The Order War

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  Justen felt a sense of whiteness, of chaos held at bay. He remained sitting, wishing for the black staff, but forcing himself to remain calm. Then he recalled what old Dembek had taught him-about the depth and the order of the Eastern Ocean, about the solid grain of the iron-and slowly let the order settle around him. Reaching out gently, as Krytella had demonstrated, his fingers brushed his brother’s forehead. Then, even more slowly, he let that concentrated order seep from his fingertips.

  “… mmphh…” The tension oozed from Gunnar’s face, and his breathing deepened slightly. The flickering of his eyelids slowed, but did not stop.

  Justen waited for a time, leaving his perceptions extended, seeking a return of that fragment of chaos, but the unseen dark calm of order remained.

  In time, the engineer retreated down the narrow stairs as quietly as he had come, blotting the dampness from his eyes and face, trying not to swing the bucket into the walls, and keeping his booted feet to the outside edge of the risers to reduce the creaking of the ancient steps.

  XXX

  Although Justen could sense the storms building to the west of Sarron, the air in the smithy remained hot, damp, and still, and the hammer mill’s monotonous and continuous beat had given him another headache.

  He coughed, set down the hammer for a moment, and watched as Clerve used the grindstone to polish and smooth the finished black iron arrowheads. After a deep breath, he eased the iron stock into the forge and waited for the metal to heat. Then he reclaimed his hammer and started in again on the next set of the deadly arrowheads. Arrowheads and more arrowheads-he was even dreaming about the damned things.

  “I think you have enough arrowheads to prove how good they are,” suggested Altara.

  “I’m not so much interested in proof as in protection.”

  “After the last battle, I can understand that.”

  “I thought you might. Gunnar really did most of it, and he’s in no shape to go anywhere.” Justen let go of the hammer and wiggled his fingers. After a while, even forging out the roughed-out arrowheads cramped his hands. “Some of them escaped. Firbek wasn’t exactly pleased.” His nose itched from the soot and dust in the air, but he managed to stifle a sneeze.

  “I know.” Dark circles framed the chief engineer’s gray eyes. “He keeps complaining about the rockets. He also said that he lost two mules and a launcher because of the flash flood. He seems to have forgotten how that flood saved his life.” She paused for a moment as the hammering from the other anvils seemed to crest.

  “Nothing’s right for Firbek. Gunnar stopped the Whites almost by himself, and paid for it. Firbek’s already forgotten that we had to bring Gunnar back on the rocket cart. I suppose Firbek bitched about that, too, A misuse of good ordnance equipment…” Justen wiped his forehead and glanced at the adjoining forge, where Berol and Jirrl worked on the rocket heads.

  “He’s a little more understanding than that.” Altara cracked a faint smile.

  “Not much. Gunnar was blind for the first day or so. He’s still dizzy.”

  “Krytella says his sight is fine now.”

  “Next time it will be worse. At least that’s usually the way it goes.” Justen sighed. “I’m beginning to understand why Dorrin invented order-forging.”

  “Firbek’s convinced that the rockets are the only thing that will stop the Whites’ Iron Guard.”

  “Rockets are fine against ships at close range, but they’re not all that good against troops,” observed Justen.

  “You apparently managed.” Altara’s eyes narrowed. “Firbek said that you did something. He’s kept insisting that you go on the next campaign.”

  “I’m so popular. You want me to go. Firbek wants me to go. But he didn’t ask me.”

  “He won’t. He doesn’t want a favor. He believes in orders. It was enough for him to ask if there were any way to make the rockets more accurate.”

  Justen snorted. “We can’t make the casings that accurate, and the ones with fins aren’t much better.” He cleared his throat. “Cannon are much more accurate. Why can’t we make a cannon, put it on a big wagon rather than on a ship? I know… we can’t cast the cannon out of black iron, but we could make the shells like rockets with the powder inside.”

  “In the first place, it’s called a carriage, not a wagon, and it takes a lot of work to build gun carriages right. But we could do that,” admitted Altara. “That’s not the problem. Where do you put the powder so that their wizards can’t touch it off? Rockets have all their powder inside black iron.”

  “Put the powder in black iron magazines in cloth bags or something until the moment you put it in the gun. The White Wizards couldn’t find it and touch it off that quickly.”

  “And how do you transport the magazines, especially in the rains? How many would it take for even a single cannon? Besides, you need to work on the arrowheads. You just can’t do everything at once.”

  “I know. I’ll have another three score done before I finish tonight.”

  “You expect the marines or the Sarronnese to have them attached and fletched overnight? You are leaving in the morning, you know.”

  “Fine.” Justen sighed, “They’ll work whenever they’re fletched.” He pulled the iron from the forge and picked up his hammer.

  Altara stepped back, a sad smile on her face.

  Justen set the cherry-red iron on the anvil and lifted his hammer.

  Clerve continued to file the burrs off the roughed-out forms. Around them, the chorus of metal on metal continued.

  After he had finished another half-score rough forms, Jus-ten paused as a black-clad figure walked through the front entrance. Still holding the iron in the forge, he looked over as Firbek approached. “Greetings, Oh hallowed and heroic marine leader.”

  Firbek offered a bright smile.“Greetings, exalted toiler in metal and fire. We look forward to seeing you early tomorrow.”

  “And I, you.” Justen forced a smile.

  The marine offered a smile equally forced before he turned and walked past the second forge to the corner where another shaft had been added to the main millshaft. There Altara and Nicos were wrestling with the small lathe, which had seized up.

  Justen took a deep breath, trying to calm down. He didn’t want to hit the arrowhead too hard. Why did Firbek set him off? Why had Firbek always set him off? The engineer took another deep breath, then gestured to Clerve. “I’ll be back in a moment.” He walked quickly out of the smithy to the side porch.

  The water bucket was empty. With a harsh laugh he picked it up and walked through the sultry air toward the pump. After getting the water running with the hand pump, he splashed his grimy face until it felt clean and momentarily cooler. Then he filled the bucket and headed back to the smithy, past the garden, where the beans were already knee-high and blooming.

  Justen glanced back to see a taller blond figure walking slowly from the house. Gunnar gestured toward the bench, and Justen nodded, setting the nearly full bucket on the rough stand, and waited for his brother.

  “How are you? Sit down, for darkness’ sake,” he greeted Gunnar.

  “I think that answers your question.” The corners of Gunnar’s mouth turned up momentarily. “At least I can see, and I can walk a dozen cubits without feeling like I’m going to fall over.” He settled slowly onto one end of the bench.

  Justen took the other end.

  “How are you doing?” asked Gunnar.

  “All right-except that I have to go on that expedition against the Whites.”

  “That’s tomorrow, isn’t it?”

  “Of course.” Justen shook his head. “I’ve been thinking, Gunnar.”

  “Dangerous occupation for an engineer.”

  Justen ignored the comment. “You know that order-forces can’t use gunpowder, not without the danger of some White Wizard setting it off. Why can’t we return the favor?”

  “You want to handle chaos?”

  “That’s not what I meant. If you create a storm-lik
e Creslin did-it results in destruction. Isn’t there some other way to create the same effect?”

  “You’d better stick to engineering, Justen.” Gunnar shook his head, then winced. “Darkness… can’t even shake my head without getting frigging dizzy.”

  “If you and Creslin can create destruction through the use of order-”

  “Darkness!” Gunnar winced again. “I don’t know. Maybe there is some way. Go ahead and figure it out, but you could end up like me… or like Creslin. It’s demon-damned scary to wake up blind, and so dizzy you can’t even move.”

  Justen wiped out a cup and half-filled it, then extended the cup to his brother. “Here.”

  “Thanks.” Gunnar sipped the water slowly. “We’ve got a big problem here.”

  “I think I’m beginning to realize that.”

  “I’ve watched the Whites’ Iron Guard. What if they do the same thing with ships?”

  Justen wrinkled his forehead, then nodded. “You mean that we wouldn’t be the only ones relying on the basic order of the ocean. How would that change anything?”

  Gunnar set the cup on the bench between them. “There’s no reason the Iron Guard couldn’t develop their own Blacks.”

  “But wouldn’t that just repeat what happened in the time of Creslin?”

  “Maybe. How many Creslins are there? Would you want to bet Recluce’s future on it?”

  Justen grinned wryly. “I wouldn’t. But why the great conversion? You didn’t seem to think the Whites were such a big threat.”

  “I suppose that’s because I understand what I did.” Gunnar looked at the planks between his boots. Justen waited.

  “I called up one of the biggest storms since Creslin. And what happened? Maybe… just maybe… I destroyed a thousand troops, and it didn’t even really slow down the Whites, or not much. Without you, I probably would have died-”

  “That’s not-”

  “It is, younger brother, and we both know it.” Gunnar paused. “I was stupid, and I could do it better now. And I could probably focus a storm on a really big army, or on a fleet. But there’s no one else who can or would try, and I clearly can’t do that sort of thing very often.” He shrugged.

  “So you’re saying that . - . eventually… Recluce will lose?”

  “It wouldn’t ever come to that, but it wouldn’t matter, would it, once Fairhaven took over Hamor, and Nordla, and Austra? Not that any of that will happen in our lifetime.”

  “So what are we supposed to do?”

  Gunnar looked straight at Justen, suppressing another wince. “Whatever happens on this expedition tomorrow, get your ass back here. You’re worth more alive than if you throw yourself away on a battle that won’t mean much over the long run.”

  “It might not be that simple.”

  “It never is.” Gunnar sighed. “It never is.”

  XXXI

  “Come on, old lady.” Justen patted the gray’s neck, letting a trickle of order flow from his fingertips. So far, the canyon remained comfortably cool, but it was far short of even midmorning.

  Wheeee… ah…

  “I know. I know. You don’t like this fighting business either.” The engineer studied the canyon. Like most of the canyons that contained roads through the Westhorns, it had been sculpted by running water, or the running water had found it the easiest path toward the Northern Ocean.

  “You really don’t have to talk to your horse, Engineer,” observed Firbek, turning back in his saddle. The marine rode beside the cart horse.

  A woman marine named Deryn flicked the reins to encourage her mount to keep up with Firbek as the column wound uphill toward yet another vale in the Westhorns, where Dyessa hoped to be able to reinforce Commander Zerlana before the White forces arrived.

  “The horse doesn’t talk back,” Justen said with a laugh.

  “You haven’t said enough for her to answer,” cracked Firbek.

  “Well put,” Justen conceded, patting the gray again.

  The road turned sharply where the stream had struck a wall of solid granite. Justen noted the narrow gap and the relatively less steep and boulder-studded slope. The water flowed over a wide granite shelf in a mere half-cubit depth-and the streambed itself was less than two cubits below the roadbed. The engineer smiled. Maybe it wouldn’t take magic to build a lake. Then he frowned. Why was he thinking about how to stop the Whites if the Sarronnese had to retreat?

  Because he was worried. Dyessa was grim, not even talking to Firbek. The Sarronnese troops acted as though they were being sent to a slaughterhouse, and not even Gunnar had been able to give a real victory to Dyessa at Middlevale. Darkness, his brother still had trouble standing up for long periods.

  Justen shifted his weight in the saddle, still uncomfortably hard, but said nothing as he followed the column up the road by the stream, occasionally glimpsing above the canyon walls the ice-covered spires of the Westhorns.

  Yee-ah… A black vulcrow flapped from a dead fir limb and laboriously climbed out of the canyon, heading eastward.

  Was that a normal vulcrow, or one of those possessed by a White Wizard? Justen touched the black staff.

  Innumerable turns later, the column marched into a circular valley, one with gentle slopes but with the same rocky hillocks that had characterized Middlevale. This time, the Sarronnese were dug in less than a half kay from the western entrance. Berms of earth and rock protected cavalry mounts, while the Sarronnese foot had erected what looked like a stone wall in the form of a semicircle.

  White banners-along with green, gold, and crimson-waved at the far end of the valley.

  A rider in blue leathers trotted up to Firbek. “The commander suggests that the hill to the left, there, offers the best command of the approach to our lines. Follow me, if you would.”

  Justen grinned. The messenger clearly conveyed Zerlana’s suggestion as an order.

  “Thank you.” Firbek’s voice was cool and polite. He turned to Deryn, then to Fesek, the other marine who rode beside him. “Follow the messenger.” He looked at Justen. “Are you coming, Engineer?”

  “How could I not?”

  “Indeed. How could you not?”

  Justen tapped his heels into the gray’s flanks. The horse whinnied and fell in behind the cart. The engineer dismounted halfway up the hillock and tied the mount to a scrub oak before climbing up to the hilltop, where the marines were setting up the rocket launcher. He left the black staff in the lance holder beside the saddle.

  “Let’s get those rockets ready.” Firbek remained mounted while Deryn and Fesek adjusted the launcher. Then Fesek stacked the rockets next to the launcher while Deryn tightened the brackets.

  Justen shrugged, then began to lug boulders so as to form a low wall. After positioning nearly a dozen of the huge stones, he looked up. Firbek had dismounted and tied his horse downhill next to Justen’s gray, where both mounts attempted to browse on the scattered clumps of grass that sprouted from the rocky soil.

  A light breeze blew out of the east, carrying fine dust and the faint odor of horses… and perhaps, thought Justen, fear.

  “Ready?” asked Firbek.

  “Yes, Ser.”

  “How about you, Engineer?”

  “As ready as I suppose I’ll ever be.”

  A heavy drum-roll rumbled like thunder across the valley, and a wave of White lancers, hundreds of mounted soldiers, charged toward the Sarronnese lines. Behind them, methodically marched the foot levies under the green-and-gold banners.

  Hssttt… The first firebolt slammed into the hillside on which flew the blue banner of Sarronnyn, turning several scrub oaks into charcoal.

  Hssttt… Another firebolt hit higher on the hill, but merely scoured lichen off the stones from behind which Zerlana and her small staff watched the battlefield.

  Hssttt… The next firebolt arced down behind the stones, but the absence of screams reassured Justen… somewhat.

  The gray banners of the Iron Guard remained well to the rear as the White lan
cers galloped across the valley. Not until the lancers were less than two hundred cubits from the stone wall was there any sound from the Sarronnese. A trumpet, clear and crisp, sounded two sharp notes, then repeated them.

  The first flight of arrows arced out from behind the heaped stone-and-earth walls sheltering the front lines of the Sarronnese.

  Justen held his breath as the black iron-tipped arrows sleeted downward onto the White lancers charging across the valley floor.

  Crump… crump…

  Openmouthed, the engineer watched as each of the White lancers struck by a black iron-tipped arrow exploded in flame.

  A faint and ragged cheer rose from the Sarronnese lines even as another flight of the iron-tipped arrows arced into the already hazy morning sky. The arrows fell like fireballs among the lancers. Riderless horses, some of them burning, screamed. The light wind carried the acrid odor of burning hair and charred flesh to Justen. He shook off a sudden dizziness and waited.

  Hssttt… hssttt… hssttt… Three quick firebolts burned across the valley and splashed against the earthworks. One too-curious soldier screamed as she flared into an instant torch.

  Justen swallowed hard.

  “Let’s get those rockets ready.” Firbek glared at Deryn and Fesek. “We’ll hold until the Iron Guard marches, unless the regulars get too close.”

  A handful of the White lancers straggled back toward the east end of the valley, followed by empty-saddled mounts.

  For a time, an uneasy quiet, broken only by the whisper of the wind and the faint muttering of the Sarronnese troops, held the west end of the valley.

  Then, from the eastern side, the drum-rolls rumbled forth, and another set of lancers charged toward the Sarronnese, passing through die foot soldiers. Once the second wave of lancers passed, the foot moved forward, using brush and hills for cover, steadily moving toward the Sarronnese.

  Hssttt. -.

  Hssttt…

  The firebolts dropped onto the earthworks with little effect, except for creating a briefly burning bush.

  In response, another flight of arrows dropped into the lancers, with yet more explosions and burning bodies. Justen swallowed, both at the destruction wrought by the black iron and the realization that few of the special arrows remained. Another wave of dizziness struck him, and he shook his head again.