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

That would be more useful if Newman knew what to use his arms on.

The Wolfheads were armoring up. Whatever it was they were taking it seriously.

Newman nocked an arrow. He wanted to be ready if there was a threat out there.

Shellbutton screeched, almost startling him off the haybale. “Orc orc orc!”

She was pointing toward the fence.

Newman turned. An orc was climbing over the top of it, one leg swung over and feeling around for a toehold.

He loosed the arrow into its back. It penetrated the spine just below the ribs. The orc dropped and lay still.

Shouts in the Wolfhead encampment indicated more orcs had come over their part of the fence.

“Everyone grab a knife,” said Master Sweetbread.

More orcs popped up over the fence. Newman put one arrow in an eye, another in a throat. A third orc kept climbing with an arrow in his chest. An arrow in his belly made him fall on the outside.

He missed his rifle. It was better for a stream of pop-up targets than a bow. But at least here they weren’t shooting back at him. As the orcs came up faster he drew and loosed in a steady rhythm.

Wolfhead Alpha called, “First squad hold the fort. Second and third squads with me.” Armor jingled as they double-timed toward the gate.

Newman pulled the last arrow from his quiver. How many had been in there? He’d lost count. It flew into an orc’s open mouth, knocking him off the fence.

Newman felt a tug at his belt. He glanced down to see Goldenrod dropping a handful of arrows into his quiver. “Thank you,” he said.

They smiled at each other for an instant.

When he looked back at the fence two orcs had landed on their feet. They stalked forward, spears level.

An arrow in the heart put one down. The other kept coming with one in its chest and another in its belly.

Newman put a third arrow into it, penetrating the other lung. It kept coming, running now.

“Why won’t you die?” snapped Goldenrod.

The orc fell onto its face, landing a few feet from her.

Three more landed on the grass inside the fence. They bent to pick up the spears they’d dropped while climbing.

Newman waited for the left hand one to straighten up and put an arrow into its throat.

“Die, you,” said Goldenrod. The middle orc fell.

Newman shifted his aim to the right hand one.

Goldenrod said, “Die.”

The orc collapsed.

There weren’t any live orcs in sight.

“Did you do that?” asked Newman.

“I, I think so,” she answered. “I felt something when I said that to the first one. Now I’m doing it on purpose.”

Two green heads popped over the fence.

“Die, die.”

They vanished.

“Did you get them?”

“Yes. I can feel their deaths.”

Behind them Pinecone muttered, “She’s killing them with magic.”

Goldenrod leaned against Newman’s leg. “Ooh. I feel lightheaded.”

He slung his bow over his shoulders, hopped off the haybale, and scooped her up in his arms. “Right. You just focus on orcs. I’ve got you.”

Redinkle stepped up beside them. Red flames flickered on her fingertips. When the next orc appeared she flung the fire toward it. The flames dissipated inches from her hand. “Dammit!”

“Die,” muttered Goldenrod.

“Keep practicing,” said Newman to Redinkle. “You might have a good hand to hand attack.”

He looked at the rest of House Applesmile holding cooking knives. “You don’t want to let orcs get that close. Grab tent poles. Use them as clubs.”

No more orcs were appearing on their stretch of fence. Shouts and clangs said the Wolfheads had visitors.

“Let’s go help.” Newman carried Goldenrod into the Wolfhead encampment. One tent had collapsed, another was halfway gone. Orcs and fighters and their ladies were all mixed in a chaotic brawl.

Goldenrod didn’t need to aim, just choose. “Die die die. Die die. Die. Die.”

The single orc left went down under a flurry of sword blows.

“What the fuck?” demanded Borzhoi. He stabbed a fallen orc.

“Magic, man,” said Newman. “Shit.”

Goldenrod had fainted. Her head lolled against his chest.

“We’ll take care of her,” said Mistress Tightseam. She and Shellbutton took Goldenrod from his arms. “You boys best go fight.”

Sweetbread, Pinecone, and Pernach stood behind her, ready to follow Newman’s lead. The cooking knives were tucked into their belts. Each held a seven foot oak pole with a blunt steel spike at the top.

“Right. Fight’s over here. Sounds like it’s going badly there. Borzhoi, you coming with us?”

“No. Our orders are to stay here.”

Newman wanted to push it but he had no authority over Borzhoi inside the camp.

“We’ll keep an eye on your place,” said Borzhoi.

“Right.” Newman readied his bow. “Let’s go.”

His three housemates followed behind him single file.

Newman stopped to put them in a formation. “Make a line, side by side. Close enough you can hit an orc in front of the guy next to you. Keep the line straight.”

He spotted a crafter watching them, uncertain whether to advance or flee. “Hey, you. Grab a pole and join the line.”

The crafter promptly fell in next to Pernach. Two more men saw this and joined the line. They made it wide enough Newman had to walk down the lane ahead of them instead of beside.

The melee at the gate made the mess at the Wolfheads look like a ballet. Orcs were everywhere. All the pavilions lay flat, furniture pushing up through the canvas to trip distracted fighters. The Wolfheads were in a circle, surrounded by orcs trying to find a gap in their armor.

“Move left,” ordered Newman. “End man touch the wall.” He pointed to show where he wanted them standing.

Here and there orcs stood still, catching their breath or looking for a new target. He loosed arrows into them. He didn’t dare fire on the