The Magic Engineer

by Jr. L. E. Modesitt

“Yes. But I don’t see any alternatives now. Force is all that seems to hold chaos at bay. I don’t like that.”

  Outside, the hoofs of another squad of cavalry echo against the closed window, as the troopers head out toward the field.

  “Force or violence?” asks Liedral.

  Dorrin smiles. “You’re right. Force doesn’t seem to be enough. It’s the violence I don’t like.”

  “The world is filled with violence.”

  “Recluce isn’t.”

  “Do you think they sent you away to find that out?”

  “It could be,” Dorrin says slowly, “but I think it was more because of my fixation on building machines.”

  The door opens with a low creak, and Brede stands there. “I’m sorry it took so long.” He brushes the blond hair off his forehead and gestures toward the room behind him. It contains little more than a round table, a half dozen chairs, and an open cabinet with shelves stacked with various maps.

  Brede waits until Dorrin and Liedral seat themselves. “What did you create this time?”

  “A variation on the cheese cutters. These are designed to use on the river. I did eight sets, but the way the spring arrived, I decided I didn’t have time for any more.”

  “The runoff is already dropping to normal flow.” Brede rubs his forehead. Finally, he looks at Dorrin. “I need your help.”

  “How?”

  “I want you to go with Kadara and set up your devices. I’m trying to organize things here.”

  “Things are that bad?” interrupts Liedral.

  “Yes. The Council has told me to defend Kleth at all costs. There are no alternatives.”

  “That’s so they can buy their way out if you can’t stop the Whites,” Liedral says. “Dorrin’s not exactly a warrior.”

  “I know. Kadara can take care of that—”

  “But you want me to see the Whites, and you think that I might be able to figure out something else if I see them in action. Is that it?”

  “Yes.” Brede’s eyes meet Dorrin’s.

  Dorrin looks at the scratched wood of the table, then at Brede. “All right. I don’t see that I can do less, but I need to get back to the engine.”

  “I’m just asking you to set them up the first time.”

  “I understand.” What Dorrin also understands is that he is on the way to being at least a part-time combat engineer, an occupation not exactly suited to someone who tends to get blinding and incapacitating headaches in the commission of violence.

  CXXXVIII

  Dorrin’s boots skid as he steps onto the slippery ice in the shade of a boulder. “Darkness…” He catches himself on the rock, thankful for his gloves. A long scratch in the leather hints at what could have happened to his hand. To his left the river swirls, strongly, but without the turbulence of eight-days earlier, the major runoff time past.

  Upstream, Dorrin knows, float the flatboats and barges of the Certan and Kyphran levies. The Gallosians will be plodding northward along the road.

  Dorrin calculates, then waves to the figures across the narrow section of the river. Here the river is as narrow as it gets, a little more than three rods of smooth-flowing water.

  “Is this about right?” asks Kadara. An archer stands by her elbow.

  “If we put the first set up there”—Dorrin points upriver to a larger boulder—“and these here, and the third set down there…there’s a chance, at least. I’ll set them at different heights.”

  The archer lifts her bow and releases the shaft that carries the light line across the river.

  Dorrin carefully scrambles upriver to the boulder he pointed out. There he takes the midweight sledge from the makeshift belt sheath and the first of the black-iron stocks from his pack.

  In time, the first stock stands firm, invisible black wires running a cubit or so above the water to another stock on the eastern side of the river.

  They repeat the process twice more before a rider trots up. “The barges are coming, squad leader.”

  “Take cover!” Kadara snaps. She gestures to the depression behind a stump. Dorrin eases into the space.

  “Are you sure you want to stay?” she asks.

  “No. But unless I get a better idea of how you fight, how can I design things?” He wishes he were not there. He is not a fighter, not a hero, and not even the staff behind him offers much comfort. His head begins to ache.

  The handful of archers hide in their concealed pits, and the horse troopers ride downstream.

  “More archers would help…” he whispers to Kadara.

  “Do you know how long—Never mind, we just don’t have that many.”

  Dorrin understands. After two years, Vaos is barely a striker. Then again, Vaos also loves horses.

  The dark water, the empty dark water, flows between the apparently deserted banks of the river. Because the area is mainly used for grazing, few trees grace the banks. Dorrin and Kadara wait.

  The river flows.

  Around the gentle curve plows a dark-hulled barge, followed by two others. On the first barge, bearing the green banners of Certis, are archers, and perhaps a score of foot levies. The second barge carries archers and levies under a gold banner, presumably of Kyphros, while the third bears both banners and levies. There are no white banners.

  Holding his breath, Dorrin waits as the lead barge nears the upstream wires, wires that should cut like knives.

  Cut they do, as the first three archers are swept, bloody and screaming, into the dark water, but their weight momentarily drags the low wires down, where they catch on the barge’s hull.

  With the screaming, the Spidlarian archers rise from their pits and loose a volley at the barge. Archers from the second barge lift their bows.

  Dorrin winces, ducking behind the stump, realizing that nothing is going quite as planned. Kadara releases one arrow, then another. Bodies fall from the lead barge, almost in slow, slow motion, as the barge struggles against the order-reinforced wires.

  Sensing the fraying of the wire beyond the power of order to hold, Dorrin shouts, “Down!”

  Kadara remains upright, nocking yet another arrow and aiming toward the barges. Beside her, Vorban also releases his arrows.

  Dorrin stands, and lunges, knocking the redhead to the muddy ground.

  “Bastard! You—”

  “Stay down!” snaps the smith, as he rolls and yanks Vorban’s feet from beneath him. “Stay down!” The wiry man scrambles away from Dorrin.

  Thwannnnngggg…

  Like the invisible knives they are, the three wires part nearly simultaneously, and like giant iron whips, slice through water and back toward the second barge, which has nearly caught up to the slowed first barge. The black iron knives lash four archers into the water, then continue in their backlash.

  “Aeeeeiiii…”

  As the recoil from the black iron wire slices Vorban into two asymmetrical sections, flames burn through Dorrin’s skull, and he sinks to the ground, arrows of pain slamming through his eyes. He shudders as silently as possible as his mind and skull are slashed by the unseen white whip.

  When he finally straightens, Kadara has fired several more arrows into the barges. Levies dive from the first barge as it passes under the higher second set of wires, and three standing officers are sliced apart.

  The rudderman of the third barge, seeing the disaster ahead, has managed to ground his vessel on the eastern side of the river, upriver and across the water from the bulk of Kadara’s squad.

  The archers on the second barge flatten themselves on the deck, as do some of the levies. The second wires slice through those who do not. Another handful of arrows rains on those lying prostrate.

  The first barge runs under the last wires, which clear the decks and then catch on the tiller post raised by the rudderman.

  “Down!” snaps Dorrin, although he must force the words past the heavy hammering within his brain.

  “Down! Now!” screams Kadara as she flattens herself.

  The a
rrows from the Spidlarians cease as the third wires part explosively, gutting first the rudderman who caught them with the braced and raised tillerpost, and sweeping back across the second barge.

  The tillerman on the second barge ducks, but some of the incautious levies who thought the first wires were the only wires are slashed by the recoiling wire whip.

  After the wires pass, the tillerman on the second barge manages to swing the heavy craft shoreward, this time toward the western shore, where it grinds to a halt, less than a handful of rods from Kadara’s squad.

  Of the nearly two score men originally upon the barge, less than ten stagger shoreward. None make it more than a dozen steps from the barge.

  The empty first barge wanders downstream, grinding over sand and gravel, but not quite catching.

  The levies from the third barge, however, remain untouched, and form up on the far side of the river, using the barge as partial cover.

  Dorrin looks at the bodies, and parts of bodies, bobbing in the water. He swallows hard, and puts his fingers across his forehead, trying to rub the pain away.

  “Let’s go!” Kadara stoops to recover Vorban’s sword, belt, and purse, then continues downstream, exhorting her squad. They carry four bodies, including Vorban’s, downstream and out to the dusty trail flanking the river. The main stone-paved highway runs a kay east of the river.

  Dorrin follows, trying to stand up against the pain behind his eyes. Kadara has eight troopers from the dozen who had waited. He clears his throat and spits the bile onto the riverbank.

  “No way to get to them and really not much in the way of arrows left,” Kadara explains. “We’ll regroup farther downstream.”

  A trooper looks wide-eyed at Dorrin, then back at the carnage in and out of the water. He looks at the black staff and the heavy sledge and slowly shakes his head.

  Dorrin wishes he could shake his head, but with the pain of the trip-hammers behind his eyes, he is having trouble walking, let alone thinking. As they walk northward, Dorrin can hear hoofbeats as horses are brought to them.

  With the mounts comes Brede. He looks down at Dorrin and the brownish specks on his boots.

  Dorrin mounts Meriwhen. “The river slicers worked this time. They probably won’t again.”

  “Why not?”

  “All they have to do is put an iron post out front to catch the wires, and have everyone lie flat. A few will still get killed, but nothing like this.” Dorrin spits out the residue in his mouth onto the road.

  Brede raises his eyebrows and turns to Kadara.

  “We wiped out the first two. The third grounded on the far shore and saved the levies. We didn’t have any more arrows and were outnumbered about five or six to one. Where they grounded we couldn’t get to them. We lost four—Vorban was one of them—to Dorrin’s gadget when the wires snapped. He warned us, but Vorban didn’t listen.”

  “He never did.” Brede turns his mount back in the direction of Kleth. “We’ll try your gadgets again, as soon as possible. There’s a chance they won’t rerig the barges immediately.” He urges his horse toward the main body.

  “Is it always like this?” Dorrin asks Kadara, as she waits for the bodies to be tied to the dead troopers’ horses.

  “Hardly.” Kadara’s laugh is harsh. “This was a victory, if you can call it that. Sometimes we lose, especially if they have White Wizards with them. They don’t like the water much.”

  Dorrin ponders, still rubbing his forehead. He and Kadara have wiped out nearly four score of the enemy, with a handful of losses. “Why can’t we get those other levies?”

  “We would, if they were on this side of the river. We didn’t leave anyone on that side. Too much danger of getting trapped between the road and the river with all their levies.”

  Dorrin does not understand.

  “Look, Dorrin. To wipe out the three score levies left there would take every archer we’ve got on this side of the river, and Brede can’t afford to get them this far away from our main body. He’s been hoping to make it so costly that they’ll get tired.”

  “They won’t,” Dorrin says.

  “No. I know they won’t. So does Brede. But the more we can wound or kill without heavy losses on our part before we have to fight a real battle, the better our chances.”

  “We need to set the wires up and find the next place, but this time, let’s try it just before the narrow point.” Dorrin looks at the canvas-wrapped bundles behind him.

  “You think they’ll be expecting it the same way as before?”

  “I hope so.”

  “So do I.”

  As they ride downstream, Dorrin does not look toward the river and what may float in it, concentrating on what he must do to assemble and test his steam engine, and knowing he is a coward to think about a way of escape.

  CXXXIX

  Dorrin saddles Meriwhen, reflecting on the previous day’s efforts on the river. The second time, the traps were not nearly so effective, and Kadara’s squad lost another five people, killing only a score of Certan levies. Even after an uneasy night’s sleep, he still carries a headache into the dawn. Even more unfortunately, the whole White force has used the river to move another five kays closer to Kleth.

  Liedral waits with her cart outside the stable when Dorrin leads Meriwhen into the spring drizzle. The quiver is propped beside her, and her bow is strung, but both are covered with oilcloth against the rain. He walks the mare up beside the wagon where Liedral stands and gives her a quick hug.

  “Brede wants you to stay?” Liedral slips out of his embrace.

  “Probably. But I can’t do any more for him here, and I’m trying to develop some gunpowder bombs that he can use.”

  “That’s dangerous. What happens if the Whites find out that you’re working on it?” Liedral shudders.

  “That depends. If they’re close enough to fire it, I’m dead. But from what I recall from the old books and what I’ve figured out, they have to be almost in sight of you. Theoretically, I suppose, if I could figure out something that didn’t explode until all the parts—Anyway, I can’t. But I’ve got another idea, and I’ll bring it back here for Brede.”

  He sniffs. Even in the predawn light, the faint smell of fire permeates Kleth, carried northward in advance of the Whites and their horde, although it may be two eight-days or more before they reach the second river city, since they are systematically destroying all holdings on each side of the river.

  Slowly, Dorrin swings into the saddle, wishing he could do more, and simultaneously wishing he didn’t have to worry about the conflict between Fairhaven and Spidlar. Liedral flicks the reins and leads the way past the armory and toward the street that will lead to the west road to Diev.

  “There he goes, the demon smith…swear it’s him, the one who turned the river into a slaughterhouse…” The words echo across the predawn light.

  “Wizards always hurry out…” Metal clinks dully against metal.

  “From what I heard, that one will probably come back with more troubles, just like a tin copper…”

  “Syriol says he’s killed a score of men with that staff…”

  “Who’s the other one?”

  “Some trader…Some say he saved him from the wizards…others say the trader fled Jellico…”

  “…think the wizard likes men…”

  “Let him like what he wants…just leave us alone…”

  Liedral’s countenance is impassive, and Dorrin lets the words drift by in the chill air. Before long they have passed onto the churned and packed mud of the road that will lead them home—if any place can be considered home in the face of the White assault.

  They see no one during the first twenty kays, just footprints, hoof prints, and an occasional wagon track, but the wagon tracks were laid down earlier and have been overlaid with later imprints.

  When they stop by a creek crossed by a narrow stone bridge, Dorrin leads Meriwhen down to the water, but is careful not to let her drink too heavily at first. He fi
lls a bucket from the cart and brings it back to the road.

  “Thank you,” says Liedral. She holds the cart horse’s reins to ensure that the gelding does not try to drink all the cold water instantly. “Are we trying to ride straight through?”

  “Maybe not straight through, but only short breaks. This road is going to get more and more dangerous.”

  “And you plan to come back?”

  “Brede and Kadara need me.”

  “What about us? What about your engine?”

  Dorrin takes a deep breath. “I still don’t have the engine quite completed, and we need to get the parts to the ship.”

  “Are you going to rename it? Harthagay doesn’t seem exactly…I don’t know…it doesn’t sound like you.”

  “Probably. I don’t know what, yet. Until the engine’s in place, all we have is a hull.” He leads Meriwhen back down to the creek for more water.

  Liedral watches, checking the road ahead—still empty. She opens the pack and removes the cheese, and the cheese slicer. When Dorrin returns, she offers him several slices and a chunk of bread. They eat silently.

  Finally, Dorrin asks. “Are you ready?”

  She nods.

  Late afternoon comes before they find other travelers.

  Through the drizzle that is beginning to fall, a group of figures struggles through the mud that covers the road. A half-dozen adults and nearly as many children slog through the dark mud. The children slip often on the downhill slope. Liedral drives the cart as much on the shoulder as on the road as they near the group.

  As Dorrin watches, two of the men slip to the side of the road and let the others plod onward.

  “You see that?” Liedral asks.

  “Yes. Just keep driving. I’m going to try something.” Dorrin concentrates, slowly wraps the light around him, easing Meriwhen closer to the cart.

  The short and stocky man bears a curved blade that has no sheath, while the tall man brandishes a cudgel.

  As he lifts the cudgel, the tall man steps forward, within three paces of the slowly moving cart. “We’d have that cart. We need it far more than ye.”