The War Revealed (The Lost War Book 2)

by Karl K Gallagher

  Silence resumed.

  “No, I don’t have anything better,” said Deadeye after some thought. “I was just hoping you did.” He went back to sharpening the point of his spear.

  The other patrollers chuckled.

  “Hi! Hey, don’t point that at me!”

  Deadeye lowered the spear. “Sorry. Wasn’t expecting any friendlies up here.”

  “Good day, Lady Aster,” said Newman.

  The mage was hovering by the ocean side of the ledge, out of sight of the orcs. She was clean, decently fed, and healthy. Newman looked at his men. He hadn’t realized how thin and worn they’d become until he had a normal person to compare them to.

  “We weren’t expecting you either,” said Aster. “But we saw the fuss up here so I wanted to take a look.”

  “Can you bring us more arrows?” asked Deadeye.

  “I’m going to take you to the island.”

  Hope spread through the patrollers again. Lines vanished from their faces.

  Newman smiled tightly, the best he could do. “Whippet first. He took a spear in the leg.”

  Whippet held out his arms to be picked up.

  “No way, boy,” said Aster. “My magic is strong enough to carry you. My muscles aren’t.”

  She landed on the ledge on hands and knees. “Climb onto my back. Hold on tight. Touch anything sensitive and I drop you in the ocean.”

  He obeyed. His arms slid under her shoulders and his legs wrapped around her.

  They lifted into the air and vanished around the curve of the mountain.

  Deadeye started laughing. He rolled onto his back and laughed harder.

  “What’s so funny?” asked Joyeuse.

  “I was just thinking, ‘it would take a miracle to save us’, and bam, miracle.”

  “That’s how it works for Goldenrod,” said Newman. “You should have thought that sooner.”

  That started the rest of them laughing.

  Borzhoi didn’t object to going next. When he and Aster were out of sight the rest started proposing each other for the next trip.

  “I’m the commander. I’m last,” said Newman. “You two settle it however you want.”

  Joyeuse offered, “Rock paper scissors?”

  He chose rock to Deadeye’s paper and was Aster’s next passenger.

  “Mind if I chuck these spears before we go?” asked Deadeye.

  “Don’t. I don’t want Aster flying through retaliation.”

  “Yeah, okay.”

  Then the mage took Deadeye off, leaving Newman alone.

  More alone than he’d been in years. There probably wasn’t a human around for miles.

  He thought on the men he’d lost. Leadsmith was just random chance. Or his decision to taunt the orcs instead of running for the woods. Crusher . . . he knew Crusher wasn’t as fit as the others. He should have put Crusher up front where the patrol could prod him to keep going.

  And damn it, he’d taken his own boots off but he hadn’t made it an order. Pliers was good about orders. If anyone but Joyeuse had told him to do it Pliers would have obeyed.

  Newman snapped out of his brooding to find Aster next to him. He climbed onto her back. After his long rough time on the patrol she was very warm and soft. He carefully put his hands on her shoulders.

  Aster lifted off and went around the mountain. On the ocean side she made a slow twirl. “Dragon check,” she explained. “They don’t like sharing the air.”

  Then she faced the ocean and plunged down.

  Newman squawked in surprise. She was dropping faster than they could fall. His grip slipped as she pulled away from him. He clutched her tight to keep from being left behind in mid-air.

  Then g-force pushed him firmly onto her back as Aster pulled out of the dive and skimmed over the waves.

  Sea spray splattered against Newman’s face, delightfully cold. He tasted salt.

  Then they were over the island. A line of armored men stood on the clifftop.

  Aster rose up the side and flew to the center. There was Goldenrod, looking tall and strong, not the shattered vessel he’d left behind. Aster stood up, depositing Newman on his feet.

  “Here you go, Your Excellency. I didn’t give him any worse a ride than he deserved.”

  Then she stepped out of the way as the couple lunged for each other.

  ***

  Count Dirk focused his binoculars on the orcs walking out on the causeway as the water receded. “They came on in the same old way,” he said to Newman.

  The younger man nodded.

  Dirk glanced at him. “Not a fan of Wellington?”

  “I was never a history buff, sir.”

  “Then what are you doing here?”

  “Goldenrod asked me.”

  Dirk chuckled and went back to his binoculars.

  Newman studied the orcs. He could see them well enough from the edge of the plateau. Trickles of fresh arrivals came through three passes. The slope was covered with bands. Each low tide let some through but not enough to balance the influx. The mob was growing larger.

  The water fell low enough to reveal the orcs tossed into the water after yesterday’s battle. Newman had done his share of corpse-flinging. Nasty, smelly work.

  Dirk kept brooding through his binoculars. Newman thought the commander was wasting his time. Maybe he was just trying to look on top of the situation. Newman stuck to stroking a grindstone along the edge of his axe to sharpen it. House Applesmile had carried it with their essentials.

  A wave of stench rolled over the island. Newman gagged. The tide had gone out far enough to uncover the rotting corpses from earlier in the week. Fighters across the island began gearing up for the impending battle. The low tide smell now took the place of herald announcements.

  Newman’s squad all reported in before the orcs crossed the middle of the causeway. It was officially Sharpedge’s squad, but the squire was laid up with a hole through his thigh. Lady Burnout kept him from bleeding to death but it would take more magical healing for Sharpedge to be back on his feet.

  The fighters knew their jobs. They were a mix of royal guards, Wolfheads, and a couple of crafters who’d learned quickly. Newman didn’t have to do any training, just provide confidence and steadiness.

  Steadiness was easy. Secure flanks and rear were a much more comfortable situation than the long range patrol.

  Confidence . . . he could fake. Newman couldn’t help having doubts when he looked at the swarming orcs waiting for their turn to cross. The humans could slaughter orcs, no doubt. Everyone here had lost count of how many they’d killed. As long as high tide ended the fight before they ran out of unwounded men or the energy to lift their arms, they’d survive.

  The orcs were attacking the center now. Their deployment didn’t have a plan. They just spread out from the causeway like swarming ants. Newman was on the right flank. It would be a few more minutes before any orcs reached him.

  This time there were some eddies in the flow, orcs staying at the water’s edge. Were they turning coward? Newman was fine with that.

  As his first orc of the day approached Newman carefully judged its speed. He had a reputation. His squad expected him to open with something spectacular.

  The custom was to swing from high left to low right. That way no one risked entangling their weapon with a neighbor swinging at the opposite angle. Newman hefted the lochaber axe.

  The orc held its spear in its left hand as it climbed. It didn’t try to attack Newman as it came in range, just clutched handholds and footholds to hurry over the edge where it could fight effectively.

  Newman swung his axe like a guillotine. The width of the blade vanished into the orc’s neck where it met the shoulder. It spasmed, dropping the spear.

  He twisted the axe, levering open the cut. Orange blood sprayed out. The body fell, knocking down another orc halfway up the wall.

  The familiar bitter scent of orc blood filled his nose. It was pleasant under the circumstances. Anything would be bet
ter than the stench of rotting corpses.

  A glance to the side showed Newman his men were dispatching orcs competently enough. His next orc was being slow. He looked to the causeway.

  The orcs eddying along the shore were picking corpses off the piles. They slung a dead orc on each shoulder and started back across the causeway. To Newman’s surprise they didn’t face resistance. The oncoming orcs made way, slowing down to make the causeway two way.

  Well, good, he thought. Less to fight. He repeated the neck chop blow.

  His squad let two orcs get over the top. Newman didn’t have to deal with them. He just covered more of the edge while the squad surrounded and killed them.

  Crisis over, he looked at the causeway again. The line of dead orc bearers was marching on. He wondered why. Orcs didn’t bury their dead. Rations for the horde? It hardly seemed like enough.

  A green hand grabbed the edge. Chopping through it would chip his blade against the rock. Newman flipped the axe around and smacked the hand with the haft of the axe. Bone crunched.

  The orc poked its spear at him one-handed. He caught the spear with the hook of his blade and pulled. The orc lost its balance, slipped, and slid down the wall.

  Newman looked at the causeway again. The corpse-carriers had stopped. No, they were moving. They just reached the center of the causeway, dropped their bodies, and rejoined the incoming line.

  Another neck chop. Then one who wanted to fence with its spear while its feet braced it on the wall. After a few parries Newman stuck the tip of his axe in the orc’s eye. Didn’t seem to bother it at all. When he ruptured the other eye it stopped aiming. Then he put his weight on the axe and shoved it away.

  The orc below it held on as the blind orc bounced off it. No bowling a strike this time.

  More bodies were laid down on the causeway. The oncoming orcs stepped on them as they marched along. Some body carriers went past the midpoint, dropping their corpses on the far half of the causeway.

  The squad was holding steady. Not wasting energy. Dropping each orc with two or three blows. Helping each other out when an orc became a threat.

  He looked back at the causeway. Something bothered him about it.

  Oh, shit.

  “Count Dirk!” he called.

  The next orc came in reach of his axe before he could call again. Newman swung early, chopping off an ear.

  The orc snarled and thrust with its spear.

  Newman deflected the weapon with the flat of his axe and swung down, severing two fingers.

  The orc just grunted and kept climbing. Its head tilted to protect the wounded side.

  He glanced to his right. Husky held his weapon high, clear of a reverse blow. Newman chopped the orc on the other side of its head, spraying blood from the neck.

  A glance over his shoulder showed Count Dirk was pushing through the reserves.

  “What is it?” demanded the commander.

  Newman pointed at the corpse-carriers with his axe. “They’re laying bodies down on the causeway. Stack enough of them and they’ll be able to cross at high tide.”

  Count Dirk said nothing for five seconds, staring at the causeway. Then ten seconds. Then he shouted, “Archers!”

  Deadeye trotted up in moments. He was desperate for action.

  “Take down the ones carrying corpses,” ordered Dirk.

  More archers arrived. Deadeye relayed the orders, ending with, “Try not to shoot the dead ones.”

  Newman couldn’t watch the first shots. He had to deal with another orc. When he looked up nothing had changed on the causeway.

  Deadeye’s bow twanged next to his ear. The arrow hit a body-carrier at the base of the neck. It pitched forward, dropping the two bodies. Orcs in the oncoming lane grabbed all three corpses before they could slide into deep water. Then they joined the line of body-carriers, one carrying two old corpses, another a fresh one.

  More arrows flew overhead while Newman chopped the next climber.

  “Cease fire,” ordered Count Dirk. “Stubborn bastards.”

  Deadeye obeyed, reinforcing the command to a couple of his men who let extra arrows fly. He addressed the count in a lowered tone. “What are we being saved for, Your Excellency?”

  “When orcs break through the line, take down as many as you can while we bring up the reserves.”

  Newman noted that it was now “when” instead of “if”.

  He rotated some of his men out for rest. Second-liners stepped up and did their share of carnage.

  A gust blew putrid air over the island. Pulling rotten corpses out of the water and waving them in the air spread their stench. But the bitter smell of drying orc blood dominated the island when the wind wasn’t blowing.

  Now orcs were taking bodies from the pile at the base of the wall. Well, they probably made better traction than the wet ones.

  ***

  King Ironhelm patted Sharpedge on the shoulder. “Hang in there.”

  He moved down the row to the next wounded fighter. “Hello, Falchion. How are you feeling?”

  “Can’t complain, Your Majesty. All things considered.”

  Falchion had three wounds. One through the shin, another in the belly. The third wound was impressive. A spearpoint had caught the side of his head, opening the cheek and mangling the ear.

  Only the belly wound was bandaged.

  Ironhelm made his tone hearty and encouraging. “The chicks will dig you when they see that scar. You’ll have to fight them off.”

  “Ivy doesn’t mind.” Only the unwounded side of his mouth moved as he talked. “She says I never listened anyway.”

  The king laughed. “She’s a good woman. She’ll stick with you.”

  Falchion nodded.

  Ironhelm moved to the next wounded man. After a few more chats he took a moment to study the battle at the island’s edge. It was stable at the moment. There were enough reserve squads standing around that the royal troops wouldn’t be needed soon.

  He’d rather be fighting than doing this. But duty meant doing what he had to, not what he wanted.

  Another wounded man was laid down in the row. The ones who’d carried him went back to their reserve squad. Lady Burnout rinsed her hands in a bucket.

  King Ironhelm walked up to her. “I noticed you’re not bandaging all the wounds.”

  She matched his quiet pitch. “There’s no fuel for boiling cloth here. I’m saving sterile bandages for wounds most likely to rupture.”

  “You’d been healing people all the way before.”

  Burnout held up her hands. “When a fight stops I use all the magic I have left to close up wounds. If I do that now I might not have enough left in me to stop bleeding. Same for Verbena.”

  “Of course. I shouldn’t be distracting you from your work.”

  She gave him a head dip and turned back to the wounded.

  King Ironhelm stood brooding for a moment. We’re running out, he thought. Out of bandages, out of magic, out of men, out of time.

  He shook himself to cast off the gloom. Put on a confident smile. Then walked over to the new arrival. “Well! You’re going to have a story to tell.”

  ***

  Goldenrod tossed some silt onto the page and rubbed off the excess. The spell was complete. Enclosed—world switch—here—origin point. If she understood the sorcerer’s notes correctly . . . that was a big if.

  The key insight was that she could use ‘origin point,’ the place that she personally remembered coming from, as a substitute for the matching spell that Belladonna had cast to tell the sorcerer where to pull them from. Instead of needing someone to understand a scroll and be a homing beacon for them Goldenrod would take them back to the park where they started. If she had correctly worked out the logic.

  Elvish sorcery followed logical rules. Do this, that happens. If you do the wrong this, something else happens. Possibly a lethal something else.

  Her own magic didn’t work that way. She could ask for anything. It would happen . . . wit
h a price. After much thought she’d concluded the price wasn’t driven by the magnitude of the request but the probability. Something likely to happen, such as being attacked while wandering an orc infested forest, had no noticeable price. Magical power leaping from one person to another was so improbable she’d nearly died.

  She’d thought of wishing everyone home. It would kill her. She considered it a fair sacrifice. This place was slowly killing them all anyway. If she felt any certainty that the wish would still work through her death she’d’ve done it. But her gut feeling was she’d just drop dead with no results.

  What kept her from trying more wishes was that she couldn’t be sure of the probability before she made the wish. She’d hurt herself badly with experiments. It was too risky to do more.

  Or it had been. Goldenrod lifted her eyes to the line of men fighting at the cliff edge. She couldn’t pick out Newman through the other men standing around. Now was the time for risks.

  She laid both hands on the newly carved words. She carefully spoke aloud, “This spell does exactly what I want it to.”

  Her chest twinged. Maybe a little worse than killing an orc in the middle of a battle.

  Goldenrod lifted her hands and looked over the spell. It didn’t seem to have changed. But then the most parsimonious way for the wish to work would be to retroactively correct what she’d planned to write.

  The wish had also given her some useful information. It was a high probability that she’d written the spell correctly. She could have more confidence going forward.

  ***

  “Milord, you should take a break,” said a second-liner.

  Newman twisted the axe blade out of an orc’s chest. The guy was right. He was tired. And thirsty. He’d just been too busy to think about it.

  He waved the boy to his spot and took a few paces back.

  “I’ve got it, sir,” said Husky. The Wolfhead was the only first-liner still on the edge. That would make him acting squad leader.

  “Get some,” answered Newman. He turned around, looking for water.

  The usual water bearer wasn’t there. Instead Goldenrod stood holding a canvas bucket. A fighter finished draining a pewter mug and handed it back to her. She dipped the mug into the bucket and held it out to Newman.