caged animal. “On your knees, Toraphites!”

  “Prince Entunki’s comin’,” Tevreb said.

  Kaleb’s stomach twisted at the thought of Jaspeth speaking out of turn. That fool will be the death of me. He pressed his palm down, leaving enough space for his brother to breathe.

  Two columns of spearmen approached, mud sucking at their sandals.

  Striding between them was a camel that stood a head taller than the common dromedary. Its coat was cropped and combed, white like the sun above. The beast moved through the mire as if gliding through a flowerbed. A swiftwind, bred for easy riding.

  Kaleb had almost overlooked the rider, but one couldn’t avoid that shimmering fool for long. His perfume unfurled in cloying waves, myrrh and sandalwood and frankincense. Always pomp and show with this one.

  Entunki gnawed at his thumbnail, unfazed. A cup-shaped crown bobbed atop his royal scalp, threatening to slide off. He sported a unibrow, apparently a mark of taste in Kergalon. His eyes were blacker than his hair, and his jawline was bare, speckless, lacking the ornate beard so commonly found on his countrymen. He was decked in bangles, brooches, and signet rings, all hammered from red gold. He drew rein and peered down at the Toraphites with a sneer teetering on contempt.

  Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.

  Kaleb’s chieftain hobbled through the mud to greet him. “You bless us with this visit, Your Radiance.”

  Entunki lifted his chin, eyes narrowed. “Tell me, do I exude strength or tenderness?”

  “Er… I would say you are most strong.”

  “You’re saying I’ve no tenderness?”

  The old man shifted uncomfortably. “In that case, you are both strong and tender.”

  Entunki’s frown deepened. He swung a flyswatter at the nearest mosquito. “Choose one.”

  Kaleb’s chieftain cast a furtive glance at his tribe, seeking reassurance from someone, anyone. He turned back to the prince. “Then you are indeed tender.”

  “You’re saying I’m not strong?”

  “Never!”

  Entunki scratched his chin. “Where can I find the chieftain?”

  Kaleb watched, certain his chieftain’s head would burst from the strain. “I am the chieftain,” said the old man.

  “I mistook you for someone else, then,” Entunki said. “Anyway, I’m here on urgent business. I hear that your sheep are shirking their duties. How do you answer that charge?”

  “Guilty, I am afraid. Work is always slow after the Day of Rest.”

  Entunki slashed absently at the mosquito, unable to catch it. “Father sent another three hundred soldiers, and they need barracks. I won’t let any more stay in my palace, I won’t! I can’t bear the stench of mud. How do you Toraphites wallow in it all day?”

  “We live to serve Kergalon, Your Radiance.”

  “Your right to use that word ends now. Kergalon is what I want, and the sooner you bake those bricks, the sooner I can go home. Father won’t let me back until my task is done. I don’t want to be here from seedtime to fucking harvest. If it were up to me, I’d burn the place!”

  Kaleb nodded from afar. We have that in common.

  Entunki curled his lip at the elusive mosquito, then tossed the flyswatter over his shoulder. “Stand, Toraphites.” They obeyed.

  The chieftain trudged closer. “How may we serve Your Radiance?”

  “The Brazen Dove is hungry for another offering. Pick one of your sheep.”

  “Fewer sheep will mean fewer bricks, Your Radiance. Fewer bricks will mean fewer—”

  “Pick one or I will pick you.”

  The chieftain held his tongue, then craned his neck at the crowd. Of all the ways to die, being the Brazen Dove’s next meal was neither painless nor dignified. Curled up in its metal bowels as flames licked away beneath, roasting you alive. A quick end would be better, but not nearly as amusing for Entunki.

  Kaleb’s heart thundered and his jaw locked tight. He didn’t want to fear, but fear kept him alive, but damned if he didn’t hate this feeling.

  With a trembling forefinger, the chieftain pointed in Kaleb’s direction. “Him.”

  Kaleb’s neck shrank into his shoulders, but then bare feet slapped the mud behind him. He turned as a rawboned old man trudged past him and settled at the chieftain’s side. This month’s offering was a bricklayer who looked like he’d been toiling since before Kaleb’s father was born.

  The chieftain cleared his throat. “Zazeb ben Laheb has toiled for forty years, but his strength has waned to a dim light. It is time for him to rest.”

  Kaleb cast around, anger rising in his gut. Not one of his people protested. Their pathetic, dirt-streaked faces had him balling his fists. He’d seen this before, yes, but today felt different.

  Entunki stroked his camel around the ears, then down the mane. “Splendid, Your Holiness. That’s why Kergalon loves you. Always making the hard decisions for your tribe. Truly an example for all—”

  “Forget the old man,” Kaleb cried. “Take me instead!”

  The prince’s jaw dropped.

  Kaleb’s chieftain stamped his staff in the mud. “You dare interrupt His Radiance, Kaleb?”

  Kaleb squared his shoulders. “The old man shouldn’t die that way. Spare him some dignity. I’ll feed the Brazen Dove.” What are you saying? You’ve condemned yourself!

  Entunki’s camel snorted at Kaleb. The prince shook his head in dumb disbelief. “What are you saying, fool? Why would you . . . ?”

  Zazeb, the old bricklayer, glared daggers at Kaleb. “I didn’t ask for pity, boy.”

  The chieftain glanced up at Entunki. “Forgive his impudence. He knows not what he does. But if death he desires, then death he shall have.”

  “No,” the prince said, blinking as though waking from a stupor. “He won’t die. Give me the old man.”

  Sighing, Kaleb shrank back.

  “Ten lashes for the other one,” Entunki hissed.

  Three guards lunged at Kaleb, two seizing his shoulders, one kicking the back of his knees. He splashed face-first into the muck, and the world turned into a brown swirl of pain. A fourth guard stomped closer, the same brute who’d struck the child earlier. He stroked the tails of his whip, bits of dried blood flaking off like scabs.

  Entunki fished around in his saddlebag, produced a gold shekel, and flipped it into Kaleb’s hand. The guards stepped back, allowing him to catch it.

  The prince flashed an overbright smile. “Whose face is that?”

  Entunki’s profile had been carved in low relief on the shekel, though the image was far more handsome than the fop perched on the camel. Kaleb lifted his head. “Yours?”

  “Ah,” Entunki said, puffing out his chest. “My father is the King of Kergalon. That gives me, not you, dominion over life and death. Or am I wrong? Who might your father be?”

  The shekel slipped through Kaleb’s fingers.

  Entunki smirked. “As I thought.”

  The taskmasters tightened their grip, holding Kaleb steady as the whip-wielding brute edged closer. At the prince’s signal, the whip cracked. Each blow felt like a snakebite. Warm blood trickled down Kaleb’s back. He’d a heavy hand, the taskmaster, each lash jarring Kaleb, leaving him choking, sputtering through the pain. He crumpled into the mud with a humiliating plop.

  Entunki chortled. “You won’t escape the brickyards that easily, Toraphite.”

  Kaleb lifted his head and found this month’s offering staring down at him.

  “His Holiness granted me the mercy of death,” Zazeb said. “I should curse you for standing between me and freedom.”

  Bronze-clad guards clapped the old bricklayer in bonds, then dragged him off to meet his fate. Entunki trotted uphill, smirking, followed by a column of loyal soldiers.

  The chieftain shook his head at Kaleb, then turned away. “Your mother was a baboon, your father a donkey.”

  Tevreb approached Kaleb with a bloated waterskin. “Let me wash away the blood.”

  “What were you thinking, fool?” Jaspeth asked. “Offering your life for a man on his deathbed? Madness!”

  Kaleb shuddered as water splashed his raw wounds. “Wasn’t thinking at all.”

  Tevreb rubbed her brow. “You won’t be so lucky next time. Do somethin’ stupid like that again, and Entunki will send you to the Brazen Dove.”

  Kaleb’s tribe was released three hours before dusk. He washed himself in the river, slipped into a tunic, and tied a sash around his waist. Only the lame donkeys remained in the pens. One with patchy fur and half an ear lifted its head at Kaleb. It tried to bray but made a whimper instead, a plea.

  “No thanks,” Kaleb grunted.

  Tents dotted the earth, cloaked in skin and canvas, or else muslin. His tribe had been confined to these camps for generations, their original homes repurposed as barracks and watchtowers for Kergalonians.

  A pushcart trundled along, laden with leeks and lentils. Kaleb sidestepped. One woman bore a yoke across her shoulders, buckets dangling from either end, packed with spiny eels. Behind her, children brandished flyswatters, giggling, slapping each other, too young for brickyard toil. Give it time, though, and their smiles would fade.

  In some corners, flyblown corpses were stacked high enough to overshadow Kaleb. Those not dead yet looked it, ribs stark against bloated bellies. Barefoot lepers shambled through alleyways, their skin as frayed as their rags, and passersby gave them a wide berth. Dogs—many missing eyes and ears—warred over scraps, their fangs clamped around hunks of meat.

  Jaspeth frowned.

  “What’s wrong?” Kaleb asked.

  “Pitiful, all of them.”

  “Leave them alone. Kergalon has done our tribe enough harm.”

  “They harm us because of weaklings like you. If I were the head and you the hand, the world would be at my feet.”

  “A fool’s mouth is his undoing.”

  “Did Mother tell you that? You’re the fool, Kaleb. You have fire, youth, the strength of a bull, yet you squander your blessings. Do as I say, and you’ll be exalted among the gods.”

  “And what should I do?”

  “Raise an army, march on Kergalon itself. Butcher their men and women and feed their children to jackals.”

  “I’m not some butcher.”

  “You’d be our deliverer. Your name would spread from Azdaya to Mefithys. The conqueror of conquerors, Kaleb ben Zohar!”

  “Forget it.”

  “What about our birthright? Azavel waits to be rebuilt.”

  Kaleb spat. “Azavel is long gone.”

  “The land, but not the blood. We remain, as do other tribes. What if we all joined hands? Why couldn’t we conquer this world?”

  “We’re lower than dirt, that’s why. Keep spinning yarns, though. It won’t get rid of Kergalon, won’t bring back Azavel.”

  It was when sunset reddened the sky that he reached his mother’s tent, a sagging patchwork of skins and wools that barely held its ground, squashed between collapsed lean-tos and splintered sheepfolds. A gray wisp spiraled from the smoke hole. Kaleb opened the fly and poked his head inside.

  In the moted sunlight that filtered through the ceiling his mother sat before a sandalwood loom, busy working warp and weft into a shawl. She wore a headscarf of similar weave, and the lamp behind her cast a dim glow over the walls.

  Kaleb passed her without a word, cracked open a date-wood chest, and rummaged around.

  His mother shifted. “What are you looking for?”

  “Balm of Temah,” he said. “Ten lashings today.”

  “You doubtless brought that upon yourself.”

  He unstoppered a flask and turned to her. “How would you know?”

  “Because a fool’s mouth is his undoing.”

  “Don’t mind him, Mother,” Jaspeth said. “I’ve always been the better son. Remember how long it took to wean me off your milk?”

  “You boys love me more than the morning dew, aye. That’s why you never cease to remind me of your father.”

  Kaleb smeared his back with thick, white salve. Coolness rushed over his skin, feeling like heaven’s breath. “I’ve said nothing of him today.”

  “I can only imagine what you did to earn those lashes.”

  He slammed the chest shut. “I stood up to Prince Entunki.”

  She removed her hands from the loom. “Then you’ve truly lost your wits.”

  “I don’t fear Kergalon.”

  His mother sighed, pressing her fingers into her temples. Kaleb seized her wrists, inspected her hands. Her knuckles were gnarled, and the calluses on her palms were rougher than a rhino’s hide. Her feet fared little better.

  His mouth quirked. “How did this happen?”

  She pulled away. “Need you ask? Since the harvest began, I’ve been toiling for ten hours a day. Sometimes more.”

  “It wouldn’t be this way if Father were here.”

  She bunched her jaws. “Is that so? Go find him, then.”

  “Maybe I will.”

  “You boys wouldn’t last a moon outside Toramesh. Even if you could survive the desert, there are beasts and mercenaries out there besides. From what I hear, the Scarlet Scorpions are pillaging both sides of the Great Sea.”

  “Father survived the world.”

  “He lost something out there, when he was at war.”

  “He never said anything about the war. You don’t know why he left.”

  Outside, wind pattered the tent’s walls. Kaleb planted himself before the hearth, where a copper cauldron squatted above flames. He helped himself to lentil stew—red and steaming—and wolfed it down in seven heartbeats. It left a salty aftertaste and warmed his belly.

  His mother returned to the loom and added another line to the shawl. “You had to be there to understand. The Twelve Lost Tribes came like a plague, leaving nothing but death and woe in their wake. You’re free to hate the Kergalonians, but they were the first to oppose those savages.”

  Kaleb lowered his bowl.

  “When the Kergalonians levied troops, your father was eager to join. The brickyards weren’t his place. He’d always been a fighter. I was with child then, and I begged him not to go, because I thought he’d never return. In a way, I was right.”

  “How?”

  “Your father returned, yes, but only with a sliver of himself. War didn’t do that to him. War couldn’t do that to him. He was made for war. I reckon he saw something out there, something that broke him, and I shudder at the thought.”

  Kaleb stood. “I don’t need to hear this.”

  “Whatever it was, it haunted him. So much so that he left us.”

  He grabbed a waterskin on the way out. “You’ve given up on him, but I haven’t.”

  “Don’t say that, Kaleb. I—”

  He stormed into the waning light of day, drinking greedily from his skin. The water tasted grainy, but there could’ve been piss in it for all he cared. Here, you took what you got without question. Especially water. One sip from the river would have you rotting from the inside.

  He climbed the southern ridge and found refuge on an outcrop overlooking the camp. The horizon swallowed the sun like quicksand. The sky purpled in turn, darkening the sprawl of tents and folds below.

  “Kaleb,” Jaspeth said. “We can’t let Mother die here.”

  That we can’t. “If we get caught stealing away in the night, we’ll lose our feet.”

  “They can’t do that to everyone. If we all deserted at once, no one could stop us.”

  “Good luck convincing anyone,” Kaleb said, draining the waterskin to its last gritty drop. “Only Father had the sense to leave this place. Only Father.”