The Magic Engineer

by Jr. L. E. Modesitt

  “I love her. It doesn’t always show, and I just can’t leave these people. I’m not talking about the traders. I mean the troops, and the farmers—people like your Yarrl and Reisa and Petra.” Brede refills the mug, rubs his neck and shoulders, and then his eyes. “If…if…anything happens…and you’re there…”

  “I think you’re more likely to survive this than me.”

  “That’s demon crap. Will you take care of her?” Brede’s eyes bore into Dorrin.

  “If I’m there…yes.” Dorrin looks at the table, feeling guilty because he still wants to finish and sea-test the Black Diamond, guilty because he has doubts about the usefulness of throwing himself into a battle when his success may blind him—possibly forever. “What does the battle look like?”

  “Not good. They’ve added another five thousand levies from Hydlen. We’ll do what we can. But with everything I can drag together, we’re talking perhaps thirty-five hundred troops—and you.”

  “I appreciate the flattery,” Dorrin says dryly, rubbing his forehead. “How long do I have to work this magic?”

  “The way they’re advancing—maybe ten days.”

  “Is there any way I can tell Liedral where I am?”

  “I don’t think you’ll have to.” Brede shakes his head. “I had Tylkar—he was the one raising the last levy in Diev—request that she come back with the levies. They should be here tomorrow.”

  “Wasn’t that a little presumptuous?”

  “Darkness, yes. But I’d use whatever I could to keep you here. This isn’t a game, Dorrin. A lot of people are going to die.”

  The smith swallows. In Brede’s and Kadara’s terms, he never really had a choice about staying. He could have left—they couldn’t hold him—except for Liedral. “You’re a bastard.”

  “I had to learn that.” Brede coughs. “Welka’s expecting you. You’ve also got the small room in the headquarters next to mine. That’s the least I can do now, and little enough.” He laughs harshly as he stands.

  Dorrin watches as the tall blond commander strides out of the converted barn. Then he stands up. He needs to find the armorer and begin forging destruction.

  CXLVI

  The Spidlarian forces comprise an entrenched circle on the hillside. The road from Elparta to Kleth angles up the slope from southwest to southeast. To the east lie the bluffs overlooking the river, and to the west, the hill slopes downward into the Devow Marsh, which stretches westward a good four kays. Beyond the marsh are the Kylen Hills, rugged and filled with potholes and crumbling sandstone ledges.

  Dorrin peers over the earthworks at the banners on the lower and opposing hill—the crimson of Hydlen, the purple of Gallos, the green of Certis, the gold of Kyphros, and, of course, the crimson-edged white of Fairhaven. He looks uphill, hoping that Liedral will stay with the rear guard, wishing that she had stayed in Kleth itself.

  The sky is covered with high thin clouds that give a gray cast to the morning. A light breeze out of the south, barely lifting the banners of the White forces, carries the odor of burned fields uphill.

  A thin wavering horn sounds from the chaos forces.

  Dorrin’s eyes flicker from the earthen barriers to the troops arrayed across the low valley. After a second blast from the horn, fire gouts from the area of the white banners, flaring toward the Spidlarian hillside, spreading until it impacts. Only a handful of screams follows the fire, demonstrating the effectiveness of the earthworks against the direct impact of the wizards’ fire. Several thin lines of greasy black smoke spiral into the sky. A second line of fire follows the first, with even less impact.

  Then the ground shakes.

  The blue-clad riders stand by their blindfolded mounts, waiting for the shaking to end, calming the nervous animals.

  Dorrin grins. So far, Brede has anticipated the wizards’ tactics.

  A semi-hush falls across the hills, and Dorrin waits. Then the purple banners surge uphill toward the lower front line of timbered trenches where the outlines of Spidlarian pikes and halberds wait. Only a handful of troops are there, and they should be scuttling back up the trench to higher ground.

  Behind his own higher timbered wall, Dorrin holds his breath, his perceptions trying to check the situation, hoping that the last troops will be up the trench before he must act.

  The Gallosian troops crash over the first line, and pour into the trenchworks, splitting to follow the trenches to the higher emplacements. Dorrin swallows and pulls the line buried in the wooden casing that sticks out of the side of the shallow pit. Once the line is taut, and his senses tell him that the striker has lit, he pulls the second line, the one that removes the supports from one section of the casing. Then he climbs out of the pit and begins to refill the area around the flattened wooden casing.

  “Now!” he snaps to the two men beside him. “Shovel.”

  They shovel as if the demons of light were after them, and before the fuse lit by the striker has reached the buried charges.

  The purple banners continue to push uphill, nearly halfway to the higher emplacements. Arrows—not many, but enough—fly toward the first ranks, trying to slow them.

  Dorrin gnaws on his lower lip, hoping his advice to Brede—pulling back the troops and leaving wooden weapons decoys—will be borne out. He sits down, fearing what is about to happen, both to the advancing troops, and to him. The banners follow the troops near the trenches, with attendant shouts, as the Gallosians sense victory, despite the handfuls of arrows that rain down upon their uphill charge.

  CRUUUMPPPPPP!!!! The hillside erupts, and even the clay-filled pit under Dorrin wells up, throwing him against the wall and plastering him with clay.

  “Light,” screams one soldier.

  The other gurgles for a moment. Dorrin tries not to claw out his eyes from the pain and from seeing the splinters of wood protruding from the man’s abdomen and throat.

  His own shoulder burns, and he blinks at the wooden barb that has ripped through his jacket and tunic. His senses tell him that the wound is flesh only, and he slowly works out the wood, fumbling with the dressing in the small pack he has carried, before finally wedging one in place.

  Only then does he look downhill at the mass of churned earth that has covered almost all of the charging Gallosians. The wave of whiteness from the devastation strikes him, and he slumps to the bottom of the trench under his own darkness, darkness propelled with a white agony that slams at his skull.

  “Where is he…?”

  Words pass by, as he lies there, vaguely aware of Spidlarian troopers easing their way downhill toward his observation trench, or what is left of it. How long he has lain there, he does not know, only that his head pounds.

  “Light! Look at this mess.”

  “Ugggghhhh…” Someone retches.

  “This one looks like a pincushion.” The voice is cool.

  “Where’s Dorrin?”

  At the sound of Liedral’s voice, Dorrin tries to open his eyes, but the blackness remains, despite the diffused warmth of the midmorning sun that tries to penetrate the high clouds. Slowly, his fingers touch his fluttering eyelids. His eyes are open, but he cannot see.

  “One of them’s alive. His hand moved.”

  “That’s the smith.”

  Dorrin coughs, bringing up a mixture of bile and what tastes like clay. With Liedral’s help, he sits up. His head pounds. When it does not pound, a fire burns within his skull. She eases some cider down his throat.

  Finally, he coughs again. “What…happened? After the explosion?”

  “Nothing,” Liedral says. “What was left of the Gallosians withdrew to their positions.”

  “Probably not a score of their two thousand left,” adds one of the troopers accompanying Liedral.

  Dorrin swallows. “Two thousand?”

  “See why the Force Leader wanted us to help him?” demands another voice in the darkness.

  Dorrin tries to reach out with his senses and gain an impression of those around him. With ef
fort, he gains the blurred image of Liedral and three other troopers.

  “What’s the matter?” Liedral asks. “You aren’t looking at me.”

  “I can’t see you,” he admits. “I can’t see anything.”

  “Shit!” exclaims one of the troopers.

  “I need to get him out of here,” Liedral says.

  “We’ll help. Leastwise, he got rid of those damned Gallosians.”

  Dorrin staggers along the trench, partly leaning on Liedral, losing track of the direction in which they are heading. Even before they have reached the hilltop, the effort leaves Dorrin shaking. Each step seems to intensify the pain in his head.

  In the distance, he can hear screams, horses, and shouts. He tries to take another step, but the darkness is too heavy, and pounds him into the damp soil.

  CXLVII

  “Darkness with this measured approach!” snaps Jeslek.

  “It was your idea,” observes Anya.

  “So? I can be wrong.” Jeslek looks across to the hillside that resembles an instantly churned and plowed field.

  “You can? I never would have guessed it.” Anya’s voice is bitter.

  “Fydel,” orders Jeslek, “have all the levies march over the mined ground there.”

  “What?”

  “The one thing we know is that they can’t have planted more of those devices where they already exploded. And we don’t want them to retreat and mine another section of hill or field.”

  Even Fydel nods at the logic.

  “Everything that damned smith has done requires advance preparation. We can’t give him any more chances. Order the charge. Pour everything into that point. And keep the troops moving.”

  “Yes, Jeslek.”

  “I mean it. Keep them moving.”

  As Jeslek turns to survey the battlefield, Anya and Fydel exchange glances. They nod.

  Then Fydel hurries toward the field commander’s tent.

  CXLVIII

  The sounds of metal on metal rumble in the distance, and the ground trembles under him. Muffled curses, yells, grunts, and other assorted sounds creep toward him, but the sharp, knife-edged whiteness that throbs and slashes within his forehead continues to dominate his consciousness.

  He swallows, and feels something cool against his lips. “Drink this, Dorrin…please.”

  The voice is gentle, and he sips slowly. Is it his imagination, or is the pain in his head receding slightly?

  “Dorrin?”

  He recognizes Brede’s voice.

  “He’s blind,” Liedral says. “Are you satisfied?”

  “Satisfied?”

  “You can’t expect a Black smith to create so much destruction and not suffer, can you? Even your great Creslin was blind most of his life.”

  Brede sighs loudly enough for Dorrin to hear. “I’m sorry.” He half turns. “You troopers need to get back to your units. The Whites are pressing the attack.” His voice is lower when he turns back to Liedral and Dorrin. “What do you expect from me? We’re outnumbered ten to one, and I probably won’t leave the field.”

  Liedral swallows. “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be. We all end up doing what we have to. Get Dorrin back to Diev. Go around Kleth.”

  “I can ride,” Dorrin snaps. “I’ve got some perception. Not much, but enough.”

  “You’re not riding. The cart can carry two. And you need to rest.”

  “Keep him in hand, Liedral.” A silence follows before Brede speaks again. “I’ve got to go. Good luck.” Dorrin gains the sense of a sad smile. “You did more than anyone, Dorrin. Darkness be with you. Don’t wait too long.” Brede turns back toward a chorus of voices clamoring for his attention.

  “Where are you putting the old pikes?”

  “Can Hydre’s troopers crack the flank…”

  “What about the Certan heavy foot…”

  Dorrin tries to sit up, but the white knives within his skull burn more brightly, and are relieved by the darkness.

  When he wakes again, the ground still shivers, and the sounds of metal on metal are closer, and the screams more piercing.

  “Dorrin, you have to get up…I can’t carry you.”

  Slowly, slowly, he sits up.

  “Here’s some water.” Liedral presses the water to his lips, and he drinks.

  The water, now lukewarm, helps, and the throbbing in his skull recedes to heavy dull aching.

  “Can you stand up? Just lean on me.” Liedral’s voice is insistent.

  The smith stands, and his legs hold.

  “Come on.” Liedral tugs Dorrin’s arm, and they head downhill away from the sounds of battle. She stops. “You’re still bleeding a little.”

  “Took a wooden dart or something in the arm. It’s all right.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “As these things go. I’m more worried about seeing. My engine isn’t finished.”

  “Your engine? You’re thinking about your engine at a time like this?” Liedral’s voice rises.

  “Do you want me to think about the destruction I’ve already created?” His words slur, perhaps because of the effort it takes to speak.

  “I’m sorry. But I’m not.”

  Dorrin moves away from her and onto the flatter meadowland, sensing Meriwhen, and his staff in the lanceholder ahead. He stumbles, but catches himself and struggles on through the damp ground. Behind them, horses approach.

  Dorrin tries to cast out his perceptions, but the white knives stab inside his skull, and he waits, hoping the cavalry are Spidlarians.

  “There’s the smith-healer—and the trader,” calls a voice.

  “You the one called Liedral?” asks another voice.

  “Yes.” Liedral’s voice is cautious. “Oh…darkness…”

  Dorrin catches the anguish in her tone. “What is it?”

  Liedral does not answer, but she stops and looks toward the horses.

  “Can you take care of the squad leader?”

  “Of course, my cart’s up there. Can you put her in it?”

  “Kadara?” rasps Dorrin.

  “She’s…wounded…unconscious…”

  Dorrin forces himself to the cart, just touching Liedral for guidance.

  “Let me arrange this…put her there…”

  “We’ve got to get back. They’re coming up the side…Owe her this, but the Force Leader needs us.”

  “Go!” snaps Liedral. She turns toward the stake that holds the harness and leads, and Meriwhen’s reins.

  Dorrin reaches out and touches the unconscious figure. Kadara breathes, but shallowly. He pushes back his own pain, trying to sense her injuries: the fractured collar bone, the deep slash across the upper arm, and some sort of bruise-gash above her ear.

  “Dorrin…you can’t…”

  “Not much,” he grunts. “Bleeding’s stopped. Need to get out of here.”

  He turns toward where he senses the mare. “Meriwhen…girl?”

  Whheeee…

  “I’m here, girl.” He steps across the uneven ground and pats the mare’s neck, feeling for the reins. Liedral lets go, and Dorrin takes them. “I’ll ride.”

  “You can’t.”

  “I can. I have to.”

  “You’re impossible.”

  Dorrin feels his way into the saddle.

  “You can’t ride.”

  “I can follow you.” Dorrin waits for Liedral. His fingers grip the black staff, and for a moment, but only a moment, the mud-tramped meadow stretches before him, and there is no pounding in his skull, only the burning in his shoulder. Just as quickly, the vision is gone, and the hammers of his headache return. He takes a deep breath, hoping that concentrating on order will return his vision, at least before too long.

  “You’re a stubborn man.” After fastening the tailboard of the cart, Liedral climbs onto the cart seat.

  “You should be glad for that, woman.”

  “How is your arm?”

  “The bleeding’s mostly stopped. How’s Kadara
?” Dorrin lets Meriwhen follow the cart along the rutted tracks that lead to the main road.

  “She’s pale, but she’s breathing.”

  The cart lurches onward, and Kadara moans. Dorrin purses his lips tightly, and follows.

  “Who’s there?”

  “It’s the smith—the Black one…he’s wounded,” answers a voice next to the picket post.

  “No one’s supposed to be going back that way.”

  “You want to tangle with him?” asks a third voice.

  Dorrin concentrates on following Liedral as the cart bounces through the meadow and onto the road. Each effort to sense where they travel intensifies the pain, and he tries just to follow the cart, letting Liedral and Meriwhen lead him along.

  CXLIX

  “Here come the Certan bastards,” mumbles Cirras.

  “Just hold the first two lines,” Brede commands. “They’ll bring up the Kyphrans before long.”

  As Brede watches from the slit in his earthworks, the green banners fall, cut down by the blue-clad Spidlarians, who, once the Certan levies drop, and the remainder scatter, scurry back into their earthworks so quickly that only a few fall to the fireballs of the White Wizards. Brede nods. So far, so good. His men have remembered the danger of the wizards’ fireballs. He glances toward the other squad leader, Rydner.

  Rydner nods. “Ready, Commander.”

  Two messengers stand behind the squad leaders. Each carries a black iron shield. Brede looks back through the slit in the earthworks, wishing he had more of Dorrin’s demon-devices, but hoping that Dorrin has been able to save Kadara, and their child.

  Another trumpet sounds from the far side of the valley, wavering but insistent, in the midafternoon sun.

  “They’re aren’t going to wait us out. That’s for sure,” observes Cirras.

  “After that?” asks Brede wryly, pointing to the churned earth on the hillside below.

  Even before the trumpet dies away, the golden banners begin the march uphill toward the upper Spidlarian earthworks. Despite the arching fall of arrows, the Kyphran levies reach—and pass—the lowest of the three lines.