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

“Oh. Sorry.”

“Don’t worry about it. It’s a small price for patient confidentiality.” She pulled out the tube. “That’s all. Now we let it soak in a bit.”

Burnout busied herself cleaning the tube and bowl.

“It’s doing something,” said Strongarm. “They’re thrashing around more than usual.”

“That’s a good sign.” Burnout checked the timer on her phone, blessing Sparrow for his electrical gifts.

“Or it’s making it worse.”

“We’ll see. This is a trial and error process.”

The timer let out a soft beep. Burnout pushed the metal basin closer to the table. “Okay, time to get down.”

She guided him as he slid off the table. He didn’t need help with the motion. She just wanted him aimed right as he squatted over the basin.

The usual scent flooded the tent, mixed with a citrus note from the acidic fruits she’d mashed into the mixture. Strongarm reached for the basket of leaves to clean up.

She said, “I see some swimmers. It worked.”

Strongarm rubbed his belly. “I don’t think it got them all.”

“No. it’s going to take a few times.” She thought a moment. “More acidic might be better. I’ll talk to the brewers to see if they can get me vinegar.”

***

Newman tramped toward the Court pavilion. “Anybody know what this is about?”

Beargut shrugged. “The herald said the Autocrat wanted to talk to all the hunters and fighters.”

The crowd in front of the pavilion looked to be everyone in those two categories plus some guards who’d never been out patrolling for orcs.

The thrones were empty. It was just Autocrat Sharpquill and a few of his slate-wielding aides.

“Take a load off,” said the Autocrat as he walked into the crowd. The men obediently sat on the grass. “You’ve been doing great work. We’re getting enough food to get by. The orcs are being pushed back. We’re winning the fights with them.”

Newman whispered, “Where’s the ‘but’?” to Beargut.

“Now we need to do something more. Take the initiative. Find a way to hit them where they’re weak.”

Master Sharpquill paused to let a buzz of startled remarks die down.

“I want volunteers for an expedition going South down the river. Follow it until it reaches the sea or you’ve been gone a week. That’s the best place to find a civilization. If you find an orc base we’ll mount an attack to burn it out. Who wants to go?”

Many enthusiastic shouts.

“Good. Continue with your plan for the day. Volunteers meet here tomorrow morning to start organizing. That is all.”

***

“I want to go!” declared Pinecone.

Newman hadn’t shared the news to recruit anyone from House Applesmile. He’d wanted to get Goldenrod’s opinion before he decided whether to join the expedition.

“Isn’t it dangerous?” blurted Shellbutton.

Everyone looked at Newman.

“The danger is the same as here. Plus anything new we might encounter out there. What gets you is not having a fallback when something goes wrong. Break a leg in camp, you’re taken care of. Break it three days away and the rest of the team has to carry you. Two guys with broken legs . . . well, that gets ugly.”

“Are you going?” asked Master Sweetbread.

“I haven’t decided yet.”

Goldenrod chuckled.

“I haven’t.”

“I know,” she said. “It’s so sweet that you’d consider being best woodsman in the camp, and best at noticing ambushes, and best sniper, and say, ‘Maybe they don’t need me. I’ll just hang out.’”

That caused a few more chuckles. But not from Newman.

“I wanted to get your opinion first,” he said to her. By his glance around the table he’d rather be saying this in private. “And get your permission.”

Goldenrod needed a moment to respond to that. Theirs was an informal relationship. He didn’t need her permission for anything. If he was asking it . . . that meant he was taking her seriously as a partner. Not just being polite.

“You have my permission,” she said. “On one condition. Come back intact.”

“Agreed.”

They squeezed each other’s hands, not sure when they’d reached out to each other. The rest of House Applesmile hid smirks.

“Do I have your permission?” Pinecone asked Shellbutton.

“Don’t ask me,” she said. “Ask Newman.”

Gazes turned back to him.

“What’s the farthest you’ve ever walked in a straight line?” asked Newman.

“I cover miles every day gathering wood for the burns.”

“That’s not a straight line. Ever walk so far you couldn’t get home that day?”

“No,” said Pinecone. “I wasn’t a Boy Scout.”

“I was. Probably everybody in the expedition will be. If you haven’t done that kind of hiking you’re not ready for this mission.”

***

Autocrat Sharpquill had a team in mind. They’d all shown up in the crowd of volunteers. He called out half a dozen names and dismissed the rest.

Newman and Bodkin were the only hunters. Or maybe Borzhoi was counted as a hunter. The other three all wore red belts indicating they were squires, apprenticed to some knight to learn the arts of armored sword fighting and chivalric behavior.

“Gentlemen, Lord Sharpedge will be the leader of the expedition,” said the Autocrat. “I’ll leave you to it.”

Sharpedge introduced himself as Duke Stonefist’s squire. The other two were Falchion, squired to Sir Flint, and Joyeuse, who was one of King Ironhelm’s squires. Sharpedge’s first action was to inspect the gear and supplies everyone brought. Newman thought that was a good start.

The guy still had a butterbar reek about him.

“The plan is simple,” Sharpedge said. “We’re going downriver until we reach the sea, use two thirds of our supplies, or see something we need to report. We’ll stay on the bluff at the edge so we have a view across the flood plain. We’ll forage as we go to stretch out supplies.

“At some point we’ll run into the mountain range we’ve glimpsed from hilltops. It runs perpendicular to the course of