5th of Iam, 1019 N.F (e.y.)
Necrem shifted the drenched handkerchief hanging around his neck for the hundredth time. The Easterly Sun bore down on him mercilessly in his coachman’s set of the bouncing, rattling buckboard. He missed the shade of a covered wagon, although he wouldn’t dream of complaining. He greatly preferred the option of riding home rather than having to wander back on foot, especially since the wagon had been granted to him by the marquesa herself.
A hot gust blew in from the west. It stripped the remaining brittle, brown leaves from the withered husks of corn stocks littering the expansive fields bordering the rocky road and flung them along with the grainy dust and into the faces of men and beasts alike.
Necrem angled his head away, desperate to keep the tiny grit from finding a way through his mask. A column of pikemen marching beside him cursed and coughed. Those who could shuffled up against the side of his buckboard to avoid the brunt of the gust.
Necrem’s mule, Malcada, snorted and whipped her head back and forth. Her blinders protected her eyes, yet the sudden swirling mass of dust and debris from the field made her pull up and cry loudly in protest.
Her previous owner had warned she could be an ill-tempered nag when she wanted to be. Necrem had said she had her good days and her bad days. He’d given Necrem a queer look when he laughed and told him they’d get along fine, patting the mule’s neck.
“Hey!” someone yelled behind him.
He peered over his shoulder, squinting against the last remaining swirls of dust. The wagon driver behind him was on his feet, raising his fist at him. The man’s four-horse team were neighing, biting their bits, and stomping their hooves against the rocky, packed road. The covered wagon, heavily laden with crates that pushed out against the covering, rocked from suddenly coming to a halt.
Necrem waved apologetically then gave Malcada’s reins a flick. The mule snorted and flipped her head back at him, needing another slap of the reins to start moving. He gave the reins some slack as the wagon rolled on, bouncing and shaking on the rocks.
Must’ve been holding too much again, he chided himself.
After a decade, he was surprised he could remember how to drive a wagon and take care of the animal. He had taken the benefit of how not having to provide for an animal as large as a mule or horse for granted during his poverty. Malcada needed food, water, and rest every day, same as him, and he had to provide for it before tending to himself every night. That meant sticking with the Lazornian army for as long as he could, because they were the closest ones around with grain to feed the ornery thing.
His gaze wandered to his left at remembering the Lazornians. The files of pikemen were moving again, pikes on their shoulders and dust covering them from their faces to their boots. Their armor, violet uniforms, and dark trousers were all turning brown.
None of them spoke. No jokes or songs. No officers cursing them or demanding them to move faster, either, blessedly. Grim determination hung on their faces, like men set off to work on a hard job, and it was too hot to do anything else but be about it. Necrem caught a few of them longingly eyeing his empty buckboard as they trudged along. Their column moved faster than him behind the line of other wagons.
He dropped his feet down from the footrest to nudge the iron chest under his seat with his heels. The chest’s heavy lock tapped against the leather of his boots. He knew the soldiers were only interested in riding instead of marching, yet Necrem couldn’t help his protective urge toward the chest’s contents. He had never dreamed Marquesa Mandas meant to keep her word to provide him a way home or give him coin for his travel.
Five-hundred gold deberes sat in neat rows, flawless and freshly minted. Five hundred! He absentmindedly rubbed his heel against the chest to remind him yet again it was still real.
That should take care of us for four or . . . five years? The calculations returned. They always did when he thought about the amount of money with the dull passage of time moving with the Lazornian army. Maybe more?
He shoved down the dreary thought that it could last for less. Yet he had known what to do with it the moment he had lain eyes on the treasure in that chest.
When he finally left that villa, his worry and thought of Eulalia and Bayona, that he had desperately tried to ignore during his conscription, had come flooding back. Sleep had rejected him that night, his mind plagued with fears of how they must have been managing, whether Sanjaro was looking in on them, if Eulalia had gotten worse, if something had happened to Bayona, and on and on. Worst of all, again, that he wasn’t there.
Necrem’s chest suddenly felt tight. He sucked in air in short, hissing breaths. A familiar sense of hopelessness pressed down on him, like an anvil, with the thought. It cracked open the worst nightmare of all—the thought of getting back to find his home and shop deserted, with no one knowing where his family had gone.
He clutched his chest. His heart slammed against that anvil with all its might, threatening to burst from his chest. He squeezed his eyes shut to force the fear away and took long, drawn-out breaths. He rubbed his heels against the iron chest again, reminding him of the feeling he got when he’d first lain eyes on the treasure inside.
It was an old, familiar feeling, same as this fear. Every man had that fear. The fear of not having what it took to provide for your family. Of becoming destitute. Of losing them. Touching his boots against the iron chest again, a comforting feeling pushed back against his fear like warm arms embracing his shoulders, whispering that he had a way to provide for them now and all he had to do was get back home.
“Driver, look out!”
Necrem snapped his eyes open. Malcada was veering left, toward the column of infantry. He yanked the reins, pulling the mule back on course, then looked to his left.
“Are you well?” a Lazornian officer walking beside his wagon asked. He rested a hand on the coachman’s seat, as if to pick himself up into it, looking Necrem up and down with occasional, concerned glances ahead of them. Necrem could tell he was an officer because he walked out of formation and didn’t carry a pike.
“I’m fine,” he replied, sitting up straighter. “Heat got to me for a moment.”
The officer gave him a doubtful look. “Best not to push yourself. If it happens again, drive your wagon off the roadside. We don’t want to risk any accidents, do we?” He slapped his hand against the side of the wagon then rushed ahead to rejoin his men.
Necrem nodded and watched him go, breathing a sigh of relief. His shoulders relaxed at that. He hadn’t remembered them becoming tense, likely a reflex from expecting a scolding. Yet it had never come. It reminded him of something Hezet had said, that the officers acted like officers.
Maybe we shouldn’t stay in Manosete? The strange consideration came over him as he watched the soldiers marching beside him. Maybe we should move. Better than saving this money to pay more campaign taxes to Borbin. Away from Borbin and all of this. The Lazornians aren’t too bad. Marquesa Mandas . . . was fair.
Sparing his life was proof enough without the wagon he drove and the gold under his seat.
Perhaps . . . somewhere else is what we need.
The daunting task flooded his mind all at once. That would mean trying to leave Manosete, if they could. They lived in the slums, but the need for people and taxes was always on the nobles’ minds. Same with leaving one marc to another. Then there was convincing Eulalia. He had no idea how she would be when he got home, if she had gotten worse or frail, or if she could travel at all. Then there were their belongings, how much they could carry with them, how much they would have to leave behind. Bayona would probably be upset by it, too, with it being such a big change.
Still, a chance at a better life. Perhaps, oh perhaps, they could make it.
Necrem let out another deep sigh. I’m not going to sleep tonight.
“You there!”
Necrem groaned at the sight of two calleroses on horseback. They trotted along the roadside in the opposite direction as the rest of the army, and one was pointing at him.
Not again. He pulled Malcada to a halt, the mule snorting in protest of being handled repeatedly. He ignored her and reached into his back pocket to pull out a now well-worn piece of paper.
“What is the purpose of this wagon?” the calleros who had pointed at him asked after trotting up to him. They investigated the empty buckboard, where only his bundle of remaining belongings sat nestled in the corner just behind him. “Which army are you assigned to?”
“The wagon’s mine, sir,” Necrem replied, “I’m—”
“All wagons are needed for official use,” the other calleros recited.
“If you aren’t offering or meeting a need for the army,” the first calleros said, “then I’m afraid we’re going to have to commandeer this wagon. I’m sorry, but there’s been a breakdown up the road and—”
“Sir!” Necrem held the paper up so they could see it. It drooped from being folded and refolded several times and was starting to yellow. “I beg your pardon, but this should explain everything.” He held it out to them.
He knew reading it or trying to explain what it said was pointless. They wouldn’t believe him. It was best they read it for themselves.
The first calleros twitched his hooked nose. His horse kicked and stomped against the rocks as he snatched it. His eyes went wide the moment he unfolded the paper and saw the seal at the bottom of the page.
“Pardon us for bothering you,” the calleros said, handing the paper back.
Necrem took it back then watched them closely as they rode away. He could get along with most of the Lazornians, the common folk in the convoy, the workers, the soldiers, but the sight of a calleros still made his scars pull taut.
He glanced down at the paper in his hand. Marquesa Mandas’s flowing signature was the largest thing on it, underneath the declaration stating that the wagon and mule belonged to him and were not to be seized for any reason.
That makes the tenth time, he mused, folding and tucking his saving grace back in his rear pocket. Despite being a well-provisioned army, everyone noticed his empty wagon and several, especially calleroses, seemed keen on finding a use for it.
The road became rockier and narrower the further they continued. The soldiers on foot moved closer or were forced to walk in the ditches and around steep inclines from the first foothills marking the larger hill and rock formation to the east.
The heat was starting to get to him when voices of men arguing came from up the road. The wagon ahead of him swerved to the left, avoiding a crowd of workers trying to get another wagon’s back wheel free from being lodged in the gap of a large boulder embedded in the ground and part of the road.
That’s a forge wagon! He recognized the slanted, wooden roof on the wagon to keep the tools and movable forge dry.
The workers grunted in unison as they pulled on ropes and pushed down on timbers they used as levers to try to dislodge the wheel. The wagon creaked and shook. Wood strained against iron in protest.
Necrem guided his wagon around the group while watching them work. The heavy-laden wagon refused to budge with its wheel remaining stuck at an angle in the red clay rock.
How’d they manage that?
A loud snap made him jerk around in his seat. One of the timbers they were using as a lever had snapped. The wagon fell back, the stuck wheel grinding deeper into the crevasse.
“What did you do?” an older, grizzled man wailed.
“Dammit!” one of the workers yelled. “The axle’s broke.”
“We’re going to have to saw this wheel off!” another yelled.
As Malcada pulled his wagon by, Necrem caught sight of the man with his fists on his hips, glowering at the workers. The scowl slipped into agony as he looked at the stuck wheel.
Do I . . . know him?
Necrem frowned at the man, obviously the owner of the wagon and fellow smith. He racked his memory, trying to place the face with a name, yet nothing came to mind.
Malcada pulled the wagon along, carefree of everything. A few feet away from the wreckage, he spotted a shaggy-haired boy squatting on a stump on the side of the road in a smith’s apron, hugging his knees to his chest.
I do know him!
The sight of the boy with the old smith was enough to jog his memory of the smith who had let him repair his armor, saving him from Raul’s whip. The broken axle meant the wagon would likely be pulled off the side of the road and abandoned to allow the rest of the army to move on. The calleroses were probably looking for another wagon to put the smith’s forge and tools in.
They’ll probably find one, Necrem thought. The Lazornians don’t seem to have a shortage of much right now.
He drove down the road a little farther. and the lingering thought festered in the back of his mind with each step Malcada took. He knew if they couldn’t find another wagon, everything would have to be abandoned—the tools, the forge, everything. The poor smith would be out of everything.
He helped me . . . once. He shook his head and touched the chest with his heels. Eulalia and Bayona need me. I’ve been away for so long, and . . ..
Something the old smith had said to him echoed back to him. Smiths take care of our own.
He pulled Malcada to a stop, much to the mule’s annoyance, stomping and throwing her head back. Neither she nor the people behind him were happy with him turning back around in the road to head back toward the wreckage. The other wagon drivers gave him sour looks, while he simply gave them an apologetic wave.
The boy remained motionless on the tree trunk. His neck was noticeably paler and pinker than the rest of him, free from the sioneros collar. A lethargic look clouded the boy’s eyes, as if he were staring off into a great distance, unable to see the world passing him by or Necrem’s wagon rolling mere inches from him.
Necrem shook his head and drove on toward the wreckage.
The workers were removing the timbers, giving up on the idea of lifting the wedged wheel out. Several were taking a break in the shade of a withered willow tree.
“You don’t have to cut off the wheel!” the old smith argued with the officer in desperate anger. “I told you, just let me unload the wagon and then we can move it.”
“This is holding up the convoy,” the officer replied with his arms folded. “And blocking part of the road. The armies need every smith we can, but we need speed, too. I’m sorry, but—”
The officer turned his head at Necrem’s approach. “You’re going the wrong way. Move that buckboard out of here!”
“Need help unloading?” Necrem asked, pulling Malcada to a halt. The horses hitched to the forge wagon snorted at her.
The officer frowned at him. “Are you sure that buckboard is sturdy enough? If not, then it’ll cave—”
“Steel Fist!” the old smith blurted out. He gaped at him, pointing with a trembling, age-gnarled finger.
The officer grunted and raised a questioning eyebrow at the man.
The smith passed a look between him and Necrem, working his jaw until he finally stuttered, “He’s—”
“Another steelworker.” Necrem calmly slapped Malcada’s reins and guided her around the lodged wagon so the empty buckboard was accessible to the back forge wagon.
The workers watched from underneath their shade, sweaty rags in hand from where they wiped their necks and faces.
Necrem pulled the break on the buckboard, in case Malcada got any ideas of wandering off, then began to rummage all his belongings that he could reach and pulled them up into the driver’s seat.
“You really going to let us use your wagon?” the old smith asked, rushing after him, almost bouncing with each step.
Necrem looked down from his driver’s seat. The old smith was more grizzled than he’d been back when they were in the Orsembian camp. He looked tired, too, with bags under his eyes and a stoop in his posture. He was either working too hard or pushing himself too much. Maybe a combination of both.
“Smiths look after our own,” Necrem repeated to him, bringing his last bundle of clothes, the fancy ones the marquesa’s officers had provided for him, into the driver’s seat.
The old smith stood a little straighter, bracing his hands on the small of his back to do so. The patchy whiskers on his chin trembled as he smiled and gave only a knowing nod.
The officer cleared his throat. “Come on, you men,” he ordered, sounding annoyed and waving at the workers, “let’s unload this wagon into the other and get this damned thing out of the road.”
More annoyed groans followed from the men under the willow tree. They took their time, leisurely standing back up, stretching, and wiping the last bet of old sweat before returning to work. Necrem caught a few annoyed looks shot his way as he climbed down from his seat with a feedbag for Malcada.
“Thank you,” the old smith said.
“You joined the Lazornians after the junction,” Necrem said, putting the feedbag over the mule’s head.
The smile slipped from the smith’s face. “I needed more work after . . . after my son ran off with that camp woman.” He spat off to the side. “Campaigns still go on, and the Lazornians pay just as well.”
“That they do,” Necrem agreed, remembering his chest under his driver’s seat. He unbuttoned his sleeves and rolled them up as he went to lend a hand with the other workers.
“Savior, this heavy!” one worker complained, straining to drag the cast iron forge closer to the edge.
“How do you lift this, old man?” another complained.
Both men grappled with the forge’s handles, welded to the side of the large cast iron box with several gaping holes for the flue for the bellows, the opening to work the metal, and the funnel shaped top for the flue. The forge’s black iron was warped and scarred by age, use, and heat.
“We generally get help loading and unloading,” Necrem replied, stepping up beside the first man.
The worker jerked, staring up at him in surprise. He let go of the handle at a gesture from Necrem then joined his fellow on the forge’s other end. Necrem grabbed the handle and braced his other hand on the forge’s back to gage its weight.
About as heavy as my old one, he reckoned. He shifted his feet to ensure his balance, bending his knees a couple of times to prepare.
“Lift with your arms and legs,” he warned them.
After a few nods and grunts, they picked up the forge. The iron groaned from being moved. Necrem’s arms trembled under the strain of the weight and sweat burst across his face and down his neck. His knuckles popped. He fixed his jaw, nose flaring from the excursion. His mask sucked into his cheeks, nicking and pricking against his scars.
The other workers huffed and groaned, too, through gritted teeth. Others joined in once they moved it off the edge of the forge wagon. They groaned and heaved, shuffling and skidding their feet against the rocky road to quickly slide the forge out then hurriedly put it in the back of Necrem’s buckboard with a metallic pang! They stopped pushing and heaving the moment the forge was entirely sitting on the board, a few inches from the edge.
Many of the workers fell back, gasping for air and letting their arms dangle free.
“Thank the Savior that wasn’t loaded farther up,” one said, much to the agreeing chuckles of the others.
“Forges are always loaded near the rear of the wagon,” Necrem said, working his arms in circular motions to ease their throbbing. “The heaviest thing to load is the first thing off and the last thing on.”
The other men let out snorts of relief at hearing that and went about unloading. A pair of anvils came next, followed by the flue and bellows, sawhorses, stools, and boxes of tools, hammers, tools, coal, and used coke. Necrem’s smaller wagon creaked and shuddered under the weight as it was slowly filled up.
The Easterly Sun was starting to descend by the time the last man crawled out from under the forge wagon’s covering with the old smith’s and boy’s personal belongings. The officer paced the entire time, his arms folded and jaw set. His harassing barks to hurry didn’t do a thing to help.
“That the last of everything?” he asked impatiently. “Then you men get back on the timbers, you men guide the horses, and the rest lift on the end. We needed this road cleared hours ago.”
Necrem joined the men at the back of the wagon. His damp shirt clung to his back, and he blinked sweat away from his eyes as it dripped off his brow. He planted himself in the center, squaring his feet and arms, as he had the forge, and rolled his shoulders to prepare them.
“Ready!” the officer yelled. “Lift!”
With one, unified groan, the men on the timbers pushed down and the men gripping the rear of the wagon pulled up. The forge wagon groaned from the two forces, its wooden frame straining. The lodged wheel ground against the rock until it finally popped out.
“It’s free!” one of the workers on the timbers yelled.
“Forward, driver!” the officer ordered. “Walk with it, men! Move it over here, off the road!” The officer waved his arms behind the ditch near the willow tree.
The horses jerked their heads and stomped their hooves when their bridles were pulled but followed. Necrem walked with them. The wagon wasn’t too heavy, not with other hands helping.
A loud, grinding squeak came from underneath the wagon as they pushed it off the road. The broken wagon rolled at an odd angle and pulled off toward the side. It fell off when they finally made it to where the officer was standing.
Necrem was as eager as the others to set the wagon down. It leaned sideways because of the fallen wheel. He rubbed his neck with his handkerchief. The soaked cloth did little to wipe away the sweat. He turned away and found the old smith frowning at his broken forge wagon, the boy standing a few feet behind him.
“Axle’s broke,” a worker confirmed, stooping over to look under the wagon.
“What should we do with the horses?” another asked.
“They’ll be turned over to the calleroses,” the officer said. “If they can’t find a use for them as mounts, then they’ll be added to the herd for the other supply drivers.”
“Those are my horses!” the old smith yelled as he stormed up to the officer, gesturing with his fist protectively.
“We need every horse,” the officer replied pointedly. “Now that your forge has been reloaded and the wagon out of the way, we need to make use of the horses.”
“But their mine!” the old smith snarled up at the officer. However, Necrem felt it was all bluster. The older man surely had worked with armies long enough to know, once its officers wanted to take something, they would take it. Unless the owner carried an impossible document that said they couldn’t, anyway.
He looked at his small wagon, completely loaded, if not precariously, with the old smith’s forge and tools. His cheeks trembled worriedly, especially when he studied Malcada. The old girl was having trouble keeping up with the convoy’s pace without the heavy load.
One good hill, and then . . ..
“We need the horses,” he said.
The officer and the smith turned to him.
“My mule can’t pull that heavy load,” Necrem explained. “We’ll need the horses to pull it.”
The officer frowned at his wagon, and then at Malcada. “And what about the mule?”
Necrem reached for his back pocket before the question had left the officer’s mouth. He showed the man the order, and the officer had to read it twice. His face darkened, and he shoved the order into Necrem’s chest.
“Switch out the horses,” he growled, brushing past Necrem to vent his frustrations on the tired workers. “Make sure everything is unloaded, and then see if there’s anything of value left. I want to be back with the main body before nightfall.”
The old smith snorted, smiling crookedly. “That’s another thanks I owe you.”
“That was more for Malcada,” Necrem admitted. “She’s past her prime of hauling loads like this.”
As the workers were finishing up with the derelict forge wagon and unhitching the horses, Necrem walked over to unhitch Malcada. The mule had finished her meal and now stood with her head hung close to ground. Necrem peeked and discovered the old girl was snoozing, her eyes closed, and deep snorts ruffled her feedbag.
“What was on that paper?” the old smith asked, rushing up with an iron chest of his own under one arm and a bundle of ropes under the other. “Did the Lazornians just let you go? Too old to recruit or something?”
“Or something,” Necrem replied, unhitching Malcada.
“Well, at least you’re not in an army anymore. No offense, but I still remember your work on that breastplate you brought in. Worked it all into shape in one evening. That was something.” The old smith whistled sharply through his teeth. “Mind if I put my earnings up on the driver’s seat? You know, for safety.”
Necrem glanced at his driver’s seat, knowing his chest was lodged there, as well. The smith’s chest was iron, but he could distinguish it for not having a lock on it.
“I won’t mind,” he replied.
He rubbed Malcada’s neck, waking the mule with a few snorts and hoof stomps. He removed her feedbag, which Malcada shook her mane at him for, then took her by the bridle to lead around to the back of the wagon.
“There, there,” he comfortingly told her as he tied her bridle to the rear of the wagon, “this isn’t a load you want to pull.”
“Here, lad!” the old smith called, throwing one of the ropes over the back of the wagon, tying down the parts of the flue and toolboxes. “Make sure the knots are tight.”
The boy, still in sioneros fashion, raced off to do as he was told.
“I can’t thank you enough for this,” the smith said near gleefully, tying down his side of the wagon with a large, relieved smile. “If you hadn’t . . . If you hadn’t . . .” The old man’s hands began to tremble as he retied the same knot he had finished.
“I’ll get you to camp tonight,” Necrem said, bracing his hands on his hips. “We can see if we can find you a replacement wagon for your forge then.”
“Replacement?” The old man straightened, blinking at him confusedly. “We can make it together if . . . if it’s not too much of an inconvenience.”
“I’m not staying with the Lazornians,” Necrem said. “Once we reach Luente, I’m heading west to Manosete.”
The other man gawked at him. His hands trembled around the remaining ropes he held. “You’re . . . you’re leaving? Why?” The man caught his voice as the workers brought his horses around to hitch them to Necrem’s wagon. He stepped closer and whispered, “I know the Lazornians are odd, and warring through our marc, but . . . for Savior’s sake man, they have deberes!”
Necrem brows came together. “So?”
“This army’s a gold mine!” The old smith threw up his hands, forgetting to keep his voice down. “And every smith in this army can tell you the same. I have made more in the two and a half weeks I’ve been with them than I did the whole time I served in the Don’s army.” He shook his head, cackling under his breath. “I’ve never seen such a well-paid army. Their soldiers are walking around with gold in their pockets.”
Necrem rubbed the back of his neck. “But I’m not looking for work.”
“You’re not? Why, man? There’s good money to be made here. Damn good money! Much better than as a conscript, and these Lazornians will take every smith they can find.” The old smith put his hands on his hips, a boss clearly expecting an answer.
“My family needs me. My wife . . . she’s ill. And my daughter’s young.” Necrem’s hands fell to his sides, balling into fists. “I need to get back. Make sure they’re well. And maybe”—he glanced toward his chest under his driver’s seat—“maybe take them someplace safer.”
“That may take more deberes than you think,” the old smith suggested.
“We’ll manage.” They had before. They could do it again.
The old smith snorted in resignation. “All right then. If that’s what you want. But we’re going to need to find another wagon before we make camp. I heard the Lazornians have changed their marching route, going off road and cutting through the hills.”
“What?” Necrem stood straighter, his eyes widened. “They are taking Ribera’s Way?”
He figured the Lazornian marshal would have kept his decision not to go that route. He had seemed hard set about it when Necrem had left the marquesa that night.
Maybe the marquesa convinced him after I left? Or he just changed his mind? Or—
He growled in frustration. That threw off his plans. He was waiting for them to reach Luente before he stocked up on supplies and left the army to head west. They were days away from Luente. He didn’t have enough provisions to reach the town before departing for Manosete alone. There was no guarantee that there would be food at Luente for a stranger passing through to buy, being campaign season already had multiple armies of two marcs marching through it.
“Thinking about the miles now, aren’t you?” the old smith asked.
Necrem jerked his head up, having been pulled out of his thoughts.
The other man’s grizzled features softened, and he patted Necrem on the arm. “I know it’s hard, being away from them like this,” he said. “And I understand the urge to get back to them as fast as you can. Really, I do! My wife had my first kid when I was away, working on campaign, and I couldn’t keep my mind on my work for an instant for the worrying. Now, though, this is the time to earn what we can to provide for them.
“This could be your chance! Think about it. You were taken away as a lowly conscript, barely getting any pay, but now you can be a smith in an army that pays good. Think about what you can bring home after this campaign’s over.” There was a gleam in the smith’s eye, a shining, desperate gleam, and his salesman’s voice hid a hint of desperation.
Necrem glanced at his hand on his arm, feeling it shake.
“You’re not making good money, are you?” Necrem asked.
The old man went stiff. He worked his jaw to finally squeak, “What?”
“You sounded like you wanted me to stay and work with you, more than simply finding work for myself.”
The old man stepped back, wringing his hands together, head cast down. “I was . . . I was going to ask,” he said. “I am making more money, but . . . most see an old smith like me, my small forge with just the boy to help, and we get the small jobs. If you were staying . . . looking for work, I thought of asking . . ..”
The man’s ramble became mutters. His eyes went misty, staring at his tools and forge. “This was supposed to be my last year. Until my son ran off. If I don’t make enough this campaign . . .” He withdrew into himself, yet his last sentence didn’t need to be finished.
Necrem recognized that feeling. The distant look of a someone thinking far off and seeing hardship ahead. He thought he was giving the man a good turn in stopping to help, but it seemed they needed more help than he had to offer.
I need to get home, he told himself. Eulalia and Bayona need me. Even if the Lazornians are using Ribera’s Way, some part of their army will have to camp outside before going through. There’s no way they can move this entire mass of people through in one day. We can find them a replacement wagon at camp, and then . . .
He would have to depart with whatever supplies he could purchase, as well. He would have to travel without the safety of an army to Luente and hope to resupply before going on to Manosete. Alone.
The distance began to add up in his head again. Those were a lot of miles, open road with no telling what was on it. Campaign season wasn’t the safest to travel great distances. And then there was his money.
Do I have enough once I reach Manosete to move? The price of everything has likely gone up. And traveling alone with so many deberes . . . He shuddered at the thought of anything happening to that money. If it did, then his family was back to being destitute.
The same thing the older smith was facing.
“If I stayed to help,” Necrem said, “I would need an equal share of what we make.”
The old smith jerked up. “You mean you’ll . . ..”
“It’s a long way between here and Luente,” Necrem replied.
“And the road can be a dangerous place,” the other smith agreed.
Necrem rested a hand on the forge, the rough iron digging into his calluses. “You know, I can’t guarantee you’ll get more customers just by me helping you.”
“Heh!” The old man stuck his chest out. “Don’t be sure of that. Why, when customers see a tower of steelworker like you in action, fix one breastplate like you did yours, and the provosts will have to be called to stop them from fighting each other. By the way, whatever happened to that breastplate?”
“Lost it,” Necrem grunted, rubbing his thumb against the corner of the forge. “Never got the chance to put it on. As for the shares—”
“Equal! Yes, yes, I heard. But with your work, there should be plenty to go around.” The old man barked a laugh and stuck out his hand. “Radon Noe.”
“Necrem Oso.” He took Radon’s hand firmly and shook.
Radon nodded then gestured behind them. “The boy’s name is Oberto.”
Necrem looked over his shoulder to see the boy petting Malcada’s neck. The usually fussy mule looked be enjoying it, too.
“You can ride her, if she’ll let you,” Necrem told the boy.
Oberto’s head popped up, eyes wide with excitement, and he smiled. He said nothing back, just resumed petting Malcada.
“He’s an odd one,” Radon said, shaking his head. “Think he dreams of being a calleros someday.”
“Let’s not wish something so horrible on the lad.” Necrem shook his head and headed for the driver’s seat.
Radon barked another laugh and followed. “You do have a sense of humor. Say! You know, if we tell everyone that Steel Fist is forging, that might bring in more customers.”
Necrem stopped, one foot off the ground. “The Lazornians might not take too kindly to that.”
“Just a thought,” Radon agreed with a shrug. “Can’t help an old salesman when he’s desperate, eh?”
It took a few minutes to get everything sorted in the driver’s seat for them both, moving personal belongings behind the seat, making sure each deber chest was secured. When everything was stowed away, Necrem checked to see Oberto on Malcada’s back. How he had gotten there, without a sound or asking for help, was anyone’s guess, along with Malcada allowing it.
Finally, he snapped the reins and guided the horses back into the convoy.
Wait for me, Eulalia, Bayona, he silently begged, staring longing at the road south. I’ll make it back. And then I’ll take both of you someplace where we’ll never have to worry about it again.