The War Revealed Read online

She paused for breath.

  Newman lifted his head. “I’m sorry.”

  “Like hell you are. You did that on purpose.”

  Aster dropped the branch. Goldenrod and Redinkle dashed out of the way before it hit the ground. She floated in the air vertically. Then she drifted down. “More slack!” she called to the anchor team.

  Newman watched her descend. It was very graceful until she put her feet on the ground, lost her balance, and fell flat on her face. She brushed dirt and leaves off as she stood.

  Then Aster rose into the air again. She floated straight to where Newman was hanging on the tree.

  “Fine. It worked. You were right. But you’re still an asshole.”

  The reply that sprang to mind was, It’s my job to be an asshole. But this wasn’t the Army, he wasn’t a sergeant, and he didn’t have any authority to do things like that. Plus she might be able to carry him up half a mile and let go, so he just nodded.

  She landed again, managing an intentional-looking hands and knees this time. “Would somebody get this damn rope off me?”

  Her friends gathered round and tugged at the knots. Newman watched quietly until one drew a knife.

  “Don’t cut that! It’s the longest rope we have.” He scrambled down the tree less gracefully than he’d gone up. The new bruises made themselves felt.

  Aster glared at him the whole time but didn’t object to his hands undoing the knots of her harness. When he had it off her he undid the anchorman’s.

  She led her friends off without a farewell. Goldenrod and Redinkle joined Newman once the rest were out of earshot.

  “I totally agree with what Aster said,” said his wife. “I can’t believe you did that.”

  “It wasn’t the plan,” said Newman defensively. “If she’d just gone up and down the trunk she’d’ve been fine. But once she flew into that situation she had to get out by flying.”

  Redinkle shook her head. “It’s not my place to say bad things about my best friend’s husband. Which is saving you from being called an asshole again.”

  ***

  “Your Majesty wished to see me?” Autocrat Sharpquill looked around as he entered King Ironhelm’s pavilion. The two of them were alone.

  “I did.” The king’s grip was tight on a pewter tankard but he didn’t take a drink. “I thought I was serving the remainder of Estoc’s reign. When I mentioned that to someone at practice, he informed me that Estoc’s reign expired before he did. Why haven’t we had a tourney to select my successor?”

  “Ah. This again.”

  “Again?”

  “I had a similar conversation with your predecessor.” Sharpquill pointed at a canvas folding chair. “May I?”

  King Ironhelm considered keeping the Autocrat standing, then relented with a nod.

  “Thank you. Bluntly, Your Majesty, I don’t think we could survive a crown tourney. We’re too close to the edge. The man-hours it would take would put us back at least two months.

  The king scoffed. “It’s one day.”

  “You’ve kept your sword-fighting skills in practice. So have some other peers and their squires. Every other contender would need at least a couple of weeks to bring their skills up to par. Consorts will cheer them on, gear will be repaired, and the injured will need time to recover. Many of them will be our most productive workers. We can’t afford it.”

  “How many contenders are you expecting?”

  Sharpquill’s voice rose. “Everybody! Everybody who can swing a sword. It’s not a ceremonial position. It’s life and death. The right to replace me, replace Lady Justice, order people exiled or flogged. Everyone who wants power, or has a buddy who wants my job, or wants to keep somebody else from winning will enter.”

  “Thinking on the gossip around here,” said King Ironhelm, “the last group might be the biggest. I see the problem. But we still need to have turnover. It’s what keeps kings from abusing that unlimited power we give them. If I’m tempted to do something stupid, I know the next king will undo it a few months later. That lets people not worry so much about my power.”

  Sharpquill nodded. “I agree. We need turnover. When we can do it without starving.”

  The king flung up his hands in exasperation. “If we can afford to give everyone a day off a week we can afford the tourney.”

  “We can’t afford it. I declared a day of rest because people were collapsing from exhaustion.”

  Ironhelm stood up, eyes locked on his vassal. He took a deep breath, went around his chair, and rested his hands on its carved wooden back. “Can’t afford how?” he said with perfect calm.

  “If you’ll pardon the expression, winter is coming. We don’t know when. At our current rate of building up a food reserve, we’ll need fourteen months to have a three month reserve. If we get that much time, fine. If not . . .” Sharpquill shrugged.

  The king’s fingertip traced a carving. “Your weekly status reports were more optimistic.”

  “I’ve been keeping it secret to preserve morale.”

  “And secret from me because?”

  “Your Majesty, your mood always affects public morale.”

  Ironhelm lunged around the chair with the speed which won four crown tourneys. His face contorted in rage as he stopped inches from Sharpquill. “I played Othello and Richard the Third in front of a thousand people! I can keep a fucking poker face.”

  Sharpquill recoiled, his chair tipping back until it hit a table. An empty goblet fell over and rolled off.

  The king replaced the angry expression with a calm one as if changing a tunic. He dropped into his chair as relaxed as a sleepy cat. He waited until Sharpquill finished righting himself before speaking.

  “Your next status briefing will be complete. We will discuss who will attend. We will hold it some place safe from eavesdropping.”

  “Y-yes, Your Majesty.”

  “Good.” The cat was now alert, not sleepy. “If I understand you correctly, when we have enough of a food stockpile, we may safely hold a tourney?”

  “Yes, Your Majesty,” said the Autocrat.

  “Calculate how much is enough. We’ll mention it to people, let that number go through the grapevine. At court we will announce the size of the current stockpile. If people can’t count down days to the end of my reign, they can count up pounds.”

  ***

  Rivet could levitate rocks. Only rocks. Not sticks, coins, tools, clothes, food, or clumps of dirt. Size didn’t matter. Pebbles, gravel, stones, boulders all moved through the air. A multi-ton crag shifted under his will but he was too scared to actually lift it until he had better control.

  Tying anything to the rock kept it from moving. So did wrapping it. Dropping something onto a floating rock produced a spin that flung off the intruder. Sticking something to it made the rock fall.

  For the next set of experiments Goldenrod was working with Rivet on control. They were in the meeting clearing, home of several boulders conveniently sized for sitting on.

  She produced an egg and sat it on one. “This is a raw egg. I want you to hover a rock over it just close enough to crack it without squishing it.”

  “Ooh,” said Rivet.

  “You can do it,” said Marjoram. Half a dozen mages were present, supporting the effort or getting ideas for their own experiments.

  Another rock, about twice the size of Rivet’s head, lifted into the air. It moved over the egg. Then it moved down in short jerks, a few inches lower each time. Then a “clack” sounded as the stones touched. Yolk squirted between two mages, who flinched and giggled.

  “That’s why I brought more than one egg,” said Goldenrod. “This sort of thing takes practice.”

  She shoved the smaller rock off and put a new egg in place. Aster had brought her five. She hoped that would be enough to make some progress.

  The second attempt had a smoother descent but ended in about the same way.

  “The yolk only went half the distance this time,” said Marjoram. “That’s progress.�
��

  Goldenrod replaced the egg.

  Next try Rivet put the stones close together, hovering close enough they couldn’t see the egg. When he moved the floating one away Goldenrod checked the egg. “No cracks. I don’t think they touched.”

  “God damn it,” swore Rivet.

  Goldenrod said, “There should be errors in both directions. That way you know you’re centered on the target.”

  Rivet made a growling sound as the stone lifted up again. The movements were jerkier this time. The stone overshot the grounded boulder and had to move back to be over the egg.

  As it got closer to the egg the rock bounced up and down.

  “Behave, you piece of shit,” snarled Rivet. His face was flushed with effort.

  Cracks appeared on the floating rock. Goldenrod opened her mouth to tell him to drop it.

  Then the rock shattered.

  Shards of quartz flew across the clearing. Goldenrod felt a sting as one cut her arm. Everyone was screaming.

  “Calm down! Who’s hurt worst?” she demanded.

  The volume decreased as the mages recovered from the shock. Rivet was still screaming, lying on his back and thrashing. Goldenrod crawled over to him, looking for wounds.

  A shard of quartz was embedded in his right eye socket. She grabbed his arms to keep him from dislodging it. He kept screaming in her ear. “Help! Rivet’s hurt bad!”

  Another mage grabbed Rivet’s shoulders to hold him still. Blood was pouring down the helper’s face but he wasn’t bothered by it.

  “Marjoram was stabbed in the chest!” someone yelled.

  “I’m not dead, damn it, stop screeching,” she retorted.

  Rivet went limp. Goldenrod felt relief, then guilt as she realized what a bad sign passing out had to be.

  “We need to get Rivet to the Chiurgeon,” said Goldenrod. “Right away.”

  Two mages started bickering over how to make a stretcher.

  “Dammit, we can carry him. You and you, grab his legs.”

  Four of them managed to lift Rivet off the ground. After some fumbling for better grips they began to walk.

  Before they reached the edge of the clearing some hunters burst out of the woods. The lead two swept their nocked arrows over the clearing, looking for targets.

  “No orcs!” cried Goldenrod. “It was an accident. We need help with the wounded.”

  Deadeye relaxed his bowstring. “You’re wounded, my lady.”

  “We need get Rivet to camp.”

  The sight of the shard sticking out of the mage’s face drew a low whistle from Deadeye. He turned to his hunting party. “Leadsmith, toss that venison over a branch. We need the travois for the boy.”

  Marjoram’s wound caught his eye. “We’ll need to make a second one for her.”

  “I can walk,” she said. “It’s not as bad as it looks.”

  “You’re about a minute from going into shock,” said Deadeye.

  Leadsmith insisted on converting the travois into a stretcher. “Too many jolts could drive that wedge into his brain.”

  As they neared the camp they encountered fighters returning from patrol who took over the stretcher. Deadeye kept carrying Marjoram over her protests.

  The side of the chiurgeon tent was up to provide ventilation on a warm afternoon. Lady Burnout was reading on a tablet, being high on the list of people Sparrow provided charging for. The tablet flipped into the dirt as she saw the wounded approaching.

  “Orcs?”

  “Exploding rock,” answered Goldenrod.

  “How the hell did that happen?” Burnout stepped up to her examining table as the stretcher bearers set Rivet down on it.

  “Magic gone wrong.”

  “Okay.” She raised her voice. “If you’re not bleeding, put pressure on someone who is.”

  Her hands went around the ruined eye socket. Magic let her sense the bleeding even where she couldn’t see. No time to worry about causing strokes now. She coagulated blood around the shard, working from inside the skull out.

  When he was stable she ordered the stretcher bearers to roll Rivet onto his side. The shard was small enough she could only grip it with one hand. Gentle wiggling broke it loose from the socket. She pulled it straight out. A gush of blood followed, flowing over Rivet’s nose. A bit more magic stopped the bleeding where the shard had torn scabs loose.

  “Okay, put him on his back.” The bearers complied.

  Elderberry, Burnout’s apprentice chiurgeon, arrived. Burnout greeted her with, “Treat him for shock,” then turned to the rest. “Who’s next?”

  “She is.” Deadeye stepped forward, Marjoram in his arms.

  She’d recovered consciousness. “Put me down. I can stand.”

  “No.”

  Burnout pointed at her chair. “Put her there.”

  This shard hadn’t done nearly as much damage as Rivet’s. The chiurgeon wrapped her fingers around the wound. “Didn’t reach the ribs. The muscle should heal. You’ll lose some milk production, if and when.”

  Marjoram chuckled bitterly. “No more wearing bikinis for me.”

  “Oh, don’t let that stop you. If we make it back to Earth you’ll be amazed how many guys think ‘That’s a cute scar’ is a good pick-up line.”

  ***

  “Lady Yarrow?” Goldenrod addressed the oldest of the women in the tent, hoping she was the head of the Green Stag household.

  “Who wants to know?” The woman’s hands had the ground-in dirt of someone digging up wild vineroot for a living. Not a crafter, or at least not practicing one useful for survival.

  “I’m Baroness Goldenrod.”

  “What do you want with us?”

  “Was Belladonna living here?”

  “She paid for her food and her share of the floor for the weekend, and gathered food while she lived. Never bothered anyone in the household. I’ll not listen to complaints about her, true or false.”

  Goldenrod was not used to this kind of hostile reception. Disdain from nobles, yes. But ordinary members of the Kingdom thought of her as the lady who found food. They were grateful.

  “Belladonna used magic. I want to examine her personal gear for any evidence of how she did it.”

  “What gives you the right to search her stuff?”

  Now she was getting angry. “I’m head of the Council of Mages. We’re researching how magic works in this world.”

  Goldenrod stopped before saying more. She wondered how much it would hurt to say, ‘You are a frog.’

  Either the title or the thoughts of frogs got through to Yarrow. She led Goldenrod to a pile of bags in a corner. She pulled a couple aside. “That’s everything Belladonna had.”

  Goldenrod sorted through it. No bedroll. Hardly any clothes. Well, those would find new owners easily. The candles, altar cloths, and other paraphernalia for the neo-pagan ceremonies were complete. I guess no one had the nerve to steal that. A ritual blade, possibly made of real silver.

  Unwrapping the altar cloths revealed a notebook. The pages were three quarters filled with diagrams and cryptic text. In the middle was a piece of thin leather.

  Goldenrod took the leather out. It was scraped smooth on both sides and densely marked with symbols burned with a thin implement. The symbols were rune-like but didn’t look like any she’d seen before.

  Yarrow and her tentmates had started a game of spades.

  Goldenrod stood by the table for a moment waiting to be noticed but none of them looked up from the game. Finally she interrupted. “Do any of you know what this is?”

  They glanced at the leather rectangle then went back to their cards. “Never seen it before in my life,” said Yarrow.

  She gave up. “Thank you for your help.” Goldenrod picked up the blade and notebook and went home.

  Mistress Tightseam had no insight on the writing. “See how it curls more easily to this side? It’s a scroll. I bet this dent is where a cord was tied to hold it closed.”

  “Okay, I can buy it’s a scrol
l. But what’s it for?”

  “Dunno. Try Lord Parchment. He’s fond of ancient alphabets.”

  Calligraphy not being in demand, Parchment was gutting fish when Goldenrod found him. He cheerfully washed his hands of it to help her.

  Once outside the common pavilion she handed him the leather scroll and explained how she’d found it.

  Parchment traced every line on both sides before looking back to Goldenrod. “I hate to say this, but I think it’s just a movie prop.”

  “What?”

  “It’s certainly not any writing I’ve seen before. No resemblance to Ogham or Futhark. There’s only a dozen different symbols in the text. I’m not counting these diagrams. There’s single strokes vertical, horizontal, and left and right diagonals. Then two stroke combinations, plus and X. triangles in four different orientations. Square. And diamond. That’s twelve characters in the alphabet. The only human alphabets so small were created by missionaries for illiterate cultures.

  “No, I think someone made this up to be handed from one actor to another in some sword and sorcery flick. Then it was given away or auctioned off and Belladonna wound up with it.”

  “What would she want it for?”

  “As a prop. The lass had a gift for showmanship, whatever else she . . . well, de mortuis nil nisi bonum.”

  “Oh.”

  And she’d been thinking this was a clue to how they’d all wound up in this Godsforsaken place.

  “I’m sorry, my dear. Show it around. Someone might recognize it. I certainly don’t know everything.”

  “Thank you.”

  Goldenrod took his advice. But after a half dozen archaeology and movie buffs disclaimed any knowledge she gave up. She’d try Belladonna’s notebook next.

  ***

  Belladonna’s notebook wasn’t encrypted. But Goldenrod had to use some basic decryption techniques to figure out her handwriting. Once she had the vowels the rest came easily.

  The first half was the routine notes of a church leader. Contact numbers for reserving sites. Teaching plans for students. Brainstorming for rituals, followed by step by step scripts.

  Less routine were records of completed rituals. Prayers sent, deities contacted, and sometimes messages received from the divinities. Some from specific deities addressed. Some were annotated as “name and pantheon unknown.”