The Lost War by Karl Gallagher (novel24 .txt) 📗

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.”

***

Strongarm 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