The Magic Engineer

by Jr. L. E. Modesitt

  So what is he fighting for? Recluce will not like his machines any more than the White Wizards will.

  His hands tighten around the simple tube mounted on the hand grip, around the black iron shell packed with fireworks powder. He places another shell in his pouch and closes the saddlebag. He leaves his staff in the lanceholder, and begins the climb up the first hill. He is still breathing easily after descending beside the road and climbing the second hill. He tries to keep his steps quiet as his feet carry him sideways along the side of the hill and through the vanguard of the White forces. Still cloaked in bended light, unseen, he steps around soldiers, many of whom, could he but see their eyes, would look blankly into the distance that is chaos, even as they would lift their swords to remove his head from the body beneath.

  Click…click…

  He pauses as he senses the concentration of chaos no more than a dozen rods before him on the hilltop. He steps forward, and hearing the sounds of his boots upon the hard-packed mud and gravel, edges onto the trampled grass and weeds beside the road, still moving forward until he pauses outside the light fabric of the single tent pitched amid the White forces. He listens, standing almost within an arm’s length of the White command…

  “…get ready to head out…not too far until we reach that homestead. Don’t fire it. The High Wizard wants to study it first—the one with the brush barricade around it and the charred cottage in front.”

  Dorrin smiles at the thought of the White soldiers so highly valuing his establishment. After a few moments, his senses point him toward the swirl of white mounting nearly to the clouds that must be the wizard who embodies chaos incarnate. While there are other swirls of white, they are dwarfed by the sullen red-tinged whiteness that is Jeslek.

  Slowly, he edges into the high-ceilinged tent, still amazed that he has gotten so close.

  “…look over there…”

  “…concealment…!”

  Dorrin drops the shield and points his device at the white-haired man who jabs a finger in his direction.

  WHHHsssttt! The firebolt singes Dorrin’s ear as he releases the striker, and the black steel rocket ignites.

  Crack…thump…whummmmmmPPPPTTTTTTT…

  EEEEEEEEIIIIIIIIiiii! As the black order-forged steel of the rocket shell and the red-tinged white meet, an incandescence sears through the tent, rending the walls and scattering the wizards and soldiers around the target like so many children’s toys swept aside by a householder’s broom.

  Thurrrrrummmmmmmmmm…thuruummmmm…

  Dorrin staggers against a tent pole, momentarily forgotten as the winds buffet the tent, and the thunderclaps shake the hillside.

  “Jeslek! Jeslek!”

  With the methodical nature he has cultivated, Dorrin forces himself to reknit his cloak of bended light even as he crawls across the fallen tent wall and through the lashing hail and rain that has appeared nearly instantaneously with the destruction of the white vortex of force that has to have been the master chaos wizard.

  The sometime smith, sometime healer continues to crawl through the lashing winds, ice, and water for a time. Then, he stands and staggers downhill toward the west, dropping the illusion that has become too hard to maintain as he weaves toward the shed where he hopes Meriwhen waits. Inside, he is as cold as the occasional ice that pelts him, for he has no illusions about what he has done. He has built a tool of destruction, unloosed it from hiding, and exterminated a pest. And he has done so out of personal revenge, with no real hope of saving Spidlar or Diev.

  He shakes his head as he unties the black and tries to mount, failing the first time because his legs are shaking. He tries again, using the strength in his arms to pull himself up. His head throbs, and occasional arrows of pain lash his skull.

  No glorious battles…no honor in besting a skilled foe. No, Dorrin knows he is no warrior, no hero. He is a coward who has built a tool for killing at a distance, even if the killing were the most necessary thing of all.

  With a sigh that is almost a shudder, he turns Meriwhen around on the road, urging her onward, knowing that the White soldiers will still overrun Diev, that all of Candar east of the Westhorns will belong to Fairhaven.

  At the bridge where they had met the armed peasants, he pauses, noting absently that there is no sign of them, nor of anyone else. Should he toss the black iron tube into the swirling water that rises under the sheets of rain pouring from the all-too-suddenly dark gray skies? He shakes his head. More order-knit destruction may yet be necessary.

  Once he crosses the bridge the rain falls away, as if it were confined to the area around the White horde, and the smell of burning is stronger, as if other fires have been lit.

  They have. The Tankard is in flames. On the street dance what appear to be the same folk who had menaced him at the bridge. A row of barrels sits on the stones, and on the first sits a man with an arm bound in rags. Others use the Tankard’s mugs and dip beer from the barrels, their tops rudely smashed open. Dorrin guides Meriwhen down another street.

  “…I saw him! The Black wizard…”

  Dorrin urges Meriwhen into a trot, but no one follows, and he slows to a walk, casting his senses out as he nears the piers. But the piers remain empty, desolate. He looks seaward, seeing two ships flying white, circling beyond the breakwater—waiting.

  The road before Tyrel’s is not empty. Half a hundred people stand around the burning shed.

  “…frigging bastards…”

  “Find the arrows…”

  “Get a boat! We’ll make them take us!”

  Dorrin recasts his cloak of light and walks Meriwhen down an alley he hopes leads to the other end of the channel. At the end of the alley, he turns back toward the water, where, for a moment, he releases his concealment.

  The Black Diamond floats perhaps two rods off the pier.

  A half-dozen Spidlarian soldiers stand on the main deck of the Diamond. Another dozen seem trapped between the mob and the water.

  Dorrin sees Kadara, hair mussed, face bruised, ropes cruelly wound around her splinted and shattered arm. Rylla carries Frisa, and the child cries. He continues to look for silky short brown hair and broad shoulders.

  On the poop four others stand side to side—blades out—Yarrl, Reisa, Petra, and Liedral. Below them stand the soldiers. From what Dorrin can tell, Tyrel, or someone, has closed the hatch to the engine. A faint wisp of steam rises from the stack.

  Dorrin takes a deep breath and studies the positions of the soldiers. An officer is arguing with Yarrl.

  “Get this thing going…”

  “I don’t know how. Only Master Dorrin knows how…” Yarrl keeps looking toward the shore.

  Dorrin sighs, then urges Meriwhen forward at a gallop. They hit the water with a surge, and Dorrin uses every bit of effort to wrap the light around himself, even as Meriwhen swims toward the ship.

  “…just a frigging horse…”

  “…even it doesn’t want to be left to the Whites…”

  Dorrin’s eyes burn as he stands in the stirrups and, one-handed, draws himself onto the narrow brace for the rudder. His desperate leap momentarily pushes Meriwhen deeper into the water. He clutches his staff with the other hand and struggles upward until he can lurch over the railing.

  His eyes continue to burn as he listens to Meriwhen churn aimlessly around the stern, but he forces himself onward, still shielded, still blind, until he is on the main deck.

  He steps behind the rearmost soldier and lifts the staff. His staff lifts and falls, as does the soldier—as does Dorrin’s cloaking from sight. Two soldiers whirl, and Dorrin strikes, once…twice.

  The second time, he misses. The soldier does not, and a pain like white fire rips across his arm.

  The soldier does not lift his sword again, cleft as he is almost in two by Yarrl’s blade.

  Seven bodies lie on the deck, one of them Pergun’s. Dorrin clutches his arm, realizing that blood is also dripping into his eyes.

  Rylla rips away his shirt
, and begins to sprinkle powdered astra into the slash. “Sit down!” she snaps.

  “Got to get clear.”

  “They can handle that.”

  As the Black Diamond bobs on the choppy water, the soldiers on the pier, dancing back from the mob, begin to jump into the channel.

  “Take us…we’ll pay you…”

  “…anything…”

  Yarrl has persuaded Tyrel to open the engine space hatch, and the two men talk as Rylla continues to bind Dorrin’s arm. Yarrl steps down, and Tyrel hurries aft to the helm.

  Dorrin grins in relief as he hears the fwwuuuphhh…fwuppp…of the engine as it begins to turn over. He senses the faint vibration of the black iron rods as they work.

  Fwwwuuuppphhh…fwupp…fwuppp…The engine and the flywheel pick up more speed, settling into an even smoother rhythm than on the trials.

  “You be taking it easy…” warns Rylla, as Dorrin totters toward the engine space. He stands in the hatchway and looks down at Yarrl.

  “We were all hoping you’d make it.” Yarrl continues to shovel coal into the firebox.

  “We need the screw turning before we ground.”

  “You take…care…of that…” puffs Yarrl.

  Dorrin slowly eases the clutch into place, then lets out his breath as the piston and flywheel continue to pick up speed. As the Black Diamond eases seaward, he continues to watch until the pressure is well above the minimum operating level.

  Then he wipes his forehead and struggles back on deck. Pergun lies on the deck, but on his back, and he breathes shallowly. Rylla looks up at Dorrin helplessly. So does Merga.

  Dorrin takes another deep breath, then kneels, hands gently touching the forehead, reaching out with all the skill and strength he has left, chasing the encroaching whiteness away, pushing back the influx of chaos. But the deck swims before him, the rough planks rising against his chin, and he falls into the darkness.

  CLV

  The red-haired wizard finishes binding her arm, then stoops and lifts the gold amulet from the pile of dust and clothes on the trampled and burned grass. Stepping around the body of a White guard, she dangles it toward the bearded White Wizard with the gash across his forehead.

  “Would you like it, Fydel?”

  “Darkness, no! Give it to Sterol.”

  She turns to Cerryl. “Would you—”

  “It’s past time for games, Anya. Sterol should have the amulet returned to him. Especially now.”

  “Don’t tell me that you two brave and strong White brethren are afraid of a poor black smith and healer who must stoop to stealth and murder?”

  Fydel looks away.

  Cerryl does not, instead meeting Anya’s eyes. “He was rather effective, wouldn’t you say?” His arm takes in the pile of dust that had been Jeslek, the two bodies, and the missing side of the tent ringed with charred patches. “There were three of them—just three, according to Jeslek. Between them, they’ve destroyed more than half our forces, a half-dozen of the White brethren, and the High Wizard. Just what would happen if they had decided to send a few more—perhaps older and more experienced order-masters and Black warriors?” Cerryl’s smile is crooked. “For such reasons, I would prefer to defer to one of great experience, such as Sterol.”

  “Do we wait for him—to finish this rabble?” snaps Anya.

  “No. I think we can proceed—slowly.”

  “You are always so cautious, Cerryl,” Anya says brightly.

  “When one cannot rely on sheer force of chaos, dear lady,” the smooth-faced White Wizard replies slowly, “one must needs be cautious.”

  “Bah…let’s get the troops moving.” Fydel blots the blood from his forehead and steps through the space where the tent wall was. Then he pauses and points toward the remaining two bodies. Fire flares, and only ashes remain.

  Anya and Cerryl raise their eyebrows simultaneously.

  CLVI

  Dorrin wakes to find his head in Liedral’s lap. She is blotting away the dried and not-so-dried blood with a cool and damp cloth and sprinkling the crushed and powdered astra into the gash on his forehead. The powder burns, and his head aches, not to mention his shoulder.

  For some reason, he thinks of Meriwhen and his eyes fill. He hopes the mare made it to shore. He shudders, and Liedral squeezes his shoulders.

  “It’s all right.”

  “No. It’s not.” He sits up and takes the cloth from her. So many others, even the mare who has carried and brought him through so much, have paid for his desires and dreams of building his engines.

  His shoulders slump. Brede is dead. Liedral was tortured, Kadara left alone and pregnant. Rylla’s cottage lies in ashes, with the old healer uprooted. Thousands of relatively innocent soldiers lie dead. Kleth has been razed and burned, and Elparta half-destroyed. Why?

  Because order threw him out and he has set himself out to oppose chaos? Or just because he is stubborn? He recalls Fairhaven—clean, peaceful, even orderly. Just because he cannot tolerate chaos…is that any reason to create disaster?

  He takes a deep breath and squares his shoulders, ignoring the throbbing in his head and arm. Now is not the time to philosophize, but to seek safety for those on board. He looks across the deck and up onto the poop deck to Tyrel at the wheel, then to the sea to the north.

  The Black Diamond is merely holding position inside the breakwater. Two, perhaps three, kays offshore are the two schooners that bear the white and crimson ensigns of Fairhaven.

  Dorrin starts to stand, and Liedral helps him to his feet.

  “Don’t be so hard on yourself,” she murmurs.

  He touches her hand and walks across the gently rolling deck to the short ladder up to the poop and the helm.

  “We need to get out of here,” Dorrin says to Tyrel.

  “How? Where they’re lying, with that wind out of the east-northeast, they can cut us off either way we go. Under full sail, they’re faster than we are, even with your engine, I think.”

  “Which direction can’t they go?” Dorrin rubs his forehead, where the dull hammer of a smith beats still within his skull.

  “They can go where they want to. They’re White Wizards.”

  “I don’t need old jokes. Can they go upwind?”

  “They’d have to tack.”

  “All right. How close to the shore will they dare to come?”

  “With this wind?” Tyrel looks to the sky, and the clouds on the edge of the northern horizon. “Not a lot closer than they are now.”

  “Fine. We’ll just head east right along the coast.”

  “But…” Tyrel shakes his head. “It’s hard to remember that we can go where we want to.” He pauses. “If your engine fails, we’ll go aground.”

  “I understand. But if we go farther offshore, they’ll be able to get close enough to fry us with their wizards’ fire.” Dorrin limps forward toward the hatch to the engine compartment, where, as Yarrl watches, he shuts off the bypass and channels the engine’s power all to the screw.

  The Black Diamond surges past the breakwater, sails still furled to her spars as Tyrel slowly swings the converted schooner onto an eastward course paralleling the coast.

  Dorrin wobbles across the deck to where Pergun lies on a pallet under a makeshift awning. The dark-haired man’s breathing is even, and his eyes are closed. Merga lifts a damp cloth from his forehead, even as the tears dry on her face. Dorrin bends and touches Pergun’s forehead again, offering what little additional order he can spare.

  “Thank you, master Dorrin.”

  “Please don’t thank me now. Thank me if we make it to safe haven.” Dorrin moves to the railing, watching the choppy green water, letting the wood carry some of his weight.

  Kadara, her arm bound into a sling, joins him. “You could have done that for Brede.”

  “If you will recall, I wasn’t in much shape to do anything.”

  “Mule crap! You were off babying yourself again. Here you are, two minor flesh wounds, and you can barely walk.”<
br />
  Dorrin turns to the redhead. “You have to think what you think, and nothing I say has ever affected that. But I don’t think strength is measured by how well one bears physical pain or how many people you cut down with a sharp blade. Brede understood that.

  “You’ve still got a son you’ll have to raise. He’s born of Recluce parents, and he just might not take to a blade. Will you lose him because you’ll insist on making him into something he isn’t—like my parents did?”

  “You should talk. You don’t care what anyone thinks. All you care about is your damned engines.”

  Dorrin keeps his eyes level on Kadara. “You’re right. I know what I am.”

  This time Kadara looks down at the railing and the water beyond.

  Dorrin steps back as Liedral motions to him.

  “You were hard on her,” observes Liedral. “You were harder on yourself.”

  “Truth is sometimes hard.”

  “Do you like it when someone applies hard truth to you?”

  “Of course not.” He grins. “Except when you do it.” Then he looks northward once more. The easternmost White schooner, probably twice the size of the Diamond, has begun to turn, running crosswind. After watching the ship for a time, Dorrin climbs back up to the helm to talk to Tyrel.

  “He’s going to try and cut for the Cape there—Cape Devalin—where we’ll have to go farther seaward.”

  “Would more speed help?”

  “Aye, for if we can clear the Cape ’fore him, he’ll be forced into the teeth of the wind.”

  Dorrin totters away from the helm and down the ladder to the main deck.

  Near the bow, Rylla points to the beaches, with an arm around Frisa. Vaos is attempting to reposition a board on the amidships stalls, and talks to the horses. Dorrin swallows as he sees the empty stall once more, wipes his eyes and continues back toward the engine compartment.

  Yarrl sets down the shovel and wipes his forehead. “Hotter than a forge, this beast you built. And wetter. But this boy likes it.”