2nd of Andril, 1019 N.F (e.y.)
Necrem stabbed his spear into the straw-stuffed sackcloth tied to a post that represented a man. All around him, men of his squad yelled as they made their thrusts, stabbing their training posts.
Not him.
He had split his facial scars two times in as many days from all their forced exercises. He wrenched his six-foot-long weapon back, careless of whether the spearhead pulled out too much straw on the way out.
Like his hammering, Necrem fell into a rhythm with these drills. Step up in the line. Take his stance and level his spear. Wait for the command. Then thrust. Over and over again. It took less effort and thought than forging. He didn’t have to watch the fire’s heat, how hot the metal was, or how hard his hammer struck. Just thrust and pull back without deciding to ram the sharp metal head into the post.
“Rest!” Master Sergeant Raul yelled.
Necrem and the rest of his squad stepped away from the posts, followed behind multiple thumps from resting the butts of their spears on the ground.
He hissed through the holes in his leather mask. The humid air did little to relieve his irritated scars and skin rubbing against the sweat-soaked fabric, making it stick to his face.
He winced from his breastplate pinching his sides. He had taken too big a breath again. The plate was meant for a smaller man, as was everything when it came to Necrem. It reached only his abdomen, not reaching his waist, leaving the bottom of his belly exposed. It was also tight. He felt pressed between two walls with his slippery, sweaty shirt and puffy jacket to keep him from being crushed with little to help him breathe. He tried to suck more air through his nose holes, but his sides expanded, and the plate got too tight.
I need air!
Sweat dripped into his eyes, and he started to pant. He reached for the strap on the side of his plate.
“Shoulder spears!” Master Sergeant Raul yelled.
No! Necrem growled, following the command with the rest of his company, and shouldered his spear. His breathing quickened. I need to breathe! Just let us rest!
“Company will run!” Raul mercilessly ordered.
Groans rippled through the company to be met with the ridicule from the other sergeants.
“That’s an extra mile, filth!” Raul snapped. “After that, rack your spears, clean your kits, and report to the camp kitchens. Move!”
Necrem desperately shoved his exhaustion down and followed the man in front of him. The company had to form blocks of squads to run together, but his plate denied him any time to catch his breath while it did.
“Quick run!” Raul shouted.
One by one, the lines in front of Necrem started moving.
His limbs felt heavy when he moved with his line. He grunted from the aching protest of his knees. They throbbed and begged for him to stop, his size and age finally catching up to him. His feet squished inside his boots as if they were filled with water, although they were likely filled with sweat, adding more weight for him to lift.
“Battles are all about running!” a company sergeant yelled as he sprinted up the line but didn’t carry a spear like the rest of them. “You run to form up, you run into position, and you run as you charge! An army that doesn’t run dies! No slacking!”
Necrem lowered his head and did his best to bull through everything—the frustration, the aches and pains, the sweat. All around him, men grunted and panted. Their spears knocking against their shoulders and plates, filling the air along with the sound of their rumbling boots.
He fell into a rhythm again. Just one foot in front of the other. Head straight, staring over the head of the man in front of him and down the line ahead. Looking for the end of the road, panting and struggling with every step.
~~~
Necrem clung to his spear, leaning against it as he struggled through the main camp, hunched and doubled over, toward his company’s tents. His boots made loud, wet squishes with every step. His feet burned. A biting sting pierced the side of left foot, just where the inside curve met his boot.
I’m going to have another blister in the morning. He had already dealt with several, and the camp doctor was already complaining about the number of injured feet he was having to deal with. He kept moving despite the pain in his feet and creaking of his knees. He wasn’t welcomed here.
“Walk it off, levy!” the fifth calleros, wearing Baron Cayeton’s bronze, yelled at him. “We’ll make a soldier out of you yet!”
Laughter followed him, but Necrem kept moving without looking back.
Their army camped against a tributary to the Desryol Sea, north of Luente, a town with the only bridge across the tributary’s largest creek, the Ruela. Their camp was twice as large as the town, and no one from the conscripted companies, Necrem’s included, were allowed near it.
Conscripted companies made up the bulk of the camp, close to seven thousand men, all crammed together to sleep and eat between the daily routine of being marched out to train and exercise. Surrounding them, pinning them against the tributary, were the multiple companies of barons assigned to escort Don Givanzo Borbin, the marqués’s son. A couple of those companies were from Saran.
A sour smell in the air told Necrem he was coming up on his company’s tents. The large tents of the calleroses and their chosen men fell away, revealing the smaller, squat tents of conscripts. Long spear racks divided the two camps with provost guards in shining plates, red jackets, and halberds, watching everyone who passed between the camps.
Necrem knew the routine without the guards having to order it. He was already making his way toward the nearest rack with an open slot before the first guard stepped to block his entry. No conscript was allowed to bring their spears with them into their camp. The master sergeant had made it clear that was another flogging offense.
He put his spear on the rack and braced himself against his knees. He squeezed and rubbed the throbbing joints. Without his makeshift walking cane, the rest of his trip was going to be the most painful.
He stood as straight his could, but he still limped. His right leg felt heavier than his left, requiring more effort to pick his foot up. The shooting pain from the knee nearly caused him to drag it behind him. He winced at every second step from the bouncing torture of his blistering left foot and near collapse of his right leg.
“Step lively, soldier,” a provost guard ordered. “If you don’t clean your kit up in time, you won’t eat.”
Necrem nodded and limped by.
I’m too exhausted to eat. The only thing he wanted was to strip out of the ill-fitting armor and wet clothes then collapse in his tent. His stomach, however, suddenly growled.
“And get that breastplate strap fixed!” another guard shouted after him. “If you’ve neglected Si Don’s arms, it will come out of your pay or off your back.”
Necrem grunted. He hardly noticed the small, scraping taps of the strap clasp on the side of his plate. He vaguely remembered wrenching the clasp loose so he could breathe during the run. Now, he didn’t care.
The Easterly Sun’s descending rays reflected off the tops of his company’s tents, ten rows of twenty-five, all divided by squad and sergeant. Being in the master sergeant’s squad, Necrem’s tent was on the main lane through the tents, but all the way in the back, near the alarm lines by the woods.
“Hurry up, Jandr!” Maeso yelled. “We’re starving.” He and six others waited impatiently outside a tent, arms folded and somewhat cleaned up after their day’s training.
The conscripted thieves in their squad had formed their own little cadre, as Necrem saw them, with Maeso as their leader. They did everything together and grouped with one another outside of training, for alibis when the master sergeant came around asking about things being stolen around camp and protection from other cadres of thieves in camp.
Necrem hobbled over to the far side of the lane to avoid them.
“Getting old, big man?” one of them called after him when he was almost past them.
He didn’t stop. He might be big, but there were more of them, and he was in no shape for any amount of trouble.
“Hey! I’m talking to—”
“Leave him alone,” Maeso warned. “Man with a face like that ain’t going to be intimidated by you. Probably doesn’t have any—Jandr! Finally, we can eat!”
Necrem glanced over his shoulder and watched Maeso wrap his arm around the shoulders of a man leaving the tent. The lead thief pulled the man along as his cadre formed around them, laughing toward the camp kitchens.
With a small sigh of relief, Necrem continued to his tent.
The air around his tent was the cleanest in camp. The scent of weapon oil and unwashed bodies was stronger farther down the rows. Horse manure and the latrine pits were on the far side of camp, and the only comforting smell of smoke and coals burning over heated iron clung around the southside of camp, around the smiths. Here, the smell of wood and running water greeted him.
Necrem finally unclasped his remaining armor’s straps then hastily pulled the plate over his head. He gasped in relief, finally free of the suffocating metal corset. He breathed deeply, his chest expanding and pushing his damp jacket out.
He poked his head inside, carelessly hefted his plate off to the side, and checked his bedroll. It still lay flat, undisturbed. Clenching his teeth, he knelt and rolled it over, revealing his stash of possessions spread out underneath. A quick glance and count told him everything was there.
Well, everything that remained. As expected, his second pair of boots had disappeared the first week, followed by a couple of shirts and a pair of socks. Sacrifices to the camp thieves. They had even stolen a can of salve one day, but it showed back up the next, laying discarded in his tent as if someone had tossed it inside.
He fetched a can of salve, a fresh mask, his sewing kit in case he needed it, another pair of socks, and a cloth before rolling the bedroll back over his meager possessions then lumbering back outside.
He struggled with each step, feet dragging on the dry, dusty ground, as he rounded around his tent and dropped out of sight beside it with a gasping sigh. His legs jerked and spasmed, and his whole body quivered from the relief of finally being off his feet.
The urge to lean back was overwhelming, but all that was behind him was his tent’s canvas and his weight would bring it down. He settled for laying his stuff in his lap then curled his feet toward him.
His boots were stubborn, like always. He figured, after sweating so much, they would slide right off. Instead, they clung tightly to his shins. He wrenched and pulled, teeth gritting together as he dragged the leather down bit by bit until, finally, it slipped off.
Sweat poured out like stall water, and Necrem turned his head, nose wrinkling from the sour corn smell. He set the boot aside and did the same to his other boot. This time, he pulled his sock off along with the boot.
He shivered as the cool blast of air his foot. He peeled the other sock off and found his other foot in the same state. Both were pale and pink. Their undersides were wrinkled like prunes and soft from soaking in sweat all day. He checked his left foot. As he feared, he found an oval blister on the side of his heel.
With nothing else to do about his feet, he stretched out his legs and set them out to dry in the grass.
Now I know why all those soldiers were in such a bad mood back in the day, he inwardly groaned. They were bone-tired, and their feet hurt. His own feet were pulsing, as if blood was finally flowing to them again.
He sat there for a while, listening to his own breathing and the distant trickle of water from the nearest creek. His hands laid in his lap. He knew he should take his mask off, but his body felt relieved not to be moving.
Finally, forcing his exhausted limbs to move, he reached up and untied his mask. The leather had to be slowly peeled off his face, hanging and snagging on every inch of skin. Necrem forced his eyes closed, concentrating only on making sure he got the mask off while also not ripping a scar open or snapping a stitch.
The dry air blew across his face and into the holes in his cheeks, sending his skin crawling. He instinctively closed his mouth the best he could, but two cuts on the sides of his face could never be closed. The muscles flexed, but the missing flesh wasn’t there. It took him a minute to get used to the sensation of breathing from the sides of his face.
He didn’t want to keep his face uncovered for long, but just like his feet, it needed air. This was the best time of day, being alone with no one to disturb.
At least no scar ripped today.
That was the worst thing that could happen. Not only would he bleed for the rest of the day and the mask needed to be heavily washed, but he would have to stitch it up at night. He hoarded a small, broken piece of mirror with his positions but didn’t want anyone to know he had it. Glass was valuable in camp and, without it, he would have to see a camp doctor for stitching. Having his face on display for everyone in camp to see was something he desperately meant to avoid.
His head lulled back as he grew accustomed to breathing the open air. A warm breeze blew along the tree line and gently swept over him, seeping through his damp clothes, tickling his wrinkly feet, and brushing across his face.
Leaves rustled overhead. Through half-lidded eyes, Necrem tilted his head up to watch the trees sway. The pines’ prickly leaves were dry, brownish-orange colors cascaded across their limbs. The limbs pulled with the wind then snapped back, making a waving motion.
The waves of brown pine needles remind him of hair; long, flowing brown hair.
I wonder if Eulalia had a good day.
His thoughts naturally drifted to his family in times like these and late at night, but the near paralyzing fear of being away from them no longer haunted his every second thought. He figured it was the constant training. Being worked until he couldn’t move or until his feet were covered in blisters certainly drained him to the point that all he could do was collapse, exhausted, each night.
He snickered, thinking on what Bayona would say if she saw her papa now. Maybe she’d laugh and call me old.
His snickers became chuckles, his shoulders rising and falling, until he felt a scar tug. He caught himself smiling and relaxed. He then sighed and picked the cloth up from his lap.
“She wouldn’t be wrong,” he mumbled under his breath before wiping his face.
It would have been better if it were wet, but the nearest water barrel was by the spear racks, and he was in no condition to hobble back up there. He dabbed his cheeks with the cloth, avoiding drying them out while also checking for blood. There was none.
Satisfied he had cleaned his scars the best he could, he discarded the cloth back to his lap then grabbed the can of salve. He was just dipping his fingers into the fatty goo when his ears twitched from the sound of hurrying footsteps.
“Get him into his tent, boys,” a familiar, gravelly voice instructed. “The doc said to keep him out of the sun and let him rest.”
Necrem shuffled over deeper into his tent’s meager shadow to remain out of sight. He began applying the salve to his face while also keeping a watchful eye out for the approaching people. Long shadows soon crested the sloping lane between the tents, heading for the other end of the lane.
Hezet Amort, an older veteran and the mediator of the squad, appeared first, still dressed in his stained training clothes, and carrying a heavy bucket. He came to a halt beside the tent opposite Necrem’s then spun around, sending water sloshing over the lip of the bucket as he pulled open the tent flap.
“Come on; hurry,” the veteran ordered. His sun-red face glowered with concern. The fuzz of a beard on his chin trembled.
Grunting announced the arrival of two struggling youths, Ezro and Leondro, carrying their third and youngest squad member, Stefan. Like the thieves, the youngest members of their squad had joined together, but more out of necessity, having little in common with the other squad members and feeling threatened by some.
Necrem barely got a minute to see what they were up to, but he caught how Stefan looked to be in a bad way. His jacket and undershirt had been stripped off, leaving the boy’s sweaty body out in the sun. His head bobbed, and his mouth hung open while he was carried, as if he couldn’t keep his head up, and his eyes were half-closed.
“Make sure he drinks plenty of water,” Hezet ordered after the other two boys hauled Stefan inside. He set the water bucket inside the tent then pulled back. “Ezro, do you think you can watch over him yourself?”
“Yes, sir,” Ezro replied, confused.
“Why?” Leondro asked.
Hezet waved him out. “One of you needs to get food for him and your squad mates. Stefan needs water for now, but later, he’ll need food.”
“You want me to get food and bring it back?” Leondro asked hesitantly. “Why me?”
Hezet put his hands on his hips. He was a taller man, compared to the average person, built like a soldier with gray sprinkled through his dark hair. He looked down into the young lads’ tent but, while firm, his voice lacked any bite.
“Because you’re the biggest, Leondro. You stand a good chance of getting more food and not getting into any trouble.” He spoke like a father pushing his son out into the world. “Now, crawl out of there and bring back some food before the kitchens close.”
Leondro groaned but crawled out from the tent and set off, rather reluctantly, toward the camp kitchens.
“Make sure he drinks,” Hezet instructed Ezro. “Drink some yourself. You lads have been putting in some hard days. You should be proud.”
A mumble came from inside the tent, too low for Necrem to catch.
He watched as Hezet leaned down again, looking more directly into the tent.
“You did good, Ezro,” the veteran praised warmly. “You saw your squad member was in trouble and stopped to help. You have the heart of a soldier. Don’t let anyone else tell you differently.”
“Thank you, sir,” Ezro said.
Hezet shook his head. “You don’t have to call me sir. Just get some rest and make sure you both drink.” He pulled the tent flap back and moved to leave, but then he stopped and turned his head, staring right at Necrem.
“Oso?” the veteran called.
Necrem realized he had edged out a little closer to watch what was going on, exposing himself. He shied away again, turning his head especially, not wanting his scars to be seen, and went back to salving those he had left untouched.
Approaching footsteps told Hezet wasn’t deterred so easily.
“Oso? Are you—?” He hissed sharply. “Your feet!”
“I’ve had worse,” Necrem said, keeping his face turned while applying salve to the scars on the right side. He also kept his hand blocking that side of his face from view.
“You need to see a camp doctor,” Hezet advised.
Necrem flinched at the sound of bootheels grinding dirt underneath them, expecting Hezet to move closer. Yet, when he glanced back, he found Hezet was standing with his back toward him, his hands on his hips, as if attempting to block Necrem from view.
He’s . . . being respectful? he pondered, studying the man. Most in Necrem’s squad gave him his space. Sure, one of the thieves might say a snide remark and a veteran would give him a passing nod. Beyond that, they all gave him a wide berth. Even Master Sergeant Raul barely spoke to him.
He’s odd for a conscript.
“It was a good thing you did,” he said, going back to doctoring his face. “Helping those lads.”
“They helped themselves mostly,” Hezet replied. “Poor Stefan collapsed from the heat and probably would have gotten trampled if Ezro hadn’t hauled him out of the column. I only got involved when a sergeant was yelling at him and Leondro . . .” He paused. “Almost finished with your face?”
Necrem grunted while applying the last, flayed ends of his lips with his salve.
“Good. I’ll be back.” He hastily stepped away before Necrem could say anything.
Necrem frowned, pressing the freshly salved portions of his lips together and felt them stick. He listened at the retreating footsteps, and then faintly caught a tent’s flaps being thrown open.
What’s he up to?
He turned his attention back to his lap. The can was half-empty, and he had already used up one. I’m going to have find a way to make more.
He screwed on the cap then exchanged the can for the clean mask laying in his lap. It was leather, like the previous one, but shallow, parallel cracks were forming across it. If he wasn’t careful or kept on repeatedly washing them, his leather masks would all split and tear, leaving him with only the cloth ones.
I may need to see if I can get more masks made, too, he thought while tying the mask on.
That brought up another problem. He didn’t have any money. The sergeants had been promising their first payday was coming, but they hadn’t said when. They were conscript companies though—men mostly pressed into service from jailcells. It was doubtful the marqués or his son were in any hurry to pay them.
“Have your feet started bleeding?” Hezet asked, suddenly returning. He was unrolling a bundle of cloth strips as he knelt in front of Necrem’s feet, frowning at them.
“I’m fine,” Necrem replied, pulling his legs back and staring at the man. He felt more confident now with his face covered.
Hezet frowned back. “You ever seen an infected blister before, or what they can do to a foot?”
“I’ve had blisters before.” Necrem had pulled consecutive nights forging rush orders and had suffered blisters on his hand. He had worked through them before. He could do it now.
“Had any marching before?” Hezet folded his arms. “They burst and bleed. Before long, they’re infected, and you’re not taken to a camp doc. They carry you to a surgeon. And there’s only one thing they’ll do for you then.”
Necrem held his stare. He didn’t find many common men intimidating and most were intimidated of him because of his size.
Hezet, however, didn’t back down. He set his square jaw, sporting its own scar on the right side of his face that jaggedly snaked down under his chin. His face was weathered, like leather, and his nose was bent to the left from old breaks. He kept his head up and back straight with a commanding air about him.
“Why do you care?” Necrem finally asked.
Hezet tilted his head. “We’re soldiers. And you’re in my squad.”
“That’s it?” Necrem stared at him. “We’re forced to be in this miserable shithole together, and that’s enough for you be everyone’s den mother?” He turned his head, more out of how harsh his words came out than worry he had angered the other man.
It just didn’t make sense to him. He had watched fights break out between the men while they weren’t exercising and the provost guards letting them happen. The arguments. The stealing. There was no comradery to be found in a place like this. Necrem hadn’t expected to find any, either.
“Forced or not, we are still soldiers together,” Hezet replied.
Necrem looked back. Hezet remained with his arms folded, but held his head a little bit higher, his jaw jutted out a little more. A gleam from his eyes caught the fading Easterly Sun’s rays, as proudly seeing something on the horizon. It was as baffling as everything else.
“You know we’re all here just to march around and look intimidating, right?” Necrem leaned forward and lowered his voice, unable to hold his tongue. “They don’t care about us. From the sergeants, to the capitáns, the barons, and the marqués himself! They will use us, abandon us, or sell us in an instant. There’s no point to any of this.”
He glanced down to his blistered and cracked feet. A dull sting pulsed on the side of his heel. Their color had returned, but now his soles were brittle and flaky. He looked over the pile of knickknacks in his lap, and it hit him that this had become a daily, monotonous routine.
Forced awake each morning, rush through a bland, sometimes undercooked breakfast, be marched and drilled until the sun was almost down, and limp back here to tend to his scars and change his mask. And for what?
When he forged, he would fall into a rhythm of smelting, watching, and hammering, sometimes losing himself to it. He created something when he forged.
Nothing will be created from this.
“They may not care about us,” Hezet admitted, “but that does not mean we don’t have to look out for each other.”
Necrem lifted his head, seeing the veteran still held firm.
“And there may come a time,” Hezet continued, “after the calleros prance about and have their Bravados, and the marshals talk, that we’re not ordered to stand around and look intimidating. When that day comes, the only people we’ll be able to count on will be our squad mates around us. And I prefer mine caring about me instead of not giving a damn if the worst should happen.
“Now, are you going to let me bandage your foot and get you to a doctor so they won’t have to cut it off later, or do you want to sit here and mope?”
The two men stared at each other, neither one finding the other intimidating. Necrem blinked first and looked back down at his foot.
That blister’s not going to get any better tonight . . . And I’m going to be drilled tomorrow, too . . .
With defeated reluctance, he stuck his injured foot out.
Hezet seized his foot without a hint of hesitation and unrolled the bundle of cloth.
Necrem hissed through his teeth as the coarse fabric was wrapped tightly over his blister and under his heel. “Tying it a little tight, aren’t you?”
“It needs to be tight,” Hezet replied, tying off a knot in the cloth on the top of Necrem’s foot that almost threatened to cut off his blood circulation. “That way, it doesn’t rub. The camp doc will probably make it just as tight if they put something on it.”
“Do I have to go?” Necrem sourly looked down at his bandaged foot, hoping it would just be enough so he wouldn’t have to get up.
“No,” Hezet replied. “Not if you’re fine with risking your foot being cut off.”
Necrem glowered at him. “You really enjoy hanging that over my head.”
Hezet shrugged. “In my experience, threat of loss of limb is a very good motivator for soldiers. Savior knows it’s kept me alive a few times.”
Necrem growled and began collecting his things.
“Need help?” Hezet offered.
“I got them.” Necrem shielded his possessions with his arm and snatched up his boots beside him, not wanting to risk dropping anything.
He struggled to roll aside to stand up. He could barely get a leg under him. The muscles along the back of his legs twinged and ached, as if threatening to snap should he force them. Instead, he was left with no choice but to hobble on his knees around his tent toward the flaps.
“You sure you don’t need help?” Hezet offered again.
Yet again, Necrem growled and shook his head. He didn’t want the other man to see inside his tent. He might have offered to help him, but one good deed and grand words didn’t mean Necrem could trust him. They were still conscripts, after all.
He put his things back under his bedroll and made sure it looked undisturbed before limping back outside the tent. He sat down in front of the closed flaps and struggled through his protesting leg muscles and tender feet to force his boots back on.
Although his feet had dried, the inside of his boots were still moist. The clammy leather stuck to his skin, pulling on his leg hairs. The boots had also shrunk from the moisture, making putting them back on that much more difficult.
Then came the hardest thing of all—standing back up.
His legs visibly shook. His knees burned, refusing any weight he tried to put on them. He tossed and turned, bracing himself on his right arm, and then his left, trying every angle to push himself to his feet. But his tired body refused, and he crumbled under his own weight, grunting as he fell back to the ground.
He groaned and looked up at Hezet just standing there, watching him with his arms folded again.
Necrem let out a raspy sigh and held out his hand. “Fine. I need help for this.”
Hezet simply nodded then stomped up and took his hand. Necrem put his right hand under him and pushed while Hezet pulled. Even still, they struggled to pick him off the ground.
“Damn, you’re heavy!” Hezet swore, snarling and sweating. He pulled Necrem with a surprising vice grip and grabbed his arm with his other hand.
“You’re the one who wouldn’t leave me alone,” Necrem growled, but they eventually made progress and he rose to his feet.
He wobbled and braced against his knees. He sucked air through his mask’s holes while sweat dripped from his brow to the dry dirt between his feet. The shaking in his legs continued and crept up his body.
“I figured”—Hezet gulped down air, taking deep breaths before standing up straight—“a man as big as you, this would be something you’re used to.”
“I’m a smith,” Necrem coughed out, “not a soldier.” Taking a deep breath, he pushed of his knees and straightened.
Hezet stood there, looking taken aback. “Now there’s a story.”
“You don’t want to know it.” Necrem shook his head and limped toward the other side of camp, with Hezet silently taking up beside him.
The wrapped cloth prevented the blister on his heel from rubbing, but Necrem regretted not putting a sock on his other foot. His boots were still clinging to his feet, and he feared another blister was forming on his exposed right foot while he climbed up the small rise and into the heart of camp.
Hezet trailed him, silently.
He wasn’t the only thing that was quiet. The whole camp was somberly hushed. They passed tent after tent but didn’t find anyone.
Where is everyone? Necrem glanced between every tent, feeling an anxious itch sprout between his shoulder blades.
A quick look over his shoulder, and he spotted Hezet frowning and looking around, too. They were heading toward the camp kitchens to get to the doctors. They should be hearing the dull rumble of hundreds of men eating, mingling, and bustling. Instead, there was nothing.
“You men!”
Necrem and Hezet both stopped. A few provost guards suddenly stepped out between the tents ahead, halberds resting on their shoulders.
The lead guard pointed at them. “Why are you loitering there?”
Necrem’s shoulders fell. Provost guards stopping men at random couldn’t mean anything good.
“My squad mate and I are heading to the camp docs, sir,” Hezet replied, stepping up. “His feet are badly blistered and need tending to.”
Necrem stifled the impulse groan. He didn’t like his business being announced so loudly, even if it was something as minor as this.
“The doctors are busy,” the provost guard retorted. “All soldiers were ordered to gather at the punishment grounds thirty minutes ago.”
Necrem and Hezet shared a look. The punishment grounds were a cleared patch of dirt between the camp kitchens and doctor tents. The provost marshal and other officers deemed it fitting to have men whipped in front of the others while they ate.
“Step to!” the provost guard shouted.
Necrem did his best, limping the rest of the way to the other side of camp, now with the provost guards following, making sure he and Hezet went.
They found the rest of the camp there waiting. The lines of tables sat with food bowls, plates, cups, and food still sitting on them. The smell of roasting meat hung in the air, and small columns of smoke still rose behind the kitchen wagons in long, trailing wisps.
The mass of men wasn’t arranged by their companies, and the fact there were more than one ordered to watch meant this was no ordinary punishment. Normally, only the company with a squad being punished had to be forced to witness it. Everyone else just got to hear it happening if they wanted to eat.
“Please!” someone shrieked. “I didn’t steal anything. I swear it!”
Necrem stopped. A cold sweat broke out on his forehead, and he briefly didn’t feel any ache or pain in his entire body.
A man swung from the lynch pole, a ten-foot-tall post with an arm attached to a winch where a man could be hoisted by the neck to hang. The hanging man’s eyes bugged out, and his tongue swelled in the open air as his face turned blue. His feet kicked, but his hands were bound behind his back.
The man who had begged was squirming in the hands of three provost guards at the foot of the post, hands bound behind his back, waiting his turn. Tears streamed across his reddened face. His bare feet kicked up a cloud of dust, but the guards held him.
“You still deserted,” one of the guards sneered, slapping him across the face.
Crack! Crack! Crack! Crack! Crack!
Necrem’s head snapped around. Being taller than everyone had its advantages, but that also meant he could see the gruesome sight plainly.
Five more men hung from their wrists on the whipping stumps, four-foot-tall posts with chains to shackle men’s wrists while they were stripped to the waist and whipped. None of the men were standing, and their backs were bloody shreds. More men were held behind them in chains by provost guards, awaiting their turn.
“What is this?” Hezet gasped. While not as tall as Necrem, he could still see what was going on. His face was as white as canvas.
“Didn’t you hear?” a man next to him asked, elbowing him. “They caught those deserters who they said ransacked one of the Don’s wagons a few nights back.”
Hezet swallowed. “Deserters are hanged. But what’s all this?” He gestured at the men being whipped.
“Baron Ignaso ordered the entire squad to be punished because the deserters robbed from the Don,” the man replied. “Because there were only four deserters, though, the Baron ordered an additional man out of the squad be hanged and the rest whipped.”
The man nodded toward another man behind the lynch post, and Necrem saw a younger man, probably in his early twenties, visibly shaking and weeping while a deacon of the Savior prayed with him. The deacon stood out in his white suit, stained with travel dust, wide-brimmed hat, and crooked walking cane with an unlit lantern hanging from it.
“There’s no saving him,” Necrem grumbled reflectively under his breath.
He spotted two bodies laid out just off to the side of the lynching post. The first executions.
Crack! Slap! Smack! Crack! Crack!
“These are done,” an officer ordered, looking over the men being whipped. “Unchain them and bring out the next five.”
The five provost guards, who had the task of whipping, took a break, gasping and resting their hands on their knees. Their long, black whips smeared blood across their pants and dripped gore from their tongs. More guards unlocked the chains on the men slouching against the posts and dragged them off to the side.
Necrem watched them. They were dragging them off to the round green tents of the camp doctors. The tents where he’d been heading.
“This isn’t right,” Hezet said.
Necrem turned and found the man shaking his head, his arms folded across his chest and muscles tense, threatening to rip the sleeves. His jaw was set, and his eyes blazed.
“This isn’t just,” Hezet hissed, bringing a few nervous looks from the men around him.
By their looks, Necrem cautiously glanced around. All the provost guards seemed to be stalking around them. They weren’t alone, though. He picked out calleroses in their decorative armor and weapons, along with their individual guards in armor, carrying spears. The show of force was obvious.
“This is a message,” Necrem whispered to him, keeping his voice low. “Keep our hands off our better’s things or suffer.”
“Their decimating an entire squad,” Hezet growled.
“Because they don’t matter to them.” Necrem hung his head. “They never did.”
The squeal of iron scraping against iron cut through the air, and the winch began to spin. The third lynched man plummeted to the ground with a thud and laid in a heap, not getting up. Curses and growls came next with the clanking and jingling of chains as five more men were dragged and locked, hunched over the whipping posts.
The whips cracked again, and this time screams and shrieks followed. Guards untied the noose around the third man and dragged the corpse away to join the first two. Then they hauled out the fourth man, still kicking the dirt in vain.
“Please!” the man cried. “Mercy!”
Necrem hung his head, not wanting to watch them wrap the noose around the poor man’s neck.
“There’s no mercy in this world,” he mumbled under his breath before he turned away and began to limp and lumber toward the doctor tents slowly so he wouldn’t draw attention.
“Where’re you going?” Hezet whispered before he got two steps.
“To get in line for a doctor,” Necrem answered from over his shoulder. “I fear it’s going to be a long wait.” He pressed on, ignoring the pleas of mercy as they turned to choking while the winch was cranked.