The Lost War

by Karl K Gallagher

  “Timber!”

  A puff of dust struck Cinnamon as the tree crashed to the ground. The saw men moved along the trunk cutting the branches sticking straight up. Axemen followed behind cutting the ones on the sides.

  There was a scream, muffled by the forest. The woodcutters lowered their tools and looked around.

  Another scream. Then a young woman raced out from under the trees. She stopped bent over, hands on her knees, catching her breath. A “Help” emerged between pants.

  The axemen were in a line facing the woods. The saw men left their tool and scrambled for the spears they’d left by the water jugs.

  “Where are they?” called Leaf the foreman.

  “They who?” panted the woman.

  “Orcs!”

  “Didn’t—” pant “—see any.”

  “Then what’s the fuss about?” demanded Leaf.

  Cinnamon walked up to the woman and put a hand on her shoulder. “Relax. Just catch your breath.”

  She recognized the woman from the food rationing work Cinnamon did for the Autocrat. This was Ivy, a moderately productive gatherer. A member of House Chevron. Her plain brown shift was kilted up above her dirty knees.

  When Ivy’s breathing slowed Cinnamon asked, “What happened?”

  “I found—I found . . . oh, God, it’s so horrible.”

  “Can you take us there?”

  Ivy nodded.

  The woodcutters surrounded the two women as they went through the forest. Ivy went off course a few times and had to cast about to find the trail she’d been on.

  There was no mistaking it when they arrived. A human body, burnt black, lying in a pile of ashes. The limbs were contorted, head thrown back in a silent scream. The hair and clothes had burned away. The shoes were only burnt at the tops. Maybe that would be enough for identification.

  Cinnamon laughed silently at herself. They didn’t need to identify the body, just see who didn’t show up for dinner.

  “Make a stretcher,” she ordered Leaf.

  “Shouldn’t somebody else do that?” he protested. “We have work to do.”

  “So does everybody else. You’re here. You’ll take him to the grave yard. Someone else will dig the grave.”

  Leaf sighed and waved his men to work. They began cutting saplings and branches. An argument broke out over whether to use the partially burned branches by the body.

  “Hell, no. They’re dirty.”

  “So? The corpse won’t care.”

  “Burnt wood is weak.”

  “The ones left were too green to burn. Good thing. Imagine if this had spread?”

  Cinnamon shuddered at the last comment. A forest fire would ruin their chances of survival.

  On the far side of the burnt corpse Ivy picked up her basket. Her collection had spilled when she panicked. Cinnamon helped her gather the plants up again, automatically inventorying them. A dozen of the fig-like fruits. Some of the leafy vine that cured scurvy. And a disappointingly small vineroot.

  When the stretcher was done they had a new problem. All the woodcutters balked at picking up the body with their bare hands. Cinnamon admitted she didn’t want to touch it either. Leaf solved it by cutting more wood to lever the corpse over.

  As it turned a scorched metal can fell onto the ashes.

  “Hey, that proves it’s suicide,” said a woodcutter.

  “Nah, could have been left in the fire to destroy evidence.”

  “Who’d go to this much work to commit a murder? There’s easier ways.”

  “I know what I’m sure of,” quipped another. “I’m having fish for dinner tonight.”

  As the body twisted and cracked the smell of burnt meat overwhelmed the wood smoke.

  Leaf cursed the wiseacre into silence.

  The six men lifted the stretcher and marched toward the camp. They weren’t in step but they walked slowly enough to have the proper funeral procession feel.

  Cinnamon walked behind. “Ivy, go ahead and ask Lady Burnout to meet us,” she ordered.

  The woman scampered off, relieved to be away from the corpse. She was fast enough—or the woodcutters were slow enough—that Burnout met them at the camp gate.

  The chiurgeon looked at the grisly remains without flinching. “Strongarm. Poor bastard.”

  “You recognize him?” burst out Leaf.

  “I recognize the shoes. The size is right. And . . . he was at risk.”

  She and Ivy unfolded a sheet. Cinnamon noticed multiple faded bloodstains and concluded it came from the examining table. She helped them drape the sheet over Strongarm’s remains.

  Sighs of relief came from some of the woodcutters.

  Burnout turned to Cinnamon. “Do we have Court tonight?”

  “Nothing’s scheduled, no.”

  “Then schedule it. I need to make an announcement.”

  ***

  Sharpedge wiped orange blood off his sword with some leaves. “If these things ever figure out how blades work we’re going to be in trouble.”

  “That’s why we don’t let any escape,” said Borzoi. He kicked a body to make sure it was dead.

  The four orcs had gone down quickly. They’d thought Newman was alone and chased him into the solid formation of squires. The one that tried to get away had three arrows in its back.

  The “cuk—cuk—cuk” of the local waterfowl interrupted them as a flock took off from the river. Newman had an arrow nocked as they came overhead. He hit one in the breast. It landed fifteen feet from the expedition. A second arrow also hit its mark. That bird landed the same distance away on the other side.

  “I guess we’re having lunch early,” said Sharpedge.

  ***

  The bluff veered east away from the river as they approached the mountains. A lake formed where the river met the ridge. The land had been gradually descending the whole trip. It looked to keep descending until it reached the mountains, much to Falchion’s disgust.

  Orcs were scarce. They hadn’t seen any since the handful they’d killed on the second day. The Autocrat’s hope that they’d find the spawn point of the orcs was looking slim.

  When they reached the base of the ridgeline Sharpedge directed them back toward the river. The going was rough, though they weren’t forced to break out the ropes. Falchion pointed out sharp corners and rough surfaces on the peaks as signs of recent uplift. Erosion hadn’t smoothed anything yet.

  As they drew closer to the river a roar became audible. The sound of a waterfall. They couldn’t see the drop but from the noise it must be spectacular.

  “Oh!” said Falchion. “I’m an idiot. These mountains aren’t uplifted at all. They’re a crater rim.”

  Joyeuse looked back and forth along the ridgeline. “Craters are round.”

  “Anything round looks straight when you just have a small piece of it.”

  The six men contemplated this a moment.

  “That’s a hell of a big crater,” said Newman.

  “Let’s keep going,” said Sharpedge.

  Climbing to the top of a foothill let them see the river as it passed through a gap in the ridge.

  Falchion had to shout to be heard over the waterfall. “That’s not erosion. There must have been a gap in the crater wall when it formed.”

  “No, something knocked a hole in it,” Newman shouted back. “See those horizontal marks on the far side of the gap? That looks like a wall I saw after a shaped charge blew it open.”

  “Okay, that would do it. But the blast would need enough energy to throw the debris downrange where it wouldn’t dam the river. You’d need a nuclear weapon for that much energy.”

  “Or magic,” said Joyeuse.

  They watched the river roar through the gap for a moment.

  Sharpedge broke the spell. “Let’s go back and find a pass we can get through. There’s no game on bare rock. We’re eating and drinking what we carry now. Let’s hurry.”

  The two passes closest to the river were impossible. Sheer cliffs block
ed the way, impassible without spikes and ropes. Sharpedge didn’t want to chance that without proof whatever was past them was easier to climb.

  The third was passable. Barely. Joyeuse claimed to have rock climbing experience. “And I don’t mean those pansy gym walls.” He went up the slope barefoot until he found a spot to secure the rope.

  The rest followed up, one on the rope at a time. Newman carried the squire’s boots, tied to his backpack.

  That brought them to a quarter mile of walkable, if rough, rock before the next steep point.

  Joyeuse took off his boots again. At the top he cried, “Thalassa!”

  “What?” said Sharpedge.

  Borzhoi explained, “He sees the ocean.”

  Once they’d followed up they could all see the ocean. The ridge sloped down gently in some spots, was a cliff over foaming waves in others. To the right they saw the river pouring into the sea, higher than Niagara Falls.

  “Anyone see a ship?” demanded Sharpedge.

  “I don’t see a damn thing,” muttered Bodkin.

  “There’s something flying over there.” Borzhoi pointed left along the ridge.

  The others said no. Newman rooted in his pack. He emerged with Lord Orrery’s binoculars.

  “Where’s that flyer?” he asked. He followed Borzhoi’s arm. “Dragon.”

  Sharpedge cursed.

  Newman began a slow scan of the horizon.

  Falchion said, “I think those islands formed with the crater. Looks like molten rock splashed into the sea and solidified.”

  “Islands don’t do any good,” complained Sharpedge. “They don’t even have anything growing on them.”

  Borzhoi pointed at the closest. “That one looks like one of Longshanks’ Welsh border castles.”

  Sharpedge closed his mouth. Newman thought he might have counted to ten. “Okay, can anyone think of a reason to go down to the ocean?” asked the leader. “There’s clearly no towns or ships.”

  “I’m curious if that’s a saltwater or freshwater sea,” said Falchion. “But that can be another trip.”

  “Fine. Let’s head back. If we make good time we won’t have to sleep on rock tonight.”

  ***

  “Lady Burnout! Lady Burnout!”

  An experienced physician can tell from tone of voice whether a call for help indicates hypochondria, attention-seeking, or a real emergency. This one was exhausted, frantic, and scared, the worst combination.

  Burnout grabbed her bag and burst out of her tent. The messenger was bent over, hands on knees. The moment he saw her he straightened and trotted back the way he came.

  She followed. A description of the emergency would be nice, but if the boy didn’t have the breath for it she wouldn’t bother haranguing him.

  It was obvious when they reached the main gate. A mixed group of hunters and fighters were hauling wounded men on stretchers and travois. The gate guards were taking stretchers and putting them down against the inside of the wall. Another fight with the damn orcs.

  People from the camp were already coming forward to help with the casualties. The wounded were moved into well-spaced rows and first aid begun. More stood about, willing to help but unsure how.

  “Find someone bleeding,” she directed. “Put your hand on the wound and push hard enough to make the bleeding stop.”

  They scattered among the bodies.

  One casualty had been laid off by himself with a tunic over his face. Lady Burnout went to check on the field diagnosis. Lifting the cloth revealed the point of a spear broken off in the man’s throat. He couldn’t have lasted more than a minute or two. She laid it back down.

  Blood was oozing through the fingers of the nearest volunteer. She strode over to her. “Push harder.”

  “I am pushing.”

  “This hard.” Burnout put the palm of her hand over the other woman’s and leaned into it.

  The volunteer gritted her teeth but didn’t complain. She shifted her weight.

  When Burnout lifted her hand off no new blood appeared.

  “Good, keep it like that.” She moved down the line, applying more pressure whenever she saw the need. Every time she released her hand the bleeding had stopped.

  When all the bleeding was controlled she started disinfecting. Bites first. She’d already fought a nasty infection from an orc bite. She was careful not to waste the disinfectant. It was distilled from the remaining liquor in camp. The distiller wept over some of the whiskey he ruined.

  After the bites were the punctures. Then it was time for real triage. No belly wounds this time, thank goodness. Even the hunters were wearing rhino-hide breastplates. Now if only the rapier fighters would put some heavier gear on instead of “relying on mobility.”

  The bite wounds came first again. Stitching them closed took careful maneuvering to find intact skin close to the ragged tears. Spear wounds were quicker. A stitch or two, if any, and a firm bandage to keep it closed.

  “Excuse me,” said Lady Burnout, waving aside the man standing over the next patient.

  “I’ll be back when she’s done with you,” said King Estoc.

  The fighter tightened his jaw as she worked on his arm. When Burnout picked up her bag he asked, “Will I keep it?”

  “Yes, probably. Keep an eye on it for redness or tenderness. Let it heal before you start using it again or you’ll cause extra damage.”

  “Yes, my lady.”

  She hoped it wouldn’t develop an infection. She’d brought a wide variety of antibiotics but most were gone now.

  ***

  Sharpedge reported failure but Autocrat Sharpquill was full of praise for them.

  “You’ve discovered more about the local area than we have in all the time since we arrived. You proved we can do deep reconnaissance safely. And you’ve also demonstrated cooperation between factions which haven’t always done so. You will have Their—His Majesty’s thanks in Court.”

  “I don’t know if we can do this safely in other directions,” said Sharpedge. “We didn’t see orcs on the way back until we were within a couple days of camp.”

  “Not a worry for today. Gentlemen, thank you. Please rest for two days and then resume your normal duties. We’ll do another of these in a few weeks.”

  ***

  Goldenrod punched Newman in the chest. “You’re late,” she said.

  “We took the scenic route.” He pulled her into a kiss. There were no words for a few minutes. Fortunately, they had the Applesmile pavilion to themselves.

  She broke off the clinch.

  “Right. Do I need a bath?” Newman still grinned.

  “No. Well, yes. But—I guess the Autocrat didn’t tell you the news.”

  “What news?”

  Goldenrod took a deep breath. “Strongarm is dead.”

  “What? How? I thought he was staying in camp.”

  “He was. He . . .” Another breath. “He killed himself.”

  The chairs were all outside. Newman sat down on the rug. “I knew he’d been beaten hard enough to be left for dead, and it broke him, but he seemed stable. Why?”

  “It was worse than that.” Goldenrod relayed the announcement Burnout made of rape, parasitic infection, and unsuccessful treatments.

  “Damn. Just . . . damn.” Newman stared at the wall, face tense. “Did they have the funeral already?”

  “Day before yesterday. Lord Pulpit did well by him. I can take you to his grave.”

  “Yeah. I’d like to pay my respects.”

  The graveyard was on the downstream side of the camp. They took the path down the bluff slowly, not wanting to catch up to the four young men carrying a blue plastic tank from one of the portapotties. The path was much improved. Stones and split logs provided traction through the slippery spots. In some places it was even wide enough for them to walk side by side.

  Strongarm’s grave was bare dirt. The others were all covered in weeds. The oldest graves had some growths a couple of feet tall. Their wilted flowers had kept
them from being cut down by visiting friends.

  Only Strongarm had a visitor now. Foxglove knelt by the grave. Tears cut lines through the dirt on her face.

  “Again?” muttered Goldenrod, barely loud enough for Newman to hear her.

  Newman studied the markers on the other graves. Round pieces of wood two or three feet tall were carved with names and decorations. Some had Celtic knotwork, others animals or weapons. Berry juice stained the wood to highlight the work.

  There was no marker on the new grave. Well, that kind of work took time.

  Goldenrod addressed Foxglove in a gentle tone. “How are you holding up?”

  “Eh.”

  Newman sat cross-legged at the foot of the grave. If he’d been alone he would have spoken aloud. Instead he hoped somewhere Strongarm could hear his thoughts.

  Thank you, Strongarm, for welcoming the new guy. Thank you for sharing your joys and opportunities with me. Thank you for not being angry when I beat you at something. I’m sorry I couldn’t be what you needed me to be to let me help you with . . . that.

  His gut twinged as he imagined the parasites Strongarm suffered from. I don’t know how long I could have stood it.

  Then he sat and stared at the grave.

  Foxglove broke the silence. “I was so angry at him. We had something. He was still immature, but we were building something together. Then he got hurt and . . . it stopped. Lots of ‘I’m still too sore.’ And then avoiding me. And . . . and I didn’t push because I have my pride.”

  She ripped a handful of grass up and threw it at the grave. “Damn it, why couldn’t he tell me?”

  Goldenrod put a hand on Foxglove’s shoulder. “He was probably afraid you’d freak out.”

  “Well, yeah, it was freaky shit. But I’d get past it. I could’ve helped him. At least held his hand.”

  Newman said, “Men don’t like admitting weakness. I ran around for hours with a sore ankle because it was my first patrol and I didn’t want the guys thinking I was the kind of doofus who’d sprain an ankle in combat. Then we got back in the track and blood came out of the top of my boot and I realized I’d caught some shrapnel.”