Goldenrod was giving him a strange look. Maybe he shouldn’t’ve told that story.
After a minute to digest that Foxglove demanded, “If guys get to be so private about stuff why is Burnout spreading his business around? She told everybody everything.”
“Because suicide is contagious.” Newman’s voice was firmer this time. “If people think he just gave up because it sucks here it’s that much easier for the next guy to decide, ‘hell with it, I’m checking out.’ And we can’t spare anyone. Now—no matter how bad it sucks he’s not being eaten alive by worms. And the next one the orcs rape knows to start treatment right away.”
***
Autocrat Sharpquill assigned workers to haul fish from the weir and spear slow-learning cuttlefish. Ostensibly to save Goldenrod from the manual labor, it let him control distribution. She’d retained the right to take a few fish each day.
Today she’d brought Redinkle along to help carry. They were commiserating about Foxglove’s latest breakdown as they walked back to the bluff.
“Isn’t that your garden?” asked Redinkle.
“Hmmm? Oh, the vineroot planting. Yeah.”
“I thought you’d been spending more time on it.”
“Not since I started the weir. Root vegetables don’t take much work. Let’s see how they’re growing.”
They ambled over to the patch she’d hoed out of the flood plain.
Vines had sprouted from the chunks of vineroot Goldenrod had planted four months before. Most were twice as long as when she last checked on them. The rest were failing, the leaves wrinkled and brown at the edges.
“Oh, crap.” Goldenrod nudged one of the dying vines with her toe.
A furry head poked out of the ground. She jerked her foot back as yellow teeth snapped at her. The sudden motion made her fish start thrashing again. It broke her grip, falling into the weeds. The critter squeaked an imperative and ducked back into its hole.
Two similar heads popped up with squeaks of their own.
Goldenrod let out a stream of curses. She picked the fish up by its tail.
“Looks like they’ve eaten about a third of the patch,” said Redinkle.
“Right. Time to hunt some rats.” Goldenrod gripped her fish firmly as she marched toward the bluff.
At the tent she picked up her hoe and a militia spear. Mistress Tightseam joined the pest control expedition with another spear.
Goldenrod was not in the mood for conversation on the walk back to her garden plot. Tightseam didn’t try to start one.
The critters were too nimble for Goldenrod to spear them. After working off some frustration with stabbing attempts she switched to the hoe. Caving in the burrows under the garden forced the critters to go above ground to another hole. Tightseam held her spear ready to impale them when Goldenrod flushed them out.
Once two had been speared (and finished off with the hoe) the third critter fled into the weeds of the flood plain.
Goldenrod hoed through the dead portion of the vegetable patch without flushing any more. When she paused to wipe the sweat from her face Tightseam said, “The good news is you have it ready for replanting.”
“Yeah.” Goldenrod’s breathing broke up the words. “Have to go—find some wild ones. To chop up for eyes.”
Tightseam held out her hand for the hoe. Goldenrod handed it over. The older woman moved into the remainder of the patch. The hoe blade gently pulled vines aside before chopping at the base of the tall weeds.
“Did you bring your spinning wheel?” asked Tightseam.
“No.”
“What about your inkle loom?”
“Where would I have put it?” Goldenrod let some exasperation leak into her voice.
“Calligraphy set?”
“I brought an embroidery project. A favor with my device for Newman to wear at the archery tourney,” snapped Goldenrod. “And I haven’t worked on it because we’re trying to survive. What’s your point?”
Mistress Tightseam chopped under another weed, pulling it out with most of its roots. “My point is you keep starting things and dropping them when something else captures your attention. That’s fine for a crafter in the Kingdom. Try everything, find your love.
“But we’re trying to survive here. You can’t drop something unless someone else is going to pick it up. Showing people how to find food in the wild, that’s great. Dozens of women are out looking for vineroot. The weir’s too big to keep to yourself.
“Now this—” Tightseam waved at the garden patch. “This is yours. You claimed it. Nobody else is going to mess with it. So you need to follow through.”
Goldenrod kicked at one of the dead vines. “I am following up.”
“No. You need to check on it every couple of days. Chase off that critter before he comes back with friends. Take out weeds before they get this tall.” Tightseam hoed down one standing above her knee.
“Hmph.”
“You’re a dilettante. That’s fine back home. The Kingdom attracts dilettantes. Some pass through, some stay until they’ve sampled everything. Some settle down. We can’t afford that here.”
She stepped closer to the younger woman. “We especially can’t afford someone as talented as you wasting her efforts.”
Goldenrod flushed. “Most of it is luck. I didn’t know how many fish were out there for the weir to catch.”
“Fine. We can’t afford your luck being wasted.”
***
Lady Burnout looked up from her notebook as a patient came in. He limped into the chirurgeon’s tent, supported by a cane on one side and his wife on the other.
“How’s the foot, Lord Barrel?” she asked.
“No better,” he grunted.
“All right, up on the table and I’ll take a look.”
“Do I have to?”
Burnout gave him a stern look—but he’d had a hard time climbing up on the previous visit. “Fine.”
Elderberry turned the big chair around for him then set a footstool before it. Burnout dragged up another footstool to sit on.
Barrel sat and put out his right foot. His wife slipped the shoe off of it.
“Thanks, Dandelion,” said Burnout. She unwound the brown-crusted bandages.
The puncture wound on the sole of the foot still dripped pus. The red swelling reached around to the top of the foot. Yes, not any better.
“Well, that antibiotic pill didn’t help any,” she said.
“Time for a full course?” asked Barrel.
“I don’t have enough left for a full course. And if it’s ignoring a single dose ten might still not be effective.”
“Plus you’d want to save them for someone more useful than me.”
Burnout nodded.
Dandelion bristled then subsided as her husband put a hand on her arm. “Don’t be mad, sugar. It’s her job to make those decisions. What can you do for me?”
“I think it’s time to amputate.”
Barrel laughed. “My GP always told me I’d wind up losing a foot if I didn’t keep up with my meds. Guess she’s finally right.”
Burnout was grim. “You might not survive the amputation. And it might not get all of the infection.”
“How long have I got without it?”
“Three days. Maybe five.”
Dandelion gasped and clutched her husband’s hand.
“Then let’s cut.”
***
“You want us to do what?” demanded Master Chisel.
“I can cut the flesh,” explained Lady Burnout. “But going through the bone will take strength. It has to be done fast.”
The carpenter looked over his apprentices. “We don’t do fast. We want it done right. Hmmm. Plane, think you can do this?”
The burly apprentice flinched, then straightened. “Aye.”
“Go sharpen the saw then.”
Lady Burnout took charge of the rest of them. The apprentices carried the examining table and most of the other furniture out. A plastic tarp cover
ed the rugs. A chunk of log used as a stool came in to act as the cutting surface.
Barrel and Dandelion exchanged a few kisses. Then Burnout sent her back to their own tent to await the outcome.
In the corner Elderberry sharpened knives and scalpels. She’d changed into her worst dress, already stained from helping with less drastic procedures. She reminded Burnout to go change.
When everything was ready Barrel lay down on his back, right foot resting on the log.
“Want a shot of whiskey?” asked Elderberry.
Barrel laughed. “Don’t bother. One shot won’t do a thing to me. If you have a bottle that’d keep me from feeling pain.”
“Sorry. Only have a couple of shots left.”
“That does it. If I live through this, to hell with the Autocrat, I’m going to find out what kind of beer you can make from vineroot.”
“I’ll drink it,” said Master Chisel.
Elderberry drew tight the tourniquet just below the knee. She twisted the metal bar until Barrel let out a grunt of pain, then locked it down.
Noses wrinkled as Burnout popped open a Tupperware container.
“What is that, concentrated piss?” snarled Master Chisel.
Burnout didn’t answer him as she swabbed the leg. Boiled urine was the best disinfectant she had left.
“Right. Hold him down,” ordered Lady Burnout.
The carpenters, along with a couple of royal guards who’d been standing around idle when Burnout looked for help, grabbed Barrel’s limbs and shoulders.
“Forgot one thing,” said Chisel. His knife cut a fist-wide chunk from the end of his belt. He held it before Barrel’s face.
“God, we are being old-fashioned,” said the patient. He bit down on the leather scrap.
Lady Burnout looked at the lines she’d drawn on the shin and calf. Still looked right. She picked up the biggest knife.
The blade went in smoothly. She followed the leg as it bucked, snapping, “Hold it still!” at the guard bracing the ankle.
The sounds she ignored.
Elderberry continued the cut on the other side. Blood covered the log.
As Elderberry finished her cut of the calf Burnout switched to a scalpel for finer work, going by feel to reach the bone.
Then she switched to the top, carving loose a flap of skin to meet the angled lower cut.
Elderberry took hold of the edge and held it up as Burnout worked along the bone.
“That’s it, shift.” Burnout sat back. Elderberry moved to straddle Barrel’s legs, both hands holding up the flap of flesh.
Plane took her spot, saw at the ready. “Where do I cut? It’s all covered in blood.”
Lady Burnout’s left hand wiped blood off the bone. Her right guided the saw to just below the swelling of the tuberosity.
Jaw set, Plane started cutting.
Burnout wondered if the screams were louder now, or if she was just noticing them with no work to distract her.
The leg jerked free of the guard’s sweaty grip, knocking the saw away. Burnout lunged to get hold of it. She and the guard held it still again.
Plane cursed as he realized he’d started cutting a new notch in the bone. A little fumbling put the saw back in the original cut. Plane pumped the saw faster.
A cracking sound was followed by Plane declaring, “Done!”
“Still need the fibula,” said Burnout. She picked up her scalpel and cut between the bones.
“Right. Sorry. Forgot.”
“Now. Right there.” Burnout held the broken ends of the tibia apart as Plane slipped the saw between them to reach the other bone. The side of the saw blade felt cold on her thumb. Now I understand how those old time surgeons took an assistant’s hand off.
The second bone didn’t take nearly as long. A few strokes with the scalpel severed the last tendons connecting the lower leg to the knee.
“Get that out of my way,” snapped Burnout at the guard holding the severed foot.
More disinfectant went on the open surfaces. Then Elderberry pressed the upper and lower cuts together. Burnout started stitching the edges together.
The screams stopped.
“Is he okay?” asked an apprentice.
“Crap, he’s seizing.” Elderberry yanked the leather out of Barrel’s mouth. Her hand went to his neck. “No pulse.”
She began chest compressions. Ribs cracked under the strain.
Lady Burnout added three more quick stitches then started mouth to mouth.
After a few minutes, Elderberry gasped, “Switch.” Burnout took over compressions.
An apprentice said, “Milady, I’m CPR qualified.”
“Take it.”
A second came forward to relieve Elderberry.
A third one stood ready to relieve the man on the chest. When they prepared to switch Lady Burnout said, “Wait. Check him.”
Elderberry reported, “No respiration. No pulse.”
“Then I’m calling it.”
Shoulders slumped all around the circle.
Burnout used the log to push herself upright. “My lords. Thank you for your extraordinary efforts. You will be thanked at Court. That we couldn’t save him is no reflection on you. I’ll have someone else come take him to the graveyard.”
“You’re welcome, my lady,” said Master Chisel solemnly. He looked at his blood-splattered crew. “Let’s go get cleaned up.”
Elderberry said, “I’ll get a stretcher crew. And . . . I’ll tell Dandelion.”
“Thank you.”
Lady Burnout sat on the tarp to hold vigil over the man she’d failed.
***
Screams woke Newman up. Everyone else in House Applesmile was waking up. The screams were coming from outside the tent. Lots of them.
He pulled his boots on, grabbed bow and quiver, and pushed through the tent flap. People were running about in a panic. The screams were growing louder. Newman picked out shouted battle cries amid them.
The heart of the commotion was toward the gate. Some people were heading that way. All armed.
The other members of House Applesmile had come out and were demanding explanations. Newman stepped up on a haybale. A couple of the pavilions near the gate had collapsed. That shouldn’t be causing this much panic.
Someone ran down the lane shouting, “To arms! To arms!”
That would be more useful if Newman knew what to use his arms on.
The Wolfheads were armoring up. Whatever it was they were taking it seriously.
Newman nocked an arrow. He wanted to be ready if there was a threat out there.
Shellbutton screeched, almost startling him off the haybale. “Orc orc orc!”
She was pointing toward the fence.
Newman turned. An orc was climbing over the top of it, one leg swung over and feeling around for a toehold.
He loosed the arrow into its back. It penetrated the spine just below the ribs. The orc dropped and lay still.
Shouts in the Wolfhead encampment indicated more orcs had come over their part of the fence.
“Everyone grab a knife,” said Master Sweetbread.
More orcs popped up over the fence. Newman put one arrow in an eye, another in a throat. A third orc kept climbing with an arrow in his chest. An arrow in his belly made him fall on the outside.
He missed his rifle. It was better for a stream of pop-up targets than a bow. But at least here they weren’t shooting back at him. As the orcs came up faster he drew and loosed in a steady rhythm.
Wolfhead Alpha called, “First squad hold the fort. Second and third squads with me.” Armor jingled as they double-timed toward the gate.
Newman pulled the last arrow from his quiver. How many had been in there? He’d lost count. It flew into an orc’s open mouth, knocking him off the fence.
Newman felt a tug at his belt. He glanced down to see Goldenrod dropping a handful of arrows into his quiver. “Thank you,” he said.
They smiled at each other for an instant.
&
nbsp; When he looked back at the fence two orcs had landed on their feet. They stalked forward, spears level.
An arrow in the heart put one down. The other kept coming with one in its chest and another in its belly.
Newman put a third arrow into it, penetrating the other lung. It kept coming, running now.
“Why won’t you die?” snapped Goldenrod.
The orc fell onto its face, landing a few feet from her.
Three more landed on the grass inside the fence. They bent to pick up the spears they’d dropped while climbing.
Newman waited for the left hand one to straighten up and put an arrow into its throat.
“Die, you,” said Goldenrod. The middle orc fell.
Newman shifted his aim to the right hand one.
Goldenrod said, “Die.”
The orc collapsed.
There weren’t any live orcs in sight.
“Did you do that?” asked Newman.
“I, I think so,” she answered. “I felt something when I said that to the first one. Now I’m doing it on purpose.”
Two green heads popped over the fence.
“Die, die.”
They vanished.
“Did you get them?”
“Yes. I can feel their deaths.”
Behind them Pinecone muttered, “She’s killing them with magic.”
Goldenrod leaned against Newman’s leg. “Ooh. I feel lightheaded.”
He slung his bow over his shoulders, hopped off the haybale, and scooped her up in his arms. “Right. You just focus on orcs. I’ve got you.”
Redinkle stepped up beside them. Red flames flickered on her fingertips. When the next orc appeared she flung the fire toward it. The flames dissipated inches from her hand. “Dammit!”
“Die,” muttered Goldenrod.
“Keep practicing,” said Newman to Redinkle. “You might have a good hand to hand attack.”
He looked at the rest of House Applesmile holding cooking knives. “You don’t want to let orcs get that close. Grab tent poles. Use them as clubs.”
No more orcs were appearing on their stretch of fence. Shouts and clangs said the Wolfheads had visitors.
“Let’s go help.” Newman carried Goldenrod into the Wolfhead encampment. One tent had collapsed, another was halfway gone. Orcs and fighters and their ladies were all mixed in a chaotic brawl.
The Lost War Page 18
