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

deliver the excess as needed.”

King Ironhelm left the tent. Duke Stonefist had a story of Master Sharpquill telling then-King Stonefist to back off on exercising his royal prerogatives when he became rude. He needed to talk to Stonefist and find out what changed.

***

“No, we’re not going to have a meeting,” declared Mistress Seamchecker.

Sweetbread was too surprised to reply at once. The head of the Crafters Order had always loved excuses to gather the members before. “There’s things we need to talk about.”

“We don’t need to talk. We need to work. Everyone’s busting their asses to help us survive. This is no time to be gabbing in a nice shady tent.”

Council meetings were under a seal of secrecy. Standing in the lane as others walked by was an invitation to eavesdropping. Sweetbread tried to pick words that wouldn’t disrespect the Crown.

“Allocating resources and making decisions is part of that.”

Seamchecker said, “The Autocrat is doing a good job of that.”

“It’s not the Autocrat I’m worried about.”

Mistress Seamchecker shifted from impatient to stern. “Well, Master Sweetbread, I suggest you find better things to worry about. Their Royal Majesties told me not to waste time with meetings. So you should work on cooking those new plants people are finding. Good day, sir.”

She walked off.

One Week After Arrival

“What the hell have you been doing now?” cried Redinkle as her husband came around the neighboring tent.

Newman grabbed the first aid kit. When he realized Pernach and Pinecone were walking normally he put it back down. He eyed them warily. Both looked like they’d been pulled from a burning Humvee.

“New jobs!” announced Pernach. “No more dirty privy detail for us. We’re Master Forge’s newest apprentices.”

“I’ve seen boys pump the bellows all day without getting that sooty,” she said.

“Well, we’re not on the bellows. He’s running low on fuel so we’re making charcoal. It’s a smoky job.”

Both young men had patches of black all over them. Even the palest spots were gray with soot, except where sweat had washed a line through it.

“Well, you smell better. Kinda like a grilled chicken.”

“Thanks. Can we have the soap?”

Tightseam broke into the conversation. “No. We don’t have enough soap for you to use it every day. Just go rinse yourself.”

“That’s what I did,” said Newman. “When we butchered the near-deer today we stripped down to keep our clothes clean.”

Pinecone quipped, “Wow. When the soap runs out we’ll have a bunch of suicides.”

Shellbutton had leaned toward him to get a kiss without smudging herself. Now she slapped him. “That’s not funny!” She burst into tears and ran into the tent.

“What?” Pinecone looked stunned.

“You didn’t hear Lady Purplebow killed herself yesterday?” snarled Tightseam.

“Oh. No. How’d that happen?”

Purplebow had taught Shellbutton how to make the notions which gave the young woman her name.

“Opened her medicine chest and swallowed it all. Shellbutton’s taking it hard, so have some kindness. Now go rinse!”

***

The birds were coughing again. They were used to humans blundering through their woods now. Or Newman had taught Deadeye and Beargut to walk quietly enough to not frighten them.

The trio of hunters were walking down one of the wide paths. That was a poor way to find game but the fastest way to travel. Newman wanted to hunt farther out from the Kingdom’s camp. Once they’d covered about three miles he’d take them off the path to look for near-deer.

A flurry of wings told of birds taking off over the path ahead. Then a branch snapped.

Newman pivoted left, waving for the others to follow him.

“What’s going on?” asked Deadeye.

Newman whispered, “Something’s coming. Get into cover.”

Twenty yards into the woods he found a thick stand of brambles. He circled around and took a knee.

Deadeye kneeled next to him. Beargut scuffed some dead branches aside with his boot, making Newman flinch at the noise. The chubby hunter flopped down on his back.

More branches were breaking. A low rumble resolved into a mix of thumps. A “huff” had to be a breath from some big animal. All the noises kept getting louder.

Deadeye let out a low whistle.

“Shhh.” Newman raised his head enough to peek through the brambles. He nearly let out a sound himself.

He’d seen rhinos in zoos. This beast had a rhino shape but had to be twice the mass of any Newman had seen before. The stiff hide was covered with long red-brown hair. There were two horns on its nose, but side-by-side in a V-shape.

When Deadeye started to say something Newman put a finger across his lips. The hunter jerked his head away with a silent glare.

As the first rhino moved past they could see it was male. Three smaller females followed it. The middle one had a hornless calf with her.

Once the rhinos were out of sight and the birds returned Newman stood up. “Okay, we can relax now.”

“Why are you so afraid of them?” demanded Deadeye.

“Rhinos are nasty. I don’t want one of those horns up my ass.”

Beargut laughed. “I’m with you.”

“Seriously,” said Deadeye. “We’re out here to hunt. That’s an herbivore. We should have taken one down and seen if it’s edible.”

“Take one down?” Newman pulled an arrow from his quiver. “Do you really think this would go through the hide of one of those monsters?”

“I bet it would hurt the baby.”

“Maybe it would. And then its momma and daddy would trample everything in sight. Do me a favor. If you shoot a rhino wait until I’m a couple miles away.”

“And don’t ask me to carry it back to camp,” said Beargut. “The deer are heavy enough.”

Newman said, “Yes, they are. Let’s go get one.”

***

Autocrat Sharpquill stepped into the common pavilion. His staff would bring him meals at his desk every day if