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

Her dress was gold, adorned with hundreds of beads. An older woman stood behind her. Goldenrod said, “King Estoc and Queen Camellia rule the Kingdom. They’re halfway through their six month reign. The one in the gold dress behind them is Baroness Stitches, the chief lady-in-waiting. Sort of their organizer.”

Next she indicated the couple in the second pair of thrones, set to the side and slightly behind Estoc and Camellia’s. The man was black, dark enough to make Newman wonder if he was an African immigrant. His crown sat on top of a purple turban, which went with the Moorish style of his tunic. He was the calmest man in sight, his expression unperturbed by the disaster or the panicking people around them. His wife was nearly as serene, her ebony face turned up in a slight smile to mask her concern. Goldenrod continued, “King Ironhelm and Queen Dahlia are the Invaders. Or Visitors when we’re being polite. This event is a war between our kingdom and theirs.” Her voice caught. “Or it was before whatever-it-was happened.”

Then she pointed to a man in a fur-trimmed black robe. He was older than the others, hair and beard streaked with grey. “That’s Master Sharpquill, the Autocrat. He’s in charge of the war—this camp.”

“The King’s not in charge?”

“Officially he is, but he just does the ceremonial stuff and blesses the consensus. The King reigns. The Autocrat rules. Well, rules this event. There’d be another Autocrat at the next event. Except. Well. We’re not going home on Monday I guess.”

After finishing opening formalities, the herald hushed the crowd for an address from King Estoc.

“Good morning, everyone.” The king’s smile made him look even more boyish. His voice had a slight catch. “We have a situation here. I’m sure it’s scary for everyone. But there’s lots of talented people here. Please stay calm and work together and I’m sure we’ll all be fine. My lord Autocrat?”

The older man came forward as King Estoc returned to his throne.

“Not bad,” whispered Goldenrod.

“Huh?”

“For someone who doesn’t do anything but heavy fighting it’s a decent speech.”

Estoc had been trying to hide nervousness. Master Sharpquill looked as if landing in the wilderness was a routine annoyance for him. Possibly he was just too tired to care.

“In case anyone hasn’t noticed yet, we’re not where we set up camp. We’re not on Earth, and our amateur astronomer assures me we’re not in the Solar System, unless we’re millions of years in the past or future.”

Some moans came from those who’d hoped they could get home. Some who’d suppressed their panic in hopes of better news lost control. It took a couple minutes to calm the populace to where the Autocrat could speak again.

“How and why is a mystery. I’m going to request that you save discussing that mystery for after dark. We have lots of work to do. We can’t afford to have two hundred people standing around arguing.

“Today only I want everyone to stay in camp. We’re going to send out some scouts to check for danger. Today’s task is inventory. Every household count your food and medicine. Assume you need to make your supplies last seven days. If you’re short on food, or can spare some, see Countess Fennel.

“If you don’t belong to a household . . .” the Autocrat ran through several more procedural issues. When he’d checked off everything on the index card in his hand he shoved it into a sleeve. “Now. It’s clear this is an emergency. We need to pull together to survive it. As much fun as our usual debating of every question is there’s no time for it right now. I ask you all: will you work as hard as you can to assure the survival of us all?”

A ragged chorus of “aye” came from the crowd.

“Will you accept temporary sacrifices for the good of us all?”

A firmer “aye” this time.

“Will you accept the emergency orders of the Crown to guide us all?”

“Aye!”

“On behalf of the Crown I thank you, and swear to do our best for you all. Go, do your inventory, make plans for tomorrow.”

The herald dismissed the populace. A storm of chatter sprang up.

Newman whispered in Goldenrod’s ear. “Wait, we’re just leaving the same people in charge in an emergency?”

She shrugged. “Who else? We’d starve to death getting this bunch to agree to any other way to run things.”

A stranger addressed Newman. “You any good with that bow?”

“Yes, I think so.” He wasn’t sure if this man merited a ‘my lord’ or not.

“I’m Bodkin. I’m organizing a hunting party for tomorrow. Want to join?”

“Sure.”

“Where will I find you?”

“House Applesmile.”

The hunter nodded and walked off in search of his next recruit.

***

House Applesmile's banner bore a boar’s head, smiling widely, around an apple. Their host fried up some “mess” on a griddle over a fire. Goldenrod and Newman’s sausage and bread had been diced before going into the common scramble. The smell was delightful. Everyone kept drifting to downwind to get more of it.

A well-dressed noblewoman approached the tent, followed by two men in armor. The host hailed her. “Good day, Lady Stitches. I believe you know my household. Let me introduce our guests, Lady Goldenrod and Newman Greenhorn. This is Her Majesty’s Chief Lady in Waiting.” The last was spoken to make it clear to Newman he was being honored by the introduction.

“Good day, Master Sweetbread.” Stitches nodded to the guests. “Well met.”

“How may I serve you today, my lady?”

“With a tour of your kitchen,” said Stitches, face stiff. “Their Majesties have ordered me to collect the inventory of food supplies.” She waved the clipboard in her hand as evidence.

“Of course,” said Sweetbread. The “kitchen” tent had its sides extended on poles for extra shade. “We came with enough to feed