Page 33 of Reign

The knight climbed onto a wooden stump to address the recruits. Spreading his metal-clad arms wide, he chuckled. “Welcome to Cambas.”

The first thing that struck me about the encampment was the mud. Relentless rainfall and constant footfall had churned the grass into thick, boot-stealing slush.

“This is where you’ll sleep,” the knight continued. “It’s a tad overcrowded—some of you will have to rest under the stars.” He gestured toward a makeshift village of wedge-shaped tents. “The latrine is over there.” He pointed at a shallow trench where men openly squatted over a communal toilet. “And there’s a river nearby for bathing and washing your garments.”

The soldiers’ camp was far from a morale-boosting sight. Mud-splattered tents huddled close to the mass graves; the stench of decaying flesh mingled with the reek of the overflowing latrines. Hundreds of men lingered around a fading bonfire, fighting over scraps of food. I sighed, realizing that war wasn’t my only challenge—enduring life in this encampment would test me as well.

“Men trained in combat—swordsmen, archers, crossbowmen—report to the grand officer,” the knight instructed, gesturing toward a temporary armory.

“See you,” Fletcher said with a tip of his hat as he left with the other archers.

“Foot soldiers, your promised pottage and ale await in the camp,” the knight continued.

After a shaky sigh, Arthur turned and left, departing with nearly all the remaining men toward the bonfire where the food and drink were being served.

“Tradesmen, follow me,” the knight commanded, motioning for us to proceed.

Since I was pretending to be Finn, I guessed that included me.

Bash, a few others, and I fell in line, following the knight across precariously placed wooden planks that served as bridges over the waterlogged grass.

As we ventured deeper into the encampment, the living quarters became increasingly impressive. The knights resided in sturdier pavilion-style tents made from woven linen. Their bonfire, well-fed with fresh logs, crackled loudly, and the delicious aroma of food cooking over the flames remained untainted by the stench of sewage. At the heart of the camp, guarded by patrolling knights, stood four grand tents—far more luxurious than the humble cottage my family and I called home. Servants bustled about, hauling campaign-style furniture into the enormous structures, which were covered in what appeared to be leather sheathing. I peered inside, catching a glimpse of carpets being laid across the wooden planks and intricate tapestries being hung on the walls. The bedstead, large enough for two, was piled high with feather-stuffed coverlets, pillows, and an abundance of woolen blankets.

“That place looks fit for a king,” Bash remarked.

“Try a prince,” the knight called back over his metal-clad shoulder. “That’s the chamber of your commander, Prince Fitzroy Belfour.”

I rolled my eyes, certain the dashing prince wouldn’t even appreciate it.

Toward the farthest edge of the encampment, familiarity caught my eye. Oil-splattered aprons and the clamor of clanging metal stirred a sense of comfort—it felt like a little sliver of home had followed me here.

“These are the workshops,” the knight said. “Go on in, Redford’s been begging for more hands.” With a quick nod, he departed.

I ducked beneath the tent flap, nearly tripping over a bucket of charcoal propping up a splintered pole. Bash caught me by the arm, saving me from an embarrassing entrance.

Inside the makeshift smithy, around twenty men labored intently. One man, donned in a grime-streaked apron, picked up a bellows and pumped air into the fire to feed its hungry flames.

“Watch your backs!” another worker yelled, dunking a pair of tongs into a trough of water. Steam hissed as the metal met the icy liquid.

“Godwin! Don’t burn my new recruits,” snapped a fiery, redheaded man, his locks as wild as the glint in his eyes.

Godwin shot an irritated glare over his shoulder—a web of thick scars sprawled across his cheek, crawling toward his eye. I shuddered, unable to imagine what could’ve carved such thick and twisted marks into flesh.

“Redford Mason,” the redhead introduced himself, rubbing his calloused hands against a blackened rag. “But you can call me Red,” he added, tossing the filthy scrap onto a pile of soiled cloths in the corner.

Gesturing toward the workers, Red continued, “I’ve been given the honorable task of managing the craftsmen here at Cambas.” He stroked his wiry auburn beard while eyeing up the new recruits.

Eager to make a good impression, the men introduced themselves one by one.

“Sebastian Carpenter,” Bash said, extending his hand.

They shook firmly as my attention drifted to a nearby rack laden with tools—hammers, chisels, punches, and drifts, gleaming in the firelight.

“Is this a pritchel?” I asked, lifting the hardy rod and tapping my finger against its pointed tip.

Red nodded, a smug grin tugging at his lips.

“I begged my father to let me journey to the Walled City to buy one of these,” I said. “But he never agreed.”