14th of Andril, 1019 N.F (e.y.)
“Faster, you sluggish dogs!” Capitán Gonzel yelled from his horse. “Don Givanzo wants a glorious victory to bring to his father, and you, my thieving company, are going to deliver it!”
Every step the capitán’s horse took made the grizzled, old officer bounce in his saddle. His armor was decades old, the feather plume of his helmet had lost most of its color years ago, though both were scrubbed to a shine. The rotund chest plate made him look fatter than he was, and the cheek guards on his helmet did him little favors—squishing his face and scraggily beard out. He also rode with a fist propped on his hip while shouting at them, making him look more ridiculous.
We’re not going to fight, Necrem thought sluggishly. His inner thoughts matched his body’s exhaustion. We’re just going to stand around while the calleroses prance about, yell at each other, and the Don or whoever either makes the Lazornians go away or sell us out.
Necrem knew their game. Ten years banned from the campaigns couldn’t take away that knowledge.
Capitán Gonzel kicked his horse to gallop up to Master Sergeant Raul at the head of their company’s column but yelled loud enough for those several rows back to hear. “Push them, Master Sergeant! Speed up those drums! The Don wants us at Puerlato three days ago! Flog any man who can’t keep up! We’re going to whip those Lazornian cowards and remind their sniveling little bitch of a marquesa of her place!”
“Yes, Capitán!” Raul barked, lifting his halberd up in the air. “Company, quick march!”
Necrem joined the men around him in a shared groan as the drummer sped up the pace of their taps. Fortunately for them, their groans were swallowed up under their stomping feet.
“I can’t . . . keep . . . running and stopping,” a soldier complained behind Necrem.
“Fall out and . . . see what happens,” another growled.
“I hate young commanders,” Maeso grumbled somewhere to Necrem’s left. “They’re always in a hurry for nothing.” He suddenly burst into a coughing fit.
Necrem’s legs burned within the first few quicken steps. His knees strained to keep the jogging pace, popping randomly and making him grit his teeth. He didn’t know why, but the quick pace between leisurely marching and running was the worse. Either it was because he couldn’t stretch his legs fully, keeping them tense and measured while also keeping pace with the men around him, or the growing demands from his burning lungs to stop, double over, and gasp for air.
“Keep . . . your head up, Oso,” Hezet panted beside him. The seasoned veteran trudged along as if born into his worn armor. “You’ll collapse if you don’t get enough air.”
Necrem hadn’t realized his head was starting to hang. It wobbled as he raised it, and he suddenly felt woozy. The weight of his tight-fitting helmet bearing down on him made him want to look down again. His vision blurred for an instant, forcing him to suck in as much air as he could through his mask’s holes, but it was never enough.
“I need to stop,” he wheezed out. His sweaty grip on his spear started to slip, and he nearly stumbled trying not to fumble it.
Hezet suddenly seized his left arm, attempting to hold him under the arm, but Necrem’s height prevented it. “Keep going, Blacksmith,” he urged. “We can’t have you getting flogged . . . and I need you to fix my armor for me.”
Necrem snorted. When he had returned to his company the night before they had marched out, Raul had seen his refashioned armor and grilled him with questions, stopping short of accusing him of stealing another breastplate. If it hadn’t been for the urgency of breaking camp and the capitán’s arrival, Necrem was sure he would have gotten around to it and had him flogged, anyway.
For the rest of his squad, most minded their business, wanting to avoid the sergeants in case they came searching for examples to be flogged along with him. Hezet and the other veterans, though, had become especially interested in Necrem’s work once they were on the march, and Hezet hadn’t been the first to joke or ask him to fix or make new armor for them.
This march was too tiring to think about forging, though, even if he could after they made camp.
The Easterly Sun bore down on them oppressively. The clouds of dust hung over the road and columns were choking. Men coughed and spat, but Necrem’s mask protected him from it. His eyes teared up from little grits getting into the corners of his eyes and sweat running down his forehead from under his helmet.
Suddenly, the men in front of him pulled up and slowed down. The drumming tried to keep the pace, but the taps eventually lost their rhythm.
“What’s going on?” someone coughed out then spat behind him.
Being a head taller than everyone, Necrem peered ahead. He squinted against the shimmering haze created by Easterly Sun’s rays bouncing off the columns of helmets and spear points ahead of them.
“We ran into the back of another company,” he replied. He could see Capitán Gonzel at the head of their column, yelling at the rear of the other, but they weren’t speeding up. “The capitán’s yelling at them”—he took a deep breath, his shoulders rising and falling—“but they don’t seem to be in a hurry.”
“Savior bless them,” Hezet gasped, breathing heavily.
Approving grunts, gasps, and nods followed, but the hot, grueling march continued.
~~~
“First squad!” Raul yelled, waving his halberd in the air. “Make camp here!”
Necrem staggered down the shrub- and fern-covered slope of the ridge the Don, or whoever was driving the army, had decided to make camp, just a few miles from the Compuert Road Junction. He would have been willing to lay down on the side of the road and sleep for days, and he was sure most in his company would agree with him.
The Easterly Sun was fading fast below the horizon, its fading rays casting a red glow across the drifting clouds.
“You five!” Raul shouted, pointing at five men. “Make fires! The rest of you, bunk down, eat something, and rest. We got more marching to do tomorrow.
“You five!” He pointed at five others. Fortunately, Necrem wasn’t among them. “Come with me. The capitán’s tent needs setting up.”
The unfortunate five stifled exhausted groans while stacking their spears together then piling their armor and belongings beside their weapons before trudging after the master sergeant. Necrem had been selected once for that duty and had discovered the capitán was a ruthless, unsatisfiable ass when it came to having his tent prepared.
In the last rays of sunlight, Necrem found a patch of ground beside some ferns without any rocks he could find with his boot, laid his spear and bag of meager possessions off to side, then unceremoniously sat down. He sighed loudly, slumping forward. His feet pulsed in his boots, but he didn’t dare take them off, or his armor. He worried if he did, his aching body would fall apart.
“You need water,” Hezet said.
Necrem raised his head lazily, finding the veteran fishing out his water bag from his pack, his spear probably mounted with the others.
“I’m too tired to eat or drink,” he said, shaking his head before pulling his helmet off then tossing it aside on top of his bag. “I’m afraid”—he wipe his forehead and face on his sleeve to stop the long trails of sweat running into his eyes and making them sting—“I’ll peel more of my face off if I take my mask off.”
“If you don’t, you’ll pass out tomorrow,” Hezet replied, holding the water skin down to him. “Or worse, you may not wake up in the morning.”
Necrem swallowed, his mouth and throat suddenly unbearably dry. He flashed glances at the other members of his squad working or resting behind Hezet. “Can you . . . turn around, please?” he shyly asked, taking the water skin.
Hezet nodded then about-faced, folding his hands behind his back and blocking Necrem from the others.
Necrem set the water skin down between his legs then reached behind him. He untied his mask’s knot then gently began to pull it away. It was one of his cloth masks. They let him breathe easier than the leather ones, which all had cracks in them now. The cloth didn’t fall away but remained stubbornly stuck to his face.
He had to peel it, just as he feared.
Bit by bit, the sticky, sweat-drenched cloth came loose. Every crack, split, and dangling piece of scarred flesh either hung or clung to it. A stinging spike shot through his face with every snag, only to intensify by a burning sensation by his damp, deformed features finally feeling fresh air again after the long day’s march.
By the time he had half the mask off, Necrem was doubled over on his side, biting his tongue and clenching his eyes and jaw so as not to yell. The mask at last came free but pulled some of his lower, dangling lip with it, making him yelp despite his best efforts. He crushed the mask in his fist then punched the ground in his last-ditch effort not to shout or growl, bottling his pain and anger deeper within himself.
“Is he well?” a young voice asked.
Necrem peered through tear-shot eyes to see one of the boys in the squad, Ezro, curiously glancing around Hezet. The evening light was fading fast, and although Necrem could only make out shapes of men moving in the distance, he shielded his face with his hand, anyway.
“He’s fine, boy,” Hezet replied, stepping more between them. “Go on about your duties. The master sergeant wants those fires made and won’t take kindly if they’re not started by the time he comes back.”
Ezro shifted his feet. “Yes, sir,” he replied before leaving solemnly.
Once the boy was gone, Hezet peered back at him from over his shoulder. “Are you well?”
Necrem kept his hand up, covering his face. Everything inside him screamed to get it salved and masked again. After the day’s long, hot march, breathing the sweet air without any fabric was too good to cut short.
“I haven’t been well for years.” His exhausted reply was more honest than he would usually give. He chalked it up to being tired as he reached for the water skin.
He paused while twisting the skin’s cork. He glanced at his own skin, laying under his kit, only to remember it was nothing more than a deflated bag. He had drained, or rather spilled it on himself, at noon when they had finally been allowed to rest.
His parched throat beckoned for water. He pulled the cork off with a loud pop, maneuvered the sloshing bag the best he could as he lifted it to his lips, then tilted his head back. The water rushed out faster than he had anticipated. He gulped down as much as he could, but half of it squirted out of the holes in his cheeks, raining down on his armor and running down his neck. Yet the soothing amount he did catch forced his eyes closed and made him drink more.
When he finally pulled the skin from his lips, the bag sagged limply in his hands, nearly three-quarters of its contents drained and half of that spilled across his face and the front and under his armor.
Hezet was watching him, frowning deeply from over his shoulder.
Necrem apologetically held the bag up to him while keeping his head and face down. “Sorry,” he wheezed out, licking his sliced lips. “But thank you.”
“Keep it,” Hezet replied. “Tend to your needs. Then”—he gestured toward the nearest fire—“come eat with us. Don’t lay down and go to sleep in your armor. Your back will be killing you tomorrow if you do.”
“But . . .” Necrem threw his head up, but Hezet was already moving away, taking off his armor and joining the others.
More fires were sprouting up, filling the air with dense smoke from the shrub and fern leaves that had been used to start them, leaving the men scrambling for wood to keep them burning. The night’s coming blackness was being beaten back across the ridge, up the slope, and across the road, outlining their stretched-out camp. The biggest fires came from the center where the Don and the rest of the commanders were likely camping, right on the road.
Necrem sat up on his knees then took his armor off. The new belt and work made it easy to slip on and off now. That done, he turned his back on the light to salve and cover his face out of anyone’s prying eyes.
As he spread the oily, fat salve across his flaking scars, he spotted the calleroses’ horses grazing down the ridge. Beyond them, dense trees sprouted where the ridge leveled off and were already claimed by the night. A cool breeze rushed up from them as Necrem tied on a fresh mask, making him shiver in his damp clothes.
Maybe sitting next to a fire for a little bit isn’t such a bad idea, he reckoned, grunting from pushing himself to his feet. He turned to join the others, the cool breeze still at his back.
Somewhere down below, a horse neighed and snorted.
~~~
“What is a battle like?” young Stefan shyly asked.
The other men sitting around the small fire shifted their weight. A small lull hung over them and the rest of the squad around their respective fires. Some munched on whatever food was available; dried jerky mostly. Some smoked on long-stemmed pipes, adding the nauseous fumes to the curling wood smoke being pulled away by the lingering breeze. The rest just sat. The shared exhaustion of the march with the added bliss of just sitting and resting in peace had been too precious to break.
Until their youngest member dragged up the courage to ask the question that lingered in the backs of everyone’s mind, Necrem’s included.
“Depends,” Hezet reliably replied. “Not every battle’s the same.” He nodded to the veteran sitting beside him, Enriq.
Enriq nodded back. “And not all of them can be considered battles, either.” He chuckled, showing his crooked teeth and making his puckered scar that ran from the outside corner of his right eye down his cheek shake.
Stefan frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?” The lad shifted his legs around in front of him then wrapped his arms around his knees, pulling them closer.
“Just follow your orders, son,” Enriq replied with a wave. “No matter what, just follow your orders.”
“Besides”—Hezet ripped off a piece of jerky with his teeth and talked around chewing it—“there might not even be a battle.”
“Really?” Joaq piped up, springing his hung head up and startling those around him who had believed he was asleep. “Because the capitán sounded very adamant that the Don is eager to send us to either a glorious victory or a glorious demise for days now.”
Necrem joined in with the rest around the fire to stare at the downtrodden artist; some out of confusion, others just blankly. Necrem was more of the latter.
“See here,” Hezet said to Stefan, “no matter what the capitán, or others”—he gave Joaq a hard, sideways look—“say, campaigns follow a rhythm. Once we reach Puerlato, the commanders will probably order us into formation and wait for the Lazornians to meet us. The Don and the barons will ride out to meet whoever is leading the Lazornians, they will parley, and then the Rules will be set.”
“Got to give the calleroses each a chance to shine,” Enriq snickered.
A few others listening in chuckled with him.
“It’s tradition that the calleroses get an opportunity to duel the opposing side’s calleroses,” Hezet explained. “The Bravados. There will be jousting, dueling, name calling.”
Enriq spat into the fire, making it hiss. “That’s supposed to be our job.”
“We duel, too?” Stefan asked.
Men around him laughed.
“No,” Enriq teased. “We get to draw lots to see which lucky company gets to form up on the battle lines each day and cheer on our brave calleroses.” He raised a water skin, as if to toast before taking a swig. “As if not one of those smug pricks wouldn’t run us down if we got in their way.”
“Here, here,” someone else said at a neighboring fire.
Enriq clumsily raised the water skin to them.
“The idea,” Hezet dryly said, “is to damage the other side’s morale without risking us soldiers.”
“Hmm.” Enriq nodded. “Because our morale certainly can’t be damaged any further.”
More men laughed at that. Snide barks followed by pats on shoulders. Necrem lowly chuckled with them, watching the flames in the small fire dance.
“All that matters is size,” he said.
The laughter around their fire died down. While the laughs lingered around the other fires nearby, the men all around turned to him.
“Thought you never been on campaign before, Oso,” Enriq said, lifting an eyebrow inquisitively at him.
Necrem held his gaze over the flames. He rubbed his knuckles, part of him wishing he hadn’t spoken. Yet again, the day’s exhaustion had made it easy not to keep his tongue.
“Not from here,” he replied, “but you can watch as a camp smith and still see how campaigns are led. The only thing that matters is how big we are compared to the Lazornians. If we’re bigger, then the calleroses get to prance around and we cheer in the hot Easterly Sun. If not . . .”
The breeze picked that moment to stir again, making the campfire’s flames wither and ripple, its chill biting into his back.
“Just hope we are.” He clenched his broad hands together, his eyes drawn again to the fire.
Being a smith in those days had come with the benefit of knowing he would never be selected as a sioneros. He’d been too valuable. He had seen others who weren’t, and on campaigns that fell on the losing end. Old memories of men scrambling through the camp, seeking for a way out, a place to hide, or a farewell kiss to an ill-thought-out marriage to a camp woman the night prior, before the provost guards hunted them down for delivery. Those memories were over a decade old, some even older, but one could never forget the sound of a man begging for his life, or to stay with their loved ones.
He stared deeper into the flames, and their dancing seemed to take shape. He saw Eulalia, young, beautiful, and whole, as she was always meant to be, holding out her hand to him. She held Bayona close to her, stroking her long hair as his little miracle buried her face into her mama.
“Oso!” Someone shook him by the shoulder.
Necrem blinked tears. His vision suddenly cleared, revealing he was reaching out toward the fire. His hand was shaking. His face burned under his mask from how tense he was, the fresh salve preventing his scars from pulling.
He pulled his hand away and folded his arms. He hunched his shoulders from everyone still staring at him. “Sorry.”
“You all right?” Hezet asked.
Necrem shook his head and sighed out, “I’m tired.” With that, he painstakingly struggled to his feet. The back of his legs trembled and stretched, desperate to pull him back down. The soles of his feet throbbed under the weight.
The others, thankfully, let him leave in peace, limping back to his belongings to get his bedroll laid out. He could still feel their stares on his back, though.
“Anyway,” Enriq said, picking up the conversation. “The only thing you younger lads need to worry about is the calleroses are going to expect us to shout curses at the other side while they fight. So, keep your mouths shut if you can’t swear worth a damn; otherwise, the rest of us are going to make fun at you for the rest of the campaign.”
More laughs followed behind him, but Necrem was too focused on getting to sleep. He took off his boots to dry them and his feet out. He would have to check for snakes in the morning, but it was better to march in dry boots for half of the day at least.
A horse snorted farther down the ridge.
He squinted out in the darkness but couldn’t see them.
Horses don’t like this anymore than we do.
He unrolled his bedroll, smoothed it out, making doubly sure there were no hidden rocks, and then lay down on his back. He stared up at the blinking stars, winking in and out between the roaming clouds. His chest rose and fell, his breathing hissed through his mask’s holes. Within a few moments, his eyelids drifted closed into a dark, exhausted sleep.
~~~
Eruptions split through the darkness!
Sporadic cracks echoed through the night like distant thunder.
When Necrem jerked awake, only the stars glittered down at him from above.
“What’s going—”
More distant eruptions cut off whoever was yelling.
Did that come from up the road?
Groggy, Necrem couldn’t tell for sure. He braced his arms under him then pushed up. Every muscle from the back of his neck, across the back of his shoulders, down his lower back, and through his legs spasmed and stretched. A deep groan, almost a bellow, erupted from deep within his gut as he sat up.
“What the shit is going on?” someone yelled as more eruptions, this time north of them and over the road on the other side of camp, ripped through the night.
Necrem blinked and rubbed the sleep out of his eyes, but when he looked, he couldn’t see anything clearly in the dark. The campfires were all dim, the ones around them were faintly, glowing coals, and the larger ones deeper into camp only illuminated the tents nearby. What he couldn’t see, however, he could hear.
Screams and panicked cries drifted down the ridge, adding to the confusion of those around him.
“Something’s wrong,” Hezet stated.
“No shit,” someone snapped back.
“Where’re the sergeants?” another soldier nervously asked. “What do we do?”
Uncertain grumbles answered, followed by more distant screams. Men were starting to get up from their bedrolls, their shapes forming shadows in the small light. Some stood stretching and looking about in place while others wandered about aimlessly.
More screams echoed through the night. They sent chills through Necrem’s heart and made him turn west, staring wide-eyed, desperate to make out anything. Those had been women screams.
The baggage train? he fumbled for reasons but always came back to one. Are we . . . under attack?
It didn’t make sense. No one attacked at night. It was against the Rules. Yet, he could think of no other reason why people were screaming and yelling across the camp or for those eruptions.
He rolled over on his side for his boots—no matter what it was, he was going to need them—and started fumbling in the dark to slip them on. In his hurry, he didn’t bother with socks or wrapping his heels to prevent any more blisters; he just fought with the tight leather to get them on.
A trumpet blared alarm into the night.
Three notes in, the sound sputtered out.
“That can’t be good,” someone, sounding like Maeso, said.
“Do you guys feel that?” someone, sounding like Enriq, asked.
Necrem paused, his right boot halfway on and his left still hanging off his toes. The men around him fell into a hush, ignoring the growing yells and another clap of eruptions, this time from up the road. He sat there for a moment, and then he felt it.
Under him.
The ground’s . . . shaking?
“What are lazy bastards doing?” Master Sergeant Raul rushed out among them and leaped over the remains of a campfire, half-dressed and waving his halberd in the air. “Get up, men!” he roared. “The camp is—”
The neighs and screams of horses swallowed his order, and up and down the line of strung-out camps, men were swallowed under the horses’ hooves.
Necrem barely missed a galloping nag riding up behind him. He rolled at the last minute to the side of the thick patch of ferns and brush to his left. He lay on his belly and wrapped his arms around his head to protect against the beasts storming around him. The cries of the horses hitting or brushing the thorns of the brush as they charged past couldn’t be blocked out.
Nor could the terrified yells of men being trampled around him.
The horses were stampeded.
Necrem panted through his mask, every effort to calm down eluded him. That means—
“Calleros!”
Underneath the crashing hooves and men crying in pain, there were whoops and angry yells.
Necrem risked a look, unwrapping his head then peeking out to survey the carnage. Most of the horses had stampeded past and deeper into camp. Somehow, more fuel must have fallen or were tossed on the campfires because several were burning brighter now, although others were completely out farther down the line.
In those fires were horse riders, calleroses, riding up and down the line, either waving swords in the air or bearing lances down on fleeing silhouettes.
“Get up, you cowards!” Capitán Gonzel demanded.
Necrem rolled around. He didn’t recall when or how the capitán had gotten to them through the stampede. He wore half his armor, missing his helmet, yet with sword in hand.
“Fight, you dogs!” The capitán kicked the man crawling on the ground in front of him.
The man yelped in a high-pitched voice and folded in on himself.
The capitán reached down, taking the man by the shirt and pulling him up, snarling at him. The firelight revealed young Stefan’s terror-stricken face staring wide-eyed up at the old man.
“Get up or I will kill you my—”
Galloping hooves were their only warning. The capitán dropped Stefan and spun about.
The calleros charging out of the night slashed Gonzel across the face. The upward cut twisted the old capitán into an odd angle, and dark blood followed the blade into the air. Gonzel’s body bounced off the side of the horse, sending him rolling over Stefan in a crashing heap. Young Stefan curled back in on himself, tightly wrapping his arms around his legs and screaming and sobbing into his lap.
Screaming like that could bring more calleroses on us!
Necrem caught the shapes of men leaping up from where they’d been hiding and scattering in every direction; some toward camp, others out into the darkness. Stefan, though, kept sobbing.
Help him. I should—
He began to crawl toward the boy when a wail came from his right. Master Sergeant Raul ran into the firelight, dragging his halberd along the ground to collapse beside Gonzel’s body.
“Capitán?” Raul yelled, shaking Gonzel’s body. He heaved and rolled the capitán over, the armor plates grinding against each other, and then he cradled the old officer’s head. “Capitán!” His hand came away from the capitán’s ruined face, trembling in the air.
Crawling closer to Stefan and keeping an eye out for more calleros charging through the night, Necrem saw Raul’s face twist from fear, to horror, to soul crushing sorrow as he stared wide-eyed at his blood-soaked hand.
Now that he was closer, Necrem got a better look at Gonzel’s wound. The calleros’s sword had sliced through his left side of his face at an angle, catching and splitting a wide, bleeding gash in the side of his neck.
“No!” Raul wailed. “Why didn’t you get up?”
Stefan hunkered lower, visibly shaking.
“Why didn’t any of you fight?” Raul demanded, but more into the night than at Stefan.
“Whatever you say, Raul.”
Maeso slinked into the light, crouching and stepping lightly on the balls of his feet. The thief yanked Raul’s head back by his hair then slid a knife across the master sergeant’s neck.
Raul dropped Gonzel’s body to clutch his throat, gargling and coughing as his own blood poured between his fingers to mix with his fallen capitán’s.
Maeso shoved Raul aside and began frisking his clothes before he was dead.
Once a thief, always a thief, Necrem recited, unsure of what to do.
Part of him told him to crawl away. Desperate times like this made men like Maeso even more dangerous. The night was getting brighter, however, and when he looked toward the center of camp, he spotted the reason. Tents were being set on fire.
The enemy was inside the camp.
Got to get out of here.
He moved to crawl back the way he had come, but the sound of growling stopped him. He looked back to find Maeso had moved on to stripping Gonzel. The thief held the capitán’s legs up then flung them aside in frustration. He looked around—
Then he spotted Stefan.
The thief looked the boy over then said, “I’m going to need your boots.” Maeso reached down to grab Stefan, knife blade pointing downward.
Necrem acted before thinking, pushing himself to his feet and lunging forward. He ignored his popping knees and the rock his left heel had struck because his boot had been flung off when he’d rolled to avoid the stampeding horses. He charged, taking four great strides. His hands balled into fists. He swung just as Maeso’s head jerked up.
Smack!
Necrem’s right uppercut slammed into the thief’s gaping mouth. He felt his jaw crunch against his knuckles. Maeso’s head snapped back, his feet left the ground, and he went flying backward into the shadowy night. Necrem heard the crashing impact more than saw it. From the snapping of crisp branches and ground scraping, he figured the old thief was taking a tumble through some brush before rolling to a stop.
He stood there for a moment, breathing deep and hard through his mask. Did I just do that?
The feeling of hitting another man kept ran through his skin and his mind, the giving impact of flesh against flesh and the hard crack of bones underneath. Unlike the singing of metal striking metal, the wet slaps and smacks of flesh against flesh were sickening.
Crying sniffles reminded him of where he was, and he looked down at his feet. Stefan was looking up at him, blurry-eyed and scared, still shaking.
Necrem knelt, taking him by the shoulder. “We need to get out of here.”
“Wh-where?” Stefan stuttered.
Necrem grunted. Where?
He looked back to the main camp. The fires were getting bigger. The cracks of eruption had stopped, yet the yelling and screaming hadn’t. Galloping hooves still drummed westward where most of the other companies had slept.
Baggage train!
He glanced over his shoulder. Eastward, down the road, the baggage train and camp followers’ tents were still visible, but not on fire. Besides the one scream earlier, they didn’t appear under attack.
“The camp followers,” he told Stefan. “We make it there, and we might find a wagon to get out of here on. Or hide.” A glint of metal caught his eye. He reached over Gonzel’s and Raul’s bodies to pull the master sergeant’s halberd from under him.
“Really?” Stefan asked, nervously rolling to his knees then gazing toward the baggage train. “Do you think we can make it?”
Necrem looked back again. There was a lot of ground between them and the baggage train. A lot of dark, open ground were a calleros could ride them down.
“We might if—”
Tap!
Tap!
Rap! Rap! Rap!
Necrem spun around. Below them, lanterns lit columns of men marching in step up the slope of the ridge. The columns stretched out across their line, their drums and footsteps beating in time together, followed by the clattering of long poles and armor tapping together.
And those columns were coming closer.
More men from Necrem’s company or squad suddenly rose from their hiding spots and dashed off toward the camp, some heading for the baggage train, as well.
“We can’t stay here,” he said, hoisting the lad up by the arm and setting them both off after their running squad mates.
~~~
“Someone’s coming!” Stefan whispered, grabbing Necrem by the arm.
Necrem stumbled to a stop, holding the halberd out in front of him. It was heavier than the spear he’d been stabbing a post for over a month but better than nothing.
He could barely make out anything ten feet ahead of him between the shadowy tents and wagons.
Stefan pulled his arm then slipped behind a wagon. The boy’s ears were sharper than his own and had already saved them from running into wandering groups stalking the baggage train several times.
Necrem followed his example and squatted down next him. His knees burned from how low he crouched but froze when he heard rushing footsteps heading their way.
“Hurry!”
Necrem peeked over the top of the wagon and spotted four men rushing down the lane.
Provost guards, he deduced by their armor and halberds.
One lagged behind the others, clutching his left shoulder while the arm dangled as he ran. His foot caught a tent peg, and he fell to the ground with a yelp.
“Dammit!” one of his fellows hissed, going back for him. “We got to keep moving.”
“I can’t,” the downed guard whined, shaking his head.
The others had stopped and tentatively watched the other two.
“Where did they come from?”
“Who cares?” a guard watching snapped. “The wagons are lost, most of camp followers with them. If we get caught, the Lazornians will either kill or sell us.”
“But if the Don learns we lost his wagons, he’ll kill us anyway,” the wounded guard cried, doubling over on his knees.
The Lazornians are here. Necrem dipped his head down, his scars pulling as his face tensed. Maybe there’s no way out of this.
The Lazornian columns marched into their abandoned camp right when Necrem and Stefan reached the edge of the baggage train. They were making steady, methodical progress up the ridge, probing behind every bush and shrub. Hiding men screamed or begged when they were found, only to be silenced an instant later.
The wagon Necrem was hiding behind rocked, its wooden planks and gears knocking together. He jerked back.
Stefan crouched, frozen on his hands and knees, staring back at him from over his shoulder. He had crawled a few feet away and struck the wagon’s wheel with his boot.
“What was that?” one of the provost guards asked in alarm.
Necrem stared at Stefan and pressed a finger against where his lips should be. Then he tentatively glanced over the top of the wagon, fearing the provost guards were bearing down on them.
Yells and battle cries suddenly shattered the quiet.
Necrem looked to see soldiers emerging from the shadows. The provost guard standing over his wounded comrade failed to lower his halberd when he turned and received a sword thrust through his neck. The swordsman’s shield batted him aside while the other soldiers stormed in.
The other two guards lowered their halberds, but the Lazornians, nine in all, soon divided and surrounded them. Both guards lashed out with their halberds, thrusting and hacking, but their attacks bounced off the swordsmen’s shields.
Three attacked the guard on the right, one turning the halberd away with his shield, then another stabbed the guard in the side. The guard’s back arched, and his gasp was cut short by a sword being thrust into his neck. The three soldiers stabbed him once more when he crumbled into a heap, as if for good measure.
“I yield!” the guard on the left yelled, throwing his halberd away then falling to his knees, hands raised in the air. “Mercy, please!”
The Lazornians lowered their swords then looked to one of their number.
“Take him back with the others,” the Lazornian officer ordered.
Two of the Lazornians took the surrendered guard under the arms and dragged him away. The rest turned their attention to the wounded guard still clutching his shoulder wound, on his knees.
“I . . . surrender,” the guard begged.
The Lazornian officer knelt in front of the man then looked over his shoulder. “I’m sorry,” he said, taking the man by his good shoulder. “But you’re not going to make it.”
“No! Pleas—Gak!”
Blood gurgled out of the guard’s mouth from the officer thrusting a dagger into the top of his throat.
The hiss of someone’s breath catching sent a jolt down Necrem’s spine. He twisted aside and again discovered Stefan had moved, kneeling right beside him and watching the entire scene. Panicked, he grabbed the lad’s head then ducked them down in case any of Lazornians had heard.
“Spread out,” the Lazornian officer ordered. “You two, that way. You two, that way. Keep an eye out for anyone we missed. If you link up with another squad or our relief column, lead them to the wagons.”
“Yes, sir!” the others replied then stomped off.
“You two with me,” the officer said.
Necrem held Stefan’s head down and listened to the footsteps. Just walk away, he prayed. Just walk away.
Miraculously, they did.
Necrem held Stefan’s head down while the footsteps against the sandy ground split into three directions and got softer and softer.
“They’re . . . everywhere,” Stefan whimpered softly. He hung his head and teetered on wrapping his arms around his legs again. “There’s no way out.”
Necrem didn’t know what to say. Stefan was likely right, but he knew if agreed, the boy would probably give up. If he did, there was no way Necrem would get him moving again.
Should we give up? he pondered. They’re taking prisoners if you surrender and aren’t dying. We could—
He would never see his family again. Those who surrendered would likely be taken as sioneroses.
“That’s not going to happen,” he said. He took Stefan by the shoulder and shook him. “We need to keep moving.”
He looked to see if the way was clear, especially the way the Lazornians had come and taken the surviving provost guard. Light was growing from that direction, although it was too small and weak against the ominous glow of the main camp off to their right. However, the lights did provide good direction markers.
“North,” he said. “Between the camps. We stay quiet and slip right between them.” He slapped Stefan’s shoulder then slipped out from behind the wagon. “Don’t give up, boy. We can make it if we don’t give up.”
His words sounded like wishful thinking, almost pathetic, yet he’d been clinging to that wish for a month and refused to let go now.
~~~
Necrem gingerly walked on the balls of his feet, down a row of abandoned tents, holding his halberd out in front of him. Stefan walked beside him, arms wrapped around himself and shoulders hunched, nervously glancing between each tent and jumping at every sound.
“Do we have to go this way?” Stefan asked.
“Unless you want to crawl through that cactus and briar patch,” Necrem tiredly replied. “I can’t.”
The baggage train camp’s setup was in disarray, as if the provost had neglected or disregarded any need to outline it before letting the camp followers make camp. The tents were broken up in uneven lines with wagons and stalls mixed among them. They wrapped around rocks, briars, cactuses, and dried-out trees without any regard for connecting lanes.
Necrem and Stefan had come across a large patch of briars stretching out around cactuses and dead trees that was more of a wall than a patch, blocking their way across the road. That left them with the apprehensive choice of following the patch east toward the main camp and battle, or west to the wherever the Lazornians were holding the camp followers. Necrem had decided the westward route. There was no telling what was waiting for them toward the main camp.
He gripped his halberd tighter with each step now. Their hopes of the patch breaking up and finding a way through were growing smaller and smaller as the light ahead of them grew brighter.
“May . . . maybe,” Stefan stuttered, “maybe we should go—”
Something crashed behind them.
Necrem spun around, narrowly missing Stefan with his halberd, making the lad stumble and fall between a couple of tents.
At first, Necrem couldn’t see anything. Then he heard running footsteps heading for them.
“Halt!” someone yelled down the lane.
Necrem was about to take to his heels when a figure emerged from the gloom. He couldn’t make out a face but could make out the man wasn’t carrying the round shields of the Lazornians. Instead, the man was glancing behind him every two steps, carrying something stocky in his hands.
The man dug his heels into the road when he spotted Necrem, jerking his head back and flaring his wavy hair.
“Get of the frickin’ way!” the man yelled, pointing whatever he held at Necrem.
Necrem recognized the voice. “Joaq?”
“Oso?” Joaq lowered what he was holding. “How did—”
“Halt!”
Joaq sprung forward, taking up a position beside him.
Necrem finally made out what the artist was holding—an odd weapon with a stock like a crossbow and long, widening brass tube on top of it.
Charging feet made Necrem look up to see three Lazornians rushing down the road, shields held in front of them and swords in their fists. They slowed to a cautious walk then fanned out across the road once they saw Necrem had joined Joaq. Necrem shot a glance where Stefan had fallen. The boy was still there, hunkered down as low as he could.
“Drop your weapons!” the Lazornian in the center ordered. The soldiers held their shields out with swords poised, leveled by their heads, sword tips pointing over their shields’ round rims.
“Stay back!” Joaq warned, thrusting menacingly with his weapon. “Or I’ll pull this lever.”
“Where’s your match?” one of the soldiers asked.
“My . . . match?” Joaq’s shaking ran up his arm until his entire upper body was trembling.
“You don’t even know how to use that.” The soldier on the right stepped closer, shuffling past Stefan unawares. “Put it down.”
“Same to you, big man,” the soldier to the left ordered.
Necrem pointed the halberd toward him, making him stop his inching approach.
“You’re going to get one good swing before we close in on you,” the soldier warned, “and that’ll be it.”
“Surrender, and we’ll show mercy,” the soldier in the center said.
The recent scene of the provost guards being slaughtered flashed through Necrem’s head. The speed, the efficiency, the . . . callousness. He doubted he would fare any better.
But then I’ll . . . I’ll never see them again. Eulalia’s and Bayona’s faces shoved the sight of the provost guards dying away, and he tightened his grip on the halberd’s shaft.
“I can’t,” he replied through a heavy, exhausted breath. “I won’t be taken away.”
The soldiers each took their stances, their knees bent, preparing to spring while also getting lower. There was a bounce to them, their boots grinding the dirt under them.
“Here they come,” Necrem said under his breath to Joaq, who grunted.
“No!” Stefan screamed, leaping from his hiding spot and wrapping his arms around the waist of the soldier on the right.
As the soldier struggled, hitting Stefan’s back with his shield, and the others paused, Joaq raised his stolen weapon, squeezing around the stock.
Nothing happened.
“Oh,” Joaq squeaked. He gave Necrem a look. “This thing is useless.”
Roars and yells snapped their attention back. Despite the months of training to use a spear, Necrem’s instincts to raise a hammer kicked in, and he raised the halberd to hit a perceived oncoming foe.
Instead, more men came running down the road. The Lazornians turned to face this new threat when men with spears slammed into their shields. Swords slashed and spear thrusts struck against shields, leaving Necrem and Joaq staring at the sudden shift.
A spear struck the soldier struggling with Stefan in the back just as the soldier hit the back of the boy’s head with his sword pommel. Stefan went down in a heap while the man with the spear drove the soldier to the ground and held him there, struggling and kicking, until another man ran up and bashed the soldier’s head in with a club.
The other Lazornians fared the same. The body of men rushing down the road separated them on impact. Several men with spears drove the one on the left between two tents, thrusting against his hacking sword until they backed him against the briar patch. The soldier cried out as he was impaled from the briars and spears.
The soldier in center was surrounded. He blocked with his shield and slashed desperately against the probing thrusts. One assailant rushed in, yelling with a club raised over his head. The soldier gutted him for his attempt, but his sword got caught. The rest rushed him, knocking his feet out from under him and killing him on the ground with raining spear thrusts.
Necrem felt someone nudge his elbow, ripping him from another slaughter-witnessing-stupor.
Joaq looked up at him, grinning and half-laughing.
“Oso?”
Necrem looked back. Hezet was walking up to him, looking between him and Joaq in surprise.
“You both made it out, too!” The veteran laughed, shouldering his spear and rushing up to clasp Joaq on the shoulder then Necrem.
“How . . .?” Necrem asked then looked back at the others. There were probably twenty men filling the road. He didn’t recognize most. One was bending down to take the helmet off the soldier in the middle of the road.
“Luck.” Hezet shrugged. “Like the rest of us.”
“Any more of us make it out?” Joaq asked.
“I don’t know.” He shook his head.
“Take it easy, boy,” one of the men said, helping Stefan up. The lad was rubbing the back of his head.
The rest of the men, in various stages of dress, mixed weapons and armor, began to gather around them.
“We need to keep moving,” Hezet ordered then turned to Necrem. “Do either of you know what that is?” He gestured at the light ahead of them.
“That’s where the Lazornians are keeping the camp followers,” Necrem replied, looking back at the red glow down the road. His shoulders slumped, too heavy to keep them straight. “We . . . overheard a group of them say it when they captured a provost guard.”
“Explains why this place is frickin’ empty,” someone mumbled.
“We were trying to find a way around it and the main camp, but”—Necrem shrugged at the briar patch—“ran into something we couldn’t cross.”
“Well, we can’t go back that way,” Hezet said, gesturing back at the main camp. “The army’s finished.”
“Then we keep going this way,” Joaq suggested, pointing west down the road with the blunderbuss. “Maybe we can slip past—”
A woman screamed from down the road.
Everyone went still.
“Are they killing them?” someone in the back asked.
“They said they were taking prisoners,” Stefan replied, rubbing his head.
Necrem twisted his grip around the halberd’s handle again. The woman’s scream echoed in his head, echoing back to another night long ago. The smell of blood and smoke in the dark of night. Men laughing, drunk on victory.
And a woman crying.
“Oso?” Hezet called after him.
Necrem’s legs moved on their own, walking down the road, toward the screaming.
“Oso!”
Stefan was the first to reach him, followed by Hezet and the rest.
“What are we doing?” someone whispered.
“Where are we going?” another demanded.
Necrem had no answers, only an urge. The screams called to him. Screams ten years old echoing into the present. He walked past empty tents and wagons without a glance. He ignored the stinging of stepping on loose gravel, barbs, and rocks with his bare foot. His vision narrowed on the red glow of the wagons down the road that became clearer with each step.
Got to get to her, he told himself. Got to save her.
He would have walked into the light under his singular determination had it not been for Hezet and a couple others pulling him aside behind a tent.
“What are you doing, blacksmith?” Hezet hissed, shaking his shoulder. “You nearly strolled out there.”
Necrem blinked his fuzzy vision clear then peered around the tent. The lights were coming from large bonfires, former campfires that had tent canvas and beams stacked into the flames. The bonfires surrounded a square of wagons patrolled by Lazornians. Shadows of people sitting and moving around inside the makeshift prison was all he could see of the camp followers.
A quick measure of how wide the wagons stretched and the light from the bonfires told him the light stretched for nearly half a mile. He couldn’t see any way around. His shoulders slumped again, and the back of his legs ached with a chilling throb from finally sitting down. The halberd slipped through his fingers, gently landing in the dirt.
There’s no way around. He rubbed forehead, rubbing sweat and dirt across his face. His staggered, deep breaths came out as sporadic hisses though his mask. I’m sorry, Eulalia, Bayona. I’m tired.
“Looks like a whole company,” Hezet said, conferring to another soldier beside him.
“Who knows how many more are patrolling through the camp?” the other soldier said. “Think they got all the camp followers in there?”
“Probably all they can find,” Hezet replied.
He glanced over at Necrem and gave him a worried look. “You all right, Oso?”
Necrem shook his head. “I’m . . . tired,” he replied weakly.
Hezet’s frown darkened. He opened his mouth to say something—
“Move along!”
Necrem sighed, figuring they’d been caught but too tired to be afraid. However, he caught guarded looks on Hezet and the others huddling around him then heard the distant footsteps off to the right.
“They found some more,” the other veteran said.
“Some provost guards, too,” Hezet added.
The lucky ones. Necrem hung his head, contemplating if they would be better off surrendering.
“Please, no!”
The sound of a woman crying, begging, made him raise his head.
“Don’t put me in there.”
Thump, thump. Necrem’s heart began to beat faster. The shadow images cast by the bonfires burned the image of two men dragging a struggling woman by her arms across the tent canvas in front of him. Thump, thump!
“Just get in there!” one of the men snapped.
Necrem rolled back around, the feeling in his legs dulled to nothing. Everything around him shrunk and went numb. The smell of an army camp, the smell of canvas, horse, iron, and smoke blended in his nostrils. The red glow from campfires and the night’s darkness between.
I’ve been here before, he felt.
Thump, thump.
He looked over the tent. A line of people, provost guards, men in their small cloths, women in their shifts, walked in a line between the soldiers ushering them through a gap in the wagons. The sight of a woman pulling against two of her captors snatched Necrem’s attention.
“Let me go!” the woman futilely begged, digging her bare feet into the ground in vain as the soldiers pulled her along inch by inch. “Please!”
The woman, dressed in a long, white shift, flailed desperately. Her long hair waved back in the air like a ribbon.
Necrem’s body seized.
Thump, thump! Thump, thump!
Her hair was honey brown.
Thump, thump! Thump, thump!
The plea echoed in his head, blocking everything out.
But the pitch in the voice changed. “Please, no!”
Thump, thump! Thump, thump!
Necrem’s vision narrowed, the corners tinting red. His hands balled into fists, cracking and snapping his knuckles. His knees popped from slowly standing.
“Eulalia,” he said under his breath.
His body began to move. His fatigue gone. The pleas for help and the hammering in his chest were all he could hear.
“Eulalia!” he said louder. His vision grew blurry with a red tint from the fires he stormed past, his footfalls speeding up.
“Oso!” someone, he didn’t know who or from where, yelled.
The soldiers looked, surprise morphing with amusement on their snickering, blurry faces. Necrem knew those faces. He had known them for years!
And they had their hands on her again.
“Eulalia!” he bellowed.
Distance blurred, and one amused face twisted into surprise again as Necrem drove his fist into the man’s nose, crunching bones under his knuckles. As the first man spun, tripped, then fell into a heap on the ground, Necrem was already moving to the other.
The man had thrown her to the ground and was now reaching for a sword at his hip. Necrem slammed both of his fists down on the man’s shoulders, not hearing his cries of pain before grabbing his armor’s shoulder straps. He spun the man like a doll then flung him.
Into one of the bonfires.
The man crashed through the fire, kicking and screaming as the burning tent canvas wrapped around him and he couldn’t get out of it.
Necrem kept moving. Two more men were rushing him.
The other two.
Necrem roared, charging them with his fists up. One drew up wearily, looking between him and the man on fire. Necrem clotheslined him with his left forearm, throwing him to the ground before swinging at the other.
Something slashed his left forearm. He brushed the pain and the blade aside, got in close to grab the man by the shoulder, then slammed his fist into the man’s gut. It was like striking iron. However, the blow doubled the man over, gasping.
It wasn’t enough.
Necrem hit him again. And again. And again!
That iron stomach gave in on the last punch. The man coughed blood as Necrem pulled his head back by the rim of the helmet he wore then smashed the man’s face in.
“That’s the fourth,” he growled, hunched and wheezing over the man’s body.
His shoulders rose and fell. His fists clenched and relaxed, blood dripping from his right. Dull pains echoed on the edge of his feelings, just beyond the red in his sight, yet they were still easy to ignore.
An incoherent shout made him snap his head up. A line of men with round shields were closing in on him in a semi-circle. He couldn’t hear what they way were saying. He already knew what they were saying.
“Of course,” he hissed. “Calleroses always have their picked men with them.” His teeth clamped together until they cracked. His face burned like it was on fire. Something hot ran down his cheeks and dripped off his jaw. His world began to shake. “Picked, lying men! And laughing provost guards!” He sucked in air to bellow, “None of you will touch her!”
He sprung and swung. He bore down on the man in front of him without a care, driving his fist into the round shield the man thought would protect him. Instead, the man tripped, tumbling backward from the blow.
Necrem didn’t focus on him, though. He had no singular focus. He swung at them all, driving a hard right against the next man to the left, ramming an uppercut to the shield on the right. He spun and swung, fists pounding metal, ringing a familiar yet off-key tone to his ears.
His opponents hid behind their shields. With every punch, he drove one back just to turn around and hit another. They didn’t punch, kick, or fight back; they hid behind their closing wall of steel.
“You think this will stop me!” Necrem yelled, punching a shield dead-center. “I forged these shields!” He punched another shield. “I pound metal day”—he slammed another shield then spun in the opposite direction—“after day”—his bloody knuckles left a print in the bend of another shield—“after day!”
One of the men staggered back from a blow, his shield half-raised.
Necrem bore down on the man with his fists raised above his head. “Hammer or fist, no sheet of metal is going to stand against a steel-working man—”
Gleaming steel pierced through his face.
The pounding in Necrem’s head went quiet, and the red clouding his vision pulled back. Out of the corners of his eyes, he traced the sword’s straight blade jabbed through the left side of his face at an upward angle and exiting his right side. He felt the blade’s sharp edge against his teeth.
He followed the blade downward, to the trembling hand that held it, and finally to the wide-eyed man staring up at him.
“You’re not . . . hurt?” the man swallowed then pulled his sword out.
The force jerked Necrem’s head and made him drop his arms. He felt something peel from his face. Instinctively, he reached to wipe it but stopped as several lines of blood pooled in his palm. His fist closed around the pool, his vision blurring red again.
“Yes,” he hissed, raising his head.
The man’s face twisted, eyes wide, mouth silently agape, lips peeling back in horrified disgust. The others around him shifted, some scrambling back.
“I am!” Necrem yelled, seizing the man by the neck and arm. “But you won’t hurt her!” He squeezed with all his might.
The man gasped and kicked, trying to lift his sword, but Necrem wrenched his arm back. The man’s face shifted from white, to red, and finally blue. Necrem felt the man’s veins press against his neck bones through his palms. As the man’s eyes rolled back into his head, Necrem lifted him off his feet then flung him down, bones crunching on impact.
He roared at the other men surrounding him.
And his roar was answered.
Out of the night behind him came other men rushing those with the shields. As the fight broke out, more yells and hollers came from people behind some wagons he hadn’t remembered. Chaotic fighting soon whirled around him.
What’s going on? He reached for an answer. However, he couldn’t find one. As if he couldn’t remember. Who are these people? Have they finally come? Sanjaro? Miguel?
“You’ve all finally come!” he cheered with joy, thrusting his fist in the air. “Stand with me! Stand with me!” He laughed and cried.
A man backed into him, one in armor. Necrem backhanded him with his fist when the man glanced behind him. He came up on another man fighting with a camp follower with a club. He grabbed the man from behind, hoisted him in the air, then flung him aside.
Again and again, he would find one of those armored men, those picked men, get in close, and punch, bash, and throw them to the ground.
“They’re running!” someone cheered.
More cheers followed.
Necrem was kneeling over one who hadn’t gotten away. The man’s face was a bloody ruin.
It’s . . . over?
He looked around. Men were clapping each other on the back. Women were laughing and hugging each other or the closest man they could find.
The red tint pulled back from Necrem’s vision, yet it remained cloudy. He struggled to his feet. His head pounded and swam. Every step was a struggle.
“What am I . . .?” he stuttered under his breath. Then it caught. “Eulalia!”
He dove forward through the cluster of men around him. His big palms pushing them aside as easy as leaves. He stumbled back to where he had left her, sitting on the ground, looking up at him, trembling and terrified.
But safe.
“Eulalia,” he sighed out, collapsing on his knees before her. His arms wrapped around her and pulled her close to his chest. “You’re safe now,” he whispered, rubbing her shaking head to comfort her the best he could. “We’ll go home, just like you wanted.” His vision blurred until every shape became clouded shadows. Tears poured from his eyes, and his chin wobbled. “We’ll build a house . . . and forge, and never . . . never again go on campaign. Never . . . again.” He started to rock, gently back and forth, running his fingers through her hair, yet made sure not to hold her too tightly. “I promise . . . Eulalia,” he cried. “I . . . promise.”
He continued to cry and promise until the world went black.