The Lost War Page 3

  Next she indicated the couple in the second pair of thrones, set to the side and slightly behind Estoc and Camellia’s. The man was black, dark enough to make Newman wonder if he was an African immigrant. His crown sat on top of a purple turban, which went with the Moorish style of his tunic. He was the calmest man in sight, his expression unperturbed by the disaster or the panicking people around them. His wife was nearly as serene, her ebony face turned up in a slight smile to mask her concern. Goldenrod continued, “King Ironhelm and Queen Dahlia are the Invaders. Or Visitors when we’re being polite. This event is a war between our kingdom and theirs.” Her voice caught. “Or it was before whatever-it-was happened.”

  Then she pointed to a man in a fur-trimmed black robe. He was older than the others, hair and beard streaked with grey. “That’s Master Sharpquill, the Autocrat. He’s in charge of the war—this camp.”

  “The King’s not in charge?”

  “Officially he is, but he just does the ceremonial stuff and blesses the consensus. The King reigns. The Autocrat rules. Well, rules this event. There’d be another Autocrat at the next event. Except. Well. We’re not going home on Monday I guess.”

  After finishing opening formalities, the herald hushed the crowd for an address from King Estoc.

  “Good morning, everyone.” The king’s smile made him look even more boyish. His voice had a slight catch. “We have a situation here. I’m sure it’s scary for everyone. But there’s lots of talented people here. Please stay calm and work together and I’m sure we’ll all be fine. My lord Autocrat?”

  The older man came forward as King Estoc returned to his throne.

  “Not bad,” whispered Goldenrod.

  “Huh?”

  “For someone who doesn’t do anything but heavy fighting it’s a decent speech.”

  Estoc had been trying to hide nervousness. Master Sharpquill looked as if landing in the wilderness was a routine annoyance for him. Possibly he was just too tired to care.

  “In case anyone hasn’t noticed yet, we’re not where we set up camp. We’re not on Earth, and our amateur astronomer assures me we’re not in the Solar System, unless we’re millions of years in the past or future.”

  Some moans came from those who’d hoped they could get home. Some who’d suppressed their panic in hopes of better news lost control. It took a couple minutes to calm the populace to where the Autocrat could speak again.

  “How and why is a mystery. I’m going to request that you save discussing that mystery for after dark. We have lots of work to do. We can’t afford to have two hundred people standing around arguing.

  “Today only I want everyone to stay in camp. We’re going to send out some scouts to check for danger. Today’s task is inventory. Every household count your food and medicine. Assume you need to make your supplies last seven days. If you’re short on food, or can spare some, see Countess Fennel.

  “If you don’t belong to a household . . .” the Autocrat ran through several more procedural issues. When he’d checked off everything on the index card in his hand he shoved it into a sleeve. “Now. It’s clear this is an emergency. We need to pull together to survive it. As much fun as our usual debating of every question is there’s no time for it right now. I ask you all: will you work as hard as you can to assure the survival of us all?”

  A ragged chorus of “aye” came from the crowd.

  “Will you accept temporary sacrifices for the good of us all?”

  A firmer “aye” this time.

  “Will you accept the emergency orders of the Crown to guide us all?”

  “Aye!”

  “On behalf of the Crown I thank you, and swear to do our best for you all. Go, do your inventory, make plans for tomorrow.”

  The herald dismissed the populace. A storm of chatter sprang up.

  Newman whispered in Goldenrod’s ear. “Wait, we’re just leaving the same people in charge in an emergency?”

  She shrugged. “Who else? We’d starve to death getting this bunch to agree to any other way to run things.”

  A stranger addressed Newman. “You any good with that bow?”

  “Yes, I think so.” He wasn’t sure if this man merited a ‘my lord’ or not.

  “I’m Bodkin. I’m organizing a hunting party for tomorrow. Want to join?”

  “Sure.”

  “Where will I find you?”

  “House Applesmile.”

  The hunter nodded and walked off in search of his next recruit.

  ***

  House Applesmile's banner bore a boar’s head, smiling widely, around an apple. Their host fried up some “mess” on a griddle over a fire. Goldenrod and Newman’s sausage and bread had been diced before going into the common scramble. The smell was delightful. Everyone kept drifting to downwind to get more of it.

  A well-dressed noblewoman approached the tent, followed by two men in armor. The host hailed her. “Good day, Lady Stitches. I believe you know my household. Let me introduce our guests, Lady Goldenrod and Newman Greenhorn. This is Her Majesty’s Chief Lady in Waiting.” The last was spoken to make it clear to Newman he was being honored by the introduction.

  “Good day, Master Sweetbread.” Stitches nodded to the guests. “Well met.”

  “How may I serve you today, my lady?”

  “With a tour of your kitchen,” said Stitches, face stiff. “Their Majesties have ordered me to collect the inventory of food supplies.” She waved the clipboard in her hand as evidence.

  “Of course,” said Sweetbread. The “kitchen” tent had its sides extended on poles for extra shade. “We came with enough to feed ten for five days. There’s only the six of us but we entertain, of course. That bag is Goldenrod’s—how much did you bring, dear?”

  “Eight sausages and four loaves, plus some bananas,” she said. “Just enough to get us to Sunday morning.”

  Sweetbread’s supplies were more varied, including vegetables and spices. Stitches made terse notes. The guards watched without interest until the last chest was opened.

  “And the traditional booze and candy,” said Sweetbread.

  “Ah, yes,” said Stitches. “We’ll have to take that with us.”

  “What?” The householder was sure he’d misheard.

  Stitches recited, “Their Majesties have ordered all alcohol and luxury foods brought to court for safe-keeping, to avoid drunkenness and dissention. Guards, take the chest. I will write you a receipt.”

  “Fuck, no! You can’t just waltz in here and take my stuff!”

  The outburst grabbed the attention of everyone around the cooking fire. Sweetbread’s nephew and son-in-law stood. The guards reached for their swords. One bore a steel one instead of the wooden one the Kingdom used in tournaments. Newman stepped forward to stand with his host’s men.

  “Please, Sweetbread.” Stitches put her hand on the man’s chest and stood tiptoe to whisper in his ear. “You’ll get it back, it’s just temporary. Just go along for a couple of days until people calm down. The guards have orders. Royal orders. You don’t want to push them. Please.”

  Sweetbread glared at the guards. They met his gaze without flinching. He stepped back. “Fine. I want a list of everything on that receipt.”

  “Of course, of course.” Stitches took a fresh sheet and wrote a detailed list of the chest’s contents. “Here.”

  Sweetbread read it over. “Fine.”

  The guards hefted the chest between them and led the way out of the household’s encampment.

  Sweetbread took the spatula from his wife, Tightseam, and went back to tending the scramble.

  “I didn’t think the crown had that kind of authority,” said Newman.

  Tightseam answered, “They didn’t, until we approved them taking emergency action at this morning’s meeting.”

  “I thought Sharpquill had better sense then to pull this kind of shit,” muttered Sweetbread. “Otherwise I wouldn’t have been an ‘aye’ for it.”

  “I think he does,” said Golde
nrod. “Did you notice Stitches kept saying it was a royal order? And she and the guards are part of the Kingdom royal court, not the Autocrat’s event staff. Stitches does all the Queen’s dirty work.”

  Pinecone said, “If the king’s being the problem we just have to wait until the next Crown Tourney. That’s what, two months?”

  “Back home, yes.” Sweetbread stirred the scramble some more. “Who knows when they’ll schedule one here?”

  “Oh, well,” said Pernach, “like I always say, I don’t care who the king is, I can always stay drunk for six months.”

  “No you can’t,” said his wife. “They took the booze.”

  Newman walked out of the fire's circle of light and faced the woods. After a few minutes Goldenrod came up and put an arm around him.

  “You okay?” she asked.

  “A little shook,” he admitted. “I was ready to pitch into a fight with two armed men. And I can’t honestly say what they were doing was wrong. Last thing we need around here is panicking drunks. But Sweetbread let us sleep in his tent, he’s feeding us, he's a friend, so I’m taking his side.”

  Goldenrod hugged him. “Feudalism is catching.”

  ***

  The hunters set out in the morning.

  Bodkin and his followers were chatterboxes. Newman didn’t want to tell them how to run their hunt—he was the stranger here—but any prey would hear them coming. The conversation focused on archery. Bow-making, fletching, techniques for precision shooting. Newman contributed anecdotes about crafting his composite bow and Boy Scout tournaments he’d competed in.

  He realized they were all target shooters, not hunters.

  The woods were mixed density. Bodkin led them through a gap in the trees that might be a game trail, if there were big moose here. The undergrowth to the sides had enough room for humans to slip through. Thick patches of shrubs were scattered about separated from each other by dozens of yards.

  Droppings and half-eaten leaves were more common in the denser areas. The herbivores didn’t like being seen. A scattering of bones, some broken open to yield brains or marrow, showed they had reason.

  Which made following this gap a lousy way to find them. But Bodkin and his friends could walk two or three abreast as they chatted.

  Newman drifted to the rear of the group. The conversation continued without him. After another ten minutes of strolling he thought he heard rustling off to the right. Without a sound he pivoted into the denser woods.

  Walking quietly was something he’d practiced many times. Put his feet on dirt and live roots, not dead sticks or leaves. Go through the empty spots. When a branch has to be pushed aside hold it until it’s back in its original position. Keep a steady pace so breathing isn’t loud.

  A soft grunt ahead was just loud enough to hear. Newman steered to the right of it. If he couldn’t hit one he wanted to flush the game toward Bodkin.

  Circling a pile of brambles gave him a glimpse of the animals. Half a dozen deer clustered around some flowering shrubs.

  Newman looked down. He wanted to look like another herbivore, not a predator. If he didn’t spook them he had plenty of time to nock an arrow and line up his shot.

  Once he looked to aim he’d have to be quick. Staring eyes were a threat. The deer would bolt.

  He chose the nearest as his target. The arrow flew into the deer’s belly. It bawled and the rest scattered. By the time he had a second arrow nocked there wasn’t a single deer in sight.

  Speed won over stealth as Newman chased the wounded deer. At first he ran in the direction he’d seen it go. Then the blood trail appeared. Running must have widened the wound.

  He heard the deer before he saw it, panting on the other side of a bramble thicket. Light steps let him see the animal without spooking it. Newman stopped when he could see the rear half.

  The haunches were trembling. The arrow had worked deeper into the deer’s gut. That meant torn intestines. Gutting it would be messier than usual.

  Newman put a second arrow into the meaty haunch. The deer bounded off, wounded leg dragging.

  He walked after it. No need to look for the blood trail. Broken branches and the sound of it breaking through brush led him to it.

  More sounds distracted him from the pursuit. Bodkin and his friends were calling, “Hello! Newman! Where are you? Are you okay?”

  Newman called back, “Over here!” and kept after the deer.

  He found it hiding by a shrub again, front legs kneeling. When it heard him the deer struggled to its feet then collapsed.

  Newman hung his bow on a branch. His combat knife slid out of its sheath.

  He stepped toward the deer. “Shhh. It’ll be over soon. Shhh.”

  The dying animal thrashed. Sharp hooves swung through the air.

  A sidestep and pivot kept him clear of the hooves. One quick thrust with the knife to its neck made the deer shudder and go limp. “There. All done.”

  With the deer silent the commotion from Bodkin and the rest sounded loud in the quiet woods.

  “Over here!” yelled Newman. He repeated the shout until the rest of the hunting party staggered into the clearing.

  “My God, that’s nearly as big as I am!” exclaimed Merrybrew.

  The rest were equally impressed.

  “Any of you ever gut a deer?” asked Newman.

  When they all shook their heads he gave a brief summary of the process.

  “Okay,” broke in Bodkin. “Merrybrew and Beargut, cut a stick long enough to carry the body with. You two, get the deer hung from a branch. Newman, I need a moment with you.”

  They walked twenty yards into the woods. A bramble patch seemed to give him enough privacy. Bodkin said, “Dude, you’re an awesome hunter. We never saw anything but birds and squirrels and you took down a deer. That’s going to feed a lot of people.”

  Newman waited for the criticism.

  “But, dude, we had no clue where you were. You just vanished on us. For all we knew you could have been eaten by a grue. You have to tell people you’re going to do stuff like that.”

  Bodkin seemed to want an answer to that.

  “I didn’t want to interrupt the conversation,” said Newman.

  “Well, okay, I appreciate you being polite, but tell me when you’re going off on your own. Everything we were saying could wait.”

  “All right.”

  Bodkin wanted more.

  “I’ll keep you informed,” said Newman.

  “Thank you. Now, come teach us how to gut a deer.”

  ***

  “Now I know some of you can’t help looking for spinnables,” said Mistress Seamchecker, “but food must come first. Look for edible leaves, stems, and especially seeds. Talk to each other. We don’t want a dozen of the same plant. We want every different plant.”

  Eight women held baskets as they listened to her. The gatherers had climbed down the bluff into the flood plain. The meadow here looked much more diverse than the forest above. The plants were a jumble of sizes and colors. One of them had to be edible, right? thought Goldenrod.

  If not they’d starve.

  Goldenrod was in her simplest dress. She expected her knees to wear holes in it before they were done. Her basket was the largest one in the line. Was she being optimistic, or just foolish? She wished she knew.

  Seamchecker waved them into the meadow. The line spread a bit, each woman walking a few steps until she saw something interesting.

  A weed with wide leaves went into Goldenrod’s basket. She wiggled the stems on a yellow-flowered plant and decided it was too fibrous to bother with. The woman to her left collected one of them anyway.

  Slapping her arm just smeared the drop of blood. The biting insect had already flown away. “I hope you’re allergic to me and die, bug,” she muttered.

  “This isn’t worth it,” snarled Mistress Filigree on Goldenrod’s right. The bugs found her very tasty. “It’s just a waste of time.”

  “No, we’ll find something. I’m sure o
f it,” said Goldenrod. She realized she wasn’t trying to convince herself. She had faith that the search would pay off.

  Straightening up she saw the gatherers had spread from the bluff to the riverbank. There didn’t seem to be any pattern in how the plants were arranged. Floods must have thrown their seeds about chaotically.

  Mistress Filigree was complaining again. Bending over to examine plants aggravated her arthritis. Goldenrod walked forward to escape her. A blue-flowered stalk went into the basket, more for its looks than any likely food value.

  A white flower with a red center caught her eye. It sprung from a vine, one clinging so close to the ground she couldn’t have tripped on it. More flowers showed where the vine disappeared into a stand of thin-bladed grass.

  Goldenrod crawled along the vine, heedless of the dirt being ground into her dress. Seven feet later she found where it emerged. Her eating-knife served as a trowel.

  The knife loosened dirt, but she needed to scoop it away with her hands. Two nails broke by the time she had one end of the tuber uncovered. It was rooted too well to yank out, but more work with the knife fixed that.

  Once freed the root took both hands to lift into the air. Half the gatherers stopped to stare.

  “Bless you, child,” said Mistress Seamchecker. “How big is that?”

  Goldenrod hefted it as she stood. “Maybe fifteen or twenty pounds.”

  “Goodness. I hope it’s edible. Wash it off and go cook it.”

  The other gatherers examined the flowers to know what to look for. After rinsing the root in the river Goldenrod headed back to camp.