The Lost War, Karl Gallagher [recommended reading txt] 📗

“Cooking softened it then,” said Strongarm.

He began another attempt to convince Newman of the joys of armored sword fighting. Goldenrod contributed some stories from crown tournaments she’d watched. Newman listened without reaction.

Strongarm broke off in mid-sentence. “Where’s the privy?”

Newman pointed to the corner of House Applesmile’s tent.

The fighter dashed off. The house camped close by a portapotty to, as the housemaster put it, make the middle of the night easier.

The portapotty was close enough for Newman and Goldenrod to hear the sounds of Strongarm’s distress.

“I think we need to not eat it raw,” said Newman.

“I might give some to Lady Burnout as medicine. How are you feeling?”

“Just fine. Ready for another slice.”

Strongarm moaned.

***

Many days’ march across the forest, farther than any human had yet explored, stood an elven village. One young elf felt the magical chime which meant his master wanted his presence.

Ithuil the apprentice flinched as he saw the opening of the great hollow tree. The rotten trunk should have collapsed long ago. It stood as grim testimony to the power of the magic practiced within. A score of elves could dance inside the hollow trunk. Right now it just held one.

The sorcerer.

Moss and weeds gave way to bare dirt as the apprentice drew closer. Nothing could grow close to the sorcerer’s lair. Even the nearest trees were dying.

Again, Ithuil regretted his desire to learn the deep magics.

At the opening his throat spasmed, silencing the apprentice as he tried to utter the proper greeting. He flung himself onto his face on the hard-packed dirt floor.

“You’re late. You must hurry when I summon you.” The sorcerer’s tone was light and cheerful. The apprentice relaxed. He wouldn’t die today.

Sandals slapped the floor as the sorcerer walked across. “Into the middle now. I’m going to show you some scrying. One of those bits of bait I set out was nibbled on. I want to see what came through.”

Ithuil wiggled forward, not daring to lift his face from the floor. It made a shallow bowl. Pewter-gray toes tapped his nose to stop him before the center.

“Leave room for the puddle.”

The apprentice twisted to reach the flake of obsidian tucked into his belt. He slashed his forearm, letting blood pour onto the floor.

“Good.”

The blood flowed to the center then started to swirl as magic pulled harder on it than gravity.

“Enough.”

Ithuil pressed on the slash to stop the bleeding, hurting himself more than the blade had. He snuck a bit of magic while his master was distracted, knitting closed the blood vessels and skin.

“Watch the hands, boy.”

He lifted his eyes. The foot was still by his face, flawless shining gray skin over bones and tendons. Nearly reaching it was the edge of the leather vest, mystic symbols burned black into it. White hair hung to the knees, eddying in the puffs of air displaced by the magic working.

He managed the courage to look higher. The hands were moving in intricate patterns, steering the magic as it formed the blood into a smooth circle. Above them, eight feet off the floor, was the sorcerer’s face. Majestic and knowledgeable, it was everything the face of the oldest and wisest and most feared elf in his world should be.

Ithuil gulped and focused on the hands.

The pattern they traced became clear after many repetitions. The puddle of blood spread wider and thinner. Then it became a window looking down on a forest from above.

“Ah, there they are,” said the sorcerer. “Frantic as a kicked ant hill.”

Ithuil saw the camp at the top of the bluff but didn’t recognize the tents as shelters. “They’re short. And weak. And ugly,” he said.

“All true,” said the sorcerer. “But they’re tool users. So they may make some progress on the project.”

He shifted the view this way and that. Sighed. “Clearly they’re not ready. I’ll cast a protection on them for now.” His eyes descended to Ithuil. “More blood.”

***

Morning court opened cheerfully. Newman received three huzzahs for bringing down the deer. The taste-testers had all survived the night. Autocrat Sharpquill then invited Newman to describe the unseen predators of the woods by their effects.

“. . . and the long bones were broken to get at the marrow, so they have strong jaws or can use stones as tools,” he finished.

The Autocrat thanked him. “Master Chisel has a proposal for building a defensive palisade around our encampment.”

The carpenter described a fence of split tree trunks making a U-shape against the bluff, with a gate in the middle.

When the Autocrat asked the populace if they’d be willing to build it today a chorus of “Aye” went up. He declared it an all-hands project for the day. Hunting and gathering were prohibited.

House Applesmile returned to their tent. A quick tool inventory produced a small hatchet intended for splitting pre-cut firewood.

“It’ll do,” said Newman. He started swinging at the nearest tree.

Mistress Tightseam snapped, “Don’t cut that down! It’s an oak. We can eat acorns.”

“Oh. Sorry.” He cast a guilty look at the notch in the bark. It didn’t look lethal. He moved to the edge of the grassy area and picked one of the new trees outside the encampment. It looked to be thirty feet tall, though the upper branches wouldn’t be useful for the fence. The axe cut into the bark on the side facing Applesmile pavilion.

Pernach objected. “Hey, we want that to fall away from the tent.”

“It will. We make a small cut here and a big one on the other side. That lets it fall easier.”

“Oh. Didn’t know you’d cut down trees before.”

“Didn’t.” Swing. “Watched my uncle do it.” Swing. “Of course.” Swing. Swing. “He used a chainsaw.”

Pernach finished the first cut. The men took turns chopping at the tree, each handing the axe on when