Azure's beaches hued in various shades of deep blue, made more startling by the lighter blue-green of the waves washing across its length. Sea birds cried and dove for fish or walked the beach pecking at crustaceans shelled in shades of mustard or vermilion. A cool breeze blew in off the waters, gently swaying the palm trees. Salt and the delicious odors of ripe fruits and freshly-bloomed flowers tinged the air, while the earthy smell of wet sand mingled with a hint of seaweed to ground the space in earth and sea.

Upon every palm tree hung a menial, long bronze spikes hammering their overlapping feet and crossed wrists into the tall trunks. Some sobbed, others screamed, others hung limp. A unit of versal warriors bedecked in bronze chest plates, greaves, and helmets herded a bound line of menials five times their number along the beach past their tortured fellows, accompanied by a scattering of archers ready to put down anyone who might try to make a run for it.

Their troop Commander walked among the prisoners, whip cracking. Anyone who collapsed from fatigue or fear or found themselves instantly swarmed by other menials rushing to help them or carry them. Others voluntarily carried the dead. This Commander knew a trick of the Small Masters - don't whip the one who fell, whip everyone else until they were up again.

When they finally reached the end of the grisly line of occupied trees to a stretch of unadorned palms, the bound gaggle of prisoners collapsed to the sand sobbing or sullen and silent. The Commander took off his brightly-plumed helm, wiped his brow, and paced up and down the group's length, a gloating sneer contorting his face as he stared down at them. Every menial he passed or laid eyes upon cowered, looked away, or collapsed further in on themselves.

"You," he said, pointing his whip at a young mother clutching her child close.

"No, please, I have a child," the woman cried, holding the young boy up like a holy relic.

"You won't for long," he said, smiling cruelly. "Give her here."

Cries of outrage and dark looks among the other menials brought a quick reprisal of whip-cracks and spear-haft beatings as the Commander lashed out around him and versal troops waded into their prisoners' midst to batter down anyone who dared to even raise their eyes from the sand.

"We can start with the dead ones," a young warrior said, keeping her voice respectful as the Commander removed his help and wiped sweat from his brow.

"You going soft, soldier?" the Commander barked, whirling on her. "They're all going up today. What difference it make which order?"

"Easier to get the dead out of the way, otherwise we have to drag their stinking bodies the whole way. Do them first and we don't have to. Also will help to save the kids for last since it can be a lot of work getting some of them up; best keep the lightest weakest ones for the end when we're all hot and tired."

"Hah! Smart one here. What's your name, warrior? With all the Plague-dead transfers can't keep track of you lot."

"Eonora," she replied, gesturing to the prisoners to carry forward the few bodies. The were all too happy to oblige when they realized it meant a few more minutes before it might be their turn.

"Same as that Legion officer who took those Legions rogue on Ziggurat and been fighting the Ancients? Wish she'd come to Azure, help prepare us to repel the main body of the Legions when the Ancients finally march on us."

"Perhaps she already lurks here with them, ready to ambush the Vale Legions when they make their assault."

"Lurks with a couple Legions? Where are they, then? Swimming in the oceans? Hiding behind the dead menials on the treeline? Pah." The Commander drank from a hide of wine while a couple menials were put to work climbing the short ladders they'd brought to perform the grisly work of pounding sharp bronze through limp, dead flesh of their dead fellows. "Seems a waste. Could just slit all their throats and have 'em for rotters."

Unauthorized content usage: if you discover this narrative on Amazon, report the violation.

"Rotter pens overflowing already, Commander," Eudora said, taking her own helmet off and wiping her brow. She winced and adjusted a blood-stained bandage on her arm. "This way all the fishing ships passing and clam diggers crawling the beach pawing at the sand see what happens when menials rise up against their superiors."

"Damned menials," the Commander spat, slapping his hand against the long sword dangling at his side. The motion staggered him in his drunken state. He seemed totally oblivious to the fact that he was the only Kin among the assembled troops, deaf to their mutters and blind to their wayward looks as he continued on. "Useless mouths breeding endlessly and clogging the verses with their ignorance and stink and stupidity."

A strident voice called from somewhere in the throng of prisoners. "Yet the clothes you wear, the bronze of your armor and weapons, the wine you drink all came from the endless labors of those menials, clogging the verses with food, cloth, and ore."

"Who said that!" the Commander shouted, spitting wine and storming into the sullen gathering of menials slumped down on the beach. "Which of you damned menials said that?"

He lashed out randomly with his whip several times before Semon stood, standing tall as all the prisoners around him shied away. The Commander stormed towards him, baring his teeth and raising his whip before he saw Semon's hands. "Why is this menial not bound like the others? Forget that next corpse, he's going up right now."

As Eudora and another warrior marched to Semon's side, he raised his hands, voice, and good eye towards the heavens. "They think to kill us menials, but no matter how many of us they burn or torture or nail to trees, they can't kill our faith. All who die are Mother's Martyrs, blessed by she who brings salvation. Give your suffering unto her that she may transform the raw grains of your pain and bake it into the sweet breads of paradise awaiting you in the next world. She is the bridge to a better world, a better life and we build it with our suffering. Paradise awaits us there. Paradise and justice for the living and the dead alike."

They dragged him towards the tree, the Commander shouting at, shoving, and kicking the now-standing menials who took the abuse in unflinching silence. Seeing them rise, Semon redoubled the force behind his words.

"All those who seek to oppress us, who maim and murder us, they all shall also follow us to the Mother's new Heaven upon their deaths and there reap a crop of pain tenfold the size of the suffering they thresh from your bodies. They shall be sustained like the Dynasts whom they kill us for, living ever-on in anguish eternal."

The troops nearby looked between themselves nervously, clearly troubled by his zealous confidence. Their glances ran back up the beach towards the last few dying menials visible on the trees beyond the dead they'd already pinned to the trees.

"You are the Semon, First Disciple of the Mother?" Eudora whispered as she bound his hands. Other warriors set up the post-and-pulley they used to yank the condemned aloft so they could carry out their punishment.

"Yes, it is my blessing to be he," Semon said, forcing himself not to look at the baskets of spikes as a pair of grunting warriors dropped them at the tree's base.

"You were not among us when we began the long walk from Port Villach; I counted the numbers closely when we departed. Why would you come here willingly to die?"

He leveled a beatific smile on her, hopefully radiating more peace and assurance than he felt. "It is not yet my day to die."

She frowned back, glancing at the Commander as he paced about, red-faced and bellowing. After a long pause, she spoke. "I don't think so either."

"Throw down your weapons when the fury of the Mother descends upon you, wayward warriors," Semon called out as they pulled lashed his wrists together and yanked his arms taut over his head. "Throw them down or wield them as you join our march alongside her as she leads us to freedom. All is forgiven to those who hold up her ideals yet nothing is forgotten about those who trample them - and us - down."

"Silence him!" the Commander bleared. He staggered to the base of the tree as they hefted Semon aloft.

Semon managed to sustain his smile despite the wrenching pain in his old shoulders as they hauled him up. Fear trembled in his guts and it took everything he had to keep the tremble out of his voice. "The Mother steals away my pain. I feel her close, ready to claim those loyal to her and to smite those who dare stand in the path of her unstoppable stride across The All."