The War Revealed (The Lost War Book 2)

by Karl K Gallagher

  He took it, drained it, handed it back. She filled it for him to empty again. “What are you doing here?” he asked as he handed it back.

  “Queen Dalia asked for volunteers. The old crew needed a break.” Goldenrod handed him the refilled mug.

  Newman poured it down his throat. “I thought you were working on some research.”

  She refilled it again. “I finished it. I think. I hope.”

  Newman just swallowed a third of the water this time. It tasted like orc blood. Or maybe that was just the smell of it getting into everything. “Congrats.”

  He drank a bit more. Looked over his shoulder at the continuing slaughter. “Damn, I wish those bastards would give up.”

  “The sorcerer put too much hate into them,” said Goldenrod. She pulled a piece of dried fish from a bag on her belt. “Eat this.”

  Newman leaned forward to let her pop it in his mouth. With an axe in one hand and mug in the other he couldn’t reach for it. He wasn’t going to put down the axe. He sipped some water to soften the chewy piece of fish.

  After much chewing he managed to swallow it all. He chased the fish with the last of the water in the mug. “Would be nice if you could break that spell.”

  Goldenrod froze as she took the empty mug. “Oh crap. One of the books had a section on mind control but I ditched it because I was just looking for teleportation. Damn. Damn.”

  She shook herself and refilled the mug. Newman sipped it. He didn’t have anything to say to that.

  Count Dirk called, “Newman! Take a squad and refuse the right flank. They’re coming around.”

  He answered with a wave of his axe. A gulp emptied the mug. His squad was short a few heads. Husky and another were on the front line. Cuirass had taken a leg wound and been carried back to Burnout. A few second and third liners filled out the squad.

  Newman led them right at a trot. At the corner of the island he could see the problem. So many orcs were waiting for their turn to climb to their deaths there wasn’t room for them all. The overflow was coming around the corner where the wall was undefended.

  If Newman had commanded the orcs he would have surrounded the island first then sent them up every side at once. There’d been barely enough humans to cover that much perimeter before all the casualties they’d taken.

  Instead the orcs were just rushing at the first enemy they could reach. Berserk? Enspelled? Too used to fighting in small numbers? He didn’t understand it.

  Only a handful were walking along the side of the island. When Newman’s men appeared at the top of the wall the orcs turned and started climbing. The one farthest down the shore ran back to get underneath a human before ascending.

  Outflanking is just not a concept for these guys, thought Newman.

  The orcs hooted as they climbed. More came around the corner in response. Newman wished he could plug the narrow gap between wall and water. Not with these raw militias. If I had a dozen veteran pikemen, maybe. Even then on the flat the orcs could just pile bodies on top of us.

  The squad fell into the routine of chopping orcs as they reached the top. They were more spread out than the main line. Newman roved along the line, supplying extra muscle as needed.

  A pair of orcs pulled themselves over the edge in front of a second-liner, blocking his blows with their spears. The weapons locked together. They knocked the boy onto his back.

  The orcs stood over him, raising spears for a death blow. Newman sprinted and took the head off one. The other thrust down.

  The boy had dropped his weapon in the fall. He pushed his hands toward the orc. Before the blow landed the orc flew off the island.

  Newman watched the orc sail into the water, at least fifteen yards offshore. Splash. It didn’t reappear.

  He gave the boy—Spearpoint? Yes, Spearpoint was the name—a hand up. “Nice trick. But use the pikeaxe first.”

  “Yes, Your Excellency. Um, do I have to stand with the mages now?”

  “No. We’ll talk about it tomorrow.” Count Dirk might disagree, but Newman wanted to keep all the men he could. They were more spread out here than in the center. One missing fighter would leave a big hole.

  When a lull happened in the orc surge Newman walked over to the reserve and grabbed a couple of third-liners. The second-liners were almost all on the front line now. The line of wounded at Burnout’s aid station was twice as long as when he’d last looked.

  He felt a quiver as Count Dirk came toward him. A justification for taking the reserves for his squad sprang to his lips.

  The commander said, “Brace for a push. They’ve finished laying their corpse bridge. Now it’s one-way again.”

  “Yes, sir.” That was the only non-screaming in panic answer he could give.

  He could hear when the surge hit. More shouts of pain and cries for help. Massed war chants from the orcs. It focused on the center.

  His squad was only a little busier. Spearpoint didn’t need to do his new trick again.

  Orcs screeched in triumph. Newman looked left. A dozen orcs had broken through the line nearby. More climbed over the edge behind them. Some third-liners ran up to plug the gap but they weren’t in formation. The orcs knocked them aside before they could support each other.

  Newman never decided to attack. He realized he was running towards the orcs, lochaber axe cocked back.

  The first orc’s head came clean off. The momentum of his charge added to the swing let the blow continue through to the next orc, catching it on the back of the neck. It dropped dead.

  An orc turned to face him. Newman slashed the orc’s belly open. He skidded on intestines as he pressed forward. That let an orc dodge his swing and bring its spear around for a thrust. He deflected it with the haft of the axe then pressed the blade into the orcs face. The shallow cut hurt enough to make the orc step back.

  That gave him enough room for a real swing. Blood splattered his face as he chopped its neck.

  When Newman wiped his eyes clear an orc’s spear was coming straight at his heart. He twirled to avoid it. As the orc rushed past he swung the blade into the back of its thighs.

  It collapsed. He looked for a new target. Somebody else could finish it off.

  Two orcs approached actually moving as a pair. The spears aimed at his belly.

  A sweeping blow of the axe caught their tips and pushed both spears to the side. The backswing took both heads off together.

  The orc standing behind them gaped in astonishment. Newman didn’t give it time to recover.

  He could feel more humans coming toward him, diverting the orcs that could have stabbed him in the back. Ahead the fighters on the edge were closing the gap from both sides.

  An orc held its spear at port arms to block the axe. Newman stepped in and swung the blade up between its legs.

  It yelled like a human suffering the same wound. Newman pushed it aside.

  The orc behind it took a step back as Newman advanced. Its foot landed on empty air. It fell, taking one climbing up with it.

  Arriving at the edge he chopped left and right at the ones coming over the edge. Then he had no targets in reach.

  A glance behind showed the last orcs falling to the reserves.

  Newman looked over the battle.

  The wall below him was coated in orange blood. A tangle of orcs was trying to sort themselves out on top of a pile of bodies. To the left orcs were braced in a pyramid. Others used them as a ladder, climbing faster than clinging to the blood-soaked wall would let them. More stood on the shore waiting their turn. The water was orange well away from the island. The corpse bridge held more orcs rushing toward the fight. Past that he could see more coming through the mountain passes.

  “Back to your post, son,” said King Ironhelm. “We’ve got this.”

  Newman started as he realized who was beside him. Duke Mace had stepped up on his other side, steel sword dripping with blood.

  He nodded and turned away from the edge. Dukes and squires were finishing off the orcs and hau
ling bodies to the edge.

  Burnout and Verbena were crawling from casualty to casualty. They were covered with red blood. At each body they pressed their hands on wounds for a quick moment, long enough to stop the bleeding, and then went on to the next one. More women followed after to carry casualties to the aid station.

  Newman stared at them. Both healers looked like they’d aged years. They’d lost weight, more than he thought one could in a week.

  He trudged back to his squad, suddenly cold and shaky as the adrenaline spike passed. They were holding the edge. Not easily. There was a frantic note as they rushed back and forth just barely keeping up with the whack a mole.

  As an orc popped up in a gap Newman chopped its neck. He walked along the edge efficiently dispatching climbers. His men panted as they leaned on their weapons.

  “Mages!” bellowed Count Dirk. “Do your worst!”

  Newman looked back. He could see across the island to his counterparts on the other flank. There were no reserves but the mages. Now they were spreading out to join the line. Redinkle held a ball of fire in her hands. Plane reached into a puddle and pulled out a ludicrously oversized sword of ice.

  “Anime fan,” muttered Newman.

  “Mage Rivet, reporting for duty.” The one-eyed mage actually saluted. Badly.

  Newman returned it. “Welcome. Let them have it.”

  Rivet carried three rocks, the smallest two fists in size. He dropped two and tossed the largest over the edge.

  The rock swooped through the air. It smacked into the side of an orc’s head. The jolt made it lose its grip. It slid down to the pile of corpses at the base of the wall, yelling the whole way.

  The mage waved his hand. The rock streaked into another orc, hitting it under the ear. It fell onto the bodies and lay still.

  Newman muttered, “Aim for the neck and the bottom of the skull. Those are the most vulnerable places.”

  Rivet obliged. More orcs fell, knocked out or dead.

  An orc by the water hefted a spear as it stared at the mage.

  “Crap.” Newman tackled Rivet. They fell flat as a spear flew over them.

  Rivet said, “Ow. What was that for? You made me drop the rock. It’s too far away to pick up again.”

  “Spearpoint, bring me a pikeaxe,” ordered Newman.

  The fighter waved. There were plenty of abandoned weapons lying about next to puddles of red blood.

  Newman put a hand on the mage. “Stay down. You didn’t have a weapon so you had to be a mage. Guess they’d fought enough elves to figure that out.”

  He turned toward the front line. “Archer!”

  Bodkin trotted over. “Yeah?”

  “Need you to take down a smart orc.” Newman pointed.

  “The one with the diagonal streak of dirt on his chest?”

  Nod.

  The arrow caught the orc in the throat. It fell and lay still.

  “Good shot,” said Newman. Bodkin hadn’t been any good at moving targets when they arrived here.

  “Thanks.” The archer went back to his post.

  Spearpoint came back with a pikeaxe. The blade was covered with orange blood. The previous owner hadn’t gone down easily.

  “Take it,” ordered Newman.

  Rivet held it with the blade toward him. “I don’t really know how to use this.”

  “You don’t have to. It’s camouflage. Now do the magic.”

  Another stone lifted up and flew over the edge. An orc yelped as Rivet hit it, then fell after a harder blow.

  Newman took the hand off an orc climbing over the edge.

  A quarter hour of practice let Rivet clear off half the orcs climbing the wall. Most of them started climbing up again. That fraction was reduced as Rivet learned to break knees and elbows. Orcs would keep climbing with one broken joint but two put them out of action.

  A fighter sidled up to Newman. “Sir, we’re less busy now. Can I ask a favor?”

  “What?”

  “Can I go. . .” He gestured at the back of the island designated for the privy. “Go pee?”

  “Just piss over the edge. It’s not like they don’t deserve it.”

  The bashful fighter wanted to protest. Newman’s glare just left him stuttering. He undid his fly and let a stream out over the edge.

  The orc underneath did not feel it deserved that. It expressed the reaction with screeches that were clearly curses, not battlecries. Rivet shut it up.

  Goldenrod came by with a fresh bucket of water. She made every member of the squad drink at least one mug.

  After she went by Newman looked over the front line. The sun was setting. Redinkle’s fire and Sparrow’s lightning stood out against the darkening sky. Pikeaxes still rose and fell. Not at the frantic pace of before, but still enough to tire men out.

  “Sir?” asked Rivet. “Do orcs fight at night?”

  Newman said, “Not well. Our night vision is better, at least some of us. I doubt they’ll stop fighting.”

  “Oh.”

  “Getting tired?”

  “Not physically. But I can only do so much magic in a day.”

  “Ah.” This didn’t surprise Newman. He’d heard plenty of discussions among mages finding their limits. “Conserve your strength. Just hit the ones doubling up on a fighter.”

  “Aye-aye.”

  Newman looked at the far shore. There were still orcs waiting to cross.

  A clink announced Rivet broke another orc skull. The stone flew back to his hand. The orc fell onto the corpse pile.

  That’s going to be a ramp for them, thought Newman. It must be nearly to the top in the center.

  Trying to wrap his mind around the piles of dead meat boggled Newman. This was beyond anything he’d experienced.

  A woman screamed. He pivoted to locate her.

  Not one of the reserves in the center. A civilian? Yes.

  Aster stood by the aid center pointing at the sky. Mistress Cinnamon tried to calm her but the young woman kept screaming.

  Newman followed the line of her arm.

  He couldn’t recognize the shape at first. It was dark. The scales were shiny enough to reflect red sunlight. The flickers of light shifted confusingly.

  Then the wings flapped.

  Newman’s throat froze. He wet his lips. Took a deep breath. Shouted, “Dragon!”

  The monster grew in the sky as it descended. More humans took up the cry of “Dragon”. Orcish battle cries dissolved into hoots that must mean the same thing.

  Civilians dropped flat. Some crawled under blankets. The battle line fell back a few steps as desperate orcs came heedlessly over the edge.

  Then the dragon landed. On the orcs, thankfully. Spears flew through the air and bounced off the scales.

  “Back up! Back up!” ordered Count Dirk.

  Fighters who’d shoved the last rush of orcs back to the edge retreated a few steps.

  Gouts of flame washed the front of the island from left to right.

  Then the island was silent. No hoots, screeches, or war cries. The humans were all silent. And prone. No one ordered it. They just fell to their bellies by instinct.

  Another blast of flame struck the center. Then there was noise. A slurping, crunching sound.

  Like a toddler eating French fries, thought Newman.

  He lifted his head to peek at the mainland. Orcs were fleeing over the mountains. Nice to know something can scare them.

  Burnt orc didn’t smell like pork or chicken. More like a grease fire. Rancid grease.

  All the orcs on the flank had run back to be incinerated. Newman’s squad was crawling to the middle where everyone else was gathering. He followed them.

  The dragon flamed the mound of dead orcs again then resumed gobbling. Nothing was audible but the dragon eating and the distant waterfall.

  Newman caught up to Goldenrod. She’d been slowed by her bucket of water, still a third full. “What’s that spell you came up with?” he whispered in her ear.

  She answered
with her lips to his ear. “Will take us home. If it works.”

  The munching noise stopped. The dragon’s head rose above the edge of the plateau. The vertical pupils shifted as they scanned the island.

  Maximus was closest to the edge. He stood, leaving his weapon on the ground. He doffed his helmet as he walked forward. “Hi! We want to be friends!”

  The monster stared at him. A puff of flame crisped him in place. Then the head darted forward. It left only his boots behind.

  “Damn it!” shouted Rivet.

  Newman could see the rock as it accelerated toward the dragon. It smacked into the eye just before the lids closed.

  The dragon’s head pointed straight up. It roared.

  The sound hurt Newman’s ears even after he pressed his hands over them. The bass rumble shook his bowels. He clamped down to keep control of them. A sharp odor said someone else had failed.

  It launched into the air, still roaring. The wind from its wings sent skinny people rolling across the rock.

  “Did I scare it or just piss it off?” asked Rivet.

  The dragon flew up into the rays of the just-set sun and kept climbing. The roars continued as it rose. When it was smaller than the tip of Newman’s little finger it started circling. Jets of flame flickered.

  “Pissed,” said Newman. “Very pissed.”

  Everyone was babbling in relief now. Even if the dragon was going to come back and kill them later it was the first time all day nothing was trying to kill them right then.

  Lady Burnout’s voice cut through the chatter. “Move away from the wounded! I need room for triage!”

  The crowd expanded a bit but kept churning as people tried to find loved ones they’d been separated from during the battle.

  Newman pulled Goldenrod to her feet. “Do you have the spell memorized?”

  “Mostly. I have it written down.”

  “Let’s get it.”

  Her spell book was safely wrapped in her bedroll. As soon as she straightened up Newman chivvied her back toward the crowd.

  “I don’t know if it will work,” protested Goldenrod.

  “We don’t have anything better to do.”

  King Ironhelm was surrounded six-deep by men arguing how best to fight a dragon.