The War Revealed (The Lost War Book 2)

by Karl K Gallagher

  “Did you know they’re both master organizers?”

  “No, they just said countess and mistress. Huh. Explains how they were so good at it.”

  Newman waited a moment. “I knew this captain who was really serious about tactics. Wanted to be working out how to deploy the company in different terrain, different threats, all that stuff. But what he actually spent his time doing was writing up privates for underage drinking and being late to formation.”

  “So you’re saying I wouldn’t like being head of the council?”

  “Do you want to deal with it when Sparrow tasers somebody who doesn’t deserve it?”

  “Hey, he’s a nice kid.”

  “He’s a teenage boy.”

  Goldenrod maneuvered around a bush, trying to not let her feet get caught by the brambles. Newman watched for snakes and other bitey critters in the undergrowth.

  “Anyway. It’s not that I want to be in charge. Okay, I liked being in charge. But deputy’s good. What pisses me off is that I let myself be completely blindsided. I should have seen it coming. I just delegated it to them and didn’t follow up at all.”

  “So you could concentrate on the research.”

  “Yes. Okay, it makes sense. I’m still mad.”

  “At who?”

  “Me. For being a fool.”

  Newman put his hand on her shoulder, stopping her and pivoting her to put them nose to nose. “I’m just glad you’re my fool.”

  ***

  The vineroot patch was weedy again. In the week since Goldenrod last checked it some invading plants had sprouted to four inches high. She swung the hoe, chopping them down and kicking the debris out of her garden.

  At one point she’d been stacking all the dead weeds into a compost pile but Goldenrod didn’t have the time for that now. When she paused to catch her breath her mind wandered to the experiment schedule. Every new use someone thought of for a power needed experimenting to put into effect and practice to make useful. There were too many experiments and not enough people Countess Fennel trusted to oversee them. But delaying mages would lead to them doing unsupervised experiments. She thought of Rivet’s eye and went back to killing weeds.

  “Good afternoon, your excellency.”

  Goldenrod looked up. “Oh, hello, Mistress Seamchecker.”

  “May I give you a hand?”

  “Certainly.”

  The head of the Crafters’ Council sat at the edge of the patch. She yanked out weeds with hands calloused from months of gathering plants. “You’re busy these days.”

  “I guess I am. The mage council has me hopping.”

  “I’m surprised you have time to keep up the garden.”

  “It’s not that much time. I think it’s important to grow our own food. I’ve been tracking the growth rate of the vineroots. The biggest ones we’re gathering are years old.”

  “That we were gathering,” said Seamchecker. “We’re digging up smaller ones now. And going farther for them.”

  “I hadn’t realized they were that scarce.”

  “Most of the gatherers are ferrying across the river every dawn. But the other side is going to be stripped as bare as this one soon. Then it’ll be overnight trips. Walk out, gather, camp overnight, gather some more, and come back.”

  Goldenrod let the hoe rest for a moment. “That’s—we’re not going to last long term doing that.”

  “No. We need to be farmers if we’re going to stay in one place.”

  “Or we start migrating.”

  Mistress Seamchecker shook her head. “We can’t. Oh, a few would be up for it. But most of us have too much to haul around. Tools, furniture, cooking gear. And there’s at least a dozen people too old or ill for that kind of hike.”

  “So we need a farm.” Goldenrod could feel it coming now. A senior peer stealing her project out from under her. Just like the mage council and the fishing weir.

  “Yes. We’d work it with the less productive hunters and gatherers. We’re past the point of diminishing returns anyway.”

  “Making enough hoes for everyone will take Master Forge a couple of weeks.”

  “Yes. I also have him working on a different project. A plow.”

  “A plow? How are you going to pull it?”

  “A harness for eight strong men.”

  “How are you going to get them to do that? They’re still pissed over catching shit-hauling duty.”

  “We’re making two plows. So we can make it a race.”

  That provoked a real laugh from Goldenrod. “Yeah, that’ll make the boys do their best.” She hoed a bit more. “What do you want from me?”

  “Seed.” Seamchecker’s voice was firm now that they were past the dancing about. “We’d take all your plants, cut the eyes apart for new ones. Hopefully keep the roots intact. Then sow the fields with them.”

  It was the sensible approach.

  “All right,” said Goldenrod.

  ***

  The stranger walked out of the forest. Though ‘walk’ did not capture the grace of his stride.

  Two guards stood at the gate. They looked up into his face and flinched back from the look of disdain. He ducked under the lintel of the gate without breaking stride, seeming to just glance down.

  People in the lane stopped and stared. The beauty astonished them more than the strangeness. It wasn’t just the flawlessly sculpted face or the hair waving like a silk banner. The stranger’s clothes were animal skins, fur still on, held together with a few stitches of sinew where they met.

  Yet . . . the skins were symmetrical and curved around the stranger’s shoulders without a wrinkle. The fur was a shade matching the brand new penny gleam of his skin, brushed and clean. The shorts were a darker fur than the vest, yet they went together.

  Paris fashion designers lived whole lives without achieving such elegance.

  The stranger looked side to side as he strolled down the lane. His haughty expression said it would be beneath him to acknowledge the hideousness or stench of what he surveyed.

  No one challenged him. People stood aside to clear his path. Even those standing transfixed at the sight woke as he approached and scurried out of the way.

  Merrybrew and Marjoram watched from their tent. “It’s an elf,” said Merrybrew in a low voice.

  “Don’t call it that,” she whispered back. “We don’t know anything about it. If you call it ‘elf’ just on its looks you’re making assumptions about its culture, morals, everything. That could bite us.”

  “I’m not going by his looks.”

  “What then?”

  “The arrogance.”

  The camp was quiet. No one dared shout at the stranger or even shout about him. Most watching were silent. The smithy and workshops stopped work as masters and apprentices gawked.

  Goldenrod and Newman came around the Wolfhead tents to see what the lack of fuss was about. After a long stare Newman said, “The guards shouldn’t have let him in. We should be talking to him.”

  “Likely no one dared,” answered Goldenrod.

  “God damn it.” He handed his quiver and bow to her.

  The stranger was coming down the lane toward them. Newman stepped into the middle and stood solid. As the stranger came into speaking range he waved an empty right hand and called out, “Hello! Welcome to the Kingdom. We’re glad to meet you.”

  A few steps let the stranger stop in front of Newman as if that’s where he’d always planned to be. A long hand reached out and settled on top of Newman’s head.

  Don’t flinch, he thought. This could be their handshake.

  A white glow flared under the palm.

  Newman dropped to his knees, clutching his head.

  The stranger looked at the crowd. “Who the fuck are you people and where the fuck did you come from?”

  Newman put out a hand to brace himself as he pivoted from kneeling to sitting in the dirt of the lane. Then he put both hands to his forehead.

  Goldenrod rushed to him. “Are you
okay?”

  “My head aches,” mumbled Newman.

  Encouraged by Newman’s survival, others approached to answer the stranger’s questions.

  “We’re the Kingdom.” “We’re humans, from Earth.” “We were brought here by a spell.” “Can you help us? We’re barely surviving.” “We’re humans, what are you?”

  More people came forward, shouting answers and questions over each other until no words could be made out.

  The stranger said, “Stop! Where is your head man?”

  Merrybrew had come closer to watch but hadn’t joined in the babble. Now he called, “You want us to take you to our leader?”

  A few humans laughed. The stranger replied, “Yes.”

  Another argument threatened to break out over whether to bring him to Their Majesties. It was averted by a curt, “Make a hole!”

  As people gave way Autocrat Sharpquill came up to the stranger. He looked around and said, “Don’t you people have work to do?”

  The crowd melted away.

  The Autocrat turned his attention to the newcomer. “Greetings. I’m Master Sharpquill. I manage this place on behalf of Their Majesties.”

  “Good day. I am Aelion, a wandering elf.”

  The name was more sung than spoken, moving up and down in pitch within each syllable.

  Sharpquill didn’t try to say the name. “Welcome, sir. What brings you here?”

  “I am a wanderer. I was following the river to the rim. Then I saw you people. Such people I have never seen before.”

  “Yes, we came here from another world, brought by magic we don’t understand. How do you know our language?”

  “I learned it from him.” Aelion pointed at Newman, who was staggering to his feet with Goldenrod’s help.

  “Happy to be of service,” said Newman. “Headache totally worth it.”

  “Oh, is that still bothering you?” The elf laid a finger on the side of Newman’s head.

  Newman was too dazed from the pain to try to dodge. When the finger touched him the headache vanished. As did the soreness in his feet from the day’s hunt and the twinge in his back from carrying a gutted near-deer three miles back.

  “I’m sorry, how do you say your name again?” asked Goldenrod.

  “Aelion,” sang the elf, not hitting particular notes but making a glissando up and down in pitch, the kind of continuous change trombones could do.

  “Ae-ael-ee-on,” imitated Goldenrod, hitting the highest and lowest notes.

  The elf flinched. “That’s not right.”

  “Aelion,” she sang.

  He shook his head.

  She sang the name twice more before the elf said, “Stop!”

  Newman stepped forward. He said, “Aelion,” in as flat a tone as he would use for any human name.

  “Yes, call me that,” said the elf. “Do not try to say my name.”

  Autocrat Sharpquill said, “Aelion, would you stay with us for a while? We have many questions about this land and about magic. You could be a great help to us.”

  “I am willing. Wandering is a lonely and hungry business.”

  Goldenrod looked over at House Applesmile. Master Sweetbread was putting the finishing touches on a haunch of venison. Some fish lay by to be smoked the next time Pernach went to the charcoal burning.

  “If you’re hungry, Aelion,” Goldenrod said without inflection, “would you like to join us for dinner?”

  He would.

  A bit of rearranging found Aelion and the Autocrat at the Applesmile table. Pernach, Pinecone, and Shellbutton set up a folding table for themselves on the other side of the fire. Redinkle stayed at the big table because of her magic.

  Autocrat Sharpquill steered the conversation. The elf cheerfully spouted information about his society, often talking with his mouth half-full as he shoveled in food. There was no kingdom or empire, just independent villages. They were self-sufficient. A century might go by between visitors. Several had been wiped out by the ‘green vermin.’

  Aelion was shocked that no one had magic before arriving here. “Never?” he asked. “There are elflings who have to wait a century before finding their power, but no adults lack magic.”

  “There are rumors of magical ability on Earth but no one’s ever proved they have them,” said Mistress Tightseam.

  “Now we’ve been here for eight months and we’re finding all sorts of magic.” Redinkle lifted her hand. Red and yellow flames sprang from each fingertip.

  Aelion swallowed. “A useful trick, one of the first elflings learn.” He matched her then turned the flames green, blue, and purple. “Have you been taught control?” He shoved more vineroot into his mouth.

  “I was taught nothing. I had to learn it by myself.” She concentrated. The flame on her thumb turned green, then went out.

  “How did you keep from burning yourself?”

  Redinkle flushed and looked down.

  Newman said, “She was burned so badly she might have lost her hands. It might be Goldenrod’s magic that saved her.”

  Aelion looked to Goldenrod. “What’s your trick? Healing?”

  “Sometimes when I say things they come true.”

  The elf leaned back. Master Sweetbread placed a platter of grilled fish in front of him. For once Aelion didn’t look at the food. “That—that’s not magic, it’s sorcery. Don’t ask me about that.”

  Sweetbread sliced the last fish into the venison grease.

  Goldenrod asked, “If you can’t help me, can you help Redinkle?”

  “Oh, of course. Simple tricks like that anyone knows.”

  Newman excused himself and walked to the Wolfhead encampment next door.

  Foxglove was peeking around the corner. “So what’s the elf like?” she demanded.

  “Hungry,” said Newman. “He’s eight feet tall and it’s all hollow. Can you spare us some cooked food? We’re down to the last of what we’ve got.”

  “You can have the whole meal,” said Wolfhead Alpha.

  “What?” cried Husky, already standing in line with his plate waiting for the cooks to finish. He was only the loudest of the complainers.

  “This is important. It’s our first friendly contact on this world. If we need to skip a meal to make it go right we’ll be hungry and glad of it.”

  Under the leader’s glare Wolfheads picked up the waiting platters and carried them to House Applesmile. More waited for the last of the food to come off the fire.

  “Thank you,” said Newman.

  “Don’t worry about it,” said Alpha. “They won’t suffer. You six—” Alpha pointed at Husky and the other line standers. “Grab baskets and trot down to the weir. There should be a few fish there.”

  Husky and his friends stacked their plates and headed out.

  “When they have those fish ready I’ll check with you before I give them to my pups,” said Wolfhead Alpha.

  “Thank you,” answered Newman, “but I hope it won’t come to that. There should be other households willing to donate.”

  “There should. I don’t know that they will. Don’t ask Captain Spear’s tent. The hungry time left them more protective than a dog with one bone.”

  “I’ll remember that.”

  Newman went back to his table. Master Sweetbread was sitting now. Foxglove managed food distribution. She’d even given some portions to the small table. As he sat she placed some venison slices directly on the elf’s plate.

  They were still talking magic.

  “No one is limited to a single form of magic,” said Aelion. “There’s no way to predict what an elfling’s first spell will be. The others come later, a few every decade. In less than a century they’ll know all the common spells.”

  “We usually live less than a century,” said Redinkle.

  “How sad for you. We’ll see if healing magic can sustain you to a normal life.”

  Newman asked, “Do you have spells that cure aging?”

  “What kind of disease is ‘aging’?”
<
br />   “It’s when the body functions less well as we get older,” said Mistress Tightseam. “Our skin is looser, some joints hurt when we use them. Muscles are weaker.” She pointed to her chin and elbow to illustrate.

  Aelion wrapped his hand around her elbow. “That sounds like damage. Damage can be fixed.”

  He removed his hand. “Try now.”

  She folded her arm double, then extended it straight. “Oh, my. That is better. One of us should learn that spell.”

  “It would be easy to teach to one who already knows some healing magic.”

  Tightseam looked at Goldenrod. “You’ll introduce him to Lady Burnout, yes?”

  “We already had a mage council meeting scheduled for tomorrow. I’ll put out the word for full attendance.”

  Autocrat Sharpquill nodded approvingly.

  “What’s the difference between magic and sorcery?” asked Goldenrod. She was bothered by Aelion’s aversion to discussing her talent.

  “Magic is normal. Anyone can do it. Like carving wood. Anyone can take a knife and cut away splinters. You learn tricks from others and you get better with practice.”

  He’d let his mouth get empty. He forked a piece of venison, chewed and swallowed. No one else spoke. It was clear Goldenrod wanted a full answer to her question.

  “Sorcery, now. I don’t know much about it. I’ve heard rumors and guesses and apprentice’s boasts. Not everyone can do it. It takes power, a special power. Not the same as being good at regular magic. Sorcery has words and chants and books. I’ve seen powerful mages passed over as apprentices.”

  Aelion seemed nervous. For the first time there were hesitations in his flowing speech.

  “Sorcery is puzzles and mysteries. Blood is spilled for it. Apprentices die and their parents are never told how or why. The effects it produces casts all our petty magic in the shade. I don’t know if there’s any limits to it. I can’t do sorcery. I’m glad I can’t do sorcery.”

  For the next few minutes the only sound was chewing, utensils on plates, and Foxglove keeping the plates full.