17th of Iam, 1019 N.F (e.y.)
The rough surface of the slender steel file bit against Necrem’s thumb as he smoothed out the holes in the cheeks of a metal facemask. Steel flakes flicked into the air with every scrape. He studied the hole, making sure to carve out just enough to let air pass through but keep the metal sturdy.
Three more, and then hammer in the cord clasps.
Fortunately, the clasps wouldn’t be too hard.
The faint touch of red lingered on a few of the drifting clouds above. However, the first morning rays of the Easterly Sun were still an hour away from peeking over the horizon. The last of his fellow smiths had put out their forges and gone to bed hours ago.
Necrem should have, too.
He sat, leaning over in a chair and against the anvil off to the right of the forge. Besides the scraping of his file and the occasional pop from inside the forge, the night outside was deathly quiet. The early morning quiet that beckoned people to sleep.
His eyelids drooped, and his hands trembled. His filing slowed. The red glow reflecting off the metal from the burning coals in the forge began to blur. His shoulders grew heavy. His head threatened to fall, but he caught it in time, forcing it back up over the objections of his stiff neck.
I need to finish, he stubbornly told his weary body. So close. So . . . close.
His entire vision blurred and winked out.
He hovered there. The smell of earthy, heated metal and burning wood in his nostrils. A dull pressure built on his elbows and slowly crept in to run across the length of his chest in straight line. Something cool and . . . metallic pressed against the side of his face and ear.
It was as if he hung off the edge of a steep cliff, a sheer drop, and instead of feeling terror, everything was simply . . . heavy.
“Boss?” a soft voice called, muffled through a fog.
Something touched his shoulder, pushing against him.
A small hand.
“Boss Oso!” The young voice grew louder.
A child’s voice.
“Bayona!” he exclaimed, springing awake.
He tried to stand but was no longer sitting in his chair. Instead, he was on his knees, his arms hanging over the anvil. A dull pain lingered on his chest from where he’d been laying against the edge. His hands were empty. The steel mask and file laid on the ground on the other side of the anvil.
Instead of his forge, he was back in the war camp. Instead of finding his little miracle trying to wake him, Oberto stared back at him, his arms wrapped around his chest and shivering.
“Sorry, Oberto,” Necrem groaned. He ran his hand across his face, rubbing the tiny grains of sleep from the corners of his eyes. He straightened his mask, hissing from the hem being pressed into his cheeks and pulling his scars. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”
“You . . . you were laying over the anvil,” Oberto stammered.
“I just fell asleep,” Necrem assured him.
The boy trembled, as if he had awoken the dead.
“I’ve done it—Ah!”
A loud pop came from the small of his back. The soothing ease rippled through his stiff upper body and threw him into a convulsive stretch. His back arched, his shoulders pulled back, his arms flung open wide, and his biceps tightened to knots, pulling forearms in and balling his fists. As every muscle in his upper body rebelled, his lungs joined, burning inside his chest until he let out a yowling yawn.
He clenched his jaw muscles as hard as he could; however, the yawn had won out and forced his mouth open, stretching his face. Every stitch strained to hold fast. The ends of every scar pulled against their corners, sending fiery stings across and into his cheeks.
His yawn became a yell, breaking his convulsion. He doubled forward and slapped his hands over his face. He pressed down as hard as he could, daring not to rub in fear of pulling or making a rip worse, but simply held and cupped his face in his hands.
Blessedly, after a few moments, he didn’t taste iron nor feel his mask become warm and damp. His gasping, heavy breaths hissed against and under his leather mask.
“I’m getting too old to work all night,” he groaned. His hands and fingers slid off his face, collapsing into his lap.
He looked out of the corner of his eye and found Oberto now on the far side of the forge, still shivering, his wide eyes watching him intensely.
“Sorry again, Oberto.” Necrem weakly chuckled, shaking his head. “Falling asleep hunched over an anvil isn’t the brightest thing you can ever do.”
Oberto shook his head like a twitchy pavaloro, his shaking and excitement making his head wobble on his shoulders.
Necrem took hold of the anvil with both hands and, taking a few preparing breaths, pulled with as much strength as he could muster while simultaneously lifting with his legs. Tears formed at the corners of his eyes from his aching knees. The joints bit and popped. His legs spasmed as he lifted one foot then the other under him. His knees throbbed from blood pumping into his lower legs and continued as he pushed himself up.
Finally on his feet, he kept hold of the anvil, not trusting his legs to keep him standing yet.
Poor Oberto remained at a distance.
“What are you doing up so early?” Necrem asked, attempting to ease the skittish boy.
Oberto stared blankly up at him. “It’s . . . The sun’s been up for a few hours now.”
Necrem grunted and looked over his shoulder. Outside the forge stall, the Easterly Sun loomed over the morning horizon, warming everything it touched to a sticky humidity in the promise of another hot day. The mumble of men’s voices, the deep whooshes of bellows working to start fires, and horses neighing mingled together, the sound of a camp coming alive all around him. He looked back at his forge to the coals, now dark and lifeless.
“Well,” he coughed, “that explains that.”
He hung his head. His body was taking longer to regain its strength. His file and the metal mask he’d been working on stared up at him, on the ground, from the other side of the anvil, taunting him.
“Boss Oso?” Oberto said meekly.
“Hmm?” Necrem hummed.
“Are you well?” The lad pointed at the anvil. “You were laying over . . .”
Necrem softly laughed, smiling behind his mask. “I’m fine, Oberto. Not the first time I’ve refused to stop working and fell asleep by a forge. I’ve scared my daughter a few times, too, for waking me up.”
“Oh.” The boy frowned, rubbing his hands together. A meek, distant look fell over him. “I didn’t . . . I thought you were . . .”
“It’s all right.” Necrem kept his voice low, his best attempt to be calming. “Say what’s on your mind, boy.”
Oberto rubbed his hands faster, nervously glancing at him. “I thought . . . I didn’t think you had a . . . a family.”
“What gave you that idea?” Necrem raised an eyebrow. He pushed off the anvil, his legs’ strength able to hold on their own. “Because I look so frightening?”
“No!” Oberto’s voice cracked in a squeak. His cheeks flushed red. “I thought . . . because you were a conscript, you were . . . you were . . .” He rubbed his neck shyly.
No, not shyly. The boy rubbed his neck where the leather brace used to dig into his skin. His neck’s skin color was finally matching the rest of him after days of riding Malcada in the sun, yet the thin line that had once separated the two was still faintly visible.
He thought I was sioneros.
“Do you have a family, Oberto? A home?”
Oberto opened his mouth but said nothing. He became distant again, his eyes wandering across the forge yet looked at nothing, as if searching for something but couldn’t remember what.
Necrem walked around the anvil and startled the lad when he knelt in front of him, patting his shoulder and grunting from bending his stiff knees.
“Oberto,” he said, “if something happens, if they start fighting today and it goes bad, I want you to go to the horses, pick the fastest looking one, and ride back down Ribera’s Way as fast as you can. Don’t look back. Don’t stay around here to see what happens. You run. Run home.”
Oberto’s eyes glistened, welling with tears. “What . . .?” His chin wobbled. “What if I don’t know where it is?”
Necrem wished he could smile for the boy. His mask hid the horror underneath yet gave him little to show comfort, save a furled brow and sad eyes. He settled for squeezing Oberto’s shoulder as tightly as he dared.
“Home is where you want to go the most,” he replied. “The place you see every time you close your eyes.”
Eulalia and Bayona flashed before him, and in that moment, Oberto’s breath caught, his eyes widening. The distant cloud that had hung over him was gone. For a brief time, both stared at each other, yet they saw only their distant homes.
Oberto looked away first, glancing back into the corner of the forge. “What about you?”
Necrem turned. A suit of armor hung in the back of the forge, its many parts hanging from a long rack. There were more pieces than most, and all of them—the breastplate, shoulder pauldrons, leg and shin plates, helmet, and especially the gauntlets—were made for a large man. A big man.
“I gave my word,” Necrem said. “You look out for yourself. If anything goes bad, you’re only going to have yourself to depend on. Understand?” He gave an extra squeeze to drive home the message.
Oberto nodded.
“Go see to them horses.” Necrem patted his shoulder then waved him away.
Oberto’s gloomy face lit up. The small tears running down his round cheeks forgotten. He took off in a quick burst then skid to a stop.
“I pray you make it home, too . . . Boss Oso,” the lad nervously said from over his shoulder, and then off he went again. This time, he didn’t look back.
Necrem watched him go, one arm hanging propped over his leg. He turned back and frowned at the armor. “I pray so, too.”
***
“I beseech you, La Dama,” the deacon courteously pled. “Please accept Si Don Borbin’s offer. If you don’t, I fear there is nothing that will save thousands of your men’s lives.”
Recha tapped her fingernail against her large command table. Baltazar sat to her right with the rest of the general staff sitting around them. General Ross, General Priet, and their staff were absent, tending to their individual armies’ needs.
She was failing not to look bored. She leaned back against her chair, shoulders slumped, and sat with her legs crossed. Her left foot joined her finger by tapping against one of the table’s legs from below. She desperately resisted the urge to plant her free elbow on her chair’s arm and rest her face in her hand.
He’s too clean.
She frowned through her eyelashes, studying the deacon. She ignored the man’s begging grey eyes and bent posture while holding his black staff and lantern. Instead, she took in his cream-colored hat that he held by the wide brim to his chest, his nearly pristine-white dust cloak and cream-colored suit underneath. He sweated like the rest of them. The faint breeze they tried to foster through her command tent by opening two walls failed to materialize. However, the deacon lacked a telling amount of dust and dirt.
“Pardon me, Deacon . . . Gelome, was it?” she asked.
“Yes, La Dama,” Deacon Gelome replied happily. “That’s correct.” He nodded, wobbling his double chin. The average-height man wasn’t going to fat. He simply missed the road-weary look she would expect from a deacon. No bags under his eyes, days-old stubble on his face, or gaunt appearance from making do with light meals. He looked too well rested and fed for Recha’s tastes.
“Deacon Gelome, how long have you been accompanying Si Don’s armies?” she asked.
“Only recently, La Dama,” Deacon Gelome said. “My normal outreach surrounds Manosete and the road west of our ancient, shared capital. This is the first time I’ve been granted the privilege of comforting souls on the campaign trails.”
The Santa Madre sent him to counsel Borbin.
His outreach could only reach down the coast of the Desryol Sea, Orsembar’s safest corridor, lined with luxurious villas for Borbin to escape from Manosete with his favored barons, if he was favored by both the Santa Madre and Borbin, too.
“Pardon me again, Deacon Gelome,” Recha mused, “I have little doubt you’ve been sent here as Si Don’s representative for today”—she glanced at Borbin’s latest offer, the parchment folded and sealed with red wax, a mellcresa head molded into it—“but how am I to interpret a deacon bringing me this, especially if this is your first time campaigning?”
“Interpret, La Dama?” Deacon Gelome blinked, keeping his unintrusive smile as plain as he could. “Whatever do you mean?”
“A couple of days ago, a ragtag group of calleroses galloped in here, making demands and saying everything short of threats of what they would do to my person should I not accept Si Don’s offer.” Recha’s lips twisted as she recalled that morning. It had taken Baltazar an hour of arguing with her not to order an attack in response. “That evening, a couple of barons came apologizing for their calleroses’ actions and repealing the offer their men had delivered. These same barons returned the next morning, with another offer.
“Barons and calleroses sending me messages, I well expected, but a deacon of the church acting as representative of one marc to speak with another, I find that . . . peculiar.” She wanted to say alarming, but that might have conveyed too much. Deacon or not, she had received him as Si Don’s representative and, as with her years staring down Valen, she couldn’t show any weakness to him. She couldn’t let him think she could be cowed by the mere presence of a member of the church.
“It’s not peculiar at all, La Dama,” Deacon Gelome said assuredly. “Not in the least. Deacons have long offered themselves to be independent arbiters between the marcs in these strife-filled times.”
Recha tilted her head. “I thought you said this was your first time on campaign?”
Deacon Gelome’s mouth hung open. Tiny droplets of sweat bloomed on his brow. “Yes, La Dama, it is.” He swallowed. “But I know from other deacons this is so. Si Don himself confided to me that he only chose to send me here today because of how dire the situation is. He grieves from your mistrust in him. So much so that he wholeheartedly believes you will only listen to an independent voice, such as mine.”
Recha stared at him, sorting his platitudes from his nonsense. Borbin sent you to tell me to surrender to his terms and how many soldiers I get to keep in exchange for his son. You couldn’t be less independent, save your clothes not being gaudy orange!
“What does Si Don offer me today?” she asked, moving on with the useless discussion and picking up the sealed parchment. She sliced apart the wax seal with a table knife then tossed the blade on the table with a clatter. The leaves of paper shifted in her fingers, now free of the wax.
“Hmm,” she hummed. “Four pages today.”
Borbin had sent two pages the day before and one page before that, not including the several slips of notes and tears of parchment from several of his belligerent calleroses. She flipped through the first two pages, consisting mostly of greetings, honorifics, and platitudes. She slid those pages on the table and stopped to read the third page more thoroughly.
Borbin had a practiced hand. His writing was neither blockish nor artistic. He thought out his words without scratching out one or showing any signs he had to write a sentence.
Where is it?
Recha picked at her fingernails. Her left pinky and thumb clicked together as she looked for the faint hint of him warning her to surrender. She could call it a threat, hang her denial on it, and send Deacon Gelome on his way. Instead, Borbin’s language read like a concerned parent, worrying about the safety of his son, concerned about the safety of his soldiers, urging her to think of the same.
That could be a threat? She struggled with the idea, though. A bit of a stretch since any side would urge another to think of their soldiers in a situation like—
She turned the page and finally came across Borbin’s offer for today.
She read it once.
Then twice.
Her left hand, holding the third page in the air off to the side, began to shake as she read it thrice to make sure she was reading it correctly.
She shot a glance over the page at Deacon Gelome, patiently waiting with a soft smile. He lifted his head upon seeing her look at him, eyebrows raised expectantly. Recha bounced her eyes between him and the offer for a moment, collecting the running implications in her head.
“Deacon Gelome,” she said, clearing her throat, “have you read the contents of this offer?” She held up the fourth page.
“I am but a humble messenger, La Dama,” Deacon Gelome replied, pressing his hat to his chest. “Si Don Borbin took me into his confidence only to let me relay how sincere his intentions are that this ordeal be brought to a swift and peaceful end. Nothing more, I assure you. I have no idea the nature of his offer, only that it’s meant to bring peace. Si Don asked me to deliver it, along with any words of wisdom I may impart, and then return with your reply. Do you have a reply?” Deacon Gelome leaned forward, as if suddenly standing on his tiptoes. “Is Si Don’s offer satisfactory? I pray it is so. Hmm?”
Recha forced a smile.
He could be lying.
She fought the temptation to glance into the distant corner of the tent. Harquis sat huddled there, observing everything through his mystic blindness and a stone expression. The Viden priest could sense out the lie, but she chose against asking him.
She slipped the third page behind the fourth to free her hand so she could straighten and run her fingers through her hair over and around her misshapen ear. While looking a little embarrassed, she hoped she looked more flustered than the truth.
“Si Don’s offer today is . . . very generous,” she replied, ignoring the soft, subtle movements and shuffles in the seats around her from her general staff. “One that I’m afraid I . . . must think on before giving any sort of reply. Forgive me, Deacon, but I really must think on this one. When you return to Si Don, please tell him that for me and assure him that I will give him my response by this evening.”
Deacon Gelome’s smile slipped to a concerned, almost wounded frown. His mouth worked, opening and closing, yet nothing came out. “Are you sure, La Dama? Are you certain a more . . . immediate response cannot be given? A hint, perhaps?”
He’s either fishing or desperate to bring back a definite reply.
Recha shook her head. “I’m afraid not. Trust me, Deacon; if you knew what this offer was . . . any marquesa would request time to consider it.” She gave him a measured smile as she smoothly passed the offer to Baltazar.
Deacon Gelome longingly watched the offer being passed off. He turned his sad expression back on Recha, but she held firm. “Very well, La Dama,” he replied with a sigh, “if that’s your wish. May I request I remain in your camp until you do come to a decision? I would so happily like to converse with my brethren deacons accompanying your—”
“No.” Her curt response was probably sharper than it needed to be; however, there was likely no alternative to lighten it.
“But La Dama!” Deacon Gelome stammered. “I’m a deacon of the Savior!”
“You’re also a representative of Si Don Borbin.” Recha sat up in her chair, straight back, head high, and hands folded on the table. “I accepted you into my camp to hear your sovereign’s terms. Now that I’ve heard them, you may leave.”
“But . . .!” Deacon Gelome’s face paled, along with his knuckles from gripping his staff tighter. “I’m a deacon!”
“And your ability to serve two masters is impressive.” Recha bit her tongue at her own quip, keeping her composure. “Sadly, while one is welcomed here, the other is not. And I can’t have someone who openly serves a rival marc wander freely in my camp.”
She rose to her feet. The legs of her chair scraped the wooden floor as she pushed it back, cutting of anything Deacon Gelome had to say.
“Escort!” she called.
Two calleroses, armored from boot to helmet, stomped in to flank the deacon.
“Thank you for coming, Deacon Gelome,” she said, folding her hands in front of her. “Please tell Si Don Borbin that I am seriously considering his offer. And I promise him, I will send him my answer before the sun sets.”
Deacon Gelome pressed his lips into a thin line, yet in the end, he merely nodded his head. “May the Savior guide you, La Dama Mandas.”
“Same to you, Deacon.”
The deacon’s staff tapped on the floor, and the lantern softly creaked as he was led out. He doffed his hat upon leaving the tent and needed a hand climbing back into his awaiting saddle. Borbin had sent ten calleroses as escort, all of them watched under guard and hadn’t been allowed to dismount.
Recha waited until her calleroses were leading them away to push her chair farther back and walked around the table.
“That was nice and short,” Narvae said, in typical fashion to be the first to comment.
Bisal snickered. “First Orsembian I’ve had to watch my manners with.”
“About time you realized keeping silent was the best way to be polite,” Feli said dryly.
Bisal laughed briefly before the chuckles caught in his throat with a loud grunt.
Recha shook her head. Papa really did raise my Companions to take after his friends.
She walked over to a small table and picked up a wooden cup. A servant dashed in before her hand was reaching for the silver pitcher of water, head drooped apologetically as he silently offered to fill her cup. She softly smiled and allowed him to fulfill his duty.
“What’s today’s offer?” Narvae asked.
Recha peeked over her shoulder, readying a response, but Narvae was looking at Baltazar.
Baltazar stared down at the paper through a pair of spectacles balanced on the bridge of his nose. He looked to his second then raised his head to look back at her.
“You can tell them, Papa,” Recha said, taking a sip. “I’m sure you’ve grasped its meaning.” She wrapped her free arm around her and slowly began to pace around the tent.
“Borbin’s new terms,” Baltazar started to summarize, “are that for the return of his son, he will not require us to surrender and lay down our arms. Instead, he will permit us to retire to Lazorna with seventy-five percent of our forces and arms. He still demands a quarter of our forces be turned over to him as sioneroses for transgressing into his marc; however, he offers to allow the La Dama to choose the quarter to be turned over.”
“Generous,” Feli commented, tapping his fingertips together. “Especially considering the previous demands.”
Bisal snorted. “Yes, very generous. We hand over Borbin’s son and a quarter of our own good men, and then we just expect them to let us march out of here, waving fare-thee-well.” He threw up his hand in an overdramatic gesture that only for Bisal could have been considered a wave.
“Bisal’s right,” Narvae agreed. “Not that I’m saying we should accept Borbin’s offer”—he shifted in his chair and carefully avoided looking in Recha’s direction—“but if we’re seriously considering terms, we need some security.”
“Which,” Recha piped up, stopping on the other side of the table where Deacon Gelome had stood, “Borbin actually offered this time.” She took another drink, expecting Baltazar to continue. However, everyone in the tent watched her in intense silence. “Well, go ahead, Papa, tell them.”
Baltazar frowned but acquiesced. “Borbin is offering a political alliance between Orsembar and Lazorna in the form of marriage between Recha and . . . his nephew, Timotio Borbin.”
Nervous coughs spread throughout the tent, and everyone suddenly found anything but Recha to look at. Except Cornelos, standing in the back. A compressed grimace spread across his face, the bridge of his nose trembling, and his grip around the stack of papers he carried squeezed, crinkling the paper.
Bisal, on the other hand, snorted then burst out in roaring laughter, his tall shoulders bouncing. “Ain’t that just like a woman?” he barked, slapping the table. “Leave a man waiting even when everyone knows the answer’s going to be no!” He slapped the table again.
Recha gave her jovial marshal of scouts a flat stare, with the rest of the tent joining her. It didn’t help. The oblivious man enjoyed his joke in ignorance.
“That’s not why the La Dama said she’ll give her response later!” Baltazar snapped, cutting off Bisal’s laugh.
“Eh?” Bisal raised an eyebrow at her. “Are you really considering the offer, La Dama? No offense if you are, but I thought—”
“Never fear, Marshal Bisal,” Recha cut in dryly, finding any more of that unbearable. “That part of Borbin’s offer doesn’t interest me in the least. The meaning behind it, though, that is troubling.”
“Meaning?” Bisal grunted.
Recha sipped her water. It was going lukewarm, now free of the silver pitcher. “The offer of a political alliance changes everything. For us, in the short term, it looks like we’ve traded one valuable hostage for another, despite the sacrifice, to withdraw the bulk of our forces back to Lazorna. The long-term effects would be very different.
“If I agreed to the marriage, our neighboring marcs would see it as a change in Lazorna alliances, even if I locked Timotio in a tower and cut off his hands so he could never touch me.” There were a few smirks at that comment, which she appreciated. “The other marcs, Quezlo especially, would see us as nothing more than Borbin’s ally. A part of Orsembar in everything but name, waiting for something to happen to me so Timotio can bring it into the fold.
“In short, agreeing to the marriage cements Lazorna the eastern buffer Borbin sees it as.” She gulped down the rest of the water, the large gulp forcing her to cough into her elbow to clear her throat and make sure it all went down correctly.
“The inverse of what he did with Saran,” Feli iterated.
“Precisely,” Recha agreed. “We save ourselves now and become subservient to Borbin for the foreseeable future.”
“We’re still saying no, right?” Bisal asked, turning this way and that to everyone around him.
“Yes, Bisal,” Olguer piped up softly beside him, patting him on the shoulder. “She’s still going to reject the offer.”
“It’s only our current position that makes that difficult,” Recha clarified. “Under normal circumstances, I could easily refuse the proposal.” She had refused several in the past year. “However, considering where we are and what else we’d be refusing to accept, or rather whom we’re holding, if I reject this offer, there won’t be another.
“It’s ridiculous to expect Borbin to alternatively offer Puerlato for his son. He’s not going to offer anything I actually want in a trade. And he’s expressed his intent for this proposal in nature of an alliance. I reject it, we show our intent.”
“Borbin will know battle is a certainty,” Baltazar said plainly. “Our delay will be over.”
And Hiraldo’s still not here!
“That’s why I’m . . . being a woman, as you eloquently put, Marshal Bisal.”
For his part, Bisal dipped his head and apologetically shrugged, but Recha moved on.
“The stall may not work long and, at most, we’ll be fighting tomorrow. Unless”—she turned to Harquis—“Deacon Gelome was lying about knowing Borbin’s offer.”
The cultist lifted his head. His milky eyes stared at nothing yet incapsulated her entirely. “I did not see the blue flames,” he coldly said. “Whether he had prior knowledge or not, the deacon’s intentions were genuine, if not misguided.”
You’re supposed to tell if he was lying, not state your belief that his intentions were made in good faith. You claim to serve a spirit of truth, but you can’t tell if someone’s simply lying or not by just hearing them?
She shook her head to put that frustrating conundrum away for another time.
“Cornelos!” She spun around, setting her empty cup on the table. “Any update on the First Army’s arrival?” They had awoken to the ecstatic surprise of a group of Hiraldo’s forward scouts riding into camp before dawn. That was three hours ago!
Cornelos’s expression had soften over the past few minutes. His papers, though, were badly wrinkled. Upon her asking, he instantly went to shuffling them, searching for their report.
“Last reported,” he read, “they estimated the First Army’s vanguard to be at least an hour’s march away.” He lifted his head, frowning. “That was three hours ago.”
Dammit! Nothing new!
She folded her arms around her, restraining herself from touching her ear.
“If we attack like we planned, how far can the Second and Third Army go alone?” she asked Baltazar.
Baltazar tossed the offer on the table, frowning deeply. “The battle lines will be strained. Each company will have less time to recover once pulled off the line. Regardless, we must strike first for any chance of victory. The less men we have, the sooner our initial strike may stall. The longer we can postpone the battle becoming one of attrition, the better, and we’d have better chances of postponing it with all three armies on the field.”
“And we’ll be able to watch that north trek better,” Bisal added.
“How far back does it run?” Narvae asked.
“Miles.” Bisal folded his arms and leaned back in his chair. “I had the boys run down as far as they could, but they still weren’t able to find where it ends. A couple of them came in last night saying they thought they saw movement in it but had to fall back and report before they could confirm exactly what they saw and how many.”
“Could that passage reach behind Borbin’s line?” Baltazar asked.
“I’d wager it does,” Bisal replied.
“We need to plug that passage,” Narvae urged. “Tear some wagons apart to make stakes, plant them in the passage, and set a company of pikemen behind them to bottle up anything that may try to get through it.”
“Might have to.” Baltazar drummed on the table with a thoughtful expression. “The trouble is, without the First Army, that’ll mean we’ll have one less company to rotate on the line.”
“Actually”—Bisal sat up excitedly—“your Capitán Viezo gave me another suggestion about that trek. He and one my scouts, my new map maker, came up to me yesterday morning.” He started fishing through his pockets, dragging them out until pulling out a wad of yellow paper. “They have a farfetched idea, but”—he unrolled the papers the best he could to slide over to Baltazar—“it would free up the pikemen.”
Sevesco’s thinking up battle plans now?
Recha hurried around the table. She caught a glimpse of etchings before Baltazar turned over the thin sheets of paper, over to pin scratches.
“Instead,” Baltazar read, squinting at the tiny writing, “he’s asking for spare musketeers and anyone who can use the Third Army’s old crossbows they turned in.”
Bisal shrugged. “It frees up pikemen. And gives the calleroses in reserve something to look forward to.”
Baltazar hummed in thought.
Recha creeped up behind him to peek over his shoulders, but the writing was too small and, without the illustration, she couldn’t make out what they meant.
“What . . .?” she cautiously asked. “What’s Sevesco’s—”
A piercing bugle call cut through the air.
Recha sprang her head up and peered out through the open tent wall to the perimeter line. The Bravados was still going on. She could faintly make out some lone Orsembian calleros trotting his horse back and forth in the center of the open space between the two armies. He had a small entourage with him, men under his direct command or a second, calling challenges and curses at her men, standing stone-faced on the line.
That didn’t come from—
She spun around.
A body of riders were riding around the tall hill in the back of the plain to turn down the center of her camp. Her banner went before them, along with the army’s symbol “I.” The tall figure riding at the head of the column stuck out, as well.
“Hiraldo!” she exclaimed, rushing out the back of the command tent. She left her parasol behind, but she beamed like the Eastern Sun when she watched a column of infantry following behind Hiraldo’s calleros vanguard, drums beating to their locked steps.
He didn’t leave his army to ride ahead. Her shoulders fell up and down as her relief matched her excitement. The First Army’s here. We’re all here!
The rest of her command staff formed around her to watch as men of the other armies came out to raise their helmets and hats in cheer as Hiraldo led his vanguard down the center of the camp. He even started waving at them.
“There’s a battle to start,” Narvae grumbled behind her, likely to Baltazar. “We need to do more than parade.”
“Don’t spoil this, Marshal Narvae,” Recha warned from over her shoulder.
A stifled grunt followed.
Hiraldo did take his time riding up to them. He reined in his horse before her, fist raised so his vanguard could muster to a halt behind him. Moments later, shouts from company officers ordering the column to halt roared up and down the line and the drums beat to a resounding stop.
“Welcome to the battlefield, General Galvez,” Recha greeted. “You’ve kept me waiting long enough.”
“Apologies I couldn’t get here sooner, La Dama,” Hiraldo replied, smiling just as wide as she was. “I would have been here sooner, but with all due respect, Ribera’s Way is a tasking trek for an army to move fast on.”
“Well, you’re here now. I pray the entire First Army is at your back.”
“All the way.” He stretched his arm back behind him. “They’re squeezing their way through the best they can. It’s fair to say, they’re all ready to be out of that dried of riverbed.”
“Even with a battle at the end of it?” Recha arched her eyebrow, teasing him more than anything.
Hiraldo sat up taller in his saddle and placed his fist on his hip. “Your First Army is always ready for the battle. Just point us where we need to be, and we shall go.”
Recha grinned. “Glad to have you back with us, General.”
“Glad to have made it, La Dama. I was afraid we’d miss the initial assault, so I told the men they’d be paid double if we got here in time.”
A cold sweat broke out on Recha’s brow. “Hiraldo, I swear, you’re going to bankrupt me—”
She drew herself up, folding her hands behind her back as she took deep breaths and turned to Baltazar. “Field Marshal, I leave their deployment to you. I must prepare my response to Borbin.”
Baltazar nodded, and Recha left them, waving Cornelos to follow her as drums started up behind her.
“Go to Sir Oso,” she instructed him as they reentered the command tent. “Tell him that it’s time, and make sure his escort is prepared for him.”
“Anything else?” Cornelos asked.
Recha rubbed her chin and spotted Harquis, still loitering in the corner of the tent. “Just make sure Sir Oso is still willing to do that task I asked him about.”
“Yes, La Dama.” His boots thumped against the floorboards as he rushed out.
That left her alone with the Viden. The servants were watching the First Army march in, along with the rest of the command staff. Harquis, though, gazed in her direction, silent and knowing as death.
Recha slowly made her way around the table, seeing if her soft footsteps would let her get close without him noticing. Instead, Harquis’s milky stare followed her every move. She stopped before him, folding her arms to keep her stomach calm. The Viden tilted his head up at her with a look akin to longing, for a blind man.
“Are you ready to deliver my response to Borbin?” she asked.
“Time always comes for all betrayals to be answered for,” Harquis replied, unfolding his arms and stiffly rising to his feet. His white, void pupils took everything in. “Your word is all that’s required.”
A rumbling rolled in Recha’s stomach. She pressed her arms against her belly to keep it settled. One last queasy question in her plans. Yet, it was far too late for questions. She had a battle to win.
“Vengeance comes today,” she replied.