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

the household found things to do elsewhere to give the newlyweds some privacy.

Newman joined Goldenrod in their zipped-together sleeping bags. They kissed.

“Is this forever?” she asked.

“Yes, forever,” he said.

***

The members of House Applesmile nodded respectfully as Duchess Roseblossom approached their table. They would have stood if she hadn’t waved Master Sweetbread back down when he rose from his seat.

The respect wasn’t just for her title as Duchess. Roseblossom was the widow of Duke Stonefist, the Lord High Executioner. King Ironhelm had declared her the inheritor of his post as judge. She’d accepted, but changed the title to Lady Justice.

While no one at the table was aware of any crimes they’d committed there was nervous wondering over the purpose of the visit.

“Lord Newman and Lady Goldenrod,” said the duchess. “I wish to give you this present in honor of your wedding.”

A lady in waiting came around her and knelt, holding up a long object wrapped in cloth. Duchess Roseblossom unfolded the wrappings. It was her late husband’s lochaber axe.

Newman gulped, remembering when he’d last seen it, clutched in the dead duke’s hands.

Now the axe was polished clean, gleaming in the rays of the setting sun. A few nicks marked the edge where a notch had been too deep to be ground out in the sharpening.

Newman stood and picked up the weapon. He hefted it lightly, then planted the butt between his feet. The haft came nearly to his chin. The crescent-shaped blade stretched from his belly button to the top of his head.

“I’m not worthy of this,” he said.

“Young man, you have no idea how refreshing it is for me to hear that,” said Duchess Roseblossom. “I’ve been hearing from knights and squires how much they deserve it since my husband’s body was cold.”

“I’m very sorry for your loss, Your Grace.”

“He was a great man,” added Goldenrod.

“Thank you.” Roseblossom looked at Goldenrod. “My dear, your share of the present is the tears of all those who were hoping for this.”

Goldenrod tried to suppress a smirk, failed, and said, “I think I can guess a few of the names.”

“Keep guessing, there’s more than a few.”

Newman pivoted the lochaber axe in his hands. “I have no training in how to use this.”

“Stonefist mentioned you had a good feel for it when he came back from the fence building. You actually held it as an axe, not a sword. That was the first time I heard of you. I think he’d be happy for you to have it.”

He straightened. “Then I thank you for your kindness, Your Grace.”

***

Ithuil was gathering herbs when the summons came. He didn’t bother with the rest of the foxears patch, just shoved the cut leaves into his bag and started trotting homeward. He hoped the sorcerer would remember sending him on the task and not be angry at how long it took him to arrive.

The sorcerer was not angry.

He greeted Ithuil wearing a broad grin. “Drink! We’re celebrating.” He shoved a wooden cup into the apprentice’s hand.

Ithuil sniffed at the cup. His nose tingled. He sipped. It was purewine, magically filtered from normal wine to concentrate the power of the drink. This was a celebration. He’d not tasted purewine for decades.

All five senior apprentices and the three juniors were present. This might be the most people there’d ever been in the hollow tree. A scrying pool was operating in the center. The junior apprentices knelt around the pool. All three had blood trails down their arms where they’d bled to create the pool.

The sorcerer let them share the bleeding? He was in a good mood.

Ithuil sidled up to Ymer. She’d been the lowest ranked senior apprentice before his elevation and thus happiest to see him join the group. “What are we celebrating?” he whispered.

Ymer laughed. “When we did the weekly check we found our master’s pets just slew a hand of hand of hands of those vermin. You can see the bodies.”

The scrying pool was focused just above the camp. There was no missing the pile of bodies. Puddles of orange blood lay between the unmoving green flesh.

“How did they get so many in one place?” Ithuil asked. “Just lure bands in and kill them in the same place?”

Ymer shook her head. “I measured the decay. They were all killed three days ago.”

“Clearly the short ones led them into a trap.” Osdul spoke with the arrogance of the most senior apprentice. “Look how they were confined by the wooden walls and the narrow gate. Once the killing started the green vermin couldn’t escape.”

The sorcerer pulled the stopper from another flask. He took a long pull, his throat bobbing as he drank. “Ah! Whose cup is empty?”

Everyone’s, or close enough. Ithuil drained his cup while his master was on the other side of the room. After getting his refill he stared at the scrying pool some more.

“If it was a trap they did a sloppy job of it. I see broken shelters and dead short ones,” he said. Then a chill hit him as he realized he’d challenged Osdul. Maybe he hadn’t heard.

The top ranking apprentice appeared at his elbow. “The knocked down shelters were the other side of the trap. And how do you know the vermin killed the short ones? They could have been executed for cowardice.”

Ithuil wasn’t drunk enough to defy Osdul twice. “Of course. I hadn’t thought of that.”

The sorcerer was drinking from the flask again. “Oh, the vermin had the initiative. They have only two responses to a threat. Attack to claim their hunting range or flee to find an empty place. I’ve been scrying for bands in the region and placing suggestions that they attack. They did attack. All together. Better than I’d imagined.”

He giggled and took another swig.

Ithuil thought the