The Order War

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  “Better than listening to Dyessa or Zerlana bitch about…”

  “Dyessa… miss her. Good sort for a field leader.”

  Justen looked toward the three, but they said nothing.

  “Miss her? What happened?”

  “Demon-damned wizard got her, I think, there at the last charge.”

  The engineer pursed his lips, then swallowed to moisten his dry throat. Dyessa herself had been right. Why was he so surprised that individuals died?

  Finally, he stood and walked back to the low berm, where he stopped and studied the bank above the stream. Then he unstrapped the launcher and carried it to a flat spot, settling it carefully in the heel-deep water. He adjusted it, aiming it right above the stream.

  “Why are you doing this now? Why didn’t you start with this?” The blonde in the blood-smeared and tattered blue leathers coughed after she spoke.

  “You need the bigger rocks to hold the smaller fragments and dirt.” Justen touched the striker, extending his perceptions to smooth the flow of air across the rocket.

  Whssttt… crummpp…

  With the second rocket, a solid wall of rocks, sand, soil, even roots, fell into the stream, turning the clear water reddish-brown. Almost instantly, the water began to seep onto the road.

  Justen carted the launcher down below the dam and aimed the next rocket toward the bulge overhanging the road. Although a considerable mass fell with that rocket, he used the last one to bring down more material.

  Then he strapped the launcher onto the dapple and stood panting, his blacks soaked with water and sweat, his face scraped and bloody. He grinned.

  “You look like crap, Engineer. Why are you smiling?” Even as she questioned, the trooper in gray grinned. Then she mounted.

  Justen struggled into the saddle, patting the gray on the neck. “That’s a girl. Just get old Daddy Justen back to Sarron.”

  “… tough little bastard…”

  “… sort of like him…”

  Justen looked back at the low dam, sending his senses into the rocks and earth and the few limbs. It wasn’t as massive or as solid as Gunnar’s work, but it would hold, at least for a year or two, and that would be enough time to force the White armies onto the southernmost route, the one through Cerlyn.

  XXXII

  The two White Wizards walked up the hill. The boot heel of the shorter touched a dark object in the dust. He jumped slightly at the hissing sound.

  “Another one of those black iron arrows?” asked the larger and stockier man.

  “The darkness-damned things are everywhere.”

  “Tell me about it. You don’t have to send a dispatch to Histen asking for another two thousand lancers.”

  “They didn’t… not that many, did they?”

  “Jehan, I’d guess they had about score forty of those black arrowheads. Do you want to guess how many they’ll have forged by the time we get to Sarronnyn by the southern route?” Zerchas took a deep breath as he reached the hilltop, where he turned west and studied the low water blocking the western exit from the valley.

  “The Iron Guard could take this road.”

  Zerchas looked mildly at Jehan, who in turn looked at the cart tracks in the ground.

  “Can you tap the chaos springs?”

  “Me?” Zerchas snorted. “Maybe the late, great Jeslek could have, but that Black engineer’s dam is founded in cold running water laid over solid granite. Send Histen another message and get one of those hotheads, like Beltar, out here. Let him deal with the order recoil. I’d rather not, thank you.”

  “You think there could be that much of a problem?”

  “Do you want to try it, O great Jehan?”

  “Ah… I think not.”

  “Then don’t ask me to.” Zerchas’s eyes went vacant for a time.

  Jehan glanced downhill at the coach and the detachment of White lancers that surrounded it, then toward the slowly spreading lake, and finally back toward the eastern end of the valley, where the gray banners were being furled and the tents struck. He moistened his lips.

  Zerchas cleared his throat. “That dam’s not all that well built. Once we get into Sarronnyn, a small team could drain it easily from the other side. If the water had settled some, and if we had the materials, we could send a boat down there now.”

  “We don’t-”

  “I know. We’ll just have to take the longer route. The road’s better anyway.”

  “Everything’s taking longer. The way things are going, we’ll be at winter’s doorstep before we even reach Sarron.” Jehan spat downhill, his spittle hissing as it struck a fragment of black iron.

  “I doubt that. The Sarronnese have lost nearly half of their army already.”

  “They’ll draw more levies.”

  “Sarronnyn has never been that well equipped for war. The whole idea of the Legend is against war.”

  “What about Westwind, or Southwind?”

  “One’s long dead, and the other’s dying.” After taking a last look at the shallow water, Zerchas turned and began to walk downhill. “Let’s go. You need to get that message off to Histen, Ask for Beltar by name.”

  “As you wish.”

  XXXIII

  Four figures rode up the incline from the river road to Sarron, slightly behind the main mounted body of the returning Sarronnese force, but well ahead of the foot soldiers. Unlike most travelers in recent days, they came from the south. As on most summer days in Sarronnyn, high hazy clouds covered the sky, barely decreasing the burning of the white yellow sun, but giving a more greenish cast to the sky.

  Justen wanted to wipe the sweat off his face as he reined up outside the Recluce enclave and tugged on the reins of the dapple to bring the horse to a halt beside his gray. The scratches and bruises had left his forehead tender. With the back of his forearm, he gently, very gently, blotted the dampness away, ignoring the itching of the scrape across his right temple.

  He turned in the saddle to face the Sarronnese troopers. “Thank you.”

  “None of the soft masculine stuff. Engineer. Wish there were more like you around.” The blond inclined her head. “We’ll see you again.”

  “I trust that it is not too soon.” Justen offered a wry smile.

  “We’d hope the same in some ways, no offense to you. Engineer. Not that we would mind seeing you.” The soldier in gray glanced back toward the southeast. “We won’t be fortunate in that way. I’d like a couple of quivers of those black arrowheads before we see those White devils again.”

  The Sarronnese troopers nodded one after the other.

  “We’ll do what we can.” Justen watched for a moment as the three turned their horses back to rejoin the remnants of the Sarronnese cavalry.

  Then he rode toward the end of the barracks that held the stable, leading the dapple and giving a half nod at the sound of metal on metal and the dull thuds of the hammer mill. The smell of oil and quench water tickled his nose. Two of Castin’s chickens scuttled from the door to the stable as he reined up and dismounted.

  After unloading and stabling the dapple, he led the gray into the last empty stall. Then he walked across to the pump, where he got a bucket of water to wash off the worst of the grime. The second bucket was for the horses, and he lugged it back across the sun-baked clay. He poured half into one stable bucket and half into the other, providing a bucket for each horse.

  After letting the mounts drink, he curried the dapple quickly and had begun to unsaddle the gray when he heard steps. Altara stood outside the stall.

  “I just got back.” He unbuckled the girth.

  “I saw. Firbek said you were using good rockets for what he called light-fired foolishness.”

  Justen pulled the girth clear of the buckle and straightened up. “I used them to build a dam with. So I guess that was foolishness.”

  “What did Zerlana say?”

  “I don’t know. I never talked to her afterward. She was too busy.”

  “Justen, sometimes… som
etimes you’re as bad as your brother. You two… you just do something important and never tell anyone.” Altara shook her head. “It’s a good thing no one’s worried about trade routes right now.”

  “I suppose so. That really hadn’t crossed my mind.”

  “How soon can you get back to work on the arrowheads? Zerlana sent a messenger-she said the black iron arrowheads turned all the White lancers they struck into fireballs. She wants as many as we can deliver.”

  “I told you they’d work.” Justen stepped out of the stall and into the light.

  “Darkness… what happened to you?” Altara glanced toward the dwelling across the dusty yard. “You need a healer, at least to check out all those scrapes. How did you manage to get all cut up like that?”

  “I was wrestling with a mountain. That’s what happened when I used the rest of the rockets-they were ones I’d saved, by the way-to build the demon-damned lake. This one’s not as deep as the one Gunnar built, but it should make the middle pass road almost impassible for the Whites.” Jus-ten racked the blanket and the saddle, and picked up the curry brush.

  “Firbek said you’d never do it.”

  “He’s welcome to go swim in it.” The young engineer stepped back into the stall and began to curry the gray, who whickered and sidestepped.

  “Easy, lady.” He stroked her, and she settled down.

  Altara squinted and peered over the stall at the horse. “Is that the same gray?”

  “Same one.” Justen forced himself to keep brushing. Darkness knew, the poor beast deserved it.

  “It doesn’t look the same. She looks less swaybacked… younger somehow.”

  “Probably just decent treatment and enough food.” Jus-ten set down the brush.

  “I don’t know. I wonder if you couldn’t have been a healer. Krytella says you actually helped heal Gunnar.”

  “He’s my brother.”

  “I’m going to get Ninca to look at your face.” Altara shook her head as she left the stable area.

  Justen kept brushing; the gray whickered once more.

  “I know. I know. Summer’s not even close to being over, and it’s going to get hotter.” Even before he finished speaking, the gray slurped water across his boots. “Thank you, too.”

  The gray whickered again, and Justen studied the animal. Was it possible that he had infused enough order, inadvertently that the horse was healthier? He shrugged. It was certainly possible, but a little order was small enough repayment for the gray’s having lugged him all over Sarronnyn.

  He set aside the brush and rummaged through the nearly empty barrel of oat cakes before coming up with some morsels for both horses. The gray whickered and nuzzled his arm; the dapple merely ate.

  Justen closed the stalls, shouldered his pack, and trudged through the afternoon heat and the dust raised by his boots toward his room in the barracks. He realized that he needed to get something to eat. Had anyone left anything from the noon meal?

  “Justen! Ninca needs to look at that face of yours.” Altara waved from the side porch of the smithy.

  The young engineer turned toward the two women. Altara stood aside as Justen climbed the steps to the porch.

  Even before he slumped onto the bench, the older healer was peering at his face. He could sense the light tendrils of order touching his scrapes and scabs.

  “You kept it fairly clean. That I can see. There’s no chaos anywhere, almost as though I’d done it myself. Just keep the dirt out of the scrapes. You won’t look very pretty for a while, young engineer, but I’ve seen worse. After you wash at night, and make sure you do, put a little of this ointment on the cuts and scrapes.”

  “Thank you.” Justen took the ointment in the small box. He also intended to keep up with his own order-ministering.

  Ninca gave him a wry grin before she turned to Altara. “Might as well take another look at that big engineer’s arm, since I’m here.” She frowned. “Seems like the Sarronnese never heard of real healing. Someone in the Tyrant’s court always is wanting healing. And Krytella’s always getting badgered by some woman or another in the streets.”

  “Not enough food.” Altara’s voice was matter-of-fact as she looked straight at Justen. “We do need more arrowheads…”

  “I know. I need to put this away and get something to eat.” He pointed to the battered leather pack.

  “Castin might have put something by,” Ninca observed.

  “I’ll see you later,” Altara told him.

  Justen watched the two women enter the smithy, then stood and lifted his pack.

  “Wait a moment,” said Gunnar. Justen’s brother stood in the smithy doorway through which Altara and Ninca had just passed. “You might as well sit back down.” Gunnar gestured to the other end of the bench with his left hand. In his right hand was a covered basket. “Altara isn’t going to force you to pick up your hammer or whatever at this very moment.”

  Justen’s eyes flicked toward the smithy, then to his pack. “Actually, I was going to put this in my room and try to find something to eat.”

  “I thought you might be hungry when I saw you coming.” Gunnar set the basket on the bench. “There’s some sliced chicken, brown bread, cheese, and a pearapple there. I didn’t bring anything to drink, but here’s a cup, and the water in the pitcher’s cold.” The Storm Wizard seated himself crosswise on the bench, one leg on either side.

  “The water’s never cold,” protested Justen. But he set the pack down.

  “It is now.”

  Justen sat and poured some water into the cup Gunnar had produced. He sipped. “You’re right. How did you do it? Some sort of storm wizardry?”

  Gunnar nodded, a faint smile on his face, a smile that faded as Justen watched. He wrinkled his brow.

  “Using order still hurts, doesn’t it?” Justen asked, stuffing a chunk of chicken in his mouth and beginning to chew. “It depends. I can use the winds to scout with, and that doesn’t hurt. Trying to move… to arrange things, even the air, still can be a bit… difficult.”

  “Doesn’t quite… hurt like… the demons of light,” mumbled the younger brother through his mouthful of chicken and the chunk of still-warm brown bread he had added to the somewhat dry fowl.

  “More like a cut across the skull, or a headache. But it’s getting better.” Gunnar paused and watched Justen wolf down several more mouthfuls before he spoke again. “You’re not quite as white as one of the healers’ bandages.”

  “Was hungry. Not that much food left… on… the way back.” Justen looked at the remainder of the loaf. “Castin is baking small loaves these days. And the taste is bitter.”

  “He says we don’t notice the difference, whether they’re big or small. We eat everything anyway.” Gunnar sobered. “There’s not much food left anywhere. The grain is from the bottom of the granaries. It gets a touch of mold-the good kind that helps fight chaos-but it does taste bitter.”

  “It’s not winter. Why are the granaries so low?” Gunnar looked at Justen. “That’s just it. Sarronnyn gets its fruit from the upland groves, and they bloom late. The grains haven’t headed yet.”

  “So… in mid to late summer is when the food stocks are lowest. From the long look on your face, I’d assume that Fairhaven has tried to cut off trade with Sarronnyn.”

  “That’s really not the problem. It’s the people. Sarronnyn produces plenty. It always has. But if you were a fanner out there-” Gunnar gestured to the west “-would you want to sell much if you worried about the winter and whether the Whites would fire your fields the way they did in the south Kyphros or Spidlar?”

  “Everyone’s hoarding.” Justen swallowed and reached for the water.

  “Right. And that means something else.”

  Justen gulped half a cup of cold water and used his belt knife to slice off a chunk of the hard, yellow brick cheese. He waited for Gunnar to continue.

  “It means that the Sarronnese have already lost hope.”

  Justen nodded, chewing th
e tangy cheese that seemed to coat his teeth. He took another sip of the cool water. Even with Gunnar’s wizardry, the water didn’t stay cold in the heat of summer.

  “You’re worried,” Justen finally said.

  “Yes, younger brother. I’m worried. Even with your engineering of the dam, it won’t be more than another three to four eight-days before the Whites are almost to Sarron.”

  “That’s time to make a lot of black arrowheads.”

  “They don’t work any better than regular arrows on the Iron Guard, and the Whites are moving all their Iron Guard forces onto their wizards’ road.”

  Justen pursed his lips. “Maybe Firbek was right. Maybe we need more rockets.”

  “Maybe.”

  The two brothers sat silent on the bench, looking to the south, looking through the heat waves that rose from the river road.

  XXXIV

  “Come in.”

  The broad-shouldered White Wizard stepped into the tower room.

  The thinner man in white studied a glass upon a seemingly antique white-oak table for a time before turning.

  “You requested my presence?” Beltar bowed deeply to the High Wizard.

  “I did.” Histen gestured to the glass, and a group of buildings appeared in the midst of the swirling white mists.

  “A small detachment of engineers from Recluce has arrived in Sarronnyn.” Histen gestured again, and the image in the glass vanished. “Already, they have been rather effective in slowing down the advance of both the White Company and the Iron Guard.”

  Beltar waited.

  “They also brought a descendant… of Creslin.”

  The younger wizard raised his eyebrows.

  “He turned Middlevale into a rather deep lake. Unfortunately, a detachment of the Iron Guard happened to be there at the time.”

  “No other forces?”

  “The others are more… shall we say… replaceable. Perhaps two score returned, and we anticipate that for some time, the northern route will be blocked.”

  “It does sound like quite a deep lake indeed.” Beltar pursed his lips. “What else?”