The Magic Engineer

by Jr. L. E. Modesitt

  “Bring in Bylla’s levies,” Brede decides.

  “That will leave the right side weak.”

  “It may, but they’re not attacking the right. Not yet.”

  Cirras nods at one messenger, and the two scuttle away through the trench. Shortly, Cirras returns. “They’re moving over.”

  Brede watches as the gold banners stall at the second line of trenches. The arrows redouble for an instant. The blond man turns to Cirras. “Get your squad ready. They’ll bring some horse up the right and try to sweep across. Try to wait until the last moment, and close as fast as you can. That should make it harder for them to use the fireballs.”

  Cirras nods. “Yes, ser.”

  As he leaves, Brede adds, “I’ll be behind you in a bit.”

  Rydner frowns, chews on his lip.

  Cirras straightens, and Brede takes a quiet and deep breath, his eyes flicking from Cirras back to the hillside below as the Gallosian horse charges his right flank, that side of the hill slightly less steep than the center or the left. A handful of the White horsemen falls to arrows, but the flight of arrows ceases as the wizards’ fireballs pepper the trenches protecting the archers. While few archers are seared, neither can the others see clearly enough to aim while remaining beneath the protection of the earthen berm.

  “When should we—” begins Rydner.

  “Not yet. Not until they close. You go down to them, and not a handful of you would make it.”

  The Gallosian cavalry turns the end of the earthworks below and to Brede’s right and begins to cut down the levies from above and behind. Like a squall cloud, two squads of Spidlarian cavalry slam into the Gallosian horse from behind.

  Brede races through the trenches, down to the archers, long blade in hand. “Now! Hit the gold banners! There!”

  The archers emerge from the earth; the bows tighten; and the wave of shafts topples scores more of the Kyphran levies.

  Brede hurries along the trenchworks toward the right upper level, trying to keep his head low, ignoring seared bodies, or blue figures transfixed with arrows.

  Firebolts flash after him, even as he drops into a trench. “Move! Toward the center.”

  “But—” The serjeant sees the blade and the fire in Brede’s eyes. “Nyta, Jort…toward the center. Move, you slizzards!”

  Brede circles back through the trenches, back up to where Rydner and his squad wait. He swings into the saddle, leading them toward the right side of the hilltop. He gestures to Rydner. “Now!”

  “Yes, ser.” Rydner leans forward, blade out, and the troopers follow downhill.

  They collide with less than a handful of Gallosian horse. Brede’s sword flashes twice, and two men fall.

  “Archers!” Brede’s voice booms out, and the handful of archers remaining looses shafts at the score of Kyphran levies still assaulting the middle earthworks.

  As the archers loose their shafts, the fireballs return. Screams and black oily smoke twist uphill. The firebolts fall across both Cirras’s and Rydner’s squads as the remaining troopers and their mounts scramble back uphill to join Brede’s small force behind the earth-banked wall. The few archers still alive duck into the earthworks.

  Brede holds up his blade. “Wait until they reach the top. Then close as quickly as possible.” He catches Cirras’s eyes.

  Cirras nods grimly. Rydner wipes his blade with a rag he stuffs back into his belt.

  The trumpet sounds once more, and another wave of mounted troops surges uphill toward the Spidlarian forces. The Hydlen levies pour after the mix of Kyphrans and Gallosians, and all hack their way through the few remaining Spidlarians.

  The White cavalry, now a mixture of forces from Certis, Gallos, and Hydlen, churns up the right flank unopposed except for a few scattered arrows. Three White troopers fall, but the attack does not falter.

  Brede watches, then nods. “Now!”

  The blond officer spurs his mount from behind the concealed revetment, slashing through the White forces, his sword flickering like lightning. Three men fall to that lethal blade before the Whites realize Brede and his force are even among them.

  “Magic…!”

  “The blond demon…”

  Troopers scattering from Brede fall to the blades of others, and the White forces break, clattering and scrambling away.

  “Back!” snaps Brede, ducking instinctively even before the firebolt singes his hair and turns the officer behind him—Rydner—into a torch.

  “Poor bastard…” mutters Brede under his breath.

  The force behind the makeshift revetment numbers less than a full squad. Brede eases his mount up to the wood-backed earthen berm. He stretches in the saddle to peer over the top, glancing to the left side of the field, where the levies from Hydlen have turned the flank and are beginning to circle back, and then to the hillside below where the White cavalry has begun to re-form.

  “Archers!”

  Only a handful of shafts wavers toward the White cavalry, and the archers are silenced by a line of fire that blankets their trench. The Hydlen levies march grimly back toward the Spidlarians, completing the encircling movement.

  Brede looks at the thin line of foot that his squad could break through, then turns to the hillside below.

  Another trumpet sounds, and the White horse begins the charge.

  Again, Brede waits until the enemy troopers are almost to the hilltop before he drops his sword. The Spidlarian forces surge forth, and again, Brede’s blade flashes like the lightning of high summer, smashing through nearly three lines of White cavalry, scattering them.

  “To the hill!” the blond officer commands, ducking as another firebolt seeks him; but less than a handful of cavalry in blue remains to follow him.

  The half-score archers left in the uppermost of the earthworks begin to target the remaining White horsemen, picking them off one by one, until fireballs rain across the hillside. Then the Kyphran foot marches toward the crest of the hill. Amid groans, screams, and dust, they clear the last earthworks that protect the archers.

  Brede turns his mount, sees a Kyphran footman spear an archer, and swings downhill. Cirras and the other four follow, slashing down another score of levies.

  Brede straightens in the saddle as the firebolts fall, lifting his sword yet again, his eyes flicking to the north and west, toward the road to Diev, before the firebolt burns through him. Even so, as the flames consume him, he hurls his blade through a last footman. His smile is bitter.

  It is nearly twilight as the last of the White forces gain the hilltop. There are no Spidlarians left as the White banners, hanging limply, precede the wizards past the charred heaps littering the hillside.

  The red-headed wizard’s eyes linger on one blackened corpse fractionally before she follows Jeslek to the clearing.

  “We cannot afford another battle such as this,” states the field commander, wiping his forehead. “We have lost more than half our force.”

  “Two-thirds,” suggests a voice from behind the commander.

  “You won’t have any more battles at all,” Jeslek says. “Only a few skirmishes on the way to Spidlaria. They have no troops at all left.”

  “I hope to the light you are correct.”

  “I am,” snaps Jeslek. “We move to take the whole river valley first. Leave a small force here to guard the road to Diev. Once we secure Spidlaria, we’ll take Diev.”

  “As you wish.”

  Anya and Fydel exchange glances. Cerryl’s face is politely impassive.

  CL

  The cart creaks. Meriwhen whickers. Kadara moans. Dorrin rubs his forehead, wondering in his darkness how much distance they have covered.

  “Drink a little…please…” Liedral wets Kadara’s lips. “Dorrin, she’s hot, and she can’t drink.”

  Dorrin guides Meriwhen next to the wagon, and dismounts slowly. “Could I have a sip?”

  “Oh…here.”

  After he drinks, Dorrin touches his staff, trying to hold on to the cool blackne
ss, the cool sense of order. Then his fingertips brush Kadara’s forehead, and he tries to transfer some of that order to her.

  “…ooo…aaaa…”

  Despite the moans, Kadara does not rouse, nor can she drink.

  “How far have we come?” Dorrin asks.

  “Perhaps a quarter of the way—just beyond the turnoff for the charcoal camp. We’ll have to stop before long. It’s getting dark, and I can’t see like you can at night.”

  “Like I could,” he corrects.

  Liedral rustles in the cart, and finally hands something to Dorrin. “Bread and cheese.”

  He chews slowly, evenly, listening to the rustle of the leaves, the occasional terhwhits and chirps.

  “Ready?” Liedral finally asks.

  “Oh, yes.” Still almost in a daze, he climbs back on Meriwhen.

  Again, the cart creaks. Meriwhen snuffles. Kadara moans. Dorrin rubs his forehead, wondering in his black prison how much more distance they have covered.

  The feeling of darkness grows as they struggle along the packed and rutted road that is now empty, until Liedral finally reins up at a wider spot in the road, with a clearing and a gap in the tumbled stone wall wide enough for the cart.

  “I can’t go any longer.”

  “Fine,” Dorrin mumbles, half-asleep in the saddle.

  “Neither can you.”

  Mechanically, Dorrin follows Liedral’s directions.

  “Tie up Meriwhen to the stake.”

  Dorrin does, fumbling with the leathers.

  “Can you unsaddle her?”

  Dorrin fumbles the girths loose by feel and unsaddles the mare, patting her flanks as he does.

  “Can you sense enough to help me move Kadara?”

  He holds the surprisingly thin and fevered body of the redhead while Liedral arranges blankets.

  “Set her down here.”

  He does, wincing. “Oooo…”

  “Oh, I’m sorry. Does your shoulder hurt?”

  “Not too much.” Not so much as Kadara does, or even as his head, although there is no physical damage within his skull.

  “You need to eat and drink this.”

  He mechanically chews more stale and crusty bread and warm cheese, drinking water from the jug Liedral has filled from somewhere.

  Before long, he lies down under the shelter of the uptilted cart, with Liedral on his left, Kadara on the other side of Liedral. He sleeps for a time, then wakes—although it is still dark, he senses.

  Dorrin smiles at Liedral’s light snoring, barely audible above the sounds of the insects in the trees bordering this stretch of the road. Most of the trees, Dorrin recalls, date from the climate change brought about by the great Creslin, when the former upland farms and meadows did not get enough spring and summer rain.

  The throbbing in his skull has subsided some, but he remains sightless.

  “Oh…no…darkness, no! Brede…don’t leave me…” Kadara’s words are half whimpered, half murmured. “Don’t…oh…bastards…white bastards…”

  Liedral wakes with a start, then turns and touches Kadara. “Easy, easy. You’re all right.”

  “Where…who?”

  “Liedral…Dorrin and I are here.”

  “Brede…where is he?”

  “He’s still in Kleth,” Liedral says quickly. She eases out from between the two injured forms. “Let me get you some water.”

  “…never leave there…darkness…arm hurts…”

  “It will take a while to heal,” Dorrin adds.

  “…took four of the bastards…head hurts…Brede…miss you…”

  “Drink this,” Liedral says.

  Dorrin sits up. “Can you get my small pack? There’s some astra in it.”

  “Why didn’t you think about that—Sorry.”

  “It’s hard to think when white knives are slashing through your skull.”

  “I said I was sorry.”

  “It’s all right.” Dorrin takes the pack and fumbles for the packets, identifying them by shape, scent, and sense. “Put this one in place of the dressing on her arm. Can you?”

  “I’ll need to light this candle.”

  Dorrin waits until Liedral takes the first dressing, then searches for the crushed astra.

  “Oh! Light!…hurts,” moans Kadara.

  “Anything else?” asks Liedral. Her voice is curt.

  “Is there any way to get this in her?”

  “I’ll try.”

  A clinking and other rustling sounds follow. Dorrin can sense that Liedral is working with some utensils.

  “Open your mouth, please…Kadara.”

  “…so bitter…like poison…You aren’t hurting me, are you?”

  “I’m not hurting you. This will make you feel better.”

  “…so bitter…what…?”

  “It’s astra mixed with beragin,” Dorrin explains calmly.

  Liedral continues to rattle things for a time, before returning and stretching out between Dorrin and Kadara again.

  Dorrin reaches out and squeezes her hand. “Thank you.”

  She squeezes his in return. “Go to sleep.”

  In time, he does, not to wake until the chirpings of the dawn birds seep into his awareness. He still cannot see, but his headache has subsided into a duller ache. Liedral is already up, moving quietly, watering the horses.

  Dorrin slips out from under the cart, careful not to touch it or the braces that hold it in position.

  “There’s still some bread and cheese,” Liedral offers.

  “Thank you.” Dorrin takes the chunk of bread and the slab of cheese that she has sliced, then sits on the stone wall by the road. “Still using the cheese slicer?”

  “It’s a lot more comfortable. I still shiver when I look at a knife.” Liedral sits beside him. “It’s pretty this morning.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “It wasn’t your fault.” Liedral’s fingers touch his cheek.

  “I wish I could believe that. They went after you because you loved me.”

  “I still love you, you impossible man.” She reaches out and squeezes his wrist. “I wish you could see the trees on the hill. They look like shining silver in the light, with the dew on the leaves.”

  “So do I.”

  They eat silently.

  “Kadara’s still sleeping. Is that good?”

  “If we can keep getting her to drink, and get more of the medicine in her. She needs liquids.”

  “Do you want any more bread or cheese?”

  “Is there enough?”

  “Merga sent me off with as much as she could get together. We still have four loaves left—stale, but we won’t go too hungry before we get back.”

  Dorrin eats another half loaf of bread and more cheese. While he is finishing, Liedral gets up, and his thoughts turn back to order again.

  While some believe in order as a god, almost, order has to be more mechanical than that. Otherwise, how could good people be punished for the means they use? He sips from the jug. Or do the means compromise the ends? Always?

  He thinks of Fairhaven. The city, despite the rule of those who espouse chaos, is orderly, and there is little crime. There seems to be less poverty than in Spidlar. But is that because Fairhaven has become wealthy from its conquests?

  “Dorrin, if we want to get back to Diev without being…caught by…”

  Dorrin understands. Who knows who will be on the road behind them before long? He slowly makes his way into the woods for certain necessities. By the time he returns, Liedral is kneeling, spooning more of the astra and beragin into Kadara’s mouth.

  “…uuugggg…” Kadara swallows and coughs, but most of the mixture goes down, and Liedral eases water into her mouth.

  While Liedral ministers to Kadara, Dorrin manages to saddle Meriwhen by himself, although he pinches one finger in the girth buckle in the process. He mutters grumpily under his breath at his clumsiness, but continues finishing saddling the mare.

  For just an instant,
when he touches the black wood of his staff, he can see—the grass is damp with dew, and the trees dark green in the early dawn light. Then the blackness drops across his eyes. He turns toward Meriwhen so Liedral will not see the tears of frustration that ooze from his eyes.

  Order! Why is order so unfair? Pure order seems unable to stop chaos, and whenever he tries to focus order against chaos, he is punished, just as the Whites and the traders of Spidlar have together, in a way, punished Brede because of his talent and reliance on the tools of order.

  He tries to reason as he places the staff in the lanceholder. Is it because death is the ultimate form of chaos, the destruction of human order, so to speak? Certainly, despite the complaints by his family and Lortren, he has not suffered for his use of order to make his models or his machines. Nor has he been punished much for making his devices of destruction—only for using them.

  “Can you help me get Kadara into the cart?”

  Dorrin wipes his face with the back of his sleeve and turns toward the cart. His shoulder barely twinges as he lifts Kadara.

  “…hurts…don’t leave me…”

  “You’re with us,” Dorrin says softly, trying to keep his voice level, trying to keep the frustration and anger from showing. His senses tell him that she is slightly better, but she is still fevered and weak, and it will be a long time, if ever, before she regains full use of her right arm.

  Terwhit…terwhit. Despite the cheerful tone of the bird in the low oak trees, Dorrin is not encouraged.

  CLI

  The cart creaks as Liedral turns at the hillcrest overlooking the river valley. “Everything looks all right.”

  “We still haven’t run into any other travelers.” Dorrin can extend his senses to some degree now, without headaches, but he still cannot see, except every once in a while when he touches his staff. Even that vision is neither predictable nor more than fleeting.

  “You wouldn’t expect any. People were leaving Kleth when I came back with that troop of cavalry and the last levy.”

  “I’m glad you had an escort.”

  “So was I. There were some rough souls on the road.”

  Dorrin touches the staff again, but he receives no glimpse of the sunlit expanse of the valley that lies between them and Diev. “How is Kadara?”