The Order War (18 page)

Justen set aside the finished black iron arrowhead, the last for the morning. After Gunnar’s report to Altara, the engineers were alternating between forging rockets and arrowheads, working even later into the evening as the blue-clad messengers galloped up the river road with continuing reports of the White advance.

Firbek insisted that only the rockets could hold back the Iron Guard. Justen pursed his lips. Was the Iron Guard that formidable? So far, all he had seen were the standard White forces. Was the Iron Guard being saved for confrontations with order—for an invasion of Recluce, perhaps?

The engineer took a deep breath. Speculations and guesses would not forge anything. “Get something to drink. Then we’ll go back to the rockets.”

Clerve wiped his forehead again, nodded, and set aside the hammer.

Justen watched the younger man walk toward the side porch, then followed. He needed a drink and fresh air as much as the striker did. He lifted the empty pitcher that sat on his bench.

Nicos shifted the iron in his forge and looked up as Justen passed. “How are you doing?”

“Another score or so of the arrowheads. The rockets take me more time.”

“They take everyone more time. They’re a light-fired pain in the ass.” The wiry engineer glanced past the hammer mill. “Quentel’s none too happy about handling all that powder, even in black iron boxes in the root cellar.”

“I wouldn’t be, either.”

“And Firbek.” Nicos snickered. “He bitched like the demons when Altara told him that the marines would have to help load the powder in the rockets.”

“Firbek’s always bitching, especially behind someone’s back. I don’t like the man all that much, but I couldn’t say why.” Justen shrugged and lifted the pitcher.

“Can’t like everyone. Just so he does his work.” Nicos turned the iron again. “This—coming to Sarronnyn—seemed like a good idea at the time. Now it’s not looking quite so good.”

“I know.”

Nicos swung the iron onto the anvil, and Justen walked out of the smithy and onto the covered porch. In the hot, still air, Clerve sat crumpled like a damp cloth on the bench, his clothes dark with sweat. Justen looked down at his own clothes, even damper than the younger man’s.

Finally, in the silence, Justen picked up the bucket and the pitcher and stepped out into the late summer sun, wondering when, if ever, the Sarronnese summer would turn into autumn and the seemingly endless heat would stop. He trudged across the dust toward the pump. Three chickens gazed at him silently from the shade on the north side of the old house.

“Too hot to cheep. That’s hot.” He filled the bucket and trudged back to the porch, where he filled a mug for Clerve.

“Thanks, Justen. I don’t see how you do it. You just keep going.”

“Practice.” Justen frowned as belatedly he forced himself to order-spell the water, both in the bucket and in Clerve’s mug. At least, after badgering Krytella for almost an eight-day, he had learned how to order-spell against water disease. Of course it didn’t help if he didn’t remember to use what he had learned. Justen glanced at Clerve. He hoped that the one gulp the striker had taken wouldn’t hurt him.

The engineer wiped his forehead on his sleeve before pouring a mug for himself and forcing himself to sip, rather than gulp, the lukewarm water.

Finally, he picked up the pitcher and looked at his striker. “Come on. We need to get back to work on rocket casings.”

Clerve sat up. “Will the rockets really do any good? Aren’t the Whites still advancing?”

“I don’t know. But they’ll do more good than if we did nothing.”

The two walked back into the smithy, where the hammers clanged and the hammer mill thumped.

Justen set the full pitcher on the bench, then took up the sheet iron. Clerve worked the bellows while Justen eased the metal into the forge and watched it slowly change color.

In time, out came the cherry-red iron.

Clerve lifted the hammer…let it fall, and raised it again…let it fall, and raised it again. Every so often, he paused and wiped his forehead.

In between the hammer strokes, Justen adjusted the iron on the anvil, watching the worked metal get thinner and thinner.

When Clerve paused, Justen wiped the sweat off his forehead on his upper sleeve. He took the calipers and measured, then nodded at Clerve and returned the metal to the forge. After reheating the iron, this time Justen took the smaller hammer and the flatter. Following a last set of taps, he stepped back and let the metal cool, nodding at Clerve.

The younger man powdered the chalk line, then set the template against the metal. A quick set of snaps, and the rocket-casing outline appeared in white on the parchment-thin metal.

With the heavy bench shears, they slowly cut out the casing. The distortion created by cutting the casing did not impair the rocket’s function much, not when compared to such precise forgings as turbine blades or pump components. Justen laid the flat iron on the hearth and took a deep swallow from the pitcher of water.

Would the rockets help? What about the cannons that Gunnar said were being moved along the river road? How could the rockets help against them? Wasn’t there
some
way?

With a deep breath, Justen brought one side of the casing into the forge to heat it before punching the rivet holes and bending the metal into its final cylindrical shape. Later, somehow, he needed to think about the cannon and powder. Later. Somehow.

Justen eased less than a thimbleful of the ground powder onto the hearth of the forge before stoppering the flask and setting it on the iron plate on the workbench. Then he took a pine splinter from the shavings box and thrust it into the coals, blowing faintly until the wood flared into flame and he could withdraw the splinter.

At full arm’s length, he thrust the flaming tip into the powder, closing his eyes and concentrating with his senses as the powder flared. After opening his eyes, Justen set the glowing splinter on the hearth, pursing his lips.

Once again he poured a minute amount of the powder onto the hearth and restoppered the flask. Again he closed his eyes and concentrated. This time, the powder remained powder.

With a sigh, he picked up the pine splinter and thrust it back into the coals until it again flamed. Then he carefully touched off the powder, his eyes closed and senses extended. The brimstone-infused smoke residue curled up from the plate.

Kkkchewww…
Justen rubbed his nose, which continued to itch. He frowned and set aside the splinter as he reached for the powder flask.
Kkkccheww…

After a series of sneezes, he rubbed his nose again, then poured a fingertip of powder on the iron once more. He concentrated, trying to replicate the patterns. Nothing happened.

With another deep breath, he recovered the splinter and lit it, then thrust the flame into the tiny pile of powder, trying to hold in his mind the combinations of joinings that led to the chaos of destruction.

The order-patterns failed again. Justen frowned. The patterns existed. He just had to create the proper ones. What did a fire need? Something to burn…and air. A fully damped fire or stove or hearth didn’t work well. Was there a link to the air? Or did he need to create one?

He reached for the powder once more…and concentrated…and reached for the powder…and concentrated.

His eyes burned and his legs ached when
…Whhsstt!
The brightness burned through his closed eyelids, and the smithy seemed to lurch under him for just an instant.

Dumbly, he looked at the iron. Not a trace of powder remained. Nor was there any smoke. He poured out another dribble of powder and tried to replicate the patterns.

Whhssttt…
The brightness burned at him, and the smithy lurched around him, even though his feet remained planted on the ground.

Justen shook his head. Did he really want to use the patterns? His brain seemed to almost whirl inside his skull. After taking a deep breath, he brushed off the iron and turned toward the door.

The stars shone coldly as Justen stepped into the early autumn evening. The acrid smoke, not of powder but of a distant fire, burned in his nostrils, carried northward along the river, foreshadowing the White advance. His tunic ruffled in the cool breeze, and he turned to the door, which he slid closed as gently as he could. Despite his efforts, the squeaking was loud enough to silence the night insects for a moment.

“Justen? What in the demon’s hell were you doing?” Gunnar stood in the darkness not ten steps away.

“The impossible.”

Gunnar sniffed and looked toward the empty powder flask in Justen’s hand. “I should have guessed. Do you know what that felt like?”

“Felt like?” Justen took another deep breath.

“That’s what woke me. It felt like you’d twisted order into chaos.”

“Not exactly. You build two small order-patterns, and when you link them…well, they create their own chaos.”

“Order
creating
chaos? That’s impossible!”

“It doesn’t work quite that way.” Justen tried to explain. “It’s more like there’s too much order for the structure, and because it can’t be held together, the expansion creates chaos—sort of like when you heat water to steam.”

Gunnar nodded in the darkness, a gesture that would have been invisible to anyone but a wizard—or an engineer. “Trust an engineer…”

“You don’t sound pleased.”

“I’m not sure that I am. I think there’s far more to what you’ve done than you realize.” The older brother brushed his hair off his forehead and stood silent in the darkness.

Justen waited.

“You’ve linked building and destroying, order and chaos.” Gunnar laughed nervously. “There have never been any Gray Wizards because no one has figured out how to bridge order and chaos. You have managed to turn order into chaos. But Gray magic has to work both ways. Can you turn chaos into order?”

“I don’t think I’d even want to try—not even to preserve the Legend.”

They both looked to the east, uphill at the dark walls. Only a scattering of torches or candles wavering through windows lit the city.

“Good. It might not be enough, even so,” said Gunnar wryly. “Now can you let me get some sleep, without any more twisting order out of its fabric?”

“It wasn’t like that.”

“It felt like that.”

“All right.” Justen sighed. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

“No, you won’t. I’m riding south to see if I can spy out
the scope of the White advance. The Tyrant wants more details on those cannons, or long guns. I should be back by evening.”

“Well, as you said earlier, make sure you get your ass back in one piece.”

“Right.” Gunnar laughed, then clasped Justen briefly. “Good night, except that it’s more like good morning.”

For a moment, Justen watched his brother walk toward the old dwelling. Then he turned back to the barracks and his small room.

Justen paused outside the smithy door, looking up at the gray clouds, feeling the faint breeze at his back, a breeze that actually promised to cool the smithy. Perhaps fall would arrive after all.

He turned back to look at the road. For the past few days, the rumbling of wagon wheels and the clopping of hooves had filled every lull in the noisier work of the smithy. The traffic on the main road remained almost continuous. Carts and coaches rolled north to Rulyarth; troops and supplies straggled into Sarron before being dispatched to the fortified earthworks southeast of the city. Less fortunate souls limped down the road, northward toward the ocean.

Justen shook his head and entered the smithy. As he did, he felt as though someone were looking over his shoulder and into the shop. He looked back, but no one was there.

“Well, make yourself useful.” Standing at the second forge with Nicos, Altara set down her hammer and punch. “These all need to be riveted.”

Justen studied the square, black iron frames, his eyes going from the completed frames on the racks to the dark sections of wood. Then he walked over to the benches and picked up a piece of wood, then another, examining the three stacks, each of a different shape.

Beyond the wood stood the kegs of nails and spikes.

The young engineer looked back over his shoulder again. Still, no one had come through the front door of the smithy. “Have you seen Gunnar?” he asked.

“He’s on the hills west of Klynstatt, using the winds to spy out where the damned wizards are putting their troops, especially the Iron Guards.” Altara cleared her throat. “We need to get these done. We have to get them in place before the Whites get too close.”

Justen nodded. “I’m surprised that Firbek isn’t complaining that we still don’t have enough rockets.” He glanced through the open doorway and into the yard, where the marines were working with the new adjustable launcher. “Has Firbek said anything about…” He let the words trail away.

“About your order-smoothing the rockets when they’re launched?” Altara snorted. “He’s decided he likes me better than you, and you know how much he likes me. He asked if I’d help with the rockets if the Whites reach the marsh defenses.”

“If? More like when.”

“I share your optimism.” The chief engineer shrugged. “I said I would. Nicos will handle the mines. You can back up whoever needs it—or follow whatever mischief you have in mind for the Whites.”

Justen looked sharply at the older engineer.

“Gunnar said you ought to be free. He didn’t say why. I don’t argue with Weather Wizards. And no one is about to question either your courage or your enterprise.” Altara cleared her throat and looked at him. “But you still need to help rivet those casings now.”

Justen hung up his tunic and walked to the forge. He looked at the mine casings again. In the press of survival, was serving order much different from serving chaos? Both seemed bent on inventing better means of destruction.

After repacking the charcoal and pumping the great bellows until the fire glowed nearly white-hot, he picked up the tongs and swung the first section of casing into the forge, letting it heat until it reached cherry red and he could punch out the rivet holes.

On the road outside, the wagons rumbled and the blue
clad troops marched. And women and men and their children walked northward.

Justen swung the iron from the forge and set it on the anvil. Then he lifted his hammer and punch.