The Magic Engineer (51 page)

The Spidlarian forces comprise an entrenched circle on the hillside. The road from Elparta to Kleth angles up the slope from southwest to southeast. To the east lie the bluffs overlooking the river, and to the west, the hill slopes downward into the Devow Marsh, which stretches westward a good four kays. Beyond the marsh are the Kylen Hills, rugged and filled with potholes and crumbling sandstone ledges.

Dorrin peers over the earthworks at the banners on the lower
and opposing hill—the crimson of Hydlen, the purple of Gallos, the green of Certis, the gold of Kyphros, and, of course, the crimson-edged white of Fairhaven. He looks uphill, hoping that Liedral will stay with the rear guard, wishing that she had stayed in Kleth itself.

The sky is covered with high thin clouds that give a gray cast to the morning. A light breeze out of the south, barely lifting the banners of the White forces, carries the odor of burned fields uphill.

A thin wavering horn sounds from the chaos forces.

Dorrin’s eyes flicker from the earthen barriers to the troops arrayed across the low valley. After a second blast from the horn, fire gouts from the area of the white banners, flaring toward the Spidlarian hillside, spreading until it impacts. Only a handful of screams follows the fire, demonstrating the effectiveness of the earthworks against the direct impact of the wizards’ fire. Several thin lines of greasy black smoke spiral into the sky. A second line of fire follows the first, with even less impact.

Then the ground shakes.

The blue-clad riders stand by their blindfolded mounts, waiting for the shaking to end, calming the nervous animals.

Dorrin grins. So far, Brede has anticipated the wizards’ tactics.

A semi-hush falls across the hills, and Dorrin waits. Then the purple banners surge uphill toward the lower front line of timbered trenches where the outlines of Spidlarian pikes and halberds wait. Only a handful of troops are there, and they should be scuttling back up the trench to higher ground.

Behind his own higher timbered wall, Dorrin holds his breath, his perceptions trying to check the situation, hoping that the last troops will be up the trench before he must act.

The Gallosian troops crash over the first line, and pour into the trenchworks, splitting to follow the trenches to the higher emplacements. Dorrin swallows and pulls the line buried in the wooden casing that sticks out of the side of the shallow pit. Once the line is taut, and his senses tell him that the striker has lit, he pulls the second line, the one that removes the supports from one section of the casing. Then he climbs out of the pit and begins to refill the area around the flattened wooden casing.

“Now!” he snaps to the two men beside him. “Shovel.”

They shovel as if the demons of light were after them, and before the fuse lit by the striker has reached the buried charges.

The purple banners continue to push uphill, nearly halfway to the higher emplacements. Arrows—not many, but enough—fly toward the first ranks, trying to slow them.

Dorrin gnaws on his lower lip, hoping his advice to Brede—pulling back the troops and leaving wooden weapons decoys—will be borne out. He sits down, fearing what is about to happen, both to the advancing troops, and to him. The banners follow the troops near the trenches, with attendant shouts, as the Gallosians sense victory, despite the handfuls of arrows that rain down upon their uphill charge.

CRUUUMPPPPPP!!!!
The hillside erupts, and even the clay-filled pit under Dorrin wells up, throwing him against the wall and plastering him with clay.

“Light,” screams one soldier.

The other gurgles for a moment. Dorrin tries not to claw out his eyes from the pain and from seeing the splinters of wood protruding from the man’s abdomen and throat.

His own shoulder burns, and he blinks at the wooden barb that has ripped through his jacket and tunic. His senses tell him that the wound is flesh only, and he slowly works out the wood, fumbling with the dressing in the small pack he has carried, before finally wedging one in place.

Only then does he look downhill at the mass of churned earth that has covered almost all of the charging Gallosians. The wave of whiteness from the devastation strikes him, and he slumps to the bottom of the trench under his own darkness, darkness propelled with a white agony that slams at his skull.

“Where is he…?”

Words pass by, as he lies there, vaguely aware of Spidlarian troopers easing their way downhill toward his observation trench, or what is left of it. How long he has lain there, he does not know, only that his head pounds.

“Light! Look at this mess.”

“Ugggghhhh…” Someone retches.

“This one looks like a pincushion.” The voice is cool.

“Where’s Dorrin?”

At the sound of Liedral’s voice, Dorrin tries to open his eyes,
but the blackness remains, despite the diffused warmth of the midmorning sun that tries to penetrate the high clouds. Slowly, his fingers touch his fluttering eyelids. His eyes are open, but he cannot see.

“One of them’s alive. His hand moved.”

“That’s the smith.”

Dorrin coughs, bringing up a mixture of bile and what tastes like clay. With Liedral’s help, he sits up. His head pounds. When it does not pound, a fire burns within his skull. She eases some cider down his throat.

Finally, he coughs again. “What…happened? After the explosion?”

“Nothing,” Liedral says. “What was left of the Gallosians withdrew to their positions.”

“Probably not a score of their two thousand left,” adds one of the troopers accompanying Liedral.

Dorrin swallows. “Two thousand?”

“See why the Force Leader wanted us to help him?” demands another voice in the darkness.

Dorrin tries to reach out with his senses and gain an impression of those around him. With effort, he gains the blurred image of Liedral and three other troopers.

“What’s the matter?” Liedral asks. “You aren’t looking at me.”

“I can’t see you,” he admits. “I can’t see anything.”

“Shit!” exclaims one of the troopers.

“I need to get him out of here,” Liedral says.

“We’ll help. Leastwise, he got rid of those damned Gallosians.”

Dorrin staggers along the trench, partly leaning on Liedral, losing track of the direction in which they are heading. Even before they have reached the hilltop, the effort leaves Dorrin shaking. Each step seems to intensify the pain in his head.

In the distance, he can hear screams, horses, and shouts. He tries to take another step, but the darkness is too heavy, and pounds him into the damp soil.

“Darkness with this measured approach!” snaps Jeslek.

“It was your idea,” observes Anya.

“So? I can be wrong.” Jeslek looks across to the hillside that resembles an instantly churned and plowed field.

“You can? I never would have guessed it.” Anya’s voice is bitter.

“Fydel,” orders Jeslek, “have all the levies march over the mined ground there.”

“What?”

“The one thing we know is that they can’t have planted more of those devices where they already exploded. And we don’t want them to retreat and mine another section of hill or field.”

Even Fydel nods at the logic.

“Everything that damned smith has done requires advance preparation. We can’t give him any more chances. Order the charge. Pour everything into that point. And keep the troops moving.”

“Yes, Jeslek.”

“I mean it. Keep them moving.”

As Jeslek turns to survey the battlefield, Anya and Fydel exchange glances. They nod.

Then Fydel hurries toward the field commander’s tent.

The sounds of metal on metal rumble in the distance, and the ground trembles under him. Muffled curses, yells, grunts, and other assorted sounds creep toward him, but the sharp, knife-edged whiteness that throbs and slashes within his forehead continues to dominate his consciousness.

He swallows, and feels something cool against his lips. “Drink this, Dorrin…please.”

The voice is gentle, and he sips slowly. Is it his imagination,
or is the pain in his head receding slightly?

“Dorrin?”

He recognizes Brede’s voice.

“He’s blind,” Liedral says. “Are you satisfied?”

“Satisfied?”

“You can’t expect a Black smith to create so much destruction and not suffer, can you? Even your great Creslin was blind most of his life.”

Brede sighs loudly enough for Dorrin to hear. “I’m sorry.” He half turns. “You troopers need to get back to your units. The Whites are pressing the attack.” His voice is lower when he turns back to Liedral and Dorrin. “What do you expect from me? We’re outnumbered ten to one, and I probably won’t leave the field.”

Liedral swallows. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. We all end up doing what we have to. Get Dorrin back to Diev. Go around Kleth.”

“I can ride,” Dorrin snaps. “I’ve got some perception. Not much, but enough.”

“You’re not riding. The cart can carry two. And you need to rest.”

“Keep him in hand, Liedral.” A silence follows before Brede speaks again. “I’ve got to go. Good luck.” Dorrin gains the sense of a sad smile. “You did more than anyone, Dorrin. Darkness be with you. Don’t wait too long.” Brede turns back toward a chorus of voices clamoring for his attention.

“Where are you putting the old pikes?”

“Can Hydre’s troopers crack the flank…”

“What about the Certan heavy foot…”

Dorrin tries to sit up, but the white knives within his skull burn more brightly, and are relieved by the darkness.

When he wakes again, the ground still shivers, and the sounds of metal on metal are closer, and the screams more piercing.

“Dorrin, you have to get up…I can’t carry you.”

Slowly, slowly, he sits up.

“Here’s some water.” Liedral presses the water to his lips, and he drinks.

The water, now lukewarm, helps, and the throbbing in his skull recedes to heavy dull aching.

“Can you stand up? Just lean on me.” Liedral’s voice is insistent.

The smith stands, and his legs hold.

“Come on.” Liedral tugs Dorrin’s arm, and they head downhill away from the sounds of battle. She stops. “You’re still bleeding a little.”

“Took a wooden dart or something in the arm. It’s all right.”

“Are you sure?”

“As these things go. I’m more worried about seeing. My engine isn’t finished.”

“Your engine? You’re thinking about your engine at a time like this?” Liedral’s voice rises.

“Do you want me to think about the destruction I’ve already created?” His words slur, perhaps because of the effort it takes to speak.

“I’m sorry. But I’m not.”

Dorrin moves away from her and onto the flatter meadowland, sensing Meriwhen, and his staff in the lanceholder ahead. He stumbles, but catches himself and struggles on through the damp ground. Behind them, horses approach.

Dorrin tries to cast out his perceptions, but the white knives stab inside his skull, and he waits, hoping the cavalry are Spidlarians.

“There’s the smith-healer—and the trader,” calls a voice.

“You the one called Liedral?” asks another voice.

“Yes.” Liedral’s voice is cautious. “Oh…darkness…”

Dorrin catches the anguish in her tone. “What is it?”

Liedral does not answer, but she stops and looks toward the horses.

“Can you take care of the squad leader?”

“Of course, my cart’s up there. Can you put her in it?”

“Kadara?” rasps Dorrin.

“She’s…wounded…unconscious…”

Dorrin forces himself to the cart, just touching Liedral for guidance.

“Let me arrange this…put her there…”

“We’ve got to get back. They’re coming up the side…Owe her this, but the Force Leader needs us.”

“Go!” snaps Liedral. She turns toward the stake that holds the harness and leads, and Meriwhen’s reins.

Dorrin reaches out and touches the unconscious figure. Kadara breathes, but shallowly. He pushes back his own pain, trying to sense her injuries: the fractured collar bone, the deep slash across the upper arm, and some sort of bruise-gash above her ear.

“Dorrin…you can’t…”

“Not much,” he grunts. “Bleeding’s stopped. Need to get out of here.”

He turns toward where he senses the mare. “Meriwhen…girl?”

Whheeee…

“I’m here, girl.” He steps across the uneven ground and pats the mare’s neck, feeling for the reins. Liedral lets go, and Dorrin takes them. “I’ll ride.”

“You can’t.”

“I can. I have to.”

“You’re impossible.”

Dorrin feels his way into the saddle.

“You can’t ride.”

“I can follow you.” Dorrin waits for Liedral. His fingers grip the black staff, and for a moment, but only a moment, the mud-tramped meadow stretches before him, and there is no pounding in his skull, only the burning in his shoulder. Just as quickly, the vision is gone, and the hammers of his headache return. He takes a deep breath, hoping that concentrating on order will return his vision, at least before too long.

“You’re a stubborn man.” After fastening the tailboard of the cart, Liedral climbs onto the cart seat.

“You should be glad for that, woman.”

“How is your arm?”

“The bleeding’s mostly stopped. How’s Kadara?” Dorrin lets Meriwhen follow the cart along the rutted tracks that lead to the main road.

“She’s pale, but she’s breathing.”

The cart lurches onward, and Kadara moans. Dorrin purses his lips tightly, and follows.

“Who’s there?”

“It’s the smith—the Black one…he’s wounded,” answers a voice next to the picket post.

“No one’s supposed to be going back that way.”

“You want to tangle with him?” asks a third voice.

Dorrin concentrates on following Liedral as the cart bounces through the meadow and onto the road. Each effort to sense where they travel intensifies the pain, and he tries just to follow the cart, letting Liedral and Meriwhen lead him along.

“Here come the Certan bastards,” mumbles Cirras.

“Just hold the first two lines,” Brede commands. “They’ll bring up the Kyphrans before long.”

As Brede watches from the slit in his earthworks, the green banners fall, cut down by the blue-clad Spidlarians, who, once the Certan levies drop, and the remainder scatter, scurry back into their earthworks so quickly that only a few fall to the fireballs of the White Wizards. Brede nods. So far, so good. His men have remembered the danger of the wizards’ fireballs. He glances toward the other squad leader, Rydner.

Rydner nods. “Ready, Commander.”

Two messengers stand behind the squad leaders. Each carries a black iron shield. Brede looks back through the slit in the earthworks, wishing he had more of Dorrin’s demon-devices, but hoping that Dorrin has been able to save Kadara, and their child.

Another trumpet sounds from the far side of the valley, wavering but insistent, in the midafternoon sun.

“They’re aren’t going to wait us out. That’s for sure,” observes Cirras.

“After that?” asks Brede wryly, pointing to the churned earth on the hillside below.

Even before the trumpet dies away, the golden banners begin the march uphill toward the upper Spidlarian earthworks. Despite the arching fall of arrows, the Kyphran levies reach—and pass—the lowest of the three lines.

“Bring in Bylla’s levies,” Brede decides.

“That will leave the right side weak.”

“It may, but they’re not attacking the right. Not yet.”

Cirras nods at one messenger, and the two scuttle away
through the trench. Shortly, Cirras returns. “They’re moving over.”

Brede watches as the gold banners stall at the second line of trenches. The arrows redouble for an instant. The blond man turns to Cirras. “Get your squad ready. They’ll bring some horse up the right and try to sweep across. Try to wait until the last moment, and close as fast as you can. That should make it harder for them to use the fireballs.”

Cirras nods. “Yes, ser.”

As he leaves, Brede adds, “I’ll be behind you in a bit.”

Rydner frowns, chews on his lip.

Cirras straightens, and Brede takes a quiet and deep breath, his eyes flicking from Cirras back to the hillside below as the Gallosian horse charges his right flank, that side of the hill slightly less steep than the center or the left. A handful of the White horsemen falls to arrows, but the flight of arrows ceases as the wizards’ fireballs pepper the trenches protecting the archers. While few archers are seared, neither can the others see clearly enough to aim while remaining beneath the protection of the earthen berm.

“When should we—” begins Rydner.

“Not yet. Not until they close. You go down to them, and not a handful of you would make it.”

The Gallosian cavalry turns the end of the earthworks below and to Brede’s right and begins to cut down the levies from above and behind. Like a squall cloud, two squads of Spidlarian cavalry slam into the Gallosian horse from behind.

Brede races through the trenches, down to the archers, long blade in hand. “Now! Hit the gold banners! There!”

The archers emerge from the earth; the bows tighten; and the wave of shafts topples scores more of the Kyphran levies.

Brede hurries along the trenchworks toward the right upper level, trying to keep his head low, ignoring seared bodies, or blue figures transfixed with arrows.

Firebolts flash after him, even as he drops into a trench. “Move! Toward the center.”

“But—” The serjeant sees the blade and the fire in Brede’s eyes. “Nyta, Jort…toward the center. Move, you slizzards!”

Brede circles back through the trenches, back up to where Rydner and his squad wait. He swings into the saddle, leading
them toward the right side of the hilltop. He gestures to Rydner. “Now!”

“Yes, ser.” Rydner leans forward, blade out, and the troopers follow downhill.

They collide with less than a handful of Gallosian horse. Brede’s sword flashes twice, and two men fall.

“Archers!” Brede’s voice booms out, and the handful of archers remaining looses shafts at the score of Kyphran levies still assaulting the middle earthworks.

As the archers loose their shafts, the fireballs return. Screams and black oily smoke twist uphill. The firebolts fall across both Cirras’s and Rydner’s squads as the remaining troopers and their mounts scramble back uphill to join Brede’s small force behind the earth-banked wall. The few archers still alive duck into the earthworks.

Brede holds up his blade. “Wait until they reach the top. Then close as quickly as possible.” He catches Cirras’s eyes.

Cirras nods grimly. Rydner wipes his blade with a rag he stuffs back into his belt.

The trumpet sounds once more, and another wave of mounted troops surges uphill toward the Spidlarian forces. The Hydlen levies pour after the mix of Kyphrans and Gallosians, and all hack their way through the few remaining Spidlarians.

The White cavalry, now a mixture of forces from Certis, Gallos, and Hydlen, churns up the right flank unopposed except for a few scattered arrows. Three White troopers fall, but the attack does not falter.

Brede watches, then nods. “Now!”

The blond officer spurs his mount from behind the concealed revetment, slashing through the White forces, his sword flickering like lightning. Three men fall to that lethal blade before the Whites realize Brede and his force are even among them.

“Magic…!”

“The blond demon…”

Troopers scattering from Brede fall to the blades of others, and the White forces break, clattering and scrambling away.

“Back!” snaps Brede, ducking instinctively even before the firebolt singes his hair and turns the officer behind him—Rydner—into a torch.

“Poor bastard…” mutters Brede under his breath.

The force behind the makeshift revetment numbers less than a full squad. Brede eases his mount up to the wood-backed earthen berm. He stretches in the saddle to peer over the top, glancing to the left side of the field, where the levies from Hydlen have turned the flank and are beginning to circle back, and then to the hillside below where the White cavalry has begun to re-form.

“Archers!”

Only a handful of shafts wavers toward the White cavalry, and the archers are silenced by a line of fire that blankets their trench. The Hydlen levies march grimly back toward the Spidlarians, completing the encircling movement.

Brede looks at the thin line of foot that his squad could break through, then turns to the hillside below.

Another trumpet sounds, and the White horse begins the charge.

Again, Brede waits until the enemy troopers are almost to the hilltop before he drops his sword. The Spidlarian forces surge forth, and again, Brede’s blade flashes like the lightning of high summer, smashing through nearly three lines of White cavalry, scattering them.

“To the hill!” the blond officer commands, ducking as another firebolt seeks him; but less than a handful of cavalry in blue remains to follow him.

The half-score archers left in the uppermost of the earthworks begin to target the remaining White horsemen, picking them off one by one, until fireballs rain across the hillside. Then the Kyphran foot marches toward the crest of the hill. Amid groans, screams, and dust, they clear the last earthworks that protect the archers.

Brede turns his mount, sees a Kyphran footman spear an archer, and swings downhill. Cirras and the other four follow, slashing down another score of levies.

Brede straightens in the saddle as the firebolts fall, lifting his sword yet again, his eyes flicking to the north and west, toward the road to Diev, before the firebolt burns through him. Even so, as the flames consume him, he hurls his blade through a last footman. His smile is bitter.

It is nearly twilight as the last of the White forces gain the hilltop. There are no Spidlarians left as the White banners,
hanging limply, precede the wizards past the charred heaps littering the hillside.

The red-headed wizard’s eyes linger on one blackened corpse fractionally before she follows Jeslek to the clearing.

“We cannot afford another battle such as this,” states the field commander, wiping his forehead. “We have lost more than half our force.”

“Two-thirds,” suggests a voice from behind the commander.

“You won’t have any more battles at all,” Jeslek says. “Only a few skirmishes on the way to Spidlaria. They have no troops at all left.”

“I hope to the light you are correct.”

“I am,” snaps Jeslek. “We move to take the whole river valley first. Leave a small force here to guard the road to Diev. Once we secure Spidlaria, we’ll take Diev.”

“As you wish.”

Anya and Fydel exchange glances. Cerryl’s face is politely impassive.