11th of Andril, 1019 N.F (e.y.)
“I tell you, gentlemen,” Maeso cheerfully said, “now is the best time to be in the army.” The head thief sat between two of his cadre at one of the tables. His plate sat empty in front of him while he propositioned a few other soldiers across the table.
“True,” the thief continued, “the past month was torture, all that endless running and marching, and spear jabbing”—he waved his hands in front of him dramatically—“but now is when camp life starts getting good. We’re not being drilled as hard or as much”—he began counting on his fingers—“we’re not being watched after every second of every day, and the best part . . . we are finally getting pay.” The thief chuckled, elbowing both of his companions beside him to make them chuckle agreeingly with him.
The men across from him didn’t join in, though. The man directly across from him was the former fop who begged Master Sergeant Raul he was there by mistake, named Joaq Estavan. He had gone through a bit of a transformation over the past month. He was now bulkier around his shoulders and arms. His wavy hair hung from his head down to his shoulders. He never paused eating his beans, bread, and nearly burned pork as Maeso talked.
To the left of him was a younger man who sat with his arms folded, listening to everything Maeso said. However, every now and then he would glance around, as if looking for a provost guard to wander by.
The last man was on older, balding veteran who watched the bigger men at the ends of the table—Maeso’s bodyguards who he had recruited a couple weeks back.
As for Necrem, he watched and listened, sitting on a stool several feet away from the tables, holding a bowl of minced meat stew. He hoped the small, bobbing brown pieces in his bowl were pork, like Joaq’s nearly burnt meat, but one could never be certain with what the camp cooks put in their pots unless you watched them. However, he couldn’t afford to be choosy. He’d been eating meals like this for ten years now. They were the only kind he could eat.
He sat between a stall and tent, facing the stall with his back to the tent. From out of the corner of his eye, he could watch the tables and kept his ears sharp for approaching footsteps.
Eating had become an added torment to his new routine. Wearing a mask already got everyone’s attention, and after his company had learned what was under it, word had spread and more people wanted to see.
He was forced to eat after mostly everyone was done and out of the way, so fewer would notice him. He kept a mask on but slightly lifted and folded in half over his nose, allowing him to lift a spoonful of soup to his mouth and snap his head back to swallow as much of the contents as possible.
He had to be quick, keeping his tongue flat to make sure none of the liquid sloshed between the open cuts in his cheeks and leak out. The technique barely gave him a second to taste the food, but the contents hinted at being salty and watery. Necrem took it for it being a blessing that he couldn’t taste the soup fully and settled for it filling his growling belly.
“This is the perfect time for men such as yourselves to branch out into every available opportunity,” Maeso said, pointing at each man across from him.
Joaq kept on eating, while the other two remained silent.
Finally, the nervous man to Joaq’s left grunted, “What?”
Maeso dropped his arms on the table, rattling the plates and knives. He mumbled something to his cadres beside him, too low for Necrem to hear, but it made the cadres chuckle.
The nervous man’s face grew red, and he slammed his hands on the table, leaping to his feet. “I’m not so stupid to get mixed up with the likes of you!” he growled then stormed away.
Necrem watched him leave then looked back to the table just in time to catch Maeso waving the men at the end to sit back down.
They’re either going to get themselves hung or flogged, he thought, throwing his head back to swallow another spoonful of soup.
“Well, one prospect gone,” Maeso said, his cheerful demeanor sounding slightly strained. “What about—”
“I’m too old for this,” the veteran groaned out, shaking his head as he departed.
Maeso was left gawking, but he quickly recovered, smiling at Joaq across from him. “I guess that leaves you, Joaq,” the head thief said, folding his arms. “You interested in making camp life a little more interesting? Maybe a little more profitable? Or are you too busy shoving food in your mouth?”
Joaq finished his bread, chewing slowly, as if savoring each bite. He sat back then fished out a cloth from the inside of jacket to dab the corners of his mouth, glancing from side to side at the other departing men.
“Why don’t you . . . give it up, Maeso?” he retorted before taking a sip from his cup. “If those other two could spot a setup, whether they knew it or not, what makes you think I can’t?”
Necrem paused. His spoon dangled halfway to his mouth.
Maeso, as well, sat agape for a second before blinking rapidly. “Come again?”
“There are more ways to steal, my friend,” Joaq replied, smirking. “And in more than one circle. But, considering where we all are, I would advise you to keep it small. Anything that requires scapegoats is too big right now.” He got up from the table, collected his things, then slightly bent over the table toward Maeso. “Please don’t get us all killed.”
Still smirking and holding his head up high, he left the table, heading for one of the stalls near Necrem to put his plate and cup away.
Maeso scowled after him. “You know, Joaq,” he called, “you might be too smart for your own good!”
Joaq shrugged. “That’s been said of me before,” he retorted back from over his shoulder. Then he gave Necrem an acknowledging nod as he passed by.
Disgruntled, Maeso gathered up his cadre and left the tables, his two burly bodyguards trailing behind them. Maeso and his three fellows huddled together, whispering and shaking their heads as they left.
Necrem trailed them from out of the corner of his eye, gently swirling his soup with his spoon. He only realized he was holding his breath after they were out of sight and sighed deeply.
“That lot’s going to get us all in trouble,” he grumbled, turning back to his soup.
“Hopefully, we march out of here before that.”
Necrem jumped, his wooden spoon clattering against his bowl as he spun around to find Joaq standing over his shoulder. Remembering his mask was up, he scrambled to unfold it and pull it over the rest of his face.
“You shouldn’t take chances,” he warned.
“Sorry, Oso,” Joaq apologized. “Didn’t mean to sneak up on you.”
“No, not that,” Necrem said, finishing straightening his mask then looked back over his shoulder at the fop. “You should’ve just said no and left like the other guys. You said too much, and now Maeso may remember that.”
“I just wanted the petty scoundrel to leave me alone.” Joaq strolled around in front of him and folded his arms. “I’m finally not being made to run around and march in circles from sunup to sundown, I don’t want my blissful freedom taken up by whatever schemes him and his ilk are plotting.”
Necrem squinted up at the fop. Despite the long hair and changes to his physique, the man still shaved his face every day and meticulously made sure the thin line of hair across his upper lip was perfect. No one in the squad knew where he found the time, but several just joked it was for some camp woman, maybe more.
The way he talked and preened himself gave Necrem another idea, however.
“You’re related to a baron family, aren’t you?”
Joaq shook his head. “No. Guess again.”
Necrem studied him some more. This had been the most he had spoken with the man. Besides the few passing greetings in the mornings, there had been no time for conversation. No talking had been allowed during drills and afterward, and Necrem preferred to be by himself.
Still, he was certain his suspicions were right by the familiar way Joaq spoke and handled himself.
“You’re either lying or grew up as one,” Necrem said, which made Joaq grunt. “You’ve also never lived in an army camp before.” He turned back to his soup, stirring it before remembering he had covered his face again. He flashed a grimace from not being able to eat in peace, but that pulled on his scars, and he quickly relaxed his face.
The dry grass crackled under Joaq’s shoes as he squatted in front of him. His pointed jaw jutted to the side while he squinted at Necrem’s face, studying him over his pointed nose. “You must have an interesting story of how you got here yourself,” he said, rubbing his thin fingers. “I was a painter. I made portraits for ladies while their husbands went off to campaign. And then painted their husbands in their armor so they could have matching pictures to hang on their mantles and exhibit in their parties.
“To be a great painter”—he wagged a finger—“you need to portray your clients as beautiful as possible and remember your place. Just because you’re invited to parties and everyone loves your art, doesn’t mean you can make love with a baroness’s daughter.”
Necrem stared at the man. His confusion over why he was talking to him had soured. “You’re lying again,” he said. “You’d have been executed if you had done that.”
“If mother baroness’s men had caught me.” Joaq snickered with a shrug. “It’s just my luck a conscription squad caught me trying to sneak out of Manosete and took me for a vagrant.”
“Rather unlucky,” Necrem grunted. He turned back to his soup and waited, wondering if he stared long enough at it, the fop would take the hint or get bored.
“How did you end up here?” Joaq asked instead.
A low groan caught in Necrem’s throat. “Couldn’t pay the campaign tax.”
Joaq frowned, disappointed. “That’s rather boring. I’d have thought it would have to do with those scars. No offense.”
Necrem squeezed the bowl tighter until the wood gave a small, creaking protest. The soup rippled from his trembling grip, the small bits of meat bobbing under and out of the liquid repeatedly. The frustration boiled into his ears as he stared downward.
“It’s always my scars,” he grumbled. “Everyone just wants to know about these damn scars. As if it matters. As if any of this matters. The taxes, the drills, the punishment, the waiting, the whole damn . . .” Necrem bit his tongue then took a deep breath through his nose.
He didn’t think such a small conversation with a happenstance question would get him riled. Shockingly to him, though, his heart pounded in his chest, drumming in his ears. His hands were wet from some of the soup sloshing out on them. He used the moment to wipe his hands on his trousers to calm down.
“Sorry,” he said, glancing hesitantly back at Joaq.
The former painter was staring at him more intently now, as if he found him fascinating, like some of Necrem’s metal work he used to do, back when his craftsmanship shined.
“You’re a bit of a radical,” Joaq whispered, amused, “aren’t you?”
Necrem furled his brow. “I’m a blacksmith,” he replied, not knowing what a radical was. Saying what he was, though, made him think of home, and his expression softened. “Who’s homesick.”
Joaq snickered.
“Oso!”
The sound of Master Sergeant Raul’s voice sent Joaq leaping to his feet. Necrem, however, couldn’t move that fast. He pushed off his legs with a groan, his knees popping as he struggled to stand. They were starting to do that more frequently, along with his back aching and his shoulders constantly needing a stretch from being constantly tense. He just wasn’t sure if it was from the demanding exercise or his age.
Master Sergeant Raul marched through the tables toward him, with three provost guards trailing him and Necrem’s breastplate in hand.
Necrem rolled his shoulders. A sudden knot formed in the center of his back.
“What is this?” Raul demanded, holding up the breastplate in Necrem’s face.
“My . . . breastplate, sir,” Necrem hesitantly replied, certain it was a trick question, but not sure what the trick was.
Raul grimaced up at him. “This is Si Don’s breastplate, Oso,” he growled. “The marqués himself graciously bestowed upon you, a fighting man in his army, and under the direct command of our illustrious Capitán Gonzel, a worthy plate to keep you alive in his service.” He shoved the breastplate further into Necrem’s face, the metal brushing against his mask. “Look what you’ve done to it!”
Necrem pulled his head back, squinting at the worn metal. “I’ve kept it clean, sir.” That was about all he could do with it.
“The strap, you big oaf!” Raul growled. “You’ve nearly ripped it off!”
The master sergeant turned the plate, revealing the inside strap on the left side dangling precariously at an angle. The metal clasps that were supposed to hold it in place were bent outward, preventing the leather strap from being fastened tightly.
Necrem flashed a grimace before catching it, to not pull his scars. “It was too tight.”
“Too tight?” Raul gave the provost guards, who had formed a circle around Necrem and Joaq, an exaggerated look. “Did you hear that? He didn’t like how it fitted him, so he defaced Si Don’s armor.”
The provost guards shuffled closer, their eyes hard set on him while their fists tightly gripped their halberds.
This is bad, Necrem realized.
Raul pressed the breastplate into Necrem’s chest. “I warned all of you,” he said lowly, “what happens to soldiers who don’t take care of their kits.”
Necrem glanced at the lashing posts. There hadn’t been a punishment demonstration since that entire squad had been decimated. The sight of twenty men being lashed and five others hanged in quick succession had been enough for everyone to mind their manners and tread lightly. Or not get caught. An evening shower had washed the blood away from the ground, but the stains still soaked the posts like lacquer.
“I can fix it,” he said.
“Oh?” Raul grunted, arching an eyebrow. “Saved some pay, have you? I’m not sure it will be enough, though.”
Necrem had barely spent any of his pay that they had finally started getting a couple of weeks ago, and he only spent some deberes on more salve from the camp doctors. He was sure he had enough. If he didn’t, there was another way.
“I’m a smith,” he said firmly. “I can fix it.”
He held Raul’s stare. The mean bastard of a master sergeant’s small smile turned to a sour scowl once it became clear Necrem wasn’t going to take it back after a few minutes.
“All right, Oso.” Raul flung the breastplate into Necrem’s hands, making him spill his soup. The bowl and spoon tumbled to the ground, splashing the lukewarm contents down the inside of his trouser legs. “You have until morning inspection. If that strap is still wrenched out of place by then, you and four”—he shot a look at Joaq, sweating quietly off to the side—“others will receive a flogging. Am I clear, soldier?”
Necrem clutched the breastplate. His broad fingers squeezed the metal until he thought he felt it give under his thumbs. His scars started to sting, but he didn’t relax his face this time.
“Yes, sir,” he replied, his low voice masking the growl in the back of his throat.
“Until morning then.” Raul turned on his heels then sauntered away, the provost guards slowly behind him.
Joaq exhaled deeply and slumped his shoulders once the master sergeant was out of sight. He gave Necrem a sympathetic frown. “Sorry about that, Oso,” he said. “Do you need any help or—”
“No,” Necrem snapped. The undeserved harshness made him wince, sending a biting pain across his left cheek that finally forced him to relax. “I said I can fix it.”
He turned away, heading for the southern end of camp and leaving his discarded soup bowl on the ground.
To fix the plate meant he had to go to the one place he had desperately been trying to avoid.
The camp smiths.
~~~
Ringing hammers filled the afternoon air. The familiar, acrid scent of heated earth blended with the musky odor of molten metal and coal smoke hung over the lane of smith tents. A camp this size required dozens of smiths, each making repairs to armor, weapons, wagons, and any other need the army required on any given day.
As Necrem strolled down the lane, looking over the smiths with his breastplate hung over one shoulder, today’s need was obvious.
Their shoeing a lot of horses, he noted. He had yet to pass a smith not hammering out a new horseshoe out of a furnace or nailing one into the hoof of a waiting horse.
Besides the smiths and their apprentices, the lane was filled with the horse handlers, each bearing the crest of some baron or calleros on their jackets and wearing odd, floppy hats that tilted to one side of their heads.
The sight of so many horses being shoed at once brought an old instinct Necrem had learned from when he’d been allowed to take his forge on campaign.
The army’s preparing to move soon.
He pulled up short as a horse handler led a horse into the beaten lane. The bronze-colored animal snorted in his face as it passed, lightly pulling at its reins.
Finding a smith to fix his breastplate was going to be harder with all these handlers demanding their horses be shoed.
Each smith held a membership with the union, which guaranteed its members places in the campaign’s camps, assigned each smith to a camp, and guaranteed a percentage rate for the work the camp needed. That was on top of the individual tasks each smith picked up doing the day-to-day jobs the camp needed. Unless a smith wasn’t union member, they weren’t permitted on campaign.
The system allowed smiths to work together to ensure each camp was provided a smith and allow the smiths to compete for the small tasks while giving each of them a share of the larger whole. Most of the smiths were preoccupied with the big task of shoeing the army’s horses, meaning they were all getting a commission rate.
Necrem knew this meant the small fix to his breastplate was a job most of them either wouldn’t have time for or wouldn’t want to take over the larger commission of shoeing the calleroses’ horses.
Not them. He turned away from a large tent where ten smiths were hammering out shoes, and their apprentices were nailing them on horses as fast as they could. A shingle hung on the stall in front of tent that read, “Ambrose and Sons Smithing.”
Too busy.
He walked past one tent where the smith was laughing with a couple calleros while his apprentices were doing the work.
Too vain.
On and on he went, finding some reason not to stop and ask for help. Either they were too busy, there wasn’t enough help, or just something about the smith felt off.
The sound of hammers pounding out metal was the most soothing sound Necrem had heard in over a month. He paused every five or so paces to listen to them ring. The smiths unknowingly produced a harmony together that made him want to stand still and listen. Their beat echoed in his head, drawing images of home.
A horse cried and shouts ran out from one stall. The handlers scrambled as a stubborn stud took a disliking to one of the smith apprentices trying to nail a shoe in. It also drove Necrem out of his daydream and sent him back on his search.
He finally wandered down to the end, near the edge of camp. The calleros and their handlers had thinned out several tents back. Most of the smiths here were looking after the horses that drove the wagons for the army’s supplies and some for the camp followers. However, Necrem found himself making the same excuses and reasons not to stop for help as before.
Why do I need to ask anyone else for help? he grumbled to himself, his arm trembling from holding up the breastplate. I’m a smith, too! I can fix this as good as any of them.
He hung his head, standing in the middle of the lane. His pride threatened to choke him, but it was too big to swallow.
I’m a smith, too.
A high-pitched yelp, followed by metal clanging together and spilling across the ground, brought him out of his self-aggravation.
“Careful, boy!” a crotchety, elderly smith barked at a young lad, barely in his teens, picking himself up from the ground with a box of rectangular, metal plates spilled out on the ground around him. “I don’t need any of those!”
“Sorry, vaectro!” the boy apologetically replied, hastily bowing his head multiple times, flailing his shaggy, dark hair. He hastily threw himself on the ground and began gathering up the scattered plates.
Necrem’s eyebrows drooped, and he frowned at the leather collar around the boy’s neck, marking him as sioneros.
A former camp follower, he deduced. Whatever side he was on must have had a terrible campaign.
Most sioneros were former soldiers. The marquéses, the barons, the marshals, they all played the same game. If a battle would be too expensive or costly, the losing side would give land, deberes and, lastly, men to the victor. However, some victors got greedy, and it wasn’t so uncommon for the victors to demand a portion of the loser’s camp followers, as well.
Necrem had heard stories of camp followers becoming traded as sioneros back in the slums outside of Manosete for years, and those had been growing. For the boy struggling to pick up the heavy box of metal, there was no telling how long he’d been one, either.
“Don’t be so sorry,” the old smith grunted, returning to hammering out a horseshoe on his anvil horn with a crooked wince on his face, as if he was regretful. “Just pay attention next time. And stoke the furnace. Can’t have that blowing out.”
“Yes, vaectro!” the boy replied, rushing farther back into the stall.
“And don’t call me that!” the smith yelled after him. “Call me boss or whatever, but don’t call me your owner.” The marquéses had come up with the term vaectro for the people they divided up the sioneroses to.
The smith raised his hammer, and metal sang as he rounded out the horseshoe more.
The whoosh of the bellows making the small fire in the iron furnace made Necrem look over the smith’s stall. It was smaller than the ones he had passed and more open. A canopy of tent stretched out over the furnace with a hole for the exhaust flue.
While the old smith hammered away on his horseshoes, another, larger anvil sat off to the side with tools on a wooden rack behind it.
“Are you lost?” the old smith asked.
Necrem jerked, realizing he had stepped up to smith’s stall while looking over the familiar surroundings.
“I’m looking for a smith,” he replied, shrugging and making the breastplate’s straps rap against the metal.
“So am I.” The smith spat out of the side of his mouth between two missing teeth. He was scrawny for a smith, but his bare, spindly arms were all muscle and sinew. “But my fool son had to go marry a camp woman a few days ago, leaving me with a skittish boy and my lonesome. Best you go find another smith.” He picked up his hammer and gave the horseshoe another whack.
Necrem took a step back to walk away, but the horseshoe caught his attention. “You’ve let it set too long,” he commented. “If you put it back in the furnace, it’ll be easier.”
“Blasted kid,” the smith grumbled. He sniffed then rubbed his broad nose, wiping the snot away on his leather apron. “If he hadn’t’ve—”
The smith jerked his head, giving Necrem a hard squint. “What do you know of pounding steel?”
Instead of simply answering, Necrem asked, “Why are you making horseshoes with no horses to shoe?”
Unlike the stalls he had passed, and some around them, there was no handler holding a horse for the smith to shoe. It didn’t make sense for him to be making horseshoes without a customer.
“Keeping up with demand,” the smith begrudgingly replied. “Some of the smiths were running out of shoes, so those of us that were free started chipping in, making the shoes to get the Don’s horses ready, and we still get our commission.” He leaned forward. “That’s what we smiths do. In the union, we look out for our own.”
Necrem snickered despite himself. “Too bad someone couldn’t have thought ahead and brought extra horseshoes before the campaign.”
“If only.” The smith shrugged.
Yeah, Necrem tried to not to glower, but the thought persisted. If only.
He held up his breastplate, showing the bent clasp on the side. “I need this fixed before morning. The master sergeant said they’ll flog me if I don’t.”
The smith frowned at the clasp then traded glances with his horseshoes and Necrem. “Sorry, friend,” he finally said, “but you picked the worst day to get repairs. We’re all busy.”
Campaign commission over individual jobs. It was a simple rule for smiths to remember which jobs took priority over others.
Necrem hefted the breastplate in his hands. Normally, he would have let that be the end of it. Yet the sight of an entire squad being flogged still hung in his mind—the screams, the wails, the sight of the men’s backs shredded. He already had his face to constantly doctor. He didn’t need his back ripped up, as well.
The lone anvil and untended tools seemed to call out to him.
“I can do it myself,” he said. “How much to borrow the use of your furnace and those tools for an afternoon?” He looked over his breastplate, spotting various dents and remembering it was small on him. It could use some extra work to fit better. “Maybe for tonight, as well?”
The smith arched a thin, gray eyebrow at him. “You think yourself a smith, Broad Shoulders? Just because you’re big doesn’t mean you know how to work a forge. There’s more to shaping metal than frickin’ pounding it.”
“I am a smith.” Necrem drew himself up, straightening his back to its fullest and sticking his chest out.
The older man’s crooked grin slid off his face as his eyes trailed him upward.
“And for ten silver deberes, I can prove it.” It was all the money he had, all the pay he was able to save between paying the doctors to make more salve for him and a little extra salt that did nothing for the watery soup or gruel he ate.
He fished into his pockets, picking one deber here, another two there. He took off his right boot to drop out two. In camp, one can never be too careful with their money. Once he had all ten, palm-sized coins, he slammed them on the tabletop of the stall.
The old man sat up on his bench, rubbing his scraggly chin while glancing between the deberes and his unfinished horseshoe. “You going to break my tools?” he finally asked.
“No, sir,” Necrem promised. “I’m never clumsy with tools, especially another smith’s.”
The smith scratched under his chin. “They aren’t mine. They’re my fool son’s.” His scratching grew more frantic, and he reached back to scratch the back of his head, grimacing. “Fine! Fix your plate or beat it into scrap. Just stay out of my way and don’t touch anything else.”
Necrem nodded, flung his breastplate back over his shoulder, then hunched over as he lumbered under the stall’s low canopy. “Can’t have a non-union smith working on union commissions,” he mumbled under his breath.
“What was that?” the smith asked while walking around to the furnace.
“Nothing.” Necrem tossed the breastplate over the anvil, separating the front plate from back to hang it by the shoulder strap as he pulled up a stool to look over the armor. He’d been wearing the cuirass for over a month, but despite all his inner grumblings over it not fitting right, this was the first time he looked at it like a smith to do something about it.
The wrenched strap twisted at an angle to the side was obvious and would have been a simple fix.
Take the leather strap out, Necrem mentally went through the steps. Pull out the rivets holding the clasp, then straighten the clasp out before putting it all back together again.
He reflectively grimaced then relaxed his face. That would just make it too tight again.
He thought some more, taking in the entire piece as he searched for a way to fix both problems.
Why have straps clasped under the arms? A simple belt around the waist would be just as good. Better to get in and out of.
He turned to the tools beside him, bouncing his eyes at the different hammers until he found one with prongs on the back of the head. With hammer in hand, he turned the plate over on its side and began taking out all the clasps, starting with the wrenched one, making a pile of metal and leather under the anvil.
That done, he opened the cuirass over his head and slid it on. Necrem poked his head out from the top of the breastplate, bent his chin down as low as he could, and tried to assess the situation. There was room, but the plate was hitting his broad chest and sticking out at an angle.
The chest plate needs more curve, he mentally noted. He fished around to feel where the back plate was. It, too, was at an angle, but not by much. He glanced at the leather straps holding the pieces together. The shoulder straps need to be longer, too.
He pulled the breastplate off then set to work again, unfastening the shoulder straps to take the cuirass apart.
“You sure you need to be doing that?” the old smith asked.
Necrem paused, halfway through wrenching out the last strap. “Hmm?”
“You’re taking it apart,” the old man said, pointing at the breastplate. He stood by the furnace with a pair of tongs, holding a horseshoe in the burning coals. “Certain you can put it back together again?”
“If you got to fix something”—Necrem grunted while wrenching the last strap off—“fix it right. There’s more that needs fixing than a clasp.” He set the back plate beside the sawhorse holding the anvil, tossed the shoulder straps underneath, then went back to studying the front plate.
“If you say so,” the old smith said, shaking his head.
Necrem ignored him. Rather, he was drawn back into his own world. He would get lost for hours on end while working in his forge back home. It made those long, all-night jobs easier just to go into his head and focus solely on the work, the feel of his hammer on the metal, eyes watching every strike to make sure it was exact and didn’t go too far or break something.
Until Bayona would eventually come bouncing into the forge to fetch him and bring him out of it.
He shoved the memories of his family away. Otherwise, he would never be able to focus.
I need to take the faulds off first.
He eyed the overlapping, horizontal pieces of metal hanging off the bottom of the chest plate like a metal apron. They were supposed to protect his waist and thighs, but his height and the cruisers being too small for him prevented that.
The faulds were another sign of how old the plate was. The calleros weren’t wearing them anymore and were starting to favor brigandine armor over full armor suits. For Necrem and his company of forced conscripts, however, old armor was better than nothing.
He wrenched the faulds off their rivets, laying them across the anvil’s horn for later. He exchanged his hammers for one more suited to hammering metal then took his chest plate over to the furnace.
The old man had gone back to hammering out his horseshoes, leaving the furnace to him. Necrem set the plate into the coals, making sure the chest had plenty of contact with the heat, then worked the bellows. He could have let the boy do it, but Necrem was too used to doing his work himself.
Time slowed to a crawl in his mind. Working the bellows, heating the metal, hammering out the plate on the anvil, watching its shape, it all ran together. The rings of his hammer blended with the hammers of the other smiths with the hissing of boiling water from hot metal being quenched adding to it.
As he hammered the chest plate, rounding it out more, he beat out the random dents in the metal. He had to repeatedly pause, letting it cool in the air, and estimate his progress. As he did, he concluded he needed to beat down the metal around the shoulders, to the point they were almost flat. It would let the cuirass fit lower on his body and protect his belly and lower sides better.
I’ll have to do something different for the shoulder straps. The older straps wouldn’t be long enough now.
He hammered out the edges of the plate to keep them from digging into his sides, and finally, after several hours, the front plate finally fit him. His heart thundered in his chest, making it swell against the plate, and his hair stood on end. He hadn’t felt the familiar rush of pride in his work in months.
It felt amazing!
The feeling drove him on. He wanted to work more. The feeling of a hammer in his hands. The ringing and pings of metal against metal. The sticky embrace of sweat clung to his body as he remeasured and reattached the faulds to the bottom of the front plate, leaving a groove for a belt.
The back plate needed some dents hammered out, the plate around the shoulders stretched out like the front, and the edges around the waist widened. Reattaching the rivets and clasps on the shoulders took time, having him hunched over the anvil, tapping away with a smaller hammer to fasten them to the armor. The shoulder straps came last.
After looking over the leather he had, he knew what he needed but didn’t have them.
“Buckles,” he mumbled under his breath.
Loud, metallic jingles made him jerk his head up. Two buckles were sliding around the inside of his plates he had left laying on top each other on the anvil.
“Wondering how long it would take you to figure you would need them,” the old smith said, carrying his tools toward the back behind the furnace.
“But—”
“Just take ’em,” the smith called back. “You’re almost done, anyway.”
The mixed feeling of pride with wanting to finish his work and the pride of not accepting a handout clashed together. His hands trembled around the leather straps he held. In the end, he went back to work, punching holes in the straps he needed, attaching them to the clasps on the plates, then finally fixing the buckles.
He stood up once both shoulder straps were buckled together then slowly put the cuirass on. For the first time, the breastplate finally fit him. It didn’t feel like it was crushing him, and he could breathe. The edges weren’t stabbing him and were, instead, neatly overlapped. His entire upper body was protected.
“I’ll need to find a belt,” he said under his breath.
“Try this one.”
A thin, leather belt slapped against his chest then tumbled to the ground. Necrem held the plate against his chest as he bent down, groaning to pick the belt up. He looked up and found the smith smirking with his arms folded.
“I don’t have any deberes for it,” Necrem said, holding the belt back out.
The old smith spat into the dying coals of the furnace. “We look after our own.”
Necrem squeezed the belt tightly, its buckle jingling in his shaking grasp. His face stung from going stiff, pulling his scars, but he couldn’t get this body to relax. He stiffly wrapped the belt around his waist, fitting it in the groove he had fashioned for it, then buckled the belt taut.
He stood straight, feeling the plates fit around his body. The red embers of the coals reflected off the front’s smooth, round surface.
“You do . . . damn good work,” the smith said, admiring Necrem’s restored breastplate. “You’re wasting your talents as a soldier. Want to stick around? I know a few smiths in camp who have some say in the union. Someone like you could be a damn good partner to have.” The smith cracked a crooked grin.
“Sorry,” Necrem replied, hanging his head. “But that’s . . . that can’t happen.”
The old smith grunted, confused.
Trumpets blared from the center of camp, followed swiftly by drums beating to assembly. Necrem looked out from under the tent and discovered the Easterly Sun had set, possibly hours ago, and he hadn’t notice. Calleroses in armor thundered down the lane, heading toward town.
“They’re breaking camp,” Necrem said. He put the tools he used back on the rack. “Thank you for the use of your forge.” He hunched his head to step out of the stall’s tent.
“Wait!” the smith called after him. “What’s your name?”
Necrem paused. Stalls were beginning to be broken down around him and people were rushing to tents. The provost guards would soon be around, directing the madness, and once they saw him in armor, they would order him to his company. That worried Necrem most, though, was having the old smith look up his name with the union.
We’re about to march off to wherever, he told himself. What more can be done to me?
“Oso,” he said loudly through his mask and over his shoulder. “Necrem Oso. I was a smith. Once. Thanks again.”
He gave a wave then headed into camp, back to his scrambling company. His shoulders slumped lower and lower from the growing weight of leaving the bliss of the forge with each step.