Grudging (2 page)

“Now,” Alvito said, “drinking is a true bragging skill. I'll bet a copper our little mascot will be under the table before he finishes one glass. What say you, mascot? You'll come out with us tonight to celebrate your first ride. I know a plump serving
chica
, and I believe Mencia has a shrew of a sister who might like a
bisoño
.”

“Mencia?” Gomez asked. “What happened to Estefania?”

“Old news, my friend,” Alvito said with a wink. “Old news. Now, how about it, kiddo?”

“You can keep your shrew,” Ramiro said. “But I'll join you and show you how a real man—­” A shadow fell over him.

Captain Salvador still wore his helmet. Unlike Alvito, with his almost-­Northerner paleness, or Gomez, with his roasted, dark skin, Salvador was a honeyed brown, the same tone as Ramiro's own skin. “I'd have a few words with my brother if you please.”

Alvito gave a bow and a wink. “By all means,
Capitán
. Tonight after our report,
bisoño
, I'll see you under the table.” He and Gomez put heels to their mounts and forged ahead in the slow-­moving line to put a horse length of space around them.

“Did all fare well with you?” Salvador asked. “You are unhurt?”

Ramiro sighed. “Our father bid you keep an eye on me.”

“And if he did?”

“Then he did me a disser­vice. I'm no child. Did I earn my place in your
pelotón
fairly?”

Salvador twitched at the hit. “You know you did.”

“Then leave off the coddling.”

Salvador gave him a nod of equals though five years the elder. “So be it. No more coddling—­I mean it when I say you did well. Too, we learned much.”

A weight left Ramiro's shoulders at the rare compliment. His brother was the youngest man ever to captain a
pelotón
. Some attributed it to Salvador's skill at fighting, others to his almost eerie ability to anticipate trouble. Regardless, there was no man Ramiro would rather follow—­brother or not. Still, he pondered over what Salvador meant by “learned much.”

“The west road is closed,” Ramiro said, reflectively. “Hardly a surprise. We guessed that when the scouts didn't return.”

“But what does it mean?” Salvador prompted.

Ramiro considered. “That Aveston is besieged now, exactly as we are. Why else would the Northerners bother to close the roads?” Aveston was their closest neighbor and their most-­likely ally.

“And?” Salvador asked.

Ramiro watched Sancha's withers rise and fall. “One or more of the smaller
ciudades-­estado
have fallen, or they wouldn't have enough troops to set a siege at Aveston.”

“And so we add to the knowledge of our situation for our
Alcalde
and the council, with few casualties.” Salvador smiled sadly. “And maybe while leaving a sting of humiliation on our enemies.”

“Next time we should bring more bows with us,” Ramiro suggested. “We could have inflicted greater damage.” They'd put the four bows in the hands of the best archers and among the last of the ranks to keep the surprise. Ramiro hadn't expected to be one of those chosen.

“Next time the fight will be real. Our mission wasn't to engage the enemy but to scout and gain information. And there's no point to trying that trick again, little brother. The Northerners are not fools. They will not give us the opportunity.” Salvador shook his head. “Don't count on your enemy to be stupid.”

“Then we should have attacked today and not played peekaboo,” Ramiro said hotly. It stung that his first ride had given him no opportunity for the close combat needed to earn his beard.

“What is the top precept?” Salvador asked without raising his voice.

“Follow orders,” Ramiro snapped out.

“Ours were to search and report,” his brother said. “Not waste lives on opening the road to Aveston that the Northerners would only reclose the next day and with twice the number of men. Not when we have so few to lose. A good soldier doesn't question.” Without another word, Salvador booted his stallion and returned to the front of the column.

Ramiro shrugged, trying not to feel the sting of Salvador's rebuke. He had thought only of his own desires and not what was best for his city. With a sigh, he bundled the regret for his beard into a small corner of his heart and tried to forget about it.

After the olive fields turned to bare desert and among high hills topped with rocky outcrops, they'd find the secret path to the hidden tunnel. The tunnel, one of several, would take them safely past the blockage of Northerners and straight into the citadel.

Ramiro kept a loose grip on the reins and gave Sancha a pat with his free hand. As he rode, a question that had been gnawing at him rose once more to the surface: Why had the Northerners invaded the territory of the city-­states in the first place? If the
Alcalde
had captured Northerners and forced them to talk, none of the answers had drifted down the bureaucracy chain and into his ears.

Was it purely a thirst for conquest? Unlikely. They'd never invaded before. Nor was there much to be had in this dry land. Had something else driven them south? Perhaps a famine or a drought had struck. Or maybe their leadership had changed. Or worse yet, a greater threat might ride behind them, driving these pale men from their homes, only to come after them. It bothered him to have to battle so many unknowns.

The first sight of Colina Hermosa, appearing in the valley spread before them, pulled Ramiro from his thoughts. He could make out the citadel at the center of his city, rising above walls and other buildings. The white stucco of the building shimmered with heat waves, almost as if it were burning, and despite the hot sun, Ramiro shivered at the illusion of his city consumed.

Whatever the reason, Aveston had joined the ranks of the besieged. There would be no help from the west.

 

CHAPTER 2

T
he aroma of bread baking drew Ramiro like flowers bring bees. He entered the small kitchen at the back of the citadel, almost drooling in his eagerness. A fire roared on the ox-­sized hearth, though at this late hour, all but one cook had gone home.

Lupaa set down the bowl of goat meat marinating in olive oil and turned in his direction. “Come to fit those long legs under my table again? I've not seen you in a dog's age.” The head cook had a plump, motherly face and muscled arms that could challenge Sergeant Gomez in a wrestling contest. A large white apron covered her voluptuous skirts and the bright yellow of her blouse. Her long hair was knotted atop her head and out of the way of accidental touches from floured hands.

Ramiro shrugged, guilt running in a flush up his neck. Since turning seventeen and being accepted in the
pelotón
, he'd had no time for his former childish haunts. Tonight, though, his feet had drawn him to the quiet here to avoid the barracks full of noise and rough men. The ache in his head and the grittiness of his eyes suggested neither would be good for his hangover.

Alvito had lived up to his promise. Almost. Ramiro managed to stay above the table, but somehow it didn't seem right to celebrate. Despite his first ride, he hadn't earned his beard, and his horse had done most of the work this day. He'd escaped the drinking as soon as he could. An hour spent grooming Sancha cleared away the cobwebs but did nothing to make him ready for sleep or settle his stomach.

“Still providing fresh bread for hungry
chicos
?”

Lupaa grinned. “You're rather more than a
chico
now.” With a long-­handled, wooden bread peel, she drew down a loaf from the warming nook beside the fireplace. Quick work with a knife produced a hearty brown slice, which she slathered with honey. His mouth watered as she placed it on the plate, bordered with large red roses, she'd reserved for him since he could toddle. “I suppose you earned your beard today.”

Ramiro winced and dropped his eyes. Until he was a man, he could not speak in assemblies or be taken seriously anywhere. He could not even officially court a girl. Unlike shop keeping or crafting, where you only had to pass your apprenticeship to be considered a man, the army had tougher standards. Lupaa might have downplayed it, but he still felt like a
chico
with his bare face. “Not yet. Soon though.”

Lupaa caught his mood and changed the subject. “Out doing the work of the saints or
del diablo
?”

“A little of both,” he said, as alcohol sloshed in his stomach. Only pride had gotten down that last glass. He bit through the thick crust into delicious sweetness. Rumor said Lupaa got her honey straight from Santiago's heavenly garden.

Lupaa waved her hand in front of her face. “That's not the smell of you I remember. You abandoned the
Alcalde's
pelotón
to work in a distillery?”

“Alvito.”

“Ah. That handsome scoundrel.” She walked to a shelf and fetched a mug, then filled it with milk. “If you can hold this down, you'll survive.” She waited for him to swallow half the mug. “How goes the news from the outside world?”

He swallowed a mouthful. “Ill.”

Her eyebrow quirked. For the first time, he noticed the gray spreading through her hair and the pucker of worry above her brow, how her hands, normally so sure, plucked at the apron around her middle.

“The Northerners have settled into camps surrounding Aveston, or so we surmise.” The spies would verify whether their ally Aveston faced a siege of its own.

“Thank the saints the
Alcalde
had the forethought to bring plenty of supplies through the gates.” She glanced at the icon of Santiago hanging over the door, but the worry lines deepened.

“And plenty of farmers, laborers, and peasants with bellies to feed.”

“It's what Santiago would expect from his ­people.” She tapped forehead, heart, liver, and spleen in quick order.

“Aye.” He touched the medallion at his throat. “It is.” He couldn't speak to her of the old men of the council arguing for hours about what war strategy might keep the ­people from starving, being killed, or enslaved. Salvador was surely still there with the other
capitanes del pelotón
. The discussions of evacuating the ­people through the tunnels, knowing there was nowhere for them to go; the arguments for and against direct assault with their tiny army. His stomach rolled, threatening to heave up, and the bread tasted like road dust in his mouth. He owed this kind woman better than giving her more to fret about.

“San Martin shared his cloak with a beggar, so if we pray hard, he will divide our foodstuffs to last as long as necessary,” Ramiro said. “Santiago taught us stubbornness. These Northerners will get tired of our hot lands and go home.” She looked doubtful, so he added, “
Alcalde
Alvarado has told me so.”

Immediately, her face cleared at words coming direct from the mayor. “You give this old woman relief. I shall light a candle to San Andrés on my way home.”

The deep toll of dozens of church bells penetrated the kitchen with a suddenness that momentarily stupefied Ramiro. He fought off the fuzzy effects of the alcohol and jumped to his feet, dropping his second piece of bread. Lupaa's head came up, eyes wide.

Warning bells.

“The gates!” he shouted. He shook his head to clear it and dashed from kitchen to hallway, catching the doorframe to straighten his course. Several turns later, he burst from the citadel doors and paused to orient himself. Built upon the crest of a hill, the castle-­like structure of cream-­colored stone rose as the crown at the top of the city, complete with arrow slits and heavy doors. The fortress was several stories with a flat roof and housed government offices as well as the
Alcalde
and his family. Unlike a castle, though, no walls surrounded the structure to fence it from the rest of the city.

Citadel guards stood at the ready beside the doors, their gazes directed down the avenue at the wall. Distant shouts and clashes of metal reached all the way from the edge of the
ciudad-­estado
, sounding over the deep ringing of the bells and the hum of frightened ­people.

Ramiro leaped down the steps two at a time to join the crowd of grooms and other men headed for the fortifications around the city. All military men had been assigned spots at the walls for the first sally. The
Alcalde's
pelotón
belonged at the gates. Ramiro dodged servants staring openmouthed at the night sky, their hands clasped or clutching skirts. His head pounded in time to his boots' thumping against the cobblestones. Damn Alvito and his drinking challenge. Damn himself for not being strong enough to resist it like a real man.

Despite his nervousness, he kept his breathing even as he dashed past storefronts and homes along the wide avenue, all the time weaving around clots of civilians holding lanterns or torches. The road led steadily downward, dim and hazy in the darkness, like the gullet of a monstrous beast. The dry air sucked the sweat from his skin, not letting it collect.

The crowds increased, then diminished as Ramiro shoved his way through the courtyard before the city's protective stone skin. Twenty feet high and more, the limestone wall encircled the entire city, wide enough to house guard barracks and storage rooms inside its length. Only one gate broke its surface, and that toward the west, where their most-­and-­least-­trusted allies lay—­Aveston and the legendary witches. Even at the time of the wall's construction, they knew the witches never left the swamp, so they used the witches' presence to become Colina Hermosa's secondary ring of protection.

The great gate at the center of the courtyard was crafted by the best metalsmiths and was twice the height of a tall man, and more, its width allowed for a
pelotón
to ride forth in full formation. Forged of the strongest steel, bars of metal—­heavier than six armored men—­barricaded it closed. The metal had aged to a black patina, dark as the tomb of the blessed Santiago. But not as silent. Now the ringing blows of a battering ram came from its other side. The sound drove the last alcohol fumes from his brain.

In the early history of Colina Hermosa, the city had mobilized to take part in the wall's construction. All citizens had given a year of their time toward its completion or drafted someone to take their place. Stone by stone, it had grown, built in pride and raised with surety that it would see them through any crisis. And so it had.

Now it was being asked to do so once more.

The gate guard of Colina Hermosa stood along the parapet above, arms and backs bending in a steady rhythm of arrow fire. With the thud of the first scaling ladder against the wall, the noise of battle pounded at Ramiro. His heart galloped in his chest, corresponding to the fearful tingling in his fingers and toes. He fought against panic not to shame himself.

Ramiro put a hand to his hip and came away empty—­he'd left his sword and dagger in the barracks during Alvito's celebration! All he had was the small knife he always kept in his boot. He didn't even have a bow, and there were no unused ones in evidence. He couldn't go back to get his weapons, yet he also couldn't just stand here while his city was invaded. Innocents would die and his city fall without the soldiers—­without him—­to protect them.

He scrambled to a hulking, uniformed sergeant—­built from the same mold as Sergeant Gomez of his own unit—­giving orders at the center of the courtyard. His beard was a veritable tangle. “Where can I help?” Ramiro panted.

The sergeant turned and lifted one overgrown eyebrow to sweep Ramiro from head to heels with a contemptuous glance. “Go back up the hill where you belong. Boys and civilians need to stay out of the way.”

Ramiro cursed his lack of uniform. He'd donned a crisp white shirt over leather pants to impress Alvito's ladies, and he'd never changed back. He spotted his brother atop the battlements, thrusting at a ladder with Gomez. The ladder resisted, then ground backward and fell amid screams from its climbers. Even as it was vanquished, his brother swung around to meet a new ladder rising at his back, almost as if he felt it arrive without needing to see it. Salvador hadn't been caught out of uniform though his brother could never be mistaken for anything but a soldier.

“
My pelotón
is assigned here,” Ramiro said.

“Then where's your sword . . . and your beard?” The sergeant huffed, his attention clearly elsewhere as he gestured more troops to the stairs to the left of the gate. He turned away, shouting for someone to fetch more polearms.

Ramiro reeled when a flight of arrows overshot the height of the wall and arched down into the courtyard. One caught a groom in the arm and another hit the sergeant in the throat. The man lurched, blood flooding around his fingers and into his beard as he sought to keep the life fluid in. His eyes formed pools of fright.

Ramiro gagged and sidestepped a trail of blood on the cobblestone as healers swarmed the injured men, taking them under cover. Noise and confusion pounded at his senses. His hand fastened on the medallion at his throat. “San Martin, save us,” he prayed, wishing for his weapons. Every self-­preservation instinct urged him to flee. He released the medallion and straightened.

Never. Never would he shame himself or his family.

Perhaps he could scrounge a weapon atop the wall, already berating himself for not grabbing the sergeant's before the healers spirited the injured man away. He touched his heart for luck and staggered to a pile of arrow bundles, shouldered two, and made his way to the stairs with a young boy who was also carrying a load. A soldier rushed past them with an armful of polearms, almost sweeping them off the stairs with the trailing ends.

The first archer atop the wall hollered at Ramiro to take his burden farther down the sheltered passageway, away from the gate, directing the boy in the opposite direction. Ramiro crouched smaller to take up less room in the tight quarters and to keep below the wall, out of arrow shot, as he worked his way along the line of busy men. Missiles flew all around him, while more ladders plunked against the wall behind him above the gate. He soon reached men eager to reload their bows with his supplies.

His shoulders freed from the bundles of arrows, he cautiously raised his head above the wall to look below. A mass of Northerners seethed in the barren desert soil, stretching in both directions. It seemed they'd emptied their entire camp for this push. Those without ladders brandished swords and evil-­looking, hook-­tipped polearms as they waited their turn to climb. Set farther back, ranks of archers provided cover for the Northerners attacking the walls. There were enough ladders to blanket the entire length of the wall, and enough men to match the grains of wheat in a harvest.

The stone wall of Colina Hermosa would be their mill.

To his left, more Northerners rammed tremendous tree trunks affixed to leather straps into the gate—­the gates held. The trees splintered and failed against the immense metal of the blocked entranceway. The gate guard had concentrated their own archers there, and arrows streamed into the men wielding the rams despite the wooden covering meant to protect them. They fell away in droves, only to be replaced the instant they were struck down.

A ladder clunked into place beside Ramiro. His heart leaped.

“Hold! Hold!” someone shouted from nearby.

“For Colina Hermosa and Santiago!” called another.

Joining with an archer, Ramiro struggled to push the ladder free as Northerners scaled its length. A polearm carried by the topmost Northerner caught Ramiro's helper, punching through his shoulder. The archer screamed as a guard seized a stone from a nearby pile and sent it crashing down to sweep men from the ladder right and left. The topmost Northerner toppled, pulling the polearm and the archer in whom it was embedded with him.