28th of Andril, 1019 N.F (e.y.)
His head was laying on a hard, flat surface. That was the first thing Necrem felt—the back of his head balancing the floor. At least . . . he thought it was a floor. It was too level to be ground.
The first thing he felt after the hard floor under his head was the rocking grinding his shoulder blades into the floor. Slight jolts shifted under him, swaying his body from side to side.
More sensations flooded him then. Everything was stiff, from twitching a finger to readjusting his shoulders, nothing wanted to move.
A piercing itch on his thigh changed that.
Necrem gasped from the irritating, crawling sensation. With his left hand, he reached for the spot without hesitation and rubbed it. There was some patch or cloth under his clothes. He also felt his skin pulling and rubbing over a line sewn into the flesh.
Stitches? He knew the feeling. However, he remembered them being higher up.
He cracked his eyes open slowly. His blurry vision prevented him from taking in everything at first glance. Everything was shaded in a dull yellow that slowly focused into the canvas covering of a wagon, offering shade and light at the same time.
A hard knock of wood striking stone came from under him, and the wagon jolted upward, its right wheel rolling up over something then coming down hard. Necrem groaned from his head being tossed back and forth from the hit.
Who’s driving . . .? Why am I in the back of a wagon?
Someone else groaned beside him.
Necrem turned his head slowly to the right, discovering a booted leg. He followed the limb upward, arching his back the best he could and craning his neck back to see Stefan dosing above his head. He wore the clothes of a laborer. He sat leaning against a box at the head of the wagon, his arms folded over the box’s top, and his head pressed down on his arms.
Necrem could make out the side of his face enough to recognize him.
“Stef—”
He rasped and coughed hoarsely. His throat scratched, begging for water. The coughs reverberated down to his gut and made his body tense and pull in on itself. His legs and arms sprang up to wrap around him but stopped from the muscle aches of moving so fast after being still for too long. Necrem groaned and rolled his head, dropping his limbs back against the wagon’s floorboards with thuds.
A sharp sniff and snort came above him, followed by a gasp. “Oso!” Stefan squeaked, his voice cracking.
Necrem rolled his head back up to see the lad hunched over him, looking him up and down with wide, shocked eyes.
“You’re awake!” Stefan said excitedly. “Are you hurting anywhere? Are you bleeding? Do you need anything? I should get the doctor, right? You need the doctor. Is everything all right with your face?”
The tirade of questions sped by too quickly for Necrem to catch them all. Barely able to swallow, his body screamed for one thing above everything else.
“Water?” he asked hoarsely and heard a soft whistling sound in his voice.
“Yes, sir!” Stefan nodded vigorously.
He scrambled to turn around, his boots scraping the floorboards in the confined space. One of his feet slid past Necrem’s head, the rush of air brushing his face.
Stefan ripped the hanging cloth back, spilling yellow light into the wagon, and yelled, “He wants water! Doctor Maranon, he wants water!”
“He’s awake?” Maranon exclaimed, startled. “Pull over there!”
“But that’s—”
“I don’t care!” Maranon shouted over the driver. “I need to check on my patient. Pull this wagon over there!”
The wagon jolted hard to the side. The force lifted Necrem’s head up, and it bounced against the floorboards. He groaned, rolling onto his side to get his head off the floor. His stomach and inside his head swam. He smacked the remains of his lips together from the sudden nausea.
He froze. He snapped his eyes open. A stiff tug pulled on his left cheek from a dry stitch.
My mask?
He reached to touch his face. His hands were as heavy as irons. His fingers stubbornly refused to bend, and his knuckles felt like they were grinding against each other. Several of them popped when he finally got his fingers to ball then touched his face.
The sticky residue of the salve clung to his fingertips. He ran them across a couple of new stitches in places he hadn’t sewn up before. Some of the scars felt longer than he remembered.
Did they . . .? Did I rip my scars again?
His hands began to tremble. From there, the shaking spread throughout his body. His breathing quickened. The air whistled through the holes in his cheeks. His fingertips lightly touched his scars. He tried to measure them, but they just felt gaping, wide open. He wasn’t even sure how much was there.
The image of the last of his cheek, attaching his skull to his jaw, being severed and gone flashed through his mind. The sight of him having to wrap a wire under his jaw and around his head to keep it from falling off burst from the dark recesses of his mind where he thought he had forced that nightmare years ago. The years of oppression struck him all at once, his throat clenched tight, and he started to cough.
“Necrem!” Stefan cried. The boy tumbled beside him, slamming his knee against the floorboard then stifling a hiss. He grabbed Necrem’s shoulder and started shaking him. “Necrem! What’s wrong?”
Necrem rolled over, peering over his hands that were wide across his face. “Mask!” he hissed.
Stefan jerked his head back. He held a leather-cased, wooden canteen in one hand. “What? Water?” He held out the canteen.
“Where’s . . . my mask?” Necrem repeated, ignoring the canteen. “Where’s my mask?”
Stefan stared back at him, mouth slightly agape and hand trembling. “I . . .”
“How is he?” Doctor Maranon shouted, pulling back the wagon’s rear covering. He jerked his red face back once Necrem turned his wide-eyed look at him.
“He . . .. He wants his mask back,” Stefan stuttered.
Necrem shot his gaze between the boy and the doctor, hands pressed over his face.
Maranon grunted, unhitching the wagon’s tailgate. “Demanding a drink and demanding his cloths.” The tailgate dropped open with a loud rattle of chains and shook the rest of the wagon when it hit. “Sounds like a recovered patient to me.”
Maranon struggled to haul himself up onto the tailgate, pulling on one of the anchor chains while crawling up on his belly. He took a deep breath when he finally got up then walked on his knees into the wagon, dabbing his sweaty forehead with a rag he had pulled out of his pocket.
“But we best check to see if you’re ready to get up,” he said, crawling up beside him. He frowned and motioned down with his hands. “Well? Take your hands down. I need to check those stitches before I can say you’ve recovered.”
Necrem held his hands closer to his face and backed away from him. “Where are my masks?” he demanded.
Maranon snorted. “Gone. Remember? You lost all of them when the Lazornians attacked.”
Necrem leaned back against the wagon. The memories of the mad rout at night, the struggle to get through the camp, avoiding and fighting Lazornian patrols through the dark rows of tents, and the morning after all rushed back in. The fight for the wagons was still vague, like a dream. Yet, he roughly remembered what had happened then, as well. All of it felt like they had happened for months on end. A long trail of misery that refused to end. Not something that all had happened in one night.
After all that, something else stood out to him.
“What happened?” he asked, glancing around the wagon. “How’d I get here?”
Maranon worked his jaw then turned to Stefan and said, “See if you can fetch a clean towel. Something big enough he can put his hands down. I’ll keep the water.”
“Yes, Doctor!” Stefan eagerly replied, passing the canteen. He crawled out of the wagon through the front, kicking and scratching his way over a couple of trunks and the driver’s seat to get out.
“Typical,” Maranon said, shaking his head. “Good lad, but typical. Could have just asked for a pardon and stepped around me, but no, had to do things the hard way and get out that way. Here.” He held out the canteen with a concerned look on his face. “I’ve seen your scars, Necrem. Worked on them. You don’t have to hide them from me. Drink.”
Necrem looked at the canteen then back at Maranon. He turned his face away when he lowered his hands. His fingers, laced together, refused to pull apart, yet Maranon simply set the canteen in them.
“Thank you,” he said softly. He peeled his fingers away, pulled out the canteen’s plug, then tipped it back to drink. Water leaked between the holes in his cheeks then trickled around and under his jaw as he gulped down as much as he could. The canteen was over half-empty when he pulled it away, gasping. “Sorry for wasting some of it.”
Maranon waved him away, though frowning deeply. “What’s a little spilt water? With injuries like that, you must have the Savior’s own patience. I did the best I could, but after so many years, there’s no way to close them up. I may have stop them from splitting more, though.”
Necrem held his head away. He worked his jaw a little and flexed the remaining muscle he could. He mentally pictured all the cuts and gashes on his face, feeling the tugs and working his hacked lips.
Some of them did split wider. He slumped his shoulders.
In the quiet moment, he gazed out the back of the wagon. He caught the rolling shadows of wagon wheels crossing the ground, visible from the gap between the dangling covering canvas and tailgate. The clomping of horse hooves, creaking axles, and muffled stream of passing voices drifted through air.
All too familiar sounds.
“A convoy,” he said, breathing heavily. His heartrate finally decreased, and his nerves relaxed. His body still felt stiff, especially around his waist, hips, and left forearm, but his breathing became easier. “Where are we?”
“With the Lazornians,” Maranon replied. “After the battle, the survivors were divided. The camp followers were free to join their armies as workers or be sent east to work on their siege. Your fellow soldiers were split up between going to work on the siege, too, or being recruited into the Lazornian armies. Many of your fellow conscripts are still here. Although, from what I hear, they are still being kept apart from everyone else. Those who were too wounded, though, were left at the nearest village.”
Necrem looked over his body, checking the injuries he could see and trying to remember the others. His hands were sore and knuckles were wrapped. However, he could bend his fingers and make fists. The telltale tugging of healed-over stitches pulled at his side and his forearm. His legs ached like they had been laying still for a long time.
“I guess I wasn’t injured enough to be too wounded,” he said.
Maranon snorted. “Those Lazornian doctors didn’t give you a few days. But you were deemed . . . important to keep alive.”
It was Necrem’s turn to snort. He shook his head, too. “Who would think I’m important?”
The doctor opened his mouth but didn’t speak. His jaw hung open, and his gaze slid off to the side.
Running feet skidded on the gravel outside, up to the wagon’s tailgate. Stefan, huffing and puffing with sweat glistening on his face, shoved his arm up in the wagon, holding a bundled cloth.
“There you are,” Maranon barked yet sounded relieved. “Where’d you run off to? The rear of the convoy?”
“Sorry it took me so long,” the lad said. “Had to make sure I found a clean one.”
Maranon snatched the towel, inspected it, as if expecting it to be covered in dirt, then held it out to Necrem. “It’ll have to do until you can have a new mask sewn for you. At least it’s clean.”
Necrem set the canteen away then took the towel. The dark, tanned cloth had various splotches and old stains dotting it, darkening and lightening the rough fabric in several places. Several of them overlapped.
No point in being choosy, he told himself. Not the worse I’ve had to make do with, anyway.
He stretched the towel apart by its far corners then wrapped it around his face. The heavy smell of soup and brine water flood his nostrils. He pulled the cloth tight to get as much slack as he could to tie the ends together. There was barely any room, and the rough edges of the cloth rubbed against his upper cheeks, snagging the ends of his scars and the few remaining stitches there. He breathed a sigh of relief either way once he had them covered.
Stefan stepped up on the tailgate then pulled the covering back, a big smile on his face. “I also found Sir Hezet!”
“You did what?” Maranon snapped.
Necrem looked past Stefan, and his eyes widened. He had expected to see guards escorting Hezet. Instead, the veteran and former squad mate wore a violet uniform, the shoulders, black buttons, and black trousers powdered with dust from the road. He lacked any sign of a weapon, but he walked a little taller. He was certainly far better than the ragged appearance Necrem remembered him from the morning after the surprise attack.
“Oso!” Hezet barked, stepping up to the tailgate. “Finally awake, Blacksmith?”
“Hezet.” Necrem nodded. He ran his hand across his left forearm and felt the thin, scabbed-over cut. “You look well. Joined . . . another army?”
Hezet’s shoulders slowly dropped, his chest fell. “It was an offer,” he replied. “They only gave it to us conscripted men. Didn’t even bother with captured provost guards or calleroses men-at-arms.” He snickered. “First time I ever heard any of them complain about not getting what we got.”
“Still”—Necrem shook his head—“how could it be any better?”
Hezet shrugged. “Some things are the same. The Lazornians do like to march faster. And they’re still nervous about us carrying weapons. But”—his eyes softened, reflective—“the officers . . . act proper.”
Necrem snorted, not understanding what that meant. “Figured they’d be nervous with any of us near weapons. Funny they’d try to recruit anyone after slaughtering most of us a night or two ago.”
Hezet gave him a blank stare. He glanced to Maranon, who folded his arms, then back at Necrem. “Oso, you’ve been out for over a week. Near two.”
Necrem’s hand froze on his arm. Flakes from the scab clung or peeled off against the hard calluses on his palm. He glanced at everyone around him. Hezet frowned deeply, Stefan looked on with concern, and Maranon simply nodded.
“At first, I thought it was because of your age,” the doctor explained. “I told Stefan men of our years take longer to get over things.” He chuckled, but then his cheeks drooped. “But after a few more days, you still hadn’t woken up, and you muttered in your sleep. I figured you were healing what you’ve been holding inside you more than everything else. If . . . that’s even possible.”
Goosebumps ran down Necrem’s arms. Every strand of hair on his head stood up at the way the doctor had said that.
What I’ve been holding inside? Muttering in my sleep?
“Doctor,” he said hesitantly, his voice soft and low, “what did I—”
“Riders coming!” the wagon driver snapped from his seat. “Important ones. Calleros and officers by the look . . . By the Savior!”
Necrem heard the galloping hooves before the demands started to fly.
“You there! Identify yourself! Why is that wagon blocking the lane?”
Multiple hoofbeats slowed to a trot up to the wagon.
“Injured tent, sirs,” the driver replied timidly. “Carrying wounded and had to stop to check on him. Doctor’s orders.”
“For the love of the Savior’s own backbone,” Maranon growled. The old doctor crawled and wobbled on hands and knees to the tailgate. He stubbornly slapped Stefan’s hand aside when the lad tried to help him to his feet while he struggled to pull himself up then peered over and around the wagon’s covering.
“Pardon us, sirs,” he said a little gruffly. “My patient has just recovered, and I required a place off the road and steady to check on him instead of a bumpy highway. I promise we didn’t mean to inconvenience anyone or tread where we weren’t supposed to.”
“One wagon for one patient?” someone asked.
Necrem’s ears twitched at the tone in the man’s voice. It was inquisitive rather than skeptical, with a hint of more questions to follow.
The wagon shifted, coming from movement on the tailgate.
Necrem looked up and found Maranon gawking, his face growing pale. He shot a glance to Hezet. The veteran had gone rigid at attention, arms pressed to his side, his chest barely moving to breathe.
“And a personal doctor riding with the patient,” the person said. Slow pings of horseshoes walked beside the wagon, slow enough Necrem could follow them with his ears as the horses passed by. “They must be important.”
The riders rounded the rear of the wagon. Hezet took a respectful step back, his head lowered. Maranon and Stefan both climbed down from the tailgate to join him.
Without Maranon in the way, Necrem spied the horses’ heads and bridles through the back of the wagon. Their riders remained out of sight, but the three horses he could see wore head armor with the black horse in the center having a bridle and reins of violet and gold colored leather.
Must be important themselves.
“Are you well enough to come out?” the person asked.
Doctor Maranon looked in at him, his mustache pushed up against his nose, and nodded.
Necrem dropped his head, groaning deep from his chest. Instead of rolling around to crawl out on his hands and knees, he placed his hands under him then scooted out with the combined effort of his legs. He came out on the tailgate and sat, legs hanging off the end. He winced and held his hand up against the glaring Easterly Sun.
“So, you’re the giant Orsembian I’ve heard about.”
Necrem squinted through his fingers at the man on the center horse. He sat taller than the armored calleroses sitting beside him. He wore a deep violet uniform jacket, a polished steel helmet with cheek guards and no visor, and armor on his thighs and legs rather than full plate.
He was broad in the chest and shoulders and sat straight back in the saddle, a natural officer’s pose. His square jaw stuck outside the helmet’s cheek guards. He studied Necrem up and down, his hazel eyes returning to the towel wrapped around his face.
He’s young, he realized.
The shallow bags under his eyes almost threw him, but beside the obvious want for sleep, the commanding officer was younger than he would have thought for someone getting such reverent reactions out of Hezet and the others.
“I’m . . . not sure what you’ve heard, sir,” Necrem replied cautiously. “But—”
“You’re the man who forced one of my companies of sword to retreat.” The officer shifted in his saddle, the leather rubbing and stretching as he pushed up in the saddle then sat back down. “Charged them alone, they say. Got men to rally. And all with your bare hands. I must admit, even to a former enemy soldier, such things are admirable.”
Necrem’s eyes adjusted to the light, and he dropped his hand into his lap. He hung his head. “Begging your pardon, sir, but I wasn’t—” He clenched his teeth, catching himself. “I’m not much of a soldier. I don’t recall much of what happened that night. Mostly running and hiding for our lives. I know I . . . hurt . . . someone. More than one. But I wouldn’t say what I did was . . . admirable.”
Everything hung in the air after that. The passing wagons, yards away, barely put a dent in the quiet.
I shouldn’t have said that. Hezet’s opinions aside, calleroses were calleroses, officers were officers, and he was an Orsembian prisoner surrounded by Lazornian soldiers. Awake for barely twenty minutes, and I’ve said the dumbest things just I’ve said in years.
He set his shoulders, waiting for whatever punishment or orders were bound to be coming.
A horse snorted then shook its mane, chomping on the bit in his mouth.
“Humble, too,” the officer said. “You are an interesting man, Sir Oso. It’s not every campaign a man is hailed a hero. Lesser still not take some pride in it.”
Necrem’s head jerked up. “I’m not a hero.”
The calleroses around the officer sat up sharply in their saddles, tugging on their reins, as if preparing to dash between him and their commander. The snorting of more horses alerted Necrem to other calleroses on the other side of the wagon, watching him and keeping an eye on the others. There was no telling how many other calleroses were out of sight, blocked by the wagon canvas.
The commanding officer, however, softly smiled. “I’m afraid you don’t get to decide that. I heard someone say once, ‘It’s not up to you if people call you a hero or not. It’s up to them. It’s their recognition of your deeds. The moment others call you a hero, you’re a hero in their eyes from then on.’” His eyes lost their focus. “I knew another man who I called a hero.”
The stillness returned. This time, it was turned in on the commander. His eyes misted as he sat there, lost in whatever memory he had invoked.
These Lazornians are strange. Necrem cautiously looked at Hezet, standing more relaxed than before yet still at attention. Was this what he meant by the officers acting proper?
“General,” one of the calleroses beside the commander whispered, “we shouldn’t delay if we’re to take command of the city.”
Necrem sat up straighter. General?
The young general drew himself up in his saddle, taking a deep breath. His eyes blinked rapidly. “Yes. Quite right.”
He fumbled his horse’s reins in his hands before giving Necrem one last look. “You say you’re not a soldier, Sir Oso, and I know your . . . wounds probably make being one miserable, but we could use any man we can get to bring Borbin down. If you think we can find common cause in that, come by the First Army’s tents when you’re able. Tell the provosts there that General Galvez promised a place for you.” He gave a sharp nod. “Make sure you turn your wagon off this path and return to the main camp. Good day, gentlemen!”
The general wheeled his horse back, slipping from between his two retainers then taking off at a determined trot. The calleroses jumped to catch back up. The rumble of hooves soon surrounded Necrem and the others as over twenty of them galloped around the wagon in a column of two, flowing to the road then turning left down it, heading in the same direction as the convoy.
Necrem was left sitting there. Eyes wide, staring at the general’s back as he rode away. The general had reluctantly looked down at Necrem’s covered face when he’d mentioned wounds. It was faint. Almost a flicker. But Necrem had seen it.
When he had mentioned Borbin by name.
He knows!
Necrem’s heart began to race. The towel around his mouth fluffed about wildly from his short, heavy breaths. His arms began to shake.
They know!
His body folded in on itself. He dropped his head down until it was almost between his legs. His chest felt like it was collapsing in on him. His throat tightened as if he were being strangled. He gasped for breath. Pricking stings sprung up across his face. Then they all began to burn. Searing until he could picture the outline of every scar.
Screams raced in his mind. They had once come from the depths of his memory. Now they sounded fresh. He felt each, singular, agonizing cut.
A strangled gargle hissed out of his throat until it blossomed into a deep bellow. He clutched his face, his thick fingers blocking out the light.
“Oso!” a muffled voice yelled. “Oso!”
“Breathe!” another encouraged. “Calm down! You’re all right! You are all right!”
Hands shook him by the shoulders.
Necrem jerked up, throwing his arms in the air.
“Easy, Oso, easy!” Hezet yelled, dashing in front of him with his arms raised. Near panic streaked across the veteran’s face, along with his sweat. He flickered glances at Necrem then above his head.
Necrem sat there, unmoving. His breathing slowly came back under control. Then he looked up. His hands were balled into fists. He was holding them high, like dual hammers, ready to come crashing down.
The joints in his fingers and knuckles popped as he forced his fists open. Then he brought them down, dropping his arms on his legs. His forearm muscles bulged and throbbed.
He looked from Hezet, keeping his hands up and watchful, to Doctor Maranon now sitting beside him, drawn back with his arms up defensively. Their eyes met. The doctor’s were trembling, with his brow furled, conveying one look that Necrem recognized.
Pity.
“You know, too,” Necrem said softly.
Maranon lowered his arms, scowling deeply. He nodded then hung his head. “When we were finally able to treat you, we gave you something for the pain before we could . . . help. You had a terrible reaction. You rambled. You yelled. You kept calling out for one person. Eulalia, I recall. Over and over.
“Then the story just came pouring out. Like . . . festering puss that had been hiding under a tumor. It was as if the reaction forced it to the surface, and you couldn’t calm down until you forced it out of yourself.”
Necrem went numb. Besides the people who’d been there that day, who had seen or witnessed the aftermath, he had never told anyone what had happened. Not about what had happened to him. And certainly had never uttered a word about what they had done to Eulalia. The violation was too much. The mere trying to pick up the little pieces left over and building anything afterward had been hard enough, especially with her condition taking hold of her. Dredging up the past wouldn’t have done them any good.
He turned back to Hezet, standing with his shoulders slumped and face angled away from him. Stefan was hiding and watching from around the side of the wagon.
“You two . . . heard, as well?” Necrem asked.
“Probably not the whole story,” Hezet replied. “But enough. The story began spreading through the camp about why the La Dama herself had come down and met an enemy soldier and ordered the doctors to keep him alive. Told about what happened to your . . . wife, and how Borbin himself did”—he pointed at Necrem’s face—“that to you when you killed the men responsible and demanded justice. They tried to use it as recruitment speech, like just now.”
Necrem gave Hezet a skeptical look. “The marquesa herself?”
“She visited you when you were . . . being treated.”
Necrem turned to Maranon.
“I told you, didn’t I?” The doctor shrugged. “Important people wanted you alive.”
“They said you and the marquesa had something in common.” Hezet snickered. “A personal grievance with Borbin. And they offered anyone else who had one to join up.”
Necrem snickered back. “Always figured they would have personal grievances with each other by staring in each other’s direction. What could I have in common with one of them?”
They just want to use me. A good, shocking story.
They sat there a moment longer in uncomfortable silence. Hezet worked his jaw, as if he wanted to say more but didn’t.
“Well,” Maranon grunted, hopping off the tailgate, “we best do as the general says. I’ll check your other injuries once we’ve gotten to the campsite. Best if you go back in and—”
“I’d rather stay right here,” Necrem said. “The sun feels too good.”
It was a lie. His body was still stiff, and he didn’t feel like forcing it to crawl back in the wagon.
Maranon gave him a concerned look. “Road’s awfully bumpy. You sure you can hold on there?”
“I’ll ride with him,” Hezet volunteered. “Make sure he doesn’t fall off.”
“All right.” Maranon grunted, passing a look between them. He threw an arm around Stefan then began leading him away. “Come along, boy.”
Stefan dragged his feet. “But I—”
“There’s plenty of room next to the driver and me.” Maranon’s voice carried a no-attitude tone, and he successfully kept his grip on the lad’s shoulder.
Necrem remained hunched over, arms pressed on his legs. Hezet walked up and sat down on the tailgate beside him without saying another word.
Reins cracked a few moments later, and then the wagon started moving, slowly turning around on a gravel path that led deeper into a wooded lane off the main road. They rejoined the main convoy without any fuss from the other drivers, and then it was back to rocking and swaying.
“You going to say anything?” Necrem asked Hezet after a while of riding in silence.
“Nuh-uh,” Hezet grunted, shaking his head. The veteran wasn’t watching him with curiosity or sitting on edge, as if expecting Necrem to push himself off the wagon. He was simply there.
Necrem took a deep breath then hung his head. “Thank you.”