The Order War (20 page)

The Fairhaven strategy was working, Justen realized. In trying to hold off the lancers, the Sarronnese had failed to target the levies, and now those levies were more than halfway up the hill.

Yet…still the crimson-and-gray banners had not moved.

Why has the Iron Guard not been pressed into the fight? And why are there so few firebolts from the White Wizards?
Justen glanced from one end of the field to the other.

Whhhsttt!

Another drum-roll echoed across the valley. Now the gold-and-green banners began to move forward.
How many troops do the damned Whites have?

“Strike!”

Whhsttt!

Still…the rockets went off, although now half of them were exploding in midair rather than where they were aimed.

Justen’s head ached, and he did not understand how Altara remained standing.

Hsssttt!

Justen ducked as another wizardly firebolt arced past, splattering on the antique stones of the watchtower. His eyes drifted back to the lower right-hand side of the field, where the Whites surged upward. Below them, it appeared as though the marsh had solidified. Realizing that the dark masses were bodies, Justen forced himself to swallow the bile in his throat. Everywhere he looked there were bodies: burned bodies, ashes, bodies with arrows through them, bodies coated in dull red.

Another drum-roll rumbled across the hillcrest. Justen shivered, then turned. The sound had come from the northeast, from the direction of the ironwood forests.

Not five hundred cubits to the north, formed up at the edge of the ironwoods, were hundreds of dark-clad troops.

“Darkness!” Justen swore. The banners on the field below had been decoys. He should have trusted his feelings!

Another drum-roll and the Iron Guard began to march forward. Arrows arced from behind them toward the Sarronnese. Justen dropped in back of a timber brace, now wondering what he could do.

Suddenly, a familiar figure appeared beside the watchtower. Justen shivered as he felt the webs of order building around Gunnar. He could sense his brother’s call to the great winds and the storms from the Roof of the World.

A cold, whining, whistling wind whipped out of the southeast and across the hillside. The Sarronnese battle ensign flapped wildly.

Behind Justen, Firbek continued to direct the rockets against the remnants of the White lancers, apparently oblivious to the threat from the ironwood forest.

“Strike!”

Whhhsttt!

Justen glanced back toward Gunnar and the oncoming Iron Guard, and he shivered as the wind continued to rise and the sky darkened.

Gunnar stood apart from the tower, like an ancient tree rooted in time.

Scattered ice pellets began to rattle against the stones of the tower. Dark clouds roiled into the once-clear sky, and a rumble of heavy thunder rolled across the valley as the storm swept down upon the White forces.

The drum-rolls faltered for an instant.

Hhhssttt!
Another firebolt flared—this time from behind the Iron Guard—and splatted against the watchtower.

Justen, fighting his headache and feeling of despair, struggled to throw an order-shield around Gunnar.

Hhhsstt!
The next firebolt angled wide of the Storm Wizard.

Justen kept concentrating, clinging to the heavy timber for support as he poured his strength into creating the barrier that would protect Gunnar while his brother called the storms.

“Form up down there!”

Justen frowned at the words as another figure—massively built and in blacks—turned from the rocket emplacements and walked swiftly past Justen and across the ridge through the wind toward the Black Weather Wizard.

Justen frowned. Then he stood. “Gunnar!”

Locked into the winds, Gunnar remained rooted. Justen began to run toward his brother, wishing for his staff, but it was buried in the hillside collapse. He pulled out his belt knife, realizing that he would not reach Gunnar before Firbek did.

“Firbek!”

The big marine lifted his blade.

The winds whistled, and the ice fell, pounding, slowing the advance of the Iron Guard to less than a crawl.

Justen twisted the shield between the marine and Gunnar. Firbek paused, and Justen lunged forward, plunging the knife into Firbek’s right shoulder. The marine dropped his own blade, but his left hand slammed Justen to the ground, causing Justen to release his knife as well as his order-shield. Then Justen grabbed the blade that Firbek had dropped.

Firbek’s open palm slammed across Gunnar’s unprotected face just as Justen swung the blade up. Firbek jumped back, but Gunnar staggered, then toppled onto the trampled brown grass.

Justen walked toward the marine. Firbek backed away, circling around toward the vacant rocket emplacements. Justen advanced, wondering if Firbek had dismissed the marines or if they had fled when they had seen the Iron Guard. Then he saw the black-clad figures, now bearing blades, circled around the Sarronnese force leader.

The winds subsided, and the ice pellets became less frequent.

“Choose, Engineer! Me…or your brother.” He pointed toward the oncoming Iron Guard.

Justen could sense both of the oncoming White forces. Blue-clad figures began to scurry over the top of the hill, hastening back toward a Sarron that seemed impossibly distant.

Justen angled toward the nearest rocket launcher, Firbek’s blade still in his hand, nearly tripping on the still form of Altara. His eyes on Firbek, Justen bent down. The chief engineer was unconscious but breathing, and he offered her the slightest touch of order before straightening.

“So…what are you going to do, Firbek?” Justen tried to turn the wheeled frame of the rocket launcher toward the advancing gray-clad forms. “Join the Iron Guard?”

The big marine used both arms to turn the second launcher toward Justen. “it’s not a bad idea. At least Fairhaven isn’t filled with hypocrites.”

“You really believe that?”

“Look at the Mighty Ten! They could destroy anything on the ocean, and the Council just builds each ship bigger than the last but insists that we can’t help anyone. We’ve got shitty rockets when we need shells.”

“This isn’t the time for philosophy. Why don’t you turn that downhill before the lancers get here?”

“For what?” The striker in Firbek’s hand flicked.

Justen, ignoring his searing headache, threw a light-shield around himself and stepped aside.

Whhhsttt!

Justen jerked sideways, then turned toward Firbek again.

Firbek touched the striker to the second rocket and yanked the launcher around, toward the engineer he could not see.

Whhsstt!
The rocket flared past Justen, who was now running.

Justen swung the sword, at the last moment turning it so that the flat of the blade slammed against Firbek’s head.

The marine dropped.

“Aaaeee…”

A searing whiteness blinded Justen for a long moment. He shook his head to clear it. His mouth dropped open as he looked to the left of the watchtower and saw Sarronnese troops dashing past the burning command tent, now no more than drifting ashes.

After barely glancing at the unconscious marine, Justen sprinted toward the blazing tent beneath the stone watchtower. Stopped by the heat—hotter, seemingly, than a forge—he glanced around. Gunnar tottered up beside him.

“Do something!” Justen yelled. “Call a storm…anything!” The ends of his hair crinkled as he moved toward the flames.

“Don’t you feel it?” Gunnar shook his head sadly.

Justen opened his mouth, then shut it. The tent contained only bodies. “That bastard…”

“Who?” Gunnar squinted.

Hhhsstt!
A firebolt splashed across the ancient stones of the tower. Justen staggered, then turned back toward the rocket launchers. He had taken only three steps before the first crimson banner—and more than two-score lancers—surged over the hilltop. He looked over toward the ironwood forests, only to see the Iron Guard less than two hundred cubits from the tower, marching in tight array.

He glanced back toward the spot where the remaining marines had gathered and saw Altara’s tall figure, blade in hand. The black-clad marines and the remaining Sarronnese guards were marching swiftly back toward Sarron, their shields held high against arrows.

“Shield yourself!” shouted Gunnar. “They’re all around us. Get back to Sarron!”

As Justen watched, his brother disappeared from sight, although Justen could sense the bending of the light.

Hhhsttt!
Another firebolt flared past, so close that Justen could feel the heat.

Justen gripped the blade he had taken from Firbek more tightly, whirling toward the squad of Sarronnese beneath the watchtower. Circled around the tall, blond woman, the Sarronnese backed away from the White forces, almost running toward the road to escape the pincer-like movement of the lancers and the Iron Guard.

Hhhsstt! Hhssttt!
Two firebolts flared past Justen.

“Aeeeiii…” One Sarronnese trooper choked out a scream before falling in a charred heap. Four others just fell silently.

Feeling as though he walked through heavy, sticky mud, Justen turned toward Sarron and tried to knit the light back around himself. Even the darkness wavered.

Trapped! If he didn’t shield himself, the archers or the Guard would get him. If he did, he wouldn’t have enough strength left to escape the White forces.

He ground his teeth against the throbbing in his head, the watery feeling in his legs, and took a step, then another. Downhill…toward the marsh. Toward water, the one thing that the damned White Wizards couldn’t incinerate or twist. Toward water, far closer than the all-too-distant walls of Sarron.

He took another step…and held the light-shield…and another…and held the light-shield…

His head pounded. When the pounding occasionally stopped, fire seared across his skull. But he struggled on downhill, knowing he dared not fall. The White Wizards seared their battlefields clean of all bodies, dead or not.

Another step, and another…until the steepness of the slope leveled into a softer footing. Softer between the bodies, at least.

At the edge of the marsh, he stopped, surrounded by death. Out in the deeper water, in the late afternoon, a single frog croaked, and Justen could occasionally hear the buzz of flies and the drone of mosquitoes over the sound of marching feet and the hissing of firebolts.

The way north was too steep. In his darkness, he edged southward, slowly, the mud sucking at his boots. He stepped
around and over the bodies that seemed endless.

At some point, he released the light-shield, too tired to hold it, and looked back. He swallowed, realizing that he had traveled less than two kays and that the systematic looting and weapons recovery of the Whites continued. No one looked his way, or perhaps no one cared. He staggered southwest, away from the battle, away from the Whites, and away from Sarron.

At last there were no more bodies—only marsh and mud and mosquitoes and flies and dampness and stenches he could not identify.

After the real darkness of twilight fell, he climbed onto higher ground, eventually falling asleep behind a stone wall, not far from a road whose destination he did not know.

“Justen! Where’s Justen?” The voice rasped from Gunnar’s raw throat.

“We don’t know.” Altara glanced again to the south, but the columns of smoke were too far away to be seen.

“Damn! Can’t even move my head.” Gunnar’s voice died away, and his eyes closed slowly as though he were fighting sleep itself. Lying on the marines’ rocket cart, now empty of weapons, he looked more dead than alive. The bloody marine lying next to him moaned as the cart lurched around the corner and down toward the compound where those of Recluce had prepared to defend Sarron.

Still walking quickly to keep up with the cart, the chief engineer placed a cold cloth on the magician’s forehead, then pulled herself onto her mount.

“No healers?” asked Deryn, her arm still encased in leather braces.

“No. They’re…dead.”

“Damn Whites. Why’d they fire on the healers?”

Altara shrugged. “Why does chaos do anything?”

“I can’t believe it about Firbek.”

“He likes fighting,” added a third voice. “I expect he’ll do rather well in the Iron Guard.”

“We’re leaving,” announced Altara. “As soon as we can.”

“Leaving?”

“Leaving. We’ve got a Storm Wizard who damn-near died. Almost half of our engineers and all of our healers are dead or missing. And Sarron will fall in days, if not sooner.” She glanced back over her shoulder at the pink granite walls. “So much for the Legend.”

The ground trembled underfoot.

In the gray before dawn, Justen sat on the edge of the stone wall, slowly chewing the handful of overripe redberries he had picked from a late-bearing bush and listening to the twitter of insects and the whisper of the breeze from the north. With the wind came the faint odor of ashes.

The trees were turning, not golden or red, but a muddy brown. Was that because the trees of Sarronnyn were different, or because of the influx of chaos?

The engineer shook his head wryly. The Whites had done nothing to the trees. How easy it was to think of everything in personal terms. The trees and the stones would endure whether order or chaos triumphed in Sarronnyn.

He swallowed the last of the berries. After having slept poorly and breakfasted on a few handfuls of berries, he was still tired and hungry. He had no pack, no staff, no knife, a blade without a scabbard, the clothes on his back, perhaps three golds and a few silvers, and a handful of copper pennies. He also had no mount, and most of the White forces stood between him and Sarron.

At least, after the redberries, he could stand up without feeling like he would fall over. One thing was clear enough. He was not about to get anywhere, especially around the Whites and back to Sarron—or to Rulyarth—on foot. With
a deep breath, he looked around. To the southeast, not much more than a kay away, stood a small cot with two outbuildings. The lack of smoke from the chimney and the overall stillness indicated that the holding was probably deserted.

Justen turned to the southwest, but the Klynstatt Marsh continued to straddle the River Sarron for another two to three kays. The swamp was the main reason why most boat travel stopped just above Sarron itself. While it was highly unlikely that anyone would follow him through the marsh, he was doubtful that they would have to, since the large water lizards were not known for their finicky appetites.

He climbed up onto the stones, carefully balancing himself by holding on to a scrub oak that grew beside the half-tumbled wall, and looked back to the north. A low pall of smoke, or fog, hung over the northern end of the marsh. Even as far away as he was, he could sense the White forces to the east of the river and the marsh, presumably preparing for the assault on Sarron itself.

He jumped down from the wall and crossed the twenty cubits of browning grass that separated him from the deserted road. When he reached the strip of clay, he studied the ground for tracks, but there were only a handful, all headed to the south, away from the battlefield.

There would be no mounts to the south, just refugees. Justen turned north, prepared to cast a light-shield around himself at any moment, his ears and senses alert for White outriders or travelers.

Only the sound of the insects, the occasional
terwhit
of an unseen bird, and the rustling of the marsh grass beyond the road and across the wall to his left broke the quiet of the early morning.

Justen had covered nearly two kays when the winding road seemed to sway underfoot and he stumbled. After recovering his balance, he stopped, putting his hand to his forehead. Was he weaker than he thought? He lifted his hand, looked at it, and concentrated. The road swayed under him again. He glanced northward and caught sight of an oak, the higher branches wavering as if blown by the wind. But the air remained quiet, almost heavy in its stillness.

The ground continued to tremble as Justen hurried to the
next hillcrest, where he could gain a better view of the approaches to Sarron.

As he paused on the crest, he pursed his lips—so visible was the focus of chaos emanating from the old watchtower that had been Zerlana’s command post. Even though he could not see Sarron, he had no doubt about what was happening there.

Should he continue? He smiled wryly. The more chaos, the more chance he had of finding a stray mount unattended—or at least of being undetected. Besides, he had no desire to cross most of Candar on foot, not if he could find a way around the Whites and rejoin whatever remained of the engineers.

Justen quickened his steps slightly, heading northward.