The Order War

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  Three quick trumpet blasts followed, and the blue horse wheeled and retreated, but not before a pair of firebolts turned half a dozen riders and their mounts into charred heaps.

  Then the arrows flew-regular arrows, Justen noted absently-and even more of the Gallosians fell.

  Justen retreated another few paces and leaned against the cool stones of the tower.

  A young man darted up to him and handed him a chunk of cheese. “The lady healer said for you to eat this.” He was gone before Justen could open his mouth.

  Whhhssttt!

  Another rocket roared down the hillside, followed by another.

  The engineer sat on the damp clay and took a bite of the cheese, glancing toward the marines and the launchers.

  “Hold it!” Altara broke from her concentration.

  “Why?” asked Firbek.

  “We’re hitting more of our troops than theirs. Besides, they’re pulling back. Wait… for either the Iron Guard or the White lancers.”

  “Stand down.” Firbek’s voice was dull.

  Justen mechanically ate the cheese, then sipped lukewarm water from the bottle he had forgotten was on his hip. The worst of the pounding in his head lifted. Almost a hush had fallen across the heat of midday.

  Altara came over and sat down beside him. “Might as well rest while we can. They’ll be back. Outside of the rockets, we don’t have much left.”

  Justen offered her the water bottle.

  The chief engineer took a swallow and handed it back. “Thanks. What did you do to the cannon-or do I really want to know? It felt like you were playing with chaos, but you sure don’t show any signs of it.”

  “I figured out how to combine order and powder to make chaos.” Justen took a deep breath. “Is it always this way?”

  “What way? You’ve been in more of this than I have.” Altara gave a wry smile.

  “So… disorganized. I don’t mean the fighting… but things happen, and I can’t seem to put the pieces together. Clerve was wounded, and I just gave him water and looked at him for a while. Somehow, at first I didn’t even see he was hurt. How does anyone keep track of what’s happening?”

  “Most people don’t, I’d bet.” Altara glanced across at the marines, all but Firbek sitting behind the low timbers that braced the back of the hillcrest berm. “Firbek just kept firing those rockets.”

  A deep drum-roll echoed.

  “Shit. That sounds like the White lancers.” Altara struggled to her feet.

  The drum-rolls continued, answered in turn by four short blasts from the Sarronnese signal trumpets.

  As in the previous battles, the White lancers rode forward at an even pace. The tips of their white-bronze lances glittered with cold fire. Forming out of bow range, they were almost five deep.

  “Ready!” ordered Firbek.

  “Hold it,” snapped Altara. “Wait until they’re closer. Aim for the flat just where the slope begins. They’ll have to slow there, and they’ll probably bunch up.”

  Another roll of drums, and the White lancers charged.

  “Ready!”

  A staccato trumpet command warbled from the Sarronnese watchtower, and the remaining pikes lifted on the left side of the third line of trenches. The lower trenches were vacant, nearly leveled by the fighting, the firebolts, the cannon impact, and the earlier mines.

  Whhsstt! The first rocket arced over the lancers and flared on the hillside behind the White cavalry.

  “There… on the flat. Lower the launcher!” Firbek jabbed toward the White lancers.

  Whhssttt… whhsttt! Two more rockets flared off the hillcrest. One exploded harmlessly in midair, far short of the lancers. The second gouted flame across the right end of the charge, and dirty white ashes drifted out among the cattails and swamp grass of the marsh.

  Another trumpet blast, and black-tipped arrows began to strike the White lancers as well.

  “Strike!”

  Whhsttt! Whsstt!

  “Strike!”

  Whhhsttt!

  The screams of men and horses echoed from the Fairhaven side of the field for the first time in the day. Yet the lancers pounded onward, past the flat and to the edge of the Sarronnese trenches-and around them, using the thin wedge of ground between the end of the earthworks and the slope to the marsh as a turning point before riding down the pike-holders from behind.

  “Aim at the trench edge! There!” snapped Justen, knowing that Altara was caught with her senses order-smoothing the rockets.

  “Strike!” Firbek ignored the engineer.

  Justen tapped the marine on the shoulder. “Aim at the trench edge! There!”

  Firbek glared but shouted to the marines, “Uphill! A touch to the right. At the end of the trenches.”

  Whhhsttt… whsssttt…

  The first rocket charred a patch of cattails in the marsh. The second rocket, aimed with a touch of order supplied by Justen, exploded on point: amid a clump of White lancers turning the flank of the Sarronnese forces.

  Hssttt! A lone fireball arced over the earthworks and flared across the right launcher.

  “Eeee…” The marine aiming the launcher fell forward, burning.

  Justen swallowed hard, trying not to retch at the odor of charred meat.

  While he fought to control his churning stomach, another marine took the left-hand wheel on the launcher and readjusted the crank. The woman marine slipped another rocket into place.

  “Strike it!”

  Whhsttt.‘ The rocket exploded in midair.

  Whhsttt!

  So did the next rocket. Justen frowned. Had the Whites discovered a way to explode powder in black iron?

  The heavy roll of drums increased, and the levies’ from Hydlen and Lydiar began to march forward, following the path of the White lancers.

  “Strike!”

  Altara continued to concentrate on the rockets.

  Whhhsttt!

  Despite the huge gaps in the ranks of the lancers-fully two-thirds of them had been killed, fired, or downed-the remainder hacked their way uphill, seemingly ignorant of the damage created by black iron arrowheads and rockets. Behind them, stolidly marched the White levies, their small shields held high against the iron arrows.

  The Fairhaven strategy was working, Justen realized. In trying to hold off the lancers, the Sarronnese had failed to target the levies, and now those levies were more than halfway up the hill.

  Yet… still the crimson-and-gray banners had not moved.

  Why has the Iron Guard not been pressed into the fight? And why are there so few firebolts from the White Wizards? Justen glanced from one end of the field to the other.

  Whhhsttt!

  Another drum-roll echoed across the valley. Now the gold-and-green banners began to move forward. How many troops do the damned Whites have ?

  “Strike!”

  Whhsttt!

  Still… the rockets went off, although now half of them were exploding in midair rather than where they were aimed.

  Justen’s head ached, and he did not understand how Altara remained standing.

  Hsssttt!

  Justen ducked as another wizardly firebolt arced past, splattering on the antique stones of the watchtower. His eyes drifted back to the lower right-hand side of the field, where the Whites surged upward. Below them, it appeared as though the marsh had solidified. Realizing that the dark masses were bodies, Justen forced himself to swallow the bile in his throat. Everywhere he looked there were bodies: burned bodies, ashes, bodies with arrows through them, bodies coated in dull red.

  Another drum-roll rumbled across the hillcrest. Justen shivered, then turned. The sound had come from the northeast, from the direction of the iron wood forests.

  Not five hundred cubits to the north, formed up at the edge of the iron woods, were hundreds of dark-clad troops.

  “Darkness!” Justen swore. The banners on the field below had been decoys. He should have trusted his feelings!

  Another drum-roll and the Iron Guard
began to march forward. Arrows arced from behind them toward the Sarronnese. Justen dropped in back of a timber brace, now wondering what he could do.

  Suddenly, a familiar figure appeared beside the watch-tower. Justen shivered as he felt the webs of order building around Gunnar. He could sense his brother’s call to the great winds and the storms from the Roof of the World.

  A cold, whining, whistling wind whipped out of the southeast and across the hillside. The Sarronnese battle ensign flapped wildly.

  Behind Justen, Firbek continued to direct the rockets against the remnants of the White lancers, apparently oblivious to the threat from the ironwood forest.

  “Strike!”

  Whhhsttt!

  Justen glanced back toward Gunnar and the oncoming Iron Guard, and he shivered as the wind continued to rise and the sky darkened.

  Gunnar stood apart from the tower, like an ancient tree rooted in time.

  Scattered ice pellets began to rattle against the stones of the tower. Dark clouds roiled into the once-clear sky, and a rumble of heavy thunder rolled across the valley as the storm swept down upon the White forces.

  The drum-rolls faltered for an instant.

  Hhhssttt! Another firebolt flared-this time from behind the Iron Guard-and splatted against the watchtower.-

  Justen, fighting his headache and feeling of despair, struggled to throw an order-shield around Gunnar.

  Hhhsstt! The next firebolt angled wide of the Storm Wizard.

  Justen kept concentrating, clinging to the heavy timber for support as he poured his strength into creating the barrier that would protect Gunnar while his brother called the storms.

  “Form up down there!”

  Justen frowned at the words as another figure-massively built and in blacks-turned from the rocket emplacements and walked swiftly past Justen and across the ridge through the wind toward the Black Weather Wizard.

  Justen frowned. Then he stood. “Gunnar!”

  Locked into the winds, Gunnar remained rooted. Justen began to run toward his brother, wishing for his staff, but it was buried in the hillside collapse. He pulled out his belt knife, realizing that he would not reach Gunnar before Firbek did.

  “Firbek!”

  The big marine lifted his blade.

  The winds whistled, and the ice fell, pounding, slowing the advance of the Iron Guard to less than a crawl.

  Justen twisted the shield between the marine and Gunnar. Firbek paused, and Justen lunged forward, plunging the knife into Firbek’s right shoulder. The marine dropped his own blade, but his left hand slammed Justen to the ground, causing Justen to release his knife as well as his order-shield. Then Justen grabbed the blade that Firbek had dropped.

  Firbek’s open palm slammed across Gunnar’s unprotected face just as Justen swung the blade up. Firbek jumped back, but Gunnar staggered, then toppled onto the trampled brown grass.

  Justen walked toward the marine. Firbek backed away, circling around toward the vacant rocket emplacements. Jus-ten advanced, wondering if Firbek had dismissed the marines or if they had fled when they had seen the Iron Guard. Then he saw the black-clad figures, now bearing blades, circled around the Sarronnese force leader.

  The winds subsided, and the ice pellets became less frequent.

  “Choose, Engineer! Me… or your brother.” He pointed toward the oncoming Iron Guard.

  Justen could sense both of the oncoming White forces. Blue-clad figures began to scurry over the top of the hill, hastening back toward a Sarron that seemed impossibly distant.

  Justen angled toward the nearest rocket launcher, Firbek’s blade still in his hand, nearly tripping on the still form of Altara. His eyes on Firbek, Justen bent down. The chief engineer was unconscious but breathing, and he offered her the slightest touch of order before straightening.

  “So… what are you going to do, Firbek?” Justen tried to turn the wheeled frame of the rocket launcher toward the advancing gray-clad forms. “Join the Iron Guard?”

  The big marine used both arms to turn the second launcher toward Justen. “it’s not a bad idea. At least Fairhaven isn’t filled with hypocrites.”

  “You really believe that?”

  “Look at the Mighty Ten! They could destroy anything on the ocean, and the Council just builds each ship bigger than the last but insists that we can’t help anyone. We’ve got shitty rockets when we need shells.”

  “This isn’t the time for philosophy. Why don’t you turn that downhill before the lancers get here?”

  “For what?” The striker in Firbek’s hand flicked.

  Justen, ignoring his searing headache, threw a light-shield around himself and stepped aside.

  Whhhsttt!

  Justen jerked sideways, then turned toward Firbek again.

  Firbek touched the striker to the second rocket and yanked the launcher around, toward the engineer he could not see.

  Whhsstt! The rocket flared past Justen, who was now running.

  Justen swung the sword, at the last moment turning it so that the flat of the blade slammed against Firbek’s head.

  The marine dropped.

  “Aaaeee…”

  A searing whiteness blinded Justen for a long moment. He shook his head to clear it. His mouth dropped open as he looked to the left of the watchtower and saw Sarronnese troops dashing past the burning command tent, now no more than drifting ashes.

  After barely glancing at the unconscious marine, Justen sprinted toward the blazing tent beneath the stone watch-tower. Stopped by the heat-hotter, seemingly, than a forge-he glanced around. Gunnar tottered up beside him.

  “Do something!” Justen yelled. “Call a storm… anything !” The ends of his hair crinkled as he moved toward the flames.

  “Don’t you feel it?” Gunnar shook his head sadly.

  Justen opened his mouth, then shut it. The tent contained only bodies. “That bastard…”

  “Who?” Gunnar squinted.

  Hhhsstt! A firebolt splashed across the ancient stones of the tower. Justen staggered, then turned back toward the rocket launchers. He had taken only three steps before the first crimson banner-and more than two-score lancers- surged over the hilltop. He looked over toward the ironwood forests, only to see the Iron Guard less than two hundred cubits from the tower, marching in tight array.

  He glanced back toward the spot where the remaining marines had gathered and saw Altara’s tall figure, blade in hand. The black-clad marines and the remaining Sarronnese guards were marching swiftly back toward Sarron, their shields held high against arrows.

  “Shield yourself!” shouted Gunnar. “They’re all around us. Get back to Sarron!”

  As Justen watched, his brother disappeared from sight, although Justen could sense the bending of the light.

  Hhhsttt! Another firebolt flared past, so close that could feel the heat.

  Justen gripped the blade he had taken from Firbek more tightly, whirling toward the squad of Sarronnese beneath the watchtower. Circled around the tall, blond woman, the Sarronnese backed away from the White forces, almost running toward the road to escape the pincer-like movement of the lancers and the Iron Guard.

  Hhhsstt! Hhssttt! Two firebolts flared past Justen.

  “Aeeeüi…” One Sarronnese trooper choked out a scream before falling in a charred heap. Four others just fell silently.

  Feeling as though he walked through heavy, sticky mud, Justen turned toward Sarron and tried to knit the light back around himself. Even the darkness wavered.

  Trapped! If he didn’t shield himself, the archers or the Guard would get him. If he did, he wouldn’t have enough strength left to escape the White forces.

  He ground his teeth against the throbbing in his head, the watery feeling in his legs, and took a step, then another. Downhill… toward the marsh. Toward water, the one thing that the damned White Wizards couldn’t incinerate or twist. Toward water, far closer than the all-too-distant walls of Sarron.

  He took another step… and held the light-shie
ld… and another… and held the light-shield…

  His head pounded. When the pounding occasionally stopped, fire seared across his skull. But he struggled on downhill, knowing he dared not fall. The White Wizards seared their battlefields clean of all bodies, dead or not.

  Another step, and another… until the steepness of the slope leveled into a softer footing. Softer between the bodies, at least.

  At the edge of the marsh, he stopped, surrounded by death. Out in the deeper water, in the late afternoon, a single frog croaked, and Justen could occasionally hear the buzz of flies and the drone of mosquitoes over the sound of marching feet and the hissing of firebolts.

  The way north was too steep. In his darkness, he edged southward, slowly, the mud sucking at his boots. He stepped around and over the bodies that seemed endless.

  At some point, he released the light-shield, too tired to hold it, and looked back. He swallowed, realizing that he had traveled less than two kays and that the systematic looting and weapons recovery of the Whites continued. No one looked his way, or perhaps no one cared. He staggered southwest, away from the battle, away from the Whites, and away from Sarron.

  At last there were no more bodies-only marsh and mud and mosquitoes and flies and dampness and stenches he could not identify.

  After the real darkness of twilight fell, he climbed onto higher ground, eventually falling asleep behind a stone wall, not far from a road whose destination he did not know.

  XLIII

  “Justen! Where’s Justen?” The voice rasped from Gunnar’s raw throat.

  “We don’t know.” Altara glanced again to the south, but the columns of smoke were too far away to be seen.

  “Damn! Can’t even move my head.” Gunnar’s voice died away, and his eyes closed slowly as though he were fighting sleep itself. Lying on the marines’ rocket cart, now empty of weapons, he looked more dead than alive. The bloody marine lying next to him moaned as the cart lurched around the corner and down toward the compound where those of Recluce had prepared to defend Sarron.

  Still walking quickly to keep up with the cart, the chief engineer placed a cold cloth on the magician’s forehead, then pulled herself onto her mount.