Newman stood in front of Borzhoi. The Wolfhead held his bow out for inspection. Newman ignored it. “Show me your knife.”
Extracting the knife from Borzhoi’s belt pouch took a few moments. Newman pulled it from the sheath, checked the sharpness, and handed it back. “Find a way to carry it so you can get at it fast. If a predator jumps you there won’t be time to nock an arrow. Canteen.”
Borzhoi’s canteen had a satisfactory heft. His bootsoles had no holes. Newman moved down the line. A couple had plastic water bottles shoved into pockets instead of real canteens. Everyone’s blades and footgear were acceptable.
Newman posted to a spot facing the middle of the line. “Food’s getting short. Just about all the food we brought with us is gone. We’ve eaten bare the roots and berries close to camp. The game is getting scared of us.
“So we’re going farther out than anyone but the scouts have been. Five or six miles straight out. Then we cast about for prey, take down all the near-deer we can carry, and head home. Can do?”
Borzhoi belted out a hearty “Can do!” Everyone else grunted or mumbled some vague agreement.
Probably the best he could get. “Let’s go,” said Newman. He led them into the woods.
Rhino trails were the fastest way through the woods. They didn’t go the way Newman wanted to but some were close enough to be worth using for a mile or so.
After cutting through some dense woods Newman led his squad out into another rhino trail. They stumbled into the opening with exclamations of relief. He waved to gather them together.
“I know you don’t like being assigned as bearers instead of hunters. We’re going to take a moment to cover why. Who walks quietest among you?”
The shortest Wolfhead—Husky, if Newman had their names right—raised his hand. “I’m stealthy.”
“Okay. See that bramble patch? I want you to walk there and back, quietly as you can. The rest of us will close our eyes and listen.” Newman turned his back to the brambles.
Husky wasn’t bad for a city boy. Didn’t break any branches. Could put his feet on dirt without making a sound. No gear jingling. But that still left a lot of swishing, rustling, and rattling. Newman had no trouble picking up when he turned around at the brambles.
As Husky came closer to the group of hunters he slowed even more to be as quiet as possible. Newman fought down the temptation to turn around and leap at the guy to drive home how noisy he was being.
“I’m back,” said Husky.
Newman opened his eyes and turned around. “Okay, good effort. Now it’s my turn. Everyone close your eyes again.”
Part of Husky’s problem was that he’d taken a straight-line path to the brambles. Newman’s was more evasive. He looked ahead to make sure he wouldn’t find himself forced to step in a drift of leaves or push through brittle branches.
He still reached the brambles in half the time Husky had. “Okay, take a look,” he called. Everyone turned around to see him there. Newman didn’t want anyone claiming he hadn’t gone the whole distance. “Close your eyes again.”
When they’d all turned their backs he started moving. Following the same path he’d used before let him move faster. He stopped arm’s reach from Borzhoi. “That’s how you do it.” Louder than necessary.
Borzhoi didn’t jump but half the other Wolfheads did.
“Anyone notice a difference?” asked Newman.
Husky said, “You were quieter.” He didn’t sound resentful, good.
“That’s right. And the deer hear better than you do. One bad step and they’ll run. We need to sneak up on them. When you can do that you’ll be a hunter. Until then you’re a bearer. Let’s go.”
***
Constable quickly closed the tent flap behind him as he entered Lady Burnout’s pavilion. Rain dripped from his cloak onto the rug.
“Wish I could offer you some tea,” said Burnout. It wasn’t much warmer in her pavilion than outside and Constable looked cold.
“I’m fine. I was at Sharpquill’s and he has a fire going.” Constable said that with a sarcastic lilt. Few people in camp received a large enough wood ration to use it for heating as well as cooking. They were all in the Royal Court or among its favorites.
“Hmph. So what’s the news?”
“No trouble for Sparrow over zapping the guards. The witnesses agree they had it coming.”
Lady Burnout sighed in relief. “Good. Are those two being kicked off the Royal Guard?”
“No. Queen Camellia likes them too much. Sharpquill was surprised I even asked.”
That drew a rude noise from his hostess.
Constable continued, “Sparrow is being put to work. Lots of gadgets need to be charged. That makes him part of the Autocrat’s staff.”
“Good. That’s probably as safe as the boy can be.”
“Sharpquill wants us to figure out what’s going on with the magic.”
Burnout threw her hands in the air. “How the hell should I know? Nothing makes sense here.”
“We have some data. Let’s see what we can make of it.” Constable hung his cloak from a hook then sat in a wicker chair.
Burnout pulled a folding chair around to face him. “What data? Some mysterious force yanked us here. Now random people have random powers.”
“I don’t think it’s random. All three were panicking over something and now they can do magic for whatever scared them. Marjoram was up a tree taking eggs out of a nest. The parents started clawing her, she nearly lost her grip and fell. Now she can control birds.”
Constable ticked the examples off on his fingers.
“Redinkle was failing at firemaking. She got upset. Maybe that was more angry than scared, but anger usually has fear under it. Her power is starting fires.”
Third finger. “Now there’s Sparrow. Two big guys threaten to beat the crap out of him. Bam. He’s taser-boy.”
Burnout interjected, “Doesn’t explain how he could charge his iPod.”
“Well . . . he’s into his tunes. We’re all under stress. If the music stopped at a bad time he could have panicked.”
She considered. “That fits. But it’s reaching.”
“We have a hypothesis we can test. Strong emotion lets people tap into magical abilities. Whenever new powers pop up we ask them how it happened.”
“How does Belladonna fit into this?”
Constable thought for a moment. “I don’t think she does. She cast her spell back on Earth. All the witnesses I’ve talked to say she was perfectly calm.”
“The description Elderberry gave me agrees. Have you gotten anything from Belladonna herself?”
He shook his head. “She won’t talk to me. Have you tried?”
“I’ve tried. But she just turned and walked away. I want to give her a follow-up exam but she won’t have it. I’d think with everyone ignoring her she’d be desperate for someone to talk to.”
The retired cop shrugged. “Some people break in solitary. Others like the peace.”
A thoughtful minute went by.
Burnout broke the silence. “Here’s the problem with your hypothesis. Not enough magic users. We’re all stressed. Most of us are scared as hell. We’ve had three suicides. If panicking was enough to bring out magical ability half the camp would be levitating or making rabbits appear.”
“That’s . . . huh. You’re right. Maybe . . . it only manifests if there’s a problem you can solve with magic?”
“How can you test that?”
“Can’t, really, until we know what magic can and can’t do. And we haven’t even started on that.”
Constable stared at the single candle lighting the pavilion. “Or . . .” he continued, “There could be people with magic we don’t know about. Too subtle for anyone to notice. Or might discover a power and hide it from everyone.”
“Why hide it?” asked Burnout.
“Depends on what it is. I’d be creeped out if someone raises the dead.”
***
St
rongarm walked with an odd limp as he approached. Newman could tell it wasn’t a knee or ankle injury. Strongarm’s gambeson was spotted with sweat and creased where steel armor had been strapped on. He must have just finished fighter practice.
“Lady Goldenrod,” he began, “would you have any bruise cream? The Wolfheads are all out.” He accompanied this with a bow, less graceful than his usual little flourish.
“A little,” answered Goldenrod. “We’ve been using it for sore muscles. How bad do you need it?”
“King Ironhelm kicked my ass at practice.”
Goldenrod chuckled and ducked into the pavilion.
“I thought kicking wasn’t allowed in heavy fighting,” said Newman.
“It’s not. Remember how I wrapped my sword around to hit you in the back of your head? Ironhelm did that to my ass.”
“Ouch.” Newman tried to put more sympathy than amusement into the comment.
“All part of the game. Oh, thank you,” he said as Goldenrod handed him a white tube. “Um, do you mind if I use your tent to, um . . .”
“Go ahead,” said Goldenrod. “How much of a turnout was there for the practice?”
Strongarm’s voice came clearly through the tent flap. “Maybe a score. Nobody from Court except Ironhelm and his squires. They’re not really part of Court anyway. They were romping over everyone. Seems as royalty he’s not supposed to do manual labor, but as a guest he’s excluded from all the organizing and stuff. So he’s just been practicing in armor every day.”
“Good,” she said. “I’d rather have him than Estoc.”
The announcement that the reigning monarch would compete had scandalized some traditionalists, but no one had a good counter to his argument that if he wasn’t enough of a monarch to keep reigning he wasn’t enough of one to sit out the tournament.
Strongarm said, “Hey, Newman, you should come to practice tomorrow. We could get you authorized and you could fight for Goldenrod in the tourney.”
“I have to hunt,” said Newman.
“You can take a few hours off. There’s other hunters at the practice.”
“I’d foul out. My reflexes are all wrong.”
“That’s what practice is for. We won’t have to teach you how to hit, you took me down just fine.”
Newman’s mouth worked but he didn’t say anything.
Goldenrod said, “I don’t want to be Queen now. I have enough work to do with my garden.”
“And pass up your chance to appoint a Royal Gardener?” quipped Strongarm. “Oh, that’s better.” He emerged from the tent still adjusting his gambeson.
“Going to get a decent night’s sleep this time?” asked Goldenrod with a smirk.
“Well, that’s not just up to me.”
“There you are!”
Newman looked up at the shout. The young woman was familiar, he thought she was a member of the Wolfheads.
Strongarm spoke to her in his sweetest tones. “My lovely Foxglove! I was going to come see you as soon as I finished post-practice maintenance.”
“Maintenance?” Foxglove glowered at Goldenrod.
Goldenrod side-stepped to stand next to Newman, who obediently put a proprietary arm around her shoulders. Foxglove turned her glare back on Strongarm.
“Did you file your intent?” she demanded.
“Not yet. It’s a big decision.” Strongarm waved his hands in what he hoped would be a soothing way.
“We decided it last night.”
“Well, we discussed it.”
“We did more than discuss!”
Newman wondered if the Kingdom was old-fashioned enough for breach of promise suits, or if the trial would be by gossip.
Either way Strongarm yielded.
“Yes, you’ll be my consort. I’ll file intent for us at practice tomorrow.”
Now Foxglove was smiling. But before she could reward him with a kiss a new voice interrupted.
“No, you won’t.” None of them had noticed Wolfhead Alpha walking up.
“What?” said Strongarm.
“You will not compete in Crown. No Wolfhead will.”
“You can’t order us—”
“Listen. The tourney committee decided King Estoc won’t be part of the double-elimination tourney. He’s just going to fight the winner. So we can’t tire out the contender or Estoc walks away with it.”
Goldenrod burst out, “But Duke Stonefist is on the committee! How could he let them get away with that?”
Wolfhead Alpha’s tone was grim. “Stonefist voted for it along with the rest. Along with the rule that they’re not required to call blows. It can go until one is knocked cold.”
Goldenrod, Foxglove, and Strongarm all gasped at that.
“So we’ll put our faith in King Ironhelm. Strongarm, you need to bring up twenty gallons, I don’t care if you make one trip or four. And you—” He turned to Foxglove.
“I’ll get back to the kitchen,” she said.
When the Wolfheads were all gone Newman said, “That’s it? All the talk of tyranny and revolution becomes we watch a duel between two men and hope the new one wins?”
“Choosing a monarch by combat is the tradition of the Kingdom,” answered Goldenrod. “Usually it works well. And if Estoc wins nothing changes, we can keep pushing back like we had been.”
“If he wins, it changes things. He has more legitimacy. And he’s smoked out his opposition, he can take action about that.”
Goldenrod had no answer.
Wanting to lighten the mood, Newman asked, “Why were you talking about Strongarm getting a good night’s sleep?”
She laughed. “Two Crown tourneys ago Strongarm made it to the sixth round. Impressed a lot of people. So last time he was considered a possible winner. Long-shot, but it happens sometimes. The night before, depending on who you listen to, his consort wanted to make him very motivated to win or he was taking advantage of her wanting to be queen. He showed up in the morning totally exhausted, had no sleep, and went zero for two. I don’t think Marigold’s spoken to him since.”
“Heh. Yeah, I can see her being pissed. But that, and how Foxglove was talking, makes it sound . . . transactional.”
Goldenrod shrugged. “Most contenders fight for a spouse or lover. Or friend. Some knights will pick consorts who’ve worked Court so they’ll have someone to handle the ruling aspects. And others . . .”
She blushed. “There are ladies who’d do things for a chance of being queen they wouldn’t do for a million dollars. And men like Strongarm who’ll make the trade. It’s a powerful title.”
Three Days Later
“Hey, I see something orange,” said Husky.
When he pointed they could all see it. The neon shade stood out against the forest greens and browns.
It was a pop-up tent, before it was torn open. The owner picked a good camping spot on a small hill. The crest diverted most runoff from the flat rise the tent was set up on.
Two tents, once they counted the pieces.
Which was easier than counting the bodies. They’d had the flesh stripped off but enough bits of muscle and gristle clung to the bones to keep them from matching the medical displays Newman had seen.
“Found a skull,” said Beargut. “Well—half a skull.”
Toothmarks showed on the remnant of nose. Big pointy teeth. Could be a wolf. The face had been chewed off. Not enough left to identify him.
Newman picked up the skull with a scrap of tent fabric. The back of the head was missing. Bugs flew out as he tilted it. The breaks in the bone were jagged, no tooth marks. Maybe bashed against a rock? He was standing next to an outcropping that would do the job, but any evidence had been washed away by the rain.
He turned it to look inside. Blood and goo smeared the skull. It looked like a batter bowl after his mom let him clean it. His stomach lurched. No, the marks were probably made by a scavenger’s tongue, not fingers. Newman stayed silent. The Kingdom had enough troubles without starting a cannibalism rumor.
“Damn, this rib cage is empty,” said Husky.
Newman took a look at it. “Probably some little scavengers came by later.” He squatted down to take a closer look. One rib was broken and shoved out of position. “This wasn’t done by a bite.”
Borzhoi looked over his shoulder. “Knife?”
“No cut mark on the other rib. Spear, maybe.”
“Could have gotten into a fight with each other,” speculated Borzhoi. “Then last one ran off.”
Beargut asked, “Figure these are the shit-shovelers who deserted?”
“No one else is missing,” said Newman.
“Found the fifth skull,” called Husky.
“That’s all of them,” said Newman. “Let’s get them gathered up.”
“Like hell!” said Deadeye. “I’m not touching any of it.”
“They’re people. Our people. They deserve a funeral.” Newman projected for the whole group to hear.
“I’m not picking up any bones,” said Deadeye.
Borzhoi stepped between them. “Look, let’s just pile up the bones and put rocks over them. Say a few words. Have a funeral here.”
Newman waved the Wolfhead aside. Deadeye had never liked following Newman’s directions. Even after the Autocrat made the lead hunter position official Deadeye kept resisting or evading orders. Newman walked up to the other man, leaning in to go nose to nose.
“These are human beings. They deserve a real funeral. With lots of people attending.” Newman put a harsh tone in his voice. “You will help make that happen.”
Deadeye pulled his knife from its belt sheath. Beargut and the Wolfheads stepped back.
Newman kept his gaze locked on Deadeye.
After a long, tense moment the archer stepped back and looked down. “Okay, okay, have it your way.”
“Let’s use those pieces of the tents as bags. Should be enough to carry all the bones.” Newman set an example by scooping some finger bones onto a yard-long piece.
Husky found a net laundry bag among the camp debris which worked well for the larger bones. There was a shortage of extremities, likely carried off by scavengers. Most of the squad was diligent enough to finish quickly despite Deadeye and a couple of others slacking.
The Lost War Page 9