With a grunt of effort, Theodora tipped over her frayed flaxen sack. Reddish ore clattered out onto the weigh-station.

  The camp overseer shooed her back toward the rest of the prisoners, then tared the scales. He adjusted the weights twice before they held at balance, obviously disappointed they failed to settle on either of his first two guesses.

  He glowered at her, then back at the weigh-station. But she had met her day’s quota, once again, and they both knew it. He scooped his trowel into the trough of sawdust-thickened porridge, and slopped a full portion into her empty sack.

  Retreating with her ‘reward,’ Theo watched as the next prisoner in line stepped up to the scales. About half as much ore fell from his sack onto the weigh-station, and she cringed in pity. Of the thousand or more prisoners put to work in that camp, only Theo and perhaps a dozen others typically presented enough ore each day to receive the whole ‘meal’ to which they were in theory entitled.

  But if she was telling the truth, though, Theo almost had to make a conscious effort not to feel too proud of herself, for earning that distinction.

  If not for the ultimate reason why she knew they were being compelled to that forced labor… it was almost the sort of work she might’ve enjoyed. It was very tangible, and straightforward. And she was good at it. When she focused on putting her well-cultivated muscles into action, the result of her efforts were clear. And she was proud to share her extra rations with those who couldn't earn as much, even if she wasn't proud to be forced to do labor for the enemy in a broader sense.

  “Belisarion.”

  Junius brushed past her with a nod, before weaving deeper into the crowd of prisoners queued for their rations. Theo checked around, then slipped after him, further out of sight.

  That was the silver lining to what appeared to be Setet’s ongoing streak of battlefield defeats: a constant influx of new prisoners-of-war meant Theo and Junius had plenty of company, if nothing else. As such, the camp was almost too full for the wardens to keep everyone well-monitored at all times.

  “New word, on the plan,” Junius muttered, once they’d migrated to the sparser rear area of the crowd. “Got a tentative connection for some birds, now. A civilian herder on the outside who can get a hundred or more decent mounts within a mile of the camp perimeter. We give her the signal, riot the next morning, then whoever can make it a mile on foot in time is home free.”

  Theo checked around them again. But indeed, for the moment, the nearest wardens appeared occupied with other matters.

  “Only a hundred birds?” she frowned. “So what about… for everyone else?”

  “No, you’re right about that,” said Junius. “We can’t take everyone. We should only encourage the most committed to riot, the night before. The rest, we should warn off.”

  “Sir…” said Theo. “Even I know that isn’t realistic. We won’t be able to control it like that. They’ll all get swept up in the moment. Even if they don’t… anyone left behind will be made an example in reprisals, no matter how well-behaved they were, if the Albians can’t punish the few of us who do get away.”

  Junius scowled at the dusty earth, shaking his head.

  “If that’s what we’re dealing with… that might just be what we’re dealing with,” he said. “I hate to say it. But what’s the alternative? Just sit and wait and hope the rumors are true, that Tanhkmet or someone is planning a rescue?”

  “No… I don’t know,” said Theo. “But shouldn’t we wait at least a bit longer, to see if we can’t drum up some other plan at least a little more promising? I mean, hanging nine hundred of us out to dry… more than that, really, each day that passes… we have to be able to do better than that, right?”

  “That’s just the thing,” said Junius. “There’s so many new prisoners arriving each day. And probably plenty going to other camps we don’t know about, too. The frontline has to be in freefall, if the Albians are taking that many prisoners… so maybe Tanhkmet or whoever can’t spare anybody to help us right now. And we’re on our own. And so maybe there won’t ever be a better chance to make a break for it. Maybe if we wait too long — which might not be that much longer — the enemy will rout the last of our conventional forces, and there won’t be any friendly territory for us to escape back into anymore at all. So maybe we have to cut our losses now, and try to make a play sooner rather than later. If enough of us can escape to form the nucleus of a partisan force, for example, maybe that could divert enough of the Albians’ focus to help stabilize the frontline. But maybe if we wait too long, the frontline collapses before we can give it that room to breathe.”

  “No matter what we end up doing, sir,” said Theo, “We’re only gonna get one shot to do it. And with the rumors we’ve heard, about some sort of mission trying to reach us… I think we’d be foolish not to take just a bit longer. Maybe we wait and miss our shot… but maybe we figure out what we know, and make a better play when we do.”

  This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  “It's easy for you to say that, you know,” said Junius. “Not everyone’s taken to mining potash as agreeably as you have. I mean, you practically enjoy it. Have you considered fetching less ore for the Albians each day, and being content with a bit less porridge? You realize each pound of ore you bring them is helping their war effort, right?”

  “That’s… not all fair, sir,” said Theo. “We’re all doing the best we can... I pass around almost half my extra rations to those who can’t bring in as much, even when that leaves me hungry.”

  Junius cupped his cheek with one hand.

  “Sorry.”

  He shook his head.

  “I know, of course… that’s not what I meant. It's just… a tough call, I have to make, here. I don’t mean to imply… no, you’re right. We probably should wait at least a few days… I mean, I don’t know. I don’t know.”

  Another prisoner limped up to them along the camp’s perimeter fence. He looked first to Junius, then Theo, adjusting a pair of cracked spectacles.

  “You’re… talking about… th- th- th-ings you shouldn’t be… aren’t you?” he stuttered.

  “Course not,” said Junius. “What’s it to you?”

  “I kn-kn-know something I sh-sh-shouldn’t… I know a reason for keeping h-h-hope. They wh-wh-whipped me for it. Do you wanna kn-kn-know? Why keep h-h-hope?”

  Theo and Junius shared a glance.

  “S-s-saint Aurelia… li-li-lives.”

  * * *

  Io always had a way with savanna birds. She’d learned to ride before she’d learned to walk, or so her grandmother claimed.

  It certainly hadn’t hurt to grow up with the creatures, around the family farm. But her older sister Mede had grown up the same, taking care of the animals just as she, and even humble Io would admit she had a certain knack for reining in the beasts that Mede did not.

  That was why Io was unafraid, when the strange wild flock from the east first began to cross their pastures. Rather than sheltering in their farmhouse with Mede and their grandmother, she’d rode toward the stampede. If they were going to trample the fields, Io thought they might as well break in the strongest stallion for their own stables, so at least they’d have something to show for the ruined season.

  But after riding to the front of the herd, Io found the lead male wasn’t wild at all. He was even still fixed with his saddle.

  He’d fought her at first. But he was quick to relent, against the combined resistance of Io and her favorite mare. Almost as if his heart wasn’t really in it. And when she’d climbed atop his back herself, he’d allowed her without protest.

  He’d once been a cavalry bird, she saw, inspecting the saddle. ‘Horus’ was embossed beneath the saddlehorn.

  For the next two months, she ran Horus every day.

  He wasn’t like their farm’s birds of burden. He was strong like them, but swift and dextrous rather than deliberate and plodding. Each day, she took him to the foothills beyond their pasture and back, fast and free, the way she’d always dreamed as a girl. Remembering the legends she’d heard from traveling poets, and imagining herself a lancer of Maxadin’s fabled companion cavalry, riding forth the dawn of empire.

  One day as she returned to the farmhouse, Mede came from the back door, waving her away. Her sister was slow even as she hurried, waddling off-balance, careful of her late pregnancy.

  “Go, Io! Ride back to the hills! Don’t come back until sundown. Go!”

  Io swung Horus around at once, and kicked the spurs.

  She’d pushed him to a full sprint for thirty seconds, before curiosity got the better of her, and she pulled back on the reins again.

  Mede had already returned inside, she saw.

  Io frowned.

  Mede was still always treating her like a child. Her sister and grandmother would need her help, if anything, if there was some danger at the farmhouse.

  Returning to the porch, Io slid off the saddle, and crept up to the rear window.

  Two men wearing tan-canvas uniforms stood before the hearth. Io wasn’t sure, but they looked like soldiers. During the past few months, she’d overheard her sister and grandmother speaking in hushed tones about some war, but for some reason, they’d never wanted to answer her questions about it.

  Io slipped in through the back door to eavesdrop from the kitchen.

  “...and you already took so many of us,” said Mede. “I haven’t heard from Marcus in months now. His baby will grow up without a father…”

  “He was drafted two months ago,” said the first soldier. “But this is for a new round of emergency conscription. And the records indicate this household hasn’t yet contributed a single head.”

  “Who do we have to give?” asked Io’s grandmother. “Mede's in no condition for soldiering.”

  “The last census reported two more adults and an adolescent at this property,” said the soldier. “Your parents and a sibling?"

  “They died when the fever came through, two winters ago,” said Mede. “Ask anyone in town.”

  “The empire needs soldiers, ma’am. If there’s really nobody else, then I’m afraid you’ll have to come with us. Your infant can be sent back to be raised by your grandmother here, after you give birth.”

  Biting her lip, Io at last stepped forth from the kitchen.

  “Hello there,” said the canvas-jacketed man. He raised an eyebrow back at Mede.

  “Oh, Io,” said Mede, beginning to cry. “I told you…”

  “Have you been listening to us?” asked the recruiting sergeant.

  “Yes, sir,” said Io.

  “So you know we’re from the draft office of the Imperial Army.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “She’s too young,” wailed Mede, burying her tears in their grandmother’s arms. “She’s just my baby sister…”

  “How old are you, young lady?” asked the recruiting sergeant.

  Io took one last look at Mede’s swollen belly.

  “Sixteen, sir,” she lied. “...And I wanna be in the cavalry.”

  "With morale in doubt and our pride run out no honor did I see

  All I seen were a thousand dreams piled dead in front of me"

  Corb Lund