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

“Which makes no sense,” interjected Falchion.

Sharpedge grinned. “Falchion is a grad student in cartography in mundane life. Crossing the mountains will be the hard part of the trip. We’ve requisitioned most of the available rope. Master Forge supplied some spikes and a hammer but they’re not optimized for rock. On the way out I want to see how high we can get to maximize our view.

“On the move we’ll have a hunter as first and last. You’re best at spotting trouble. If we find orcs or anything fall back behind the fighters. Everybody ready to go?”

Newman looked over the rest of the group as they all gave a yes. The squires had pared their armor down to breastplates. He and Bodkin had similar armor made of rhino hide. Borzhoi wore a leather vest with metal plates riveted to it. Orcs aimed for the torso with their spears.

The backpacks were mundane camping gear except for Bodkin, who had his gear in a wicker basket lined with canvas that hooked onto his shoulders. Borzhoi and Bodkin had nearly as many arrows as Newman. The squires didn’t have bows. They carried steel swords in easily accessible scabbards.

This was probably as good as they could do with what was available.

“Newman?” asked Sharpedge.

“Yes, I’m ready,” he answered.

“Then lead off.”

Newman walked briskly toward the gate. Goldenrod stood to the side of it against the inside of the wall. She blew him a kiss.

He gave her a smile and wave as he went through the gate.

***

Strongarm looked at the deposit he’d made on the forest floor. Nothing wiggled. He’d shit out orc worms after earlier treatments. The last five had done nothing. He suspected the worms had learned to escape the intestines when poison was coming through.

When he was done he went back to gathering deadfalls. The pile was spread out like a mattress. When it was two feet tall he added dead leaves.

He’d thrown up three times in the process. Burnout claimed her last potion didn’t have any drain cleaner in it, but the taste said otherwise. She said surgery was too dangerous, but it couldn’t be worse than dealing with more vile gunk.

Strongarm lay down on the pile. He was so tired it actually felt comfortable, once he’d twisted a branch to keep it from poking his back.

He pressed his palm against his belly button. A bit of wiggling faded as the parasites moved away from the intrusion. An aggressive one pushed back.

Strongarm held a poniard in his right hand. With the left he poked at the parasite, drawing it into pushing up his skin. The blade struck. Blood gushed out. The worm twitched and went still.

“There, I got one of you, dammit.”

The wound started to hurt.

A worm’s head popped out of the hole. It snapped its sharp teeth at the sky repeatedly.

“Are you laughing at me?” He swung the blade to cut the head off, but it vanished back into his belly.

“Fine. I’ll get you all.” He pulled the can of lighter fluid out of his knapsack and sprayed it all about him. Soaked his clothes, soaked his hair, soaked the wood on every side.

When the can was empty he took the nearly empty Bic lighter from the bag. His hand trembled. Weak from parasite damage? Or the bleeding belly? Maybe even afraid to die.

Not that it mattered.

The third spin of the flint wheel ignited the shirt cuff. Flames spread quickly from there.

It hurt more than he’d imagined. But not for very long.

***

Lady Cinnamon chalked notes on her slate as she surveyed the woodcutters. They’d cleared a swath around the camp. The open ground was dotted with stumps and carpeted with leaves and twigs stripped from cut trees.

She kept clear of the tree being cut. Two men pulled back and forth on the long crosscut saw Master Forge made. Four more stood around with axes, ready to lop off branches when it fell or swap in if one of the saw men cried uncle.

There should be another crew working but young men would rather tramp through the woods looking for orcs than cut wood. They didn’t have to deal with householders demanding more wood for cookfires or Lord Goldpen diverting some for a Court campfire.

“Timber!”

A puff of dust struck Cinnamon as the tree crashed to the ground. The saw men moved along the trunk cutting the branches sticking straight up. Axemen followed behind cutting the ones on the sides.

There was a scream, muffled by the forest. The woodcutters lowered their tools and looked around.

Another scream. Then a young woman raced out from under the trees. She stopped bent over, hands on her knees, catching her breath. A “Help” emerged between pants.

The axemen were in a line facing the woods. The saw men left their tool and scrambled for the spears they’d left by the water jugs.

“Where are they?” called Leaf the foreman.

“They who?” panted the woman.

“Orcs!”

“Didn’t—” pant “—see any.”

“Then what’s the fuss about?” demanded Leaf.

Cinnamon walked up to the woman and put a hand on her shoulder. “Relax. Just catch your breath.”

She recognized the woman from the food rationing work Cinnamon did for the Autocrat. This was Ivy, a moderately productive gatherer. A member of House Chevron. Her plain brown shift was kilted up above her dirty knees.

When Ivy’s breathing slowed Cinnamon asked, “What happened?”

“I found—I found . . . oh, God, it’s so horrible.”

“Can you take us there?”

Ivy nodded.

The woodcutters surrounded the two women as they went through the forest. Ivy went off course a few times and had to cast about to find the trail she’d been on.

There was no mistaking it when they arrived. A human body, burnt black, lying in a pile of ashes. The limbs were contorted, head thrown