Aster turned to the passes. She dreaded this part. If she couldn’t find a usable pass everyone would be trapped between the lake and the mountains trying to fight off the orcs on a level playing field. With three thousand orcs and less than two hundred humans that wouldn’t last long.
The pass closest to the river was a relief. It was rough. They’d never get the carts through it. But a normal person could climb all the slopes. She checked by landing and scrambling up with hands and feet.
The second pass might be better. The oceanside slopes were easier than the previous one’s. It connected better to the network of ripples. The only problem was a step about fifteen feet high, almost vertical. She tried climbing it. Maybe an athlete such as Joyeuse could scale it. Not her.
Then again—it wouldn’t take much of a ladder to get over it. The rest of the crossing would be easy. Not her decision. She’d report to the King and let him decide.
Half a dozen more passes, back to the one she’d first crossed through, weren’t any better Several were completely impossible on foot.
That was what Aster needed to know. She looked around at the sky and started flying back. It was late. They’d be making camp.
***
This band had caught a deer. They weren’t hungry.
“Oh, that poor critter,” said Borzhoi. “Can I put it out of its misery?”
Newman said, “No. We want them furious, not irked.”
There was already some fury among the orcs. A pair were squabbling, possibly over who had the next turn with the deer. Shouts became head butts. Then they were rolling on the ground gouging each other.
Orcs not otherwise engaged sat around the wrestlers and hooted.
“I don’t think one arrow will be enough to get their attention,” mused Newman.
“Oh, if you want attention,” said Whippet. He moved toward the orcs. On the way he broke off a length of vine clinging to a tree.
“Hey, what are you doing?” demanded Newman.
Whippet kept going.
Dammit, thought Newman. Shouting at him could alert the orcs. “Alpha,” he snarled.
As the rest prepared an ambush he and Leadsmith followed Whippet.
“Are we going to rescue him?” asked Leadsmith.
“Probably not.”
Whippet moved quietly through the trees. It was wasted effort. Between the anguished bleats of the deer and the grunts of the wrestlers and the cheering sections, Whippet could have been singing without any orcs noticing.
He stepped around a tree to behind some of the seated spectators. The vine whipped across an orc’s face, raising a dark green welt.
“I count coup!”
The next stroke caught another orc in the eye, producing a howl of pain.
“I count coup!”
Whippet’s next swing left a welt on an orc’s cheek.
“I count coup!” He sprinted into the woods. Orcs leapt to their feet to chase him. The deer galloped off.
Newman pivoted away from the fracas. “Let’s go.”
When Leadsmith caught up he panted, “We aren’t going to wait for him?”
“He’s faster than we are. Or dead.”
The howls and snarls of the orcs drowned out running feet. Newman didn’t realize Whippet was with them until he said, “Hi, guys”
“Hi,” said Leadsmith.
Newman just kept running.
“So, they’re mad now,” said Whippet.
“If you trip I’m letting them eat you,” said Newman.
The ambush worked perfectly. The three runners raced between the two lines of the trap. In this close-quarters fight the caddies were allowed to use their bows.
The orcs had formed into a narrow column in the chase. The front rank went down to shots in eye and heart. The bodies tripped the next wave. When they fought their way clear Crusher and Joyeuse drew their swords.
Orcs trying to parry swords with a spear lost their fingers. Ones trying to outflank caught arrows to the chest or head.
Then only a handful of orcs were left, crashing through the woods as they fled.
Deadeye lined up a shot on an orc’s back.
Newman knocked his bow aside.
“He’s getting away,” snarled the archer.
“Yes. He’s going to tell all the other orcs there’s a hundred ten foot tall humans here. That’s exactly what we want.”
Newman looked at the rest of them. “Get your packs on. We’re going to head northeast and find a new target.”
***
The heralds announced the day’s march was done. Goldenrod flopped to the ground. The quicker she lay down the faster the pain was over.
The faster the intense pain was over. The chronic pain stayed with her. Goldenrod could hear the sound of people getting their dinners out all around her. She should eat. After resting a bit. She closed her eyes.
“Are you sleeping or in a coma?”
Goldenrod opened her eyes to find Verbena kneeling over her.
“I’m okay. Just aching.”
The healer slowly trailed her fingertips from Goldenrod’s throat to her bellybutton. “A couple of tears have partially reopened. Have you been chewing your food thoroughly?”
“Oh, God. Yes, I’m chewing. I’m probably burning more calories chewing than I’m getting out of the food.”
“Something’s straining the wounds.”
“Yeah. Standing up and lying down. It hurts every time.”
“Damn. I’ll have to reseal the tears.” Verbena sat back on her heels.
Goldenrod waited a minute before saying, “Going to let me suffer some more first?”
“Burnout needs to practice it. I’ve been teaching her but the real thing is different.”
“Fine. Oh, I figured out how I did the teleport.”
“Oh?” said Verbena.
“Yeah. Current book has the whole spell. I can go to any place I know well by concentrating.”
“Any place? Back to Earth?”
“No, this spell is just crossing physical distance. The interdimensional magic is scattered through the books. I don’t think the sorcerer really knew how it worked.”
“So we’re trapped here.”
Goldenrod laughed. “Not forever. I want to make scrolls like he did. We can scatter them on the universe streams. If one can make it to Earth somebody can cast an anchor spell for us to follow back.”
“That would take . . . years.” Verbena didn’t sound hopeful.
“Maybe. If I heal up enough to use my wish-magic I might be able to speed it up.”
Lady Burnout appeared above them. “Don’t you dare cast anything until I clear you.”
Goldenrod nodded. She stayed silent as the healers applied magic to her insides.
***
They’d split into pairs to search a wider arc for orcs. This was Newman and Joyeuse’s first private moment since the patrol formed up.
“What’s the chain of command for this outfit?” asked the squire.
“Weeell . . . Pliers takes orders from anyone. This is his first time any distance out of camp so he’s a bit intimidated. Whippet will obey Borzhoi and anyone Borzhoi obeys. Crusher doesn’t have much hunting experience so he’ll follow the hunters.”
Newman pulled a branch aside for them both to pass then eased it gently back. Even when they were chatting he moved quietly by habit. “That’s Deadeye, Leadsmith, and Borzhoi. They’ve spent a lot of time together in nasty situations. They trust each other. Deadeye would lead them because he’s hard over on the competent/asshole quadrant. Borzhoi is next—he’s more tactical.”
They paused to listen for orcs. No grunts, breaking branches, or unhappy deer were in earshot. Newman started moving through the woods again.
“What about me?” said Joyeuse.
“Nobody knows you except Borzhoi and me. You never hunted. Your combat experience is all up close hack and slash, which is a good way to get killed on this mission. So that’s three reasons to not take
orders from you. Four if you count the mission and staying alive separately.”
The two men kept walking. Newman quietly, Joyeuse rustled leaves and sometimes let go of a branch too early, producing an audible snap.
Finally Newman answered Joyeuse’s silence.
“Yes, you’re a squire and you have the Order of This and you’re a Companion of That. You think that should make you second in command after the baron. Right?”
“Yes.”
“If we were operating where the king could see us it would, and Deadeye would become an unofficial sergeant and the guys would look to him to ‘interpret’ your orders.”
Newman waved at the thick trees.
“Out here your rank doesn’t mean shit. A second’s hesitation could be the difference between life and death. The guys will follow whoever they think has the best shot at keeping them alive. That’s not you.”
The squire stared straight ahead. “Thank you for your honesty.”
“If I didn’t think you could handle truth I wouldn’t have brought you. Watch where you’re putting your feet,” Newman said as a twig cracked under the squire’s foot.
“So I’m going to spend this whole mission as an arrow caddy for you or some other hunter.”
“Maybe. If everything goes exactly as planned. Which it won’t. Then you’ll have a chance to use all your talents. You’ve already proved you’re not an effete courtier who needs a page to hold his dick while he pees.”
“They did not think that.”
“Deadeye said it, but that was probably him being an asshole again.”
Joyeuse shook his head.
***
Mistress Filigree could keep up with the parade easily now. She walked with the wagons and travois anyway. This way she was near her friends. They would chat during the breaks. Lady Buttercup enjoyed sharing her opinions on the musculature of the young men taking their turn at wagon-pulling.
Between breaks she had no breath to spare for chatter.
Countess Ribbon’s travois was alongside Buttercup’s cart. Filigree followed the travois. This pair of pullers were doing a good job of going around roots and other obstacles.
A whistle blew, long and loud. Travois and cart stopped as the men looked back.
Tweet! With the second signal the cart pullers threw off their harnesses. They dashed back to the wagon, pulling pikeaxes from its sides. The travois crew lowered Countess Ribbon to the ground then undid the ropes of the travois to slide out their pikeaxes. They dashed off in the wake of the cart crew.
Filigree stood still. The men were running past her so fast she’d be knocked flat if she guessed wrong trying to get out of their way.
Ribbon started twisting in the remnants of the travois.
“Want me to unstrap you, Your Excellency?” asked Filigree.
“No, they’ll be back soon. They just laid me on a pinecone or something. If you could?”
Filigree knelt smoothly beside the countess. Then she reached less smoothly under her. Her back hadn’t had the magical healing her legs had.
The seed pod was as hard as a pinecone, but shaped more like a bunch of grapes. Filigree tossed it aside.
“Oh, that’s better,” said Countess Ribbon.
“Hey, Filly,” called Lady Buttercup. “Go see what the boys are up to. If we don’t have a witness they’ll pass off all sorts of tall tales.”
The others on the cart agreed.
Mistress Filigree grinned. She’d been fighting curiosity, but if she had someone else to blame for being where she shouldn’t, why not?
There weren’t any fighting men in sight. A line of backpacks marked where the rear guard had been walking. Sounds of clanging and shouting came through the trees. She followed them.
She found them as everyone moved to their proper place and shut up. The fighters were lined up in a clearing.
The men, ranging from teenagers to ones only a decade younger than Filigree, were in a long line with a couple of gaps to split them into three even pieces.
A line of women, all in their twenties, stood behind the center line of men. Count Dirk marched between them. He’d been doing most of the shouting.
A scout dashed out of the woods on the far side. He didn’t bother shouting anything. A band of orcs was right behind him.
The center squad parted ranks to let the scout through, and closed up again. The orcs attacked them, spears thrusting.
“Cannae!” ordered Count Dirk. “Cannae!”
The female squad obediently backed up. The men retreated more slowly, drawing orange blood when the orcs pressed too hard. One man had his pikeaxe yanked from his hands. He fled. The men on his left and right sidestepped to fill the gap.
The orcs had red blood on their spearpoints but hadn’t taken anyone down. They kept attacking, following as closely as the swinging blades let them.
Filigree looked at the side squads, wondering why they weren’t doing anything. Then she saw them start to wheel, closing behind the orcs like a double door.
Most of the orcs didn’t notice the trap in time. Two dashed out through the gap as it closed. The next two fell from axe blades to leg and belly.
“Archers, get those two!” ordered Count Dirk. The archers who’d stood on the left and right ends of the line dashed into the woods.
The surrounded orcs went down fast. A few flung themselves on the humans, taking lethal wounds to inflict some pain before they died.
When the last one fell Dirk called, “Captain Spear, take your men to back up the archers.”
Men peeled out of the mob and trotted off.
Lady Verbena and Lady Burnout walked past Filigree. Burnout gave her a harsh look.
Filigree returned to her friends to recount the battle. “He must have sent twenty or thirty men against those two orcs. I guess he’s pissed enough to want no survivors.”
“He doesn’t want them telling the rest where we are, dear,” said Countess Ribbon.
***
Rhino trails were great for chases. No chance of tripping over the underbrush. An easy straight run without weaving around the trees. A clear view of the pursuing orcs. And nothing in the way of an arrow shot.
Their lead had grown enough to keep them clear of aimed spears. “Time to needle them,” said Newman.
The patrol slowed to a walk. Newman and Deadeye stopped, turned around, and nocked arrows.
“I got the mouth-breather on the left,” said Deadeye.
Newman studied the orcish front rank. He didn’t want to discourage the chase. He passed over the eager orcs. One was panting and stumbling. Probably about to give up. It might make the others follow its example.
“Take ‘em.” Newman loosed his arrow into the stumbler’s gut. Deadeye put his into another orc’s mouth.
The war cries had faded as orcs saved their breath for running—well, jogging—after the humans. Now they roared out again.
Whippet yelled, “Get off the trail! Get off the trail!”
That was suicide. Going through the dense woods would slow the patrol enough to let orcs on the trail catch them.
But for all Whippet’s faults he didn’t panic easily. There had to be a good reason for his call. Newman turned and plunged into the woods, Deadeye at his heels.
Ten yards into the trees was enough to muffle the noise of the orcs. Then Newman felt Whippet’s reason.
The footsteps were felt more than heard, a vibration through the ground. Then they could see the crash. A bull rhino led his cows and calves down the trail.
“I wonder if they hunt rhinos,” said Deadeye.
“We may be about to find out.”
They rejoined the rest of the patrol, all well clear of the occupied trail.
The bull let out a noise like an eighteen-wheeler blowing its horn.
Instead of war cries the orcs were making a lot of grunts and hoots.
Borzhoi asked, “Is this good for our mission or bad?”
“I don’t know,” said Newman. �
��Let’s get the hell out of here and find a different bunch of orcs to piss off.”
***
King Ironhelm, or maybe the Autocrat, had gone with Aster’s recommended pass. Travois had been broken down to make three ladders. That was the bottleneck now.
Three lines of people stretched down the bare rock before the pass. The ladders weren’t sturdy. No more than one person at a time could be on each. Some people couldn’t climb quickly.
Those with the skill—and arm length—to climb using the cracks in the rock face bypassed the ladders. But that wasn’t enough people to speed up the lines.
Aster helped with luggage. She took everyone’s backpack or basket or dufflebag at the bottom and flew up to leave it at the top. The original plan had been for three men to haul stuff up with ropes, but she could do it faster with less chance of spilling. And without fraying the ropes. They’d given up and been reassigned to unloading carts.
Mistress Filigree wasn’t worried about the ladder. If it had survived some of the people she’d seen ahead of her there was no danger of it collapsing under her skin and bones.
Putting a foot on the first rung and pushing up was no trouble. Then her arms pulled on the ladder to keep her balanced on the vertical ascent. Her elbows flared with pain. Her shoulders screamed.
After the second rung she stepped back down. Staggering to the side she waved the next one in line to the ladder.
“Milady? Are you all right?” asked Aster. She spoke just loud enough to be heard over the waterfall.
“Just resting,” said Filigree. “My arthritis didn’t like trying to pull myself up the ladder.”
“Ah. I’m sorry. I know they’re planning a rope chair for people who can’t climb.”
Filigree shifted her hips on the rock. “Oh, that’ll be fun.”
“Or. . .” Aster studied the older woman.
“Yes?”
“Do you think you have enough strength to hold on to me? You don’t look much heavier than some of the baskets I’ve been carrying up.”
“If I can wrap my legs around you, yes.”
Aster dropped to hands and knees besides Filigree. “Let’s try it.”
The War Revealed (The Lost War Book 2) Page 14
