15th of Andril, 1019 N.F (e.y.)
Snap!
A shooting pain snatched Necrem from oblivion. He gasped, jerking awake to a sea of pains and aches coursing through his entire body. The one that had awoken him emanated from his right hand and up his arm.
He lifted his swimming head to look, but the glaring yellow rays of the Easterly Sun blinded him. He rolled his head away as he felt multiple hands take a hold of him by the arms, shoulders, and pushing against his chest.
“Easy,” a soothing voice urged. “I barely got you bandaged up. Sit still and let me set these splints, then maybe I can do something about your face.”
Necrem’s head rolled back toward the voice. He struggled to blink his vision clear to see Doctor Maranon, a balding, stout man with a sharp beak of a nose, sternly studying Necrem’s mangled right hand. Dried, brown bloodstains crusted its back. The first three knuckles were split open and black around the exposed bone. His middle finger still pulsed from the doctor pulling it back into place.
He reached to touch it, but someone held his left arm down.
“Careful, Oso,” Joaq warned.
“Stefan,” he called from over his shoulder, “get Hezet.”
“Yes, sir!”
Necrem heard running feet, unable to get a glimpse of the lad before he ran off.
“You’ve lost a lot of blood, Oso,” the artist said, frowning at him as sternly as the doctor with deep bags under his eyes. His oily hair clung to his face. “Don’t push yourself.”
“It’s a miracle he’s even awake,” Maranon mumbled, wrapping a loose strip of cloth tightly around Necrem’s hand, holding in his knuckles. Then the doctor wrapped two sticks around his middle finger. “All these cuts and broken bones. His foot. His face. The Savior must really walk with you.”
That was Doctor Maranon’s favorite phrase. Necrem had overheard him use it many times when doctoring up a nasty injury or ailment made from the person’s own stupidity. He’d been one of a few camp doctors who knew how to make the salve for Necrem’s face and the only one who would examine his face. Ultimately, he’d had to admit there was little he could do, save give Necrem his salve.
“Wha—” Necrem choked on his words. His face felt like it was splitting from ear to ear, bringing tears to his eyes and leaving a burning sensation after the initial ripping sting.
“Don’t speak!” Maranon snapped. “I got most of the bleeding to stop, but I can’t be sure until I get in there and stitch what I can. You’ll pull the bandage away and start bleeding again if you try to talk and move your jaw.”
As the burning subsided, Necrem felt a cloth pressed against his face. After years of wearing a mask, he hardly noticed the difference until he realized half his face and head were wrapped in cloth from below his eyes to under his jaw.
His dry throat was scratchy, and he tried to swallow. Coarse cloth rubbed against his tongue, and he gently explored his mouth to discover clumps of cloth stuck in the holes of his cheeks and between his teeth.
This feels . . . familiar.
Too familiar. Like the day his face had been slashed for—
Necrem seized, shaking violently and squeezing his eyes tightly to drive the memory away. It’d been years since it was that easy to recall, and he forced it back within himself.
“Whash . . .” he spoke softly without moving his jaw or lips. He couldn’t pronounce things clearly, though. “Whash … haffen?”
“Eh?” Joaq grunted, pulling back slightly. “What’d you say?”
“He shouldn’t be saying anything!” Maranon snapped, pulling the cloth taut around Necrem’s broken finger.
Necrem sniffed sharply at the stinging jolt running up his arm. Now more awake, he looked back over his body.
He sat propped up against a wagon wheel, the wheel’s hub digging into his lower back and its wooden spokes rubbing against his shoulder blades. Besides the lower half of his face, both of his hands were bound in cloth with dried bloodstains across his knuckles. His left arm and right foot were also bound in makeshift bandages. His clothes were in tatters, multiple rips and cuts zigzagging across his trousers and shirt. His shirt was stained a dark brown that grew darker around his forearms the closer the sleeves got to his hands.
Those stains matched those on his bandages.
Blood. His hands began to shake, and he lifted his arms weakly to get a better look. That’s a lot . . . a lot of blood.
His wounds were too small to bleed that much. That left another option.
He suddenly sucked in air, trying to remember, but his memory was mirky.
He jerked his head back up, making Joaq jump. The artist had inched away a few paces, the corners of his frown twitching as he sat on the balls of his feet, as if ready to spring up and run away.
“What . . . did . . . I do?” Necrem asked.
Joaq swallowed then glanced nervously at the doctor. Maranon was rummaging through a sackcloth bag, metal clinking together from him rolling things around. He kept flickering watchful looks up from his bag.
They’re afraid of me. Necrem dropped his hands into his lap, too weak to keep them up and desperate to remember what had happened last night more than ever.
“Oso!”
Hezet was rushing over with a trail of men behind. All of them were in various stages of undress; some wore armor while some didn’t, and they brandished weapons from spears and halberds to swords and clubs. They spread out, watching him intently.
Hezet knelt in front of him, frowning and looking him up and down. “How are you feeling, Blacksmith?” he asked.
Necrem met his eyes and asked forcefully, “What . . . did I . . . do?”
Hezet glanced at the men around them then shook his head. “The craziest, damnedest thing I’ve ever seen in my life.”
Necrem’s brow furled, and he confusingly looked around as the others began chuckling and nodding in agreement. “I—”
“You charged half a company by yourself, you crazy, big bastard!” One man laughed.
“With your fists!” Stefan added excitedly, holding his fists up.
“You swung at everything.” A man to his left imitated punches. “You punched in breastplates!”
“And dented shields!”
“Real fists of steel!”
The group broke into more agreeing nods and grumbles.
“The broken knuckles suggest otherwise,” Maranon grumbled. The doctor had stopped pretending to be looking for something in his bag and instead sat back with his arms folded.
The men around them laughed harder.
Necrem slumped, soaking it all in. His fingers and palms stiffly resisted from being moved, his finger joints refusing to bend. Sporadic twinges from his biceps were becoming more noticeable.
He looked from his hands to the bloodstains on his clothes then back up at Hezet, who remained frowning at him rather than smiling and joking like the others.
“I . . . hurt people, didn’t I?” he asked.
Hezet reservedly nodded.
Necrem pressed his eyes closed, squeezing tears out of the corners. Visions of men screaming as his fists slammed into their faces, their bodies being thrown aside or laying mangled on the ground, made him gasp then quickly open his eyes. A cold sweat broke out on his forehead, and he started to shake.
“Easy,” Maranon urged, placing a tentative hand on Necrem’s shoulder, trying to be comforting yet keeping his distance. “After the ordeal you’ve been through, you need to rest.”
“You’re afraid of me,” Necrem said lowly, making Maranon flinch. He looked over the men around him again. “You’re all afraid of me.”
The men shifted their feet, their nervous smiles slipping away, and most avoided meeting his eyes.
“You were . . . pretty terrifying last night,” Joaq admitted.
“Scared the shit out of everybody,” someone else added.
“Poor Lia certainly was,” another said.
Necrem froze. “Lia?”
“The woman you charged out to save,” Hezet replied. “We thought you knew her or something until afterward. You”—he swallowed and look away—“kept calling her someone else.”
The men went silent, letting Necrem reflect in peace.
Eulalia. The memories of last night were becoming clearer, and he swore he had seen her there, in the middle of that mayhem. She was there! I saw—
Eulalia’s face shifted to a young woman he had never seen before, with dark brown hair, a freckled face, brown eyes slightly farther apart, and a supple mouth, quivering in silent terror.
Necrem’s chest felt heavy, and he sucked more air in. I didn’t . . . I didn’t mean to—
A baby started crying a short distance away.
Over Hezet’s shoulder, Necrem spied a large group of people, mostly women, kneeling around a deacon standing and holding his cane and lantern in the center of them. One by one, the women were coming up to offer their prayers to the group, while the others held either each other, their children, or themselves close.
Most of the men stood around the wagons, gazing out to something beyond the perimeter, and only a few of them had weapons.
“Are we—”
Tap!
Tap!
Rap! Rap! Rap!
Hezet leapt to his feet and joined the others looking over Necrem’s head and beyond the wagons.
Necrem angled his head. The ground underneath him shook from hundreds of feet marching in step, filling the air with their footfalls.
“They’re rotating companies again,” someone said.
“What are they waiting on?” Stefan asked.
“Probably on the Don,” Hezet replied, looking back over his shoulder.
Necrem joined the rest and followed the veteran’s gaze. He made out calleroses in ornate armor and, at a quick count, no more than fifty men-at-arms, gathered around someone in the center on the other side of the circle. Their attention was focused beyond the perimeter of the wagons, as well.
Necrem’s heart fell just seeing them. “Where’d they come from?”
“A few minutes after we carried you inside the circle—”
“Came charging in, barking orders to get the wagons moving,” someone spat, cutting Hezet off. “As if we had any horses to hitch up.”
“The Lazornians don’t seem to be in a hurry to storm us, though,” Hezet added. “For now, we wait.”
“On them,” Necrem said, gesturing toward the cluster of calleroses.
Hezet nodded.
Necrem sighed, glowering toward the calleroses and the Don hiding among them. We’re doomed.
***
Tap! Tap! Tap!
Recha bounced in her saddle, in time with the drums, unable—and unwilling—to tear the grin from her face.
We won! She was nearly giddy and clenched her teeth together to stop from giggling. We won! We won! We won!
They had done more than win. Her armies had obliterated the first Orsembian army they had found.
Recha still reeled from the speed of the march, the rush of getting everyone into place, making sure they had the ship unloaded in time to get the Third Army on the move to attack with the First and Second. The most important thing of all was that, this time, she’d gotten to watch!
She had retired early the day before to guarantee she would be awake for every moment. Keeping still had been her greatest struggle as she’d watched from a far. From waiting while the advance companies of sword had slipped stealthily into the enemy’s camp from the north and west, bouncing as calleroses had stampeded the enemy’s own horses into their camp, gaping as the fires grew larger and larger, and shouting at the sight of her armies’ pikemen marching on the camp from three sides.
It was all so . . . glorious!
“You’re too excited,” Baltazar whispered from his horse walking beside her. “You need to relax, or the thrill of victory will run away with you. Also”—he causally nodded at a line of prisoners under guard by a squad of her swordsmen—“you may give the impression you’re . . . ruthless.”
“Really?” she asked excitedly, turning her grin on him. She straightened in her saddle, holding her head up high. “Excellent!”
“No,” Baltazar grumbled lowly yet sternly. “Not good. The men will think you’re bloodthirsty.”
“Huh?” Recha arched an eyebrow, her grin slipping. “Blood—” She winced, realizing she was speaking loudly, and lowered her voice. “Bloodthirsty?”
Baltazar stiffly nodded. “We’re surveying an after action. We don’t have the casualty lists yet, but it’s best to proceed as if they are high until we are certain. A commander should put on a strong face for his, or her”—he shot her a glance out of the corner of his eye—“men at a time like this.”
Recha surveyed past the side of the road and across the mangled ruin of the Orsembian camp. At every other foot laid the smoldering remains of a tent, dark patches marking the rows where men had bedded down to sleep last night. Some had died in those fires, others had died scrambling out at the alarm, and others still had died before the fires had even started.
Now squads of her swordsmen were picking over the last bits of remaining tents, searching for survivors, information, and spoils. Lines of soot covered the half-dressed, many bloodied, prisoners being escorted to the rear, for sorting later. Everywhere she and her escort passed, she spotted grim faces, rummaging about the corpse of the camp without any sense of emotion.
“The men are tired,” Baltazar said, “but their blood’s still up. This is the hardest time to maintain discipline. They’ve been killing all night and probably seen friends die, as well. If they see an officer or commander ride in afterward, smiling and bouncing as if this was a game to them, they will lose all respect for that officer. They won’t believe you shared what they’ve been through, and instead will think you enjoyed the carnage, sending them to kill and die then come in afterward without a care.
“Such thoughts can make men break, even if they’ve won. Best to give them a grimace.” Baltazar shifted in his saddle, rolling his shoulders while making a stern expression, fit for an unfeeling statue. “You can always save the smiles for parades.”
Recha leaned back in her saddle, contemplating on his advice in silence. Her excitement finally drained from her to the point she could control it. Yet she couldn’t let him get the last word in.
“But you never smiled at parades, either,” she quipped.
“I did at one.” Baltazar flashed a soft smile that disappeared as fast as it had appeared. His eyes went misty for a second but followed the smile just as quickly.
The look sparked a memory of Baltazar standing and smiling proudly the first time Sebastian had gone on campaign at the head of his own force. The campaign he had come back from, heralded as a hero.
We were all smiling that day.
Recha took a deep breath and followed her field marshal’s example, although he probably grimaced better than her. He had more practice, and she didn’t want to create more wrinkles. Instead, she settled for a serene, composed posture with her head raised.
Their pace was slow. The road had to be cleared of debris from tents strung across their path. Work parties were dragging burnt wagons and a few horse corpses away by ropes.
Recha had wanted to survey the battlefield immediately after the Easterly Sun had risen, but Baltazar, Cornelos, and all their staff had held her back. When reports had come in that the enemy’s baggage train had resisted and their advanced force had pulled back, Baltazar still held her back until they had received the final report he’d been waiting on.
The enemy commander had slipped the trap and now hid behind a circle of wagons in the baggage train.
Another commandant who couldn’t handle the rules being ripped out from under their feet, Recha mused. Or maybe a baron, late to join Borbin’s main army and couldn’t stand in the face of real war, perhaps? A smirk cracked her serene mask as the ruins of the army camp fell away and they rode into the baggage train.
Tap!
Tap!
Rap! Rap! Rap!
The drummers leading the column sped up their tempo, and the gleaming points of the pike companies surrounding the wagons came into view. When the company of pikemen leading them turned aside, taking her banner with them, Recha got a full view.
There’re more people than I thought.
Over the heavy-laden wagons, she made out a mass of people in the center of the circle, mostly women and children around a white figure, a deacon. Men hunkered down behind the wagons, the heads of spears poking up here and there.
“One push, and they’ll give,” Marshal Narvae said from behind them.
Recha pulled her horse to a halt, her guard forming up in the gap between the companies of pikemen flanking them.
“There are children in there,” she said from over her shoulder. “We can’t be too ruthless, can we, Field Marsal?”
“Hmm,” Baltazar hummed while surveying the circle.
Recha followed his gaze to the cluster of calleroses in armor and their men-at-arms spreading out behind the wagons facing them. They were probably the only true resistance they faced. Marshal Narvae was right; they wouldn’t hold if pushed.
“Those wagons bear Borbin’s crest,” Baltazar said.
Recha shifted in her saddle to get a better look. The wagons were bigger than the others, covered in tightly-wrapped and tied-down yellow tarps. The tarps bore the flaming orange shield of Borbin with a gaping mellcresa skull baring down a grasping black hand.
The black hand symbolized the Tower of the West. The Borbin family’s fascination with the large, twin-crested predators was common knowledge. The crest was to symbolize that the Borbins held the historic capital of the old kingdom and, by right, held themselves above the other marcs. All because of a coincidence of geography and luck.
“Borbin’s supposed to be at Compuert,” she said, pursing her lips. “Please don’t tell me this was just a supply convoy.”
“This isn’t a supply convoy,” Baltazar said. “This . . . They’re sending someone.”
The Orsembians rolled back one of the wagons wide enough for four men to stroll out, one at a time. Two of them were in armor; one in red and the other green.
Calleroses, Recha surmised.
The man walking between them stuck out in his bright yellow jacket and flashy orange trousers. The right leg was stuffed inside his boot, while the left stuck out. The other wore sparkling silver; a polished breastplate was his sole piece of armor, and a gold and silver patterned cape hung from his shoulders. They strutted with their hands visible and rapiers rocking on their hips.
“Cornelos,” Recha called from over her shoulder, “bring in our guests.”
“Yes, La Dama,” Cornelos replied then guided his horse around her with a few of her guards trailing behind.
“They’ll likely declare to parley under the Rules,” Recha told Baltazar as Cornelos trotted out. “How do you suggest we proceed?”
“You didn’t need to ask for my suggestions outside Puerlato,” Baltazar replied lowly.
Recha frowned and lowered her voice again. “I thought I explained that already. Those officers were cowards. They abandoned their military ranks the moment they thought they could hide behind the Rules. The situation called for immediate action.”
“But you summoned the Viden to join you there,” Baltazar countered, shifting his gaze toward her. “That hints at planning. Not very immediate.”
Recha tightened her grip on her reins, her hands starting to tremble. Why here? Why now?
Baltazar wasn’t a man to fume or throw tantrums, despite not appreciating what she had done at the hill fort, regardless of Hiraldo’s report. Instead, he had decided to punish her by focusing on the needs of the campaign and avoiding her invites to dine for the past few days before finally opening back up.
I didn’t break our deal! Recha knew pleading and yelling would get her no sympathy. This wasn’t the right place for it, anyway. Thinking fast, returning hoofbeats sounding Cornelos’s return, she could find only one response.
“Our arrangement stands,” she said firmly. “If they keep their ranks, they’re yours. If they claim the Rules and wish to be treated as nobles, then they’re mine, but I shan’t make any demonstrations or permit any violence like at the fort.”
Baltazar gave her a sharp nod as the guard in front of her opened a path for Cornelos to walk his horse through.
Recha gave Baltazar a flat stare, trying to convey her thoughts through her eyes. We are going to talk about this later.
She straightened in her saddle, rolling her shoulders and putting on a masking smile as Cornelos approached. He walked his horse calmly, yet the blood had drained from his face, and his eyes flickered over his shoulder the moment they met hers.
Oh, now what—
Recha’s mouth fell open. Her heart raced at the sight of the man in silver being led toward her.
Givanzo Borbin!
The son of Marqués Borbin had grown a pointed beard on his chin in the five years she had last seen him. Some ladies had gossiped that they found him dashing with his high, angular cheekbones and curly black hair. His hawkish nose, however, reminded Recha of his father, and holding his head up with an assured, confident air did nothing to quell that feeling.
His son! Recha gripped her saddle horn, digging her nails into the leather to stop from shaking. We’ve captured Borbin’s son!
She pressed her lips tightly together, her desire to grin nearly overwhelming. She peeked out of the corner of her eye, and Baltazar’s stern expression gave her the strength to control her mask.
“La Dama,” Cornelos said, wheeling his horse to the side to address both her and the captives, “may I present His Illustrious Don Givanzo Borbin, and his retinue.”
Givanzo sharply sniffed, his amber eyes flashing a glare up at Cornelos before bowing with a flourish. He slid his left foot back, kept his left hand on his sword, held his right arm out, and bent from his hip while keeping his head up.
How many hours must he have practiced that?
“Well met, La Dama,” Givanzo said, rising from his bow. “I must admit, it is quite the shock meeting you here. We expected you to be at Zoragrin.”
Recha’s right eyebrow twinged at his implication of her remaining in her capital while sending her armies on campaign. “That’s amusing, Don Givanzo,” she replied. “I expected you to be with your bride.”
She met his narrow-eyed stare without wavering. While she didn’t have to be rude, she didn’t have to be overtly polite and diplomatic, either. If he was going to make snide remarks about her not belonging on campaign, then she was to return the touch about his recent betrothal.
They were so proud of it several months ago, proclaiming it repeatedly to everyone, she recalled. Maybe I should ask if the honeymoon was worth it?
Baltazar cleared his throat and pulled them both out of their staring battle.
Recha pulled back, finding him concerningly watching her. “Pardon me, Field Marshal,” she apologized.
“Don Givanzo”—she gestured to Baltazar—“may I present Field Marshal Baltazar Vigodt, field commander of the armies of Lazorna.”
Baltazar gave a snapping bow, a sharp nod of the head that made the back of Recha’s neck hurt from watching.
“Ah!” Givanzo’s eyes lit up, and he smiled, turning to Baltazar. “The renowned Half-Conquering Hero Vigodt. Well fought, sir, well fought! I must say, the unorthodox methods from last night make so much more sense now. I am honored to meet you.”
“I thank you for your praise, Don Givanzo,” Baltazar replied, unmoved and sternly scowling, as if carved from stone in his saddle.
That’s your second mistake, Givanzo, Recha counted. Sassing me is one thing, but throwing out false praise to Papa will get you nowhere. She began to speak—
“Since you were kind enough present your associate, La Dama,” Givanzo interrupted, “allow me to introduce mine.” He waved the gentleman without armor forward. “May I present—”
“Don Givanzo,” Baltazar said, “we have more important things to discuss than exchanging more pleasantries. I must ask you for your sword.”
The man Givanzo had been introducing, most likely a baron, flustered like a shocked woman, much too dramatic for Recha’s taste. Givanzo, on the other hand, glared up at Baltazar. His left nostril flared.
“Pardon me, La Dama,” Givanzo said, his tone dripping with contempt as he turned to Recha, “I am afraid your field marshal is suffering from being retired from the battlefield for so many years. Please remind the field marshal of his place and instruct him the Rules of Campaign clearly state each commander is to introduce each of their staff by their proper rank and privileges due them.” Givanzo tugged on his cape, making it flare and ripple.
His accompanying baron harumphed in agreement, folding his arms across his chest. Their calleroses drew up beside them.
Their shock was understandable, blind followers of the Rules as they were. The Rules of Campaign outlined that, when opposing commanders met, they were to exchange pleasantries, listing their officers by rank and status before listing their terms to each other. The side with the greater prestige—rather, the larger force—would typically get to go first. This rule was meant to be followed both before and after battle. If battle was joined.
Terms were to be negotiated and settled before the surrendering commander offered their sword. It was all a formality, though. The commander typically had their weapon back within the hour, as both commanders shared drinks in the victor’s command tent, while a portion of the loser’s army was auctioned off like cattle.
But we’re not following the Rules anymore. The corners of Recha’s lips twitched, threatening to smirk at how ridiculously dramatic it all was, yet she kept her mask intact.
She watched Givanzo, waiting for more theatrics. Instead, he waited, silently staring at Baltazar with his nose in the air.
You arrogant ass. She surprised herself with the thought, but she could think of no better description. You actually think I will reprimand my own field marshal, the man who raised me, because you’re not getting to grandstand? Promise or no, I should have you stripped and flogged. I should—
She twisted in her saddle, about to yell over her shoulder, when she caught sight of Baltazar. He held Givanzo’s stare, looking down at the Don with contempt.
Recha softly smiled. I should let Papa have you.
“Field Marshal Vigodt doesn’t need to be reminded of his place, Don Givanzo,” she said, relaxing back in her saddle. “He’s the field marshal of my armies and, as such, he has final say on all military decisions . . . including accepting the surrender of an enemy commander, such as yourself.”
She nodded at Baltazar. Get ’em, Papa!
“Don Givanzo,” Baltazar said, snatching the disgruntled don’s attention from giving Recha an impertinent look, “surrender your sword. The same for the rest of you. Then I will give you my terms to deliver to the rest of your men.”
Givanzo’s face turned red. He snarled, both of his nostrils twitching, and he danced his glare between both her and Baltazar. “You . . . dare!” he hissed, pointing at Baltazar. “You forget your station, Field Marshal! You may have been called a hero once, but you’re still lower than a baron and barely worthy of polishing my boots! You may claim victory today, but you did so in violations of all the Rules of Campaign! All of you violated the Rules!” He frantically pointed at everyone around him, including Recha in passing, before addressing Baltazar again. “And when my father learns of this—”
“Your father is two hundred miles away,” Baltazar stated coldly, propping a hand on his hip while leaning forward on his saddle horn. “Lodged in a siege he can’t easily pack up and march away from. And by the time he even hears a whiff of what might have happened here”—he shook his head slowly—“you’ll still be as hopeless as you were last night when we caught you sleeping. Your swords . . . now.”
All around them, men drew their swords, the finality of Baltazar’s words acting like a call to Recha’s soldiers, including Cornelos.
Tingling chills ran over Recha’s scalp, making her hair stand on end. And he was urging me not be ruthless?
“Have . . .?” Givanzo hissed. “Have you all gone insane?”
The calleroses around him shifted, trying to shield their don. Recha’s guards stepped closer, leveling their swords’ thin points a hairbreadth away from their necks, forcing them still.
“You’re violating the Rules!” Givanzo yelled.
Recha rolled her eyes. “We’re not following the Rules of Campaign,” she said, giving him a flat stare. “From this point on, Lazorna is following the rules of war. Accept your defeat with dignity and perhaps the good field marshal will let me decide where you’ll be sitting out this war. Eh, Field Marshal?” She raised an eyebrow at Baltazar, waiting to see if he would play along.
Baltazar mirrored her, arching an eyebrow of his own, before sitting back straight in his saddle. “Perhaps.”
“What of my property?” Givanzo demanded. “What of my attendants?”
“All spoils of the camp will be sorted to use for our war effort,” Baltazar replied bluntly. “I’m sure we can arrange for you to get your important personal effects returned.”
Recha’s ears twitched from hearing a throaty chuckle, likely from Narvae, behind her.
“As for your attendants,” Baltazar continued, “they shall join the rest of your surviving army as prisoners of war.”
The baron blanched at that. “You mean to take men of our station as sioneroses?”
“We are not taking sioneroses,” Recha interjected, grimacing both at the implication and the whining, nasal octave in the baron’s voice. “The prisoners of war will be sent to Puerlato, workers for the siege works. All your camp followers will be free to go once we’re sure of who they are. Any sioneroses will also be freed.
“As for you, gentlemen, the commandant we left in charge of the siege has a special place for you all to stay. I promise, you’ll all be quite comfortable”—she grinned broadly—“if you cooperate.”
Commandant Leyva’s last report had stated he was using the hill fort as both a lookout post and guard station for important prisoners. Sevesco had approved, commenting the keep was perfect for putting a few of the cowardly commanders to the question.
He’s going to be as giddy as a boy getting new toys when he hears we’ve captured Borbin’s son, she mused.
Givanzo snorted in contempt. “What a farce is that?” he snapped. “Do you honestly expect us to believe such nonsense? No Orsembian would accept them. They’re the most unbelievable terms I’ve ever heard.”
“Considering the terms you’re used to, that’s understandable,” Recha dryly quipped. “Although, when those terms are typically selling your own people for your failures, I’m not sure you have standing to claim our terms are a farce.”
Men around her chuckled and snickered.
Givanzo, however, glowered up at her. “You’ve already proven none of you can be trusted,” he said, folding his arms. “I refuse your terms.”
Recha shifted in her saddle then glanced at Baltazar.
“Seize them,” the field marshal ordered.
Givanzo tried unsuccessfully to shrug off the hands grabbing him. The baron yelped from his arms being wrenched behind his back. The calleroses offered no resistance with rapier tips still at their throats. In moments, they were all stripped of their swords and their arms pulled behind their backs.
“I’m afraid they leave us no choice,” Baltazar said to her. “If their commander doesn’t surrender, then we’re left to force them.”
Recha frowned, something in the way he said that not sitting right. “Very well . . .” she replied warily. “But I would rather not with all the women and children.”
“I understand, La Dama,” Baltazar said. “But if their commander doesn’t order them to surrender, I’m afraid, militarily, that leaves me with only one option.” He frowned, pursing his lips up and making his mustache flare out.
Is he . . . putting on an act? The feeling wouldn’t leave her. Recha was used to Baltazar commanding and knowing what he wanted and what needed to be done. Him beating around a bush felt wrong.
“If only there was a less ruthless option,” Baltazar pined.
Recha reactively sat up, the suggestion sparking something in the back of her mind. The sight of the burnt camp, the carnage, the exhaustion of the soldiers, the sight of the camp followers huddled around a deacon, they all ran together. Over the images, Givanzo’s words repeated, “No Orsembian would accept them.”
Let’s see about that.
“Cornelos,” she said, “you and a few others accompany me.” She guided her horse around Cornelos and between guards then headed toward the wagons.
“Accompany you where, La Dama?” Cornelos asked after her.
“To make another offer,” she replied, grinning over her shoulder.
***
Necrem sucked through the holes in his cheeks. The blood trickling into his mouth made him drool and made it hard to breathe.
“Stop that,” Maranon growled lowly.
The doctor hovered over his shoulder. Sweat dripped off his forehead as he pressed a cloth to Necrem’s right cheek with one hand and struggled to stitch a bleeding scar. The entire right side of his face burned yet numbed the stings of the needle piercing and thread pulling his flesh. They blurred together with the aches and pains pulsing up and down his body.
His throat closed from the rising blood and drool filling his mouth, forcing him to cough and fling droplets of blood from his mouth. More blood rushed back down his throat. On reflex, he turned to the side and spat out as much as he could, blood and spit spewing everywhere. The heavy taste of copper and salt made him gag and dry heave.
“Can’t you stay still?” Maranon snapped with a huff, his face growing red. His string hung down from Necrem’s face from the half-finished stitch.
Necrem shook his head. “Won’t do no good.” He coughed, reaching up to press his hand on the cloth that Maranon had pressed against his cheek. “I need salve.”
The salve kept his scars moist and stopped any rips and cuts from bleeding. His last supply, though, laid scattered on that desolate ridge.
“There is no more salve.” Maranon dug into his bag and pulled out more bandages. “Maybe the doctors in Lazornian camp will have some.” He cut the loose stitch from where it hung on Necrem’s face before rewrapping his face with the fresh bandage.
“I doubt they’ll spare it on me,” Necrem lamented. “Or any of us.”
He looked at the men standing guard near him, studying their frowning faces, their eyes dancing one direction then another, their huddled postures behind the wagons. Every now and then, one would glance over their shoulders at the calleroses on the opposite side of the circle. They had moved a wagon aside a while ago to let the Don strut out to bargain their lives away.
They’re taking too long.
The doctor tugged the bandage tight, jerking Necrem’s head to the side as he cut the wrap and pinned the ends to the rest of the bandage.
Necrem worked his jaw against the pressing bindings, making enough room to breathe. He sucked in air through his teeth to be certain air passed through the cloth. His head felt heavy from being wrapped up again, wobbling back and forth.
“I want to get up,” he said.
Maranon snorted. “Not after all my work putting you back together,” he said, putting away things in his bag then wiping his brow. “You’re going to have to be carried out of here.”
Not having the energy to argue, Necrem sat quietly and let the doctor collect the rest of his meager tools then leave to tend to someone else.
He pawed at the loose gravel with his left hand, seeing if he could move it. His right hand was bound stiffly to hold the broken knuckles and finger in place, but he found he could still grab with his left.
He pushed off the wagon wheel he’d been leaning against with a grunt. His tense muscles ached from bending and rolling to his side.
“Oso!” Joaq hissed. “The doctor said not to move.”
“I want . . .” Necrem panted, kneeling on his bad leg while putting his right under him and clutching the wagon wheel with his left hand. “I want . . . to see.”
Sweat ran down his back, and his arm muscles throbbed from merely rolling around. His shoulders rose and fell from his deep breaths. When he pushed up with his good leg, his knee almost buckled.
Someone grabbed him under his arm, a camp follower he didn’t recognize. Joaq joined them and, between the three of them grunting and pulling, Necrem finally stumbled to his feet. He blinked sweat out of his eyes to see the hopeless sight.
Rank after rank of violet uniformed and armored Lazornians ringed them. The Easterly Sun sparkled off the pike heads from the companies of pikemen forming the bulk of the army surrounding them. Between the companies were squads of swordsmen, holding their round shields in front of them, surrounding columns of crossbowmen.
No, Necrem realized after squinting at the weapons the Lazornians were shouldering. Those are guns. They were like the hand-bombard Joaq had found last night, except their barrels were longer and their muzzles didn’t flare out.
He had seen several versions of the strange weapon when he had previously worked on campaigns. He never forged the metal barrels or knew how they were made to aim small explosions. Merchants had claimed they would one day replace the crossbow, while the calleroses had laughed it off as he replaced their horseshoes or repaired their armor. The Lazornians, however, appeared to have made the merchants’ prophecy come true.
He followed the ring of columns all the way around. The way south was completely blocked, and he spotted trails of dust being kicked up in the air from horse riders.
“There’s no way out,” he said.
Joaq frowned darkly. The other man hung his head below the wagon then shook it. He didn’t even have a weapon. He was like several other camp followers who stood next to gaps between the wagons, attempting to give the appearance they could guard them when, in truth, they couldn’t.
Necrem hung his head, too. It was all for nothing.
Last night’s slog to get to rear of the camp, the hiding, the fighting, the . . . killing, and his injuries, all of that to end up in the same position. Except, now they were waiting to hear their lives had been traded for their commander’s. For Borbin’s son.
Selling us as sioneroses. Necrem’s panting filled his ears, and his vision swam.
A shooting pain snapped him out of it. He jerked back to find he had squeezed the side of wagon until the rim split. His hand trembled from the overexertion on his injured knuckles.
Shouting sprung up behind him.
Necrem looked over his shoulder and watched calleroses waving at their men-at-arms and the nearest provost guards, calling them away from their gaps to form into lines.
“Think the negotiations are over?” Joaq asked.
Necrem glanced at him. The artist was leaning against the wagon with an eyebrow raised, looking far too at ease for Necrem’s taste.
“Probably won’t—”
The commotion on the other side of the circle grew. Men were raising themselves on their toes to peek over the larger wagons on that side.
Horse hooves clomping against the hard-packed earth drew his attention beyond the circle. They grew louder as someone rode toward the wagons. Then around them.
Another wagon down, Stefan gasped as he gawked through his gap. Necrem followed his gaze and witnessed a woman riding around the wagons with a trail of Lazornian calleroses at her back.
Her straight-back poise on the horse marked her as highborn. Her deep violet riding dress matched the uniforms of the soldiers at her back. Her silver blouse, catching the Easterly Sun’s rays as easily as the pike heads, preserved her dignity while displaying her youthful, womanly figure. Her long, dark hair fell in curls off to the left side of her head, giving everyone a view of her face’s delicate profile as she gazed into the wagon circle as she rode.
“Now that is a sight,” Joaq said under his breath, almost in awe. The artist was on his feet, his full attention fixed on the woman. “If only I had paint and canvas.”
“I don’t think a painting’s going to get us out of this,” Necrem grumbled.
“Who cares?” Joaq shook his head. “It’d still be marvelous.”
More people were on their feet, watching the woman riding by. The women around the deacon stopped praying and began standing up. Men who hadn’t taken up places behind a wagon rushed to find one. The line of calleros men-at-arms came running around, huffing to keep pace, pushing other people out of the way.
The woman pulled up on her reins sharply then turned her horse to face them. The calleroses following her spread out, taking positions around her. Their swords conspicuously out, and their blades resting on their shoulders.
“I,” the woman announced, “am La Dama Recha Mandas, Marquesa of Lazorna!”
A low murmur spread behind him yet quickly fell silent.
“At this very moment,” the marquesa continued, “thirty thousand of Lazorna’s finest have you surrounded. The rest of your army is either captured . . . or dead.”
A child began to cry.
“Orsembians, Don Givanzo refused to accept my field marshal’s terms of surrender, even though he wasn’t in any position to refuse. For that, he has been seized as a prisoner of war.”
The men behind him, the calleroses and men-at-arms especially, grumbled and whispered to themselves after hearing that.
They’ve taken him prisoner? Necrem shook his head. Is this a joke or . . . a trap?
“Orsembians!” the marquesa shouted louder, cutting off the growing voices behind him. “I make you this one offer. Every soldier is to come out and lay down their arms. You’ll be taken as prisoners of war to complete the siege works around Puerlato. After they are finished, you will all be held until this campaign is finished. Then you will all be released to return to your homes.”
Necrem jerked his head up. Men gasped around him.
They’re . . . not taking us as sioneroses?
“Everyone else will be free once we are sure of who you are,” the marquesa added. “No women will be harmed, no camp laborers taken as prisoners of war, and any sioneros will be freed. You have my word!”
A stunned silence held everyone behind the wagons. The promises likely ran through everyone’s minds as loudly as they did Necrem’s. This sounded too good, too . . . fair, to be believable.
She’s going to free the sioneroses? Such a promise coming from a marquesa, or any noble, sounded dubious. In this situation, it sounded devious.
“She’s lying.”
Necrem looked over his shoulder at a calleros marching across the line of men-at-arms, holding his chin up in the air.
“She’s trying to make us lower our guard!” the calleros yelled to everyone. “If she’ll take the Don prisoner, then her word can’t be trusted. Stand firm, men!”
“But she said she’ll let us go free!” a woman yelled.
“What about our children?” a man, a camp worker at the wagons, demanded.
“Enough!” a noble in a linen shirt shouted, storming in from across the circle with a group of guards behind him. “We must stand firm! Don Givanzo refused them, then we can’t accept any terms from that lying bitch!”
A hush fell over everyone. The noble had yelled loud enough that his voice echoed and, as one, they all nervously turned to look for a reaction by the marquesa.
Necrem felt a chill run down his spine. The marquesa sat rigid in her saddle. Her head tilted, slightly angling her glaring eyes blazing down her pointed nose. She sat there without blinking, and as the time slowed, her eyes narrowed further, focusing on the noble.
“He really shouldn’t have done that,” Joaq whispered under his breath.
Necrem peeked beside him from the corner of his eye. The artist was hunkered down behind the wagon again.
“I’ve seen that look before.” Joaq nervously laughed then pressed his forehead against a wagon rail. “She’s going to kill us.”
Necrem’s brow furled. “Are you all right?” he asked.
Joaq shook his head. “No.”
“Orsembians!” the marquesa yelled, snapping everyone’s attention back to her. Her glare had softened, but her face was an icy mask. “If you reject my offer, my field marshal will have no choice but to order the companies forward. They will not be able to tell which of you are soldiers and which are not. The shot from my musketeers will not be forgiving.”
At mentioning them, the musketeers in the ring stepped forward. The first rank knelt with their musket butts propped up on the ground as they blew on their matches. The second ranks stepped up behind them, holding their muskets in front of them and blowing on their matches likewise.
“Take my offer, Orsembians,” the marquesa said. “Surrender and live! Or die for nothing.”
Necrem watched her face. From the distance, he couldn’t see every detail, yet he studied how she held her head, keeping her posture straight and her hands in her lap. Her expression reminded him of polished metal. No smirk or expecting smile mired her steely resolve.
“What are we going to do?” a calleros whispered behind him. A couple of calleroses huddled around the baron, keeping their voices down but not quiet enough. “Spread out?”
“We don’t have enough men to guard every opening between the wagons,” the other calleros snapped.
“You want to keep fighting!”
Necrem’s head jerked around at hearing Hezet’s voice. He and a few other disheveled men, who had escaped last night’s carnage on the ridge, were marching up to the calleroses, but they were stopped short when the baron’s men-at-arms formed a line, blocking them. Hezet and the others marched right up to them, spear shafts locking against spear shafts as a shoving match broke out.
“Look around us!” the veteran yelled. “The Lazornians have the numbers. There’s no sense in fighting.”
“Get back to your posts!” the baron snapped, pointing at them. “These matters are above dregs like you.”
“There’re women and children here!” a camp worker pushing against one of the baron’s men-at-arms shouted.
“What about my baby?” a woman cried.
“Enough!” the baron screamed, his face turning red and the veins in his neck bulging. “Don’t any of you see it? Clearly, this Lazornian witch is trying to set us against other! We must stand firm! We can’t let her treat us like this. Not after how she’s treated the Don and violated the Rules. It’s not proper!”
“Damn what’s proper!” a soldier shouted. “And damn the Don, too!”
“How dare you?” A calleros drew his sword, but the soldier had already dived back into line with the rest beside Hezet.
Two lines were already forming, and the yelling was growing. The baron urged the people to stand firm and reject the marquesa’s terms. The calleroses shouted orders, and Hezet and the others shouted back. Women began screaming and pleading with the men, while children started crying. The deacon waved his cane and lantern in the air, but whatever sermon he tried to give was lost in the chaos.
Necrem watched, unable to add anything to temper the inferno raging around him.
Joaq snickered beside him. “We’re all going die”—the artist laughed then leaned against the wagon again—“because we couldn’t just agree to walk out here.”
Necrem’s eyes were drawn to the lever locking the wagon wheels in place that Joaq was leaning beside. He nudged the wagon with his good hand. Boxes and chests rocked inside, tightly bound down, yet the wagon did budge. He looked back at the lever again, drawn to it. He braced himself against the wagon with his right hand, careful with his broken finger, then started limping down the wagon.
“Pardon me,” he said to Joaq before nudging the smaller man away.
“Eh?” Joaq grunted as Necrem pulled him by the shoulder of the wagon. The artist gave him a disgruntled frown for that. “What are you doing?”
Necrem didn’t answer. He reached up and grabbed the lever, pulling it down with a metallic creak. The wagon jostled more as he limped over to the front. The wagon hitch stuck out to the side fortunately and not under the wagon in front of it. The harness for the horses were likely in the wagon. However, the hitch pole was long and sturdy enough.
Necrem pushed against the wagon again, this time under driver’s seat, testing its weight and listening to it rock.
It might move, he pondered then looked at his cut-up, bandaged body. But can I move it?
“Get back to your posts!” the calleroses yelled. “Get back to your posts! The Lazornians could come any second!”
The baron was no longer yelling or trying to convince anyone. He just stood there, red-faced and pointing at the wagons as the calleroses and the men-at-arms tried to bully obedience. They weren’t getting it.
“I’m not dying here!” a soldier yelled.
“Any man who deserts will be cut down before he steps one foot out of the circle,” a calleros threatened.
“What about the women and children?” another man demanded. “At least let them go!”
Necrem shook his head and reached down, picked the wagon hitch on his shoulder, then placed his hands on under the driver’s seat.
“Oso?” Joaq hissed worriedly, looking back and forth from him to the calleroses. “What are you—”
Necrem groaned and pushed. Instantly, the strain of the weight pushed back against his aching arms, then across his shoulders, down his back, and ran through his legs. He tried to keep as much pressure off his left, standing only on his toes, yet the back of that leg spasmed as he put more weight into his shove.
Sweat broke out across his face. His knuckles popped the harder he shoved, forcing him to grit his teeth from the pain stabbing through his hands. His head dropped, and he dug both of his heels in, adding more biting pain from his injured foot.
“Come on!” he hissed under his haggard breath. “Come on!”
He leaned with his shoulder more, putting his entire back into it, and heaved.
A wooden creak split through the air!
The wagon wheels gave, and the wagon started moving backward.
Finally getting traction, Necrem angled the hitch to the left, forcing it to turn as he pushed it back. His face burned, and flashing spikes, like molten embers, ran down his entire body with every step. He closed his eyes and forced them away.
One more step, he told himself, wanting to get the hole as big as possible. One more step!
His left heel slipped. He grappled to keep a hold of the driver’s seat, but his broken knuckles gave out. He fell to his knees with a grunt, only to gasp when the wagon hitch came down and slammed into his back.
“Oso!”
Panting and sucking air desperately through the bandages around his face, Necrem blinked through sweat-soaked eyes to look over his shoulder. There was a wagon-sized hole right in the circle, big enough for a group of people to walk through. Joaq, Stefan, and a few others stood in the gap, gawking at him.
“What is the meaning of this?” the baron roared, charging through them.
The gap became a struggle as Hezet and his men joined Joaq and the others for control of the space. Necrem took the chance to roll the wagon hitch off his back. Then, hand over broken hand, he groaned and gasped as he pulled himself to his feet again. This time, he held on to the wagon, his trembling legs threatening to tumble out from under him.
“Someone seize that traitor!” the baron ordered.
The struggle between the soldiers and men-at-arms paused, everyone following where the baron was pointing.
Right at Necrem.
Necrem momentarily locked eyes with the man then slumped his head toward Hezet and the others. “There’s . . . nothing here . . . worth dying for,” he said, his chest rising and falling from taking long, deep breaths.
A lull hung over the men in the gap. Some looked to each other. Some looked at their feet.
Someone tossed their spear away. “Steel Fist is right,” he said.
Mumbling agreements followed, and another tossed their spear away.
Joaq and Stefan walked out of circle and tried to take Necrem under their arms. Stefan yelped when Necrem almost fell on top of the lad. More men rushed out, Hezet included, to catch them.
Necrem’s breathing became more labored, his chest burning, demanding more air. He gasped and breathed as deeply as he could, turning his lungs into the bellows of a forge that refused to be sated.
“Where are you going?” the baron yelled after them. “Get back here!”
Nobody stopped or turned around. Out of the corner of his eye, Necrem spotted a trail of soldiers, provost guards, camp workers, and women and children walking around them. Lastly, he caught sight of some of the Don’s and baron’s men-at-arms and one of the calleroses throwing their weapons down and joining them.
As they walked through a hole the Lazornians made for them, Maranon came rushing up from behind. The doctor had his bag over his shoulder and looked Necrem over intensely as they hobbled along.
“You stubborn oaf,” Maranon cursed, studying his face. “You ripped your stiches open. All of them!”
Necrem sucked in more air and tasted copper on his tongue again. “Sorry, Doctor,” he said weakly. “Sorry.”