The Death of Chaos (40 page)

Hydolar, Hydlen [Candar]

SMOKE PUFFS FROM the Hamorian emplacements, and the dull impact of a shell against the wall beside the city gates follows.

   “The demons' cannons. Always the demons' cannons!” Berfir looks to the hills just beyond the outskirts of Hydolar, then back at the clouds of dust rising from the low walls.

   Crumpt! Another section of stone wall perhaps thirty cubits to the Duke's right fragments and slides down into the dry moat below with a dull rumbling almost lost in the unceasing roar of the cannon. The dust wells up into the stillness of the day.

   “Where do they get all the powder?”

   “Ser?” asks the squarish officer with heavy braid upon the shoulders of his red vest.

   “Never mind!” The Duke strides along the top of the walls, heading east toward the growing breach that the Hamorian cannon have targeted. His fingers tighten around the captured pistol, and he finally jerks it from the holster.

   Crumpt!

   More stone slides earthward, widening the gap in the walls opposite the highway that leads north and across the hills to Jellico.

   The Duke steps up to the nearest stone crenelation. He points the pistol toward the Hamorian positions, cocks the hammer, and fires.

   Crack.

   He reloads and fires again. And again.

   The cannons continue to fire into the widening breach in the city walls, and with each shell more stones crumble and slide into the growing pile at the base of the outer wall.

   The Duke stops, and takes the last cartridges from the belt. His fingers twitch, and one cartridge bounces along the stones. “Demon-damned weapon. Woman's tool!” he mutters as he scoops up the errant shell and fumbles it into the pistol. “Nothing man to man, just like the wizards. No skill... no strength...” He grunts.

   Then he straightens and studies the line of earthen revetments that the Hamorian troops have thrown up just beyond bowshot. Not a single sundevil uniform is visible-just the smoke of cannon and the blank earthen walls.

   Finally, he holsters the pistol and turns to trudge back along behind the battered crenelations of the city walls toward the barriers on the west end of the north wall where the last of the Hydlenese rocket guns rest. As he walks, the Hamorian shells begin to fall around the northeast tower. Berfir looks back to see the outer crenellations split into stone dust and gravel, before falling out of his sight toward the base of the outer wall. His fingers seem to move toward the hand - and - a - half blade, but he jerks them back as he reaches the rocket emplacements.

   “Nual?”

   “Yes, ser.”

   “Put everything you've got left on the guns. Just the guns.”

 
 “We been trying, ser. It's a hard target, ser.”

   “Just do it.”

   “Yes, ser.”

   As Berfir steps back, a rocket from the Hydlenese battery hisses northward toward the cannon, but it explodes in a cloud of flame against the outer earthen walls protecting the Hamorian artillery.

   “Higher!” yells the Duke. “Arch them.”

   “Yes, ser.” Nual motions to the rocket crews.

   Whhstttt! Whhhsttt! More rockets arch northward, dashing themselves against heavy earthen barriers, though one drops behind the barriers, but no smoke or flashes result.

   The Hamorian gunners continue to throw shells at the remnants of the northwest tower, and Berfir watches as the second- level galleries are exposed, and a handful of archers' bodies slide down into the rubble.

 
 Then the shells resume their assault on the walls beside the gates.

   Berfir looks toward the smoke from the guns, then walks swiftly down the open stone steps. “Derbyna! Derbyna!”

   “Yes, ser.” The white-haired officer in a red vest meets him at the base of the steps.

   “Get the irregulars and my Yeannotans.”

   “Ser?”

   “We're going to mount an attack on the guns. The Yeannotans are the only mounted troops left, and they'll follow me.” Berfir glances in the direction of the stables, then wipes his forehead.

   With the impact of another shell, fine grit sprays across the two men.

   “But, ser... those rifles...”

   “The walls can stand against rifles. They can't stand against those guns.” Berfir strides toward the stables where far too many horses have been crowded. “Yeannota! To me!”

   By the time he has mounted, and waits for the guards to crank open the gates, almost threescore Yeannotans and a handful of irregulars gentle their mounts behind the Duke.

   “Open them!”

   Slowly, the gates creak open.

   “Halfway! Just halfway!” yells Berfir. “Now!” The big chestnut carries him out onto the cratered road and around a low heap of stone. Behind him follows a line of troopers, most in the red and gold plaid of Yeannota.

   Crumpt!

   A shell slams into the wall to the left of the Hydlenese, and more grit and fragments rain across the road and into the dry moat that has slowly filled with shattered stone, and occasional bodies.

   “Move it!” commands Berfir, turning in the saddle and motioning the others to follow. His eyes fix on the smoke that rises from the high earthen mound that lies nearly a kay away. “Yeannota! To me!”

   He holds back the chestnut until the line of riders catches up with him and regains some semblance of order.

   The first bullets from the Hamorian troops begin to raise puffs of dust from the dirt between the green wheat stalks.

   Sparing! One bullet ricochets off the stone of the road.

   Ignoring the Hamorians' fire, the Duke raises his hand and thrusts it toward the smoke-crowned earthen revetment that lies nearly a kay from the walls of Hydolar. “To the guns! The guns!”

   “To the guns,” echo the Yeannotans, flourishing the big blades that mirror the one still in Berfir's shoulder scabbard.

   Sparing! Spanng! More bullets whisper past the charging Hydlenese. To the right of Berfir, a horse staggers, then falls. One Yeannotan, then another, falls. , The hail of bullets thickens.

   “To the guns!” Berfir pulls out the pistol and levels it toward the nearer earthworks, from which the Hamorian rifles fire, squeezing the trigger once, twice, again, and then again, as he rides northward toward the guns.

   Three more riders fall, and, at the end of the line, an irregular turns his horse eastward, ducking and urging the animal toward the river.

   The pistol clicks on an empty chamber, and Berfir looks down at the empty cartridge belt. Then he flings the useless pistol, and it turns end over end before dropping into the trampled wheat.

   Another horse and rider crumple, almost where the pistol fell.

   “Come on and fight!” yells Berfir out toward the Hamorian forces, swinging his heavy wide blade from the scabbard.

   Less than a squad remains riding abreast of the Duke, and foam flies from the mouth of the big chestnut as the horse strains to carry the Duke toward the cannon.

   Crumpt! Crumpt! Behind the charging handful of riders, the high-angled cannon shells continue to pound the walls of Hydolar.

   “Come on and fight, man to man!” screams Berfir, swinging the heavy blade. “Come on, you cowardly bastards!”

   As the bullets whistle around the Duke, yet more riders fall.

   Behind the Duke, the shells still fall, continuing to widen the gap in the walls as yet more shattered stones slide down, exposing archers' galleries and passages.

   “Come on, devils! Stop hiding!”

   Spanggg! A bullet splatters on the road stones less than two cubits from the Duke. Another bullet rips through Berfir's sleeve, leaving a red line on his left arm.

   “Cowards!” Berfir swings his blade again. “We're almost there!”

   Smoke from the cannons drifts downhill almost to the Duke, and less than a hundred cubits ahead looms the base of the earthworks that shield the deadly guns.

   Thwuuuck!

   The Duke pitches forward onto the dust-covered green wheat stalks, his half-helmet blown off his head by the impact of the bullet through his skull.

   Three riderless horses circle, aimlessly, in the trampled wheat, while the cannon shells continue to pound the walls and the city, and dust surrounds the walls like fog. And stones continue to shatter and fall into the dry moat below the outer walls.

KRYSTAL DIDN'T RETURN until well after dark, and we sat alone on the back porch, waiting for the evening breezes to cool the house and the bedroom, looking at the clear and distant stars, and talking.

   “I don't know. I don't like giving things to people,” I said slowly, “but somehow just saying that it's bad luck or their fault doesn't solve things. Neither does handing out a few coppers to make me feel better.”

   “That's life,” Krystal said, leaning back in the chair. “That sounds... wrong. I mean... some people make bad decisions or have bad luck, and they die or get hurt. Magisters like Lennett or Talryp want to make it so cold. If you make a mistake, you pay. If you say that every woman must pay for the stupid things she did...”

   “That's just it. It balances, but is it fair? Take Guysee-her consort was hurt trying to help someone. Was it a bad decision for him to try to help? Talryn would say it was. No one paid him for that, and she and their children paid for his decision. I've been lucky. Kasee paid me for helping the Finest, but no one paid Shervan or Pendril-at least not much beyond a gold or two.”

   “Two golds,” said Krystal. “That's the death payment for the outliers.”

   “Two golds.” I shook my head. “I probably owe my life to a dozen people, maybe more, who are dead. If I paid their families even that, I couldn't keep a roof over our heads.” My guts tightened at the statement. “Well... I couldn't keep more than the roof of a cot over our heads.”

   “You're also keeping a roof over the heads of Rissa and Wegel and me.”

   “I like you under my roof, but you don't exactly need my help-”

   She squeezed my hand.

   “-and, I don't know, but the Balance doesn't really care about people, or about whether children go hungry.”

   “That was what got Tamra in trouble,” pointed out Krystal. “She still had trouble with the lack of justice in the Balance. So do you, or you wouldn't be turning a henhouse into a cot.”

   “Wegel's doing the work.”

   “You're buying the materials and paying him.”

   “That bothers me, too, in a way.”

   “Nothing says you can't work on it.” She laughed, and I hugged her, because she was right, and we held each other in the quiet and the light breeze for a time.

   “I worry, too, you know.” Her voice was low, barely audible above the rising whisper of the strengthening breeze. “You don't carry a blade every day.”

   I swallowed. Here I was worrying about being too charitable or not charitable enough, and Krystal carried forged death at her hip just about every waking moment. “It bothers you.”

   “Sometimes. Kasee's pretty good, and most of the time we do more good than harm.” She paused. “But I have to ask why so often everything has to be decided by force. The one-god followers talk about goodness. I haven't seen much goodness that wasn't backed with steel.”

   “Kasee's a good ruler, as rulers go, but Hamor doesn't seem to care about that.”

   “Their leaders are very shrewd. They're a lot more experienced than we are.” She shook her head. “They've already got the support of most people in Freetown and Montgren. Certis probably won't last long-half the people hate the Viscount, almost as badly as the Gallosians hate their Prefect. With the Hamorians' new weapons, who can stand up to them in battle? We've barely been able to purchase a score of those new rifles, and not many of the cartridges-but they're sending every foot soldier to Candar with one.”

   “You make it sound impossible.”

   “Well, dear man, just how do we stop an empire? And when I ask that, it bothers me, because it sounds like I'm asking you to go out and be a hero, and I don't want you to.”

   “Why not?”

   “Because... heroes really aren't very nice people, and I'm afraid that you'll change.”

   “Maybe that's why Justen avoids things,” I said. “He was a hero once, maybe more than once, and he never wants to do it again. That was a long time ago, and they didn't have machines like Hamor does. He destroyed Fairhaven, and everything else collapsed.” I laughed. “If the Hamorians had any idea.of what he'd done, I don't think that they'd ever let him anywhere close to their capital or their emperor. Not that he'd go. Anyway, the machines change everything.”

   “I wonder,” mused Krystal. “Do they? Really? You keep talking about the boiling chaos building beneath Candar. That sounds to me like something's upset the Balance.”

   “It has. My father thinks that it's mostly Hamor.”

   “Don't order and chaos have to balance? Won't it strike back at the Empire?”

   “How? Hamor is a third of a globe away, and the chaos is here.” I frowned. Krystal had something, something so obvious that I couldn't quite figure it out.

   “I don't know. You're the order mage. I'm just a professional soldier.”

   “Just? Hardly.” I ruffled her short hair.

   “You're the one who bought me my first blade.”

   “Because you needed it.”

   “Oh, Lerris...”

   “We can't solve all the world's problems tonight. And you're leaving tomorrow.”

   “You could come to Ruzor.”

   “What would I do, besides get in your way?”

   “You never get in my way. Are you worried about losing the crafting business?”

   “A little-except I don't seem to have much left.” And I didn't. Commissions seemed to have vanished.

   “What about the desk?”

   “We're just about through with it.” I shrugged. “After that...”

   “Then you could come-you could bring tools, couldn't you?”

   “I could...”

   “You don't sound like you want to.” Krystal's voice carried a slight edge.

   “It's not that, not exactly. Going to Ruzor doesn't feel quite right, but I don't know why, and it bothers me because I don't. I don't like your being there, either.” I laughed. “Then, I don't like your being away so much, anyway.”

   “You have to trust your feelings,” she said slowly. “But you could visit, couldn't you?”

   “I'd at least have to finish the henhouse.”

   She laughed. So did I, and we left the cooling winds and the cold stars for a warmer bedroom.