Newman made three loops around the hill looking for more bones or signs of which predator killed the runaways. All he found was sodden clothing blown off the hill by last night’s storm.
A couple of improvised bags had to be consolidated to keep small bones from leaking out. When everything was secure Newman shouldered the laundry bag and led them back toward camp.
He spent the hike composing an apology to Goldenrod.
***
The doorway of Autocrat Sharpquill’s tent was a small opening where the corner of one of the canvas walls was hooked up to open a wedge. It didn’t invite anyone without proper business to enter.
The teenager stooped to peek through. “My Lord Autocrat?” he said softly.
The Autocrat looked up from the table he was working at. “Yes? Ah, Sparrow. Come in.”
The boy ducked through. He took a smartphone and a laptop from a sack. “I’ve charged your batteries, milord.”
“Excellent.” He shoved some slates aside to make room, making a clatter as they bumped into others.
Sparrow put the gadgets down, nodded, and fled.
“Let’s see if they still work.” Sharpquill picked up his phone. It made the normal chimes as it booted up.
“Can’t see what you want that for,” said Lady Cinnamon. “Now this will be useful.” She opened the laptop and pressed the power button.
Sharpquill smiled. “Let’s see.”
When the phone was ready he opened the book reader app. Searching on ‘survival manual’ brought up seven books. Most showed the “0%” of ones bought on sale and downloaded but never read.
He handed the phone to Countess Fennel. “Your excellency, please go through these and see if there’s anything helpful for us.”
Cinnamon stacked up several slates and leaned one against them. She started typing the notes chalked on it.
***
Autocrat Sharpquill gave permission to bury the bones. They went next to the graves of the three suicides, against the bluff a bit downstream from the camp.
Wolfhead Alpha found the shovels and broke ground. Enough volunteers came forward they could dig in frantic bursts and trade off as they flagged.
The hunters rested, weary from forcing the pace through the woods. Goldenrod accepted Newman’s apology. She claimed she hadn’t imagined that level of danger.
A crowd grew a stone’s throw from the grave, all those too weak or tired to wield a shovel. Only those who’d done some work stood close enough to supervise the digging.
A tall white-haired man holding a worn Bible approached Wolfhead Alpha. “Good day. I’d like to say a few words, unless someone else . . . ?”
“No, Lord Pulpit, I’m glad you’re here. I’d meant to send for you but I was focused on—” He waved at the grave.
“Of course. I’ll begin when you’re done filling it back in.”
“Thank you.”
Some of the diggers were willing to go until they reached bedrock but at five feet the soil was wet enough they began to sink. Many hands hauled them out.
Newman stood and waved to his hunters. They lifted the bags of bones and carried them over. At the grave they paused.
“Just toss them in?” asked Beargut.
“No.” Newman handed his bag to a digger then scrambled down the side into the grave. The digger crouched down to hand over the bag. Newman placed it gently into the mud then reached for the next.
By the time all the bones were in the grave he’d sunk to his ankles in the mud. Strongarm and another Wolfhead reached down to pull him out. Newman wiggled his feet to keep the mud from pulling his shoes off.
Filling in the grave was quick. Only two men could stand in the hole to dig, but all four shovels could toss dirt back in.
As dirt mounded up the crowd closed in. Lord Pulpit began singing “Amazing Grace” with five older women. Some of the crowd joined in. More people were picking their way down the bluff toward the funeral. Two more hymns gave the late comers time to join the crowd.
The diggers and hunters had merged into the crowd, leaving the space around the grave empty. Lord Pulpit stood beside it. “The Gospel according to Matthew. The twenty-fifth chapter.”
The whole crowd heard him clearly.
“Then shall He say also unto them on the left hand, ‘Depart from Me, ye cursed, into everlasting fire prepared for the devil and his angels. For I hungered, and ye gave Me no meat; I was thirsty, and ye gave Me no drink; I was a stranger, and ye took Me not in; naked, and ye clothed Me not; sick and in prison, and ye visited Me not.’
“Then shall they also answer Him, saying, ‘Lord, when saw we Thee hungering or athirst or a stranger, or naked or sick or in prison, and did not minister unto Thee?’ Then shall He answer them, saying, ‘Verily I say unto you, inasmuch as ye did it not to one of the least of these, ye did it not to Me.’”
He closed the Bible. He hadn’t looked at it while reciting.
“When these five young men left camp I talked to others about it, but everyone was more interested in the other events of that day. As was I. When we heard of their deaths I realized I didn’t know their names.
“I asked dozens of people. They didn’t know their names. Even the royal guards who’d kept them at their labor couldn’t remember all their names. But I found some who’d supped with them and could tell me: Candlewax, Stonebridge, Pauldron, Cockleburr, and Sharpaxe.
“I asked what their mundane names were, that if we ever return to Earth their families might be informed of their fate. No one knew. I asked the Autocrat for the waivers they signed on arrival.” Pulpit waved toward the bluff.
Following the gesture Newman saw two men on the crest above the funeral. One was Master Sharpquill. King Estoc stood beside him, crown glinting in the sun.
“The waivers had been turned over to the court when other paper ran out. These young men carried away the last evidence of their identities. They are strangers now forever.
“They were the least of us.”
Lord Pulpit paused for his words to sink in. The crowd was more than half the population of the camp. Few from Court though.
“They were not the only ones conscripted to haul shit.”
A stir went through the crowd at the vulgarity in a sermon.
“Yes, shit. Every one of us shit in a bucket those poor boys hauled away. At first there were plenty of hands for the job. But we didn’t like our friends hauling shit. We found them better work. Apprenticeships. Guard duty. Food gathering.
“These five kept hauling shit. From dawn to dusk. No friends to talk to, no household to lay their head in. After all, they’re new. Why waste effort on making friends with someone new?”
Newman saw some flinching at that. A muscular black man nodded in agreement. Newman was surprised he didn’t recognize him. Blacks were rare enough in the Kingdom he thought he’d noticed all of them already. Then he realized it was King Ironhelm without his crown, in a yeoman tunic.
“These, the least of us, labored at the worst duty here, keeping us all healthy. They were not visited, not comforted, barely fed. We abandoned them. So they abandoned us. Would they have done so if they’d known the danger? Perhaps. Perhaps they’d rather die than haul everyone else’s shit one more day.
“Now they rest from their labors. We pray that they are at peace, gathered in Lord Jesus’s loving embrace.
“Now others are the least of us. Those whose names we do not know, for we look past them. Let us treat them as we would treat our Savior come among us.”
He opened the Bible again. “In the sweat of thy face shalt thou eat bread till thou return unto the ground, for out of it wast thou taken; for dust thou art, and unto dust shalt thou return.”
Then Lord Pulpit led them in the Lord’s Prayer and dismissed them. He led his choir in “Clouds of Witness” as they left.
Four Weeks After Arrival
The only challenger was King Ironhelm. The announcement from the throne that bouts would be fought “until o
ne champion yields or loses consciousness” had gotten rid of everyone seeking to get practice or impress a girl. The break with Kingdom tradition made the populace restive. Ironhelm saw a victory in the dueling ground as the only way to prevent a riot or even open warfare between the pro- and anti-Estoc factions.
They clanked their way onto opposite sides of the grounds. Count Dirk lifted the rope to let Ironhelm in. Was that a sign the officer in charge of martial activity favored the challenger? Or was that reading too much into it? Probably too much. He needed to stop brooding and focus on the fight.
A herald stood in the center. He bowed to the queens on their thrones, then turned to face the populace. “Ladies, lords, and commoners! Behold the tourney for right of sovereignty over the Kingdom! On my left, our reigning monarch, King Estoc, winner of eight championships in the Kingdom, fighting for the glory and honor of his consort, Queen Camellia!”
Cheers rang out from the court and populace, forcing him to pause. Ironhelm studied the crowd. The crown’s supporters were packed tightly on that side. His own side was silent, a few hissers quickly shushed by their neighbors.
When they quieted the herald resumed. “On my right, the visiting monarch of a Far Away Kingdom—” The official phrasing brought harsh chuckles from some. His home kingdom was now much farther away than a six hour drive. “—King Ironhelm, winner of nineteen championships and thrice king before, fighting for the glory and honor of his consort, Queen Dahlia!”
The other side cheered, and were met with hisses and boos. Ironhelm worried whether they would accept him if he won, then put it aside. Fighting distracted would guarantee a loss.
The revised protocol skipped the fighters standing side by side to salute the thrones. The courtiers negotiating it seemed to fear treachery. As the herald bowed himself out of the ropes Ironhelm saluted Estoc. The ruler returned it. Their squires fastened on their helms before ducking under the ropes in turn.
“Lay on!” cried Count Dirk.
Ironhelm took a few wary steps forward, studying his opponent. Estoc was younger, faster, and taller. He’d have to find a weakness to win, and he’d never watched the king fight before. A few knights had shared their observations, all variations on “Don’t leave any openings, he hits like lightning.”
Estoc hadn’t moved. Odd, his reputation said he’d be charging in. Ironhelm shifted left four paces. The king only pivoted to watch him.
Trying to provoke a response, Ironhelm rushed four steps forward, then hopped to the side. Estoc only raised his sword to guard position, then lowered it when the threat passed.
If the boy wants to wait, I can wait all day long, thought Ironhelm.
A gentle breeze stirred tent flaps and banners, drowning out the whispers of commoners asking for explanations of the standoff from their older friends.
Estoc let his shield and sword hang down, exposing his whole center. “What are we doing?” he asked quietly.
“What?” replied Ironhelm, watching his opponent for a sudden attack.
“This is stupid. Why are we doing this?”
“Your Majesty, this was your idea.”
“It was?” Estoc paused for thought. “It was. Huh. Well, it’s still stupid.”
Ironhelm kept his guard up in case this was a trick. “So now what?”
“Now I break the news to the ladies.” Estoc let his sword dangle from its wrist-strap and shield hang from the elbow loop. That freed both hands to remove his helm. He walked over to the edge of the dueling ground to address Queen Camellia in a low voice.
She smiled and laid her hand on his cheek.
Estoc slapped his helm on without fastening the chinstrap, gripped sword and shield, and charged at Ironhelm. “Die, you bastard!”
Ironhelm twirled left to dodge. His sword parried a blow sneaking around the edge of his shield.
The charge carried Estoc past. He stumbled to a halt. “That’s so strange. For a moment I hated you. Now I’m back to normal.”
Queen Camellia stood at the ropes. “Fight! Fight hard!” she yelled.
The helm shadowed Estoc’s face but the shock of realization showed in his body language, even through the heavy armor. “You! How could you?”
Ironhelm followed the logic. “Keep your helm on,” he ordered his fellow king.
Camellia turned to look behind her.
Autocrat Sharpquill came out from his place behind the thrones. “Your Majesties, this tournament must be fought to a conclusion or we will have no resolution of our disputes.”
Ironhelm turned to face his squires. “Marshals, knights, and squires! Find all the full helms you can. Place them on the courtiers.” Men ran to obey.
Queen Camellia tried to countermand the order but King Estoc endorsed it. Worried discussion among the populace grew loud.
The courtiers submitted to the helms. A few fled in shame. Others burst into apologies or explanations for their recent actions. Sharpquill said only, “That explains the confusion I’ve been feeling.”
The angriest was Lady Stitches, Queen Camellia’s chief lady-in-waiting. After taking off the helm she shouted into Camellia’s face, “You did that to me? After all I’ve done for you, all the sacrifices I’ve made, you made me a puppet? How could you?”
“Please. You’re no better than the others,” said Camellia. She turned her back.
Lady Stitches’ belt held everything needed to swiftly repair damaged garb. The scissors were sharp and needle-pointed. Stitches shoved them into Camellia’s neck. The queen collapsed soundlessly.
Guards knocked Stitches to the ground. She didn’t resist.
“Chiurgeon!” called Sharpquill. Panicked courtiers flocked around the queen’s body.
“I’m here, dammit. Let me through!”
“Make way for Lady Burnout,” ordered the Autocrat.
The chiurgeon’s examination was brief. “Went in between the second and third cervical vertebrae. Not a damn thing I could do for her, even if we were in my ER.” She looked up to see Estoc standing over her. “I’m sorry.”
She backed away to let the king embrace his wife’s body.
***
“All rise for His Majesty King Estoc.” The herald had managed to not say “Their Majesties” this time. The king sat in his throne, nervously glancing at the empty one still next to his. He waved everyone to their seats.
“Does Your Majesty wish to—”
“Just get on with it.”
The herald turned toward the populace. “Let the prisoner be brought forth!”
Four guards came in surrounding Lady Stitches.
Autocrat Sharpquill stepped forward. “Lady Stitches, you are charged with the intentional murder of Queen Camellia. How do you plead?”
The accused flashed a smile across the populace. “I will not plead with you. You are no judge, no prosecutor. There’s no police here. None of you have any right to put me on trial. As for my actions, I acted to defend myself from an attack worse than murder. I protected all of you as well. You should be thanking me, not imprisoning me.” She raised her chin and stared directly at the Autocrat as she finished her speech.
People in the crowd murmured to each other as he weighed his answer. “I have no nation’s laws to enforce. I don’t know how to run a criminal trial. I don’t know how dangerous Queen Camellia was. I don’t know how self-defense counts with magic. I don’t know where justice lies in this case.” He paused. The nobles and populace sat silently.
“You have certainly proved yourself unworthy of the titles you hold. Therefore you are stripped of your court barony, your grant of arms, and your award of arms.” He waved to the guards surrounding her. One pulled the circlet off her head, the other cut the cord of an elaborate medallion dangling from her neck.
Lady Stitches smirked victoriously. “So you don’t dare give me any real punishment. You admit I was right.”
Master Sharpquill’s face went red. “I do know that I’m tired of listening to your self-serving rationalizati
ons.”
He took three steps toward Stitches. “I sentence you to have your tongue cut out!”
A gasp went through the crowd. Stitches backed away, pressing her body against the guards behind her. King Estoc sat bolt upright on his throne. King Ironhelm leaned toward his queen as she whispered in his ear.
The guard who’d cut off the medallion let it fall to the grass. He swept the dagger he’d cut it with behind him to hide it, then tried to shove it back in the sheath, fumbling and letting it fall. He set his foot over it.
The Autocrat continued, “Sentence suspended on good behavior. If you hurt anyone, steal anything, say anything that pisses me off, then—” His hand reached for her face. The thumb and index finger snapped shut before her mouth.
Stitches cringed, both hands over her mouth.
Autocrat Sharpquill turned and walked back to the thrones. Over his shoulder he said, “The prisoner is dismissed.”
The guards stepped back. Stitches fled. The populace parted before her. She disappeared behind a tent.
Sharpquill looked at the herald and snapped his fingers. The functionary cried, “Are there any with business before this court?” A flyer went “cough-cough-cough” in a tree.
The herald turned toward the Autocrat. “Um, does he . . .”
Master Sharpquill glanced at King Estoc.
The shock on the king’s face had been replaced with fury.
“His Majesty has nothing to say.”
The herald bellowed, “This court is closed. All subjects are free to go about their business.” The populace fled. Estoc kept glaring at the Autocrat. The subject glared in return. Ironhelm grabbed Estoc’s shoulder and whispered in his ear. They left, surrounded by courtiers.
Sharpquill looked around. Only the minions charged with cleaning up were left. “Don’t let me get in your way, lads.” They watched silently as he walked away.
***
King Ironhelm steered Estoc toward the ‘visiting royals’ pavilion. The younger man was in too much shock to resist. Ironhelm just had to overcome his inertia.
The Lost War Page 10
