The Lost War

by Karl K Gallagher

  ***

  Newman walked last in the line of hunters, glancing back every few steps. As they approached the camp cheers broke out. “They got a deer!” cried a herald at full volume.

  The animal hung from a roughly trimmed sapling. Beargut and Merrybrew held the ends on their shoulders. They’d already gutted and drained it under Newman’s direction. People speculated how many meals it would make.

  A man with a grey goatee examined a leg. “It’s not a deer.”

  “Looks like a deer, Parchment,” retorted one of the load-bearing hunters.

  Parchment bent a hoof toward him. “Look. Three-part hoof. Deer have two toes. This is not a deer.”

  “It has four legs and antlers. That’s close enough. Who cares about the exact species?”

  “If it’s not a deer,” Parchment said with exaggerated patience, “We can’t be sure it’s safe to eat.”

  “You think it’s poisonous?” asked the other load-bearer.

  “Maybe. Or we could be allergic.”

  The crowd stopped pressing so hard around the hunters.

  “It has to be good. We need the food,” someone muttered.

  “We’ll have a few volunteers eat some,” said Parchment. “If they feel fine a day later then people can eat the rest.”

  Some of the crowd drifted away. More volunteered. Parchment winnowed them down to the healthiest young adults. “Only those suited to survive some food poisoning,” he said.

  Bodkin, the lead hunter, interrupted the selection. “Not Newman.”

  “I earned a piece of it,” protested Newman.

  “That’s why you’ll not be part of the experiment. Two hits with two shots is too much skill to risk.”

  “Skillful indeed,” another voice broke in. “I must bring him to Their Majesty’s attention.”

  “My Lord Autocrat!” Bodkin bowed, followed by the rest.

  “I came to offer Their Majesty’s congratulations. You are the first hunting party to catch an animal.” After a few more compliments he listened to Parchment’s 24-hour experiment plan and blessed it.

  “My lord?” said Newman as the Autocrat began to turn away.

  “Yes?”

  “My lord, there’s predators out there. Big ones.”

  “Did you see one?” Autocrat Sharpquill studied the other hunters, who seemed almost as surprised as the rest of the crowd.

  “Saw piles of bones, sir. Sometimes three-four skulls in a pile. Takes pack hunters to catch that many at once. Lots of cracked bones. They’ve got to have muscle to break them like that.”

  “Did the rest of you see these piles?” asked the Autocrat.

  “Aye, milord,” said Bodkin. “He pointed them out to us, just like he said. I hadn’t realized the implications.”

  “Thank you,” he said. “Runner!”

  A ten-year-old boy abandoned the stick he'd been poking an anthill with and ran to the Autocrat’s side.

  “My compliments to Master Chisel, and tell him I approve his plan for a palisade. He is to present the details at court.” The boy waved and dashed off.

  ***

  Newman built a fire in the pit while Goldenrod looked through the pots and pans. House Applesmile’s heads were in a big meeting of nobles called by the Autocrat. She felt certain they wouldn’t mind her borrowing what she needed.

  A baking sheet and carving knife offered the simplest cooking method for the tuber. She spread half-inch thick slices evenly across the sheet. Newman had the metal rack assembled over the fire. Goldenrod placed the sheet on top.

  Strongarm ambled up. “You people are cooking dinner already?”

  “Don’t know yet,” said Goldenrod. “It’s an experiment.”

  “You’re risking potatoes on a new recipe?”

  “It’s not a potato. Don’t have a name for it yet.”

  “She discovered a local plant that might be edible,” said Newman. If his girlfriend wasn’t willing to brag he’d do it for her.

  “Oh, wow. That could save our butts.”

  “Maybe,” said Goldenrod. She flipped over some of the slices. They still had the slightly translucent look of the raw pieces.

  “Do you need a taste tester?” asked Strongarm.

  “Didn’t you get breakfast?” said Newman.

  “Technically, yes, but you wouldn’t believe the rationing Wolfhead Alpha came up with. He wants us to go a month on three days’ food.”

  That brought a laugh from the other two.

  “Look, can I try some of the raw slices? Some foods are better raw.”

  “And some are toxic.” Goldenrod pulled up her sleeve. A raw slice of tuber was tied to the inside of her forearm by a ribbon. She slid it over to examine the skin underneath.

  “I’m not reacting to it. I guess a small piece wouldn’t be too dangerous.” Goldenrod chopped another slice and offered it to him on the knife.

  Strongarm took it as one bite. The couple watched his face as the fighter thoroughly chewed the slice then swallowed. “Kinda bitter. But I’ve had worse.”

  “I just realized the problem with using you as a guinea pig,” said Goldenrod. “If you start foaming at the mouth and collapse I’m going to think you’re play-acting until rigor sets in.”

  “I wouldn’t do that to you.” He chuckled. “Okay, I’d try it on someone gullible.” He looked at Newman. “Maybe I could’ve freaked you out.”

  “Dude, you set off my bullshit detector in your sleep.”

  Goldenrod flipped the slices again. “I think this one might be ready to eat. But I’ll give it a little more to be safe.”

  “Anyway, if I’m not poisoned I don’t have anything to worry about, right?”

  “Depends how well you chewed it,” said Newman. “My three-year-old nephew ate a handful of peanuts. But his system couldn’t digest them. So that night he’s passing chunks of peanuts—with corners.”

  Goldenrod and Strongarm flinched.

  “Well, hey, I’m not hungry any more. So I am digesting whatever that is.”

  That started a discussion on what to call the tuber. Strongarm’s contribution was a Monty Python song, cut short by threat of violence. Goldenrod settled on “vineroot.”

  Newman ate a slice browned on the edges. “Tastes like a turnip. With a bitter aftertaste. Not hard to chew.”

  “Cooking softened it then,” said Strongarm.

  He began another attempt to convince Newman of the joys of armored sword fighting. Goldenrod contributed some stories from crown tournaments she’d watched. Newman listened without reaction.

  Strongarm broke off in mid-sentence. “Where’s the privy?”

  Newman pointed to the corner of House Applesmile’s tent.

  The fighter dashed off. The house camped close by a portapotty to, as the housemaster put it, make the middle of the night easier.

  The portapotty was close enough for Newman and Goldenrod to hear the sounds of Strongarm’s distress.

  “I think we need to not eat it raw,” said Newman.

  “I might give some to Lady Burnout as medicine. How are you feeling?”

  “Just fine. Ready for another slice.”

  Strongarm moaned.

  ***

  Many days’ march across the forest, farther than any human had yet explored, stood an elven village. One young elf felt the magical chime which meant his master wanted his presence.

  Ithuil the apprentice flinched as he saw the opening of the great hollow tree. The rotten trunk should have collapsed long ago. It stood as grim testimony to the power of the magic practiced within. A score of elves could dance inside the hollow trunk. Right now it just held one.

  The sorcerer.

  Moss and weeds gave way to bare dirt as the apprentice drew closer. Nothing could grow close to the sorcerer’s lair. Even the nearest trees were dying.

  Again, Ithuil regretted his desire to learn the deep magics.

  At the opening his throat spasmed, silencing the apprentice as he tried to utter the
proper greeting. He flung himself onto his face on the hard-packed dirt floor.

  “You’re late. You must hurry when I summon you.” The sorcerer’s tone was light and cheerful. The apprentice relaxed. He wouldn’t die today.

  Sandals slapped the floor as the sorcerer walked across. “Into the middle now. I’m going to show you some scrying. One of those bits of bait I set out was nibbled on. I want to see what came through.”

  Ithuil wiggled forward, not daring to lift his face from the floor. It made a shallow bowl. Pewter-gray toes tapped his nose to stop him before the center.

  “Leave room for the puddle.”

  The apprentice twisted to reach the flake of obsidian tucked into his belt. He slashed his forearm, letting blood pour onto the floor.

  “Good.”

  The blood flowed to the center then started to swirl as magic pulled harder on it than gravity.

  “Enough.”

  Ithuil pressed on the slash to stop the bleeding, hurting himself more than the blade had. He snuck a bit of magic while his master was distracted, knitting closed the blood vessels and skin.

  “Watch the hands, boy.”

  He lifted his eyes. The foot was still by his face, flawless shining gray skin over bones and tendons. Nearly reaching it was the edge of the leather vest, mystic symbols burned black into it. White hair hung to the knees, eddying in the puffs of air displaced by the magic working.

  He managed the courage to look higher. The hands were moving in intricate patterns, steering the magic as it formed the blood into a smooth circle. Above them, eight feet off the floor, was the sorcerer’s face. Majestic and knowledgeable, it was everything the face of the oldest and wisest and most feared elf in his world should be.

  Ithuil gulped and focused on the hands.

  The pattern they traced became clear after many repetitions. The puddle of blood spread wider and thinner. Then it became a window looking down on a forest from above.

  “Ah, there they are,” said the sorcerer. “Frantic as a kicked ant hill.”

  Ithuil saw the camp at the top of the bluff but didn’t recognize the tents as shelters. “They’re short. And weak. And ugly,” he said.

  “All true,” said the sorcerer. “But they’re tool users. So they may make some progress on the project.”

  He shifted the view this way and that. Sighed. “Clearly they’re not ready. I’ll cast a protection on them for now.” His eyes descended to Ithuil. “More blood.”

  ***

  Morning court opened cheerfully. Newman received three huzzahs for bringing down the deer. The taste-testers had all survived the night. Autocrat Sharpquill then invited Newman to describe the unseen predators of the woods by their effects.

  “. . . and the long bones were broken to get at the marrow, so they have strong jaws or can use stones as tools,” he finished.

  The Autocrat thanked him. “Master Chisel has a proposal for building a defensive palisade around our encampment.”

  The carpenter described a fence of split tree trunks making a U-shape against the bluff, with a gate in the middle.

  When the Autocrat asked the populace if they’d be willing to build it today a chorus of “Aye” went up. He declared it an all-hands project for the day. Hunting and gathering were prohibited.

  House Applesmile returned to their tent. A quick tool inventory produced a small hatchet intended for splitting pre-cut firewood.

  “It’ll do,” said Newman. He started swinging at the nearest tree.

  Mistress Tightseam snapped, “Don’t cut that down! It’s an oak. We can eat acorns.”

  “Oh. Sorry.” He cast a guilty look at the notch in the bark. It didn’t look lethal. He moved to the edge of the grassy area and picked one of the new trees outside the encampment. It looked to be thirty feet tall, though the upper branches wouldn’t be useful for the fence. The axe cut into the bark on the side facing Applesmile pavilion.

  Pernach objected. “Hey, we want that to fall away from the tent.”

  “It will. We make a small cut here and a big one on the other side. That lets it fall easier.”

  “Oh. Didn’t know you’d cut down trees before.”

  “Didn’t.” Swing. “Watched my uncle do it.” Swing. “Of course.” Swing. Swing. “He used a chainsaw.”

  Pernach finished the first cut. The men took turns chopping at the tree, each handing the axe on when his arm hurt too much to keep swinging.

  An hour later Pinecone offered the hatchet to Sweetbread only be told, “Give me a minute.”

  Pinecone dropped it in the pile of woodchips. He flopped down in the grass next to the other men.

  Chopping sounded from the neighboring households. Shouts and curses came from the shovel team working their away along the line marked by Master Chisel. The Applesmile women were quietly bickering inside the tent. “No, boiled water in the jug with the blue tape. Red tape is river water.”

  Goldenrod came out of the tent and surveyed the men without comment. She picked up the hatchet and started swinging.

  After a few minutes her swings slowed. When two blows against the trunk produced no chips Newman stood. “My turn, darling.”

  As he knocked a chip out they heard cries of “timber!” and a crash from their north side.

  “Who was that?” asked Pinecone.

  Pernach said, “Wolfheads. A dozen heavy fighters should’ve taken down a tree faster than that.”

  “Depends what they’re using,” said a new voice.

  Sweetbread pulled himself up. “Your Grace!”

  Pinecone and Pernach ducked their heads. Newman stopped chopping and gave their visitor a nod.

  The stocky grey haired man carried an axe nearly as tall as he was, bearing a curved blade as long as his arm. “Master Sweetbread, goodmen, morning to you. Give me room, lad, I’m finally getting good use out of this thing.”

  He swung into the notch they’d cut with so much effort. Splinters and chips sprayed out.

  “It’s getting dull. I’ll be making my third visit to Master Forge soon. Took him half an hour to put a decent edge on it this morning.”

  Two more swings shook the tree. Leaves drifted down.

  “Here, come have a turn with it, boy. See what it’s like with a real axe.”

  Sweetbread hurried to make introductions. “Duke Stonefist, this is my guest, Newman Greenhorn.”

  “Oh, you poor bastard. The rest of us were just Newman until a new Newman came along. You’re going to be stuck with it until someone has a baby!” The duke’s laugh was infectious enough even Newman joined in. “Take it, lad. Give it a try.”

  The first blow taught Newman to blink when he connected. Splinters stuck to the sweat on his face. He hadn’t realized how cramped he’d been confined to the hatchet’s short arc. This axe let his arms reach out to their full extension. He could put the whole weight of his body behind it.

  “Don’t steal all the fun, lad, let the others try.”

  Pernach made chips fly.

  Newman watched the duke. Aside from a circlet on his head decorated with gold leaves and a white belt with a fancy buckle he was in peasant clothes. They were filthy with wood splinters, dirt, and soot. Sweat soaked the chest and armpits.

  Stonefist made Pernach hand the axe to Pinecone before the tree came down. “Be light on your feet lad. Don’t want the thing landing on your head.”

  The tree crashed to the ground without injury.

  The duke pulled a coiled cord from his belt pouch. “Master Chisel wants the poles two feet into the ground and eight above. Scrape here to mark it, lad.”

  Pinecone made quick work of the top of the tree.

  “I’ll have that back now. You can handle the rest of this. I’ll go help someone else.”

  They sent Stonefist off with a chorus of thanks.

  When he was out of earshot Pernach muttered, “Nice to see one of the hats getting his hands dirty.”

  “I haven’t seen any of the current court breaking
a sweat,” replied Pinecone.

  “Hush, you two,” said Sweetbread. “We’ve work to do.”

  Newman opened the saw blade on his multitool. It was too short for what they’d been working on but it cut right through the branches on their log.

  Sweetbread dropped a handful of tent stakes on the grass with a clatter.

  “Doesn’t the tent need those?” asked Newman.

  “Nah. With no wind blowing four poles are plenty to keep it up. The rest are to keep it steady during a storm.” Sweetbread looked at the lighter pavilions of the neighboring households. “Come a storm, I’m going to have a lot of new friends.”

  “I wonder how bad winter gets here,” said Pinecone.

  “Not today’s problem.”

  The sledge drove the inch-thick metal stakes into the wood. When one was driven in as far as it would go the next was set at the end of the crack.

  “I’m not sure we have enough stakes,” said Pernach.

  “Oh, it would suck if we can’t split this log,” replied Pinecone. “There’s no way we can pull these stakes back out.”

  Master Sweetbread growled, “It’ll split. Go back along the line and give them all some extra taps.”

  Newman picked up one of the thicker branches. He sawed off a chunk from the end and began whittling it into a wedge. “We can get the stakes out with this, and maybe force the split some more.”

  The wooden wedges went into the crack at the base of the trunk. That forced the split through the tree. More blows with the sledge drove the split along the length until the log fell into two pieces.

  Goldenrod and Redinkle interrupted their gloating. “Drink, you. You’re all getting dehydrated. Should know better.”

  “Don’t want to waste water,” muttered Pernach.

  “The river has plenty.”

  “Hauling it and boiling it isn’t easy.”

  “Drink it anyway.”

  The man obeyed.

  Turning the two half-logs into quarter-logs was easier. Sweetbread declared those were the size Master Chisel was looking for. The top half of the trunk made a fifth piece for the fence once they stripped off the branches and peak.

  “The tops are supposed to be held together by rope,” said Sweetbread. “That’s going to use up a lot of our cord.”