The order war, p.18
The Order War, page 18
Justen walked toward the green-clad woman. At an angle to his right, between the stable and the main building, he could see the drying pans filled with the orange-yellow of brimstone. He halted several paces from the gray-haired healer.
“You must be the engineer from Recluce. I am Marilla, healer leader of Gyphros.” She bowed to him.
Justen returned the bow, noting the deep, dark circles around the woman’s eyes. “As the Tyrant may have informed you, we have come for some brimstone.”
“We wish it were otherwise.”
“So do I,” confessed Justen.
“It is already bagged, Ser.” The woman pointed down the path to Justen’s right. “The bags are stacked just beyond the far corner of the stable, this side of the drying pans. I regret that there is no cart path, but each of the bags holds only about a half-stone of brimstone. We also bagged what little nitre we had. There are five bags of that.”
“How many bags of brimstone?”
“Four score.” An apologetic look crossed the healer’s face. “We did keep what we thought absolutely necessary for healing, just a stone or so.”
“That’s more than we could have asked.” Justen bowed again. “And bagged, no less.”
“We had an outpost at Middlevale, Engineer. The Whites killed all score and five, even though they offered no resistance. We all have sewed for the past eight-day.” The healer’s face hardened. “Though you do not follow the Legend in the way we do, you have come when few have. Direct your weapons well toward the legions of accursed light.”
“We will do what we can.” Justen looked toward the pile of what he had thought stones, then back toward the cart. “May I have the marines load the brimstone?”
“Of course. Afterward, we will have laid out bread and meat and cheese on the table under the tree there.” Again, the healer looked apologetic. “We have only redberry and water.”
Justen smiled. “That will be more than adequate. And I thank you.”
“No thanks are necessary.” The healer turned.
Justen walked back to the marines.
“What was all that about?” Firbek, still mounted, glared down at Justen.
“The brimstone is all bagged, about four score half-stone bags. There are five bags of nitre as well.” Justen coughed, then continued. “After your troops load the cart, the healers will be laying out a full meal on the outdoor table next to where the brimstone bags are stacked.”
“Four score?” asked Firbek, a frown crossing his face.
“Four score,” repeated Justen. He repressed a smile as he watched the words about the food pass among the mounted marines.
“All right. Follow the engineer! And no slacking if you want to enjoy that meal!”
Justen patted the gray on the shoulder and glanced toward the healer, who watched from the corner of the garden as the marines carried the bagged brimstone from the enclave and as three other healers, two men and a woman, carried out large platters that they set on the table, followed by pitchers and crockery mugs.
After watching the last bag of brimstone as it was loaded and tied in place, Justen gave the gray a pat and started toward the table. He was as hungry as the marines.
“Ser?” The older healer nodded toward the gray.
“Yes?”
“Is that staff yours?”
“Ah…well, yes. It was a gift, but it is mine.”
“You are far more than an engineer, young man. But do not place too much trust in the staff.”
Justen flushed.
The healer smiled. “I know your book says that—”
“My book?”
“The one by your patron—The Basis of Order. Our bodies may live in the hills, but that does not mean our minds do.” The older woman gestured toward the table, where the marines had begun to eat. “You need to eat also. But remember that a staff is to be used, not leaned upon.”
Justen tried not to shake his head. First, Firbek and his displeasure at the amount of brimstone, and now this? He’d have to talk to Gunnar. He definitely would.
XXXVI
Justen leaned back and let the cool evening breeze—coming out of the east and off the Westhorns—blow over him. On the other end of the porch, Clerve struggled with a battered guitar and an old song.
…down by the seashore, where the waters foam white,
Hang your head over; hear the wind’s flight.
The east wind loves sunshine,
And the west wind loves night.
The north blows alone, dear,
And I fear the light.
You’ve taken my heart, dear,
Beyond the winds’ night.
The fires you have kindled
Last longer than light.
…last longer than light, dear, when the waters foam white;
Hang your head over; hear the wind’s flight.
The fires you have kindled
Will last out my night…
Justen listened to the words that dated back to the founding of Recluce. He did not look toward the steps where Gunnar and Krytella sat and talked in low voices. Although they were close enough that he could have called the words on the breeze with his senses, he did not. The cool breeze ruffled his hair, hair that had gotten too long.
“How about something a little more cheerful?”
The whispered request carried even against the rustling of the breeze, and Clerve resettled himself on the stool brought outside for the night.
…sing a song of gold coins,
A pack filled up with songbirds,
A minstrel lusting after love,
And yelling out some loving words…
“That’s better. Got anything about the White devils? Or these fancy Legend holders?”
Justen grinned at Quentel’s flat tones.
“You know, if it weren’t for the Legend…” began Berol.
“I know,” rumbled Quentel. “I wouldn’t be here hammering out rockets for the Tyrant.”
“It would be better if we had more of them.” Firbek’s cool tones rode over Clerve’s strumming.
Justen turned to see Firbek. Somehow, the big marine had slipped onto the corner of the porch almost silently. The young engineer frowned, unseen in the darkness, at the sense of wrongness in Firbek’s words.
“We’re forging too late into the night already. We don’t need any more accidents.” Altara’s voice was as cold as Firbek’s.
“Can’t we just enjoy the music?” asked Castin. “Let this poor old cook who’s been cooped up in a kitchen hotter than your forges just enjoy the young fellow’s playing.”
“By all means. By all means.” Firbek sauntered down the steps and across the darkened yard, barely missing the garden fence as he headed back toward the marine barracks.
“…always spoiling things.”
“Sing another one, boy!” commanded Castin.
Clerve’s fingers crossed the strings, and his clear voice brought the others into silence.
I watched my love sail out to sea,
His hand was deft; he waved to me.
But then the waters foamed white and free
Just as my love turned false to me.
Oh, love is wild, and love is bold,
The fairest flower when e’er it is new,
But love grows old, and waxes cold
And fades away like morning dew…
“Just like the young, always moaning about how sad love is.” Castin slipped an arm around Ninca’s waist. The head healer pretended to ignore his gesture, but Justen caught the sense of her smile, even in the darkness.
“One more, and then…”
“And then what?”
“Never mind…”
Even as Clerve touched the strings again, Quentel slipped into the darkness, followed shortly by Altara.
If I’d held scores of flowers,
or laid within my lady’s bowers…
If I’d held reigning powers,
or struck down the sunset’s towers…
As the last silvered notes died away, Castin and Ninca rose, then Berol and Jirrl.
Krytella stretched and stood. “Clerve sings well. I enjoyed listening. But I’m tired, and tomorrow I have to go check on the Sub-Tyrant’s daughters. Again,” the healer added with a mock groan.
“Tribulations of being a good healer.” Gunnar chuckled, his right hand on the railing of the porch steps.
“It was a nice night.” Justen stretched and stepped toward Krytella.
“Good night, Gunnar…Justen.” The healer stepped around Justen, who watched as she slipped inside. He swallowed, wishing the words had really been for him. He turned as Clerve approached. “Thank you. You sing well.”
“Thank you, Master Justen.” Clerve nodded as he eased down the steps and headed toward the end of the barracks, where the engineers had their rooms. Gunnar and Justen stood alone on the steps.
“There won’t be that many more good nights.” Gunnar glanced toward the south. “The Whites have fought clear of the Westhorns and have reached the upper river road.”
“The Tyrant hasn’t said anything.” Justen coughed.
“Have you seen all the levies marching in? Or all the people fleeing?”
“You make it sound like the Tyrant is staking everything on Sarron. It’s still a seven-day ride, for darkness’ sake, to Rulyarth.”
“Their belief in the Legend isn’t so strong as it once was.” Gunnar shrugged. “And everyone fears the terrors of the Whites. If Sarron falls, so will Sarronnyn.”
Justen shivered at the cold certainty in his brother’s voice.
If Sarron falls, so will Sarronnyn. He heard the words again and again, long after he had climbed onto his pallet, until, sometime in the early hours, he drifted into a troubled sleep.
XXXVII
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.
XXXVIII
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.
