Magic Engineer

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  The boulders and solid rock underneath the walls shiver- once, twice.

  Nerliat’s eyebrows lift.

  The wall shakes, and one soldier loses his balance and sprawls on the stones behind the parapet. The walls rock, and stone cracks like thunder.

  A thin spout of hot gas lances upward through the crumbling wall, sulfurous, followed by steam and boiling water.

  The crashing rocks, the steam, and the falling walls and avalanches from the west rim of the Easthorns all drown out the brief screams of human flesh.

  By sunset, all that remains is a steaming, boulder-strewn depression blocking the mountain road between Certis and Spidlar.

  A small party of white-clad individuals rides quietly eastward. No one speaks to the two White Wizards. No one speaks, except for the wounded guard, who moans with each turn and switchback.

  CXI

  “THIS ISN’T SMITHING,” grumbles Vaos, as he carries a basket full of mixed weeds and grass downhill.

  “No,” agrees Dorrin cheerfully. “But it is coin. Do you want to have me fire up the forge and work on the scrap pile?” Vaos groans. “That’s not much better than being a farmer.”

  “Smithing’s not easy work.” Dorrin turns the soil along the row, leaving small depressions for the herb seedlings he has nursed through the late winter and cold spring. He hopes they will grow quickly and provide Liedral with another trading good when the last of the ice floes clears the Northern Ocean.

  “… not smithing…” Vaos dumps the greenery into the compost pile.

  Dorrin stoops and plants, stoops and plants, taking seedling after seedling from the crude flats and patting the soil around each. “You can start bringing the buckets of water over here.”

  “I didn’t want to be a light-busted farmer…”

  “Neither did I,” Dorrin responds, “but I like eating, and so do you.”

  “Doing the iron scrap might be easier…”

  “We’ll do that later, when it’s dark.”

  “Darkness… you never rest, master Dorrin.”

  “That’s for when I’m too tired to do anything else.”

  Vaos slowly picks up the buckets and trudges to the pipe faucet Dorrin has added to the water line to the house. “At least, I don’t have to climb up from the pond.”

  “After you water all these-and don’t wash them out, or you’ll work all night on the scrap with me-clean up and meet me in the smithy.”

  “Yes, ser.”

  Dorrin follows Vaos to the crude faucet. It leaks, and he has been forced to put stones down, and a trench to the garden to carry away the thin dribble of water, but at least it reduces some work. When it gets cold, he will have to remove it, and bury the piping more deeply so that the line does not freeze the way it did on the colder days of the last winter.

  After Vaos fills his buckets and heads toward the seedlings, Dorrin washes off with the cold water and shakes the excess off his hands before drying them on a towel that is really a rag. “Don’t forget to wash up,” he calls.

  “Yes, ser.”

  Grinning at the resignation in the youth’s voice, Dorrin walks across the slowly greening grass on the west side of the house toward the door to the smithy. Once in the smithy, he dons the leather apron and then begins to bring up the fire, setting in the charcoal.

  Asavah wants a plow fixed. The share has been worn down and rusted, the point ripped off by a buried rock. Although Dorrin does not usually do plows, Asavah’s help with the foundation and framing of the house saved Dorrin many days, and Jisle’s chief hand needs the plow for planting-now.

  Dorrin sets out the fullers and the hammers, studying the scraps he has already begun to gather and the rod stock. Finally, he pulls out a partial plate left from the shield-making and sets it on the anvil.

  Vaos trudges into the smithy, still shaking the water off his hands. He looks at the plate on the anvil and grins. “I get to do some striking?”

  “We’re replacing the share point on Asavah’s plow. Actually, it’s Jisle’s plow, but I owe Asavah.” Dorrin shrugs. “Then I need to make some more wire for Brede.” He points to the bellows lever.

  “Do those wire things work?” Vaos pulls the lever to build the forge fire.

  “Kadara says they do.” Dorrin takes the heaviest tongs and sets the iron in the forge. “They won’t do enough, but I hope they help.”

  “Can you forge something else?”

  “Forging isn’t the problem. Finding what to forge is.” The smith readjusts the position of the heavy iron in the fire.

  CXII

  “THERE THEY ARE!” yells the first squad leader.

  A squad of Spidlarian troopers, apparently upon seeing the green banners of Certis, rein up, quickly re-form, and retreat back down the road to Elparta.

  The Certan strike leader studies the depression between the two hills, but sees little but meadows barely turning green. A rock wall, tumbled in places, runs along the left side of the road that angles along the highest point in the depression between the two ridges before turning due north again.

  Near the lowest point of the road, just before it widens into a wagon turnout, on the side opposite the stone wall are two gnarled trees bearing pink blossoms.

  The Certan officer studies the road and the trees, but there is no cover in the lower area, and the Spidlarians have already disappeared.

  “Let’s get the bastard traders!”

  The first two squads, maintaining their order, spur their mounts into a quick trot. The strike leader nudges his mount after the lead squad.

  Despite the attempt at order, by the time the first squad is nearing the wagon turnout several riders are moving faster than a mere trot.

  Abruptly, the leading trooper flails in midair, and his body seems to separate into a top and a bottom half separated by a bloody mist. Two other troopers twist off their mounts, and a horse crumples under another rider.

  Suddenly the depression is filled with bodies and horses.

  Then the arrows begin to fall, and they fall like death upon the congealed mass on the road.

  The strike leader and half a squad struggle back uphill in time to watch the Spidlarians return, led by a blond giant.

  When two Spidlarian squads detach themselves from their completed massacre and start up the hill, with a handful of mounted bowmen, the strike leader digs his spurs into his mount’s flanks, and the handful of Certan troopers flee for the camp beyond the border.

  CXIII

  DORRIN SETS THE kettle-piston on the forge bricks and feeds charcoal around the banked coals. He adjusts the air nozzle and gently pumps the bellows’s lever. Then he adds the water to the kettle and flicks the clamps in place over the fill plate. Finally, he eases the kettle into place on the adaptor to the hanging iron he has added to the forge. Once the device is clamped in place, Dorrin eases the angled iron over the forge fire and increases his pumping of the bellows.

  Before long, the thin trail of steam from around the fill clamps betrays the increasing pressure within the kettle, but neither the piston rod nor the wheeldriver attached to it move. Dorrin uses the narrow-edged pickup tongs to move the piston. He wipes his steaming forehead as the piston chugs through two cycles and stalls again.

  “Darkness!” He swings the kettle off the forge. The intake valve has jammed-again. Theoretically, the valve should be easier to make in a larger size, but he cannot afford the materials to experiment in large sizes.

  As he waits for the kettle to cool, his senses study the piston and valve assembly. It should work, but it does not. He wipes his forehead once more. Even though all the doors to the smithy are open, the air is so still that it seems to weigh down everything.

  He turns, certain a figure stands by the small slack tank, but the smithy remains empty. He studies the valve on the kettle device, finally nodding as he considers changing the angle of the tubing.

  Outside he hears the sound of a wagon and a horse.

  “There! Easy, big fellow�
��”

  Dorrin grins at the sound of Vaos’s voice. The boy still loves the horses. With a last look at the kettle device, the smith turns and walks toward the yard and whoever has arrived.

  Vaos holds the harness while the gray-haired man in the heavy blue sweater and blue trousers climbs off the wagon. Merga and Liedral stand on the small porch outside the kitchen. Frisa hangs on the railing, looking at the horse. Then she stands and grasps her mother’s hand.

  “Master Dorrin?” The gray-haired man bows as the smith approaches.

  “Hasten, is it time for annual dues or something?”

  “Well… master Dorrin, it is about money, or services.” The gray-haired man bows again.

  “Come on inside.” He looks at Merga. “Do we have anything to drink?”

  “Not really, ser. Not except water.” Merga frowns. “It would take a while, but I could brew some herb tea.”

  “Water would be fine,” Hasten affirms, using a soiled square of off-white cloth to blot dust and sweat from his forehead. “Even though it’s been a late summer, it’s hot now.” He picks up a thick leather folder and heads toward the steps.

  Dorrin nods to Vaos to water the horse. Vaos smiles.

  “Can I help?” asks Frisa, as Vaos ties the horse to the stone post and lifts the bucket.

  Merga looks from the horse to Vaos, then says. “You be careful, girl.”

  “You, too, Vaos,” Dorrin adds.

  A smile flits across Liedral’s face, but vanishes as Dorrin turns toward her, and the two men climb the steps to the porch and the kitchen.

  Almost as soon as both men are seated, Merga serves two mugs of cold water. Dorrin motions to Liedral, who has remained in the doorway, wearing a loose brown tunic and trousers. Her hair has been cut short.

  “Hasten, this is trader Liedral. Liedral will be the one trading some of what I forge and grow.” Merga looks out toward the yard, then scuttles out. Hasten inclines his head to Liedral, ignoring Merga’s hasty departure, although the eyes question the slim figure. “Pleased to meet you, trader. Where might you be from?”

  “Liedral is originally from Jellico, but now has stored some goods here.” Hasten frowns.

  “I’m assuming that Liedral’s fees to the Guild, as a traveling trader, would be similar to mine,” Dorrin adds.

  “Ah… well… I do suppose you could act as the sponsor, although it is rare for an… artisan smith… to sponsor a trader.” Hasten coughs. “And that is partly why I am here.”

  “Coins?” prompts Dorrin.

  “You know, of course, that the Whites have persuaded Certis and Gallos to raise levies against us.” Hasten coughs again. “The Council is… frankly… hardpressed”

  “How much?”

  Hasten swallows. “Ah… double… roughly. A silver for you, and it would be two for the trader.”

  Dorrin sighs. “I think we might be able to manage it-this year. Darkness knows if this continues…” Even the hint that he might not be able to manage the dues creates a dull throbbing in his skull. He shakes his head.

  “I know, master Dorrin. I know.” Hasten looks to Liedral. “But we don’t charge near what the Whites require.” Liedral smiles crookedly. “The Whites do extract a high price.”

  “… and our ships can no longer travel the Gulf or the Eastern Ocean. The White fleet…” The Guild functionary looks at the tabletop, then lifts the mug and takes a swallow of the cold water. “The Council may have to call levies and services, yet.”

  “Services?” Dorrin takes a sip of his water.

  “Military goods-supplies, that sort of thing. For you, some forging that the troops can use, harnesses or wagon brackets, perhaps caltrops.”

  “You either provide services or carry a pike?”

  Hasten nods. “It may not come to that.”

  “It will,” Dorrin says wearily. “It will.” He pauses. “Let me get the coins, and you write out whatever papers we get.”

  Hasten opens the folder and extracts several squares, a quill, and a small bottle, which he uncorks carefully, and into which he dips the quill.

  Dorrin walks back into the storeroom, closing the door. He lifts a rack containing a few toys to reveal the iron-bound strongbox, from which he takes the three silvers. He replaces the strongbox, the rack, and the toys.

  When he returns to the kitchen, Hasten is still scratching on the parchment squares. “A terrible time it is… terrible…” Hasten takes a sip of water, then wipes his forehead, and a drop of water or sweat splats on the table, narrowly missing the parchment and the wet ink upon it.

  When the receipts are finished, the functionary stands. “A pleasure doing business with you, master Dorrin, and you also… trader Liedral.”

  Liedral inclines her head.

  “A pleasure, Hasten,” Dorrin says, leading the way back to the yard.

  Merga is blotting Frisa with an old dry rag, trying to wipe mud off bare legs, and shaking her head. “I cannot leave you alone… not a moment, and you are in the mud.”

  Dorrin tries not to grin.

  “You did not give her too much, young ser?” Hasten asks Vaos.

  “No, ser. Just a little, a bit at a time, just as she wouldn’t take to colic. Then a bit more.”

  “Good fellow.”

  Vaos hands the reins to Hasten after the functionary climbs onto the wagon seat.

  Dorrin marvels at Hasten’s clothing. A woolen sweater in summer yet, and the perspiration scarcely fazes him. After the Guild man is safely on his road to further collections, Dorrin steps back into the kitchen for more water before returning to the smithy.

  Merga has commandeered a bucket of cold water and is liberally applying it to her daughter’s muddy feet and legs. “You will sit here on the porch until your legs are dry!”

  “Yes, mummy.”

  Liedral waits by the table. “Why did you pay the dues for me? I can’t pay you back. Darkness, I can’t even hold you!” Liedral’s voice cracks.

  “You still need to be a trader,” Dorrin says lightly, though it is an effort to keep his voice cheerful. He still wishes he could hold her. Instead, he stands up.

  “What would I trade?”

  Dorrin raises his eyebrows. “There’s plenty to trade.” He walks to the door to the storeroom, where he uses a striker to light the small lamp inside the room. “Come on.”

  “I didn’t have that much, even if you brought it all.” Liedral follows him to the storeroom.

  “I’ve been busy.”

  “I thought you were selling it to local factors.”

  “I did sell some to Willum, but the White raiders killed him. And I do work for Jasolt, and some of the others, but they can’t sell much, especially now.” Dorrin gestures toward the racks. “Here are some of the small toys. These are decorative latches. When I made the latches for the doors I made a few extra. And…” He laughs. “Here are some more cheese-cutters.”

  Liedral looks in the racks, eyes widening. “You’re building up all this to trade. This is worth more than any three loads I’ve ever carried. Why?”

  “To get more coin. I need it to feed everyone. And,” he adds as the deception starts his head throbbing, “to be able to build my first engine.”

  “You must really want to build it.” Liedral’s eyes scan the bins and racks. “How did you afford all the iron?”

  “A lot of it came from scrap. I charge a little less for my repairs if people bring scrap. Most smiths will take it, but they just pile it up. We both work on it, but I’m having Vaos learn how to turn it into rough stock.”

  Liedral glances at the bins and racks again. “This is worth a lot.”

  “I hope so. Can you sell it?”

  “If I can get it to Suthya.”

  Dorrin nods. Getting in and out of Spidlar may indeed be the hardest task. He inclines his head toward the door back into the kitchen. With a last look at the goods, Liedral heads back to the kitchen. Dorrin blows out the small lamp and racks it, then closes the door.r />
  “You did all that work just for more coin so that you can afford to build your engine. Why do you want to build the engine? What good will it do? How will it help anyone?” Liedral draws herself a mug of cool water and sits on the edge of a chair, wincing as she lowers herself.

  “Are you still sore?”

  “It’s not bad… About the ship engine?”

  Dorrin ponders. “I’m not sure I have a good answer. I’ve been thinking about using it to power a ship. It works on the models.”

  “What’s wrong with the ships now?”

  Dorrin looks from his chair to hers, then out and down at the pond, where dragonflies hover in the late afternoon, skimming across the water. “They can only go as fast as the wind, and where the wind lets them.”

  “That’s an excuse, not a reason.”

  “No. How many ships get stuck in contrary winds?”

  “Some…” the trader admits.

  Dorrin smiles, and she shakes her head.

  CXIV

  “WHAT HAPPENED?”

  “The levies chased the Spidlarians… I don’t know-except that the first two riders were sliced almost in half, and no one was. around. No one…”

  Jeslek’s hand slams into the field table. “No one? Or no one that they could see?”

  “Did you stop to see what happened?” Anya’s voice is calm.

  “Yes… ser…” stumbles the Certan officer. “Well… not exactly. The lead horses and riders were sliced apart with invisible swords. That got everyone clogged together on the road. Then archers popped up out of hidden pits. Before things got untangled… we lost almost three whole squads.”

  “Invisible swords?” asks Jeslek.

  “That’s what it looked like. Byler’s body was sliced into two pieces. Like a blood sausage.”

  Anya swallows and looks down at the small portable table before her.

  “Were there walls or anything tall beside the roads?”

  “No, ser. Not that I recall… Maybe one scrubby tree on one side, but this was in those rolling plains, not near Elparta or the woods.” The officer scuffs his boots on the dirt floor of the tent. “Begging your pardon, ser, but… I mean… it’s hard to fight magic.”