The War Revealed (The Lost War Book 2)

by Karl K Gallagher

  She skidded as she stepped on a slimy patch. Something was growing on the deeper portion of the causeway. Not thick enough to be called moss. Just a bit of green tint to the rock and slipperiness under her sandals.

  Filigree weaved among the patches, wanting to keep to bare rock. Falling would lead to a fuss as people ran back to pick her up. She wanted no part of that.

  That wasn’t an option in the middle. The water was turbid enough to keep her from looking through it for gaps in the growth. It grabbed her feet, demanding even more effort to keep moving forward.

  Her back twinged as she put more strength into wading. The other crossers were widening their lead. They were out of the water and walking freely.

  Filigree glanced back at the shore. No one else was crossing. A dozen figures waited on the beach. Wimps.

  The water was rising. The underwater stretch was longer than when she’d stepped onto the causeway. But she was close to the middle.

  Good thing. The water was climbing up her thighs. Then her hips were covered. That made her a bit more comfortable physically. Swinging her legs underwater saved her from the slosh, slosh, slosh of wading.

  The water was closer to the island now. The tide was rising. But she was catching up.

  Slosh, slosh, slosh was even worse with her clothes soaked. She worried more about falling in the shallow water. Slipping in the middle would just mean a moment of floating. Here she could get hurt.

  When Filigree’s foot skidded in a patch of moss, pain went through her. Not from falling. She pivoted fast enough to save her balance. Her spine screamed in protest at the twist.

  “I need Verbena to fix the rest of me,” she muttered.

  A wave slapped against her thigh. The tide was still coming in. She stomped forward, forcing her way through the water.

  A middle-aged man came down the causeway from the island. “Would you like a hand, mistress?”

  Filigree repressed an answer unbecoming to a Peer. “Thank you, but I’m quite all right.”

  The traction improved as she walked through the shallow water. There wasn’t much growth on this stretch.

  He wouldn’t leave but at least the guy didn’t keep pressing her. When Filigree stepped onto the damp rock he politely offered his arm without a word. She rested a hand in his elbow, not putting any weight on him. They walked up to the island together as if arriving at a ball.

  He bowed to her. “I’d best get back to work, Mistress.”

  Her helper joined the people unloading the wagon.

  The island didn’t have a beach. A shelf of basalt sloped gently from the water to the wall of the island’s core. The wall wasn’t vertical. It tilted in enough some men were going straight up it with a bag under one arm. Most stuck to a diagonal ripple in the wall. That was filled with a line of porters, bunching up as they went through the trickier bits.

  Anyone wanting to carry a second load had to slide down the steep parts. A gentler bit had several men gathered above it waiting their turn.

  “Oh! Ants,” said Filigree, realizing what the sight reminded her of. While the majority followed the swarm some wandered off to explore new routes.

  She waited for her clothes to stop dripping before attempting the wall. She took a moment to empty out her shoes as well. Slipping was scarier twenty feet up than three feet under.

  When she was just damp and sticky Filigree slipped into a gap in the line going up the ripple. It was narrow. Experimentally putting her feet beside each other left a toe hanging in the air.

  She matched the pace of the porters. A guilty part of her wondered if she should have carried up a bedroll or something. Arthritis pain in her wrist and elbow cured that. She had to brace one arm on the wall for stability. Her balance wasn’t good enough to keep her on the trail without it.

  The first clog left her standing still for a couple of minutes. Then the line moved again. When Filigree reached the obstacle she understood.

  The ripple smoothed out for a couple of feet leaving a gap. The tall man in front of her hopped over, swayed and put his shoulder against the wall to steady himself without dropping either bundle under his arms.

  Hopping wouldn’t work for her. She’d already resorted to keeping her left foot always in front of the right because the ripple was too narrow to let her move one foot past the other. To get past this. . .

  Filigree rested her left toes on the end of the ripple, holding up the foot to let the other slide under it. She braced her hands on the wall.

  Pushing off with right foot and both hands sent her across the gap. The left foot landed on the far side. Her hands slid across the rock. One hand caught an irregularity and pulled. Hard. The other grabbed on. Her shoulders flared with pain as they took her weight.

  Her arms pulled her across the gap. The left foot held her while the right waved around, unable to find a toehold. She hopped a few inches ahead to create one.

  Then she held still a moment to let the spasms of her abused spine calm down.

  “Are you all right, mistress?” came a voice from the other side of the gap.

  Filigree answered, “Yes, fine,” and started scooting forward again.

  The next bottleneck wasn’t a problem for her. Irregularities in the ripple left it too narrow in spots for the porters’ feet. Hers were already smaller than most so a few long strides took her past.

  Once on the edge of the wall the top of the island spread out before her. Again she thought of ants, but this was the chaos of a kicked anthill, not marching lines.

  Filigree walked forward to make room for the porters behind her. At the edge Count Dirk and Captain Spear pointed down and muttered in low voices. Piles of supplies were added to by the porters and pulled apart by women on the other side. Everyone was moving in different directions.

  She kept moving, seeking a place to lie down where she wouldn’t be trampled.

  Moving around the outside of the mob, she reached the far side of the island. Some people were lying down with Burnout and Verbena moving around them. A seated figure waved.

  Walking closer, Filigree saw the waver was Lady Buttercup sitting with her back against a rock outcropping. The skinny legs stretched out straight before her.

  “Welcome to paradise,” said Buttercup.

  The outcrop had plenty of room. Filigree levered herself down to sit next to Buttercup. “Thanks for saving me a spot.”

  The other woman nodded. Her eyes drifted across the plateau.

  Filigree muttered, “What a clusterfuck.”

  “It’s not that bad,” countered Buttercup. “There’s islands of organization. Look at Burnout. She’s been booting out helpers as she stabilizes the patients. Then they wander around looking for something to do. Most of the organizers have all the people they need right now. If they need more volunteers, bam, somebody’s right there. Rest of the time all the others wander around looking for work because everyone’s too excited to sit down and rest.”

  “I’m not too excited.” Filigree took out her canteen. There was still a mouthful of water in it. She swirled it around her mouth to restore her dry cheeks and tongue, careful not to let any drops escape. “Crap, I’m dry.”

  “Relax. We have plenty of water.”

  She glared at Buttercup. “We can’t drink seawater.”

  “Don’t have to. One of our magical girls can purify water. She’s working on the puddles up here. If you see someone standing sentry in the middle of the plateau she’s guarding a clean puddle. Some of them are ten feet deep.”

  “Good.” Irregularities in the rock dug into her back as Filigree relaxed enough to rest her weight on it.

  Buttercup passed the time by commenting on developments among the mob in front of them. Most exciting was when a new team began putting up lean-tos. She was satisfied with Filigree’s grunts as acknowledgements.

  As the sun drifted lower a new subject arose.

  “Buttercup . . . where’s the privy?”

  She pointed a thumb over her s
houlder. “The whole seaward edge.”

  “Hell. I’m going to fall off the cliff.”

  “There’s a cleft you can stand over. Can’t miss it. Even with your eyes closed.”

  ***

  After a day’s march with no sign of orcs the patrol was certain they’d broken contact. They moved along the top of the river bluff, just far enough into the woods to stay hidden.

  Every hour or two Whippet and a partner who didn’t want a rest break would peek out at the river valley. It had been delightfully free of orcs all morning.

  This time Whippet was excited, running up with a grin on his face.

  “What is it?” demanded Newman.

  “Trees!”

  The patrollers looked around. This patch of forest only let a few bits of sunlight through. The gold coins jittered over the seated men as the wind blew on the tree tops. Anywhere they looked there were trees.

  “Dead trees,” clarified Whippet. “They’re on the flood plain. Three of them, close together. If the orcs can make a raft with a tree so can we.”

  Everyone started getting to their feet.

  Newman wanted to take a look at the dead trees. He didn’t mind everyone else coming along. Which was good, because ordering them not to wouldn’t go over well.

  Yes there were three trees, ranging from fifty to a hundred yards from the riverbank. They discussed rafting on their way down the bluff.

  “My biggest worry is the falls at the mouth of the river,” said Newman. “There’s no way we’d survive going over.”

  Joyeuse was unconcerned. “If we can paddle well enough to stay off the banks we can steer into that lake by the rim. Then we just go over a pass the orcs aren’t using and we’re back with everyone.”

  Newman saw some holes in that plan but he didn’t have anything better.

  “Can we even ride on one of them with all the branches?” asked Borzhoi.

  “Let’s see how hard they are to break off,” said Whippet.

  Up close they were the kind with heart-shaped leaves. A bit soft for good firewood. Hopefully they’d be better as rafts. The bark was smooth, which their asses would appreciate.

  Rolling the trees to the bank snapped off most of the branches. Some of the stumps were sharp spikes.

  Crusher poked at one and winced. “Don’t walk on the raft. You don’t want to fall on this.”

  There wasn’t enough rope to tie the whole length together. They shoved the logs together. Stumps of branches locked them into place. Then each end was tied together.

  Joyeuse sorted through the snapped off branches to find paddles. Most candidates needed to be broken further or roughly trimmed with a knife.

  “You have nine. Lose count?” snarked Deadeye.

  The squire kept working. “We’ll need spares.”

  When the raft was ready an argument broke out over whether to launch it immediately.

  Newman vetoed it. “It’s late afternoon. We’re exhausted. I don’t want to be paddling in the dark when we haven’t learned how yet.”

  He pointed back to the bluff. “We’ll sleep in the woods, out of sight. Then we head out at first light.”

  The prospect of getting home—meaning their people—made them all light sleepers. They were at the raft before dawn, finding paddles by starlight.

  The sun wasn’t over the bluff when they launched. Newman waited until they could see if there were orcs on the far side. Then he gave the word.

  Shoving the raft didn’t work. They had to take the paddles, bows, and supply bag off the raft and flip it over twice. Then half the patrol stood in hip deep water to keep it from escaping while the rest piled stuff on.

  They managed to all board without flipping again. Despite a few “ows” the broken branches didn’t draw any blood.

  Just as they reached the center of the river Pliers cried, “Crap!”

  Deadeye pulled the dropped paddle out of the water. “Stop that. You’re making his lordship look smart.”

  The first orc sighting was greeted with, “I hear banjos.”

  They paddled fast enough not one bothered throwing a spear.

  Once around the bend they rested, letting the current carry them along.

  “My arms are killing me,” moaned Whippet.

  Crusher laughed. “This whole trip has been one long leg day. I’m fine with giving my arms a workout.”

  They drifted a bit longer.

  The pressure of survival kept Newman from appreciating how beautiful this place was. The dark green of the forest leaves faded into the bushes and flowers of the valley. The river was a deep blue, sometimes brown at the banks. No trash, no smoke, no obnoxious salesmen.

  Newman had to admit the neighbors here were obnoxious in other ways.

  “Hey! Something’s got my foot!” cried Pliers in the bow. He flailed at the water with his paddle.

  Crusher reached over from the other side of the raft and grabbed Pliers’ backpack. He yanked on the younger man, hauling him onto the middle tree.

  Two pale tentacles wrapped around his right leg. More came out of the water and slithered over the side trunk.

  “Cuttlefish,” snarled Deadeye. He slid into the water, pulling himself forward along the raft. His paddle pointed ahead of him like a spear.

  “Damn, I’ve got one too,” said Borzhoi. His feet came out of the water bound together by a tentacle around his ankles.

  “Watch the balance!” shouted Newman. He leaned away from the raft as it tipped toward Borzhoi and Crusher on the left.

  More tentacles appeared around the middle log. They poked at the piled backpacks. Joyeuse drew his knife and crawled toward them on left hand and knees. A hard cut took the tip off one member. The others whipped around and entwined his arm. He covered his right hand with his left, keeping the knife from falling, but the cuttlefish pulled him off balance. He fell against the raft, a broken branch digging painfully into his belly.

  Deadeye shoved hard against the raft, rocking it. He disappeared under the water. Twelve seconds later his head popped up. “One down!” A cuttlefish wriggled on the end of his paddle.

  The tentacles holding Pliers went limp.

  Whippet had cut Borzhoi loose but had his own arm entangled. The older Wolfhead stabbed down with his paddle. He didn’t kill the cuttlefish but it released Whippet and descended into the murky water.

  The critter wrestling with Joyeuse also gave up. Its tentacles slithered out of sight.

  “Any casualties?” asked Newman.

  “No.” “No.” “No.”

  Joyeuse rubbed the sore spot on his belly and stayed quiet.

  Pliers unwound the severed tentacle from his leg. The clammy flesh gave him goosebumps.

  Crusher held out a hand for it.

  He handed the tentacle over with a dubious look.

  A few knife cuts produced some inch-wide slices. Crusher popped one into his mouth.

  “Are you nuts?” said Deadeye.

  Swallow. “Nope.” Another slice went in.

  “That stuff tastes vile.”

  “Ain’t about the taste.” Crusher swallowed a third piece. “Not so bad if you don’t chew.”

  He lifted a fourth piece. Paused. Tossed it into the river. Then Crusher bent over and vomited into the water. Cuttlefish slices, his fish jerky breakfast, all the water he’d drunk. He kept spasming until the heaves were dry.

  When the spasms stopped Crusher took a few deep breaths. Then still facing the water he yelled, “Welcome to the middle of the food chain, assholes!”

  The whole patrol laughed. All the tension of the dangerous mission drained out as they laughed until their bellies hurt. The noise echoed off the river bluffs.

  When they calmed down Newman said, “Paddles up. Let’s get down the river before something else fucks with us.”

  ***

  Count Dirk studied the orcs on the shore through his binoculars. Their behavior was different since the last few bands arrived. Yesterday they’d sat on the beach w
hile a few hurled inaudible insults toward the humans. Spears were poked into the sand.

  Now the orcs danced in circles waving their spears in the air. The mass chanting could be heard clearly on the island even over the waterfall.

  Dirk wondered if a leader had arrived or they’d reached a critical mass. He glanced up at the moons. Low tide would start soon.

  The orcs kept dancing as the causeway emerged from the sea. Then as the water lowered more, some circles broke up. The orcs walked on to the causeway, stopping short of the water in the middle. More circles broke up and followed them.

  “Fighters into armor,” he said to his herald.

  The trained voice sounded over the island. “All fighters, all fighters. Armor up. Armor up. Stand ready under arms. All fighters, armor up.”

  After a moment the herald whispered, “Your Excellency, many of them are heading for the privy.”

  “Good. They’re taking it seriously.”

  Dirk lifted the binoculars again. Two days ago he’d met a band of orcs at the end of the causeway. A line of pikeaxes held them there. Archers on the flanks picked off orcs waiting their turn to fight, and later trying to escape. None of his men were wounded enough to need more than a brief touch from the healers.

  There were too many orcs to do that again. If they all came through at once they could stack up bodies and break through the line. He’d ordered everyone to defend at the edge of the plateau.

  But if only some of the orcs attacked . . . he focused the binoculars on the beach. More circles were breaking up. No, this wouldn’t be another small attack.

  Count Dirk shifted his gaze to the middle of the causeway. The submerged portion was shrinking. A few orcs were brave enough to advance ankle deep into the water. It wouldn’t be long now.

  The fighters were in their gear. Heavy armor for the first line. Jackets and helmets for the second line. The third line wore their clothes and held whatever weapons they could find.

  Some veterans were using the waiting time to instruct the newbies in their fighting drill. Nothing that would win a tournament, just a few moves that would cripple a naked orc or force it back until better fighters were free to finish the job.