The Magic Engineer (42 page)

“What happened?”

“The levies chased the Spidlarians…I don’t know—except that the first two riders were sliced almost in half, and no one was around. No one…”

Jeslek’s hand slams into the field table. “No one? Or no one that they could see?”

“Did you stop to see what happened?” Anya’s voice is calm.

“Yes…ser…” stumbles the Certan officer. “Well…not exactly. The lead horses and riders were sliced apart with invisible swords. That got everyone clogged together on the road. Then archers popped up out of hidden pits. Before things got untangled…we lost almost three whole squads.”

“Invisible swords?” asks Jeslek.

“That’s what it looked like. Byler’s body was sliced into two pieces. Like a blood sausage.”

Anya swallows and looks down at the small portable table before her.

“Were there walls or anything tall beside the roads?”

“No, ser. Not that I recall…Maybe one scrubby tree on one side, but this was in those rolling plains, not near Elparta or the woods.” The officer scuffs his boots on the dirt floor of the tent. “Begging your pardon, ser, but…I mean…it’s hard to fight magic.”

“I understand,” Jeslek says slowly. “We’ll do something, but I’ll need to look at the situation.” His head inclines to the glass on the table, and he frowns. White mists swirl in the mirror.

The officer’s eyes follow the wizard’s, widening as a scene of an empty road appears, then disappears into the mists.

“You may go,” Jeslek suggests softly.

“Thank you, ser.”

Anya’s eyes take in the broad shoulders of the officer. She watches the back of the sweat-stained green tunic as he marches stiffly back downhill.

“Another clever tactic,” Jeslek snorts. “I’m sure there’s no real magic to it.”

“Does it really matter, dead High Wizard?” asks Anya lazily, a cold edge to her voice.

“Of course not. But why…?” He looks back at the mirror.

“Why what?”

Jeslek clears his throat. “There are a number of ‘whys’…why women equate appearance with ability, why so many soldiers fail to think, why people who plot always think they won’t be discovered…” He laughs softly, and the mists swirl in the glass.

The cart horse snorts, and the pack horse echoes the sound as Liedral climbs into the heavily padded seat.

Dorrin takes Liedral’s gloved hand and squeezes it. “Be careful.”

“I will. There shouldn’t be a problem. The ship’s Suthyan, and so far the Whites have avoided taking on either Suthya or Sarronnyn. The longer I wait, the more dangerous it will be. Besides”—her voice almost cracks—“what am I supposed to do? Sit here and damn them for what they did to us?”

“It’s better.”

“A little, but I can’t just sit here. There’s no trading going on in Spidlar, and now’s the time to make coins.”

“That’s not why you’re going.”

“No. I’m going because I can’t sit here and look at you loving me. I need some time to think without worrying about you, and you need to get on with your engine and helping Brede and Kadara.”

“When is she leaving?” Frisa’s high voice carries across the yard from the pen where Merga is feeding Gilda, Zilda’s first kid, which Reisa has insisted belongs to Dorrin.

“See?” Liedral says lightly. “She knows I should be going.”

“You’ll be back by fall?”

“Before then, I hope. That depends on ships, weather, and
how well a lot of this ironmongery sells.”

“It isn’t—” He has to laugh as he sees the glint in her eye.

“You still take things too seriously, love. At least you’ll get to sleep in a comfortable bed.” Liedral lifts the reins, and Dorrin squeezes her hand a last time.

He watches until the cart disappears down the road to lower Diev and the three small piers where the Suthyan coaster is tied. Then he turns toward the herb garden, where Rylla is already selecting fresh astra and brinn. The healer waits for him as he walks past his stable and along the ridge line toward the herb garden that he has expanded each year.

“I’d be thinking we need more this winter,” she says. “Even with the larger gardens. You won’t be able to feed all those who do not have enough.”

“There will be enough food,” the smith says. “Everyone is planting. But we will need the healing herbs.”

Rylla nods. “Some will not be a-coming home. Glad I am that Rolta is a seafarer.”

“Everyone is talking about the need for levies, but…”

“They cannot ask for them until after the planting is finished.” Rylla looks across the gardens. “Still, there is more here than an army would need, and you dried much of last year’s herbs.”

“I sent some with Liedral.”

A smile creases the older woman’s lips. “You’d be a fool if you had not. Let’s get on with it. Are you ready for warts and burns?”

Dorrin sighs.

“Dig, damn it!” snaps the squad leader.

“We’re not frigging farm hands,” complains the trooper with the shovel.

“No, you’ll be a dead trooper if you don’t keep digging.”

“This isn’t fighting…” mumbles another trooper, but he keeps digging at the low point in the road.

The squad leader looks to her right, her short red hair glisten
ing in the sun that has barely cleared the plains to the east. Uphill, three others labor at another trench. Two others have concealed the heavy road stones that they have pried out of position under brush and turf.

“Why are we doing this?”

“To kill the damned Certans,” answers the squad leader. “They still like to use the roads, the idiots.”

The two troopers with shovels look from the hard-eyed woman with the twin blades toward the rising sun. “…not sure which is worse…”

She ignores the comment, watching and listening as the hole that will fill with water deepens. Watching and listening as the archers on the slope above dig in.

Dorrin continues to watch the iron until it reaches the orange-red just beyond cherry red before lifting it onto the anvil. There he painstakingly fullers the metal into the octagonal end necessary to fit the gear. His face is sweat-streaked, his eyes burning from the sweat before he lays aside the hammer. The delicate work is harder, much harder, than hammering out braces or log peaveys. Especially when he must add order as he shapes. The engine work, as always, has taken longer than he would have wished.

Then he reheats the two pieces, carefully scarfing them before welding them together with deft blows from the hammer, and setting them on the bricks next to the forge to anneal.

After wiping his face with the back of his forearm, he steps out into the still afternoon, squinting against the sun, walking toward the kitchen for some cold water. Once he gets a drink, he needs to find his errant striker, although he suspects Vaos is in the barn, currying Meriwhen or the broken-down bay that Merga uses to go to market. Even after his limited healing efforts, Dorrin has doubts about how long the bay will last.

Every time he turns, he must add more to his establishment. He waits a moment in the shade of the house, looking down across the grass toward the pond, and the narrow mud flats that
show the lack of summer rainfall. Turning toward the west, he wonders how Liedral fares, but senses nothing amiss. At least, he feels no pains, nor the agonies of their last parting. Still, she has been gone more than half a season, and he has heard nothing, not that he would expect anything with the few ships that reach Diev or Spidlaria. The news of the fall of Axalt has not helped, either. He would not have believed that the White Wizards would so cavalierly turn a city into crushed rock, yet Brede and Kadara must fight that evil…all too often.

He looks into the heat of the day for a time longer. Then, after wiping his sweating forehead, he walks around the porch and up into the kitchen, looking for his mug, but Merga has already filled it, and hands it to him.

“We’ll be having a mutton soup, ser.”

“That sounds fine…Mutton?”

“Asavah liked the plowshare, and the extra nails you sent.”

“I only had a handful…”

“Might it be all right if your friend Pergun joined us?”

Dorrin tries not to shake his head. “That would be fine.” He drains the cup. “But it will be a while.”

“The soup will not be ready until later.” Merga smiles.

Dorrin understands. Pergun will not finish at the mill for a time, either.

Vaos is in the stable, currying Meriwhen and talking to the mare. “You’re such a pretty girl…”

“Stop the sweet talk, striker. We’ve got some work to do for Froos.”

“Those heavy wagon pins?” Vaos groans.

“They pay the bills. Then we need to work on some of the scrap. I need to make more of those gadgets for Brede. And Jisle ordered some log peaveys.”

“Jisle’s a farmer.”

“They’re going to cut some timber from the woodlot for the Council. That’s their service call.” Dorrin pauses. “We have to do more nails—the square-ended spikes. Two kegs’ worth.”

“It’s going to be late tonight, pretty girl,” Vaos tells the mare.

Meriwhen whickers, and Dorrin nods.

“Have you discovered how this is happening?” Jeslek’s voice is calm.

“Yes…ser…” stumbles the Certan officer. “We found a black oak post on each side of the road, wedged in place, and there were black wires.”

“And, of course, they set up some decoy, and all of your troops ride after them full speed and run into the wires?” Acid drips from Anya’s words.

The Certan officer looks down at the mud-smudged carpet. Then he looks up. “They weren’t obvious decoys. One time it was a small squad. Another time it was a pair of traders with fat packs. Another time—”

“Spare us,” Jeslek says tiredly. “Do you have any evidence of this? Something that will help us track it down?”

“Might I see it?” Anya asks.

“Yes, ser.” The officer extends a small coil of wires wrapped around a small iron bar toward the red-headed wizard.

Anya puts out a gloved hand. Even so, a faint acrid odor rises from the leather as the black wire touches it. “Order-based…” Her lips twist. “It smells like Recluce again.”

“You may go,” Jeslek orders the officer.

“Yes, ser.” The officer releases his breath slowly, stiffly turns, and leaves the tent.

“And you still think that Recluce won’t help Spidlar?” asks the square-bearded Fydel. “Who made that…thing?”

“You know as well as I do—that renegade smith. The one whose letters you so conveniently held for a season or so before letting me see them.”

“Are you accusing—”

White fire shrouds Fydel.

“Don’t tempt me, Fydel. I’m tired of all of the second-guessing and scheming and plotting that you all think I’m too dense to see.”

“You’re not exactly infallible, dear Jeslek.” Anya’s voice is honey-coated. “Clearly, your trap with the smith failed. Unless
there is more than one Recluce-trained smith in Spidlar.”

“I don’t see why this slows everything down so much,” says Fydel.

“Because,” Jeslek responds with deliberate slowness, “it is hard to travel over meadows, woods, and hills. The levies prefer the metaled roads where wagons, food, and horses don’t get bogged down. There aren’t that many roads from Fenard into Spidlar, and they are narrow. The Spidlarians use that to pick off our troops unit by unit.” The thin wizard takes a deep breath. “If it’s not black iron wires, it’s water traps in stone-paved roads. Before long, as we near Elparta, they’ll probably destroy the bridges over the streams. That will slow our advance even more.”

Anya and Fydel look at each other.

“I know, I know.” Jeslek shakes his head. “You’re probably asking why we don’t use the river to send troops to Elparta, and then cut off their forces? Because,” he answers his own question, “Elparta is heavily fortified along the river, for just that reason. We can’t use the river until after we take Elparta. Unfortunately, we can’t take it until we can get there, and the streams are too small this far inland.”

“The levies are getting unhappy. They’ve been fighting all summer, and we’re no more than a hundred kays into Spidlar. You took control here, great wizard. What are you going to do?” Fydel makes a deep ironic bow.

“If that is what you want,” the High Wizard states, “then, whatever it takes, we’ll have Elparta before winter.”

“You said we’d have all of Spidlar before winter, and that was
last
fall,” Anya notes coolly.

“You must admit,” Fydel adds, “that it is difficult to explain how a great White Wizard can destroy a city like Axalt utterly, and yet not get his forces across a bunch of rolling plains.”

“You both know the difference.”

“I don’t think so, dear Jeslek,” Anya says.

“Fine. We will have Elparta.” Jeslek gestures at the two. “Go off and plot somewhere else.”

Both the redhead and the bearded wizard stand up.

Anya smiles at Jeslek. “Remember, you did suggest it.”

“I know,” Jeslek says calmly. “You are anyway, and it
would be amusing if it weren’t so pathetic.” He watches for a moment as the two walk across the camp side by side. “Idiots…”

He looks toward the fire of the setting sun, thinking of the fires he must summon. “Idiots!”

To the south of the hill, pillars of black and gray smoke swirl into the gray sky, marking small farms and isolated cots that continue to burn.

The Spidlarian group leader stands in his stirrups for a moment to survey the forces moving along the road. Before the green banners of Certis and the purple banners of Gallos walk two hundred men, women, and children, flanked by Gallosian lancers. As the Spidlarian officer watches, a man ducks and scrambles down a ditch beside the stone-paved road, squirming through the mud, out of sight of the Gallosian lancers flanking the plodding peasants.

A White Wizard rides partway into the peasants and lifts a hand. White fire lances into the ditch. A scream fades, and an acrid odor rises on the wind carrying the smell of fear northward on the road from Fenard to Elparta.

The White Wizard looks toward the hilltop where the blond man watches. A firebolt flies northward, but the cavalry officer has spurred his mount below the ridge line and toward the troopers who wait on the far side of the hill, on the road that the combined army marches across.

“That bad?” asks Kadara as Brede reins in.

“Worse. There are at least two thousand of them, and they’re using villagers as a shield, walking them in front of the troops.” He points toward the city that lies less than five kays up the road. “They’ve given up on taking it. Instead they’ll destroy it. Like Axalt.”

“We could get some with archers,” offers another squad leader.

Brede shakes his head. “If you get close enough to hit the levies, you’ll be close enough to get fried by the wizards.
We’ve forty bodies left. They’ve got fifty times that, and there’s no cover once they reach the crest.”

He gestures, and the three squads ride toward the gray walls of Elparta.

Kadara rides beside Brede. “You thought they’d do something like this.”

“Yes.” He coughs, clears his throat. “It had to happen. When they couldn’t take over Gallos with smaller units, they created mountains and fired the grasslands. They won’t raise more mountains, but the rest will come.”

“They’ll take Elparta—and then?”

“They’ll take the river towns and split the country, then follow each road. They’ll just burn anything that resists.”

Kadara shudders.

“It’s a wonderful choice. If Spidlar doesn’t resist, the wizards take over and burn those who resist. If Spidlar resists, they destroy everything.”

“We could leave.”

Brede snorts. “Where? People from Recluce haven’t been welcome in either Sarronnyn and Suthya for generations, and those are about the only places where the ships can go now—unless you want to spend a year at sea going around the continent and across the western ocean to Hamor.”

“A year at sea—that doesn’t sound too bad.” She looks behind him at the pillars of smoke and fire.

“Probably not. Do we have the golds to purchase passage?”

Kadara takes a deep breath. “It’s never easy, is it?”