The Order War (14 page)

“Come on, old lady.” Justen patted the gray’s neck, letting a trickle of order flow from his fingertips. So far, the canyon remained comfortably cool, but it was far short of even mid-morning.

Wheeee…ah…

“I know. I know. You don’t like this fighting business either.” The engineer studied the canyon. Like most of the canyons that contained roads through the Westhorns, it had been sculpted by running water, or the running water had found it the easiest path toward the Northern Ocean.

“You really don’t have to talk to your horse, Engineer,” observed Firbek, turning back in his saddle. The marine rode beside the cart horse.

A woman marine named Deryn flicked the reins to encourage her mount to keep up with Firbek as the column wound uphill toward yet another vale in the Westhorns, where Dyessa hoped to be able to reinforce Commander Zerlana before the White forces arrived.

“The horse doesn’t talk back,” Justen said with a laugh.

“You haven’t said enough for her to answer,” cracked Firbek.

“Well put,” Justen conceded, patting the gray again.

The road turned sharply where the stream had struck a wall of solid granite. Justen noted the narrow gap and the relatively less steep and boulder-studded slope. The water flowed over a wide granite shelf in a mere half-cubit depth—and the streambed itself was less than two cubits below the roadbed. The engineer smiled. Maybe it wouldn’t take magic to build a lake. Then he frowned. Why was he thinking about how to stop the Whites if the Sarronnese had to retreat?

Because he was worried. Dyessa was grim, not even talking to Firbek. The Sarronnese troops acted as though they were being sent to a slaughterhouse, and not even Gunnar had been able to give a real victory to Dyessa at Middlevale. Darkness, his brother still had trouble standing up for long periods.

Justen shifted his weight in the saddle, still uncomfortably hard, but said nothing as he followed the column up the road by the stream, occasionally glimpsing above the canyon walls the ice-covered spires of the Westhorns.

Yee-ah…
A black vulcrow flapped from a dead fir limb and laboriously climbed out of the canyon, heading eastward.

Was that a normal vulcrow, or one of those possessed by a White Wizard? Justen touched the black staff.

Innumerable turns later, the column marched into a circular valley, one with gentle slopes but with the same rocky hillocks that had characterized Middlevale. This time, the Sarronnese were dug in less than a half kay from the western entrance. Berms of earth and rock protected cavalry mounts, while the Sarronnese foot had erected what looked like a stone wall in the form of a semicircle.

White banners—along with green, gold, and crimson—waved at the far end of the valley.

A rider in blue leathers trotted up to Firbek. “The commander suggests that the hill to the left, there, offers the best command of the approach to our lines. Follow me, if you would.”

Justen grinned. The messenger clearly conveyed Zerlana’s suggestion as an order.

“Thank you.” Firbek’s voice was cool and polite. He turned to Deryn, then to Fesek, the other marine who rode beside him. “Follow the messenger.” He looked at Justen. “Are you coming, Engineer?”

“How could I not?”

“Indeed. How could you not?”

Justen tapped his heels into the gray’s flanks. The horse whinnied and fell in behind the cart. The engineer dismounted halfway up the hillock and tied the mount to a scrub oak before climbing up to the hilltop, where the marines were setting up the rocket launcher. He left the black staff in the lance holder beside the saddle.

“Let’s get those rockets ready.” Firbek remained mounted while Deryn and Fesek adjusted the launcher. Then Fesek stacked the rockets next to the launcher while Deryn tightened the brackets.

Justen shrugged, then began to lug boulders so as to form a low wall. After positioning nearly a dozen of the huge stones, he looked up. Firbek had dismounted and tied his horse downhill next to Justen’s gray, where both mounts attempted to browse on the scattered clumps of grass that sprouted from the rocky soil.

A light breeze blew out of the east, carrying fine dust and the faint odor of horses…and perhaps, thought Justen, fear.

“Ready?” asked Firbek.

“Yes, Ser.”

“How about you, Engineer?”

“As ready as I suppose I’ll ever be.”

A heavy drum-roll rumbled like thunder across the valley, and a wave of White lancers, hundreds of mounted soldiers, charged toward the Sarronnese lines. Behind them, methodi
cally marched the foot levies under the green-and-gold banners.

Hssttt…
The first firebolt slammed into the hillside on which flew the blue banner of Sarronnyn, turning several scrub oaks into charcoal.

Hssttt…
Another firebolt hit higher on the hill, but merely scoured lichen off the stones from behind which Zerlana and her small staff watched the battlefield.

Hssttt…
The next firebolt arced down behind the stones, but the absence of screams reassured Justen…somewhat.

The gray banners of the Iron Guard remained well to the rear as the White lancers galloped across the valley. Not until the lancers were less than two hundred cubits from the stone wall was there any sound from the Sarronnese. A trumpet, clear and crisp, sounded two sharp notes, then repeated them.

The first flight of arrows arced out from behind the heaped stone-and-earth walls sheltering the front lines of the Sarronnese.

Justen held his breath as the black iron-tipped arrows sleeted downward onto the White lancers charging across the valley floor.

Crump…crump…

Openmouthed, the engineer watched as each of the White lancers struck by a black iron-tipped arrow exploded in flame.

A faint and ragged cheer rose from the Sarronnese lines even as another flight of the iron-tipped arrows arced into the already hazy morning sky. The arrows fell like fireballs among the lancers. Riderless horses, some of them burning, screamed. The light wind carried the acrid odor of burning hair and charred flesh to Justen. He shook off a sudden dizziness and waited.

Hssttt…hssttt…hssttt…
Three quick firebolts burned across the valley and splashed against the earthworks. One too-curious soldier screamed as she flared into an instant torch.

Justen swallowed hard.

“Let’s get those rockets ready.” Firbek glared at Deryn
and Fesek. “We’ll hold until the Iron Guard marches, unless the regulars get too close.”

A handful of the White lancers straggled back toward the east end of the valley, followed by empty-saddled mounts.

For a time, an uneasy quiet, broken only by the whisper of the wind and the faint muttering of the Sarronnese troops, held the west end of the valley.

Then, from the eastern side, the drum-rolls rumbled forth, and another set of lancers charged toward the Sarronnese, passing through the foot soldiers. Once the second wave of lancers passed, the foot moved forward, using brush and hills for cover, steadily moving toward the Sarronnese.

Hssttt…

Hssttt…

The firebolts dropped onto the earthworks with little effect, except for creating a briefly burning bush.

In response, another flight of arrows dropped into the lancers, with yet more explosions and burning bodies. Justen swallowed, both at the destruction wrought by the black iron and the realization that few of the special arrows remained. Another wave of dizziness struck him, and he shook his head again.

This time, the remaining lancers circled back, regrouped, and joined by a third group of fresh cavalry, charged the Sarronnese once more.

Although the arrows still fell among the lancers, some of those hit continued to ride forward. Others fell, but they fell like ordinary men, and the weight of the charge, the sheer numbers of more than five hundred remaining lancers, pushed at the thin line of blue-coated Sarronnese.

The bodies of white-clad men and their horses piled into a line less than a hundred cubits from the shallow Sarronnese earthworks.

The heavy drum rolled, and the lancers peeled away to reveal the Fairhaven foot, carrying light, white shields, almost upon the Sarronnese lines and marching forward. Behind them, White archers appeared, and a flight of white shafts arced toward the Sarronnese.

“Now!” snapped Firbek.

Click…

Justen flattened himself just before the rocket passed through where he had been standing. He shivered on the ground, not really understanding why he’d had enough sense to drop out of the way, or had he been dodging from the arrows?

“I told you to be careful!” Firbek’s massive hand slammed into Deryn, throwing her to the ground, where she lay cradling her arm.

The big marine turned the launcher and nodded at Fesek, who clicked the striker to light off the first rocket.

Justen climbed to his feet, trying to brush away the dirt and a glob of manure that had stuck to his tunic. Sweat oozed from his forehead as he thought about how close to him the rocket had come. He turned toward the Fairhaven forces.

The black iron missile plowed into the ground to the left of the center of the green-bannered forces. A low, growling sound accompanied the White advance, part murmurs, part yells, part the sound of booted feet on hard ground as the foot-sloggers stormed over the bodies and charged toward the thin blue line behind the low stones.

Another wave of white arrows flew, and Justen dropped behind his stone wall. Deryn scrabbled awkwardly behind the cart.

Standing behind the black iron frame, Firbek racheted up the launcher and nodded. Fesek struck the fuse, and this time, Justen tried to order the initial airflow. The combined effort succeeded, and the rocket slammed through the center of the White foot, creating a fireball and strewing charred bodies for a dozen cubits.

Another ragged cheer rose from the Sarronnese even as the wave of destruction rocked Justen. He steadied himself on the topmost rock of the wall he had built, fighting the nausea and dizziness created by the havoc. He glanced over at Deryn, who was trying to fasten some sort of makeshift splint on her forearm; he sensed not anger, but sadness in her.

Arrows fell on both sides, slashing into white-clad and blue-clad forms alike. Justen dropped onto his knees; so he could see the field without presenting a target for some archer.

“Another.” Firbek lifted the rocket into the launcher.

The second rocket widened the hole in the White center. Justen leaned against the stones and groaned.

Hhsstt…
The answering firebolt fell short, almost charring some of the White foot.

“Another. The White Wizard’s getting tired.”

“Again…”

Somehow, the engineer infused some order into each launch, trying to stay out of view of the White archers, fighting the recoil of chaos and dizziness.

“Hold.”

The remaining handful of the Fairhaven assault forces, those under the green banner of Certis, crept back behind makeshift barricades of bodies and brush and stones. For a time, a low sighing swept the valley, composed of the wind and the moans and cries of the wounded and dying.

Then a heavy drum-roll thundered from the west, and a wave of troops under the crimson banner started forward.

Once more the White archers lifted their bows, as did the Sarronnese, and the late morning sky was filled with death.

Hhstt…hssttt…

“We need to stop them! Strike it!” Right after the rocket left, Firbek was lifting another into place in the launcher.

After a deep breath, Justen added a touch of order, enough so that the rocket hit just left of the center of the new assault.

Hsssttt…
This time, the wizard’s firebolt splashed in front of the launcher.

Firbek cranked up the launcher. “There. He’s on that low hill. Strike!”

The second rocket splashed flame before the White Wizard, who dropped from sight. Firbek readjusted the launcher. “Strike!”

The next rocket widened the hole in the Whites’ center.

Hhssttt…
The answering firebolt again fell short.

“Another. Keep them coming. They’re getting tired.” Firbek changed the launcher angle, and the rocket seared the hilltop where the wizard had stood.

“Again.”

“Strike again…”

The engineer kept infusing order into each launch.

Despite the rockets, the White foot reached the Sarronnese line, and the clash of metal joined the smell of charred bodies, the odor of burning rocket powder, and the screams and moans of soldiers and horses. Sarronnese archers loosed shafts at ranges so close that at times, one shaft transfixed two Fairhaven troops.

…hssttt…hsstt…

The firebolts alternated between the Sarronnese and the Recluce positions, but Firbek and Justen now concentrated on the White foot troops.

“Strike!”

Then the three men in black stood in a lull as the shattered White foot fell back even as another set of heavy drum-rolls started and the gray banners were lifted and dipped.

Three short double blasts sounded over the isolated shouts, the screams, and the hissing of the occasional firebolt. The ensign swirled and dipped three times.

“That’s the fall-back order!” yelled Fesek.

“We’ve still got rockets!” Firbek protested.

Justen pointed to the comparative handful of blue-clad Sarronnese. “Zerlana doesn’t have much in the way of troops left. And they’re calling in the Iron Guard.”

Firbek stared for a moment, then dropped his hands.

Justen yanked the marine’s arm and pulled him to the ground.

“Dumb bastard—”

Hhhssttt…hsstt
. Nearly a score of arrows followed the firebolt above Justen’s head.

“We’re the target!”

“Let’s get moving!” Justen crouched behind the launcher, pulling the brace pins while Fesek and Justen carted the dozen and a half remaining rockets, wrapped in a canvas, to the mule. Then they placed the launcher on the cart. Deryn pulled the fuses one-handedly and put them in a leather bag strapped next to the canvas on the mule.