“Can I try one?” asked Pinecone from across the clearing. It was his turn to tend the charcoal mound.
She underhanded the strip to him.
Pinecone popped it in his mouth. “That tastes good,” he mumbled around it.
“Yeah. It’s too moist to last. I need to dry it completely.”
“Like jerky? Yuck.”
“Jerky lasts. We don’t know how long winter is here. We might need tons of stored food to make it through.”
Pinecone stomped on the mound. A section settled in, sending a puff of smoke out the top. “Are we even going to have a winter?”
“The trees look temperate, not tropical,” she said. “So probably. But until we’ve been here a year—or can ask some natives—we have to prepare for the worst.”
He laughed. “That’s it. We need to take orcs prisoner and interrogate them. ‘Recite your calendar! What’s today’s date? Confess!’”
Goldenrod added more damp wood to her fire. “They’re stone age. Probably not good at astronomy.”
“There were stone age humans who were good at it. That’s it! We need to quest for Orchenge.”
***
“Come in, Strongarm,” said Lady Burnout. She waved him to a chair instead of the examining table.
He sat cautiously. “New treatment?”
“No. New research. I’ve figured out what the orcs were doing when they attacked you. It’s not dominance behavior. It’s reproductive.”
She explained the lifecycle. Gametes meeting inside the host, embryos growing into cannibalistic worms, then an immature orc. Belatedly she realized this would have been a good time to use that med school workshop on how to tell patients they have terminal cancer. The only part she remembered now was, ‘Put a box of tissues where the patient can reach it’.
The whole camp had been sneezing into rags or leaves for months now.
“Well . . . fuck,” said Strongarm. “I kept hoping this would be like a tapeworm or something. Y’know, something I could live with.”
“I’m sorry, it’s worse than that.”
“Shit.”
She didn’t have anything better to say.
He took a deep breath. Forced a smile on his face. “We can keep doing the treatments, right?”
“Absolutely. I mean to beat those motherfuckers.” She gave him a matching smile.
“Good. Thank you. Well, thanks for the news. I have to get back to work.” Strongarm popped up and darted out of the tent.
***
Dinner was almost ready when they heard the herald’s cry.
“All subjects are invited to Court to hear His Majesty’s proclamation!”
Master Sweetbread and Mistress Tightseam exchanged glances. Neither had heard of a new law in the works. He said, “One of you go listen. Let the rest of us know what it’s about.”
“We’ll go,” said Goldenrod. She led Newman down the lane.
About a quarter of the camp was gathered before the Court Pavilion. The three thrones were filled. The full set of ladies in waiting and courtiers stood about.
King Estoc stood, reading chalked notes off a slate. “Be it known to all. The creatures known as orcs cannot co-exist with us. They perceive humans like deer: solely as food or hosts for their young.”
That caused a stir among those who hadn’t heard Lady Burnout’s discovery. The king didn’t pause.
“We call upon all Our subjects to kill orcs at every opportunity. None shall be spared because of their age or condition. Wounded must be finished off. Those fleeing must be caught and killed when practical.”
Sounds of shock.
“All authorized fighters are commanded to search out and kill orcs as their other duties permit. Those wishing to join them see Count Dirk for training.”
King Estoc resumed his throne. A herald announced that court was over. Some attendees bolted to spread the news. Others clustered in buzzing knots.
Goldenrod and Newman walked back in silence.
Master Sweetbread greeted them with, “What’s the news?”
“Genocide,” answered Newman.
***
Strongarm hastily slapped the tent flap closed behind him as he came in, clearly hoping no one saw him entering the chiurgeon’s tent.
“Thanks for coming,” said Lady Burnout. She waved him to the examining table.
He lay down on his back. “Where’s Elderberry?”
“She’s out doing some rumor control.”
Burnout gathered together the gear for the treatment.
“What kind of rumors?”
“Some people noticed you and her are disappearing from sight at the same time. The two of you having an affair would explain why you’re not paying attention to Foxglove any more. Elderberry is going to be visible while you’re missing and hopefully divert the gossips to something else.”
“What? That’s crazy.”
“Uh-huh. Turn over.”
Strongarm’s face twisted up. “Do we have to do it this way?”
“You really don’t want to take this mixture orally.”
He complied without grace, shoving his pants down to his knees. His hands gripped the edges of the cushioned table.
She took out a crock of venison grease but didn’t apply it. “Okay. Relax. Deep breaths. Peaceful thoughts. Waves on the beach.”
The first time she’d asked him to visualize a peaceful forest, which had been counterproductive.
As his muscles unclenched Burnout applied the grease. “Keep relaxing. This will be tedious but it should help.”
Strongarm calmed enough to let her insert the tube. When the fluid flowed in she draped a couple of blankets over him. The stuff wasn’t cold, but putting room temperature liquid in his body core was enough to produce shivers.
“Why are people telling rumors about me?” asked Strongarm. “I haven’t been doing anything.”
Lady Burnout was happy to divert his mind.
“That’s just it. You’re not doing anything. Dropped Foxglove. Not chasing anyone else. That’s so unusual for you people are trying to figure out what you’re really up to.”
“I didn’t drop her,” he said defensively.
“That’s what she’s calling it. You two were intense for a while. Now, nothing. Or so I hear.”
“Eh.” He shifted on the table, not enough to dislodge the tube. “How much are you putting in me?”
“Almost done. Keep relaxing.”
“I don’t want to avoid her . . . but if we were hugging and she felt a parasite wiggling under my skin? I couldn’t deal with her reaction.”
“You could tell her.”
There weren’t any hints of Strongarm’s infection on the grapevine. Burnout was surprised no one had figured it out. Or maybe the ones who’d figured it out were creating all those other rumors for additional security.
“I can’t. God. No, there’s no way I could say it. She’d be so disgusted. Or worried about the thing bursting out of my skin at her.”
Lady Burnout thought he was more worried about that than anyone else could be. He’d confessed nightmares about the parasites tearing their way out of him the way they had Belladonna.
She’d given up trying to reassure him. They hadn’t had even half the time needed to fully develop. He had two months left. Though the damage from the parasites feeding on him might be unsurvivable before that.
She said only, “If you gave her a chance you might get a pleasant surprise.”
The man shook his head. After a pause he asked, “So who else are rumors connecting me with?”
“Me.” Oops. She shouldn’t have let amusement show in her voice.
“Oh. Sorry.”
“Don’t worry about it. It’s a small price for patient confidentiality.” She pulled out the tube. “That’s all. Now we let it soak in a bit.”
Burnout busied herself cleaning the tube and bowl.
“It’s doing something,” said Strongarm. “They’re thrashing around more
than usual.”
“That’s a good sign.” Burnout checked the timer on her phone, blessing Sparrow for his electrical gifts.
“Or it’s making it worse.”
“We’ll see. This is a trial and error process.”
The timer let out a soft beep. Burnout pushed the metal basin closer to the table. “Okay, time to get down.”
She guided him as he slid off the table. He didn’t need help with the motion. She just wanted him aimed right as he squatted over the basin.
The usual scent flooded the tent, mixed with a citrus note from the acidic fruits she’d mashed into the mixture. Strongarm reached for the basket of leaves to clean up.
She said, “I see some swimmers. It worked.”
Strongarm rubbed his belly. “I don’t think it got them all.”
“No. it’s going to take a few times.” She thought a moment. “More acidic might be better. I’ll talk to the brewers to see if they can get me vinegar.”
***
Newman tramped toward the Court pavilion. “Anybody know what this is about?”
Beargut shrugged. “The herald said the Autocrat wanted to talk to all the hunters and fighters.”
The crowd in front of the pavilion looked to be everyone in those two categories plus some guards who’d never been out patrolling for orcs.
The thrones were empty. It was just Autocrat Sharpquill and a few of his slate-wielding aides.
“Take a load off,” said the Autocrat as he walked into the crowd. The men obediently sat on the grass. “You’ve been doing great work. We’re getting enough food to get by. The orcs are being pushed back. We’re winning the fights with them.”
Newman whispered, “Where’s the ‘but’?” to Beargut.
“Now we need to do something more. Take the initiative. Find a way to hit them where they’re weak.”
Master Sharpquill paused to let a buzz of startled remarks die down.
“I want volunteers for an expedition going South down the river. Follow it until it reaches the sea or you’ve been gone a week. That’s the best place to find a civilization. If you find an orc base we’ll mount an attack to burn it out. Who wants to go?”
Many enthusiastic shouts.
“Good. Continue with your plan for the day. Volunteers meet here tomorrow morning to start organizing. That is all.”
***
“I want to go!” declared Pinecone.
Newman hadn’t shared the news to recruit anyone from House Applesmile. He’d wanted to get Goldenrod’s opinion before he decided whether to join the expedition.
“Isn’t it dangerous?” blurted Shellbutton.
Everyone looked at Newman.
“The danger is the same as here. Plus anything new we might encounter out there. What gets you is not having a fallback when something goes wrong. Break a leg in camp, you’re taken care of. Break it three days away and the rest of the team has to carry you. Two guys with broken legs . . . well, that gets ugly.”
“Are you going?” asked Master Sweetbread.
“I haven’t decided yet.”
Goldenrod chuckled.
“I haven’t.”
“I know,” she said. “It’s so sweet that you’d consider being best woodsman in the camp, and best at noticing ambushes, and best sniper, and say, ‘Maybe they don’t need me. I’ll just hang out.’”
That caused a few more chuckles. But not from Newman.
“I wanted to get your opinion first,” he said to her. By his glance around the table he’d rather be saying this in private. “And get your permission.”
Goldenrod needed a moment to respond to that. Theirs was an informal relationship. He didn’t need her permission for anything. If he was asking it . . . that meant he was taking her seriously as a partner. Not just being polite.
“You have my permission,” she said. “On one condition. Come back intact.”
“Agreed.”
They squeezed each other’s hands, not sure when they’d reached out to each other. The rest of House Applesmile hid smirks.
“Do I have your permission?” Pinecone asked Shellbutton.
“Don’t ask me,” she said. “Ask Newman.”
Gazes turned back to him.
“What’s the farthest you’ve ever walked in a straight line?” asked Newman.
“I cover miles every day gathering wood for the burns.”
“That’s not a straight line. Ever walk so far you couldn’t get home that day?”
“No,” said Pinecone. “I wasn’t a Boy Scout.”
“I was. Probably everybody in the expedition will be. If you haven’t done that kind of hiking you’re not ready for this mission.”
***
Autocrat Sharpquill had a team in mind. They’d all shown up in the crowd of volunteers. He called out half a dozen names and dismissed the rest.
Newman and Bodkin were the only hunters. Or maybe Borzhoi was counted as a hunter. The other three all wore red belts indicating they were squires, apprenticed to some knight to learn the arts of armored sword fighting and chivalric behavior.
“Gentlemen, Lord Sharpedge will be the leader of the expedition,” said the Autocrat. “I’ll leave you to it.”
Sharpedge introduced himself as Duke Stonefist’s squire. The other two were Falchion, squired to Sir Flint, and Joyeuse, who was one of King Ironhelm’s squires. Sharpedge’s first action was to inspect the gear and supplies everyone brought. Newman thought that was a good start.
The guy still had a butterbar reek about him.
“The plan is simple,” Sharpedge said. “We’re going downriver until we reach the sea, use two thirds of our supplies, or see something we need to report. We’ll stay on the bluff at the edge so we have a view across the flood plain. We’ll forage as we go to stretch out supplies.
“At some point we’ll run into the mountain range we’ve glimpsed from hilltops. It runs perpendicular to the course of the river.”
“Which makes no sense,” interjected Falchion.
Sharpedge grinned. “Falchion is a grad student in cartography in mundane life. Crossing the mountains will be the hard part of the trip. We’ve requisitioned most of the available rope. Master Forge supplied some spikes and a hammer but they’re not optimized for rock. On the way out I want to see how high we can get to maximize our view.
“On the move we’ll have a hunter as first and last. You’re best at spotting trouble. If we find orcs or anything fall back behind the fighters. Everybody ready to go?”
Newman looked over the rest of the group as they all gave a yes. The squires had pared their armor down to breastplates. He and Bodkin had similar armor made of rhino hide. Borzhoi wore a leather vest with metal plates riveted to it. Orcs aimed for the torso with their spears.
The backpacks were mundane camping gear except for Bodkin, who had his gear in a wicker basket lined with canvas that hooked onto his shoulders. Borzhoi and Bodkin had nearly as many arrows as Newman. The squires didn’t have bows. They carried steel swords in easily accessible scabbards.
This was probably as good as they could do with what was available.
“Newman?” asked Sharpedge.
“Yes, I’m ready,” he answered.
“Then lead off.”
Newman walked briskly toward the gate. Goldenrod stood to the side of it against the inside of the wall. She blew him a kiss.
He gave her a smile and wave as he went through the gate.
***
Strongarm looked at the deposit he’d made on the forest floor. Nothing wiggled. He’d shit out orc worms after earlier treatments. The last five had done nothing. He suspected the worms had learned to escape the intestines when poison was coming through.
When he was done he went back to gathering deadfalls. The pile was spread out like a mattress. When it was two feet tall he added dead leaves.
He’d thrown up three times in the process. Burnout claimed her last potion didn’t have any drain cleaner in it, but the ta
ste said otherwise. She said surgery was too dangerous, but it couldn’t be worse than dealing with more vile gunk.
Strongarm lay down on the pile. He was so tired it actually felt comfortable, once he’d twisted a branch to keep it from poking his back.
He pressed his palm against his belly button. A bit of wiggling faded as the parasites moved away from the intrusion. An aggressive one pushed back.
Strongarm held a poniard in his right hand. With the left he poked at the parasite, drawing it into pushing up his skin. The blade struck. Blood gushed out. The worm twitched and went still.
“There, I got one of you, dammit.”
The wound started to hurt.
A worm’s head popped out of the hole. It snapped its sharp teeth at the sky repeatedly.
“Are you laughing at me?” He swung the blade to cut the head off, but it vanished back into his belly.
“Fine. I’ll get you all.” He pulled the can of lighter fluid out of his knapsack and sprayed it all about him. Soaked his clothes, soaked his hair, soaked the wood on every side.
When the can was empty he took the nearly empty Bic lighter from the bag. His hand trembled. Weak from parasite damage? Or the bleeding belly? Maybe even afraid to die.
Not that it mattered.
The third spin of the flint wheel ignited the shirt cuff. Flames spread quickly from there.
It hurt more than he’d imagined. But not for very long.
***
Lady Cinnamon chalked notes on her slate as she surveyed the woodcutters. They’d cleared a swath around the camp. The open ground was dotted with stumps and carpeted with leaves and twigs stripped from cut trees.
She kept clear of the tree being cut. Two men pulled back and forth on the long crosscut saw Master Forge made. Four more stood around with axes, ready to lop off branches when it fell or swap in if one of the saw men cried uncle.
There should be another crew working but young men would rather tramp through the woods looking for orcs than cut wood. They didn’t have to deal with householders demanding more wood for cookfires or Lord Goldpen diverting some for a Court campfire.
The Lost War Page 16
