King Estoc leaned forward. “You’re welcome. My authority was used to force a teenage boy to beat himself bloody. I’m glad you’re happy about it.”
“Duke Stonefist has taken on a difficult job. There’s no easy answers when we have people taking food from each other’s mouths.”
“Fine. It’s his job. Well, I’m here to tell you my job is expiring. There’s three weeks left in the reign. Then I’m going to go cut down trees and chase deer and someone else can take responsibility for all this horrible shit.”
Sharpquill’s shoulders hunched up. His neck tensed. He clamped his jaws shut to keep his initial response from escaping.
Cinnamon spoke first, her voice gentle. “Your Majesty, we need you.” Her hand slid up Sharpquill’s back, stroking, trying to soothe him, and failing.
“You need someone. It doesn’t have to be me,” snarled the king.
He’d found diplomatic words now. “Your Majesty, we don’t have the time to spare for a tournament. We’re too close to the edge. It would mean people missing days of meals. And if they’re too weak to hunt or gather we won’t be able to catch back up.”
“Bullshit. Just say, ‘We’re having a tourney today.’ Line them up. We’ll be done in a few hours.”
Master Sharpquill leaned into Cinnamon. He drew calm from her. “That’s fine for those few who’ve been practicing their skills. For everyone who put down their tourney weapon to do the work that’s been keeping us alive. . .” His voice grew harsher on the last phrase. “They would be excluded from any chance of winning. What would that do to morale? And to the legitimacy of the winner?”
That made the king think a moment. “Okay. There’s three weeks left in the reign. That’s time to prepare. We can have tourney and coronation the same day.”
“For each contender, we’d lose three weeks of their work. Plus the work of the artisans repairing armor and consorts and friends cheering them on. We can’t spare that.”
Frustration was clear on Estoc’s face. “How many contenders do you think there’ll be?”
Lady Cinnamon’s grip on his arm kept the Autocrat in his seat. He said, “Your Majesty,” in a tone which made it a euphemism for ‘you idiot.’ “This is not a contest for a ceremonial position in a hobby group. This is the most powerful office in a life-or-death situation. Who wins that tourney will decide who lives or dies here. Everyone will show up. Some will be there just to keep someone else from winning. And everyone will be there to watch.”
Estoc laughed. “Most powerful? Then why am I asking you to escape from it?”
“Because you can fire me. Please do. You know exactly how relieved I’d be.”
Lady Cinnamon said, “Gentlemen. Please. This is being too heated. Let’s take a moment for some slow deep breaths.”
Neither man did the breathing exercise. They did stay silent and wait for their adrenaline levels to recede.
King Estoc said quietly, “I’m not supposed to do this forever.”
“It’s not forever. We’re in a tight spot because we’ve used up the closest food sources. There’s more out there for us to find. When we have enough for a surplus to give people two days off a week we’ll schedule the tourney. And we can have the coronation the same day. Is that acceptable, Your Majesty?”
“I guess.” Estoc waved his hands then dropped them to the table. Even more softly he said, “I’m not supposed to do this alone.” He started to cry.
Autocrat Sharpquill felt ashamed. The man had watched his wife killed before his eyes a month ago.
Cinnamon went around the table and hugged Estoc. Sharpquill followed and put a hand on his monarch’s shoulder. It heaved with sobs.
***
“The birds are quiet,” said Newman.
“So?” replied Bodkin.
“There's probably a predator about. Keep your eyes open.”
The six hunters drifted into a horseshoe formation as the flankers kept looking behind themselves. The woods were dense enough that something fifty yards away might only be seen for a moment.
They didn’t need to look that hard. When they came upon a clearing the predators were on the far side of it.
“Holy shit! Orcs!” cried Deadeye.
“Calm down,” said Bodkin. “We don't know anything about them. Ugly doesn’t mean they're evil.”
Newman studied the strangers. They were humanoid but not human. Their heights were all in the normal human range but the shoulders were wider than a gorilla’s. Thick arm muscles flexed as they leveled wood spears at the hunters. Some carried two or three spears. The tips were bare wood scraped to points. As the strangers hooted and grunted at each other their lips drew back to reveal shark-like triangular teeth and pointed tusks.
Newman heard the other hunters muttering. The green skin and lack of hair or clothes bothered them more than evidence the strangers were pure carnivores.
“We know they’re all male,” he said.
“So probably a hunting party,” said Bodkin.
“Yeah. That's who’s been leaving those piles of deer bones around.”
The humanoids were discussing the hunting party, with lots of yells and pointing. Shocked to see a new species in the woods, or just naturally loud talkers? wondered Newman.
“We should report this,” said Leadsmith, edging back into the woods.
Deadeye snapped, “We can’t lead them back to the camp.”
“Let’s see if they want to talk,” said Bodkin. “If we can trade with them we'll be better off.”
“Trade what?” said Deadeye.
“Tools,” said Newman. “They don’t even have stone spearheads. They'd probably swap a ton of food for metal points.”
The discussion on the far side ended with all of the strangers turning to face the hunters. The tallest of them yelled something. Five spears flew across the clearing.
“Shit! Down!” Newman drew an arrow from his quiver before going flat on the ground. The rest dropped too except for Deadeye. He hopped left and right, dodging the spears.
A couple flew close by him. The others stuck in the ground behind the hunters.
Newman rose to a kneeling stance with an arrow already nocked. He sent it into the chest of the tall one then dropped as more spears flew. As soon as they hit he put a second arrow a few inches from the first.
The tallest stranger tugged at one of the arrows sticking in his chest, snarled, then waved his companions into the woods ahead of him. Their complexion quickly blended with the leaves.
“Anyone hurt?” asked Bodkin.
“Got my arm,” gasped Leadsmith.
Newman stood sentry while the rest performed first aid. He kept watch behind the whole way back to camp.
***
Newman and Deadeye went to the Autocrat to report the encounter. He cut them off and dispatched a runner. “Wait until the Knight Marshal, Count Dirk, gets here. He’s in charge of fighting.”
A minute later Dirk arrived, asking, “What’s up?” The count had come from weapons practice. He still wore most of his armor. Sweat stained the thick cloth underneath.
“Contact with hostile locals,” said Newman.
Dirk snapped from relaxed and tired to laser-focused. “What kind? Civilized?”
Newman stood straighter. “No, sir. No clothes, no metal or stone tools.”
“But you think they’re intelligent?”
“They used wooden spears, no stone points, and spoke to each other before attacking us.”
“Casualties?”
“One wounded on each side.”
Dirk sat on the Autocrat’s table. The edge of his leg armor cut a notch in the smooth wood. “Okay, give me the whole story. From first sighting.”
Deadeye interpolated colorful details into Newman’s dry report.
“Green skin, tusks, broad muscular shoulders . . . are we talking orcs?” asked Count Dirk.
“Totally orcs,” said Deadeye.
“Of course. We have dragons, so of course the
re’s orcs.”
Autocrat Sharpquill asked, “Are we at war, then?”
Dirk shook his head. “No. Young hot-heads attacking a rival hunting party isn’t war. We need to find their home village and talk to the elders. Demarcate hunting territories, maybe do some trade.”
He thought a moment longer. “For now, I’ll attach a fighter to each hunting party for security. We’ll send out patrols to look for the village. And make sure the gate guards are taking the job seriously.”
“I presume you want your fighters released from hauling wood and water and shit?” asked the Autocrat.
“No, it’s good exercise for them,” said Dirk with a grin. “But you’ll have to schedule around their patrols.”
“Just give me twelve hours’ notice.” The Autocrat turned to his laptop to check the spreadsheet for workers.
Count Dirk waved the hunters ahead of him as they left. “Newman, you don’t seem very bothered by finding monsters here.”
“I guess I’m more comfortable with strangers trying to kill me in the wild than dealing with protocol for nobility. Your excellency.”
***
The fish was delicious. Even with no spices to work with Master Sweetbread had crisped the pink flesh to add a contrast to the base taste.
“Where’d you find this?” asked Pernach. He still had soot on his face. He and Pinecone had skipped bathing when they smelled dinner cooking.
Newman finished chewing his bite. Just having some protein that wasn’t venison would make this a good meal. Sweetbread made it something to savor. “It found me. Lord Badelaire grabbed me after the hunting allocation and offered a trade.”
“How’d he catch them?” Shellbutton wiped up some juice with a bit of vineroot.
Mistress Tightseam answered, “He has a rod and reel. I’ve seen him on the riverbank.”
“Yes, he’s out there every day,” confirmed Goldenrod.
Sweetbread slid the last bit of fish onto a plate. He put the frying pan aside to cool and sat down with his family. “Pity he can’t bring in more. This probably has nutrients we’re not getting elsewhere.”
“We should make some nets. That would catch more.” Goldenrod looked at the piece of fish on her fork, counting to ten before eating.
Pinecone laughed. “Who are you going to kill to get the rope? Cuirass and Pliers broke each other’s noses over a twenty foot piece.”
“What about the stuff you made from tree bark?”
“Master Chisel’s replaced most of it,” said Sweetbread. “It stretches in the rain.”
“Hmmm.”
Pernach shared the tale of someone who’d tried to make rope but had been sent back to food gathering by the Autocrat after four failed attempts.
“Weirs!”
The rest of the table looked at each other to check if anyone understood Goldenrod’s outburst.
Newman felt obliged to provide a straight line. “What?”
“Fishing weirs. They’re like a dam that catches fish.” She looked around and found no support. “They’re good at catching fish. It was in the Magna Carta. The Barons made King John tear down his weirs. Cost him a lot of revenue.”
“We can’t dam that river. It’s too big,” said Sweetbread.
“We don’t need to. Imagine . . . oh, a basket in the river. Water goes through, minnows go through, eating fish get caught.”
“So a wicker-work dam,” said Tightseam.
“Yes.”
Pernach chuckled. “The cuttlefish will love that. They’ll eat half the construction crew.”
“The cuttlefish haven’t killed anyone yet,” snapped Goldenrod. Though like most people she’d switched from bathing in the river to a stream.
Diplomacy was called for. Newman said, “We’d just need some spearmen guarding the builders.”
“You’d think they’d have learned to avoid us by now,” said Pinecone.
Sweetbread shrugged. “The six foot long ones are just as stupid as the six inch ones at home.”
“Yeah, but octopi are smart. They should be smart as an octopus.”
“Wait until we get to the ocean. Imagine smart octopi the size of a football field.” Newman grinned at the shivers he caused.
Goldenrod didn’t shiver. She was thinking.
***
Soap making used ordinary kitchen pots and a cookfire. Redinkle and Shellbutton did their work in House Applesmile’s kitchen, maneuvering around the meal schedule.
That made it easy for Autocrat Sharpquill to find them.
They started at his, “Good morning, ladies.”
Redinkle’s stomach twisted when she saw the look on his face. “Good day, my lord.”
Shellbutton just offered a nervous curtsy.
“I’ve heard about your work,” said the Autocrat. “I admire your ingenuity. You’ll both receive crafting awards when we have the leisure for such things.”
His pause seemed to demand a response.
Redinkle offered, “Thank you, my lord.”
“Yes. It’s very clever. But we can’t eat it. Can’t drink it. And the lard you’re using could have gone into meals. We need those calories. We need your labor producing food, not soap. I formally order you to stop making soap and return to productive labor. You’ll be assigned duties if you can’t find any.”
“Just throw this away?” Redinkle gestured at the steaming pots.
The Autocrat relented. “You may finish this batch. But no more. Understood?”
“Yes, my lord.”
Once he was gone Shellbutton demanded, “Why did you let him push us around like that? We should fight back.”
“We will.” Redinkle smiled. “We’ll get help.”
When the finished batch was decanted into another crock the two women took it to the Chiurgeon’s tent.
“Lady Burnout, we have the soap you wanted.”
“Good. This should last me about a week.”
“We can’t make you any more. Master Sharpquill ordered us to stop.”
“He what?”
When that was explained Redinkle and Shellbutton went to the silver smith’s shop.
“Mistress Filigree? We won’t be able to deliver that soap to you.”
The next stop was an elaborate pavilion next to the Royal one.
“Duchess Roseblossom, we most humbly apologize . . .”
***
“Newman! Hey, Newman!”
The sound of someone crashing through branches was almost louder than the shouts.
Newman called, “Over here!”
Bodkin stumbled through the trees. He’d been running hard. Sweat stained his shirt’s chest down to the belly button. “Something grabbed (pant) Crowfeather. (pant) You’ve got to (pant) help find him.”
“Grabbed? By what? Orcs?”
“Dunno. Just heard him yell.”
“Right.” Newman whistled his team back to him. “Let’s go.”
It was almost a mile to the site. A couple of Newman’s men fell behind. He just told them not to let themselves be snatched next and followed Bodkin.
“Here.” Bodkin pointed to several hunters standing around. Then he bent over and vomited, panting with exhaustion.
“What happened?” said Newman.
“Dunno.” The guy in the striped tunic was looking in every direction at once and standing close to his buddies. “I mean, he yelled for help. When we got here we heard him being dragged away.”
So much for getting a useful briefing.
“Fine. We’re going after him.” Newman raised his voice. “This could be an attempt to lure us into an ambush. We need to watch for anything waiting for us. Deadeye, Borzhoi, watch up in the trees. Husky, Beargut, check for stuff hiding in the bushes. Sing out if there’s anything suspicious. I’m going to be head down following the trail. Move out.”
The trail wasn’t hard to follow. Crowfeather had dragged his feet, making lines in the leaves and mold. Two orcs were pulling him along. The bare feet had four toes a
nd a more squared-off heel than human feet.
Newman kept at a trot. The other hunters mostly straggled behind him. Crashing noises said a few were keeping up to his sides, forcing their way through dense growth the orcs had avoided.
After half a mile the trail went sideways for a few yards. Crowfeather must have tried to get away. Drying red blood stained a tree trunk. Only orc footprints led away, but one set was deeper. The human was being carried.
More red blood had dripped to the left of the footprints. Newman pressed on, ignoring the alarmed conversation behind him.
The blood kept spotting the forest floor. A scratch should have clotted quickly. Newman hoped it was just a scalp wound, not something more severe.
The same orc was still carrying Crowfeather when the trail reached the bank of North Creek, a mile from the escape attempt. Newman waded across carefully. It was full of stones that could break an ankle or just tip him into the water.
The far bank had no tracks, only some depressions that might be old orc footprints washed by rain.
Newman looked at the men lining the other bank. “Deadeye, go downstream a hundred yards and look for tracks. Bring two men to guard you. You and you, come with me.”
Wading a hundred yards upstream through the cold water left Newman’s feet numb. He found no trace of Crowfeather or his captors. He recrossed and walked to where they’d emerged from the woods.
Deadeye was waiting with the others. “Find anything?” he asked. “I struck out.”
Newman shook his head. “Then we’ve lost him.”
“You can’t give up!” said Striped-shirt.
“We don’t know where to look.”
“So we split up!”
Newman looked around. “There’s eight of us here. More of us are straggling through the woods or stopped to catch their breath. We’re already so split up we could have lost someone else to the orcs and not know it. We can’t spread out more.”
“He’s my friend! I’m not going to stop. I’ll go find him myself.” Striped-shirt was almost incoherent with anger.
“No.”
“How are you going to stop me?”
The Lost War Page 13
