The Order War (57 page)

The wind whispered across the browning hillside grasses, and Justen straightened from shoveling coal into the small stove, leaving the door ajar for a moment. He wiped the sweat from his forehead and took a deep breath, turning to the north.

There, in the center of the plain between the hills, the higher towers of Fairhaven glistened white, like fangs thrusting from the valley floor. The tallest tower—that of the High Wizard himself—pulsed with the shimmering white that carried the unseen reddish tinge of chaos beneath it. Between the orderly rows of buildings and avenues was the everpresent green of the short trees, the vines, the grass. White and green, green and white: Fairhaven, the jewel of Candar.

Justen shook his head. Did he really believe that he and Gunnar—and Martan—could take on the massed wizards who had built such a city?

You can…and you must…

He pursed his lips. Easy enough for Dayala and the Angels. They weren’t the ones who were watching a small-sized army slowly march toward them. One army, accompanied by dozens of wizards—and good old Justen was
intending to prevail with a bag of silksheen filled with hot air, a wicker basket, some rods, two fire-eyes, and the sun?

He laughed softly. His father had been right. He’d finally gotten himself in an impossible situation.

Justen, believe in the Balance…and yourself. You must!

Indeed I must…

I am with you, beloved…always with you…

He took a deep breath.

Above Justen, the balloon shivered in the breeze. On the hillside below, Gunnar and Martan carried black iron plate from the land engine toward the crude revetment of stone Justen had insisted they build. He could hope that the black iron and stone would protect them.

Clunk…
The dull sound of metal against rock echoed across the hillside as the two men set the plate against the stones.

Justen took a deep breath, trying to relax, but the tightness in his guts persisted, as did the tension in his shoulders. He took a long look at Martan, young and proud and strong, and so willing to do great deeds. Justen sighed. Great deeds, indeed. Feeling more like a butcher about to be covered with blood, he swallowed and glanced back toward Fairhaven and the approaching White Wizards.

The line of White forces, while not nearly so impressive as those that had besieged Sarronnyn, stretched nearly a half-kay along the main road leading south. The White lancers leading the forces were no more than a kay from the point where the hillside road veered off the main road. Behind them rode the mounted Iron Guard, their crimson-trimmed banners fluttering in the light wind. Then came the Iron Guard foot. Behind them came the white banners of the wizards, with nearly a dozen of the White Wizards mounted on white horses, followed by two white-gold coaches flying gold-trimmed white banners. Over the oncoming soldiers and wizards hung a cloud of reddish-white, unseen except by mages, that promised power, chaos—and disaster to all who opposed the massed will it represented.

Justen shivered. Then he nodded and called, “Martan! I need to get up there!”

As the marine came trotting, Justen shoveled hot coals into the heat pan of the balloon. He checked the lines and disengaged the fire-cloth piping from the stove to the balloon. Gunnar walked up behind Martan.

“They’re getting close enough. I should get the balloon up.” Justen glanced at the taut silksheen fabric and at the two lines holding it down, each line tied to a heavy stake. “Martan?”

“Yes, ser?”

“Once I get in the basket here, start letting the line go from each stake. Hold on to just the one. The other should unwind by itself. Then make sure it’s tied tight. After that, get back to your revetment and protect Gunnar. Like I told you, a wizard with his mind in the skies can’t protect himself, and I’m counting on you.”

“Yes, ser.” Martan nodded solemnly.

Justen frowned for a moment. “How many rockets are left in the land engine?”

“Less than a score.”

“Use them first, while the Whites are still massed together and making a good target.”

“I’ll do my best.”

Justen forced himself to meet the young, proud face. “Thank you.”

“Thank
you
. I wouldn’t have missed this for anything.”

“I hope you feel that way when it’s all over.” Justen turned to his brother, giving him a quick hug. “Keep the skies as clear as you can. That’s all I ask. All I need. And stay in that shelter! We moved that armor plate for a reason.”

Martan and Gunnar exchanged glances before Gunnar’s eyes strayed to the crude rock barrier topped with two sheets of black iron plate from the land engine.

“I mean it. You could go blind, or worse.”

A long drum-roll echoed up the hillside from the white-paved road leading south out of Fairhaven. A second drum-roll followed. The standard-bearers dipped both the white banners and crimson-trimmed gray ones in response to the drum-rolls. The air smelled like damp leaves, though the trees had barely begun to turn.

Justen climbed into the wicker basket, careful not to upset the lens assembly or the brackets to which he would have to attach it once the balloon cleared the ground with room to spare.

Give me strength. Oh, Dayala…be with me.

I am with you…always…

The Gray Wizard, for he was a Gray Wizard, he knew, smiled. This time, those warm thoughts were not just his imaginings. “Let the clamps go.”

Martan released one clamp, then the other, straining to keep the line paying out at an even rate.

As the balloon rose, Justen grasped the sides of the basket, sides whose lightness, so laudable in his experiments, seemed more and more like fragility as the balloon rose. The cottage on the brown-grassed hillside below turned into a shed and then into a dollhouse—or so it seemed, even though the balloon was less than two hundred cubits above the hilltop.

Another roll rumbled from the drums. Justen lurched sideways slightly as he shifted his weight and the basket tilted.

“Oooo…” A line of fire burned his forehead, and the smell of singed hair filled his nostrils as he pulled his head away from the small heating pan that had replaced the stove.

He took a deep breath and forced himself to rebalance order and chaos in the burned patch of hair, and took another breath in relief as the pain faded and as the basket steadied.

Slowly, he lowered the bracket assembly over the side of the basket and clamped it in place, so that the lenses reached out sideways. The light from the afternoon sun barely reached the upper lens.

Once more the drums rolled, and the lancers moved up to the stone wall at the bottom of the hill. Justen continued to hang over the side of the balloon basket, which had again begun to sway, trying to adjust the brackets. Somehow, the adjustments were harder to make when he was hanging from the basket than when he was on the ground.

“Come on…”

The swaying increased as the balloon continued to rise.

Ummmphhh…
The balloon gave a jolt as it reached the ends of the tethers, and Justen grasped the sides of the basket
with both hands. For a moment, his stomach seemed suspended, but he swallowed hard. Had Martan felt that way while traveling on the curves in the road?

Justen smiled a brief, wry grin and bent over again to adjust the lens assembly. From the corner of his eye, he could see the White lancers and the Iron Guard nearing the bottom of the hill. After doing nothing for half the day, they had decided to move quickly. The white banners and the group of wizards remained in the same position farther back on the road. The new High Wizard?

Justen readjusted the brackets, but the light focus was not quite right, and he backed down the clamp a fraction of a turn.

Hssstttt…

A firebolt flared toward the balloon, but seemed to fade to the side even before Justen had fully seen it.

Gunnar—it had to be Gunnar, shielding him while he worked. His eyes flickered down, but Gunnar was partly concealed by the armor. Martan still remained by the tether stakes.

“Martan!” he yelled. “Light off those rockets to cover Gunnar.”

Hhhssttt…

The Weather Wizard deflected another firebolt.

“Crap!” muttered Justen, still trying to get the lens to focus on the fire-eye. He was going to get fried because he couldn’t adjust the settings while hanging upside down, and because the frigging Whites actually acted quickly, and because he was worried about Gunnar and Martan, and they wouldn’t have a chance if he didn’t get his weapon working, and soon.

Hsssttt…

The balloon basket swayed again as Justen’s boot slipped, and he had to grab the basket with both hands to keep from plunging out headfirst. He’d touched the bracket again and fuzzed the focus.

“Shit…shit…shit!”

He forced himself to be calm, and slowly he edged the clamp a fraction of a turn.

Hssttt…hssstttt…hhssttt…

The last bolts were close enough for his face to feel as though it had been singed by a forge fire, close enough that he seemed to smell brimstone.

From the land engine came the whooshing of the rockets, arrowing downhill toward the mass of the White lancers.

Crummpt…

The first rocket sailed over the White positions and into the meadow beyond, igniting browning grass into white smoke.

Crumptt…

The second plowed through the right flank of the lancers.

Whheeee…eeeee…eeee
.

Ignoring the screaming horses, Justen adjusted the clamp another fraction of a turn. The light hit the fire-eye at the right angle, and the fire-eye was pointed, at least generally, toward the White tower. A blade of light flared out from the assembly, ending in midair.

Even as he realized that the brackets needed finer adjustment, Justen permitted himself the luxury of a tight smile.

Hssstttt…

Crummpttt…
Another rocket slammed into the stone before the Iron Guard, spraying flame over a half-dozen foot soldiers. One ran forward and vaulted the stone wall and tried to roll the fire out on the ground. Instead, the fire grew into a long groove in the high grass, where a charred figure twitched, its screams dying into moans, then into silence.

Hhssstttt!
Another firebolt passed below the balloon.

Crummptt! Crumpptt!
Two more rockets flew downhill into the massed White center, leaving a blackened gap.

A quick roll of drums punctuated the air, and half of the White lancers began to ride uphill.

Three rockets in succession turned the front line of the lancers into a charred heap. The remaining riders split around the fallen and continued toward the land engine.

Two of the next three rockets exploded into the turf before the right wing of the lancers, raising smoke and dirt and slowing the charge. The rocket aimed at the left wing brought down the lead horse, but it did not break the momentum of the charge.

Gunnar deflected another pair of firebolts as Justen fiddled with the brackets.

Cruumptt! Crumptt! Crumptt!

“Ohhhh…” In spite of himself, Justen glanced below, where Martan sprinted from the land engine toward the crude revetment, not even looking back at the tangled, twisted, and burned mass of human and horse flesh created by the last rockets.

Hhsssttt!

Justen ducked involuntarily, although Gunnar’s shields guided the firebolt away from the balloon. He glanced below quickly, where Martan, despite Justen’s orders, still stood in the open, if half-behind the stone-and-iron-plate revetment. The marine was lofting black arrows downhill, where they exploded among the remaining massed White lancers. As scattered shafts began to fly uphill, the marine released yet another black shaft before moving behind the barrier where Gunnar sat, eyes closed, order continuing to build around him.

Justen edged the bracket the slightest bit, and the light-blade flared into the ground behind the High Wizard’s coach.

The response was instantaneous, with firebolts flying toward the balloon.

Hsssttt…hsssttt…hssttt
.

The barrage of firebolts flew by the balloon basket, still protected by Gunnar’s shields. But the air grew warmer, as though the hottest days of summer were flying toward him.

Justen shook himself. “Act, damn it!”

He took a deep breath, closed his eyes and concentrated, smoothing the flow and weaving the light into the collecting lens. A web of shadow flickered around the balloon, and Justen could feel Gunnar withdraw his shields in order for Justen to gather the full power of the sunlight.

Darkness spread from the balloon, almost as sunlight would have radiated from a second sun. It seemed as though night had emerged from the balloon and fallen across the hillside, then spread northward toward Fairhaven itself, glittering like a white gem between the browning green hills.
The dark shadow raced northward, its forward edge a knife-sharp line between day and night.

Hhssstt…
The firebolt seemed to drop away from the balloon even without Gunnar’s shields.

Below, looking like a doll behind his shelter, Martan loosed another string of arrows. Each arrow arced downhill, and each seemed to find a target, each shaft as inexorable as black death. With every lancer transfixed by an arrow, there came a faint
crump
as chaos and order met and exploded. The rhythm continued, and Martan’s hands and arms unleashed a steady stream of dark shafts, flying so fast that they almost streaked like black lightning down upon the White lancers. The
crump, crump, crump
of heads exploding as they struck echoed far into the growing darkness. With each explosion came a faint point of light in the twilight that had fallen around the hill.

Justen concentrated more intently, trying to block Martan from his thoughts, trying to block out his concerns for Gunnar, trying only to funnel more light into the lens and direct it to the gem.

Ssssssttt…

Like a sword of the ancient Angels, the blade of fire seared the ground at the foot of the hill, cutting through the brown-green turf, striking sparks, flinging molten rock like miniature firebolts as it tore through the stone wall beside the road. Small fires and plumes of smoke rose from scattered points in the field where the flaming rock droplets had fallen.