2nd of Iohan, 1009 N.F (e.y.)
Sweat ran down Necrem’s face in streams, dripping on the polished top of his four-hundred-pound anvil that he struggled to load in the back of his tool wagon. The mild, True Fall evening breeze offered the only relief, sweeping across his drenched back, his soaked shirt clinging to him as the Easterly Sun’s rays clung to remain in the sky.
He set the anvil on the wagon’s floorboards with a thud then took it by the horn to move it over to the side. Being one of the heaviest things to load, he made sure it was near the rear of the wagon where he could easily pull it out and not have to carry it too far.
He breathed a heavy sigh of relief once it was resting against the sideboards of the wagon’s bed. He braced his aching arms against the wagon, muscles flexing on their own after lifting such a heavy load and hung his head to take deeper breaths.
“Just a few more tools,” he told himself. “Then no more unloading until home.”
“That sounds wonderful.”
Necrem lifted his head, grinning through his exhaustion and the wet strands of hair clinging to his forehead at the vision walking up to him.
Eulalia had a playful bounce in her step and a rich smile that made his heartbeat faster. Her honey-brown hair swayed behind her with every step she took, matching the swaying of her tan skirts. Her sleeveless blouse exposed her sun-kissed arms.
She hadn’t liked the clothes at first; however, the heat from the constant traveling and being outdoors soon changed her opinion on the garment.
Necrem noticed a light flush running across her delicate cheeks, framing her button nose, and then he saw the two cups she was carrying.
“Joining in the celebrations, are we?” he teased, leaning one hand against the tool wagon and putting the other on his hip. “I thought you didn’t care much for campaigning?”
“Oh, I don’t,” Eulalia replied, shaking her head. She walked up to him, her head only coming up to his chest, and had to crane her neck back to look up at him. “But even a village girl like me can celebrate one coming to an end.” She winked at him and held out a cup.
“Thank you!” Necrem said, perking up at seeing a drink being offered after such heavy work.
His fingers lightly brushed against hers as he took the cup, sending tingling sparks running through his still trembling arm. He caught a smoldering, mischievous look in her eye as she gave him the cup and wrapped her arm around her waist. They’d been married only a year now, and he never tired of catching the looks she gave him.
She’s up to something. He watched her watching him over the rim of her cup as he raised his to his lips. I wonder if I’m going to get any sleep tonight or—
The sharp, acid burn hit his tongue instantly. The fruity scent of mango and grape shot up his nose, making him snort as he pulled the cup back.
“What—!” Necrem coughed and peered into the cup at the pale pink liquid sloshing inside. “I thought this was beer!”
Eulalia laughed into her cup, her voice a musical trill. She hugged herself harder as her shoulders rose and fell.
“It’s lamila berry wine.” She giggled. “They were selling it cheap in the camp market, so I thought I would bring some of the celebrations to you since I just know you’re going to find some reason to avoid them.”
“I—”
Necrem’s words died on his lips at the sight of raised eyebrows and grin from over her cup. He turned his head away, forcing himself not to smile while feeling his cheeks heat up. She had an incredible knack of knowing just what to say to tease him. Often, he liked it, but he wasn’t going let her know that.
“I wasn’t going to avoid them,” he grumbled, lifting his cup to his lips. “I just have a lot of stuff to take care of, is all.” He took a small sip of the wine, sucking in his cheeks at how sharp it tasted.
He hardly drank anything stronger than malted beer. Too much liquor could make one’s hands shake, and that wasn’t good for a smith who needed to keep a good grip on his hammer and make sure his strokes were precise.
“Sure you do,” Eulalia said, elbowing him in the gut. “Even though you put away most of our things yesterday.” She glanced at the anvil in the back of his tool wagon. “Why did you unload it all this morning?”
Necrem frowned and looked over his tool wagon. Past the anvil was his bellow works and movable furnace with the stall stacked on top of them. The furnace wasn’t the biggest, but it was usable and fitted onto one wagon with room and weight to spare. Closer to the front were several iron toolboxes full of hammers and materials. Tied on top of all of that was his wooden stall where he would sit in front of his workstation for calleroses and other soldiers to make their orders.
“Because it was all too heavy,” he replied, “and the wagon would have been better if we had to abandon camp in a hurry.”
“Abandon camp?” Eulalia blinked up at him, her teasing smile gone and replaced with a concerned frown. “Why would we abandon camp? Did you . . . expect something bad to happen?”
Necrem gave her a small smile before dropping his head. He ground the dusty earth with the toe of his boot. Sometimes it was easy to remember this was her first time on campaign. Other times, he was so swept up in being married that he forgot.
“You never know how a battle’s going to turn out,” he explained. “You never know if they’re even going to happen. But when they do, it’s best to prepare for the worst. If the army lost today”—he swallowed, searching for the most delicate words possible—“I wanted to make sure our faster wagon was ready.” His chest tightened. Not very manly to admit you were getting ready to run.
He hesitantly lifted his head, expecting her to be shaking her head or frowning at him disappointedly. Instead, Eulalia stared unfocused into the wagon, her hand holding her cup by her fingertips at her side while her free hand fiddled with her golden, oval locket hanging around her neck.
The glint of steel in the locket’s gold chain caught his eye, the makeshift clasp and link standing out like a dent in a breastplate. He pressed the forefinger on his left hand and thumb together. The smooth calluses on their tips still fit neatly together after nearly two and a half years from forging the small pieces of metal.
It had been his first attempt to smith jewelry and his sworn last. Despite meeting the most beautiful woman in all Desryol and winning his wager, he never wanted to work with something so delicate ever again.
“Necrem,” Eulalia said softly, snapping him back to the present. She looked up at him, her eyes soft, deep pools he could get lost in. “You would have been leaving your forge.”
“It would have slowed us down. Besides”—he shrugged—“if we build that smith shop we talked about—you know, one with rooms above it and a forge in the back or the side—we won’t have to worry about going on campaigns or need a movable forge.”
Eulalia licked her lips and glanced down at her feet for a moment. “But dear”—she stepped closer—“how were you expecting to have the deberes to pay for building our shop if you expected the army to lose? If we lost, would the Union have been able to pay us your commission?”
Necrem grunted. He rolled his eyes upward as he thought. The answer quickly came back to him, refreshened by the first time he had gone on campaign and the army had been assigned to lost. He hadn’t had any commission that year, and narrowly was allowed safe passage with his tools and a small portion of funds he had collected on smaller jobs.
He broke out into a sweat again, knowing what he was in for.
He glanced down at Eulalia, finding her staring up at him, her eyes narrowed, her lips slightly pursed.
“I’m guessing they wouldn’t, would they?” she asked.
Necrem swallowed, looking away from being unable to match her stare, and grumbled, “No.”
“What was that?” Eulalia turned her head, angling her right ear up at him. She was grinning now, too, and her eyes twinkled with a teasing light.
“No,” he replied louder with a begrudging sigh, “if the army loses, then there is no payment to the Union. We wouldn’t get a commission.”
“Mmhmm,” Eulalia hummed, nodding her head. She set her cup down on the tool wagon then reached up to place her hand on his chest, ignoring his sweat. “Darling, I know this is my first time on campaign, and you probably have been through this situation before and probably did this very thing before—”
“But . . .” Necrem expected that to be the next thing she said. He closed his mouth quickly, though, when she gave him her narrow-eyed stare again.
“But,” she continued, “we can’t afford to think like that anymore. We need that commission. Not just for the shop, but also for . . . you know.” She looked down at her belly.
She wasn’t showing yet, having only learned she was expecting a few months ago. After the initial shock, a mixture of panic, excitement, and nervousness, everything became about settling down after this season was over.
“I know,” Necrem replied, setting his own cup on the wagon. “I was just looking out for the more important things. I can always replace a forge. Or anvil. Or hammers.” Feeling her hand still pressed against his chest, he reached with one hand around her waist to pull her closer. “But not you.”
“Aw,” Eulalia cooed with a wide grin. “That’s sweet! But no.” She pressed her hand into his chest, pushed against him, and pulled back from him. “You are too sweaty for that right now.”
“So?” Necrem smiled, keeping his hand on her waist while she pulled away.
I could just pull her back, he mused. But when do I ever get a chance to tease her?
“I thought you wanted us to join in on the celebrations?”
“Necrem Oso!” Eulalia whispered heavily, feigning a gasp. Her jaw dropped, though the corners of her mouth remained curled and she batted her eyelashes up at him. She also shot her arm out, locking the elbow and stiffened it in place. “Whatever gave you the idea of celebrating like that?” She narrowed her eyes again. “Is this a campaign habit you haven’t told me about?”
Necrem saw through the tease and didn’t fall for the look this time. “No,” he replied calmly, “of course not.” He pulled her waist, her arm unable to remain stiff for long and gave way as he gently added more strength to bring her closer. “I just thought, if my wife wanted to celebrate by bringing me wine after working so hard, she would want a more . . . private celebration. Just the two of us.” He leaned down toward her, his cheek muscles aching from smiling.
Eulalia bit her lip as he slowly pulled her closer, never moving her hand away. Her shoulders started trembling as deep giggles boiled up from her throat and made her grin back.
Suddenly, she added her other hand to his chest then pushed back, sliding out of his grasp.
“Nope.” She giggled. “Still too sweaty.” She snatched her cup of wine and hopped out of reach. “If you behave, though, and clean up tonight, then . . . maybe then.” She batted her eyelashes at him again over the rim of her cup as she took a sip of wine. Her free hand reached back up to fiddle with her locket again.
Necrem slumped his shoulders. After going through all that teasing only to be teased some more, it was almost too much for any husband to bear.
“If I behave?” He propped an elbow against the wagon then leaned against it. “What about all those things you said this morning? That wasn’t very respectful, wife behavior, cussing like—”
“Ah!” Eulalia pointed at him, eyes wide and cheeks flushed. “That was because you were being so loud. Mama always said, never wake up or make a lot of noise around an expecting mama early in the morning.” She sharply nodded her head and sniffed as if that had come straight out of the Savior’s gospel.
Necrem closed his eyes to hide rolling them. Eulalia had suddenly begun recalling a lot of her mama’s sayings ever since learning she was expecting. Being she was the second eldest in a household of seven, he suspected she had heard plenty of sayings growing up.
“Hello to the happy couple!”
Necrem snapped his eyes open and turned to see Sanjaro Daved strolling through the remnants of the camp’s smithing lane. The plucky cattle trader walked with a swager in his step with his hands stuffed in his trousers. The fading Easterly Sun’s rays glistened off the coppery, suntanned angles of his face, framed by dark curls of hair that needed a cut. It was a common joke that he grew it long while driving cattle to the campaign camps to hide the growing bald spot on the top his head.
Necrem raised his hand, a halfhearted wave, before checking on Eulalia. Her blush was gone, along with her eyes’ twinkle. She folded her arms around her waist, holding her cup at her side. Necrem spotted the slight dimple in her cheek from her biting the inside of it before she put on a friendly smile.
“Hello, Sanjaro!” she greeted back. “Got paid your commission, I see.”
Sanjaro stumbled to a stop, blinking at her. “Yes,” he replied. “How did—”
“You had a very satisfied look about you,” Eulalia said. “Like a happy, plump pavaloro.” She grinned at her usual joke about his hooked nose. “Men usually get that look after they’ve finished work or . . .” Her cheeks flushed again. She shot a quick look at Necrem then cleared her throat and hid behind her cup, taking a small sip.
“Well, you’re right there!” Sanjaro laughed, grinning broadly enough to show all his teeth as he walked up to Necrem. “I guess married life has taught you both a lot of things. Eh, happy Papa?” He elbowed Necrem in the gut.
Necrem hardly felt it yet straightened up and cleared his throat, anyway.
“So, they’re paying commissions already?” he asked, hoping to change the subject. Eulalia’s pregnancy had reached the ears of his friends in camp and fellow smiths in the Union. He wasn’t sure who had teased him more about it—Eulalia or his friends. Sanjaro was one of the worst offenders, too.
“For me, anyway,” Sanjaro replied, shrugging. “I brought in the beef, now everyone who’s alive gets to eat.” He barked a laugh. “And since there probably won’t be any more campaigning after what happened today, they were eager to get me paid off and sent on my way. The marqués and all the stuffed shirts have a big party planned for themselves tonight!” He popped up his collar, stuck his chest and jaw out, and made a gruff look, as if imitating a baron or someone important. Or, at least how Sanjaro viewed the important people, anyway.
“Are you sure?” Necrem asked. “The campaign’s over?”
“Oh yes!” Sanjaro nodded, and his eyes widened dramatically. “After the thrashing Ribera gave them today”—he frowned deeply and shook his head—“there’s not a Quezlo man alive not running to Compuert.”
“That bad, huh?”
“That bad.” Sanjaro’s face darkened briefly until he shoved it aside with a smirk. “But I guess you wouldn’t know, would you?”
Sanjaro tilted his head and said to Eulalia, “He never watches the duels or the battles.”
“Nothing much to watch,” Necrem said.
He never got a taste for watching the calleroses duel between the armies, the banter and name calling that went on between them, the betting camp workers made on them, or watching battles when they rarely happened. Most of it was noisy bluster, a lot of words meaning nothing, and the rest simply . . . morbid.
Especially if one never knew if their side would be victorious or not. Best in those cases to stay around his belongings, like he did today, and make sure everyone knew immediately he was a smith.
Smiths were exempt from being chosen or taken captive as sioneroses. He had learned his second-year apprenticing on campaign it was best to remain in the smithing corner of camp after a fellow apprentice had wandered to watch the duels and got chosen to be a sioneros instead.
Poor Nicol.
“You’ll never have to worry about him wagering on calleroses, will you?” Sanjaro barked a laugh, obviously trying to lighten the mood, snapping Necrem out of the memory.
“He better not,” Eulalia said. She was looking up at him, swirling the wine in her cup. “An expecting mama doesn’t want to hear good money was thrown after bad.”
Sanjaro chuckled deeply from his belly, a deep rumble.
Necrem frowned and flickered glances at them. “If you two are going to poke fun at me,” he said dryly, “I’m going to finish loading.” He brushed past Sanjaro, toward a crate of nails and horseshoes.
“Loading?” Sanjaro called after him. “Some of the others are waiting for us in the market. You can’t sit around in your wagon after a day like this!”
“Excuse you?” Eulalia growled. “Are you telling me you’ve come to steal my husband?”
Necrem hefted up the heavy crate. The loose nails and horseshoes clattered and rolled around inside as he turned around to see Sanjaro holding his hands up against Eulalia glaring down on him with a fist on her hip.
“No,” Sanjaro said, nervously smiling. “No. Not steal. Maybe borrow for the evening. We do this every season. The campaign is over, and everyone wants to celebrate, except Necrem, still toiling away somewhere.” He chuckled hesitantly. “Just trying to get him out more, is all. With your permission, of course! I promise he won’t be kept out all night.”
Necrem walked around them to load the crate into the tool wagon with the rest, watching Eulalia out of the corner of his eye. She kept a fist on her hip, but her lips were pursed and her eyes shifted.
She had made frequent comments about him needing to converse more with his fellow smiths and others in the camp. Her papa owned a mill in her home village and knew every shopkeeper by name. She said it was good for his business if he made as many friends as he could. That, unfortunately, meant she wanted him to be more sociable.
They’re going to start conspiring against me, Necrem sensed.
“Fine,” Eulalia said, fulfilling his premonition. “But Necrem Oso!”
Necrem snapped his head up from tying down the crate.
“You better come back cleaned up and sober,” Eulalia said pointedly. A soft smile mulled about her lips. “We weren’t finished with our earlier talk.”
Necrem grunted then cleared his throat, going back to finishing tying the crate down. “Yes, ma’am.”
Eulalia walked up to the wagon then snatched his wine cup. “Don’t be out too late, darling,” she said, flashing a smile up at him.
She strolled away, by the tool wagon toward their covered wagon. It was a small, cramped traveling house with wheels, larger than the tool wagon, with steps on the back and small door. Inside was a bed, barely big enough for them both, and a place for their clothes, all covered by thick, tan canvas stretched across the wagon’s ribs. Eulalia gave him a wave once she walked up the steps then disappeared inside.
Once she was gone, Necrem hesitantly glanced at Sanjaro, the cattle trader had his head overtly turned away and hands stuffed in his back pockets, making his chest stick out. Sanjaro was a few years married himself and had probably caught all Eulalia’s little hints.
I’m probably going to hear about it a lot tonight.
“Well,” Sanjaro said, suddenly throwing his arms in the air, stretching, “want to find the rest of the fellows? You got permission from the wife, so you might as well enjoy it.” He flashed another broad grin up at him.
“Let me clean up first,” he replied, stifling a groan. “I’ll feel better once I get all this sweat off me.”
Necrem locked up his tool wagon then headed toward his and Eulalia’s wagon to fetch a change of clothes. Sanjaro barked a laugh and trotted after him.
~~~
“To the White Sword!” a boisterous group of drunk soldiers toasted for the tenth time. Wooden and metal cups clinked together as men laughed then guzzled their beer.
“Got to hand it to soldiers,” Miguel said, shaking his head and sending his shaggy, reddish-brown hair waving. “They can drink all night, make the same loud toasts, and still be as stupidly happy as when they started.”
“They’re just happy to be alive,” Sanjaro said, taking a swallow of beer to wash down his beans.
“And getting all the attention,” Rodjael grumbled, carving a hunk out of the roasted chicken breast sitting out on the table. He sawed haphazardly as he sneered at the camp women flocking the countless soldier sitting at tables and crowding the market.
“Aw, don’t be sad, Rodjael,” Sanjaro joked, elbowing the man. “You’ll find a wife someday.” He glanced up then winked at Necrem standing at the head of the table, content with his mug of beer and letting the others eat.
“You should be thankful,” a camp worker three seats down from Miguel said through chewing a piece of meat. “Since you steelworkers haven’t been paid yet, those soldiers are saving you money!”
The men filling the table and around it roared in laughter, joining the multitudes of laughing, cheering, toasting, and swearing going on all around them. Some pounded their fists on the table, making their cups, plates, and knives bounce and rattle on the tabletop.
The long table consisted of not only smiths, but also groomers, carpenters, and a few general laborers who did any work they were ordered and paid to do.
Necrem kept his chuckles low, hidden behind his mug. I shouldn’t laugh, he told himself. I’m a steelworker, too . . . and married.
The small of his back itched, and he checked over his shoulders for Eulalia. That would have been the perfect time for her to appear after getting bored from waiting on him to return, despite him having arrived with Sanjaro less than half an hour ago.
“At least we steelworkers are going to have money to spend,” Rodjael snapped back, straightening and leaning back on the bench with his nose in the air. He was trying to make himself look taller. He competed with Sanjaro in being the shortest man at the table.
“Oh!” some of the men cooed.
“Bravo!” another smith barked.
The camp worker who had started all this worked his chin while staring at Rodjael with narrow, close-set eyes as everyone else turned to him, itching on the edge of their seats with grins on their faces and mugs in their fists for a response.
“Maybe some of us are so good we don’t have to pay,” he finally retorted.
The grinning faces around him slowly curdled, dissolving into frowns. Men blinked and glanced at each other. Someone coughed. Another snorted.
“She must be cheap,” someone grumbled.
A few cracked hissing laughs between their teeth while their shoulders bounced.
“You better thank the Savior you weren’t conscripted,” Miguel said. “Retorts like that would get you flogged by a calleros.”
“But if you see that mythical woman tonight, better check your trousers before you leave,” another man across the table said. “She’s bound to have taken something out of them.”
The laborer flung a half-eaten roll at the man across the table, causing everyone to erupted with laughter again.
Necrem took a cautious step back. If this developed into a food war, he would rather be left out of it. It would make a good excuse to leave.
Unfortunately, men around the laborer slapped him on the back and, soon, the table was divided with numerous small conversations.
Necrem’s shoulders fell at watching his chance for an easy departure slip away. I wonder if it is too early to wish them a good evening.
The multiple conversations added to the mass noise around him. People talked over one another until it sounded like everyone was yelling at each other. This, in combination with the continuing toasting and laughing happening across the market.
The venders selling wine, beer, roast chicken and beef, bread, and numerous other foods were forced to shout over the crowd, eagerly pushing to sell as much food and drink as they could. This was the night they had waited for all campaign, after all. The night when the soldiers had their pay, most of the camp was relaxed, and there would be no marching tomorrow. The cooks spared nothing, filling the air with smoke from their cooking pits and roasted meats, which they had to sell tonight or risked it spoiling.
All the noise left a dull ringing in Necrem’s ears as he lazily gazed around at the huge crowd. Being head and shoulders taller than most had a certain advantage in a time like this, and everywhere he looked, he saw groups of people as far he could see in flickering lantern lights on the tables and mounted on posts.
Probably half the camp’s here.
“What’s wrong, Necrem?” Miguel asked. “Get embarrassed by the mentioning of camp women, or are you checking to make sure the new wife isn’t around to get on to you?”
The other smiths around their end of the table snickered up at him. Sanjaro had his head down, shaking it as he picked at the leftovers on his plate. Necrem was sure he was smiling.
“No,” he replied dryly. He stepped back up to the table, his own size making him lord over it without meaning to. “I don’t have to worry about that. She knows I’m coming home tonight.”
“Oh, listen to him!” Miguel pointed up at him with his thumb as he faced the smiths around him. Miguel himself didn’t look like a smith at first glance. He was as thin as a post, spindly looking, with a thick beard on his oval-shaped face. His arms, though, were all sinew, and he could hammer and work the bellows for hours with the best. “Barely a year wed, and she’s got him trained.”
Necrem ignored the snickers and chuckles. “Don’t worry, Miguel,” he said, setting his mug on the table. “You’ll find out one day.”
Miguel grunted, and a few others groaned, frowning from wanting more.
“That’s all we’re going to get out of him,” Sanjaro said, pointing at table knife up at him. “As big as he is, you’re not going to get a big boast out of Necrem.” He shook his head then stabbed the last bit of chicken left on his plate, picked it up to his mouth, and ate it.
“That’s because you’re out driving cattle when we’re hammering on smith row,” Miguel said, rolling his eyes at Sanjaro.
He crookedly tilted his head up at Necrem. “What is it that you yell at people?” He held up his hands dramatically. “‘Baron Emousia himself said your steel is the finest he’s held.’ Yes, that’s not boastful at all.”
More snickers followed, and Necrem again ignored them. Instead, he folded his arms, his chest puffing out on reflex.
“Hard earned praise is not boasting,” he replied. “It’s the same pride you can take in a hard-earned deber.”
People around the end of the table froze in place. A couple held their mugs to their lips without drinking while a few, Sanjaro included, paused mid-chew to glance up at him. Miguel simply sat there, randomly looking back and forth at Necrem and the men around him.
“You really can’t make fun of this man, can you?” he finally said to Sanjaro, resulting in snickers from the rest as they went back to finishing their meals.
Sanjaro shrugged. “Not about his work.” He finished chewing then swallowed. “Now, about him being a proudly expecting papa, though.” He grinned up Necrem.
Several of the men knocked on the table with their mugs.
“Here’s to you, Oso!” one shouted, raising his mug in the air before chugging it back.
“Here’s to another giant steel hammerer, eh, boys!” Another laughed, making more raise their mugs in toasts.
Others joined them down the table, yet it was likely they didn’t know why they were toasting again. They likely didn’t care, either.
Necrem waved them down. “Thanks,” he said humbly, his chest deflating as he battled against the urge to step away from the table.
The congratulations had been endless since Eulalia had found out she was expecting. It was his own fault, too. Caught up in the moment of excitement so great it had overthrown his common sense, he had rushed down smith row to tell everyone.
“Any plans for after the baby’s born?” Miguel asked. “Still going to join the campaigns or planning on settling into place?”
Nearly everyone at the table turned at that. It was a decision that stared every worker in the face that one day they would all have to settle down and give up campaigning, no matter what job they filled for the camps.
Necrem shuffled his feet as more leaned forward, waiting and angling their ears to catch his response through the rambunctious noise surrounding them.
“Probably settle,” he replied. “She hasn’t said anything, but I don’t think Eulalia’s liked this at all. The constant moving and all.”
She doesn’t like the soldiers. Surrounded by so many, he kept that to himself. He remembered her telling him many times that the soldiers made her uneasy whenever she went to fetch something outside or near the edge of other sections of the camp. She would catch them watching her, especially the calleroses, when she visited the camp market, and she didn’t appreciate it.
“I think this year’s commission and the money we’ve saved will be enough for a shop and forge,” he continued, smiling just thinking about it. “Eulalia’s thinking we can build rooms on top of the shop to sleep and live in, like real city folk.”
“Oh!” Miguel cooed. “She’s even doing the thinking for him.”
“Well, she won’t have to think of how we can draw business,” Necrem retorted. “Having a baron say I make the finest steel should make a great slogan, eh?” He slapped Miguel on the back of his shoulder, the smaller man swaying from the impact.
“And you said he wasn’t boastful!” Miguel said to Sanjaro.
Again, Sanjaro shrugged and held his hands up. “I could have been wrong.”
Necrem laughed with the rest of the table and reached down with his right hand to pat and shake Sanjaro by the shoulder.
“Maybe you can help pick out a good spot when we get back to Manosete,” he said. “You have a shop there, too, don’t you?”
“Aye,” Sanjaro replied, his smile eroding from his lips, “but Annette doesn’t like it. She wants to live further inside the city. I keep telling her it’s better for a butcher shop to be outside the city, nearer the freshest stock.” He shook his head and grimaced. “But she keeps looking. Now she might have good ideas for a location for you. She actually likes Eulalia.”
Necrem frowned down at his friend. “What about me?”
Sanjaro nervously looked up and winced apologetically. “Well . . .”
Everyone around them erupted in laughter, some pointing at them.
“Don’t take it too hard, Necrem,” Miguel said. “She may not like him”—he gestured at Sanjaro—“that much by the way he’s always eager to go on campaign.”
“Hey!” Sanjaro yelled, throwing up his hands. “I love my wife very much, I’ll have you know.” He sat up tall in his seat, jutting his jaw out. His head bobbed, and his jaw began to tremble, unable to hold back a growing smile. “I just need a few months out of the year away before I go back home, is all.”
The table shook from the laughter and mugs pounding against it, plates and knives rattling off the wood, that other conversations around them stopped to take in the rowdier spectacle.
Necrem doubled over laughing with them. Yet, mentioning being away brought back his sense of time.
“With that,” he said once those near him had calmed down enough to hear, “I think it’s time I head back.”
“Oh no!” Sanjaro protested. “You got to stay longer. You’ve barely eaten anything.”
Necrem shook his head. “I’m not hungry. Besides, you heard Eulalia; she wanted me to be back before it got too late and after I cleaned up. Well, I’m cleaned up, and it’s not too late yet.”
Sanjaro waved him off. “Fine! Off with you then. Leave the rest of the beer for us!” He picked up his cup then clicked it against Miguel’s.
“Have a good evening,” Necrem wished them, turning away.
“You, too, happy Papa!” Sanjaro yelled after him. “Don’t keep her up too late!”
Necrem missed a step as he tried to slip around a couple of chatting, unarmed provost guards. The laughter of the table was swallowed up by the conversations around him, and instead of looking back, he snickered and went on his way.
~~~
The camp grew quieter the farther he strolled away from the market. He stuck to the main paths dividing the areas of camp into the remains of the smith row, following the lanterns hanging from posts that the provosts had lit. Some, though, had been neglected, most likely the same reason there were less campfires among the tents. Everyone was either in a hurry to celebrate and forgot them or didn’t see the need to light them.
They couldn’t have lit a few fires, he grumbled then shrugged it off. It did make his trek back to his wagons that more difficult. Eulalia will understand. I had to take the long way around.
He couldn’t cut through and around the tents without any fires. He knew he would get lost after the first few steps between the tents, then probably trip on every tent anchor, rope, and post he could bang his foot against. The idea of tripping and crashing through the side or roof of a tent and finding Savior knew what or whom inside was enough to keep him on the lantern lit path.
A slight breeze rolled into camp, tugging and sending tent canvas flapping against their posts. It whipped up dust around him, forcing Necrem to stop as the small grains whirled up from the ground and into his face. His eyes watered and stung. He turned his back to the wind, hunching against it, then immediately pressed his face into his hands.
Dammit. He rubbed his eyes profusely. When are we going to get some rain?
This was the first campaign he had been on when it hadn’t rained once. On the one hand, it was a blessing not having to deal with muddy roads and sudden downpours. He didn’t have to worry about his wagons, especially his tool wagon, getting stuck in the mud. However, the lack of rain gripped everything in a drought. If it didn’t rain soon, times could get rough in a couple months when False Winter began.
A distant yet high-pitched yell drifted on the wind.
Necrem jerked his head up, blinking tears out of his eyes and looking about. Everywhere he turned, he peered down between alleys of tents before the blackness of night swallowed the light.
I swore I heard something.
He frowned, rubbing his burly forearms, the hairs standing on end. He had rolled his shirtsleeves up to his elbow after he had washed and changed. He fiddled with the thought of rolling them back down, yet instead walked on.
Army camps were strange places. They were moving cities, driven to provide the mass body of men marching out to either fight or stand around at whims of their masters. For the workers in them, it mirrored working in the cities and villages they came from, yet with stricter rules. However, just like those cities and villages, one could find all sorts of people doing things, especially at night, that were better off avoiding.
Necrem quickened his pace.
He breathed a sigh of relief when he found the remains of his stall. He had left up the tarp that covered his workstation around his forge that provided shade from the sun while he worked. A barren space remained with everything already loaded.
I’ll finish this up tomorrow. He rapped his knuckles on one of the posts then walked under the tarp, through it and to the back. He checked out his tool wagon. A quick glance in the dim light told him everything appeared to still be in there.
Another nightly breeze blew across his face the moment he stepped out from behind the wagon. His nose wrinkled at the heavy scent of pipe smoke. The musky weed made him flinch.
Someone’s been—
He stopped short.
A man sat slouched forward on the steps of Necrem’s wagon with his elbows propped on his legs and a short-stemmed pipe dangled from his mouth. The lanterns hanging off the back of the wagon cast a long shadow out from the man, obscuring his face.
Necrem could make out the man’s tousled hair from the outline of light and lime green coming off his loose jacket on his shoulders.
A request? He stared at the man skeptically for a moment. Now?
The man’s shadow tremored, shaking back and forth.
Necrem glanced at the lanterns rocking slightly and their candles flickering, probably from another gust of wind that hadn’t reached him yet.
“Go away,” the man said, his voice low from speaking around his pipe. “Nothing for you around here tonight. Best you go join the rest of them someplace else.” He made a flimsy wave back toward the camp market.
Necrem jerked his head back. “This is my wagon,” he replied.
The man snickered then took out his pipe. “Sure it is.”
Necrem balled his fists at his side. As big as he was, he had learned when he was young to keep his temper tightly hammered down. An outburst, even a small one, could lead to someone easily getting hurt. There were some things not worth getting mad about and some people not worth it. Some people, though, no one was allowed to lose their temper with.
Now, glaring down at the man, he didn’t care about any of that. He stomped into the light, taking full advantage of his size to step in front and lord over the man.
“Get off my wagon’s steps,” he growled.
He expected the man to shrink and slink away. Most men would when faced with someone of Necrem’s size.
The man on the steps snickered instead, took a long drag on his pipe, the embers within flaring red, before he pulled back and blew smoke up at Necrem’s face. “Go away,” he said. “There’s no room for you. Tonight’s all booked up as it is.”
The musky smoke made Necrem’s eyes water, and he waved it away. He glowered down at the man, his jaw starting to ache from how tense he held it. “What—?”
A muffled cry made his hair stand on end. It lasted only for a brief second, cut off suddenly. However, Necrem jerked his head up to where it was coming from.
Inside his wagon.
The lanterns shifted again, their lights flickering and weaving. But there was no wind. One of the wagon’s axles squeaked. The man on the wagon’s steps swayed from side to side.
The wagon jostled from side to side.
Necrem could barely make out movement within the wagon from a dim, obscure light.
Eulalia was in there.
“Eulalia!” he gasped.
He sprung forward, grabbed the man by the shoulder, then flung him aside with enough effort to swing his arm.
“Hey!” the man yelped in surprise to find himself pulled off the step and tossed out of the way like a bundle of cloth. He rolled on the ground with a grunt. “You can’t go in there!”
Necrem was already up the steps. He seized the door latch with both hands then jerked it back. The door flung open, nearly hitting him in the face from his hurry. Narrowly missing it, he ducked down into the wagon—
The smell hit him first. His foot was barely over the threshold, a mixture of human sweat, human breath, closed in, stale air, and a sour, musky odor instantly gagged him. His stomach heaved instantly, and gasping for air made it worse.
“Eul . . . alia . . .”
His eyes adjusted, snatching away his words as the silhouettes in the dim light of small lantern nestled in the far corner of the wagon took form. Two naked men were holding his wife down on the small pallet of a bed, barely fit for two, filling up most of the wagon bed. One held her arms above her head with his knees while also choking her with her locket chain. The other knelt on top of her, grunting while holding her legs.
Necrem’s chest suddenly tightened. It was as if his entire body was being crushed from within. His gaze focused on Eulalia’s face.
Her mouth gaped, hoarse gasping sounds barely escaped from her either trying to scream or trying to breathe. Blood trickled around the top of her lip and across her face from her nose, now slightly bent. Her wide eyes stared up at the wagon’s canvas, unfocused and haunting, as if her sight and mind had fled into the heavens to escape the mutilation her body could not.
Necrem’s hearing abandoned him. His view of his surroundings vanished. Everything was closing. He panted, yet he didn’t know how. The crushing within him should have squeezed his lungs flat. His heart boomed in his ears.
Faster.
Faster!
Faster!
The world became red.
“Get out!” a muffled, annoyed voice demanded. A third man, half-undressed, who Necrem hadn’t seen lounging between the door and the violation, lazily rose to his feet with an arm outstretched toward him. “She’s busy tonight. Come back—”
Necrem seized the man’s arms with both hands. He gripped the sweaty limb, squeezed with all his might, then wrenched the man off his feet. He felt the muscles, veins, and bones in his grip and twisted it as he pulled, dragging the man off his feet. He drowned out the man’s shocked, agonizing cry under a raging bellow that issued from his gut.
He turned on his heels, hoisting the half-dressed man out of the wagon, and threw him on the other trying to come up behind him, crashing them down on top of each other in a heap. Without a second glance, he spun around then sprung into the wagon. The pounding of his boots against the floorboards exploded like thunder with his heart booms to his ears.
The man on top of Eulalia leaned up then turned his head back. The dim light caught his sweat-slick, disheveled brown hair, his frustrated expression, and narrow jaw opening to speak.
Necrem swung with his right with his dash of momentum. His fist struck the man on the side of his face. His broad knuckles connected with the man’s jaw.
He felt something give.
A muffled crunch.
Then the man’s head snapped completely around to the other side. Crack!
Teeth flew in the air as the man’s body jerked, his grip releasing Eulalia’s legs, and then his body flopped over to the side at an angle against the side of the wagon.
His compatriot stared, mouth agape, shaking in place at his supposed friend slumped aside unnaturally.
Necrem grabbed him by the shoulder. The man jerked up, mouth still agape, green eyes dancing between Necrem’s face and raised fist. “Wait—”
“Let her go!” Necrem roared.
His arm dropped naturally, as if he held a hammer. Only, it was his fist that drove squarely into the man’s face, snapping and flattening his nose instantly. The man’s head jerked back then rolled around like a newborn. And Necrem kept punching.
The wet smack of flesh against flesh, the crackle of bones splintering inside, and teeth popping out shoved his roaring heart from his ears. Blow after blow, he rained down, splitting the man’s cheeks and blacking then reddening his eyes.
Something snapped and something rolled across the floorboards.
Necrem froze. He drifted his gaze down between his feet, his bloody fist hung in the air.
Eulalia’s gold locket laid there. The chain broken.
He looked and saw her staring up at him, trembling violently. Her face was covered in the man’s blood. Her pupils shrunk and widened. Shrunk and widened. Suddenly, she sucked in air and screamed!
The high-pitched wail cut through his body, shattering the heartbeats in his ears. Her body was covered with red marks, the early stages of bruises, around her belly and hips. She flailed on the ground. Her legs furiously kicked the man on top of her away. Her arms now free, she rolled over, wrapping herself up, gasping and crying to the verge her throat was hoarse in moments.
The sight of her bruised body, especially her belly, made Necrem shake. He glared back at the kneeling man he held by the shoulder, lifeless save for a ragged breath escaping his swollen lips.
“You hit her?” Necrem growled. His teeth ground together. His fingernails cut into his palm. “You hit her!”
He didn’t count the blows. He kept punching, over and over. The man’s ragged breathing stopped, but Necrem kept hitting until the man’s face was a red mush.
“You giant piece of shit!” the half-dressed man yelled, scrambling back into the wagon and lunging for Necrem.
He grabbed around Necrem’s arm then pulled himself up to knee him in the gut. Necrem grunted but was saved from losing his footing by bracing the back of his shoulders against the wagon’s ceiling. He tossed the beaten man away then rounded on the other holding his arm.
They locked eyes. The other man flinched, his snarl slipping away to gape, fearful realization.
“None of you will touch her again!” Necrem yelled.
He bulled through the man, using the man’s grip on his arm to charge him out of the wagon. The man’s footing slipped on the steps. He gasped and yelped, almost sliding under Necrem’s feet if he hadn’t grabbed the man instead. Necrem lifted him up, carried him down the steps, then rammed in him into his tool wagon.
The man made a gargling gasp. His body shook and spasmed from his back slamming into the wagon and Necrem’s shoulder crashing into his chest. His eyes rolled back in his head.
Necrem, still being carried by momentum, wrenched his arm free of the man then grabbed the man’s head with both of his hands. His broad fingers nearly reaching all the way around the top of the man’s head.
“Never again!” he snarled.
He smashed the man’s head against tool wagon. The man’s skull made a hard thunk, as if it were splitting like a melon. More hot blood slicked Necrem’s fingers, letting the weight of the man’s body pull him down into a pile on the ground.
“You won’t touch her again!”
His shoulders rose and fell. His labored breathing made puffs of steam in the cooling night air. Aches from his legs, arms, and particularly his right hand were springing up in his mind. He suddenly felt like he was about to collapse or—
Necrem caught the flash of steel flash out of the corner of his eye.
He jerked back, yet the dagger’s edge sliced across his left cheek. The stinging slice made him wince then snarl as his blood leaked down his face.
“You’re quicker than I thought,” the last man said, holding a dagger out in front of him in a strange stance. He coldly glared at Necrem with an expressionless look on his face—no sneer, snarl, or raging grimace. “Do you have any idea what you’ve done? Do you have any idea who we are?”
Necrem’s fatigue vanished. His vision narrowed down to the remaining assailant. “You . . . raped my wife!”
“She wasn’t your wife, you deluded fool,” the man said. “She’s a camp whore. No matter how many times she let you bed her, she was still a whore.” He shook his head. “I should let them hang you, but let it never be said that Cal—”
Necrem sprang with a bellow. Each slur against Eulalia made the muffled drumming louder and louder in his head. It felt like it was about to explode.
The man slashed at him, trying to fend him off or back away. Necrem took a cut on the arm from batting the dagger away then grabbing the man’s arm. He slammed into the man, throwing them both down on the ground.
Their struggle quickly became a grapple. Both men wrapped around each other, hitting and kicking. Necrem tried to keep a hold of the man’s arm wielding the dagger; however, the blade did slice his forearms a couple times.
In one of their rolls, Necrem slammed his free fist into the man’s gut, driving all the air out of him in a whooping gasp. His grip slackened, and Necrem knocked the dagger away then rolled them over, pressing his knee on the man’s chest.
“You hurt her,” he growled down at the man.
The man coughed. “I’m—”
Necrem wrapped his hands around the man’s throat. Then squeezed.
The man’s eyes instantly bugged out of his head. He gulped and choked, working his mouth to speak but unable to make a sound. He began to kick the ground and squirm. He hit Necrem’s arms, making Necrem only squeeze tighter.
The man’s face began to turn red in the dim lantern light. He swung his arms up at Necrem’s face like a desperate child, yet he couldn’t reach. His gaping mouth open and closed with a wet, sucking sound coming from within.
“You,” Necrem hissed. His burning grimace made the sting from his cut cheek dig into his skull. “Will. Never! Hurt her! Again!”
The man’s sucking gasps became gargled. Then hissed. His eyes rolled back. His body spasmed. Then arched. Finally, he collapsed and went still.
Necrem squeezed for a while longer. His arms shook, and that spread across the back of his shoulders and down his spine to the rest of his body. He exhaled deeply, sucking in air as if he’d been the one strangled. He let go the man’s neck then pulled back.
His shoulders slumped. His arms were heavy. It reminded him of the exhaustion of working for several days straight without sleep.
Color returned to his vision.
The dead man’s bulging eyes stared up at him, candlelight flickering in the wide, dilated pupils. Necrem stared back, struck as if seeing him for the first time. His shaking limbs drew his gaze down to his hands, sticky from a drying, lukewarm liquid covering them, blackening them in the night.
Blood? he realized. Blood!
He doubled over, hyperventilating, unable to get any air. Everything he did raced back to him. The nightmare played out in his mind as if watching a play.
How . . .? How could I—
The unfamiliar rage still echoed inside him. However, the memory of his wife flooded back to him.
“Eulalia!” he shouted, crawling off the man he had strangled. His weak, trembling legs forced him to crawl hand and foot to the wagon steps. “Eulalia!”
She remained huddled in the far back of the wagon, curled up with a blanket pulled tightly around her in several loops. From the doorway, Necrem saw her shaking and felt the floorboards vibrate under him.
“Eulalia!” he cried, scrambling toward her, over another dead body. When he drew near, he reached his hand out to touch her.
“No!” she wailed.
His pulled back. His ears rang.
When she stopped screaming, he looked back to find her staring at him, wide-eyed and terrified, not recognizing him.
“Eulalia,” he called softly, pleadingly. “It’s me. It’s . . . Necrem.” His cheeks throbbed, and his vision blurred. Tears suddenly streamed down his face. “No one’s going to hurt you again. No one.”
He held out a hand to her, but she again reeled back from him.
The tears poured more, stinging the slash on his cheek. Tears ran down Eulalia’s cheeks, as well, yet she still didn’t hint that she knew him.
“By the Savior!” someone gasped.
Necrem spun to see men standing outside the wagon. The dim light and his blurry vision obscured them into shapes. He could make out figures wandering around outside, hunched over the men he had killed, and others staring into the wagon. They were carrying long poles. Halberds.
Provost guards.
“This is Cal Suiro Pela,” someone outside said.
“Seize him!” another roared angrily followed by men scrambling into the wagon.
“Wait,” Necrem said, clumsily trying to turn around on his knees. “They—”
A truncheon hit him on the side of his head. Then another struck him across his left shoulder. He threw his hands up to defend himself from the blows, but the hard, wooden sticks hit the bleeding gashes across his forearms, battering them away and forcing Necrem on his elbows and knees. Curses filled the wagon as they hammered his back.
Eulalia’s screams were the last thing he heard as the last, hard blow struck the back of his head.
~~~
“Bring him out!”
The tent flap ripped back. The glaring morning sunlight shined through Necrem’s eyelids. He jerked away then hissed from the burning sting on his cheek. Every muscle in his body teetered, threatening to cramp.
Six provost guards stomped into the tent where he was kneeling, took hold of chains wrapped around his shoulders and back, then dragged him out. He yelped from the feeling of falling forward and instinctively tried to put his hands out in front of him. The chains binding his arms behind his back held, and the grips of the provost guards were all that saved him.
“Stop struggling!” the provost guard beside his right shoulder demanded, snarling.
The crisp, morning air struck his face like a slap upon being dragged outside. He blinked furiously against the Easterly Sun’s rays, desperate to get his eyes to focus and see where he was. All around, he could make out the grumblings of low voices, snickers, and yawns.
“Eulalia?” Necrem asked. “Where’s Eulalia?”
“Shut up,” another guard replied.
Suddenly, the guards let go.
Necrem’s suspension disappeared, and the ground rose to meet him. His knees struck first, sending him tipping over and grinding his face into the dirt. His poor luck and lack of time to think about which side to land on resulted in the gash in his cheek sliding across the hard-packed soil. He let out a pained growl as the tiny grains buried themselves into his burning face.
“This is the man?” a man asked.
“Yes, Si Don!” a provost guard replied while the rest snapped their bootheels together. “We found him over the bodies of four of Your Excellency’s noble calleroses, including Cal Suiro Pela!”
Anger growls and murmurs spread around him.
Necrem blinked the last bit of dust out of his right eye and peered off to the side. He was surrounded by well-dressed men, in fine, embroidered linen suits, fit for travel but more for show. Many carried swords on their hips with shiny, silver handguards, and some with jeweled hilts.
Barons. Or perhaps calleroses? They could also be other well-off gentlemen who were allowed to be with the highborn. One thing was certain—he couldn’t spot a single working man among them.
There were also soldiers. In polished, sturdy breastplates and cap helmets, with long brims making a point at their front and plumes coming out of the tops. Their boots were clean, and their trousers were pressed.
“He’s a beast, isn’t he?” the first man said. “Raise him up so I can see him.”
The guards grabbed his chains then pulled him back to sit on his knees. His legs slid underneath him because of the chain binding his ankles together. He hissed from one yanking his head up by the hair. The new angle finally gave him a full view of his surroundings.
Necrem knelt before several men sitting in chairs, the man in front of him with the biggest. He sat at an angle, with one leg propped on top the knee of the other. While the other men around him wore fine suits, he wore a bright orange, silk robe hanging slightly open enough for the tuffs of his linen shirt underneath to poke out.
The sprinkle of gray in his dark hair and thin beard that ran down the edges of his jaw and chin, along with the wrinkles around his eyes, marked him as nearing early middle-aged. His wavy hair stuck out in several direction as if he had just gotten out of bed. His thick eyebrows hung over his eyes as he gazed down his sharp nose at Necrem with curiosity.
“He doesn’t look much like a beast, does he?” the man said disappointedly, followed by a ripple of chuckles around them. “What’s your name, beast?”
Necrem hesitated, swallowing from his throat being dry. His instincts warred within him; one voice saying he needed to answer, while the other said he should keep his mouth shut.
The provost guard beside him cuffed him across his good cheek. “Answer Si Don, beast!”
Necrem stared back at the man sitting in front of him. He had never seen Marqués Emaximo Borbin up close. His request from a baron had been a stroke of luck, but meeting the marqués in person felt impossible. A common steelworker was beneath the notice of the ruler of the marc.
“Necrem,” he replied. “Necrem Oso.”
The marqués frowned. “Necrem Oso,” he repeated, sounding disappointed. He pursed his lips and worked his jaw from side to side. “Doesn’t sound very impressive. I expected something grander!” He slapped his right arm down on the arm of his chair.
Grander? Necrem frowned. He laced his fingers together, his skin sticking and peeling off each other as his hands started to shake. Something about his tone didn’t sit right.
Marqués Borbin straightened his back against his chair, his eyes narrowing sternly. “You killed four noble calleroses.” His gaze shifted to his right. “I that correct?”
A provost guard stepped up with a snap of his heels then made a sharp nod. The pointed tuffs of his thin mustache twitched. “Yes, Si Don,” he said. “My patrol came upon the scene. It was . . . a grizzly sight. We found this man”—he jutted a finger down at Necrem—“sprawled over the corpses of two dead men in a wagon, covered in their blood. Neither man was clothed or armed. One had been punched repeatedly until he no longer had a face!”
The crowd growled as the provost continued.
“Two other bodies were outside the wagon. One man had the back of his head smashed in. The other . . . The other was Cal Suiro Pela.”
Marqués Borbin sat forward in his chair, pulling off the leg he had propped on the other. “Go on.”
“Cal Pela’s neck had been crushed, Si Don,” the provost guard said. “Wrung like a chicken by powerful hands.”
Everyone was glaring at Necrem. All around, as if their swords were already plunging into him.
He shook his head then turned back to the marqués, staring back at him. “They raped my wife.”
Marqués Borbin raised an eyebrow. “Excuse you? Are you calling Cal Pela a rapist?” He snorted disdainfully then sat back in his chair. “Don’t be absurd.”
Necrem began to shake. His chains clanked and jingled softly together. “He did. They all did!” His voice sounded desperate to his own ears. The words themselves left a foul taste in his mouth, saying it out loud for everyone to hear and knowing what they had done to his darling Eulalia.
Yet, the marqués frowned back, unimpressed.
“Nonsense.” Marqués Borbin waved dismissively. “Absolute nonsense. Why, how many challenges did Cal Pela take up in the Bravados, Marshal Ribera?” He looked to the man sitting beside him.
Marshal Fuert Ribera was a tall, thin man. His knees were pointed up in the air, the back of his legs not fully touching the seat. The chair was too low for him. The White Sword, as he was called, was dressed like his namesake—all in white, matching his white hair, obscuring his age. He sat with his left hand balanced atop the hilt of a sword hilt; the simple, steel handguard the perfect resting post for his arm. The functional metal design and lack of any jewels or crest on the plain, wooden scabbard stood in sharp contrast to the fancy swords worn around him.
His gray eyes looked Necrem up and down, giving away nothing behind emotionless face.
“Five, Si Don,” Marshal Ribera replied, his voice higher pitched than Necrem had expected, just below a squeak.
“Five,” Marqués Borbin repeated, grinning and nodding his head. “And did he take any injuries?”
Marshal Ribera frowned deeply before shaking his head. “None, Si Don.”
“None!” The marqués threw up his hands. “Yet this beast of a man strangled him with his bare hands.” He leaned forward in his seat and growled, “You should tread very carefully, sir. Speaking so ill of a calleros so gallant. So honorable.”
Necrem gaped up at the marqués. He looked around at the men sitting around him, all of them staring back with contempt for him.
“But . . .” he stammered. The last bit of sense he had left screamed at him to be quiet. That lost out to the roaring demanding to speak his peace. The demand of a wronged husband, speaking for his violated wife. “He had no honor! I found him standing watch while his three . . . friends raped my wife!” His cheek stung, and he felt fresh blood slowly oozing from it. “They were holding her down. Sh-shar . . . sharing her like animals with a piece of meat.” He spat out the words, disgusted for saying them, yet that was the only way he could describe it. Drool leaked out and ran down his chin.
Men shifted around him. The provost guard nearest him ground the dirt under their boots as they moved their weight, and chairs squeaked. Marqués Borbin sat unmoved, his shoulders slouched, and his eyes glazed over, as if bored.
“Did you find this man’s wife?” Marshal Ribera asked the guard’s commander.
Marqués Borbin shot his marshal a glance then shrugged to the provost.
“We did find a woman in the wagon,” the provost replied. “But—forgive me, Si Don”—he made a respectful nod to the marqués—“but the whore was too hysterical to get anything out of, possibly from seeing the carnage this man did.”
“She’s not a whore!” Necrem snapped. “Don’t you dare call her that!” He instinctively tried to lunge to his feet, but the chains held and nearly made him tumble onto his face. The guards around him grabbed his shoulders and hoisted him back up.
“If he yells like that again,” Marqués Borbin said, “bludgeon him.”
“Yes, Si Don,” one of the guards holding him replied.
Marshal Ribera gave Necrem a frown then turned back to the commander. “How do you know she was a whore?”
“She was completely naked when we found her,” the commander said. “Clearly in the middle of performing her services with only a bedsheet around her. Also, we have the word of several of Cal Pela and the other calleroses’ footmen who’ve stated that their masters were seeking out the company of a camp follower who had offered her services to them in the past.”
“That’s a lie!” Necrem roared and glared at the provost commander, standing there with a smug, assured look on his face.
“Silence!” a guard ordered then cuffed Necrem across the cheek again.
Necrem shook his head and squeezed his eyes shut. There’re not listening! Why won’t they listen to me?
“Is one of Cal Pela’s footmen here?” Marqués Borbin asked, looking over the crowd around them and clearly ignoring Necrem.
Necrem jerked his head up to look over his shoulder. The onlookers still looked at him with contempt, arms folded, noses in the air. He had cried out that his wife had been raped, yet he couldn’t spot a single look from any man that hinted they gave a damn.
What kind of men are these?
“Aye, Si Don!”
Necrem rolled his head to spy over his other shoulder, seeing a young man, possibly early twenties, step out of the crowd. He wore a light green suit, like his master had worn, with bushy black hair that needed a comb. He was blurry-eyed, with dark bags under them. He held his fist in the air, as if trying to be seen.
“And who are you?” Marqués Borbin asked.
“Capitán Joso Audre,” the man replied.
Marqués Borbin motioned him forward. “Do you have anything to add to this . . .?” He waved his hand over everyone in front of him. “Please be brief. I haven’t had my breakfast yet.”
“Yes, Si Don,” Joso replied. “My master, Cal Pela, joined his companions last night to seek out the company of a . . . camp woman of ill repute. He remembered her from several interactions in the camps’ very market. I, myself, saw one of these very meetings before the battle. She promised him a very . . . thrilling night should he return victorious in his challenges.”
Marqués Borbin hummed. “As many do to keep the soldiers’ spirits up. I doubt many had to collect on such promises after yesterday’s glorious work, eh?”
Laughter broke out in the crowd; deep, gruntled approval with several slapping others on the shoulders. The soft chuckles of the provosts holding his shoulders echoed in Necrem’s ears.
“Are you certain the woman your master talked to in the camp and this man’s wife are the same?” Marshal Ribera asked.
The chuckles and laughs died. Necrem caught the marqués roll his eyes before the footman answered.
“Yes, Marshal. I said so to the provost guards when they showed me her. She’s the woman.”
“Begging your pardon, Si Don,” the provost commander said, stepping forward, “but it seems clear to me what occurred. The woman offered herself to Cal Pela, who felt obliged to take his companions out for a night of celebration after your victory yesterday. This man”—he pointed at Necrem—“whether her husband or simply another patron of hers, came around to visit at the same time and discovered, to his shock, the simpleton that he is, that the woman he thought he had feelings for was nothing more than a common whore.
“So, in a fit of jealousy, he killed the unarmed and unclothed calleroses before they could properly defend themselves. Sadly, we provost guards have seen and broken up many fights like these in the camps, but there is no excuse for how extreme this man took out his rage on your Si Don’s noble warriors.”
Grunts and nods of approval rippled about the crowd, joined by a few sitting around the marqués.
“Well, beast,” Marqués Borbin said, tilting his head to the side then folding his arms, “anything you have to say to that?”
Necrem’s head had slowly fallen lower and lower with each passing word and accusation. Through strands of oily hair, he spied the calleros’s footman, standing with his hands behind his back, chest out, and head raised, as if receiving a medal. To the provost commander, his thin mustache twitching again above his smirk, holding back a mocking laugh. Lastly, up at the marqués, still bored and uninterested.
They’re all together on this.
“Lies,” he gasped. “Liars and thieves, all of you.” His neck muscles tensed and throbbed from his hard grimace. The coppery taste of blood from the cut on his cheek seeped through his tightly pressed lips, and then he snarled, “You’re all liars! None of you know my Eulalia! She would never—”
“You dare call me a liar!” Marqués Borbin roared, storming to his feet. His face was a thunderclap, baring gritted teeth down at Necrem. “Who do you think you are, you . . . what are you?”
Necrem knew he should bow his head. A still voice told him to beg for pardon, that he had lost his head. Instead, his chest swelled against his chains and his grimace remained.
“I’m a smith,” he replied.
“A smith.” The marqués’s snarl drooped, his contempt returning. “I expected you to be some bull-headed farmer who didn’t know how the world works, not a smith who’s supposed to know his place.” He folded his arms again while working his jaw, studying Necrem. “What should I do with this fool? Hang him?”
“Aye!” someone shouted.
Hang me? Necrem’s chest tightened, his quickened breaths whistling quietly through his teeth. He’s going to—
Marqués Borbin snickered. “No. A beast his size would break the rope. That would be a waste.”
Laughter followed.
The marqués grinned, shaking his head. His eyes suddenly went wide, and he held up a finger. “Do you think he would make good sport for Rojo?”
More clapped and whooped in agreement.
Marqués Borbin laughed and gestured to his far right.
Necrem looked to see a large, iron cage with its own wheels welded into the base. The thick iron bars told him it probably weighed half a ton, at least, impossible to load into a wagon. A chill ran down his spine when the long tail, covered with feathery, yellowish-brown quills, moved and he spied a great mellcresa laying curled up inside.
Its serpentine neck allowed the beast to rest its head on its hip. Its large, red twin crests rose like two large ovals from its snout to behind its closed eyes. Its nostrils flared as it took deep, slow breaths, its sides rising and falling, showing off its yellow spotted and deep orange leathery hide. It sporadically snarled as it slept, showing of the cork at the tip of his upper jaw and the recurved teeth behind its lips. It kicked its three-claw-toed feet. Its hook-clawed forelimbs scraped against the metal bottom its cage.
Marqués Borbin sighed disappointedly. His arm dropped against his side with a plop. “It seems Rojo is too full after last night to be excited about breakfast.”
Some in the crowd groaned, while others laughed.
Necrem breathed only a small sigh of relief at not being fed to a great mellcresa, but it turned soar in his gut.
What kind of men are these? he asked himself again.
“Well then,” Marqués Borbin said, stepping down to lord over Necrem, “how about we send him to the Bowl? Him and his beloved whore. See if they claim to be husband and wife then?”
Necrem glowered up the man. The Bowl was a massive desert, hundreds of miles to the east. Ringed by mountains, the marcs sent prisoners that either committed heinous crimes, those they hadn’t any need for, didn’t want to give the mercy of a quick execution to, or wanted to make an example of to die in.
Blood pounded in Necrem’s ears from hearing him call Eulalia a whore. The sight of her thrown into the hot dunes to crawl and suffer flashed before his eyes. The taste of blood and spit collected in his mouth.
He pulled his head back then spat. The gob of drool and blood struck the left side of the marqués’s face with a splat, making the man flinch and blink.
“Damn you, you bastard,” Necrem growled. He flashed a grimace at all the shocked faces around him. “Savior damn all of you!”
Marqués Borbin stepped back. He raised a trembling hand to his cheek to wipe it. He pulled his hand back, staring at the blob smudged across his knuckles. A flame burned in his bright, amber eyes when he turned back to Necrem.
“That’s a nasty cut you have there,” he said coldly. Then, fast as snake, he seized Necrem’s face, his fingers stabbed into his cheek. “How’d you come by it?”
Necrem felt the ends of the gash splitting, pulling wider as he snarled into the marqués’s palm.
“He had the cut when we found him, Your Excellency,” the provost commander said. “We discovered a dagger next to Cal Pela’s body and suspect he tried to gallantly defend himself against this scoundrel.”
“Did you? Then it’s a shame that he didn’t get to finish what he started.” The fire in Marqués Borbin’s eyes danced like flames in a furnace being worked by a bellow. He wrenched his fingers off Necrem’s face, the fingernails coming away red with drops of blood.
He held his hand out to the commander. “Your knife.”
The provost commander fumbled at the command, quickly and eagerly drawing his belt knife and placing its hilt in the marqués’s hand.
Necrem gasped when Marqués Borbin yanked him back by the hair, pulling it by the roots and making him gape up at the man.
The knife was plunged into his left cheek before he could prepare for it. The blade pierced into his soft flesh then grated against his teeth. His face felt like it was on fire. His mouth quickly filled with blood, making him gargle and spit to breathe.
“Si Don!” Marshal Ribera yelled, leaping from his seat. The tall, thin man towered over everyone around him. His face pale, astonished, he yelled, “Don’t do this! I implore you, don’t sully our victory yesterday by torturing a man today.”
“This beast has already sullied my victory!” Marqués Borbin yelled. He yanked the blade out, spraying blood as he spun about to point it up at his marshal.
That only made more blood pool in Necrem’s mouth, forcing him to spit more to breathe with his head still being held back.
“He killed four of my calleroses!” Marqués Borbin waved the knife about. “Four! One a champion of the Bravados! We have pushed the Quezlians out, yes! But the Campaigns will go on. And for that, for the sake of the marc, each must remember his place!
“A smith is meant to fashion our weapons so that our soldiers, so that all of you, my noble calleroses, can keep fighting. Not murder you over some whore.” He turned back to Necrem, snarling, “Not questioning, slandering, or spitting on his marqués.”
He gave Ribera a glare from over his shoulder. “If you don’t have the stomach for this, Fuert, well”—he snickered—“then your services are no longer required.”
Ribera glowered back. His face grew paler by the second. Then he gave a sharp nod, snapped up his sword, and stormed away.
Marqués Borbin watched him leave then turned back to Necrem, holding the knife toward his face. “Where was I?”
He started cutting, and Necrem started screaming.