Goldenrod didn’t need to aim, just choose. “Die die die. Die die. Die. Die.”
The single orc left went down under a flurry of sword blows.
“What the fuck?” demanded Borzhoi. He stabbed a fallen orc.
“Magic, man,” said Newman. “Shit.”
Goldenrod had fainted. Her head lolled against his chest.
“We’ll take care of her,” said Mistress Tightseam. She and Shellbutton took Goldenrod from his arms. “You boys best go fight.”
Sweetbread, Pinecone, and Pernach stood behind her, ready to follow Newman’s lead. The cooking knives were tucked into their belts. Each held a seven foot oak pole with a blunt steel spike at the top.
“Right. Fight’s over here. Sounds like it’s going badly there. Borzhoi, you coming with us?”
“No. Our orders are to stay here.”
Newman wanted to push it but he had no authority over Borzhoi inside the camp.
“We’ll keep an eye on your place,” said Borzhoi.
“Right.” Newman readied his bow. “Let’s go.”
His three housemates followed behind him single file.
Newman stopped to put them in a formation. “Make a line, side by side. Close enough you can hit an orc in front of the guy next to you. Keep the line straight.”
He spotted a crafter watching them, uncertain whether to advance or flee. “Hey, you. Grab a pole and join the line.”
The crafter promptly fell in next to Pernach. Two more men saw this and joined the line. They made it wide enough Newman had to walk down the lane ahead of them instead of beside.
The melee at the gate made the mess at the Wolfheads look like a ballet. Orcs were everywhere. All the pavilions lay flat, furniture pushing up through the canvas to trip distracted fighters. The Wolfheads were in a circle, surrounded by orcs trying to find a gap in their armor.
“Move left,” ordered Newman. “End man touch the wall.” He pointed to show where he wanted them standing.
Here and there orcs stood still, catching their breath or looking for a new target. He loosed arrows into them. He didn’t dare fire on the ones engaged with people.
“When I’m out of arrows we’ll advance,” he said.
Instead orcs came to them. Not in a line. It was a gaggle, orcs deciding individually to attack this new threat. They closed fast enough the pole swingers didn’t have a chance to gang up on any of them.
Newman tossed his bow aside as two came for him. One had his last arrow sticking out of its chest. He drew his Ka-bar knife and let them close.
The one with the arrow rushed around, coming at Newman from his right. Newman hopped to the side, making it come between him and the second orc. A pivot let the spear go past him.
He braced the knife, holding it still as the spear slid over it until the orc rammed its hand into the blade. It grunted, lifted the hand off the spear, two fingers dangling loose, and stepped back.
Newman followed, pushing the spear up with his left hand. The point of the Ka-bar went under the orc’s ribs. A twist as he pulled it out released a gush of orange blood.
The other orc jabbed at his head, almost too fast for Newman to duck. He felt it brush against his hair.
It was too far away for him to reach. The orc braced the spear with one hand while the other thrust it at him in quick jabs. Two hops kept him alive but he couldn’t keep that up. One stumble would kill him.
On the next jab he spun forward, pressing knife and hand and chest against the side of the spear, shoving it away.
The orc swung the butt of the spear at Newman’s leg. That would bruise. He continued the twist, pulling his knife through the orc’s throat. Rancid blood sprayed into his face.
Newman wiped his eyes with his left hand. A glance told him his militia wouldn’t hold much longer.
Poles met spears to become a shoving match. The orcs were stronger. Sweetbread, at the end of the line, was already down on one knee.
Newman rescued his host with two quick stabs to the orc’s back. He lunged to the next one and stabbed it in the back of the neck before it realized its neighbor had fallen.
The orc facing Pernach heard the death grunts. It pivoted, raising its spear to knock Newman’s knife arm aside with the haft.
The blow stung. He didn’t drop the knife but pulled back to make sure of his grip.
The spear turned, point aimed at Newman’s belly. Then it dropped as Pernach smacked his pole into the orc’s shoulder.
Newman side-stepped to stay clear as Pinecone swung his like a baseball bat into the orc’s face. Blood sprayed. It fell.
He ran along the back of the last three orcs. Attacked from side and rear they died quickly.
“Great work, men! Now let’s get the line straight again.” Newman saw one of the volunteers stagger to the fence and sit down against it. Blood squeezed through fingers pressed over a belly wound. Dealing with the casualty would have to wait.
Cheers came from men among the tents still standing.
Newman grabbed an orc spear off the ground. He flung it sideways at the nearest cheerer. “Never mind words! Grab a spear, grab a pole, join the line!”
A dozen men came forward with a mix of improvised weapons. Two men with swords came out of the melee and joined the line. Newman stood in the middle with a spear. The line now reached from the fence to the lane, facing the besieged Wolfheads.
Newman called instructions. “We’ll walk slowly. Keep the line straight. When anyone’s fighting stop the line. Keep it straight. Now, walk!”
When they were all moving he shouted, “Wolfheads, we are coming!”
Some of the orcs attacking the Wolfheads ran when they realized they’d be hit from behind. Others were too angry or too focused. They died, and the heavy fighters facing them unfolded their circle to outflank the rest.
Orcs in threes or sixes came out of the scrum, looked at the line, and went back in search of easier prey. One stepped out and flung a spear at them. A man went down with a groan.
The orc picked up another spear and hefted it. Newman flung his at it. He missed. The orc looked at the other spearmen changing their grips and went back into the melee.
Someone handed Newman two more spears.
The Wolfheads gave a cheer as the last orc facing them died.
Alpha stepped out of the pack facing Newman. “That won’t let us have a continuous line,” he said, waving at the pile of debris that had been the Royal Pavilion. Even collapsed it was taller than a man.
“Agreed. I’ll take my men around to the left.”
Wolfhead Alpha held his sword vertically in front of his face in salute.
Newman waved a spear in reply. He turned back to his men. “Start walking! You men at the tent, come stand behind us. Take the place of anyone who falls.”
The melee gave way before Newman’s line. Orcs went down under the poles or were distracted enough for one of the humans in the fight to stab them.
An orc lunged at the poleman beside Newman. The man flinched back, leaving a gap in the line. The orc grinned, looking for a new target.
Newman met the orc’s gaze. They thrust at each other simultaneously. Newman pivoted, deflecting the orc’s spear with his own and sliding it to push the point toward the orc’s belly.
That didn’t work on this one. It leaned in, pushing Newman’s spear flat against his chest. The human dug in his feet and pushed back, trying to keep from being forced out of the line.
The orc had more weight and strength. This was a contest Newman would lose.
Then a sword cut into the orc’s neck, splashing more orange blood onto Newman. The orc fell, revealing a man wearing a knight’s belt. He bled from scalp and chest. One arm hung limp. He staggered through the gap in the line and collapsed.
The flincher stood a few feet away, still holding his tent pole.
Newman snarled, “Get back in line, you. And stay in line.” He looked left and right. “Straighten the line!” he shouted. “Stay right betwee
n the man on your left and right.”
Some men stepped onto orc bodies as they obeyed. The ground under the brawl was covered with bodies. Mostly orc. Enough humans lay among them to scare Newman. Even if they won this fight, had they lost too many to survive?
Orcs were backing into the line now as the melee squeezed them out. Poles and spears took them down quickly when they came in range.
Newman saw the Wolfheads advancing on the other side. They were putting the pressure on. In some places fighters were so close together they couldn’t swing a weapon. Some dropped swords and spears to strangle each other.
Knights and squires were coming through the line. The wounded or exhausted would walk a few paces for safety then lie down. The fit waved polemen into the second line and took their places.
“Hold the line steady, boys,” called Newman. “We’re the anvil. The orcs are being hammered on us.”
He could see a few orcs going back out the gate. Usually wounded. One was missing an arm. But a steady trickle were hale orcs who seemed to have had enough.
In humans this would start a stampede. Once a few left the rest would flee to make sure they weren’t the last one left fighting. He’d seen a local unit do that in the Sandbox. In three minutes it went from ninety percent strength to a panicked mob.
Orcs didn’t notice some of their number departing. Or didn’t care. Their morale didn’t break.
As the two lines came closer together the number of orcs still fighting dwindled. They didn’t group up to defend themselves. The last dozen standing were surrounded and went down almost simultaneously.
Fighters who’d been in the melee leaned on their rescuers, panting. The lines broke up to see which humans among the bodies could benefit from first aid. Those without medical skills made sure all the orcs were dead.
Newman joined a solemn circle of men. They surrounded a dead body. Two spears had been driven crossways through his torso into the ground, holding him almost upright on his knees. It was King Estoc. A circle of orc bodies had fallen facing him, two and sometimes three deep. His sword, soaked in orange, lay on one knee.
He backed away, letting those who knew the king better mourn. He waved at his troops to spread out. All the wounded men were being helped now. If they were fit enough to walk, or be carried, they were taken away from the slaughter.
As Newman walked he stabbed the orcs he stepped over, in case they weren’t quite dead. One twitched hard enough he put a half dozen holes in it to make sure.
Near the gate he found Duke Stonefist.
The duke was surrounded by dead orcs. Headless orcs, armless orcs, orcs cleaved to the spine. Stonefist lay atop the pile, unmarked. His heart had given out with the labor. His expression was frustration that he’d been interrupted in the middle of his work. The axe was gripped firmly. Blade, haft, and hands were covered in orange blood.
Newman knelt and closed the duke’s eyes.
***
Constable sat on the roof of the wrecked Royal Pavilion, leaning against a box holding some of the fabric off the ground. He lifted one hand to wave to Lady Burnout. Blood leaked through the fingers of his other hand until he added the first’s pressure to his thigh again.
“Fool old man,” she scolded. “You need to leave brawling to the young ones.” Burnout knelt to look at the wound.
“This mace isn’t for show. All of us were needed.”
“Right. Well, I have some news for you. Found a new magic user,” she said.
Constable hissed as she swabbed antiseptic into the spear wound. “Who?”
“Me.” Lady Burnout laid her hand over the flowing blood, barely firm enough for him to feel it. When she lifted it the wound was scabbed over.
“Useful,” grunted Constable. The pain was still there.
“Works from the inside out. I think I can treat internal bleeding too.”
“Keep your hand off my chest.”
“I’ll only use it for good. When you’re on your feet I need you to look into some others.”
“More new magic users?”
“Maybe. Just rumors. A woman claims she escaped orcs by hovering out of reach. Another guy was flinging stuff around with his mind. And the rumors about Lady Goldenrod are—well. I shouldn’t prejudice you.”
Constable lifted his leg, gritting his teeth as he flexed the torn muscles. “If they’re real I’m calling it proof of my magic-under-stress theory.”
“I won’t argue.”
The man used his mace to turn onto his bad knee. Burnout balanced him as the good leg pushed him upright. “Right,” he said. “This thing is too damn short. Hand me a spear, will you?”
She pried one out of the hand of a dead orc. Constable held it as a walking stick. “That’s good. Back to work, you.”
Lady Burnout nodded. She turned and walked three paces to the next casualty.
Constable leaned on the spear as he surveyed the battlefield. It was a lumpy green carpet of orc bodies. Well over a hundred of them. The ground was soaked with orange blood turning brown as it dried.
Hardly any human bodies lay among them, though red splotches showed where some had been carried off. Lady Burnout wasn’t the only one tending to the wounded. They were too busy to be questioned.
He decided he needed a drink to replace the blood he’d lost. And wherever he did that would be a good place to hear rumors. He hobbled away from the carnage.
***
Constable and Lady Burnout timed their visit to House Applesmile for after dinner that night. They arrived just as Pinecone and Shellbutton finished drying the dishes.
“Good evening. We’d like a word with Lady Goldenrod,” said Constable.
“That’s fine,” said Mistress Tightseam. “We were going to take a shift at the hospital tonight.” She and her husband excused themselves.
Pernach said he needed to check on the charcoal burn. Redinkle offered to help light fires. Pinecone and Shellbutton followed without providing excuses.
Goldenrod waved to the seats across from her. “Please, join us.”
Newman sat beside her like a stone, silent and not moving without the application of force.
“This isn’t anything formal,” said Lady Burnout. “We’re just chatting with those who’ve displayed magical abilities. Hopefully we can learn something about how they work.”
“So this is about me offing those orcs.”
Constable said, “We’re very glad you could stop them,” in a reassuring tone.
“What have you heard?”
“Many rumors, mostly contradictory,” said the retired cop. “We’d like to hear your own description of what happened.”
“We were right here. Orcs were coming over the wall. Newman was shooting at them. One had three arrows in it and kept coming. I was scared and angry so I yelled at it. It fell down.”
“Do you remember your exact words?” asked Constable.
“Yes, but I’m avoiding saying that word.”
“That’s a perfectly reasonable precaution. Would it be safe to spell it?”
Goldenrod hesitated. “I guess so. I said, ‘Why won’t you D-I-E.’ It fell down. And . . . I didn’t just know it had from the falling down, I could feel, somehow, that it was D-E-A-D.”
Lady Burnout said, “There’s others feeling stuff like that. Sparrow can sense if a battery is charged. I can detect bleeding, even internally.”
“Redinkle says she can feel where fires are in the charcoal mounds,” added Goldenrod.
“What happened after the first one?” asked Constable.
“Newman was shooting more. They were coming faster than he could shoot. So I said it again. Said it shorter. Just saying the one word worked. I tried just thinking it but nothing happened.”
“There’s rumors you passed out.”
“Not at first. Each time I did it—it didn’t take an effort to say it, but the first few times I felt one D-I-E it was like I’d picked up something too heavy to carry. Tiring.”
&nbs
p; She put her hand on her boyfriend’s arm. “Newman had to carry me to the Wolfhead encampment so we could help with that fight. Then it was harder, like each time I said it I was punched in the stomach.”
Newman sat up in alarm.
“Not too painful. I kept myself awake until it was over. Then—I can’t really say if I passed out or just fell asleep.”
“Looked like passing out to me,” said Newman.
“When I woke up the battle was over,” Goldenrod finished. “I’m still sore.” She stroked from sternum to bellybutton to show where the pain was.
Constable asked, “Have you tried to use this power on a human or animal?”
“No!”
“Have you said anything else that happened to come true?”
Goldenrod thought a moment. “When we arrived Mistress Seamchecker took us out to look for edible plants. Someone thought it was hopeless so I gave her a pep talk. Right after that I found the first vineroot.”
“There’s another time,” said Lady Burnout. “When you brought Redinkle in with her hands burned you told her she’d be fine. I didn’t want to argue in front of the patient but I figured she’d get back to fifty percent use of her hands at best. Instead she doesn’t even seem to have scars. Your magic is the best explanation I can think of.”
“Wow,” said Goldenrod. “I didn’t realize I could do that. It’s—wow.”
“I hesitate to ask you to help directly. We could easily get into a monkey’s paw situation. But if there’s a critical situation, would you . . .?
“Of course. But I think I shouldn’t use this for anything non-critical.”
“I disagree,” said Constable. “Abilities need practice to develop strength and control. You need to exercise this talent so you know the costs and limitations.”
“You mean I should follow through with it?”
“Exactly.”
“I will.”
Lady Burnout stood. “Thank you for being willing to discuss this. Please let us know if you discover anything interesting.”
“Certainly.”
The investigators strolled off.
It was Goldenrod’s first private moment with Newman since the battle. “Does it bother you that I can do . . . that?”
The Lost War Page 19