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

“Just throw this away?” Redinkle gestured at the steaming pots.

The Autocrat relented. “You may finish this batch. But no more. Understood?”

“Yes, my lord.”

Once he was gone Shellbutton demanded, “Why did you let him push us around like that? We should fight back.”

“We will.” Redinkle smiled. “We’ll get help.”

When the finished batch was decanted into another crock the two women took it to the Chiurgeon’s tent.

“Lady Burnout, we have the soap you wanted.”

“Good. This should last me about a week.”

“We can’t make you any more. Master Sharpquill ordered us to stop.”

“He what?”

When that was explained Redinkle and Shellbutton went to the silver smith’s shop.

“Mistress Filigree? We won’t be able to deliver that soap to you.”

The next stop was an elaborate pavilion next to the Royal one.

“Duchess Roseblossom, we most humbly apologize . . .”

***

“Newman! Hey, Newman!”

The sound of someone crashing through branches was almost louder than the shouts.

Newman called, “Over here!”

Bodkin stumbled through the trees. He’d been running hard. Sweat stained his shirt’s chest down to the belly button. “Something grabbed (pant) Crowfeather. (pant) You’ve got to (pant) help find him.”

“Grabbed? By what? Orcs?”

“Dunno. Just heard him yell.”

“Right.” Newman whistled his team back to him. “Let’s go.”

It was almost a mile to the site. A couple of Newman’s men fell behind. He just told them not to let themselves be snatched next and followed Bodkin.

“Here.” Bodkin pointed to several hunters standing around. Then he bent over and vomited, panting with exhaustion.

“What happened?” said Newman.

“Dunno.” The guy in the striped tunic was looking in every direction at once and standing close to his buddies. “I mean, he yelled for help. When we got here we heard him being dragged away.”

So much for getting a useful briefing.

“Fine. We’re going after him.” Newman raised his voice. “This could be an attempt to lure us into an ambush. We need to watch for anything waiting for us. Deadeye, Borzhoi, watch up in the trees. Husky, Beargut, check for stuff hiding in the bushes. Sing out if there’s anything suspicious. I’m going to be head down following the trail. Move out.”

The trail wasn’t hard to follow. Crowfeather had dragged his feet, making lines in the leaves and mold. Two orcs were pulling him along. The bare feet had four toes and a more squared-off heel than human feet.

Newman kept at a trot. The other hunters mostly straggled behind him. Crashing noises said a few were keeping up to his sides, forcing their way through dense growth the orcs had avoided.

After half a mile the trail went sideways for a few yards. Crowfeather must have tried to get away. Drying red blood stained a tree trunk. Only orc footprints led away, but one set was deeper. The human was being carried.

More red blood had dripped to the left of the footprints. Newman pressed on, ignoring the alarmed conversation behind him.

The blood kept spotting the forest floor. A scratch should have clotted quickly. Newman hoped it was just a scalp wound, not something more severe.

The same orc was still carrying Crowfeather when the trail reached the bank of North Creek, a mile from the escape attempt. Newman waded across carefully. It was full of stones that could break an ankle or just tip him into the water.

The far bank had no tracks, only some depressions that might be old orc footprints washed by rain.

Newman looked at the men lining the other bank. “Deadeye, go downstream a hundred yards and look for tracks. Bring two men to guard you. You and you, come with me.”

Wading a hundred yards upstream through the cold water left Newman’s feet numb. He found no trace of Crowfeather or his captors. He recrossed and walked to where they’d emerged from the woods.

Deadeye was waiting with the others. “Find anything?” he asked. “I struck out.”

Newman shook his head. “Then we’ve lost him.”

“You can’t give up!” said Striped-shirt.

“We don’t know where to look.”

“So we split up!”

Newman looked around. “There’s eight of us here. More of us are straggling through the woods or stopped to catch their breath. We’re already so split up we could have lost someone else to the orcs and not know it. We can’t spread out more.”

“He’s my friend! I’m not going to stop. I’ll go find him myself.” Striped-shirt was almost incoherent with anger.

“No.”

“How are you going to stop me?”

Newman’s voice was calm. “I’ll break your nose, knock you down, and stomp on you until you have better sense.” He raised his voice to address the whole group, including a couple just straggling out of the woods. “There aren’t enough of us to trade warm bodies for cold ones. Everyone back at camp needs us for food and protection. We can’t wander off and be picked off one at a time.”

No one answered him. Striped-shirt’s mouth worked but he didn’t say anything.

“Let’s head back and collect the stragglers. Remember who you were hunting with. We need to check if anyone else is missing.”

***

Newman found himself drafted to add his prestige as a hunter to Goldenrod’s effort to recruit weir builders.

Master Chisel came down to the river bank with them. “I can’t put much effort into this. We need a storm shelter. The tents are standing up to the rain we’ve had so far, but if we get one with strong winds . . .”

“I just need your help with the posts,” said Goldenrod. “Once those are in filling in the rest can be unskilled labor.”

She sketched her design in the mud of the bank. Newman kept his spear ready. Some cuttlefish would wrap a tentacle around an ankle to pull someone into the river.

“Every two feet?” blurted Chisel.

“Doing the basket weave needs