The Order War (13 page)

The thunder outside the smithy was deep enough to be heard over the clanging of metal and the slow pounding of the hammer mill, tended carefully by Quentel, whose left arm was bound in a splint of wood and canvas.

Justen lifted the hammer, touching the iron arrowhead on the forge. He frowned. Too bad the engineers couldn’t cast black iron, or that the Sarronnese smiths couldn’t forge black iron, either. Like everything, black iron had its limits. Since it couldn’t be cast, that meant, at least so far, that the Blacks hadn’t been able to make more than a handful of black iron guns—just those on the Mighty Ten—and since the Whites could touch off cammabark or powder held in regular iron, albeit with difficulty, anyone who wasn’t a White or on a Black ship risked having cannon blow up on them.

Probably the Iron Guard could use long guns or cannon, even if the regular White troops and wizards couldn’t. But that limitation wouldn’t help the Sarronnese much. The engineers had made a few muskets for hunting, but they weren’t feasible for war. Making a musket by hand out of black iron took too much time and effort. Arrowheads were another story.

Justen took a deep breath, reflecting that the idea for ar
rowheads had been his, and pulled the next sheet of iron from the forge. Four quick taps with the hot set and the first rough shape was ready. Then he scarfed the base and reheated the iron to welding temperature before tapping the holed rod stock to the base. He followed with another tap to the hot set and a reforming on the special mandrel that sat in the hardie hole.

“You’d think you’d been doing that all your life,” observed Nicos, stopping for a moment on his way back from outside. The older engineer wiped sweat from his face. “This place is hotter than Recluce was even before Creslin fixed it. I can sure see why he never wanted to come here.”

Justen nodded, recalling his trip to the Silver Shield in Sarron. “I can think of several reasons.”

“Do you think the arrowheads will work?”

“They’ll work. I just hope the Sarronnese understand how well.”

“They’re in trouble. You’d think they’d use whatever works.”

“Maybe…” Justen cleared his throat, trying to swallow the taste of charcoal and metal. He reached for the pitcher and took a swallow of the lukewarm water.

“With the true Legend-holders, you never know.” Nicos flashed a smile and turned toward the hammer mill.

Justen resumed forging. After he had a dozen of the rough-out arrowheads, he nodded to Clerve, who began the tedious job of filing and grinding them before Justen used the last touch of heat and order to turn them into black iron. Then the striker would use the smooth wheel on the grindstone for a final polish.

While Clerve filed and rough-ground, Justen finished another dozen forms, then began the careful ordering of those completed by Clerve.

By midday, each man was soaked from the heat of the forge and the hot, damp air that seemed to well out of the ground. But Justen had more than three dozen of the special arrowheads ready.

“That’s enough for now.” He wiped his forehead and placed the hammer on his bench.

At the rear and newest forge, Altara set aside her tongs
and walked over to where Justen banked the edge of his coals.

“How are you doing?”

Justen nodded toward the last half-dozen gleaming black shapes on the hearth. “Around two score this morning. That’s not enough for even a few moments of battle.”

“Dyessa wants to try them first, and Firbek thinks you ought to go with the next detachment.”

“I’m no marine.” Justen squinted at the salty sweat that had run into his left eye. He blotted it away and then walked out under the side eave of the smithy, scarcely cooler than the forge area, so still was the midsummer air.

The chief engineer followed. “I’d like your opinion on whether we should make more arrowheads. Firbek wants more rockets.”

With a snort, Justen scooped a handful of water out of the bucket set on the small table and splashed it across his face. Altara waited.

“We’d get better results with the arrowheads,” he said at last.

“I won’t get that answer from Firbek, especially if you don’t go with Dyessa.”

“So…I have to go because Firbek loves the rockets?” The young engineer sank onto the rough bench, letting his eyes rest on the road, where two heavy-laden wagons rumbled downhill, headed eastward from Sarron. Farther downhill, another wagon also lumbered eastward. Justen shook his head.

“I could ask Clerve to go. And Krytella has suggested that the Sarronnese could use a healer,” Altara told him.

“No. I’ll go. Clerve would just get himself killed. I can at least duck.”

“You don’t think I should let the healer go?”

“No. The way the Whites fight, there aren’t many wounded.”

“I got that impression.” Altara caught Justen’s eyes. “Thank you.”

“When does Dyessa leave?”

“Sometime within the eight-day, probably before the end days.” Altara paused. “Why do you look so glum? You
seem to forget that you were successful in stopping the White thrust through the northern pass.”

“I suppose.” Justen snorted softly. “We were successful—if that’s what you call losing three-quarters of the Sarronnese forces, half of our black iron equipment, and almost killing the one real wizard we have.”

“Justen, you’re too hard on yourself.”

Justen stood. “I’m going for some cold water and to check on Gunnar. The healers are getting some supplies from the river wharf.”

“You’ll keep working on the arrowheads?”

Justen smiled and shrugged. “I still think they’ll be more useful than Firbek’s rockets.”

As Altara watched, Justen stepped off the worn planks of the side porch and onto the red clay that separated the smithy from the old house. First he made his way to the pump behind the dwelling, where he rinsed one of the buckets thoroughly, even adding a touch of order to it to ensure that the water would remain pure, before half-filling it. Then he carried the bucket back to the front porch. When he stepped up to the door of the old house and looked back toward the smithy, Altara was no longer on the side porch, but had apparently returned to work.

He climbed the stairs almost on tiptoe, setting each foot down as quietly as possible. When one stair creaked, he froze for an instant, then continued. He slipped into the small garret room where Gunnar dozed. Pausing briefly, he studied his brother’s open, unguarded face.

As quietly as he could, Justen used the small bucket to fill the pitcher on the stand beside the sleeping man and then slipped onto the stool beside the bed. Even as he watched his brother, the openness vanished and Gunnar’s jaw tightened. A half-mumble escaped the nearly closed mouth. Gunnar’s body shuddered and half-turned on the pallet.

Justen felt a sense of whiteness, of chaos held at bay. He remained sitting, wishing for the black staff, but forcing himself to remain calm. Then he recalled what old Dembek had taught him—about the depth and the order of the Eastern Ocean, about the solid grain of the iron—and slowly let the order settle around him. Reaching out gently, as Krytella
had demonstrated, his fingers brushed his brother’s forehead. Then, even more slowly, he let that concentrated order seep from his fingertips.

“…mmphh…” The tension oozed from Gunnar’s face, and his breathing deepened slightly. The flickering of his eyelids slowed, but did not stop.

Justen waited for a time, leaving his perceptions extended, seeking a return of that fragment of chaos, but the unseen dark calm of order remained.

In time, the engineer retreated down the narrow stairs as quietly as he had come, blotting the dampness from his eyes and face, trying not to swing the bucket into the walls, and keeping his booted feet to the outside edge of the risers to reduce the creaking of the ancient steps.

Although Justen could sense the storms building to the west of Sarron, the air in the smithy remained hot, damp, and still, and the hammer mill’s monotonous and continuous beat had given him another headache.

He coughed, set down the hammer for a moment, and watched as Clerve used the grindstone to polish and smooth the finished black iron arrowheads. After a deep breath, he eased the iron stock into the forge and waited for the metal to heat. Then he reclaimed his hammer and started in again on the next set of the deadly arrowheads. Arrowheads and more arrowheads—he was even dreaming about the damned things.

“I think you have enough arrowheads to prove how good they are,” suggested Altara.

“I’m not so much interested in proof as in protection.”

“After the last battle, I can understand that.”

“I thought you might. Gunnar really did most of it, and he’s in no shape to go anywhere.” Justen let go of the hammer and wiggled his fingers. After a while, even forging out the roughed-out arrowheads cramped his hands. “Some of
them escaped. Firbek wasn’t exactly pleased.” His nose itched from the soot and dust in the air, but he managed to stifle a sneeze.

“I know.” Dark circles framed the chief engineer’s gray eyes. “He keeps complaining about the rockets. He also said that he lost two mules and a launcher because of the flash flood. He seems to have forgotten how that flood saved his life.” She paused for a moment as the hammering from the other anvils seemed to crest.

“Nothing’s right for Firbek. Gunnar stopped the Whites almost by himself, and paid for it. Firbek’s already forgotten that we had to bring Gunnar back on the rocket cart. I suppose Firbek bitched about that, too. A misuse of good ordnance equipment…” Justen wiped his forehead and glanced at the adjoining forge, where Berol and Jirrl worked on the rocket heads.

“He’s a little more understanding than that.” Altara cracked a faint smile.

“Not much. Gunnar was blind for the first day or so. He’s still dizzy.”

“Krytella says his sight is fine now.”

“Next time it will be worse. At least that’s usually the way it goes.” Justen sighed. “I’m beginning to understand why Dorrin invented order-forging.”

“Firbek’s convinced that the rockets are the only thing that will stop the Whites’ Iron Guard.”

“Rockets are fine against ships at close range, but they’re not all that good against troops,” observed Justen.

“You apparently managed.” Altara’s eyes narrowed. “Firbek said that you did something. He’s kept insisting that you go on the next campaign.”

“I’m so popular. You want me to go. Firbek wants me to go. But he didn’t ask me.”

“He won’t. He doesn’t want a favor. He believes in orders. It was enough for him to ask if there were any way to make the rockets more accurate.”

Justen snorted. “We can’t make the casings that accurate, and the ones with fins aren’t much better.” He cleared his throat. “Cannon are much more accurate. Why can’t we make a cannon, put it on a big wagon rather than on a ship? I
know…we can’t cast the cannon out of black iron, but we could make the shells like rockets with the powder inside.”

“In the first place, it’s called a carriage, not a wagon, and it takes a lot of work to build gun carriages right. But we could do that,” admitted Altara. “That’s not the problem. Where do you put the powder so that their wizards can’t touch it off? Rockets have all their powder inside black iron.”

“Put the powder in black iron magazines in cloth bags or something until the moment you put it in the gun. The White Wizards couldn’t find it and touch it off that quickly.”

“And how do you transport the magazines, especially in the rains? How many would it take for even a single cannon? Besides, you need to work on the arrowheads. You just can’t do everything at once.”

“I know. I’ll have another three score done before I finish tonight.”

“You expect the marines or the Sarronnese to have them attached and fletched overnight? You are leaving in the morning, you know.”

“Fine.” Justen sighed. “They’ll work whenever they’re fletched.” He pulled the iron from the forge and picked up his hammer.

Altara stepped back, a sad smile on her face.

Justen set the cherry-red iron on the anvil and lifted his hammer.

Clerve continued to file the burrs off the roughed-out forms. Around them, the chorus of metal on metal continued.

After he had finished another half-score rough forms, Justen paused as a black-clad figure walked through the front entrance. Still holding the iron in the forge, he looked over as Firbek approached. “Greetings, Oh hallowed and heroic marine leader.”

Firbek offered a bright smile. “Greetings, exalted toiler in metal and fire. We look forward to seeing you early tomorrow.”

“And I, you.” Justen forced a smile.

The marine offered a smile equally forced before he turned and walked past the second forge to the corner where
another shaft had been added to the main millshaft. There Altara and Nicos were wrestling with the small lathe, which had seized up.

Justen took a deep breath trying to calm down. He didn’t want to hit the arrowhead too hard. Why did Firbek set him off? Why had Firbek always set him off? The engineer took another deep breath, then gestured to Clerve. “I’ll be back in a moment.” He walked quickly out of the smithy to the side porch.

The water bucket was empty. With a harsh laugh he picked it up and walked through the sultry air toward the pump. After getting the water running with the hand pump, he splashed his grimy face until it felt clean and momentarily cooler. Then he filled the bucket and headed back to the smithy, past the garden, where the beans were already knee-high and blooming.

Justen glanced back to see a taller blond figure walking slowly from the house. Gunnar gestured toward the bench, and Justen nodded, setting the nearly full bucket on the rough stand, and waited for his brother.

“How are you? Sit down, for darkness’ sake,” he greeted Gunnar.

“I think that answers your question.” The corners of Gunnar’s mouth turned up momentarily. “At least I can see, and I can walk a dozen cubits without feeling like I’m going to fall over.” He settled slowly onto one end of the bench.

Justen took the other end.

“How are you doing?” asked Gunnar.

“All right—except that I have to go on that expedition against the Whites.”

“That’s tomorrow, isn’t it?”

“Of course.” Justen shook his head. “I’ve been thinking, Gunnar.”

“Dangerous occupation for an engineer.”

Justen ignored the comment. “You know that order-forces can’t use gunpowder, not without the danger of some White Wizard setting it off. Why can’t we return the favor?”

“You want to handle chaos?”

“That’s not what I meant. If you create a storm—like
Creslin did—it results in destruction. Isn’t there some other way to create the same effect?”

“You’d better stick to engineering, Justen.” Gunnar shook his head, then winced. “Darkness…can’t even shake my head without getting frigging dizzy.”

“If you and Creslin can create destruction through the use of order—”

“Darkness!” Gunnar winced again. “I don’t know. Maybe there is some way. Go ahead and figure it out, but you could end up like me…or like Creslin. It’s demon-damned scary to wake up blind, and so dizzy you can’t even move.”

Justen wiped out a cup and half-filled it, then extended the cup to his brother. “Here.”

“Thanks.” Gunnar sipped the water slowly. “We’ve got a big problem here.”

“I think I’m beginning to realize that.”

“I’ve watched the Whites’ Iron Guard. What if they do the same thing with ships?”

Justen wrinkled his forehead, then nodded. “You mean that we wouldn’t be the only ones relying on the basic order of the ocean. How would that change anything?”

Gunnar set the cup on the bench between them. “There’s no reason the Iron Guard couldn’t develop their own Blacks.”

“But wouldn’t that just repeat what happened in the time of Creslin?”

“Maybe. How many Creslins are there? Would you want to bet Recluce’s future on it?”

Justen grinned wryly. “I wouldn’t. But why the great conversion? You didn’t seem to think the Whites were such a big threat.”

“I suppose that’s because I understand what I did.” Gunnar looked at the planks between his boots.

Justen waited.

“I called up one of the biggest storms since Creslin. And what happened? Maybe…just maybe…I destroyed a thousand troops, and it didn’t even really slow down the
Whites, or not much. Without you, I probably would have died—”

“That’s not—”

“It is, younger brother, and we both know it.” Gunnar paused. “I was stupid, and I could do it better now. And I could probably focus a storm on a really big army, or on a fleet. But there’s no one else who can or would try, and I clearly can’t do that sort of thing very often.” He shrugged.

“So you’re saying that…eventually…Recluce will lose?”

“It wouldn’t ever come to that, but it wouldn’t matter, would it, once Fairhaven took over Hamor, and Nordla, and Austra? Not that any of that will happen in our lifetime.”

“So what are we supposed to do?”

Gunnar looked straight at Justen, suppressing another wince. “Whatever happens on this expedition tomorrow, get your ass back here. You’re worth more alive than if you throw yourself away on a battle that won’t mean much over the long run.”

“It might not be that simple.”

“It never is.” Gunnar sighed. “It never is.”