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

and drinking what we carry now. Let’s hurry.”

The two passes closest to the river were impossible. Sheer cliffs blocked the way, impassible without spikes and ropes. Sharpedge didn’t want to chance that without proof whatever was past them was easier to climb.

The third was passable. Barely. Joyeuse claimed to have rock climbing experience. “And I don’t mean those pansy gym walls.” He went up the slope barefoot until he found a spot to secure the rope.

The rest followed up, one on the rope at a time. Newman carried the squire’s boots, tied to his backpack.

That brought them to a quarter mile of walkable, if rough, rock before the next steep point.

Joyeuse took off his boots again. At the top he cried, “Thalassa!”

“What?” said Sharpedge.

Borzhoi explained, “He sees the ocean.”

Once they’d followed up they could all see the ocean. The ridge sloped down gently in some spots, was a cliff over foaming waves in others. To the right they saw the river pouring into the sea, higher than Niagara Falls.

“Anyone see a ship?” demanded Sharpedge.

“I don’t see a damn thing,” muttered Bodkin.

“There’s something flying over there.” Borzhoi pointed left along the ridge.

The others said no. Newman rooted in his pack. He emerged with Lord Orrery’s binoculars.

“Where’s that flyer?” he asked. He followed Borzhoi’s arm. “Dragon.”

Sharpedge cursed.

Newman began a slow scan of the horizon.

Falchion said, “I think those islands formed with the crater. Looks like molten rock splashed into the sea and solidified.”

“Islands don’t do any good,” complained Sharpedge. “They don’t even have anything growing on them.”

Borzhoi pointed at the closest. “That one looks like one of Longshanks’ Welsh border castles.”

Sharpedge closed his mouth. Newman thought he might have counted to ten. “Okay, can anyone think of a reason to go down to the ocean?” asked the leader. “There’s clearly no towns or ships.”

“I’m curious if that’s a saltwater or freshwater sea,” said Falchion. “But that can be another trip.”

“Fine. Let’s head back. If we make good time we won’t have to sleep on rock tonight.”

***

“Lady Burnout! Lady Burnout!”

An experienced physician can tell from tone of voice whether a call for help indicates hypochondria, attention-seeking, or a real emergency. This one was exhausted, frantic, and scared, the worst combination.

Burnout grabbed her bag and burst out of her tent. The messenger was bent over, hands on knees. The moment he saw her he straightened and trotted back the way he came.

She followed. A description of the emergency would be nice, but if the boy didn’t have the breath for it she wouldn’t bother haranguing him.

It was obvious when they reached the main gate. A mixed group of hunters and fighters were hauling wounded men on stretchers and travois. The gate guards were taking stretchers and putting them down against the inside of the wall. Another fight with the damn orcs.

People from the camp were already coming forward to help with the casualties. The wounded were moved into well-spaced rows and first aid begun. More stood about, willing to help but unsure how.

“Find someone bleeding,” she directed. “Put your hand on the wound and push hard enough to make the bleeding stop.”

They scattered among the bodies.

One casualty had been laid off by himself with a tunic over his face. Lady Burnout went to check on the field diagnosis. Lifting the cloth revealed the point of a spear broken off in the man’s throat. He couldn’t have lasted more than a minute or two. She laid it back down.

Blood was oozing through the fingers of the nearest volunteer. She strode over to her. “Push harder.”

“I am pushing.”

“This hard.” Burnout put the palm of her hand over the other woman’s and leaned into it.

The volunteer gritted her teeth but didn’t complain. She shifted her weight.

When Burnout lifted her hand off no new blood appeared.

“Good, keep it like that.” She moved down the line, applying more pressure whenever she saw the need. Every time she released her hand the bleeding had stopped.

When all the bleeding was controlled she started disinfecting. Bites first. She’d already fought a nasty infection from an orc bite. She was careful not to waste the disinfectant. It was distilled from the remaining liquor in camp. The distiller wept over some of the whiskey he ruined.

After the bites were the punctures. Then it was time for real triage. No belly wounds this time, thank goodness. Even the hunters were wearing rhino-hide breastplates. Now if only the rapier fighters would put some heavier gear on instead of “relying on mobility.”

The bite wounds came first again. Stitching them closed took careful maneuvering to find intact skin close to the ragged tears. Spear wounds were quicker. A stitch or two, if any, and a firm bandage to keep it closed.

“Excuse me,” said Lady Burnout, waving aside the man standing over the next patient.

“I’ll be back when she’s done with you,” said King Estoc.

The fighter tightened his jaw as she worked on his arm. When Burnout picked up her bag he asked, “Will I keep it?”

“Yes, probably. Keep an eye on it for redness or tenderness. Let it heal before you start using it again or you’ll cause extra damage.”

“Yes, my lady.”

She hoped it wouldn’t develop an infection. She’d brought a wide variety of antibiotics but most were gone now.

***

Sharpedge reported failure but Autocrat Sharpquill was full of praise for them.

“You’ve discovered more about the local area than we have in all the time since we arrived. You proved we can do deep reconnaissance safely. And you’ve also demonstrated cooperation between factions which haven’t always done so. You will have Their—His Majesty’s thanks in Court.”

“I don’t know if we can do this safely in other directions,” said Sharpedge. “We didn’t see orcs on the way back until we