The War Revealed (The Lost War Book 2)

by Karl K Gallagher

  “Wanted prisoners?” said Count Dirk.

  “Or hostages. Whatever. The town had been cut off so long the hajis were half-starved. They didn’t have any body armor. And our CSM really liked teaching knife moves. So two minutes later we were standing, barely, and eight hajis were on the floor.”

  Dirk watched as Newman’s eyes flicked side to side looking for threats.

  “We went back through the breach. There’d been a command detonated mine in the house. My guys were all over the walls. None of them made it.”

  He locked his eyes on Dirk’s. “I ordered them back. If I’d ordered them forward Ramirez would still have both hands and my guys would be alive. That’s why I shouldn’t be a leader.”

  “You made the best decision you could with the information you had.”

  “Shit, is that something they teach in officer school? That’s the exact fucking words my battalion commander said to me.”

  “It shows up in after action reports, yeah. One bad call doesn’t make you a bad leader. Everybody makes some bad calls.”

  “Everybody doesn’t get all their men killed.”

  The birds screeched and flew off. Newman realized he’d shouted.

  “No. But that’s war. I need you.”

  “I don’t want to ever be responsible for getting men killed again.”

  Dirk was still leaning on the tree. Bark flaked away as his grip tightened. “Too bad. If I had a dozen West Pointers and twenty NCO Academy grads I’d let you sulk in your tent. But I don’t. I have you and a bunch of amateurs. I love amateurs, they never do the minimum to get their paycheck, but they don’t have your training or experience.”

  “Why are you badgering me? Just get the king to order me.”

  “The last time the king put you in command you dumped it all on Deadeye and didn’t step up until it went to hell. I need you to do the job willingly.”

  “Even if I get them all killed?”

  “Yes. This mission has to buy us enough time to get everyone to the mountains. Otherwise we all die. I will sacrifice some men to keep the rest of us alive. If you bring some back, great. I’ll be thrilled. But diverting the orcs comes first.”

  Dirk paused.

  “It’s your best shot at keeping your wife alive.”

  “That’s low,” snapped Newman.

  “I have a job. So do you.”

  “Fine.” Through gritted teeth. “I’ll do it.”

  ***

  The grass in front of House Applesmiles’ tent was trampled to death from months of constant walking. The ladies of the house had woven straw mats to keep the dirt from coming inside or becoming a quagmire.

  Goldenrod lay on one mat, her back propped up by a haybale, a book in her lap. She looked up as Redinkle flopped down on the neighboring mat.

  “Good Lord. Are they still making charcoal?”

  The fire mage groaned. “No. This is from helping Master Forge.”

  “I thought he didn’t want you melting his firebox.”

  “That was three thousand orcs ago. Plus he figured out that if I only burn a little wood at a time it won’t get as hot.”

  Goldenrod could smell woodsmoke from her on top of the soot smudges on her face, neck, and hands. Cooks spending the whole day over a campfire didn’t smell that much of smoke.

  “What’s he working on? Wagon parts?”

  “Pikeaxes. Those dozens and dozens of hoes Mistress Seamchecker wanted for the farm? Turn the blade ninety degrees and it’s a war axe on a long pole. Hammer the neck into a spearpoint. Pikeaxe. Count Dirk wants all the fighters to have one. When they ran out of hoes they confiscated tent poles with steel spikes.”

  Goldenrod looked at their pavilion. The banner with a pig smiling around the apple in its mouth hung from a pole. “I’m surprised they didn’t come after ours.”

  “There’s two peers living here. Four, with you and Newman, sorry.”

  Goldenrod waved the apology away. Being a baroness didn’t feel quite real to her either.

  “Anyway,” continued Redinkle, “they would have come for ours if Lady Burnout hadn’t shut down the forge when one of the apprentices went down from the heat.”

  Goldenrod set the book aside and put a hand on the bale to brace herself. “Heatstroke? Why aren’t you drinking?”

  “No, no, no, don’t you dare,” Redinkle sprang to her feet. “Burnout would take a switch to me if she saw you standing and me lying down.”

  Goldenrod sank back down. “I’ll be walking all day tomorrow.”

  “All the more reason to heal as much as you can today.” Redinkle poured water into her goblet and emptied it at once. A second goblet-full went down nearly as fast.

  When she offered a drink to Goldenrod the answer was, “You have one more first.”

  Then the water pitcher was empty. Redinkle started the campfire and put a pot of river water on to boil. Then she sat next to Goldenrod. “Seriously, the way Burnout and Verbena were talking your insides were shredded.”

  Goldenrod shrugged. “Strong magic has a price.” She turned the page.

  “What are you reading?”

  “Books we looted from the sorcerer. His notes on magic, I hope.”

  The page was covered with the slashes and Xs of Elvish runes and a diagram that could be a football play.

  “You can read that?”

  “Aelion’s spell and what I stole from the sorcerer gave me grammar and the basic words. Connotations and technical jargon are the hard part.”

  She turned the page. These two were all rows of runes.

  “Want me to get Aelion to help you?”

  Goldenrod shook her head. “He doesn’t know any of this stuff. We killed all the ones who did.”

  “So what are you going to do?” Redinkle added another piece of wood to the campfire.

  “Context clues. Finding usages in different contexts. If all else fails a spell asking for translation.”

  Redinkle raised a hand. “If I catch you trying to cast a spell I’ll slap your face. Don’t think I won’t. Burnout would write me a thank you note.”

  Irritation crossed Goldenrod’s face. “What good is a thank you note to a frog?”

  “Depends. Do I stay a frog after you bleed out?” Redinkle crossed her arms and stared down. “Newman wouldn’t want you casting spells now either.”

  “Fine. I’ll behave.”

  ***

  “I hear you’re a marathoner,” said Newman.

  Lord Joyeuse looked up from the breastplate he was polishing. “I ran three half marathons. Mediocre times.”

  “Orcs are built like weight-lifters. They’re going to suck at long distance.” Newman slid a helmet aside to make room to sit down.

  “This is for your long range patrol?”

  “Yes.” Newman said it calmly. He was willing to own it now.

  “I’m a sucky archer.”

  “The mission isn’t to shoot them to death. It’s to lead them the wrong way. If missing them pisses the orcs off it’s as good as a hit. What we need is to break contact so we don’t get eaten. That means runners.”

  Joyeuse put down the polishing rag. “I’m in.”

  “Do you need to get permission?”

  “He can’t say no to this.”

  Newman picked up the helmet. “You have to pack light.”

  “I only dug all this out because the evacuation has a lot of people who are going to walk slower than a man in armor. One of the militia can have it.”

  “Good. Meet for gear inspection by House Applesmile at sunset. We head out at dawn.”

  ***

  Someone gave Aelion a fish for his lunch. The elf was shaving it with his obsidian blade. Paper-thin sheets of flesh curled into tight rolls, which he popped into his mouth.

  While sitting on a tree branch twenty five feet off the ground.

  Newman looked up at this. A persuasive chat worked better face to face than shouting uphill. But this wasn’t the easiest tree to climb. He un-kno
tted his belt and left it at the bottom of the tree. None of his gear would be needed for the talk.

  He backed up some yards then ran at the tree. Planting a boot on the trunk he converted horizontal to vertical momentum and leapt up, hands outstretched.

  One hand caught the lowest branch. Swinging back, his other hand grabbed on. Then he braced a foot on the trunk to stop his swaying. Some contortions brought his feet up and twisted him around to on top of the branch.

  When he was standing on the branch, he spoke in Elvish. “Greetings, Aelion.”

  “Greetings, friend Newman,” replied the elf.

  The next branch was in reach, if he didn’t mind his feet falling off his current perch. Then it was the same series of contortions.

  “I apologize for interrupting your lunch.”

  “Friends and food go well together. Would you like some of my fish?”

  “Thank you, but I’ve already eaten.” True, and the venison and vineroot were threatening to leap out of his mouth to escape further gymnastics.

  Aelion shaved some more flesh off the fish.

  Now Newman was on the closest branch just below the elf’s. He sat on it and wrapped an arm around the trunk for stability.

  “We’ve made our plan for escaping the orcs,” he began.

  “Good. I was afraid you’d want to make a stand here.”

  “No.” Newman summarized the evacuation to the island and his mission to divert the orcs.

  Aelion stopped eating. “You’re bringing the old and sick with you?”

  “Of course.”

  “They’ll slow you down. The orcs would catch you.”

  Newman suppressed the sharp words that leapt to his lips. “That’s why my patrol is going to divert the orcs. To give the evacuation more time.”

  “Foolishness. You’re throwing away strong bodies to protect the weak ones. Keep that up and you’ll have a tribe of weaklings, soon exterminated.”

  “I’d like you to join the patrol. You have more speed and accuracy than any of us.”

  Aelion laughed. “If I wanted my asshole stretched wide and orclings crawling out of it I’d join your stupid expedition. I don’t and won’t.”

  “Fine. You can go with the evacuation.”

  “With the weaklings? What of your promise to protect me?”

  “We promised to protect you in our camp. The camp is moving. Your protection goes with it.”

  “But you will not be there.” The fish was forgotten now, idly clutched in one hand as Aelion leaned over to stare into Newman’s face.

  “I will protect you by diverting orcs away from the camp.”

  “Nonsense. You’ll be eaten. Then the rest of the humans will be caught and eaten. What you must do is take the healthiest humans and flee across the river. Stay ahead of the orcs. Cross the Rim into the Outer Lands if we must to escape them.”

  Now holding onto his temper wasn’t a way to achieve his goals. It was just professionalism. “And leave the rest here to be eaten?”

  “It would slow the orcs down more than your patrol.”

  “No.” That was the politest way Newman could say it.

  “Then I will go by myself.”

  Newman shrugged. It wasn’t an elvish gesture, but Aelion had learned human body language along with their words.

  The elf took his bow and other gear from a fork in the tree. Newman watched his neck. It was healthy and smooth, shining like a new copper pipe. He remembered how it looked when he’d first seen the elf—shrunken, tight, cords and tendons stretching the skin as if they might break it.

  As the elf slid down the tree Newman called, “Come find us when you get hungry again.”

  ***

  Count Dirk authorized a dozen for this patrol. Newman settled on eight, including himself. More wouldn’t be a bigger diversion. And a larger group would be easier for the orcs to track when it was time to leave. Besides, there weren’t that many good candidates for the mission.

  Inspection started with introductions. Joyeuse didn’t know many people outside court. Whippet was a Wolfhead who’d been hauling wood and water, enlisted on Borzhoi’s recommendation. Pliers was a woodcutter who’d kept up his jogging routine.

  Newman ordered new knives for Whippet and Pliers. He allowed Borzhoi and Joyeuse to keep their metal swords. No one had packed non-essentials.

  “We’re going to carry a lot of arrows on this patrol. Only half of us are good archers—sorry, Crusher—so the other half will be arrow caddies. Caddies, stick close to your archer. Keep him fed. Whippet, you’re Borzhoi’s caddy.”

  The two Wolfheads nodded to each other.

  “Crusher, you’re with Deadeye.” The heavy fighter was tough enough to deal with Deadeye’s shit.

  “Pliers, Leadsmith. And Joyeuse, you’re with me.”

  The squire looked relieved to not be paired with a stranger.

  “The weapons and arrows can stay here. We’re getting a bunch of the smoked venison and fish so leave room in your packs. Fill in the gaps in your gear and get a good night’s sleep. See you in the morning.”

  ***

  Enough well-wishers wanted to see the Long Range Patrol off that Count Dirk deployed a few guards to urge them back. Lord Pulpit moved them out of his way, saying “I am invited.”

  Borzhoi turned to greet the pastor. “Thank you for coming, my lord.”

  “It’s no trouble.” Lord Pulpit took a worn Bible from his pocket.

  Borzhoi and Whippet knelt down before him. Newman realized what was happening and knelt on Borzhoi’s other side. Joyeuse joined him. Then the rest of the patrol. The crowd fell silent.

  Lord Pulpit read, “When he came to Lehi, the Philistines shouted as they met him. And the Spirit of the Lord came upon him mightily so that the ropes that were on his arms were as flax that is burned with fire, and his bonds dropped from his hands. He found a fresh jawbone of a donkey, so he reached out and took it and killed a thousand men with it.”

  He continued with other tales of Old Testament violence.

  Good choices, thought Newman. This is no day for turning the other cheek.

  After the last inspirational tale Pulpit closed the Bible. “My friends, we are gathered to bid farewell to our champions. Let us pray. Almighty God, these young men have volunteered to place themselves between our people and the desolation threatening us. We give them our thanks and our prayers. Lord, we beg Your blessing on their feet that they be swift. We beg Your blessing for their hearts that they not tire or fail. In Jesus’ name we pray. Amen.”

  The crowd echoed the “amen”.

  Newman walked back to Goldenrod.

  “I didn’t know you were religious,” she said.

  “It’s—sometimes,” he answered. “I’m a metatheist. I don’t believe in God, but I believe I should.”

  That forced a chuckle out of her. The tension was visible in her face. “You’re coming back, right?”

  “Of course I am.”

  “Promise me.”

  “I promise I will come back to you.”

  Goldenrod wrapped her arms around him and squeezed.

  He returned the hug, his strength gentle, not frantic.

  Newman whispered in her ear. “I’ve fought trained terrorists. I’ve hunted all through these woods. I’ll be fine. Worry about the other guys.”

  “Damnit. I should—”

  “No. You’re too weak now. You’ve done plenty. Rest. Heal.”

  Goldenrod buried her face in his neck. He felt the tears she’d held back until now.

  He stroked her back, whispered endearments, and held her. Then he had to step back. “I have to get to work now. I’m sorry. I love you.”

  Goldenrod gave him a quick kiss and ducked into the tent.

  Newman looked at his men. They were all finishing their goodbyes.

  Even Deadeye had someone seeing him off. She was a lanky blond in a shapeless tunic. “I don’t mind if you lose an arm or leg, but you bring that dick back, you hear?�
� she said.

  “Got it,” answered Deadeye.

  Newman shook his head. Some people he’d never understand.

  The backpack of food went on first. Then four quivers, all full of arrows. Last he picked up his bow.

  The others noticed Newman donning his gear and broke off their embraces to prepare for departure. He walked among them to make sure the straps were on right.

  Then there was nothing left to do. Newman tried to think of something eloquent. He failed.

  “Okay, let’s go.”

  The guards walked ahead, waving people aside to clear a way to the gate. The lane was lined with people waving, cheering, calling out, “Good luck!” “Knock ‘em dead!” “We’ll be praying for you!”

  All the bards were gathered in front of the common pavilion. As the Long Range Patrol came into view they struck up a vigorous march. The song was taken up by some of the crowd. The whole populace shouted the chorus, “How many of them can we make die!”

  Newman grinned. His pack felt lighter. This was the way to go to war. He went through the gate and turned north.

  ***

  Mistress Filigree made a point of being at the front of the crowd as the evacuation began heading south. Not with the scouts, she wasn’t even going to try to keep up with them. She wanted to be in the lead of the main body.

  For the first hour she kept up. Then her will couldn’t overcome the stiffness in her joints any more. Younger people moved ahead of her. And some not so young. But she was staying ahead of everyone her own age.

  When the rest break was called she kept walking, regaining the ground she’d lost. Most people had flopped down on the ground to let their legs recover. Some sat, drinking water or nibbling on some jerky.

  At the front Filigree considered lying down herself. Her legs wanted the rest. Needed the rest. There was still some of the break left.

  Her knees twinged as she knelt. Stretching out on her belly let her relax without the additional burden of turning over.

  Three blasts on a whistle marked the end of the break. Everyone started getting up.

  Filigree braced her hands. A shove brought her to hands and knees. Then she brought up her right knee to put a foot on the ground. The knee still pressed in the dirt complained.