The War Revealed (The Lost War Book 2)

by Karl K Gallagher

  “You can’t charge it,” snarled Wolfhead Alpha. “Rhinos charged it and it just flew over.”

  Captain Spear said, “We soak blankets in seawater and drape them over our heads as we line up—“

  “No lines, we need skirmish order,” interrupted a duke.

  Newman started trying to force his way into the press.

  Deadeye was standing outside the scrum atop a boulder. “Your Majesty,” he said loudly. “We need a plan for more than one dragon.”

  People turned to where he pointed. Curses followed. At this distance it could be mistaken for an airliner, but it was coming this way. Then a glow of flame proved it was a dragon.

  “Another!” said someone.

  Turning, Newman saw another speck of flame in the opposite direction.

  Count Dirk looked up. “Wimp. One poke and you had to call for mom and dad.”

  The chuckles were gallows-grim.

  Newman began working his way toward the king again. “Excuse me,” didn’t persuade anyone to move. Saying it while pulling them out of the way likely reduced the chances of violence.

  His other hand was on Goldenrod’s bicep. She wasn’t willing to force herself into the narrow gaps he created. He pulled her after him, ignoring the squeaks as she was bumped by armored men.

  Squire Falchion shoved back against the hand on his shoulder. Newman snapped, “I must speak to His Majesty.”

  Falchion turned to look at him. When he met Newman’s eyes the squire gave way.

  Was I persuasive? Or do I just look like I want to unsling the axe from my back and start cutting my way through? ‘Cause that’s tempting me.

  Forcing his way through the next rank required adding “Your Grace,” to “Excuse me, I must speak to his Majesty.” And eye contact.

  Count Dirk was the last obstacle. When he heard Newman’s voice he stepped back to make room.

  King Ironhelm turned to see the disturbance. “Ah. Baron. And Baroness.”

  His voice was calm, confident, regal. Stance relaxed. The exact image needed to keep morale up in a hopeless situation. Only the way his eyes flickered between them betrayed desperation.

  “Goldenrod has a spell that can take us home,” declared Newman.

  The king’s lips quirked. “I was just thinking we needed a miracle.”

  Goldenrod wiped a few drops of blood off her cheek where someone’s pauldron had scratched her. “I don’t know if it will work. I’ve studied the elvish—”

  Ironhelm raised his hand. “We don’t have time for the tale. The odds are a million to one. It might not work. Any failure is not your fault. If you want my permission, you have it.”

  When she didn’t respond immediately he continued, “If you need more, what is it?”

  His face locked onto hers, filled with firm confidence. Goldenrod drew strength from it.

  “The spell needs all the mages to form a ring with the rest of us inside. The mages sing the spell together. And then we go home.” Goldenrod held up the book open to the spell.

  “Very well.” King Ironhelm waved his arms as if shooing flies. “Fighters, away. Away!”

  The armored men backed up in confusion.

  The royal baritone raised up in a herald’s carrying cry. “All mages to the King! Mages to the King!”

  The churn of the crowd changed as people absorbed the sudden command. The king repeated the order.

  Newman followed with “Anyone with hidden magical talent come too! Spearpoint, this means you!”

  The fighters moved faster to make room for the mages. The space around the king stayed just as crowded.

  When more than two dozen had arrived Ironhelm declared, “Mages of the kingdom, I command you to follow the orders of Baroness Goldenrod.”

  He took two steps back.

  All eyes shifted to Goldenrod. The expressions ranged among anger, fear, curiosity, and hope.

  “I’ve used the elf sorcerer’s books to create a spell to take us home,” began Goldenrod. “We need to cast it as a group. Holding hands in a circle, singing the spell together. Then the circle and everyone inside goes back to the Earth.”

  Now the most common expression was doubt.

  “It’ll work. I made another spell to test the theory. It brought a coke can from Earth.”

  “Show me!” said someone in the mob of mages.

  Goldenrod glanced at the corner of the island where she’d hidden it. “There’s no time.”

  Duchess Roseblossom spoke over the murmurs. “She’s telling the truth.”

  That drew astonished stares. Roseblossom never came to a mage council meeting.

  “It’s my gift,” said the duchess. “It came to me two months ago. I can tell who’s lying or not.”

  Countess Fennel demanded, “Just how does this—”

  She broke off as she felt the king’s gaze. Fennel lifted her eyes to him, then flinched at the glare. “What do we have to do?” she asked Goldenrod.

  “It’s easy. We just hold hands in a circle and sing.” Goldenrod gave them a summary of the spell’s structure then began teaching the song. It was only twelve syllables. It was the intricate changes in pitch that gave the assembled mages fits.

  They began rehearsing three syllables at a time.

  King Ironhelm turned to herding his cats into a circle. Convincing Lady Elderberry her patients had to stand required royal persuasion as well as authority.

  Dragon watchers were standing at the edge of the plateau for better views. Newman went to round them up. It was easier than he’d feared. Saying, “We’re using magic to go back to Earth. Be in the crowd if you want to come along,” sent them scurrying.

  He took a moment for dragon watching of his own. All three moons were up, one full and two gibbous. They provided enough light to spot the monsters even when they weren’t flaming.

  They were close enough he felt confident in judging them both to be bigger than the first dragon.

  Newman glanced at Goldenrod. The rehearsal was over. The mages were spreading out around the crowd.

  “If you are not a mage, get inside the circle,” ordered King Ironhelm.

  Newman trotted to obey. He ducked under Goldenrod’s arm and stood just inside of her. Deadeye and his homely girlfriend were next to him.

  Deadeye gave Newman a nod. He was still clutching his bow. Well, Newman hadn’t dropped his axe.

  “Everyone holding hands?” called Goldenrod.

  Shouts of “Yes” came from around the circle.

  “Sing all four pieces together. Three, two, one.” Then Goldenrod led them in the chorus of the spell.

  The music was beautiful. But Newman scarcely noticed it. Goldenrod was fading. Her whole body went translucent. He could see moonlight glinting off waves through her head.

  The mages beside her were see-through too.

  Then the song ended and everyone was solid again.

  “We all need to sing it perfectly,” said Goldenrod. “I’ll sing the whole thing solo, then we’ll do it together.”

  She went translucent again as she sang. The listening mages didn’t.

  Through the song Newman could hear distant dragon roars. All three were circling together over the island now. Doubtless discussing which recipe to use for insolent humans.

  Goldenrod became solid again as she finished the song then faded as the chorus began. Newman looked to the side. Not all the mages were translucent. Most were. Some faded in and out.

  The song ended. They were still on the island.

  “We need to sing this precisely,” commanded Goldenrod. “Listen closely. Get every note right.”

  She sang it for them again. Then the mages sang together.

  The dragons flew lower. The biggest was below the other two.

  The song ended. Goldenrod lectured on the mistakes she’d heard.

  “Papa dragon, mama dragon, baby dragon,” muttered Deadeye. “This island was just right.”

  Newman twitched a lip. He was too tense to appreci
ate humor.

  “Screw it.” Deadeye ducked under Goldenrod and Redinkle’s linked arms. He nocked an arrow as he ran toward the edge.

  Newman grabbed Deadeye’s girlfriend to keep her from following. “Shhh,” he whispered into her ear.

  Goldenrod started singing the spell again.

  Papa Dragon made his next loop low enough for Newman to feel the breeze off his wings. The beast moved out over the water then turned straight toward the island.

  Newman saw the ash-gray palate as the dragon opened his mouth. Smoke trickled from the nostrils.

  The circle of mages started the spell together.

  An arrow flew from Deadeye’s bow. It shot into the open maw and stuck in the inside of the left cheek.

  The dragon roared. It lifted in the air and hovered. Talons reached into the fanged mouth to scrape at the cheek.

  The song ended and they were all still on the island.

  “Okay, if you can’t get it right, get out of the circle,” snapped Goldenrod. “Everybody squeeze together. Quickly, people.”

  Newman backed up a couple of paces. People were rearranging themselves without much fuss. Children went up on men’s shoulders. Lady Buttercup was on Joyeuse’s shoulders and looking very pleased to be there.

  When shouts around the circle confirmed everyone was holding hands again Goldenrod sang it for the mages.

  After a few puffs of flame Papa Dragon stopped writhing and flew back up to join baby. Mama Dragon dived down toward the island.

  The circle began singing together.

  Deadeye fired arrow after arrow at the dragon. It held its head high, hiding eyes and nose from the archer.

  The arrows bounced off scales. Even ones hitting joints didn’t penetrate.

  Deadeye held his position, looking for the dragon to expose a weak point. He realized its intent too late.

  Scales rasped as the dragon belly-flopped onto the rock. It slid across the island, pulling itself along with its talons.

  Then a wing flap lifted it into the air. Moonlight gleamed whitely off the black scales. A few glinted red.

  There was no sign of Deadeye. His girlfriend whimpered. Newman looked left and right at the mages. Most were transparent. A few stayed opaque.

  The song ended.

  Nothing happened.

  Newman shouted, “If a mage didn’t go transparent, pull him out of the circle.”

  People complied eagerly. Strained nerves were soothed by action. Protests by tone-deaf mages were ignored. Half a dozen gaps appeared in the circle.

  Mages strained to reach each other’s hands. Goldenrod pressed against Newman. It would be pleasant under other circumstances. He stepped back. Again.

  “Ow. Watch that axe!” complained the person behind him.

  People pressed against each other. Short people found themselves crowdsurfing, held up by multiple hands. Some wounded were held up as well.

  Newman watched Goldenrod and Redinkle try to hold hands, unable to reach. They settled for cupping their fingers and hooking them together.

  Mama Dragon finished a loop around the island. She roared as she closed in.

  Goldenrod called, “On zero, three, two, one.” The mages sang in chorus. Twelve syllables in unison.

  The dragon spewed flame over empty rock.

  ***

  Goldenrod closed her eyes and sagged. Newman caught her in both arms, lowering her gently to the grass.

  The rest of the mages also fainted. Only half were caught.

  Newman wasn’t worried about them. The grass was soft. He ran his hand over the plants. Just like Earth grass. His fingertips slipped into a gap between two pieces of sod. Someone laid a new lawn here.

  The crowd spread out. Some just wanted room to breathe. Others to explore the new place.

  “There’s the pond!” said an excited voice.

  “I see the parking lot streetlights!”

  “Sidewalks!”

  “We’re back! We’re back!”

  Newman leaned over Goldenrod to make sure no one dancing in celebration stepped on her.

  “Calm down, people,” barked Elderberry. “We still have wounded to treat.”

  A quick argument sent the wounded to the streetlights in the arms of young men. As others saw work happening they came over and joined in.

  Newman carried Goldenrod after them. They passed through a belt of trees and a gravel lot before reaching the pavement. Elderberry directed casualties to different spots as triage.

  He laid Goldenrod with the other unpunctured sleepers. The axe kept him from sitting. He unslung it and laid it across his lap, edge out. She breathed steadily. He hoped she’d wake soon.

  There were no cars in the parking lot. Goldenrod’s must have been towed months ago along with everyone else’s. Couldn’t be a weekend. There’d be some cars here if it was.

  Volunteers were putting pressure on the wounds of the worst wounded. Spear punctures had reopened when they were carried, or in the squeeze of the crowd. Tearing cloth announced clothes being sacrificed as bandages.

  Some people stood in the road ready to flag down any passing car. Others debated what direction would be the shortest walk to a phone. Children ran among them, celebrating their escape.

  Mages were waking up. Not Goldenrod. But others sat up or stood. They repeated the delight of finding themselves on Earth. Their exclamations had a smug proprietary note.

  Autocrat Sharpquill slapped his forehead. “I’m an idiot!”

  He dug into the pouch at his belt. A smartphone came out. “I’ve just been using this as a reference library and notepad. Forgot it’s a phone. Still half charged, bless Sparrow. I’ll call Halberd, he can bring his church bus and—shit. Account suspended for overdue payments. Please visit our website to update your payment information. Shit.”

  He drew his arm back to throw the phone away.

  Duchess Roseblossom intercepted him. “We can still call 911.”

  Sharpquill looked at her in disbelief. “What would you even say to them?”

  “Anything, if it gets the wounded into the hospital.”

  He handed it over.

  “Hi, several people have been injured at Atkinson Park. They were trying to build a tall bonfire and it collapsed. A dozen with deep punctures and some more with minor injuries. The east parking lot of Atkinson Park. By the road.”

  Duchess Roseblossom kept giving the 911 dispatcher real details on the injuries and fanciful ones on the accident. After a few minutes her imagination ran dry.

  “Oh crap, my low battery warning just beeped, I’m going to—”

  She pressed the disconnect button. “Stupid conversation anyway.”

  Sharpquill said, “We’re going to have company.”

  A gasp and cough jerked Newman’s attention back to Goldenrod. She sat up and looked around.

  “Did it work?” she asked. “Oh. Parking lot. It did work. Heh. I wonder why we landed in the parking lot.”

  Newman kissed her forehead. “We arrived at the campsite. I carried you here.”

  Goldenrod turned and laid her head on his thigh. “Tired.”

  He stroked her hair.

  Lady Burnout heaved herself to her feet. Elderberry met her halfway and helped her over to the worst of the wounded. The chiurgeon knelt next to the volunteer putting pressure on the wound.

  Burnout laid her hand over the volunteer’s. “Damn.”

  The volunteer startled. “Did he die?”

  “No, no. You’re doing good. Keep the pressure on. It’s—I can sense the damage. You’re on the right place. But I can’t do anything to it. Can’t clot, can’t join.”

  “Too tired from the teleport?” asked Elderberry.

  “No. I’ve been too tired to cast. Then I can’t sense wounds. We’re back on Earth. Magic doesn’t work as well here.”

  Headlights and flashing red and blue lights announced an approaching police car. Duchess Roseblossom moved over to stand near the most severely wounded. The Autoc
rat, King Ironhelm, and their hangers-on trailed after her.

  The commotion woke Goldenrod. “What’s going on?”

  “Police are coming,” answered Newman.

  “Oh, oh. Kingdom people aren’t good at dealing with cops.”

  “I’ll go hang around in case they need an interpreter.” Newman eased Goldenrod onto the grass around the streetlight, picked up his axe, and walked over to Roseblossom.

  The duchess waved her arms to attract the police car.

  It pulled up facing her. The headlights shone on the lines of wounded.

  The cop emerged, standing behind the open door. “What’s the problem?”

  “We have a lot of hurt people. The structure they were building collapsed.”

  Lady Burnout broke in. “Do you have a first aid kit?”

  “Yeah, sure.” The cop popped his trunk open. He tossed the red and white box to Joyeuse. The squire trotted over to Burnout.

  The cop looked around the carless parking lot. He spoke at length into the microphone clipped to his shirt. Listened, talked some more.

  “How did you people get here?”

  Roseblossom answered, “By bus.”

  The cop made a ‘go on’ gesture.

  “The party organizers dropped us off. They’ll come back for us tomorrow.”

  Newman listened as the duchess tried to deal with the cop’s questions. He wouldn’t want to try telling the truth either. She was handling the cop smoothly. Having a lawyer for a husband must have given her practice with them.

  The problem was this cop could smell bullshit. He didn’t like it. Anything Roseblossom gave him he poked holes in.

  The truth would just convince him everyone was on LSD.

  “Look, let’s focus on the important thing.” The duchess spread her hands wide as she came closer. “We have people bleeding who need to go to the hospital.”

  The cop whipped out his gun and leveled it. “Back off, lady!”

  Newman reflexively raised his axe and stepped forward. So did the king and his squire.

  The muzzle swept side to side. “All of you, back off!”

  Duchess Roseblossom backed up, waving down the fighters. “Stand easy, gentlemen. Stand easy.”

  Swords and axes were lowered.

  Once the cop lowered his weapon she said, “I’m sorry, sir. I apologize for startling you.”