The Lost War Karl Gallagher (red white and royal blue hardcover .txt) 📖

“You need verticals close together, but they don’t all need to be braced. Seven posts, every four feet.”

Goldenrod opened her mouth, closed it, then said, “Thank you,” with her best smile.

***

Breakfast for House Applesmile was eggs of the local bird-equivalents. They were edible, and probably nutritious, but there were no requests for seconds. Shellbutton waved about a bowl of leftovers. The only suggestion was to take it to the common pavilion.

Master Sweetbread looked up at approaching footsteps. “Good morning, my Lord Autocrat.”

The rest of the table repeated the greeting.

Autocrat Sharpquill nodded in reply. He focused on the two youngest women. “You two. Get back to work on the damn soap.”

“Yes, my lord,” answered Redinkle. She was careful not to smile.

He turned on his heel and stalked off.

“That was quicker than I expected,” said Mistress Tightseam.

Redinkle shrugged. “We spread the word to the well-connected.”

Goldenrod leaned toward Newman. “See? They may not be written down, but our government does have checks and balances.”

***

“I’m amazed you don’t have heat stroke in that junk,” muttered a hunter.

Strongarm laughed. “Sometimes we do. But it happens in sunlight. These woods are nicely shady.”

The trees were dense enough to give cover to orcs as well as deer, which is why Strongarm was accompanying the trio of bowmen. Lone orcs had wounded hunters before. To their relief he’d covered the edges of his armor with strips of cloth or leather so he wouldn’t jingle-jangle all the game away.

Not that he’d gotten to fight an orc yet. Usually his contribution was to help carry the dead deer.

The hunters did appreciate that.

Today the deer were more skittish than usual. They’d seen glimpses of some bucks, but they were running. None stayed in sight long enough for an arrow shot.

Strongarm focused on moving quietly. The sooner they caught some meat, the sooner he could be inside the walls taking his armor off.

They were headed for a thinner patch of forest. Maybe they’d get some shots in there.

A hunter gasped. Strongarm looked up. A band of orcs faced them thirty yards away. Ten—no, twelve of them. Too many to fight.

“Run,” ordered Strongarm. “I’ll hold them off. Run!”

He charged the orcs, finally being the hero he’d always wanted to be. Arrows hissed past him as the hunters each loosed before fleeing.

His shield brushed aside the lead orc’s spear. He swung his sword into the side of its head. The wooden weapon had been made lethal by lining each side of it with nails filed to sharp points. A few nails stayed in the orc’s skull as Strongarm pulled his sword away.

A step and a twist of his hips put Strongarm’s full strength into a backhand blow at the next orc. This time he aimed for the neck. The nails tore through orcflesh in a spray of orange blood.

The third orc thrust a spear at his head. The shield deflected it. The orc dropped his weapon to grab the shield.

His sword parried another spear. The orc kept pressing, binding the weapons together.

Strongarm took a step back to keep his balance. More orcs came up. One grabbed his leg. He landed on his back with a grunt.

The crash freed his sword. He couldn’t swing it but managed to smash a nose with the hilt.

A voice barked commanding syllables. Every orc grabbed a limb. One sat on his chest.

Straining couldn’t break their grip. “Apples, dammit, my safeword is apples!”

The shield and sword were dragged away. Orcs poked at the armor, pinching the flesh underneath as they found gaps. Claws cut straps and tore at his clothing.

Strongarm realized he wasn’t going to be speared through the eyeslit of his helmet. “So it’s to be torture. I can cope with torture.”

The leg armor and codpiece were pulled off first. They weren’t bothering with the helmet or breastplate. He contemplated being eaten alive feet first. “Well, I’ll bleed out before it gets too bad.”

A chill breeze hit him as his pants and underwear were ripped away. “Yeah, look at that dick, boys. Jealous, aren’t you?”

The barking voice issued another command. The orcs flipped him onto his belly. The changing grips gave Strongarm a chance to kick one hard enough to produce a grunt. Then he was immobilized again.

Claws tore at straps and clothes again. His kidney belt was pulled free. Soon his hips were exposed to air again.

The orc sitting on his shoulders got off. He used the freedom to try to pull his arms loose without success.

The biggest orc put his hands on Strongarm’s back and his legs against the man’s.

Strongarm said, “Oh, no. You are not—”

He screamed.

***

Chisel’s apprentices were shaping tree trunks into pointed posts. To Goldenrod they looked like sharpened pencils. The points were driven into the riverbed by hitting the eraser end with sledge hammers.

A sledge-wielder yelped as his feet went out from under him. His partner grabbed an arm, pulling to keep his head above water.

Three royal guards gathered around plunging their spears into the water. One yelled, “Hah!” and levered his spear up.

The cuttlefish impaled on it waved every purple tentacle, trying to find its attacker. Another guard grabbed the spear to heave the beast onto the bank.

The third guard drove a spear through it, pinning it to the ground. Other spearmen stabbed it until it lay still.

“I wish these were edible,” said one. “Must be fifty pounds of meat on it.” Another mimed retching.

Tapping sounded again. The carpenters had found their sledges and gone back to work.

The Autocrat had come to check on the progress. “This had better work,” he said to Goldenrod. “You’ve diverted a lot of labor to this little project.”

“We need the fish, my lord. It’s good protein.”

“I’m not worried about the nutritional value