“Thank you anyway.” Goldenrod walked away.
At least that one hadn’t given her a two minute rant on how dare she accuse him of being stupid enough to bring calligraphy supplies on an evacuation.
Ink was out. Goldenrod tried to think of alternate writing materials. Blood? Lady Burnout would object. And it dries quickly. Orc blood? She’d have to wait until the next attack was over. Anything food-related was out. She’d wind up in front of Duchess Roseblossom for violating rationing.
Goldenrod decided she’d have to write elf-style, cutting into the blank leather pages. The elves burned their symbols with heated bone. Not an option here. There wasn’t even lichen to burn on the island. Redinkle wouldn’t do it. She was saving her “juice” to be ready for the next attack.
That left actually carving the leather. She had a splendid set of leatherworking tools. . . back on Earth. Her belt knife was too dull to cut smoothly. She needed something small and sharp.
She studied the clinic before walking up to it. Burnout and Verbena were both calm. The lines of wounded were just resting, not needing treatment. Helpers were giving them food and water.
Lady Burnout looked up as she approached. “Goldenrod. How’s your gut?”
“Just fine.” She hadn’t needed any healing since they reached the island. “I was hoping for a small favor.”
The chirurgeon made a little “go on” wave.
“I need to borrow a scalpel. Or something else I can carve leather with.”
“Why?”
“I need to write up my notes on the elvish spells.”
“You’re not going to cast anything, are you?”
“I’m not making any wishes. I’m being careful. I just want to write down the useful stuff in one place.”
Burnout still had a dubious expression. But she reached into her medical bag. “Here. Bring it back when the next attack starts.”
“I will. Thank you.”
Back at the wizard’s tower she spread the books around her, all open to a different spell. Belladonna’s scroll was unrolled in the center. The newest book was half blank. Goldenrod opened it to the first blank page and prepared to write.
If she understood the grammar of elvish correctly the spell she was creating needed four words: what—how—from—to. All of which she had if she understood this as well as she thought she did.
The point of casting this spell was to find out if she did understand it.
One word she had memorized. One came from Belladonna’s scroll. The other two from different books. She worked slowly, not wanting to make an error. There was no backspace in leather carving.
The words weren’t just the sounds of the letters but how they were to be sung. The pronunciation went in the center line with the singing instructions above and below.
It didn’t help that the gouges in the leather weren’t much lighter than the plain leather page. Goldenrod found herself tilting the book to create shadows as she checked her work.
After the first word an inspiration struck her. She slid down into the crease below her seat. Stroking her fingers along the bottom she found fine black sand, almost silt. She rubbed it on her new letters and wiped the page with her hand. It worked. The letters turned dark while the smooth page stayed clean.
She went more slowly as the task progressed, not wanting to risk all the letters she’d accumulated. When it was done she quadruple-checked it against the sources. It was right.
Or rather it was what she thought it should be. She wouldn’t know it was right until casting it gave the results she’d planned.
It was safe to rehearse the words one at a time. She sang them, leaving gaps between each repetition. She didn’t know what the minimum safe spacing was. That was likely in one of the old books she hadn’t stolen.
Re-arranging the order wouldn’t keep the spell from working. It would be a different spell. The tales of apprentices killed by botched spells made her not want to experiment with that.
This experiment was a necessary step if they were ever going to see Earth again.
At some point rehearsing became procrastinating. Goldenrod stopped, took three deep breaths to compose herself, and knelt facing her seat. She began to sing.
The spell flowed out smoothly. The words felt right. They fit together.
Goldenrod sang the last note, closed her mouth, and fainted.
When she woke she checked the sun. Hadn’t moved much.
Goldenrod looked at the outcrop and laughed. She’d expected water, in a bottle or just a blob splashing onto the rock. Instead a red and white can sat there.
“I guess ‘thirst cure’ taps into more of my memory than I thought,” she said.
The can was colder than Plane’s ice sculptures. Those were small and melted at her touch. The can filled her hand and sucked the warmth out of her skin.
It looked like the ones she was used to. She checked the ingredients. “High fructose corn syrup.” The can was from Earth, or someplace very similar.
Goldenrod couldn’t resist the temptation any longer. She popped the top and took a sip.
It shocked her.
The cold was harsher on her teeth than any stream water. The sweetness overwhelmed her taste buds. For nine months there’d been no sugars but scarce berries. This was pure.
She sucked down more of the brown fluid.
Her heart started racing.
A guilty pang reminded her this was stolen from someone. She hoped it was from a store, not someone picnicking in the park.
“Right. Caffeine,” she muttered. Months without it had wiped out her tolerance for the stimulant. She raised a hand in front of her face. No jitters yet. But drinking the rest of the can was a bad idea.
Not as bad as walking into camp and offering it around. That would start a riot. Give it to Redinkle? She couldn’t even remember if her bestie drank this brand. If anyone caught them, riot.
And, oh God, proof she’d cast a summoning spell would put Burnout into a screaming fit. With Cinnamon and Fennel on the chorus. The official leaders of the mage council had left supervising her to Burnout. They’d freak over the can.
Goldenrod started searching the seaward side of the tower for a hiding spot. She held the can close to her body to hide it from watchers. It was still cold.
There was a cranny filled with water, brackish from the sea spray. The water purifier hadn’t needed to come up this high. She poured the soda into the puddle. The clear water turned brown. A few stomps left the can flat. A kick sent it to the bottom of the puddle.
Now her hands were jittering. Probably more from adrenaline than caffeine. But no more magic work for her today. She went back to gather up her books.
***
All the patrollers were awake before dawn. Some couldn’t stand to stay in the cramped positions any longer. Others were startled awake by noises of the swamp.
Some damn critter made an annoyingly loud splash jumping out of the water. If it was doing that to avoid predators Newman hoped one caught it.
The air felt stagnant too. Scents of decay, murk, and cheap perfume attacked them. The water turned pea green away from the blue river.
Deadeye started peeing off the side of the raft. Someone cursed at him. He replied, “You didn’t want to drink this anyway.”
“Yeah, but we have to smell it.”
“Here? You can’t even notice piss in here.”
It was a long wait until dawn. Newman shut down the bickering by reminding them that the orcs were waking up and listening.
Whippet sat up abruptly. “Something’s sucking on me!”
“Put a ring on it,” advised Deadeye.
“Crap.” Whippet pulled up his pants leg. “Ewwww.” He scraped at the slimy creature with his knife and flipped it into the water. Moonlight reflected off the ripples as it swam away.
“Are you bleeding?” asked Newman, just loud enough to be heard.
“No. Well, oozing a little. Don’t need a bandage.”
> “Good. Everybody check yourself. Parasites are sneaky.”
Newman followed his own order, running his hands under his clothes. No stowaways turned up.
When the dawn light touched the top of a nearby tree they all lifted their paddles and started stroking.
The bow made a slurping sound as it pulled free from the hummock. The mound jiggled in reaction. A waterfowl sleeping on top let out a hacking cough of protest.
They maneuvered the raft through the hummocks and trees of the swamp. It grew denser as they neared the mountains. Twice they had to back-paddle and find an alternate route.
As the raft drew closer to the rim mountains, more vegetation blocked their way. Some logs and hummocks moved aside when Crusher or Pliers pushed on them. More held firm. At last they faced a solid mass and couldn’t spot an alternate route to shore.
Newman handed his paddle to Joyeuse. He swung his legs over the edge of the raft and slid down. He stood hip-deep in the water. “Okay. We’ll wade from here. Packs on. Take a swig from your water bottles.”
He didn’t need to tell them to do it quietly. They could hear orc bands walking around the lake. Some gaps in the swamp foliage let them see orcs. None of the orcs had seemed to notice them. All the patrollers were doing the head on a swivel scan for ambushes.
Newman held them back before the shore. Gathering them in the cover of a tall clump of grass he whispered, “We have a clear view of the bend here. We’ll watch for a gap in their line. When the gap gets here, we cross, using that pass.”
He pointed to one the orcs were by-passing in favor of an easier climb.
“If we’re chased keep your weapons, ditch anything else slowing you down.”
They nodded. Then the patrol settled in for a long wait.
It was past noon when the bend in the lake shore went a quarter hour with no orcs passing by. They switched their attention to the shore above them, peeking through the swaying grass.
“That’s it, I see the one with no left hand,” whispered Pliers.
Newman answered, “Good. Wait five.”
He started a timer on his wristwatch. It and his knife were souvenirs from the Sandbox.
The afternoon sun brought more smells out of the water. Midges swarmed around them. The bites were more aggravating with their nerves poised for action.
The watch buzzed against Newman’s skin.
“Now now now.” He whispered it instead of shouting, trying to stay stealthy.
They slogged as best they could to shore. Once on blessed, wonderful dry land the patrol cut diagonally left toward the pass they’d picked.
Pliers ran up the first foothill, stopping halfway up to wait for the rest.
Between sleeping on the raft and crouching in the muck most patrollers had cramped, aching legs. A brisk walk helped but they didn’t want to run if they didn’t have to.
The lake side of the foothill had patchy grass and a few shrubs. Towards the top that dwindled to moss and lichen. The crest was bare rock. As was the back side of the hill.
There was a little valley between the hill and the base of the mountains. A cluster of shrubs and a few trees lined its bottom. Then it was nothing but rock up to the top of the mountains.
Newman and his men went over the crest in a tight bunch. Not running, but a brisk walk. They’d seen too many orcs to relax.
Pliers ran ahead again. He stopped before the bottom. His hands scraped some drying mud and slime off his pants.
The rest caught up to him. They passed through the line of brush together.
Once through Newman looked around. His eyes met those of an orc.
It lay in the shade of a tree, gnawing on the leg bone of a deer. More orcs lay about, some with bones of their own, others napping in the shade. Three young orcs gnawed on the hips.
Newman could see at least thirty.
The one staring at him let out a howl. More orc heads popped up from the bushes.
The howl cut off as Deadeye put an arrow in its throat.
“Run!” yelled Newman. “Run for the pass!”
He broke into a run. They were between the orcs and the pass. They just needed to keep their lead. He undid the straps on his backpack.
Running wasn’t an option when the slopes grew steeper. Newman needed both hands to keep steady. He didn’t want to sling his bow. He held it in his fist, bracing his knuckles against the rock when he had to.
The knuckles were already bleeding.
Newman looked around. All the men were ahead of him but one. “Crusher! Keep up!”
The fighter pushed himself into a sprint for a few yards. Then he reached a steeper portion of the slope, went up a couple of steps, then slid back down. Crusher had been the slowest runner of the patrol from the beginning. He hadn’t eaten well since that stunt with the slice of tentacle. Now he was too damn weak to catch up.
“Fuck it.”
Crusher drew his sword. He charged down the slope shouting a war cry in some language Newman didn’t know.
The sword slapped aside the first orc’s spear thrust then slashed open its throat. The backswing caught the next orc on the neck.
He plunged between two more, still swinging.
Newman turned back to the pass. Now he needed to keep up.
The orcs took long enough dealing with Crusher that the patrol gained a fifty yard lead. Close to the pass the rock face steepened again. Deadeye fired back a couple arrows as they paused there.
Joyeuse sat down and took off his boots. “This stretch is going to be real rock climbing,” he said. “Best to have bare feet for traction.”
“Screw that,” said Pliers. “This stuff would cut my feet up.”
“Bleeding is better than falling,” countered Joyeuse.
Newman sat down to imitate him. A spear bounced off the rock face below him. Rather than untie the complicated leather laces of his boots he drew his knife and slashed through them. He sheathed knife, slung his bow, and started climbing.
It was an easier ascent than the cliff he’d climbed on the way to the elf village. But he’d rather have a straight drop to bare rock under him than a horde of ravening orcs.
Borzhoi pulled Newman over the top. They flinched as a spear flew by.
The pass was narrow and filled with boulders fallen from the mountains on either side. They hopped through, risking broken ankles to get more speed.
Pliers reached the other side first. He looked over. “Oh, shit.”
“What?” demanded Newman.
Pliers dropped flat as a spear passed over him. “The orcs from the other pass are walking under this one to get to the shore. They saw me. They’re climbing up.”
The war cries of the ocean side orcs were audible now. It was a different chant from the cries of the orcs chasing them from the lake side.
Newman looked around. He saw a ledge well above the pass. “Up there! Go!”
The patrol started climbing again.
The lake side orcs came over the edge of the pass. Their massive upper body strength let them climb faster than humans. Excited hoots greeted the sight of the trapped patrol.
Newman moved up the rock, settling for footholds he could only squeeze his toes into. Sometimes he had to wait for Borzhoi or Whippet to move their feet up so he could grab a handhold.
Those pauses let him look around. The orcs were gathered below them. A few were climbing up.
Pliers was lagging behind. His boots needed big cracks or bumps. Sometimes he had to shift sideways before he could go up.
Damn it, I should have ordered him to take his boots off.
The handhold Newman was waiting for was empty. He climbed more. With his nose pressed to the rock he could appreciate one part of their situation. The clean salt air blowing in from the sea smelled so much better than the swamp.
A rattle of wood on stone announced another flurry of spears. This time there was a scream.
Newman looked right. Where Pliers had been was only empty rock.
He shifted handholds to let himself look straight down.
Orcs with red blood on their faces grinned back at him.
Newman looked up and reached for another handhold.
Joyeuse helped Deadeye onto the ledge. While the squire reached down for the Wolfheads Deadeye unslung his bow and started sending arrows down into the climbing orcs.
Once he was on the narrow ledge Newman looked at his feet. “Damn, look at all that blood. I’m amazed I didn’t slip off.”
“Nah, once it dries a bit it’s sticky. So you get extra traction,” said Joyeuse.
Deadeye’s bow twanged. A howl came from below. He scooted back from the edge.
“Need more arrows?” asked Whippet.
“I’m good. The climbers are giving up.”
A dozen spears soared into view. The patrollers curled into balls as spears bounced off the mountainside above them and onto the ledge.
Borzhoi grabbed one as it rattled on the stone. “Hey, we can throw these back. It’s like dodgeball.”
“Only pointy,” said Newman. “Hold onto them for now. We’ll save them for when they make a rush.”
The five patrollers left weren’t badly hurt. The scraped hands and feet scabbed over fast enough to not need bandaging.
As the afternoon wore on the orcs made several attempts to storm the ledge. Deadeye used up all the remaining arrows picking them off as they climbed. When he ran out the whole patrol threw volleys of spears.
When the orcs gave up they had seven spears left. The orcs didn’t throw more to restock them this time.
Whippet peeked over the edge. “Hey, they really are cannibals.”
“You didn’t expect that?” asked Borzhoi.
“Seeing it is different.”
Then all was quiet for a while.
Deadeye broke the silence. “Forgive me if this is a rude question, but do we have a plan?”
“I have three,” said Newman. “Plan A is the orcs get bored, go away, and we go on our way. Plan B is after dark we go down the side of the mountain. Which likely ends in falling to our deaths. Plan C is dying of thirst up here. Which is a longer life than being down there. If anyone has a Plan D I’m all ears.”
The War Revealed (The Lost War Book 2) Page 18