The Order War

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  “The rain may save them,” offered Kulsen, even as he unstrung his bow and put the strings into a waxed pouch. He turned to the score of archers. “Save your strings, then reclaim your shafts-those that you can.”

  The older archers had already begun to protect their bows.

  Eldiren turned back toward the city as the rain began to fall steadily, watching the flames rise in the wind, seemingly undamped.

  “Wouldn’t surrender to us? The next copper-bit town will.” Beltar looked toward Eldiren.

  “I am certain they will, Beltar.” The slight White Wizard slowly sat down on the edge of the platform, letting his legs dangle in the air, taking ragged breaths as though he had completed a footrace.

  “I’m no mere Tyrant. They’d better learn that.”

  Eldiren nodded silently.

  The rain continued to fall, and soon a cloud of steam began to rise from the charred ruins of the city. Then soot began to fall with the raindrops.

  The White lancers drew cloaks over their armor and rode under the trees at the edge of the clearing to escape the worst of the slashing rain.

  For a time, Eldiren sat on the edge of the platform. Finally, he heaved himself erect, climbed down, and walked through the muddy ground to his horse. He mounted slowly as the rain began to let up.

  Once in the saddle, Eldiren took a crimson cloth and wiped the dampness off his uncovered head. The cloth came away gray and sooty.

  “Let’s go!” snapped Beltar. “There’s nothing left here- or there won’t be.”

  “Form up.” Yurka’s voice was expressionless as Beltar headed for his coach.

  Eldiren guided his mount up beside the lancer officer.

  Yurka looked at the White Wizard for a long moment. “This isn’t war.”

  “Yes, it is,” answered Eldiren tiredly. “War is slaughter, and Beltar is very effective at it,”

  “The light save us all.”

  The two rode silently beside the column that represented the remains of the Third lancers. They continued westward, circling the ash heap that had been a town.

  As the column neared a crossroads, a woman stood, her ripped blouse streaked with ashes. She began to run, barefooted, lifting a kitchen knife. Yurka, drawing his sabre, reined up the chestnut.

  “Bastards! White bastards!” She lifted the knife even higher and turned toward the apparently unarmed Eldiren.

  The White Wizard urged his mount sideways, but the woman lunged forward. Eldiren gasped but managed a short blast of flame at the woman.

  The charred figure shivered, then pitched forward in the mud just short of Eldiren. The wizard swayed in the saddle, holding on to his mount’s mane for a time.

  “You all right, ser?” asked Yurka.

  “I’m all right.” Eldiren’s voice was flat.

  “I’m sorry about that madwoman. I should have stopped her.”

  Eldiren shook his head. “I should have avoided her.”

  “She would have tried to use that knife on someone.”

  “I suppose I would have, too. Wouldn’t you?”

  Yurka nodded. “That’s the way it is.”

  “Yes. It is.” Behind them, the coach rolled around the dead woman, and the archers split their files to avoid the corpse, The rain continued to fall.

  Eldiren did not look back. He only swayed in the saddle and listened to the creaking of the coach and the occasional crack of the coachman’s lash.

  The low sounds of the lancers’ conversations blended with the fading hiss of steam and with the soft pattering of the scattered rain showers.

  After a while, Eldiren wiped the soot off his brow with his hand and then wiped his hand on the grimy cloth tied to his saddle, bright crimson not long before. No matter how often he wiped his forehead, his hands came away dirty. There was soot everywhere, even with the ruins of Berlitos a dozen kays behind them, and the spring rains seemed to come down gray as well.

  “I am no mere Tyrant,” Beltar had proclaimed. No one would accord him that title, not now.

  Despite the faint sunlight between the clouds, Eldiren shivered. Behind the thin White Wizard, Beltar’s coach creaked as the four-horse team pulled it along the muddy road leading to Jera.

  LXXXI

  “Yual needs to meet you. He is waiting for you. Besides, I have work to do, and so do you.” Dayala took Justen by the arm and walked with him out to the road. “You remember the directions?”

  “Over two bridges and past the splintered oak. Then take the uphill lane to the clearing.” Justen grinned. “Is it safe? I mean, for a near-child like me to wander around alone?”

  “As long as you don’t order-probe all over Naclos. Besides, not much happens around Yual.”

  “I get the feeling that you very much want me to meet him.”

  “I do.”

  “Why?”

  “Because.” Dayala grinned. “You need to work with your hands, not just with your mind. I see you twitch, and your body needs that work.”

  “Ail right, most excellent druid. I bow to your knowledge.” His fingers brushed, hers, and their eyes locked for a moment Impossibly deep were those green eyes, and for a timeless moment, Justen could neither move nor speak.

  “Justen…” *…need to go…*

  He shook himself like a wet water cat. “I’m going. It’s off to Yual’s I go.”

  He could feel Dayala’s eyes on his back until he had walked around the first curve in the road and out of her sight.

  Yual’s holding sat on a low hill. Around the hill grew none of the monoliths. Gray, thick clouds scudded above the forest, and a heavy rain pelted onto the hillside and against the two buildings crouched there. The house and the smithy were the first structures Justen had seen within the great forest that were not grown by some tree or another.

  Justen shrugged and walked out from the high canopy into the rain and up the stone-paved lane toward the smithy.

  Like every door in Naclos, the door to the smithy was open, and Justen stepped inside. There he waited until the silver-haired man reached a stopping point and set the rough-forged blade on the forge shelf to anneal. Then Justen stepped forward.

  “You must be Justen.” The smith’s eyes were not green, surprisingly, but a clear brown that seemed just as piercing as the green eyes of the other Naclans. He smiled broadly. “Dayala said you would be here, and I was hoping that you would come. My forge is yours.”

  “You’re too kind.” The younger engineer bowed.

  “I am not kind at all. I am hopeful. So few in Naclos pursue smithing, and it has been more than many years since an outside smith has come this deep into the great forest.”

  “I bring no tools…”

  “I have a few extra ones, and you may borrow as necessary to forge what you need.”

  Justen glanced around, from the ubiquitous anvil to a second, smaller anvil, at the great bellows, albeit curved differently, and at the hammers and tongs, racked neatly in two stands.

  From the forge came the gentle heat of charcoal.

  “Charcoal?”

  “Even in the great forest, trees die.”

  “Andiron?”

  “There is enough in the bogs.” Yual gave a wry smile. “Those of us in Naclos use little iron compared to Sarronnyn.”

  “Or especially to Recluce.”

  “That is a concern to the Balance.” Yual gestured to the forge. “If you do not mind…”

  “Please go ahead.”

  “You certainly can examine my poor work, and when I finish, we can see how I might help.” The smith took a small pair of tongs and swung the blade blank into the forge fire.

  Justen picked up a hammer, running his fingers across the smooth grain and the curves, noting how it was shaped to the smith’s hand. Finally, he set it down. “Beautiful tools.”

  “Ah… I am a toolmaker. You are a smith. The fire… it beats out from you like the forge of the gods.” Yual retrieved the red-hot iron and slipped it onto the anvil, using precise
and even strokes with a mid-weight hammer to draw the blade thinner.

  On a table at the back lay some of Yual’s finished work. Justen studied it: a set of knives, a warren, a stone-cutting hammer and matching chisels, some large and hooked needles. There were no tools for shaping wood, nor for farming. For gardening, but not for farming. And no razors.

  What should he forge? Justen frowned. He owed gifts to many already, from the gear shop in Merthe to the guest house there, and certainly to Dayala, and now to the smith, Still, he should be able to forge his own razor.

  He fingered a small section of what looked to be bar stock, except that it was softer iron, and squarer. He paused, realizing that Yual must partly smelt his own iron. His estimation of the “toolmaker” rose another notch.

  What could he forge for gifts? Perhaps some decorative items, except for the gear shop; for that shop he had already decided on a pair of fire-strikers. Even druids had lamps- and stoves, if only for things like breads-and travelers often needed fires. The flints might be a problem, but he could ask Yual about that before he started. If there were no flints, perhaps he could make a travel lantern.

  For Duvalla, he could forge a decorative nutcracker, and for Dayala, he had an idea… if he could but execute it.

  While Yual worked, Justen found a drawing board and a stick of charcoal. He began to sketch, rough-figuring what he had in mind to make after the razor, and remembering that bog iron was probably scarce.

  “A smith who thinks before he lifts iron.” Yual laughed, standing over Justen, who had not even noticed the other’s approach.

  “Oh…”

  “I am doubly honored that you share both your thoughts and your trust.”

  “I’m the one who is honored.” Justen’s words were fact, for he was neither particularly special nor trusting.

  “How can I help you?” Yual asked.

  “If I could borrow some flame from the forge and pay you in some way for the use of iron and tools… all I have is some poor skill. I could use whatever anvil you do not need.”

  “You see my iron. What works for you is yours. I had planned to use the large anvil for some tools…”

  ‘ “The small anvil would be fine.”

  Yual nodded.

  “And should you need it, I can work the bellows on the bigger pieces.”

  “That would help,” admitted the older man. “I have an extra leather apron.”

  After pulling off the brown shirt that Dayala had provided, Justen tied the apron in place.

  Yual had returned to the forge and the large anvil by the time Justen had found the small length of iron he needed, the smaller hammers and punches.

  In time, the forge rang with two hammers.

  Later, after suggesting that they eat, Yual set bread and a basket of fruit on the table, then a pitcher.“This is dark beer, but I have water.”

  “The dark beer is fine.” Justen wiped his forehead. Both his hands and arms were tired. It had been too long since he had worked the iron, and his strokes were neither as sure as he would have liked nor as clean. He took a deep breath, then sipped the beer, enjoying the not-quite-cool liquid and looking down the grassy hill to the point where the great forest resumed.

  “It’s pleasant here.”

  Yual swallowed a mouthful of beer. “Some find it too… removed from the forest.”

  “Do all Naclans have to be that close to the forest?”

  “I don’t.” Yual laughed. “My daughter sometimes travels far from the forest, but her mother gets unsettled if too long away from the trees. We’re all different, just as all of you are.” The smith snapped an end off the bread and offered the loaf to Justen.

  “Thank you.”

  “You keep the iron as soft as you can, I saw, until the last steps, and you always work with the grain. That’s the way I do, but not the way the Sarronnese forge.”

  “They can’t work order into the metal. So it doesn’t matter, I suspect, but I don’t want it to get brittle. That’s the advantage of black iron over steel. There’s more flexibility. That’s why our boilers can take more pressure than those of the Hamorians.” Justen chewed off a mouthful of bread from the end that he held.

  “Delicate work with that double hinge on the nutcracker.”

  Justen nodded. “Stronger, though. The flutes aren’t what I wanted, exactly, but I’m out of practice.” He took another sip of the smooth, dark beer. “May I come back?”

  “Of course. So long as you stay in Rybatta, you are welcome.” The words were warm, but Yual gave the faintest of frowns, as if to ask why Justen would ask such a strange question. At least that was the impression Justen received.

  “I owe a lot of people, and perhaps I can show you something. I’ll try, anyway.”

  “I am sure you will.” Yual refilled Justen’s mug, then pulled a green apple from the basket and began to eat it.

  Justen took a firm pearapple, thinking about the work still to do.

  The sun had touched the lower trees before Justen had racked, the tools and swept the smithy. Then he walked quickly through the twilight, carrying only the razor, wrapped in a heavy, leaflike husk that Yual had supplied.

  Dayala’s house was quiet, dark in the dimness of late twilight, when Justen stepped inside.

  “Dayala?”

  As his eyes adjusted to the dimness, he saw a figure slumped on the short couch in the main room: Dayala. He stepped forward quietly, listening to the gentle breathing that was almost, but not quite, the faintest of snores,

  Had she eaten anything?

  “Oh…” *Think too loud…*

  “I’m sorry. I’m not exactly used to controlling how loudly I think.”

  The druid slowly sat up.

  “Are you all right?” Justen asked.

  “I am tired. It is hard to work with the small trees, and I did promise some boxes…”

  “I know.” Justen stepped around her and into the small kitchen. He took his belt knife and sliced several slabs of bread from the loaf that remained and rummaged in the low cupboard for some cheese. “I think there’s a ripe pearapple on the tree. I’ll be right back.”

  There were two, and he brought them both in after washing them in a bucket of water drawn from the well.

  Dayala was still rubbing her eyes when he set the platter on the table and lit the small lamp with his striker. There was some juice in a pitcher, and he set the pitcher and two mugs on the table. Then he half-filled her mug.

  “Thank you.” She yawned again, easing her chair up to the table.

  “What did you do today… exactly?”

  “I finished only one box. It’s on the low table there. It’s not very good. I tried to rush too much.” She sipped the juice. “How did you find Yual?”

  “He was very friendly. I need to go back. Smithing is slow work, especially when you’re out of practice.”

  “Going back would be best, I think. I also have much to do.”

  Justen looked toward the low table. “Could I look at the box?”

  “If you remember that it is far from my best work.”

  Justen lifted the oval box of smooth-finished blond wood with a wide grain. The top slipped off easily. There were no signs of joins or glue, as if the box were a seamless whole. “This is beautiful.” He gently replaced it and sat down on the chair across the table from her.

  “Please… it is not my best.”

  Justen swallowed. “Your best must be…” He could not finish the sentence, for he had no appropriate word.

  “You are…” *…too kind…*

  “No. One seldom sees such crafting.”

  Without speaking more, the druid slowly ate a single slab of bread and one chunk of cheese. Then she sipped more juice, and yawned-once, twice.

  Justen tried not to yawn, but his mouth opened almost as wide as hers.

  “We are both tired.” Dayala pushed her mug away.

  “It has been a long day,” Justen admitted. Still, he was puzzled, sin
ce Dayala had admitted that she did not handle edged tools. She was exhausted, clearly, and her work was beautiful. But how did she do it?

  They put back the bread and cheese and staggered to their respective beds.

  “Goodnight.”

  Justen was not certain whether he had spoken or Dayala had, but sleep crept over him before he could decide.

  LXXXII

  “You must learn from watching… and listening.” Dayala’s fingers tightened around his, then loosened but did not break away. “He is almost as ancient as some of the old ones, and his songs teach much.”

  “Young lovers… I see you hiding there on the bench.”

  Justen frowned, for the voice was youthful and strong. The silver-haired man with the guitar in his hands, sitting by the small fountain that sprang from nowhere, looked no older than Justen himself.

  Justen extended the faintest of order-probes toward the man while looking at Dayala, until he could sense her guarded approval.

  “I was young once. Enjoy it.” The laugh was friendly, warm, and so was the sense of order that Justen received, but an order that contained a hint of… something bound within it.

  Dayala touched his arm as the singer’s fingers touched the strings. Sitting on the bench grown from the dark lorken, Justen watched and listened. The silver-haired man’s fingers glided across the strings, and the golden notes floated into the twilight, each one soothing even as it chilled, wanning as it cooled.

  The druid’s hand rested coolly in Justen’s, and they listened, and wept.

  …down by the seashore, where the waters foam white,

  Hang your head over; hear the wind’s flight.

  The east wind loves sunshine,

  And the west wind loves night.

  The north blows alone, dear,

  And I fear the light.

  You’ve taken my heart, dear,

  Beyond the winds’ night.

  The fires you have kindled

  Last longer than light.

  …last longer than light, dear, when the waters foam white;

  Hang your head over; hear the wind’s flight.

  The fires you have kindled