Necrem guided the team of horses by flickering lantern lights through blurry eyes. A twinge throbbed in the small of his hunched back. His legs were asleep from leaning his elbows down on them.
Can’t we stop? His exhausted mind and body begged for it. The sun went down over an hour ago and the horses are spent.
The officers were insistent that the convoy keep moving. A provost stood every hundred yards or so, paced out with lantern in hand to light the winding path and usher them on. They hadn’t done this before, which lent credit to those rumors that had been trickling through the wagons earlier that day.
Calleroses on horseback had raced down the convey, ordering everyone up from their noon rest and break from the Easterly Sun to eat and tend to the horses. The army’s pace became relentless after that. They refused to let the wagons stop for more than a few minutes to rest and water the horses. The soldiers got no rest at all.
Whispers came later that there was a battle. No one was sure of from who or how many. Some said it was Borbin’s main army, a hundred thousand strong. Other claimed it was a scouting force and either the field marshal or La Dama herself wanted all the armies to race after them.
Whatever the reason, Necrem only wanted one thing—a place to sleep.
His ear twitched, and he angled his head away at the gravelly snoring beside him.
Radon sat folded up in the seat, his arms hugging his chest, his legs propped on the footrest. The old smith showed his long familiarity with traveling by wagon, his drooped head barely wobbling with the bumpy trek.
Necrem had let their scheduled exchange of driving duties slip by so the older man could sleep. He would need it if they were rushing toward a battlefield.
A shiver ran across his shoulders. His nerves warned him to be ready to flee or make it obvious he was a smith. It was an old instinct he’d never forgotten, like so many others, but wished he had.
With Radon sleeping beside him, Necrem glanced over his shoulder to check on Oberto and Malcada. The boy loved that mule. Necrem couldn’t explain how or why it came to be, but Oberto spent every moment he could around her. He lay on her back, facedown in her mane, and limbs dangling over her sides. The seasoned mule took it all in stride. She seemed to love the attention, much to the jealousy of the horses.
“Watch the road there!” an officer yelled.
Necrem snapped around in his seat in time to catch the road bending and the horses walking forward heedlessly. He quickly pulled the reins, guiding them over and back on track. He bashfully nodded to the officer in thanks as he passed.
Radon groaned. “Are we stopping yet?” he asked groggily.
“I’m not sure they’re ever going to let us stop,” Necrem replied. He exhaled deeply to stifle a yawn, not wanting to pull his scars. His mask was still damp from the day’s sweat and clung to his face.
Radon hawked up a glob of spit and spat off into the darkness. “They’re going to make the horses lame.”
“The path’s winding, but not rocky and as steep anymore,” Necrem tried to explain. “We’ve passed the worst—”
“Hey!” Radon yelled heedlessly to the next soldier lighting the way. “When do we make camp? My horses need to rest, and I need to piss!”
Tired laughs and agreeing grumbles came from the wagons ahead and behind them.
Necrem snorted. The older smith was far too used to his protected place with an army. Smiths might always be needed; however, soldiers were soldiers. Talk out of turn too often and, sooner or later, you are bound to catch one of them on a bad day. Or night, after a long, hot march.
“Shut up and keep the convoy moving!” the soldier yelled back. “Piss off the back of your wagon, for all I care. The generals want this path cleared.”
More grumbles followed, but no one was brave enough or at the breaking point to demand they stop.
Radon plopped back down against the back of the seat and wrapped his arms around himself. “Damn officers,” he sneered. “Keeping us moving all night. Don’t know what they expect us to do for them when we get to wherever they’re herding us. By the time we get there, we’ll be too worn out to work or do anything except feed the horses and collapse.”
“Probably just want the road cleared,” Necrem suggested. “If there’s really been a fight, then they probably want the soldiers behind us to move up faster.”
“Then they should have put all the soldiers up front.” Radon snickered. “Lazornians are odd. They run their armies all over the place, and then try to squash them together up these hills. What were they thinking?”
“Just trying to find a better route home.”
The wagon rolled over a large rock in the trail, lifting it up then bringing it down with hard a thud and rattle. Both Necrem and Radon bounced in their seats.
“They sure picked the bumpiest,” Radon growled.
“Ribera’s Way.” Necrem shrugged. “At least the worst is behind us.”
Once off the main road, they had come to five major humps in the path, boulders in the way that required wagons to need the aid of block and tackles to winch them over and keep the wagon train moving. Several wagons didn’t make it.
“Unless the entire Orsembian army is waiting on us,” Radon said.
Necrem glanced at him out of the corner of his eye. The old smith had kept his voice low and soft. He hung his head, his chin going into his chest as he vacantly stared off into the darkness. He likely didn’t mean for Necrem to hear that.
We’re Orsembian smiths with another marc’s army. The scars on his right cheek twinged as he blew air through that hole to loosen his mask’s fabric gripping his skin. No telling what they would to us if they found out.
Although, he had more ideas than Radon probably did.
We might need to unload the wagon tonight, he considered, his cautionary instincts returning. Keep the horses close and easy to hitch. If something goes wrong, we can try to . . .
The nostalgia ran up his shoulders like crawling hands, adding weight to his back. It quickly soured, his stomach roiling at recalling the last time he had such a fear and what had come afterward. Then it rumbled from hunger.
Around another bend, the ground began to slope upward. Drifting clouds blocked most of the stars, making the night’s darkness more oppressive, and yet the path seemed to be widening. The clomps of hooves against the rocks, the squeaking of wagon wheels, and the clatter of their contents softened to a hush.
Necrem sat up straight upon rolling over the crest of the slope. The ridge and rocky cliffs fell away, opening to a large, round enclosure. Small fires and braziers outlined the sandy, sloped shoreline of a great pool, the slumbering heart of the river awaiting the rains to flow again. The convoy pivoted away from it, hugging the curved side of the cliff where the ground was level.
The horses neighed and flung their head up in the air. Necrem tugged on their reins to keep them on the proper route.
“They smell the water,” Radon commented.
“Once we’re in the camp, Oberto can water them,” Necrem said.
Radon snickered. “Sure. If they don’t run him over first. He still sleeping back there?”
“Last I—”
Necrem remembered Malcada was probably as thirsty as the horses, and the only thing keeping the mule bound to the wagon was the lead of her reins, tied in a knot that Oberto made. It could be loose. An image flashed in his mind of the mule stubbornly pulling free and galloping down the slope to drink and throwing the boy off, breaking his back or tossing him in the water to drown.
He jerked around . . . only to breathe a relieved sigh at Malcada still tied to the wagon, trotting along with Oberto snoozing none the wiser.
“He’s still asleep,” he confirmed. He cleared his throat and turned back in his seat.
Radon softly chuckled.
Necrem glanced, bouncing his attention from driving the horses and the old smith who was grinning broadly beside him, his shoulders jiggling up and down.
“What?” he asked.
“Your reaction just now,” Radon replied, tilting his head up, a knowing light reflected from his eyes in the passing campfires. “An act of man gripped in that sudden spike of panic of not knowing where their kid was and had to look for them. Felt it myself a few times. So”—he elbowed Necrem—“how many do you have, anyway?”
Necrem hunkered in his seat. He had kept quiet about his family. While his business-partner-of-convenance was talkative about his family woes and how much he missed, was disappointed, and nearly despised his son, thinking about Eulalia and Bayona still waiting for him was too painful to think about for long. Rather, knowing he had a chance to risk the dangers and go back to them, but instead didn’t, hurt the most.
Radon waited expectingly, letting the question hang in the air as that grinning look made it clear he wouldn’t let it go.
“One,” Necrem reluctantly replied.
“Just one?” Radon cackled. “Figured a big man like you would have a dozen, even with your . . .” He waved at Necrem’s face.
Necrem ignored the gesture. “Just one. A girl.”
Radon’s cackle grated Necrem’s ears this time. “Thought you had several boys after jumping to look back for Oberto like you did.”
“Not particular to one or the other, I suppose.” Necrem shrugged off the lie. Nothing was more precious than his little miracle, and he wouldn’t trade Bayona for anything.
“Comes with being steel working men, eh?” Radon elbowed him again. “We care about people.” He let out a rasping laugh.
Necrem shook his head and rode on.
The trail of wagons rounded the cliffside to a sharp, rolling incline. Horses struggled to pull their loads over the hump. Necrem precariously guided his team in, their hooves digging into the hard, packed dirt, smoothed over by countless horses that had come earlier. They snorted and struggled, shaking their heads in the air as the wagon ground to a halt.
“Take the reins,” Necrem said, tossing the reins to Radon. He jumped out of the seat and off the wagon to lighten the load.
“Get up there!” Radon yelled, cracking the reins.
The horses snorted and flared their manes. They kicked and pawed at the dirt but made little gain.
“What’s going on up there?” the wagon driver behind them yelled.
Wagons were backing up behind them. Soldiers, who’d been standing around, watching the convoy roll in, pointed at them and started walking their way.
Necrem jogged up to the front of the team, took hold their leads, and pulled. His tired back went stiff. Firelight danced in the whites of the horses’ wide eyes from the sudden force. Radon cracked the reins again.
The horses gained an inch. Then another. Necrem gritted his teeth and pulled, digging his heels in to drag the horses up inch by inch over the rise. His arms burned, and the backs of his legs tensed with every step. It took several minutes of constant heaving and multiple cracks of the reins to get the horses over the hump.
Necrem jumped out of the way once they had, and the horses kept barreling forward. The one on the left brushed his shoulder as they passed.
“That must be a heavy load you got there.”
Soldiers jogged up. The one in the center was shorter and struggled to keep up yet was the only one wearing a helmet and stood out from the rest. He walked through the others who got there before him to stand in front with his hands on his hips.
“Smithing forge and tools, sir,” Necrem told the officer. He rubbed his shoulder and lowered his head respectfully. “We didn’t mean to hold up the convoy. The horses are tired, and I didn’t see how steep the hill was in the dark.”
“No need to apologize,” the officer said, shaking his head. “We’ve been”—he paused to hastily gulp down some air—“helping pull wagons up this hill all evening. You said you’re a smith?”
“Yes,” Necrem replied hesitantly.
“Right, well, once you get situated, they want all smiths to report in the center of the camp.” The officer pointed out into a large, open plain that stretched for miles, outlined by campfires dotting through it.
Necrem squeezed his shoulder. “Can’t it wait until morning?”
“Order said it came from the La Dama herself.” The officer shook his head. “Can’t say what she could want with all of you after a day like today, but”—he shrugged—“what are the reasons of marquesas and generals to us, ay?”
An awkward pause hung in the air. He suspected from the officer’s tired, lopsided grin that he expected him to agree. Necrem was too tired for small talk and left the conversation there to trail after his wagon.
~~~
The gathering was bigger than Necrem had expected. After the frustrating process of following one provost after another, directing where to stop their wagon, where to make camp, when they could see to their horses, the order finally came for both Necrem and Radon to assemble with the other smiths in front of the command tent.
He counted at least fifty-five men of all ages standing around the open space cleared out in front of the large tent, three times the size off the smaller ones surrounding it in straight, laid-out lanes. Many of the men milled around, shaking hands and talking to one another like old friends, which most probably were.
“You don’t say,” Radon said to another elderly smith a few feet away. The old man had complained each step of the way from their wagon that they were having to do this. He quickly changed his mind the moment he saw all the smiths from two armies gathered in one spot and went to mingling. “I always thought you should smelt with . . .”
Necrem snorted, amused. They weren’t sharing trade secrets or techniques. Smiths as old as Radon and the other man, in his late-fifties, bald and red-faced from the merciless Easterly Sun, save for the gray stubble of a beard, never did that. They were boasting about their work, while the other tried to knock them down a peg.
“Steel Fist.”
Necrem’s ear twitched at the whisper, and his amusement vanished.
A body of younger men, possibly fresh from their apprenticeship, were gathered over to his right. One in the back pointed straight at him.
“What kind of tradename is that?” One of them snickered.
“That’s not a tradename, idiot!” one of his fellows hissed.
“The Orsembians at the junction gave him that name,” another explained. “He took on one of our companies with nothing more than his bare hands. He punched through their shields and breastplates as if they were made of tin!”
“But we still won that battle,” the disbelieving youth added.
“That company had to retreat, though. All because of . . .” The man retelling the story shrugged at Necrem. His face went white when he caught Necrem staring back him. They all did.
I’m not far enough back.
He lowered his gaze and backed away.
“He’s an Orsembian?” the questioning youth bravely whispered the moment Necrem’s back was turned. “What’s he doing with us?”
A fair question, son, a fair question.
He moved farther to the back of the crowd, next to a tent. No snoring or faint signs of anyone asleep came from it, nor any other signs of life.
Soldiers are probably off eating or taking care of things. No one could sleep with the rumbling crowd of steelworkers right outside, and because they were ordered here by the marquesa, there would be no point in cussing at them until they left.
The rows were neater than those at the training camp, hastily pitched as they were. He guessed the soldiers belonging to these tents were recovering from the day’s march, tending to their tender feet and sunburned faces. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, recalling the blisters.
A shudder crawled across his shoulders, forcing him to shake it off, along with the memory. He squeezed his hands in fists. His prickly calluses ground together. It’d been less than a month since the relentless days of constant drilling but seemed like years.
“Attention!”
Necrem glanced over his shoulder.
An officer stood in front of the tent. His uniform was pressed against his body with deep wrinkles outlining the straps and pieces of his armor he had worn that day. His hair stuck up in the back, molded in place by sweat. Necrem recognized him, despite how red his face was.
The marquesa’s commandant.
“Gather around,” the young officer ordered, motioning them closer. “La Dama has a request to make of you.”
One of the marquesa’s guards stepped out of the tent, in full armor, and held the tent flap open. Lantern and candlelight cast the shadows of multiple people moving about a large table inside. Necrem couldn’t make out how many, but he pictured a similar scene as the room back at the villa, with all the staff running around and officers too important for him to be near congregating around maps and such.
The marquesa slipped out of the tent, followed by another guard.
Every conversation died as she walked up to the edge of the platform, the heels of her shoes tapping against the wood. The men broke up from their groups to come in closer, their heads bobbing respectfully as she surveyed them.
She held her back straight and shoulders high. However, her hair hung over her left side in a wavy curtain, with wayward strands sticking out in various directions. Her hands folded in front of her couldn’t hide her riding dress’s wrinkles, the front having the deepest pressed in as if she’d been wearing armor, too. Her sleeves were unbuttoned and left open. Swollen bags hung under her eyes.
She’s tired, too.
Necrem fold his arms to keep his own shoulders from sagging.
“Thank you all for coming,” the marquesa said. “I know, after such a forced pace like today, you’re all probably as tired as the soldiers. However, time is of the essence. As some of you know, the Third Army met the Orsembian vanguard today.”
Necrem jerked his head straight. Whispers passed through the smiths in the back who had arrived late, like him. The soldiers hadn’t told them why they’d been forced to hurry, but now it was clear.
“We held our ground and secured our battle line,” the marquesa continued. “However, five miles east of here, the Orsembian army is growing. This mountain pass is about to become a battlefield, and we’re going to need every soldier we have properly equipped.”
She motioned to her commandant. “Commandant, if you please.”
The commandant turned to his right and shouted, “Capitán, bring in the men.”
The smiths parted to let an officer lead ten soldiers through the crowd. The capitán lined the men in front of platform, facing the smiths.
The soldiers looked tired. A couple struggled to stand up straight. They stood out from the capitán and marquesa’s guards. They lacked the violet uniforms under their breastplates. None had pauldrons for their shoulders, and some were missing faulds to protect their waists and hips.
The capitán snapped his heels together. “Detail formed as ordered, La Dama,” he said.
“Thank you, Capitán,” the marquesa replied.
She ran her eyes across the line of men before her. A deep frown formed, and her brow lowered as a flash of pity crossed her face.
“These men fought well today,” she said. “However, as some of you smiths can see, their equipment is in dire need of repair and refitting.” She lifted her head up at them, the pity replaced with determination. “These men make up three freshly recruited companies, close to a thousand men. I want their armor repaired and properly equipped for the next battle.”
Raised eyebrows went up all around, like a furnace fire catching a strong bellow gust. Murmurs broke out as men turned to each other from their individual companies.
“Do we have enough supply?” one smith asked his partner.
“Do we have enough fuel?” a smith asked his apprentice.
“Pardon, La Dama,” one man called out, raising his hand from close to the center of the group.
Men drew back to give him space, but Necrem could only make out the back of the man’s head.
“Speak,” the marquesa granted.
“Thank you, La Dama,” the man said respectfully. “This is an enormous task you bring us. And meaning no disrespect, but I’m not sure if we’re up for it. How much time do we have? How are we expected to outfit so many?”
“Let me worry about time,” the marquesa replied. “As for how this commission is to be done, before you leave, Commandant Narvae will require the name of each of your companies. In the morning, you will each receive a list of soldiers you are to equip and their needs. All three companies will be divided among every smith company equally.”
“But what if the Orsembians attack tomorrow?” another smith asked. “We can’t refit a thousand men in one morning.”
The agreements were soft, few, and begrudging. No smith wanted to say loudly what they couldn’t do. Bad for both pride and business.
“The Orsembians won’t attack tomorrow,” the marquesa replied, a slight smile on her lips. She raised a hand to cut anyone off from questioning her. “Leave the Orsembians to Field Marshal Vigodt. These men need your skills. I call upon your duties as smiths to complete this commission.”
More soft grumblings came.
The marquesa’s smile slipped. She danced her eyes across the gathering at the guarded whispers spreading through the smiths. Most were spoken behind another’s back and abruptly cut off the instant the marquesa looked over them.
“You have more concerns?” she asked, frowning.
Many shuffled their feet and turned their heads away, staring off into the night to avoid looking up. Some sulked. Others shoved their hands in their pockets or folded their arms.
What’s wrong with them? Necrem watched in disbelief. He leaned in to catch a stray whisper, but it was too soft and quick. A marquesa gives you an order, you do it. Is this how they take work in Lazorna?
“Begging your pardon, La Dama,” a hesitant man on the far right of the crowd said with his hand raised. “But how are we to be paid?”
The marquesa’s cold stare could have warped steel. “What . . . did you say?”
“Please, La Dama!” the man begged repentantly with his head lowered. “I meant no disrespect. I only ask on behalf of my colleagues who won’t. We’re being asked to put in many hours and use the remains of our supplies. And these men are—”
“Free!” the marquesa shouted. “As free as you and me! As free as every man, woman, and child in these armies and Lazorna! As free as they always should have been!”
Necrem looked at the soldiers again, beyond the state of their armor and lack of common uniform. They were tired, yet each one stood a little taller with the marquesa’s outburst. Some of their eyelids drooped with bags under them, and yet there was something more. All held a distant look in their eyes, as if they had stared longing into a void, knowing whatever they sought, they would never reach.
Necrem knew this look.
Oberto occasionally looked that way.
Sioneroses! He stood up straighter. They’re freed sioneroses!
“Let me make this clear to you all,” the marquesa continued, causing many to jerk their heads up. “In next few days, the deciding battle of this campaign is going to be fought here. I know it. The field marshal and his staff now it. And tomorrow, when the soldiers fully realize our position, they will know it, too. When Borbin and the Orsembians figure it out is none of my concern.
“What is, is to make sure we fight at our fullest. The purse of Lazorna will pay your commissions. This is my commission to all of you. Arm these men for war!”
“Yes, La Dama!” rippled through the smiths as individuals felt compelled to comply.
The marquesa took a deep breath. Her shoulders slumped, as if they were heavy. “Thank you, gentlemen. That’s all I wish to ask of you. Get plenty of rest tonight.”
“Before you all leave,” the commandant announced, stepping up to the edge of the platform, “please give the name of your company to one of the officers. That way, we will know how many of you there are and how many men to assign to you.” He gestured, and the ten officers in the back descended the platform with paper and graphite in hand.
Smiths started flocking to the nearest one to put their names in first, elbowing each other until a few officers motioned them to get in line.
Necrem shook his head at them. Now they’re eager. After being assured payment.
Not all the smiths acted like that. Most waited to put their names down then left with their company members in tow.
As the smiths finally got themselves organized to give their company names, the former sioneroses were led away. Normal soldiers would probably have broken rank and walked casually away after being dismissed and gained some distance. These men, though, stayed in a single file line as they walked out of sight.
Someone nudged his shoulder.
“What are you waiting for?” Radon cackled, suddenly beside him. “Let’s get our names listed, too.”
Necrem stubbornly, and rather easily, held his ground, despite the older man’s tugging. “They don’t need both our names,” he pointed out. “You can put down your name for both of—”
“Sir Oso?”
Every scar on his face went taut. He had come straight here after being ordered to and had forgotten to salve his face. His scars prickled against his mask’s fabric as he hesitantly turned to see the marquesa staring wide-eyed over the others at him.
The name collection came to a halt as everyone turned to look at him.
Radon held on to his sleeve, his fingers turning white and arm trembling. “You . . . know the marquesa?” he whispered.
She was already moving. She hiked her divided skirt up and hurried off the platform, her guards on her heels.
“Continue with the name collection, please,” her commandant ordered, remaining on the platform with a tired look on his face. The officers went back to asking the smiths’ names, yet most watched the marquesa walk around the crowd.
She grinned crookedly while looking him up and down with both curiosity and disbelief. She walked right up to him without a glance at anyone she passed or Radon.
“Sir Oso, whatever are you doing here?” she asked. “I imagined you to be halfway home by now.”
Necrem swallowed and lowered his head. His throat caught, trying to think of the proper way to explain himself. He didn’t want her to think he received her leave and money, and then decide to go back on his word.
“Yes,” he replied, wincing immediately after. “I mean . . . begging your pardon, La Dama. I meant to go home. It’s just . . . things happened on the road, and I don’t want you to think I lied or . . . went back on my word.”
“Oh, not at all, Sir Oso,” the marquesa said, waving his dismay away. “Not at all. I would like to hear about these things that happened on the road, though. Would you mind joining me? Somewhere away from all the prying . . .”
She blinked at Radon standing stiffly beside him, eyes wide at the whole conversation.
“Hello,” she greeted the old smith. “And, who are you?”
“Noe!” Radon squawked, as if being chocked. He bowed his head and cleared his throat. “Radon Noe, La Dama,” he replied. “At your service, La Dama.”
The marquesa’s grin broadened, and she shot a look up at Necrem. “You made a friend, Sir Oso.”
“Yes,” Necrem said, “well—”
“More like business partners of circumstances!” Radon added, lifting bent figure and chuckling. “Business partners of convenient circumstances, to be accurate.”
The marquesa raised an eyebrow. “Is that so?”
“Yes!” Radon nodded. He pat Necrem on the shoulder. “I’m going to go put our company’s name on the lists. If you don’t mind, La Dama?”
“Not at all.” The marquesa gently waved him away, and Radon hastily, and happily, slipped away.
Necrem watched him go. There was an extra spring in the man’s step.
He’s running off to brag to the other smiths that we’re partners, and his partner knows the marquesa personally.
“What a curious partner you have,” the marquesa said, shaking her head. “Come tell me how this all happened.” She gestured as she turned.
Necrem read her intent and followed. There was no use arguing, and he hoped she would take him out of sight of the other smiths.
“Did something happen to you on the road?” she asked him seriously once they were walking around the command tent. “You weren’t accosted, were you? Did one of my officers refuse to believe the order I gave you?”
“Hmm?” Necrem grunted then shook his head. “No . . . No. Nothing like that, La Dama. No one—”
“Relax, Sir Oso,” the marquesa calmly said. “This day’s been too tiring on all of us to be so formal. Just call me Recha.”
Necrem stopped. His stitches tugged until one threatened to snap as the top of his cheeks, around his nose, warmed. “I . . . No. No . . . I can’t.”
Marquesa Mandas rolled her head, letting out a low sigh. “Very well. La Dama it is. Please, tell me how you’re still with us.”
Necrem let out a deep breath of relief, and the faint stinging on his face soothed. “I had planned on staying with the army all the way to Luente, but I was caught off guard when the army took Ribera’s Way. I thought your general said he wouldn’t go this way that night at the villa, but . . . I guess he changed his mind.”
“Scouts came back saying it was passable,” Marquesa Mandas said matter-of-factly.
“Yes. I supposed they had. I hadn’t prepared any provisions for leaving your army so soon and . . .” He lowered his head, considering what he should tell her.
Marquesa Mandas arched an eyebrow. “And?”
“Roads during campaigns aren’t the safest things to travel,” he replied. “I saw a hanging on the road, the day before the armies turned off it.”
Marquesa Mandas’s eyes widened.
“They were claimed to be thieves who had come too close to your camps and were caught,” Necrem explained. “I thought of traveling alone with . . . what you gave me. Thank you for that, again.”
“You stayed to keep yourself and your belongings safe.” Marquesa Manda’s face softened. “Oh, Sir Oso, I’m sorry I didn’t offer you protection.”
“Oh no, La Dama!” Necrem shook his head. “I couldn’t have asked you for that.”
She softly smiled at him, a tired, grateful smile. “If only so many were as understanding.”
Necrem kept quiet, unsure of what she meant and knew it wasn’t his place to ask.
“And now you’re left with my army, serving it as a smith.” She snickered. “I asked you to help, you decline, and yet you help in another way. Papa’s right; war has a curious way of throwing people together.”
“I . . . wouldn’t know.”
“Don’t you?” She sighed tiredly, her shoulders slumping. Before he could react, she took him by the arm and urged him on. “You were conscripted in Borbin’s army, survived a terrible battle, was saved by the grace of an enemy marquesa, and now smith in her very army. After declining my offer to be a part of it, may I add.”
“I meant no offense, La Dama.” Necrem dropped his head.
Marquesa Mandas slapped him on the arm. “Didn’t I tell you to stop being so formal? How did you come to smithing for me?”
“I met Sir Noe on the road again. He was a smith with Borbin’s army when I was . . . a soldier. He looked after me when I was in trouble. His wagon had broken down, and the soldiers were going to take his horses. I wanted to return his kindness.”
“You’re a good man.” She squeezed his arm. “Had any good business?”
“I suppose for an army on the move.” After ten years of being banned from working on campaign, he didn’t know what a good earning was for an army smith.
“Had much to fix?” she asked.
“Mostly horseshoes,” Necrem replied dryly.
Damned. Horseshoes!
He blinked, remembering something. “And this.”
He fished a gold, oval nugget, fixed to a steel chain from his pocket. They stopped in front of a brazier on the other side of her command tent for her to see it dangle from his broad hand.
“I still need to work on the clasp,” he explained. “My wife”—he swallowed—“once had a locket that . . . I don’t know how to smith two tiny pieces of gold to open and close together, but . . . I think this will do.”
Marquesa Mandas stared at it, mouth slightly open and a blush forming on her cheeks. Her eyes glistened with droplets of tears hanging on the corners. She warmly smiled.
“You’re a good husband, too, Sir Oso,” she said.
Warmth returned to Necrem’s face again, and he had to look away. “You’re . . . Thank you, La Dama.”
“Fixing thrown horseshoes must be good business then,” she said. “To get the gold to make that.”
“Actually,” he said, “I used a few of your deberes that you gave me.”
Marquesa Mandas snickered and whispered, “They weren’t actually mine. They were Borbin’s son’s. We captured them at the junction.”
“I guess we know how to spend it better,” Necrem said.
Marquesa Mandas pulled away. “That was a joke!” She pointed up at him, eyes glistening with glee, mouth open in merry excitement. She started giggling. “You joke! Oh, I will have to tell Hiraldo. Steel Fist is still with us, forging and telling jokes.”
“Please, La Dama,” he softly begged, curling his fist around the necklace, “please don’t.”
Marquesa Mandas patted his arm again. “I’m not teasing you, Sir Oso. After all, we’re not the monsters.” She stepped forward, gazing off into the distance. Farther east, over the gently sloping tents and beyond, twinkling lights danced and moved back and forth along an invisible horizon in the darkness.
“Borbin will be here tomorrow or the next day,” Marquesa Mandas said, the gentle warmth gone from her voice, leaving only cold determination. “Probably with most of his army, or at least more than what I will have tomorrow.”
A pit formed in Necrem’s stomach from the old rule of campaign. The biggest army wins.
“What . . . will you do?” he asked hesitantly.
“Buy time,” she replied pointedly. “Borbin will want to talk, banter, and show off. His calleroses will insist on their Bravados while we do. I just got to drag it out to get all my armies up here.”
“Will you have enough to match him? Borbin’s army?”
“No.” Marquesa Mandas shook her head, shaking her hair about. “He’ll still outnumber us. Two, maybe three, to one.”
The biggest army wins. Yet Necrem recalled that night at the villa, the way she had looked when crying for vengeance. It wasn’t just his she was offering. It was hers. Only personal pain burned that hot.
“And you will still fight,” he said.
She turned to him, face placid like washed steel, yet that same fire as that night reflected from the brazier’s light. “I will have my vengeance.” Her voice was a soft hiss. “Either I get it, or I die here, Sir Oso. Victory or death. That’s all that matters now.”
It sounded crazy. In the face of such odds, her knowing the odds, a marquesa would spit on the rules to not save herself.
It also sounded like the most honest and sincerest words Necrem had ever heard. No steel he had ever forged had been so pure, so permanent.
He squeezed his closed fist around the necklace, the nugget burying itself deeper into his palm as the chain cut against his calluses.
“I promise to forge you the best armor I can for your men,” he swore.
“Thank you,” she said but frowned. “I only wish there was more I can do for them. The more time I buy, the more they will have time to drill and equip, but . . .”
“They’re still getting used to being free again,” he said.
“Yes.” She nodded with a grateful, small smile. “Broken men can’t put themselves back together again in a day. Some can return to life faster than others, but some need more than being told they’re free and asked if they want to get back at those who held them. They need more than a common purpose or direction. They need a leader. A . . .” An envisioned spark flamed in her eyes, making every hair on Necrem’s hair stand up and his scars to prickle. “A Hero.”
Necrem wilted back from her, shaking his head. “I’m no hero, La Dama. No soldier, no leader of others. I’m just a smith!” He wanted to yell and shout it out to the stars above until it echoed around the suns.
How many times do I have to tell people this?
“You don’t get to decide to be a hero, Sir Oso,” Marquesa Mandas said. “Others have seen your actions and declared you one. There is no going back. A heroic action comes from a heroic heart. If someone has one, then it’s not something they can stop being. Trust me”—she wrapped her arms about herself—“I know.”
“So, you want me to be a hero for you?” His brow furled, finding the whole thing ridiculous, and snickered. “A hero for those former sioneroses? They don’t even know me.”
Marquesa Mandas tilted her head to the side, lips pursed in thought. “Do people still call you Steel Fist?”
Necrem grunted. “Some,” he mumbled, still disliking the name.
“You bent steel with your bare hands,” she went on, “and punched dents into breastplates with your fists.”
“I’m a smith! Of course I can work metal with my hands, hammer, tongs, or not.”
“But, what if you’d been in armor that night?” Marquesa Mandas stepped closer. “Fully armored, you certainly wouldn’t have received the wounds you did.”
Necrem sensed where this was going and couldn’t help but laugh. “Forgive me, La Dama, but you can’t be asking me to do that for you. That was one night of . . . terror and . . . blood.” He shook his head as flashes of that night at the junction repeated in his head—the death, the fear. “I can’t do that again.”
“Do you still hate calleroses?” she asked gently.
He jerked his head up. Marquesa Mandas stared back at him, calculating. The truth was obvious, and she knew it. He loathed them and would for the rest of his life.
He breathed heavily, shoulders slumping, tiring of this argument. “What do you want of me, La Dama? To be some new hero general?”
“No.” A grin lit her face, one that made the fires around them seem to burn brighter, glinting off her teeth. “I want to offer you a chance. Just like those freed sioneroses. A chance to demand retribution against the men who wronged you all those years ago. And I want you to forge something to scare all of Borbin’s calleroses into the arrogant cowards they are. After all, what good is living when you’ve been wronged and won’t make it right?”
Necrem trembled. His earlier exhaustion faded away, and at the thought of retribution against Borbin’s calleroses, and those same calleroses before them, he listened to her request.