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

Sharpquill smiled. “Let’s see.”

When the phone was ready he opened the book reader app. Searching on ‘survival manual’ brought up seven books. Most showed the “0%” of ones bought on sale and downloaded but never read.

He handed the phone to Countess Fennel. “Your excellency, please go through these and see if there’s anything helpful for us.”

Cinnamon stacked up several slates and leaned one against them. She started typing the notes chalked on it.

***

Autocrat Sharpquill gave permission to bury the bones. They went next to the graves of the three suicides, against the bluff a bit downstream from the camp.

Wolfhead Alpha found the shovels and broke ground. Enough volunteers came forward they could dig in frantic bursts and trade off as they flagged.

The hunters rested, weary from forcing the pace through the woods. Goldenrod accepted Newman’s apology. She claimed she hadn’t imagined that level of danger.

A crowd grew a stone’s throw from the grave, all those too weak or tired to wield a shovel. Only those who’d done some work stood close enough to supervise the digging.

A tall white-haired man holding a worn Bible approached Wolfhead Alpha. “Good day. I’d like to say a few words, unless someone else . . . ?”

“No, Lord Pulpit, I’m glad you’re here. I’d meant to send for you but I was focused on—” He waved at the grave.

“Of course. I’ll begin when you’re done filling it back in.”

“Thank you.”

Some of the diggers were willing to go until they reached bedrock but at five feet the soil was wet enough they began to sink. Many hands hauled them out.

Newman stood and waved to his hunters. They lifted the bags of bones and carried them over. At the grave they paused.

“Just toss them in?” asked Beargut.

“No.” Newman handed his bag to a digger then scrambled down the side into the grave. The digger crouched down to hand over the bag. Newman placed it gently into the mud then reached for the next.

By the time all the bones were in the grave he’d sunk to his ankles in the mud. Strongarm and another Wolfhead reached down to pull him out. Newman wiggled his feet to keep the mud from pulling his shoes off.

Filling in the grave was quick. Only two men could stand in the hole to dig, but all four shovels could toss dirt back in.

As dirt mounded up the crowd closed in. Lord Pulpit began singing “Amazing Grace” with five older women. Some of the crowd joined in. More people were picking their way down the bluff toward the funeral. Two more hymns gave the late comers time to join the crowd.

The diggers and hunters had merged into the crowd, leaving the space around the grave empty. Lord Pulpit stood beside it. “The Gospel according to Matthew. The twenty-fifth chapter.”

The whole crowd heard him clearly.

“Then shall He say also unto them on the left hand, ‘Depart from Me, ye cursed, into everlasting fire prepared for the devil and his angels. For I hungered, and ye gave Me no meat; I was thirsty, and ye gave Me no drink; I was a stranger, and ye took Me not in; naked, and ye clothed Me not; sick and in prison, and ye visited Me not.’

“Then shall they also answer Him, saying, ‘Lord, when saw we Thee hungering or athirst or a stranger, or naked or sick or in prison, and did not minister unto Thee?’ Then shall He answer them, saying, ‘Verily I say unto you, inasmuch as ye did it not to one of the least of these, ye did it not to Me.’”

He closed the Bible. He hadn’t looked at it while reciting.

“When these five young men left camp I talked to others about it, but everyone was more interested in the other events of that day. As was I. When we heard of their deaths I realized I didn’t know their names.

“I asked dozens of people. They didn’t know their names. Even the royal guards who’d kept them at their labor couldn’t remember all their names. But I found some who’d supped with them and could tell me: Candlewax, Stonebridge, Pauldron, Cockleburr, and Sharpaxe.

“I asked what their mundane names were, that if we ever return to Earth their families might be informed of their fate. No one knew. I asked the Autocrat for the waivers they signed on arrival.” Pulpit waved toward the bluff.

Following the gesture Newman saw two men on the crest above the funeral. One was Master Sharpquill. King Estoc stood beside him, crown glinting in the sun.

“The waivers had been turned over to the court when other paper ran out. These young men carried away the last evidence of their identities. They are strangers now forever.

“They were the least of us.”

Lord Pulpit paused for his words to sink in. The crowd was more than half the population of the camp. Few from Court though.

“They were not the only ones conscripted to haul shit.”

A stir went through the crowd at the vulgarity in a sermon.

“Yes, shit. Every one of us shit in a bucket those poor boys hauled away. At first there were plenty of hands for the job. But we didn’t like our friends hauling shit. We found them better work. Apprenticeships. Guard duty. Food gathering.

“These five kept hauling shit. From dawn to dusk. No friends to talk to, no household to lay their head in. After all, they’re new. Why waste effort on making friends with someone new?”

Newman saw some flinching at that. A muscular black man nodded in agreement. Newman was surprised he didn’t recognize him. Blacks were rare enough in the Kingdom he thought he’d noticed all of them already. Then he realized it was King Ironhelm without his crown, in a yeoman tunic.