The Order War (19 page)

The Sarronnese forces and their earthworks formed an arc just below the top of the hillside. To the right were the Klynstatt Marshes, and beyond them ran the River Sarron. To the left, the northeast, were the ironwood forests, where the darkness under the gnarled branches was filled with heavy, twisted roots and dank potholes. The odor of stagnant water and the thin, warbling cry of the needle lizards occasionally drifted southward.

Threads of black smoke rose in the southeast, marking the passage of the White horde that had drawn itself up at the far end of the Klynstatt valley. Between the White forces and the Sarronnese, the trade road ran like a brown cable tying two weights together.

Behind Justen, the old stone watchtower on the hilltop flew the blue ensign with the eagle: the battle flag of Sarronnyn. Justen stood on the right-side edge of the earthworks and studied the road, not only with his eyes, but with his senses.

Perhaps two kays away, partly shielded by a low rise not even steep enough to be called a hill, the White forces had formed up under their assorted banners: 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 and the crimson-trimmed gray of the Iron Guard.

Justen glanced back toward the stone watchtower that Zerlana had taken for her command station. Krytella and the healers waited behind a low earth berm to the left of the tower. Farther to the northwest, perhaps four kays across the plateau, lay Sarron itself, with only browning fields
separating the city from the oncoming battle and its outcome.

A steady wind from the east, chill from the ever-present ice of the Westhorns, flapped the few blue banners of the Sarronnese and the green-and-black flag of the single detachment from Southwind, hard-faced women all, from the youngest trooper to the grizzled commandant.

Heavy gray clouds imparted a sense of impending doom. Despite the cool breeze, Justen wiped his forehead. Was that sense of doom made even stronger by the odor of burned fields and houses? Or did it reflect merely his own inexperience? His fingers gripped the wood of the black staff, suddenly slippery in his hands.

A low, thudding drum-roll issued from the chaos forces and echoed down the valley toward the defenders.

Thurumm…thurumm…
In a staccato rhythm, the hoofbeats of the White lancers’ mounts rumbled down from their emplacement on the far side of the valley. Behind the lancers waited the troops of Gallos and Certis, as well as those of the Iron Guard. Over a berm on the opposing hillside flew a single white banner. The chill from that small berm drew Justen’s attention even as he dropped behind the earthworks.

The White lancers neared the foot of the hill held by the Sarronnese and drew up on the higher ground above the marsh to Justen’s right—just out of easy bow range and just short of the buried mines under both the transplanted hillside grass and the road.

A single firebolt flashed from the area of the white banner and flared toward the Sarronnese hillside, spreading until it impacted. Several thin lines of greasy black smoke spiraled skyward, but no screams followed the flame.

The ground shook. In a line behind the watchtower, the blue-clad riders stood by their blindfolded mounts and waited.

Justen nodded. So far, Zerlana had anticipated the wizards’ tactics.

A semi-hush fell across the hillside; Justen waited.

Thwuppp!
A circular section of hillside between two trenches erupted.

“Long guns!”

“They’ve got cannons!” Clerve glanced at Justen.

“Gunnar thought they did.” Justen rubbed his forehead. “That makes sense. We’ve got rockets.” He studied the area.

“But they can’t forge black iron,” protested the apprentice.

“So…the Iron Guard can use plain iron or bronze, and we still can’t use chaos to fire their powder,” snapped Justen.

Thwuppp!
Screams followed the second shell.

Thwuppp!

Justen located the emplacement; three guns behind a low hill to the left of the main body of the White forces.

Thwupp!

“Try the rockets!” Firbek bellowed, his voice harsh.

Justen sensed rather than heard the flint and steel of a striker and the
whoosh
of a naval rocket. He also could feel Altara’s order-touch on the missile. The smoking exhaust and the patch of fire on the front of the hill shielding the guns confirmed the rocket’s target.

A second rocket followed the first, with as little success.

Thwupp!
Another section of trenching exploded and strewed timber, earth, and bodies across the hillside.

Justen extended his senses toward the guns until his head ached, but he could not reach them.

Thwupp!
More churned earth and bodies appeared on the hillside.

“Keep down!” Justen scrambled away from Clerve and along the trenching to his left, holding the black staff in his left hand as he scrambled around kneeling archers.

“Watch it! Oh…sorry, Ser.”

But Justen was past the archers’ squad leader, and the other archers moved out of his way. By the time he reached the end of the trench, he was already breathing heavily.

Nearly half a kay of open hillside grasses, no more than knee-high, separated the trenches from the scrub oak and thornberries on the edge of the ironwood forests.

“Do you want to do this?”

No one answered him. He took several deep breaths, grasped the staff more tightly.

Thwupp!

Even before the vibration from the impact of the incoming shell had stopped, Justen levered himself out of the trench and ran for the forest, hoping he was out of bow range, hoping the Whites would think a cannon shot wasted on a single man.

“Who’s that?” a voice bellowed from behind the dust raised by the Whites’ shelling.

Justen ignored the voice and kept running, thinking as he did that he was forgetting something important.

Thwuppp!

His breath ragged, Justen finally skidded behind a scrub oak, his feet nearly sliding out from under him on the rough ground. So far, the Whites seemed content to wait out the Sarronnese forces.

Another set of rockets splattered against the front of the hill protecting the White cannon.

Justen shook his head, wondering why Firbek didn’t try to loft the rockets over the hill. But how could one gauge the trajectory? Still, it wouldn’t do much good to fire directly at the hill protecting the Whites’ cannons.

Justen took another breath and headed downhill, his perceptions extended. He hoped there weren’t too many White scouts or archers out.

Less than three hundred kays downhill, the engineer paused as he sensed the White archer just inside the deeper forest. Flattening himself under another scrub oak, he caught his breath. He still couldn’t feel the cannons; he could only hear the continuing shelling and the intermittent screams.

The Sarronnese were in trouble. If they charged, the White Wizards would fry them with firebolts. And if they stayed in the trenches, eventually the shells would destroy them. If they retreated, all too many would be cut down by the greater numbers of mounted White lancers or the Iron Guard.

And Justen was trying to sneak past an archer, feeling helpless the whole time, just to get close enough to the cannons to see if he could duplicate his trick with the powder.

He began to crawl through the grass, trying to ignore the jabbing of the rocks and the difficulty of carrying his staff.
After less than thirty cubits, he paused under another scrub oak.

Thwupp!
Upslope, the shells continued to fall.

Think
, he told himself.
What about a shield like the ones used on the Black ships? Could I hold it together without falling on my face while walking half-blind through the brush and rough terrain?

He took another breath.

Whssst!
An arrow flew overhead.

Justen ducked, still trying to concentrate on weaving the light-shield around himself.

Thwupp!
Yet another shell struck the hillside behind him.

Slowly, he wove the shield until his eyes saw nothing but blackness. His mental senses provided only a rough image of the ground and the low trees around him.

“Damned Black Wizard! He’s gone.”

“Shoot anyway.”

“Where?”

Justen edged downhill gingerly until his perceptions lost the first archers—and picked up a second pair. He took a deep breath and continued on toward the gun emplacement. Behind him, the shells fell.

A faint rustling, the sound of boots, seemed to come from the ironwood forest, but his senses seemed confused far beyond the point where the heavy trees began.

He kept moving downhill.

Thwupp!

“There’s a Black scout on the flank somewhere! Aim for those bushes! There!”

Justen flattened himself as arrows flew in his general direction, then scrambled up and hurried more quickly downhill. Even the grass seemed to grab at his boots.

“He’s closer. Try there!”

Justen scrambled into a depression that might have been a dry streambed and struggled downhill.

“Lost him…for light’s sake.” The voice from the forest was more distant, and Justen hoped he stayed clear of the White Wizard who seemed to be tracking him.

The gun emplacement was still hundreds of cubits away when he found he could actually sense it, but his vision was
so scattered that he pushed onward in his darkness, finally halting short of the hill shielding the cannons, as much afraid of Firbek’s useless rockets as of the arrows and cannons of the Whites.

Justen’s legs shook as he settled into the grass and began to concentrate on the powder in the White’s plain iron shells. Would his effort work? It had to.

He rubbed his forehead and took a deep breath, concentrating on creating the special order of powder and air…

Crummpp…crummppp…crummppp
. The waves of successive explosions and fire welled over the hilltop, burning away the grasses even on the top of the side nearest Justen. That twisting, wrenching, yet somehow unseen, collision of order and chaos screamed like a runaway steam boiler through his skull, and he crashed face-forward on the grasses and dirt.

The ground rumbled, and a huge gout of flame exploded into the sky.

One of the three White Wizards standing behind the makeshift berm that commanded the Fairhaven forces staggered, then crumpled into a heap. The other two exchanged glances.

“Darkness-damned Blacks!” Zerchas peered toward the roiling flames where the cannon of the Iron Guard had stood moments before. “How…what…Did you feel that twisting?”

Beltar wiped his forehead. “I…never felt anything like that. It was like a flash of order turned into chaos.”

“Every White in Candar felt it,” snapped Zerchas. “You’re the high-powered Chaos Master. What was it?”

“I don’t know.”

The stockier wizard scuffed a white-leather boot in the dirt. “I think you’d better find out.”

Beltar glanced across the valley, watching puffs of flame
as an occasional black iron arrowhead found a White lancer. “It can’t happen again right now.”

“Are you sure about that?”

“Yes. Besides, whatever that Black did required powder, and there isn’t any more.”

“There certainly isn’t. There aren’t any more cannon, either.”

“Ummm…” Eldiren struggled into a sitting position.

“Well?” Zerchas looked at the slight wizard on the ground. “Do you know what happened?”

“Ummm…” Eldiren moistened his lips. “Any water?”

Beltar extended his water bottle, and Eldiren swallowed.

“Never mind. We’ve gotten half their forces already.” Zerchas turned to the messenger in white. “Tell Jekla to have the Fifth and Third begin their assault. The Fifth and Third. Do you have that?”

“Yes, Ser. Marshal Jekla is to have the Fifth and Third begin their assault.”

Beltar glanced at Zerchas. “You still want me to hold back?”

“What point is there in your throwing fire against earthworks?”

“I could topple the city.”

“Fine…but that would just make the Sarronnese more desperate and cost us more troops. Magic doesn’t win battles,” Zerchas snorted. “Troops do.”

“How about Jehan? He’s using magic to help the Iron Guard turn the flank.”

“The Guard will win the battle, not the magic.” Zerchas turned and walked toward the hillcrest where the marshals awaited him.

Eldiren looked at Beltar. Beltar shrugged. They both watched as the purple banners sallied toward the earthworks of the Sarronnese.

The smell of smoke and brimstone, and burning grasses, and charred bodies, seared Justen’s nostrils and throat. Still lying on the grass, he coughed, holding back a retching sensation.

Crump…
A last, smaller, explosion rumbled behind the hill.

Slowly, the engineer rolled into a sitting position. He rubbed his throbbing forehead. Now all he had to do was to get back to his own side of the field. He reknit his light-shield and began the walk northward.

Past the confusion and screams from the White side, he made it halfway up the long slope holding the Sarronnese forces, using the shallow but dry streambed for cover from wizardly scans. Then he had to stop. His unseeing eyes burned, and the pulsing within his head threatened to split his skull.

The same rustling and muffled thudding he had heard on the way down still appeared to be coming from the ironwood forest. He frowned. Could the Whites be sending troops through the ironwoods? How? The thorn-trunked trees shredded leather like flower petals, and in places there was hardly room for a single man, let alone for any real number of troops, to squeeze through the briars and the thorns.

As he listened, the sound seemed to fade. He shook his head and continued uphill, not releasing his shields until he was well inside the trenches.

“Ser…where’d you come from?”

“The cannons,” Justen answered without thinking, still rubbing his forehead.

“You did that?” The archers’ squad leader jabbed a thumb toward the blackened hillside where the cannons had been. Only smoke twisted up from behind the hill.

Justen shrugged and edged back to where Clerve waited.

“Where did you go?” the apprentice asked.

“I tried a trick with the cannons.” Justen sat down on the damp clay of the trench’s floor.

“That was you?” Clerve looked to the engineer. “The whole order-fabric shivered, like a sour copper note.”

“Thanks. That’s all I need to hear.”

A drum-roll rumbled across the valley.

“Justen! The Whites are charging. Right toward us!”

“They won’t get here, not yet.” Still, Justen levered himself to his knees and peered over the heavy timber brace at the slope below.

A line of purple-clad levies surged uphill toward the lower front line of the trenches where the Sarronnese pikes and halberds waited.

Cruump!
The lower hillside and road erupted. Even the timbered clay wall before Justen and Clerve buckled, and the concussion threw them against the rear wall.

Justen staggerd up and peered through seared eyes downhill. The sundered earth had flowed uphill and buried the first line of defenders within their earthworks. Another wave of whiteness from the devastation struck him, and he slumped to the bottom of the trench under his own darkness, darkness propelled with a white agony that slammed at his skull.

How long it was before he climbed out of the white agony, Justen did not know, only that his fingers were clutched around a heavy timber.

“Mother of light!” screamed a soldier from the revetment below, a trench above the one that had become a tomb.

Justen squinted his eyes against the pain of the wounded soldiers. Their agony pounded against his senses. His upper arm throbbed. A wooden splinter had ripped through his jacket and tunic. He looked at it dumbly as behind his timbered wall, he struggled against the pain searing through his skull. How had Dorrin stood it?

He swallowed and touched the wooden fragment in his arm gingerly, swallowing with relief at the knowledge that the wound was superficial. Despite the burning in his eyes and the hammering in his skull, he worked out the wood, then glanced at the other side of the trench, where Clerve lay sprawled facedown in the clay. The white hammers beat through his skull so heavily that he could barely concentrate or see beyond a few feet.

In the lull that followed the destruction, Justen bent down and touched Clerve, sensing the ragged breathing, and offered a small touch of order to the striker. The younger man’s breathing steadied, and strangely, the throbbing in Justen’s skull subsided to a duller ache, so regular that it took him a moment to realize that another drum-roll had begun.

He peered downhill to see a wave of troops, both crimson and purple, marching forward.

A flight of black-tipped arrows cascaded into the ranks of the White forces, and puffs of flame flared intermittently. Justen nodded to himself. Not all the White forces were chaos-tinged, probably not even the majority save for the White lancers, who drew directly on chaos.

A low moan caught his attention, and he knelt beside Clerve.

“Ohhh…”

Justen offered Clerve a sip of water as the apprentice pulled himself into a sitting position.

“Hurts…” mumbled Clerve as he swallowed.

Justen touched the heavy red wetness soaking the side and back of the other’s sleeve. How had he missed the bleeding? The engineer looked around the debris of the half-collapsed trench, but could find nothing to bind the wound with. He glanced past the timbers.

A wave of yelling and the intermittent sounds of steel on steel echoed uphill as the Fairhaven troops crashed over the first line and poured into the trenchworks, splitting to follow the trenches to the higher emplacements.

The banners continued to push uphill, reaching halfway to the higher defenses. Arrows—not many, but enough—flew from the trenches beneath the watchtower toward the first ranks, trying to slow the advance.

Justen gnawed on his lower lip as he edged toward Clerve. “…got to move.”

The apprentice squinted, his eyes rolling, before he toppled backwards. The blood kept welling from his arm and shoulder. Justen lifted the youth in his arms and staggered upright. He glanced back. The banners following the troops
neared the trenches despite the handfuls of arrows that rained down upon the Whites’ uphill charge.

Justen ignored the words of the soldiers he passed as he struggled through the trench that angled uphill, all the time half-wondering how he could have overlooked Clerve’s wound.

Bent under the youth’s weight, he trudged through the damp, clinging clay in the trench bottom, determined to reach the healers. How long it took, he did not know, only that his head pounded again by the time he laid Clerve on an empty pallet.

“Ugghhh…” A trooper on an adjoining pallet retched.

“This one looks like a pincushion.” A cool voice drifted in from out of his sight.

“There’s Justen! That’s Clerve.”

At the sound of Krytella’s voice, Justen tried to turn his head, but the effort was so great that blackness clouded his vision. He steadied himself.

“Can you—”

But the healer had already begun to strip away ruined fabric. Justen slowly walked back toward the crest of the hill. His feet carried him without thought.

To the left of the watchtower stood Altara, beside the left rocket launcher. The blankness in her eyes showed that her senses were elsewhere, upon the rockets, upon the struggling forces halfway up the hill.

Two trumpet blasts blurted from the watchtower, followed by two more.

Whhhsttt!

“Lower. Crank it down a notch,” ordered Firbek.

One of the marines loaded a rocket, while a second adjusted the launching frame. At the left launcher, another set of marines replicated the actions.

“Strike!”

Whhsttt! Whssstt!

Justen’s eyes followed the smoke of the black projectiles, watching as two fiery impacts scattered Certan and Gallosian levies across the hillside.

“Load and strike!”

Whhhsttt! Whhssstt!

Another impact, and another recoil of whiteness and death drove Justen back a step, almost into the unmoving Altara. He looked down to see that the chief engineer had locked one hand around an earthwork brace so firmly that both hand and arm had bleached into an unhealthy whiteness.

He winced at the pain that spilled from her and stepped back another pace.

“Darkness…”

His eyes turned to the long slope below, then toward the right-hand slope, between the marsh and the edge of the earthworks, where the Sarronnese cavalry charged into the flank of the White forces, driving them down and back.

Three quick trumpet blasts followed, and the blue horse wheeled and retreated, but not before a pair of firebolts turned half a dozen riders and their mounts into charred heaps.

Then the arrows flew—regular arrows, Justen noted absently—and even more of the Gallosians fell.

Justen retreated another few paces and leaned against the cool stones of the tower.

A young man darted up to him and handed him a chunk of cheese. “The lady healer said for you to eat this.” He was gone before Justen could open his mouth.

Whhhssttt!

Another rocket roared down the hillside, followed by another.

The engineer sat on the damp clay and took a bite of the cheese, glancing toward the marines and the launchers.

“Hold it!” Altara broke from her concentration.

“Why?” asked Firbek.

“We’re hitting more of our troops than theirs. Besides, they’re pulling back. Wait…for either the Iron Guard or the White lancers.”

“Stand down.” Firbek’s voice was dull.

Justen mechanically ate the cheese, then sipped lukewarm water from the bottle he had forgotten was on his hip. The worst of the pounding in his head lifted. Almost a hush had fallen across the heat of midday.

Altara came over and sat down beside him. “Might as
well rest while we can. They’ll be back. Outside of the rockets, we don’t have much left.”

Justen offered her the water bottle.

The chief engineer took a swallow and handed it back. “Thanks. What did you do to the cannon—or do I really want to know? It felt like you were playing with chaos, but you sure don’t show any signs of it.”

“I figured out how to combine order and powder to make chaos.” Justen took a deep breath. “Is it always this way?”

“What way? You’ve been in more of this than I have.” Altara gave a wry smile.

“So…disorganized. I don’t mean the fighting…but things happen, and I can’t seem to put the pieces together. Clerve was wounded, and I just gave him water and looked at him for a while. Somehow, at first I didn’t even see he was hurt. How does anyone keep track of what’s happening?”

“Most people don’t, I’d bet.” Altara glanced across at the marines, all but Firbek sitting behind the low timbers that braced the back of the hillcrest berm. “Firbek just kept firing those rockets.”

A deep drum-roll echoed.

“Shit. That sounds like the White lancers.” Altara struggled to her feet.

The drum-rolls continued, answered in turn by four short blasts from the Sarronnese signal trumpets.

As in the previous battles, the White lancers rode forward at an even pace. The tips of their white-bronze lances glittered with cold fire. Forming out of bow range, they were almost five deep.

“Ready!” ordered Firbek.

“Hold it,” snapped Altara. “Wait until they’re closer. Aim for the flat just where the slope begins. They’ll have to slow there, and they’ll probably bunch up.”

Another roll of drums, and the White lancers charged.

“Ready!”

A staccato trumpet command warbled from the Sarronnese watchtower, and the remaining pikes lifted on the left side of the third line of trenches. The lower trenches were vacant, nearly leveled by the fighting, the firebolts, the cannon impact, and the earlier mines.

Whhsstt!
The first rocket arced over the lancers and flared on the hillside behind the White cavalry.

“There…on the flat. Lower the launcher!” Firbek jabbed toward the White lancers.

Whhssttt…whhsttt!
Two more rockets flared off the hillcrest. One exploded harmlessly in midair, far short of the lancers. The second gouted flame across the right end of the charge, and dirty white ashes drifted out among the cattails and swamp grass of the marsh.

Another trumpet blast, and black-tipped arrows began to strike the White lancers as well.

“Strike!”

Whhsttt! Whsstt!

“Strike!”

Whhhsttt!

The screams of men and horses echoed from the Fairhaven side of the field for the first time in the day. Yet the lancers pounded onward, past the flat and to the edge of the Sarronnese trenches—and around them, using the thin wedge of ground between the end of the earthworks and the slope to the marsh as a turning point before riding down the pike-holders from behind.

“Aim at the trench edge! There!” snapped Justen, knowing that Altara was caught with her senses order-smoothing the rockets.

“Strike!” Firbek ignored the engineer.

Justen tapped the marine on the shoulder. “Aim at the trench edge! There!”

Firbek glared but shouted to the marines, “Uphill! A touch to the right. At the end of the trenches.”

Whhhsttt…whsssttt…

The first rocket charred a patch of cattails in the marsh. The second rocket, aimed with a touch of order supplied by Justen, exploded on point: amid a clump of White lancers turning the flank of the Sarronnese forces.

Hssttt!
A lone fireball arced over the earthworks and flared across the right launcher.

“Eeee…” The marine aiming the launcher fell forward, burning.

Justen swallowed hard, trying not to retch at the odor of charred meat.

While he fought to control his churning stomach, another marine took the left-hand wheel on the launcher and readjusted the crank. The woman marine slipped another rocket into place.

“Strike it!”

Whhsttt!
The rocket exploded in midair.

Whhsttt!

So did the next rocket. Justen frowned. Had the Whites discovered a way to explode powder in black iron?

The heavy roll of drums increased, and the levies from Hydlen and Lydiar began to march forward, following the path of the White lancers.

“Strike!”

Altara continued to concentrate on the rockets.

Whhhsttt!

Despite the huge gaps in the ranks of the lancers—fully two-thirds of them had been killed, fired, or downed—the remainder hacked their way uphill, seemingly ignorant of the damage created by black iron arrowheads and rockets. Behind them, stolidly marched the White levies, their small shields held high against the iron arrows.