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

orc fell, revealing a man wearing a knight’s belt. He bled from scalp and chest. One arm hung limp. He staggered through the gap in the line and collapsed.

The flincher stood a few feet away, still holding his tent pole.

Newman snarled, “Get back in line, you. And stay in line.” He looked left and right. “Straighten the line!” he shouted. “Stay right between the man on your left and right.”

Some men stepped onto orc bodies as they obeyed. The ground under the brawl was covered with bodies. Mostly orc. Enough humans lay among them to scare Newman. Even if they won this fight, had they lost too many to survive?

Orcs were backing into the line now as the melee squeezed them out. Poles and spears took them down quickly when they came in range.

Newman saw the Wolfheads advancing on the other side. They were putting the pressure on. In some places fighters were so close together they couldn’t swing a weapon. Some dropped swords and spears to strangle each other.

Knights and squires were coming through the line. The wounded or exhausted would walk a few paces for safety then lie down. The fit waved polemen into the second line and took their places.

“Hold the line steady, boys,” called Newman. “We’re the anvil. The orcs are being hammered on us.”

He could see a few orcs going back out the gate. Usually wounded. One was missing an arm. But a steady trickle were hale orcs who seemed to have had enough.

In humans this would start a stampede. Once a few left the rest would flee to make sure they weren’t the last one left fighting. He’d seen a local unit do that in the Sandbox. In three minutes it went from ninety percent strength to a panicked mob.

Orcs didn’t notice some of their number departing. Or didn’t care. Their morale didn’t break.

As the two lines came closer together the number of orcs still fighting dwindled. They didn’t group up to defend themselves. The last dozen standing were surrounded and went down almost simultaneously.

Fighters who’d been in the melee leaned on their rescuers, panting. The lines broke up to see which humans among the bodies could benefit from first aid. Those without medical skills made sure all the orcs were dead.

Newman joined a solemn circle of men. They surrounded a dead body. Two spears had been driven crossways through his torso into the ground, holding him almost upright on his knees. It was King Estoc. A circle of orc bodies had fallen facing him, two and sometimes three deep. His sword, soaked in orange, lay on one knee.

He backed away, letting those who knew the king better mourn. He waved at his troops to spread out. All the wounded men were being helped now. If they were fit enough to walk, or be carried, they were taken away from the slaughter.

As Newman walked he stabbed the orcs he stepped over, in case they weren’t quite dead. One twitched hard enough he put a half dozen holes in it to make sure.

Near the gate he found Duke Stonefist.

The duke was surrounded by dead orcs. Headless orcs, armless orcs, orcs cleaved to the spine. Stonefist lay atop the pile, unmarked. His heart had given out with the labor. His expression was frustration that he’d been interrupted in the middle of his work. The axe was gripped firmly. Blade, haft, and hands were covered in orange blood.

Newman knelt and closed the duke’s eyes.

***

Constable sat on the roof of the wrecked Royal Pavilion, leaning against a box holding some of the fabric off the ground. He lifted one hand to wave to Lady Burnout. Blood leaked through the fingers of his other hand until he added the first’s pressure to his thigh again.

“Fool old man,” she scolded. “You need to leave brawling to the young ones.” Burnout knelt to look at the wound.

“This mace isn’t for show. All of us were needed.”

“Right. Well, I have some news for you. Found a new magic user,” she said.

Constable hissed as she swabbed antiseptic into the spear wound. “Who?”

“Me.” Lady Burnout laid her hand over the flowing blood, barely firm enough for him to feel it. When she lifted it the wound was scabbed over.

“Useful,” grunted Constable. The pain was still there.

“Works from the inside out. I think I can treat internal bleeding too.”

“Keep your hand off my chest.”

“I’ll only use it for good. When you’re on your feet I need you to look into some others.”

“More new magic users?”

“Maybe. Just rumors. A woman claims she escaped orcs by hovering out of reach. Another guy was flinging stuff around with his mind. And the rumors about Lady Goldenrod are—well. I shouldn’t prejudice you.”

Constable lifted his leg, gritting his teeth as he flexed the torn muscles. “If they’re real I’m calling it proof of my magic-under-stress theory.”

“I won’t argue.”

The man used his mace to turn onto his bad knee. Burnout balanced him as the good leg pushed him upright. “Right,” he said. “This thing is too damn short. Hand me a spear, will you?”

She pried one out of the hand of a dead orc. Constable held it as a walking stick. “That’s good. Back to work, you.”

Lady Burnout nodded. She turned and walked three paces to the next casualty.

Constable leaned on the spear as he surveyed the battlefield. It was a lumpy green carpet of orc bodies. Well over a hundred of them. The ground was soaked with orange blood turning brown as it dried.

Hardly any human bodies lay among them, though red splotches showed where some had been carried off. Lady Burnout wasn’t the only one tending to the wounded. They were too busy to be questioned.

He decided he needed a drink to replace the blood he’d lost. And wherever he