The Lost War

by Karl K Gallagher

  “I can’t ignite dirt.” Redinkle paced around the edge of the mound.

  “It’s mostly wood. The dirt is to keep air out so it smolders instead of burns.” He crouched, put a hand against the dirt, slid a few feet to the right, and checked again. “Here’s a cold spot.”

  Redinkle pushed her fingers through the layer of dirt and leaves. When she touched split wood she concentrated for a moment. Flames flared from the hole as she yanked her fingers out.

  Pernach tossed a shovelful of dirt on the hole. “Perfect. Now I don’t have to try venting it.”

  She was kneeling next to the mound. “I might have made ash of that piece.”

  He shrugged. “I’m always going to lose some of it. This is just a matter of balancing the burn. Gotta keep it between wood and ash.”

  “Looks like you’re getting a lot of ash.” The floor of the clearing was mostly grey.

  “Not that much. The ash stays here. Unburnt wood goes into the next mound. We rake out the charcoal. The dirt and ash goes on top of the next mound.”

  Pernach waved at the remains of his previous burn. Flecks of charcoal too little to bother picking up dotted the dirt. Lines from the rake still showed.

  “The ash from the cookfires all goes into the dirt too.” Redinkle frowned.

  “Yeah.”

  “I might have to get a pot and burn some wood to get clean ash.”

  “If that’s what you want, talk to Master Forge. He has a metal box for his furnace. What do you need the ash for?”

  “If I mix it with meat drippings I can make soap.”

  “Is that aimed at me? I swear I’ve been scrubbing hard in the river.”

  Redinkle kissed him. “And it’s working. I want it for me. I miss being clean.”

  ***

  Two royal guards strolled down the lane past the chiurgeon’s tent. They didn’t seem to be going anywhere in particular. Constable thought they were walking for the joy of seeing everyone else get out of their way.

  Every day the Court was more like the dealers and punks he used to arrest. The two guards walked liked thugs newly beaten into a gang and wanting to show off their colors. Constable trailed behind them, waiting for the trouble to start. He’d have to intervene fast if the guards drew their swords. The taller guard carried a wooden tourney sword—unlikely to kill with a single blow unless it hit the head. The other carried a rapier. The tip gleamed. It was newly sharpened. That could be lethal with one thrust.

  A young boy, barely into his teens, crossed the lane without looking around. The short guard, Ranseur, ran forward, slamming his shoulder into the boy’s side, flattening him.

  “Watch where you’re going,” snarled the guard.

  The victim—Constable recognized him as Sparrow—rolled onto his back and sat up. “What?” He pulled a pair of earbuds out of his ears.

  “You’re a clumsy fool. You need to stay out of our way.”

  Constable saw a crowd gathering. More witnesses, good. He just needed them to have the nerve to testify.

  “You hit me,” complained the boy.

  “Get up.” The other guard, Bardiche, pulled the boy to his feet.

  “Now apologize,” said Ranseur.

  In normal times Constable would have intervened already. Now he wanted it to escalate to a crime so blatant Their Majesties would have to admit their royal guard was running wild. He kept watching.

  “Apologize for what?” stammered Sparrow.

  “Apologize for being a stupid, ugly, fool who got in my way.” Ranseur poked the boy in the chest.

  Not, alas, hard enough to be a felony.

  “Hey, he has music playing!” Bardiche grabbed the earbuds from the boy’s hand. The cord pulled an iPod out of his sleeve. The guard grabbed it. “It still has charge. It’s fully charged!”

  “Give that back!” Sparrow’s attempt to retrieve his gadget was blocked by Ranseur.

  “You have batteries? Where are you hiding them? All batteries were confiscated.”

  “I don’t have a battery, just my iPod. Give it back!”

  Ranseur grabbed the boy’s chin and pulled him into a nose-to-nose confrontation. “Bullshit. Nothing stays fully charged for three weeks. Where’s your juice?”

  The boy used both hands to pry the guard’s grip off. “Leave me alone!”

  The guard pulled his arm free and swung it around for a solid face slap.

  His target just squawked.

  “His music sucks.” Bardiche had an earbud in. He scrolled through the gadget’s list.

  “Let go!” Sparrow shoved against Ranseur’s chest.

  The short guard grunted, stiffened, and fell onto his back.

  “Hey, what did you do to him?” Bardiche dropped the iPod in the dirt. He grabbed the boy’s arm and pulled him around.

  This time Constable saw bright white sparks as the boy’s hand reached for the guard’s chest, accompanied by a popping sound.

  The second one fell prone.

  The boy stood still, staring at his hands.

  Six strides took Constable to the prone guards. The first one to go down was awake, moaning in pain.

  “Don’t hurt me,” said Sparrow.

  Constable lowered the head of his mace of office to rest on his boot toe. “I’m not mad at you, son.”

  He raised his voice. He needed to put the right story in the witness’s minds, before somebody gave them another one. “You’re the victim here. I saw them assault you and steal your property. I just want to know how it happened.”

  “I—I don’t know.”

  A friendly smile was Constable’s favorite approach now. Be a friend, don’t rush him, let the silence push him into talking.

  Except there wasn’t silence. The crowd was jabbering, witnesses telling the story to new arrivals attracted by the commotion. There was one arrival he was glad to see.

  “Where are the casualties?” demanded Lady Burnout. She pushed through the crowd, emerging next to Constable.

  “They’ll be fine,” said Constable.

  The two royal guards were acting more hung-over than injured now.

  “What happened?” she asked.

  Constable said, “I have a theory.” He glared at Sparrow.

  “I didn’t do anything! I didn’t hit them, I just touched them!”

  The lawman stepped forward, grabbing the teenager’s upper arms. “I don’t believe you. You set it up with your two friends. They’re faking it. Just a big practical joke. I don’t think it’s funny.” He shook Sparrow in rhythm with his words.

  The boy’s hands on his chest were gentle. The electrical shock wasn’t.

  Lady Burnout tried to catch Constable as he fell. He was too heavy. She managed to turn him to land on his side instead of the back of his head.

  “Augh,” he said.

  “What did you do to him?” snarled Lady Burnout at the boy.

  “I didn’t do it!”

  Constable recovered faster than the royal guards. “It’s all right, son. I apologize. I wanted to test you. You have a strong gift. You just need to learn to use it on purpose instead of in a panic.”

  Sparrow stared at him in confusion. “What gift?”

  “You brought the lightning, lad. Shocked me. And them. You can be gentle with it, that’s why your gadget has power. Go home. Think about it. Test what you can do. Go.”

  A by-stander handed the boy his iPod. He vanished among the tents.

  “Lightning?” asked Lady Burnout in a skeptical tone.

  “Electricity,” answered Constable. “Felt just like the taser hit I took in training.”

  “Damn fool thing to do with the shape your heart is in.”

  With her help he stood up. “Weren’t you wishing for a defibrillator? I found you one. He’ll just need to train up.”

  She snorted. “That’s what, the third one now?”

  “The third we’ve noticed, aye. More useful than the girl who makes birds fly in little circles.”

  Three
Weeks After Arrival

  Shellbutton passed out bits of baked vineroot as the members of House Applesmile dressed. No matter how hungry they were at dinner they’d learned to save some for morning so they wouldn’t have to work on an empty belly.

  “Mandatory populace meeting! All subjects report to court at once! Mandatory populace meeting!” The bellower continued as he walked down the lane, barely audible through the tent wall.

  Pinecone asked, “What the hell?”

  “I don’t know,” answered Sweetbread. “Get your shoes on so we can go find out.”

  Newman hefted his bow. “Should I leave this here? I want to head out for a hunt when this thing is over.”

  “Bring it. There’ll be plenty of swords there.”

  House Applesmile found themselves stuck behind the Wolfheads. The fighters weren’t marching in step but they walked in formation, making it clear they were a unit.

  Wolfhead Alpha drifted back until he walked next to Master Sweetbread. “Did you talk to him?”

  “Yes. Found him quite sane and sensible for a heavy fighter.”

  “What did he say about how the Court’s acting?”

  “Not much. But he’s unhappy about it. Being a guest here limits what he can say.”

  “Guest, hell,” muttered Alpha. “We’re all permanent residents.”

  “If we have wide support he’ll back us, I’m sure of it. I’ll talk to more household heads tonight. Can you sound out the knights? Two or three would be enough.”

  “Yes.” Wolfhead Alpha would have said more but they’d arrived.

  The lawn in front of the Court pavilion was packed with people. A few were trickling in, urged on by a royal guard. One man was rubbing his arm.

  A herald boomed, “Court shall commence when all are in attendance.”

  There was thrashing and bumping going on behind them. A man shouted, “Dammit, I was on watch all night, I deserve some sleep! Ow!”

  He staggered out of his tent, followed by two royal guards. He joined the crowd without further fuss.

  More noise made it clear the royal guards were searching every tent. They found two more night workers and a woman who couldn’t walk unassisted. She was carried to Court in a chair.

  The monarchs took their seats. Newman noticed the visiting monarchs, Ironhelm and Dahlia, had been shifted to the edge of the pavilion. The space around the ruling monarchs King Estoc and Queen Camellia was filled with gaudy courtiers and half-armored knights.

  There was none of the usual ceremony. Autocrat Sharpquill stood forward and reeled off six names to present themselves. Only Thistle the food thief stood.

  “I recognize them,” said Pernach. “It’s all the guys on the shit-hauling detail.”

  “Thistle! Where are your co-workers?” demanded the Autocrat.

  “I don’t know. They don’t talk to me.”

  Sharpquill’s sternest glare didn’t elicit more. He waved Thistle back down. “Does anyone know where Cockleburr is?”

  A young woman, plain of face and garb, timidly raised her hand.

  “Speak, lass,” ordered the Autocrat.

  She stood. “I don’t know about Cockleburr. But last night Sharpaxe told me he and some friends were going off to start a camp of their own. He invited me along but I’m afraid of the woods.”

  “I’m surprised it took so long,” muttered Pernach. Pinecone nodded.

  Under pressure from the Autocrat others confessed to seeing the five ‘sanitation workers’ leave. When the night shift gate guards confirmed seeing the departure the Autocrat snarled, “And you let them?”

  “Nobody said not to,” said one guard, a Wolfhead named Whippet.

  “I thought we were there to keep dangerous stuff out,” protested the other.

  Some people in the crowd laughed.

  Master Sharpquill pivoted to face the center of the crowd. “Anybody who thinks this is funny best stop using the privies. Keeping them clean and empty is the only thing between us and a dysentery epidemic. If that happens we’re likely finished. We’re still partly living off food we brought with us. If half our people are down sick and the rest tending them we’ll starve.”

  The crowd was silent now.

  “Sanitation duty is important. Workers have been evading it by transferring to other jobs. I’m switching them back.” The Autocrat pulled a rolled-up paper from his sleeve.

  Pernach and Pinecone were the first names called.

  Master Forge popped to his feet. “My lord Autocrat, I cannot work steel by burning wood. I need charcoal. Those two are the only two making it.”

  “Very well.” The next two names Sharpquill read produced an explanation from Master Chisel of how the stakes and fittings carved by them were essential for freeing up metal ones for Master Forge to turn into the tools they needed.

  So it went with the rest of the Autocrat’s list. Every man escaping the privy detail had found a noble protector.

  “Dammit, somebody has to do the work,” said the exasperated Autocrat.

  A voice from the crowd called, “Put the fighters to work. All that standing around playing sentry is a waste of time.”

  “Mine are working,” said Wolfhead Alpha. His voice projected over the crowd without effort. “They’re hauling water up the bluff and hunting deer on top of guarding the wall.”

  Pernach shouted, “Have the royal guard clean the privies. They’ve watched it done every day, they know how.”

  The monarchs had been watching without speaking, blessing the Autocrat’s actions by their presence without interfering, as was traditional. Now Queen Camellia spoke. “Our Guard is needed to maintain security and order. They cannot be spared for menial tasks.”

  On their thrones to the side King Ironhelm and Queen Dahlia gazed at her in astonishment. No one gathered around Estoc and Camellia reacted at all.

  Autocrat Sharpquill fixed his eyes on Wolfhead Alpha. “The water hauling is appreciated. For the hunting—how many near-deer have the Wolfheads caught?”

  “One. They’re still learning the trade.”

  “Indeed. While Newman Greenhorn comes home early every afternoon because he and his companions can only carry so much meat. I hereby declare the Wolfhead hunters apprentices of Newman Greenhorn, to be his load bearers until he declares them fit to hunt on their own.”

  Newman’s attempt to work out the implications of that was shattered by Wolfhead Alpha’s bellow.

  “Who are you to give us orders!”

  Sharpquill was too astonished to respond.

  Master Sweetbread muttered, “Dammit, we talked about this, you promised to wait.”

  “He is my delegate, issuing orders on my behalf,” said King Estoc. “The orders he gave you carry my authority.”

  “Your authority is on Earth!” retorted Wolfhead Alpha. “There’s nothing giving you authority here.”

  The populace all shouted at this. Some declaring his statement treason, rebellion, or some other crime. Many others agreeing, claiming the Crown wasn’t valid or had exceeded its authority. Even some of the courtiers shouted back, though Newman couldn’t make out what they were saying through the roar.

  No one had the nerve to confront Wolfhead Alpha, but people were arguing in the crowd. Some started shoving.

  King Estoc rose from his throne and walked into the crowd, lowering the noise as people turned to watch him.

  “Silence!” he commanded.

  Most obeyed from long habit.

  “If the Spring Crown Tourney isn’t considered valid by all, then we will have a new tourney. A week from today. This will settle the rule of us all. Until then, follow the Autocrat’s orders.”

  He stalked back to his throne.

  The announcement quieted the crowd more thoroughly than the command for silence had. No one seemed to be sure how to respond. The exception was Queen Camellia, who bore a smug smile.

  Sharpquill’s brief horrified look—understandable to anyone who’d ever planned a tourney on less tha
n three months’ notice—was replaced by his usual dour expression. He returned to the initial purpose of the meeting.

  “A schedule will be posted for sanitation work. All fit young men not needed on more important work, such as hunters, will have the duty one day a week. You may trade shifts as long as the work gets done.”

  There were murmurs but no actual objections. The Autocrat went on to list some other task assignments.

  “That’s an improvement,” said Pernach.

  Pinecone snapped, “How is us hauling shit again an improvement?”

  “If there’s fighters on the detail the royal guards won’t be so free with their sticks. They were appointed for sucking up to Camellia, not fighting skill, so most of the fighters can kick their ass.”

  They broke off the conversation as Wolfhead Alpha approached with half a dozen men. “Master Greenhorn,” he said with a touch of sarcasm. “Here are your new apprentices.”

  Newman had no idea how to handle apprentices, so he fell back on old habits. “Welcome. Get your gear, everything you need for a full day in the woods, and meet me outside the gate in twenty minutes.”

  They responded with a mix of nods and “ayes.”

  He pointed toward the Wolfhead encampment. “Move!”

  They departed at a brisk walk.

  Wolfhead Alpha gave Newman an approving nod before letting Master Sweetbread drag him off for a private chat.

  Goldenrod whispered in Newman’s ear. “Should I offer congratulations or condolences?”

  “I’ll let you know when I get back tonight.”

  ***

  The Wolfheads were chatting with Beargut and Deadeye.

  “Yeah, all he lets me do is carry the bodies,” said Beargut. “But I get a cut of the meat. And he always gets some meat. Beats hanging around the common pavilion waiting to see what the Autocrat doles out.”

  Borzhoi noticed Newman approaching. “Good morning!”

  “Morning,” said Newman. “Form line!”

  The Wolfheads formed a line off Borzhoi’s left. Deadeye and Beargut took places at the end.