The War Revealed (The Lost War Book 2)

by Karl K Gallagher

Climbing onto the girl’s back was embarrassing but Filigree would rather be helped by her than another bunch of rough young men. When her legs were wrapped around Aster’s hips she said, “I’m ready.”

  They rose straight into the air. Filigree squeezed her legs tighter and grabbed Aster’s shoulders hard enough to hurt her elbows again.

  Once over the ledge Aster drifted on a dozen yards to a clear spot. “Here you go, milady.”

  “Thank you.”

  Aster looked thoughtful. “That’s interesting. Carrying you didn’t tire me at all. Carrying cargo does. That might just be my arms getting tired from picking stuff up. My magic is stronger than I thought.”

  ***

  Goldenrod sat on the slope below the pass. It was covered with people except for a gap directly under the pass. No one wanted an out of control cart rolling over them.

  The cart was under control. A dozen men had their hands on its rear to shove it up the slope. Ropes tied to the front were pulled by a score. The wagon’s load was stacked at the bottom of the slope, waiting to be hand carried through the pass.

  Goldenrod only looked up from her book when the cursing grew loud enough to make her wonder if the cart had broken loose. No, they’d reached the vertical bit. Once the rope crew climbed up the ladders were moved aside.

  She looked down and picked up a pebble. It went in the center of a diagram on the left page.

  “Ialun fethun banthu.” The words were sung in the elvish manner, sliding through notes instead of hitting them. The people sitting around Goldenrod gave her wary looks.

  The pebble sitting on the book disappeared. It reappeared two feet away, stationary in the air. It fell down and rolled down the slope.

  Goldenrod put another pebble on the diagram. She sang a similar phrase. This pebble reappeared two feet above the book. It bounced off the spot it had rested on then rattled downhill.

  People sitting next to Goldenrod found other places to wait.

  A cheer brought her attention to the wagon again. It scraped over the edge of the ledge as the pushers shouted and clapped. When the rope crew hauled it out of sight the ladders went back in place.

  The pushers climbed up and started shoving on the wagon. A minute later an argument broke out. From what Goldenrod could make out the pass was too narrow to roll it through. After some shouting there were grunts of men lifting something heavy. Then people began climbing the ladder.

  Goldenrod went back to her book. She’d need to take the ladder slowly. There’d be a gap in the line eventually.

  “You’ve been casting spells.” Lady Burnout stood in front of her, arms crossed.

  “Not wish magic. Just sorcery. That doesn’t hurt me.”

  “It’s powered by blood. You have no idea how it works. And you think it won’t hurt you?”

  Goldenrod hefted the book. “I’m learning the theory. None of the spells I’ve tried use blood.”

  “That puts considerable faith in the competence of an insane slaver.”

  “It’s the best we have.”

  Burnout switched from stern to pleading. “Can you let it wait a few days? Heal, heal completely. Then do your research.”

  Goldenrod met Burnout’s eyes firmly. “In a few days we’re going to have orcs here. Maybe hundreds. Maybe thousands.”

  Thousands assumed her husband had failed, and probably died in the attempt.

  “We’ll need all the magic we can get,” she finished.

  ***

  Buttercup had a good seat for watching the men unload the wagons. The fallen tree wasn’t exactly comfortable, but it wasn’t bump-bump-bumping along. That made it ‘good’ by her current standards.

  The flying chick zoomed by again. Or she would have if she hadn’t landed right in front of Buttercup.

  “Would you like a lift, milady?”

  “Sure.” It wasn’t like Buttercup had anything better to do. In camp she’d spent hours on end in the kitchen but her help wasn’t wanted with field cooking.

  A minute’s work had a belt holding Buttercup to Aster’s back. The older woman’s arms went under the other’s shoulders, palms on the collarbones. That could become a full Nelson if the ride grew too rough.

  Lifting into the air was disappointingly free of magical sounds or auras. If she’d had her eyes closed she’d think Aster had just stood up.

  “Do you mind if we go through the other pass?” asked Aster. “I hate flying over a crowd.”

  Not wanting to be the focus of attention was something Buttercup completely understood. But if they were taking a detour. . .

  “Could we fly over the river? I’ve never gotten a clear look at it.”

  She could have. All she’d needed was a couple of volunteers to push her back up the bluff. Not a favor she wanted to owe.

  Aster banked away from the mountain’s slope. “Sure.”

  She approached the river over the edge of the lake. Dipping down from the foothills to skimming over the water filled their nostrils with rotting plants and stagnant air. Flashes of overwhelming sweetness from clusters of flowers didn’t make it better.

  Reaching the river was a relief. Clear air blew the swampy scents away. Deep blue water rushed under them. Aster turned into the gap.

  The sound of the waterfall hurt this close up. Aster shouted something. Buttercup could feel her chest squeezing out the words but couldn’t hear them.

  They went past the end of the river. The water dropped away below them. Aster dove to follow it.

  Below them was a cloud of mist. They flew into it. Cold water slapped Buttercup’s face and arms, making her squeeze her ride involuntarily.

  Aster pulled out of the cloud. Past it the water seethed through a pile of gravel. If a jagged rock six feet across counted as gravel.

  Then they were passing over the shore. The evacuation’s destination was obvious. The island stood out, a solid block with the ocean as moat. Getting to it would be a nasty swim. Buttercup was good with that. Everyone said orcs couldn’t swim worth a damn.

  They landed next to a flat-topped boulder. Aster grunted as her magic let Buttercup’s weight drop onto her legs.

  “This spot is above the high tide line,” said Aster. “It’s a safe place to wait for everyone.”

  Buttercup eyed the incoming waves. If true, this was high tide. The rock didn’t have any seaweed or water stain on it so probably true.

  “Fine. Set me down on it.”

  Once the belt was undone Buttercup settled onto the boulder. She’d have a good view of the whole Kingdom filing past. Possibly stripped down for swimming.

  ***

  Finding the supply cache was no problem. Carrying it was. The orcs were too close for them to divide the supplies among the patrollers.

  Crusher and Joyeuse handed their bows off and grabbed the sides of the big canvas bag. They started down the river bluff. Their free hands grabbed at roots and vines to steady them as dirt slid away under their feet.

  Behind them an orc let out the grunt-grunt-hoot that seemed to mean “I see them!”

  Bowstrings twanged as patrollers tried to discourage the orcs. Then dirt sprayed over Crusher and Joyeuse as the rest came down the slope after them. A spear flew over their heads.

  “Find some driftwood,” ordered Newman.

  The patrollers spread out as they skidded down the buff. A sprained ankle meant death here. But so did being out run.

  The supply bag reached the bottom first. Crusher trusted a foothold that gave way like sand. As he fell he kept his grip on the bag, but that pulled it out of Joyeuse’ hand. Then he rolled over and lost the bag anyway.

  It rolled down the slope and met the flood plain with a crack of breaking arrows.

  Crusher didn’t bother standing. He slid to the bottom on his muddy rear.

  There was no breath for recriminations when Joyeuse caught up to him. They grabbed the bag again. The river bank was two hundred yards away.

  A spear landed to their right, quivering as it stuck o
ut of the ground. Neither dodged. Orcs were only accurate with their spears out to twenty yards. They had the strength to hurl them much farther but hitting was a matter of luck.

  As the bag carriers lumbered up Pliers tied a last knot on a conglomeration of driftwood and rope. “Dump it on, guys, it should hold.”

  They heaved the supply bag on. Pliers tied the bag on so they wouldn’t lose it if the makeshift raft flipped over.

  Newman panted up with a couple of dry tree branches. “Get in the water. They’re gaining.”

  A glance back showed orcs were almost to the bottom of the bluff.

  All four shoved the raft into the water. It held the bag almost completely out of the water. Pliers slung his bow, jumped in, and started kicking. The rest followed, using branches to hold them up.

  “Wish I’d had time to get my boots off,” muttered Joyeuse.

  “Shut up and swim,” retorted Newman.

  The patrol spread out as they moved into the swift flowing center. A few spears splashed into the water.

  No one tried to fight the current. They let it carry them as they struggled to reach the far side.

  The orcs’ war cries had been fading. Now they swelled again as the monsters followed them down the river.

  Whippet was first to reach the bank. He left his log in the water. He took a moment to squeeze water from his hair and shirt. Then he took the coil of rope hung over his shoulder and unwound it.

  The first toss landed short of the raft with the supply cache. He hadn’t allowed for the extra weight of the wet rope.

  The next attempt was close enough for Pliers to grab it.

  “Swim over and I’ll haul you all in,” called Whippet.

  Joyeuse had been alternating pushing on the raft and swimming on his own. He was too far away to reach Whippet’s rope. He reached for the raft and wrapped his hand around one of the ropes holding it together.

  Newman looked at the rope, well out of his reach. “Just bring the raft in. We’ll catch up.”

  A minute later Whippet was helping Pliers and Joyeuse onto the bank. All three grabbed the bag to haul it a few yards inland. Pliers started untying the raft to recover its rope.

  Whippet picked up his rope and scanned the river to choose his next rescue. “Hey, Crusher! You okay?”

  The fighter was lagging well behind the rest. A spear splashed into the river ahead of him.

  “This damn log barely floats,” grunted Crusher. He had it tucked under one arm while the other stroked through the water and his feet kicked. Much of the effort went into keeping his face above water, slowing his progress.

  Whippet sent the rope his way, uncoiling through the air. “Crap! It’s not long enough.”

  Joyeuse started undressing.

  “Let me get this untangled and we can tie them together,” said Pliers, as he wrestled with the knots holding the raft together.

  The next throw landed by Leadsmith. He thrashed his feet to get to it. Whippet hauled him to shore.

  Joyeuse’s white tush flashed in the air as he dove into the river. Free of boots, belt, and clothes he stroked through the water like a dolphin.

  Crusher started as the squire popped up out of the water.

  “Keep the log. I’m going to tow you.”

  “Right.”

  Joyeuse flipped to his back, hooked his left arm around Crusher’s, and started stroking vigorously.

  More orcs were massing on the far bank. War chants filled the air. A spear landed in the water almost to the patrol.

  The second rope still had some knots in it as Whippet pulled Borzhoi to shore. In a minute everyone was on land except Crusher and Joyeuse. They held onto the rope as three men hauled them in.

  “Taunt them,” said Newman. “We need to make them cross.”

  Leadsmith started capering on the bank. “Na na na na na!” He had the old playground rhythm. Waving his arms over his head he repeated, “Na na na na na!”

  When the last two climbed up the bank they all started taunting the orcs. Joyeuse did take a minute to get dressed first.

  The orcs didn’t have clothes weighing them down but their muscled bodies were too dense to let them swim well. One orc was angry enough to run into the river but he was back on the bank coughing up water in a minute.

  Smarter orcs were gathering driftwood. One band hauled a fallen tree to the bank.

  “Guys, stop,” said Leadsmith. “We’re a jumble. We need to synchronize.”

  Everyone looked at him.

  “Keep it simple. Everyone do na na na. On me,” Leadsmith waved his hand to conduct them. “Na na na-na na!”

  They repeated the chant over and over.

  Leadsmith was right. The orcs responded to the chorus with intensified war cries. Some began a dance with provocative hip thrusts.

  He sang louder, encouraging the rest of the patrol to match him. When he was sure they had the rhythm down he waved his arms in the air with the chant. The rest followed him.

  A spear hissed across the river. It impaled Leadsmith on the left side of his chest. He fell, held off the ground by the foot and a half of spear sticking out of his back.

  Borzhoi dropped to his knees beside him, lifting Leadsmith into his arms to take the man’s weight off the spear.

  On the other side Newman unfolded the saw blade from his multitool and started cutting the spear where it stuck out of the chest.

  Leadsmith grunted in pain as the sawing jerked the spear around in the wound. His face was pale. His mouth moved but no words came out.

  The orcs were holding one of their number up on the others’ shoulders. The war cries changed pitch, mocking the sudden silence of the patrol.

  “Grab all the gear. We are leaving,” ordered Newman. He shifted to Leadsmith’s back to cut off the other end of the spear.

  Joyeuse found the first aid kit. He laid a thick gauze pad over the stump of the spear and taped it into place. Blood soaked through the gauze.

  When Newman finished the second cut Joyeuse applied another bandage. This one soaked through even faster. “I’ll have to cut up a shirt for a pad,” said the squire.

  “They’re crossing,” said Newman. “Let’s go.”

  Orcs were visible on the river. They were being swept downstream but they were crossing.

  Four men carrying Leadsmith and two with the supply bag left Whippet to break trail. He scouted the bluff, finding gentle slopes where they could climb without going single-file.

  At the top Newman looked back. Two trees were coming across the river, each propelled by two dozen orcs hanging on. More orcs were crossing on driftwood, sometimes two or three to a piece.

  A leaning tree on the far bluff ripped free from its roots and slid down, the orcs who’d been jumping on it leaping clear as it fell.

  “Into the woods,” ordered Newman. “We need to get some distance and find a way to break our trail before we head for the sea.”

  Pliers protested, “We have to stop his bleeding first.”

  “No time.”

  Deadeye countered, “A blood trail will lead the orcs straight to us.”

  “I think it’s too late,” said Joyeuse. He held a hand over Leadsmith’s nose, then applied fingers to his throat. “No breathing, no pulse.”

  They lowered him down.

  “CPR?” asked Pliers.

  Joyeuse shook his head. “That only helps when there’s an ambulance on the way.”

  “Right,” said Newman. “Get his arrows and food.”

  Pliers whirled on him. “Loot the body? You fucking ghoul.”

  “We need the arrows. And food. Plus I don’t want to leave any for the orcs.” Newman emphasized his words by stepping into Pliers’ personal space.

  The younger man took a step back and looked down.

  “He is food for the orcs,” said Deadeye. “We going to bury him?”

  “They can dig him up faster than we can bury him. And we don’t have the time.”

  “Hmph.” Deadeye knelt d
own and transferred Leadsmith’s arrows to his own quiver.

  Joyeuse opened the belt pouch. Some jerky went into his own pouch. The man’s wallet he passed to Newman. “For next of kin.”

  Last he took the sheath with Leadsmith’s Damascus blade and offered it to Pliers, who’d been the archer’s arrow caddy.

  He accepted it.

  “Let’s go,” said Newman. “They’re coming.

  “I’m taking his bow,” said Deadeye. “I don’t want the orcs getting ideas.”

  Seven men headed into the woods.

  ***

  “Make way,” called Countess Ribbon’s thin voice. “Make way!” She sat atop a wagon, holding the rope tied over its load.

  Filigree hastily moved off the track, climbing uphill until it was too steep.

  The wagon rolled backward down the slope, slowed by over a dozen men pulling on ropes. One fell and was dragged until he let go of the rope. He sprang to his feet and ran to catch up.

  It was loaded to overflowing with food, blankets, and other gear. Ribbon waved as she passed under Filigree. “Don’t dawdle,” she said. “They can see the main body from the pass.”

  Then the wagon and its line of men were past. Shouting broke out as the leader demanded they stop at a corner. Ribbon whooped as the wagon ran up on a ledge.

  Filigree stepped into the empty path left by the wagon and resumed her walk. She watched the island waiting in the ocean. Seeing the end of the long walk made her step out a little stronger.

  When she reached the beach the wagon was already crossing the causeway. Ribbon was still on top.

  A marshal standing at the water’s edge said, “The tide’s coming in. Don’t start unless you can make it across.”

  She looked over the causeway. The middle was underwater. People were walking through it. She could see their knees.

  “I’ll be fine,” Filigree told the boy.

  The causeway had lousy traction. The slopes were all bare rock, solidified lava from whatever cataclysm created the mountains.

  No plants grew on the slope. Even lichens hid in the dips in the terrain providing shelter from the ocean storms.

  The start of the causeway, only under water a few hours a day, was just a damp version of the slope. High tide was long ago. The rock had dried. Filigree strode firmly along. The rest of the crossers were well ahead of her.