Months Before the Altar

Calder lay on his cot staring at the sandstone brick ceiling. He rubbed at the spots on his wrists where the manacles chafed them, picked at the perpetually peeling scabs that weeped a sickly green puss. The sun was beginning to rise, shining through the many small cracks in the back wall of the cell. It cast a speckled pattern of warm orange light on the floor.

"Another day in paradise, eh?" Byron said.

Calder's cellmate was an older man with a healthy gut. How he maintained that gut in prison was a mystery, but it hadn't seemed to shrink at all since the day they met those many months ago. Byron's cot creaked as he clumsily sat up and cracked his neck to the left and then to the right, his morning ritual. "Wonder what they got for grub this mornin'?"

"I heard they're serving steak,” Calder said. "And some cold ale to go with it."

Byron laughed and rubbed his stomach. "I can't wait! How generous of them!"

"Well we earn it with all that hard labor, you know? it might hurt morale if they didn't treat us once in a while."

Byron laughed again and stood, stretching his back and scratching himself like a plump house cat. "Is it just me or are the holes in the wall here getting bigger?"

"It's just you."

"Are you sure?"

"When I'm bored I count the little spots of light. They're the same as they've always been."

"Damn. I was hoping this place might finally be starting to crumble. On top of me or around me, I wouldn't much care at this point. Least I’d be free." Byron scratched his beard. "And you need something else to occupy your time, boy. Maybe write a poem or two."

Calder sat up, rubbing his tired eyes. "I didn't take you for a poet."

"I'm not," Byron said. "I'm far too manly for that. You on the other hand, you look like you'd be great at it." Byron winked.

"Shove it," Calder said, grinning. Calder had come to enjoy Byron's company, forced as it was. They were not fast friends; Calder full of rage, Byron full of weary resignation, their first weeks together were dark and silent. Calder especially wasn't willing to give an inch, shutting down all of Byron's attempts at conversation. Turns out all it took was a bit of blood shed to bring them together.

Of all the jobs assigned to prisoners, digging graves was by far Calder's least favorite. Urmalia's summers were brutally hot and the heat created a miasma of rot that clung to the battlefield like a thick, sickening cloud. It seemed to permeate Calder's skin, the stench clinging to him for days afterward. One evening some weeks ago, after hearing the horn that signaled the end of shift, Calder threw his shovel down and began to make his way toward the prisoner caravan.

"Hey shit stain!" Dragna yelled. Calder had to shield his eyes to see the man approaching, his slender frame silhouetted by the setting sun, but he recognized the man's baritone immediately. This was the last thing he needed. Calder had mouthed off to Dragna during supper once and Dragna had targeted him ever since. He did his best to keep his distance, but Calder knew it was only a matter of time before the two of them came to blows.

"Piss off," Calder said, turning his back to the man. Calder heard Dragna's clomping foot falls get faster as he yelled, "Don't you turn your back to me!"

Calder ignored him, kept his steady pace toward the caravan. He couldn't see it yet, couldn't see the guards waiting with their crossbows, but he knew he wasn't far. If he could just get within their range of view he would be fine. Not even Dragna would risk taking a bolt through the heart.

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The back of Calder's neck prickled as Dragna's shadow darkened the ground beside him. Dragna clamped onto Calder's arm and he nearly lost his footing as Dragna spun him around mid-stride. Dragna's greasy hair was matted to his scalp, thick with sweat. His beard was patchy, his skin pock-marked with acne scars. "Don't turn your damned back to me, boy," Dragna spat. Flecks of brown phlegm splattered Calder's face.

"What is it you wanted?" Calder asked, trying to keep his anger at bay. Dragna had at least a head on him and half-again as much muscle, and if the iron grip he had on Calder's arm was any indication there wouldn't be much Calder could do to defend himself.

"I was tryin' to ask if you wanted to play dice with the boy's an' me," Dragna said. "I was startin' to think ya weren't so bad, but I guess I was wrong. You're still a disrespectful little shit."

"Just let me go Dragna. The guards will come looking soon." Calder failed to keep his voice from quavering. He was right, the guards would eventually come looking for them. But not before Dragna beat him to a bloody pulp. All Calder could do was hope someone else came along and intervened or make the first move.

Calder felt one of his knuckles break as his fist cracked into Dragna's jaw. The grip on his arm loosened, and Calder stomped down hard on Dragna's ankle, spinning away as he did. Dragna howled with pain and rage, cursing and swiping for Calder, trying to grab hold of him again. Calder sprinted in the direction of the caravan. He was about to cry out for help when something slammed into his back and sent him sprawling forward. He landed face down, blood-churned mud filling his nose and mouth. He tried to lift his head, to spit it out and take a breath, but Dragna shoved his head back down into the slop.

"You shhtupid son of a bitch," Dragna slurred. Calder clawed at Dragna's hand, gasped for air but none came. Nothing but blood and filth and pain. He pushed with all his might, kicked and thrashed, but he couldn't break free. He heard Dragna's ragged breathing, heard a ringing in his ears. He felt the strength start to leave him, his thoughts starting to slow down. He was going to die here in the muck among the rotting dead.

The next thing Calder knew he was laying on his side retching and sucking in mouthfuls of humid air. He wiped mud from his eyes, drool and bile from his mouth. He rolled onto his back and clutched his heaving stomach to see Byron standing above him, reaching out a hand. "Easy now, boy. I've got you."

Calder took the man’s rough hand and was jerked to his feet. His head pounding, he struggled to keep his balance as Byron hurried him along. "Come now. We've gotta get moving."

"Dragna..." Calder said. "What..."

"He's dead, boy. Poor bastard had his skull caved in with a shovel. Hate to be the one who did it, catch my meaning?"

Calder nodded. "Good," Byron said. "Now let's get to the caravan. Got a nice cozy cot callin' my name. And you need a bath, you smell like ass.”

That night, they had their first conversation.

They had both been mercenaries, their bands hired to fight for the same side in the war between the kingdoms of Brismore and Urmalia; the losing side. When Brismore surrendered, any remaining soldiers were either executed, conscripted or imprisoned, mercenary or no. Calder didn't know what happened to the rest of his band, but if any of them had survived they weren't locked up in here with him.

Recognized for their skill on the battlefield, Byron's band were all recruited by the Urmalian army. Byron refused. His blade was his own, coin his only master. He would not be a pawn for a king to move about the board as he saw fit.

And so, here Calder and Byron found themselves. Living out their days together in an Urmalian prison.

”Byron?” Calder asked, rising to stand beside the older man who moving his hands back and forth through the small sun beams.

“Hm?”

”If this place were to crumble, assuming it was around us and not on us, where would you go?”

Byron kept moving his hands but his eyes went somewhere else, unfocused. After a few moments, he spoke.

“I’d go home to Owncree, I think. It’s a small village and it’s not in the domain of any king, least it wasn’t when I left. It was a nice quiet life, something I didn’t want when I was a lad like you, but now I think it’d suit me.”

”Do you have family there?”

”A daughter,” Byron said with a sad smile. “Though she never knew me. She was only a year old when I set off to be a mercenary. Gods, she’d be past 30 now. I said she’s in Owncree like she never would have left and made a life for herself.”

“Maybe she liked the sound of a quiet life from the start,” Calder said.

Byron smiled, his usual mirthful smile now. “Maybe, boy. Perhaps one day I’ll find out, if she’ll have me.” Byron’s eyes got misty and he turned his head away just slightly.

Calder smiled, a lump forming in his throat, and lay a hand on Byron’s sturdy shoulder. “She’d love to meet you, Byron.”

Byron patted Calder’s hand, nodding a few times and clearing his throat.

The stomping boots and jangling keys of the guard outside their cell stole the smile from Calder's face. Byron turned to him, his eyes bloodshot and his cheeks rosy.

"Hey, don't look so glum boy," Byron said. The steaks must be here!"