15th of Andril, 1019 N.F (e.y.)
Recha’s hand was numb, her arm quivered, yet she refused to let go of the giant man’s hand, despite his grip having loosened some time ago.
“Eulalia,” he whimpered through the shredded remains of his lips while also not moving them. “Eulalia.”
“The reaction’s run its course,” Doctor Maranon said.
“Most confusing case of delirium I’ve ever seen,” Doctor Wertae, the Lazornian doctor, commented. “More like a long-held confession finally pouring out of the man.”
The two had bonded while Necrem had spun his story. The more he had spoken, the less he had moved, giving the doctors and their assistance a chance to tend to his cuts and gashes around his thighs and arms. They’d taken care to stitch up what they could of his face. It was easy in the beginning, but when the horrors started, he began to thrash again, and only Recha squeezing his hand had calmed him down.
He’d refused to let go of her hand in the beginning, leaving her no choice but to remain seated and listen to the entire tale. While the doctors had their task to distract them, she could do nothing but sit and listen. She could feel the busted knuckles under his skin with her thumb every time he squeezed, the bones shifting and grinding out of their joints.
With the tale finally over, Recha felt as drained as the poor man looked. Her cheeks drooped, chapped from the tears that had dried on her face. Her shoulders slumped. The small of her back ached from longing to sit back. Her eyes burned, wanting to blink. Worst of all, her dry throat scratched whenever she breathed.
“Is—” She suddenly hunched over in a coughing fit.
“La Dama!” Doctor Wertae cried. “Are you all right?”
Recha waved him away. “Is he all right now? Can you do anything for him?”
Doctor Wertae frowned and looked back at the injured man. “He’s lost a lot of blood.”
“He’ll make it,” Doctor Maranon said, rubbing some oily paste over Necrem’s cheeks, dabbing them between the scars and lightly across the stitching. “He’s a hard man. Some food, water, and attention, and—”
“He’s still an enemy soldier,” Doctor Wertae said. He glanced about the tent, at the attendants now huddled together in the corner; to Harquis standing a few paces away with his arms folded and white eyes watching; to Sevesco smoking a pipe and blowing long, white streams of smoke out of the front of the tent; then lastly to Recha. “Forgive me, La Dama. I don’t know what your interest is in this man, but he is an enemy soldier, and I understand the armies will be on the move again soon. We can’t spare the needs to make sure he heals properly.”
Recha peeled her hand away from Necrem’s. Her fingers popped and trembled from the blood finally returning, rushing through each one.
“I was told of someone being hailed a hero among the Orsembians,” she replied, glancing over at Sevesco, who was peeking outside the tent. No sunlight slipped in when he did, only darkness. “And instead, I found a delirious, wounded soldier with a . . . horrible story for his life.”
She sat back and wiped her hands on her knees, returning feeling to her arms. She pressed against the chair to soothe her lower back. She gasped a sigh of relief when it popped, and then pushed off her knees to stand.
“Sevesco, I need to—”
“He’s not a hero,” Doctor Maranon said, finishing dabbing the last bit of fatty paste on Necrem’s cheeks. “No matter what those fools say, charging a group of soldiers with nothing but his fists was a terrible idea.”
Recha arched an eyebrow. “He fought my soldiers barehanded?”
Doctor Maranon grimaced while wiping off his fingers then shooed away a fly buzzing around Necrem’s face. He gently spread the cloth over the man’s injuries, Necrem’s soft breaths pushing the cloth up and down, yet it stuck to the paste on his cheeks and stayed in place.
“Late into the attack”—the doctor’s shoulders sagged as he stared down at his battered patient—“your soldiers were rounding the last of us up when, out of the darkness, he just came . . . charging out. Raging. Almost like he was now. He tossed men aside, hammered on their shields, driving them back. Even when surrounded, he kept fighting, yelling they wouldn’t touch a camp woman. I think he . . . thought it was his wife?”
Maranon paused to swallow. “But it was a sight to see. More men, ragged soldiers, came after him, fighting back. Him roaring in the night, ‘Stand with me!’ It was something everyone suddenly got caught up in. Charging out with nothing in their hands. Utter stupidity.” He shook his head. “And the soldiers fled.”
Recha watched him closely, the look he gave Necrem especially. His eyes gleamed. Through the welling of tears and the doctor’s disdain for fighting, there was something else.
A flicker.
A piercing light.
A spark of pride.
Almost . . . admiration.
“He rallied,” she said. “He rallied the camp followers. Not Don Givanzo.”
Maranon took a deep breath, as if waking up. He rubbed his eyes. “Probably best if he hadn’t. Would have saved you and your officers a lot of time this morning.”
Recha looked Necrem up and down, noting again the cuts and slashes from swords on his thighs, arms, and legs. “And him a lot of blood,” she replied, turning back to Maranon.
The Orsembian doctor upheld his stoic demeanor, though his chin faintly wobbled when he nodded.
Recha turned on her heels, her mouth open to say something to Doctor Wertae, when she spied Harquis facing her out of the corner of her eye. She glanced to make sure, and those white eyes were focused on her.
She flashed a soft smile at Wertae and whispered, “One second.”
She walked over to the cultist and stood shoulder to shoulder with him, keeping her back to the doctors. “What is your interest here?” she whispered.
“I saw him through the crowds,” Harquis replied, voice hauntingly low. “A soul Scorched to its core. His pain, held in for years. Such a soul needed to be saved. Their betrayal avenged.” His head turned stiffly, slowly, until those white orbs bore into her. “You did a great thing today. Such souls are what you need to tear down this world of lies. Keep him close, Mandas. He will help bring Truth.”
He stepped around her, and Recha sharply turned her head to keep him in view, yet the cultist appeared content with his cryptic babbling.
Sevesco scooted his chair out of the way then pulled back the tent flap for the cultist to exit. Harquis, however, walked into the other flap without pausing, the cloth pulled against his shoulder as if he didn’t feel it.
Recha’s shoulders shook once he was gone from a chill that she’d been holding in.
Sevesco shrugged, let the tent flap fall back, then stood up. “Always such a charmer,” he said walking toward her, pipe in hand.
When did he start smoking? Recha shook her head, chocking up the stray thought to exhaustion.
“I trust you had a purpose in bringing me here.” She folded her hands in front of her.
Sevesco came up beside her, shoving his pipe in his trousers pocket before she could get a whiff of what he was smoking. “Well, I first thought us capturing an Orsembian hero was a boon that required your personal attention. And after hearing all of that, I’m glad I was correct.”
“Oh?”
Sevesco hummed. “A story like that, it’s perfect to rile up others with resentment toward Borbin.”
Recha frowned, knowing what he was hinting at. “This is not the time to indulge that particular pet project of yours. Trying to foment a popular uprising now while we’re marching through Orsembar can lead to more trouble than we can handle.” She gave him small, warning smile. “Papa would be furious if the generals started reporting they’d been slowed because the peasants had started rioting over rumors you spread.”
A network of espis wasn’t the only thing Sevesco wanted to set up in Orsembar while Recha had her hands full keeping Lazorna together. He made countless requests with plan outlines to spark popular uprisings in the meantime. Recha wasn’t sure of the methods or if the outcomes would help their end goal. She couldn’t afford him sparking a fire that either got out of control or somehow slipped to Borbin that they were responsible. It risked drawing Lazorna into conflict too quickly before she was ready.
Recha couldn’t risk it.
“Don’t worry,” she said, elbowing him, “if this campaign goes well, you’ll have other chances for such projects.”
Sevesco shrugged, looking back at her with an obviously forced smile. “Very well,” he said. “We’ll save those for projects for later. But what I was also thinking is that man could be an excellent propaganda tool.”
Recha raised an eyebrow at him. “Propaganda?”
“A story like that . . .” Sevesco shook his head. “And those scars . . . Even better, look at how that doctor is treating him.”
She gave one more look at Necrem. The giant Orsembian was breathing in slow, deep breaths now, likely asleep. Maranon was checking over the other stitches down his body with a critical eye. Recha’s eyebrows shot up, the doctor’s attentiveness to his patient giving her another idea.
“It could be an excellent recruitment tool, too,” she whispered.
Sevesco stared at her, his mouth slightly ajar. “You’d recruit . . . Orsembians?”
“I know,” she replied, shaking her head, “I’m skeptical, too. And, considering our plans, it may not be the most successful endeavor. However, Hiraldo and some of the other generals did request if they could pick through the captured troops—the conscripts especially—to see if there were any soldiers more willing to fight for pay than marc. But perhaps there are those”—she turned back toward Necrem—“who’ve got just as many reasons to fight against Borbin as we do.”
A wide grin slowly spread across Sevesco’s face. “Exactly. We can use his story for recruitment along our entire line of march. I can send my riders out and spread the story through the towns ahead of our columns, telling the people there we’ve come to make Borbin answer for such atrocities like what he did to that poor man.” He chuckled from deep in the back of his throat. “We can even slip the story into Puerlato and see if it festers their defenses while under siege.”
Recha’s eyes slowly widened at thinking of it, slowly grinning herself. We can call ourselves an army of liberation. Not only for Puerlato, but for everyone under Borbin’s boot. Who knows how potent it will be against any resistance? It may sap any of it before Borbin sends any force to stop us. What if we can slip it into his very camp? It could—
Necrem groaned a hollow bellow from Maranon moving back a bandage on his left thigh, examining the stitching and poultice.
Recha’s grin slipped. “It would mean taking advantage of his tragedy,” she said.
“It’s for a greater purpose,” Sevesco replied nonchalantly. “Besides, you’ve used your tragedy to your advantage and look at everything you’ve accomplished.” He gave a low chuckle then froze.
Recha glared daggers at him.
“Sorry.” Sevesco swallowed then hung his head. “That was too far.”
Recha said nothing, merely holding her relentless stare.
Sevesco rolled his lips around, as if working out his next words carefully while avoiding eye contact. “I work in the dark, Recha,” he said softly. “Sometimes, it’s hard for me to come out. I use every method, every tool, to get the job done. Using another man’s tragedy to topple an enemy is . . . just another method.”
He finally met her eyes. The fun, prank-loving boy she remembered growing up was gone from those haunting eyes.
“It’s another way to bring Borbin down,” he continued. “I’ll do anything to make that happen. For Sebastian, for Hiraldo, for Cornelos . . . for you. I’ll do the dirty stuff to keep the rest of you clean.”
By the Savior, Recha blinked, what have you done that you haven’t told me about, Sevesco?
She turned away so her curiosity wouldn’t make her ask him, keeping her focus on the choice at hand. Her lips tightened, and her hands became clammy pressed together. In the end, for the larger sake of war effort, throwing one more method in with the others was something she couldn’t pass up.
“Very well,” she finally said.
“Doctor Maranon.”
The doctor perked up.
“Can you keep him alive?” she asked.
Maranon looked Necrem up and down. “With the right attention, rest, and food, I believe I can.”
“Then, until he’s recovered, that man is your only patient.” She pointed at Necrem. “Consider it an observation period. If our army doctors find you have the proper skills and can be trustworthy, then you can tend to our wounded.”
Maranon stood up, sticking his chest out. “Thank you, La Dama!” He made a sharp nod. “I promise, he will make a full recovery!”
Recha turned to Wertae. “Make sure Doctor Maranon knows where he can request what he needs from our camp stores,” she ordered. “And make sure he gets them.” She added that in case someone took offense to an Orsembian getting treatment and tried to prevent it.
“Yes, La Dama,” Wertae replied with a respectful bow.
Recha nodded contently. “I shall leave you gentlemen to it then.”
She turned sharply on her heels, suddenly eager to get out. She left Sevesco to trail behind her as she burst through the tent flaps before he could reach them to open for her.
The cool night air struck her face instantly. A gentle breeze swept across her face and through her hair, forcing her to stop in her tracks to feel it. She took a deep breath, taking in the crisp freshness with the underlining scent of woodsmoke. She’d been in the tent for too long and hadn’t noticed how stale the air had gotten.
The hard thump of footsteps coming up beside her snapped her back. Her guard formed around her during her moment of indulgence.
Yes, she reminded herself, back to it.
She was about to head off when, from the corner of her eye, she noticed the corralled Orsembian soldiers from earlier. They stood out with lights of the small campfires ringing them. Her soldiers still patrolled around them, watching.
They hadn’t disbursed to sit around in small groups. A great number of them was massed up, looking into the camp.
At Necrem’s tent.
Recha looked back at the tent then at the Orsembians. They’re waiting for word.
She slipped around her guard and to the edge of the tent, cupped her hands over her mouth, and shouted, “He’s going to live!”
A ripple of relieved sighs and slumping shoulders spread through them. Soon, there were nervous chuckles, slaps on the backs, and sparks of conversations.
Recha watched them. They suddenly didn’t look like enemy soldiers. Just ordinary men thrown together by coincidence and now bonded over a shared experience.
“Come,” she ordered her guard as she headed back toward the command tents. She put determination in her stride, walking with a quick pace, and failed to see if Sevesco was going to return with her or not. “I must talk with some generals.”