Magic Engineer

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

The woman trooper who had earlier dismissed Dorrin looks at him slowly. “Darkness help us if they had you.”

  “It helps, but it’s not enough.” Kadara shakes her head. “Let’s go.” She looks at Dorrin. “Can you do something like that again-but different?”

  “Maybe once more,” he admits. “But not for a time. It will have to be in a forest, or something. They’ll watch the stones now.” He urges Meriwhen to keep up with the redhead. “I only have three more devices. They’re hard to make.” He says little more because he does not want to reveal where the devices are, not so close to the Whites, not when he has finally struck at the Wizards themselves. The black flashes that momentarily blind him continue less frequently, but the pounding headache does not subside, and he squints against the light that has become almost too bright for him to see.

  “Can’t someone else make them?” asks the hard-voiced woman trooper.

  “It takes a Black smith who’s an engineer and a healer,” Kadara says wearily. “Do you know any others?”

  CXLV

  A BREEZE CARRIES though the room where a handful of tables and benches seems lost in the center. The walls are planks nailed to heavy beams, and occasionally, shafts of hay sift through the low ceiling from the former hayloft above. Two squads of troopers lie on bedrolls in one end of the barn.

  Dorrin chews on bread and cheese that Kadara had rounded up from somewhere, trying to ignore his headache, the searing light that still blasts through his skull intermittently, and his growling stomach.

  While the second set of mines was not quite as spectacular as the first, the explosions were great enough that Kadara’s squad had to load him on Meriwhen. He does not remember much about the ride back to Kleth. How much more success he can take is another question. All he wants is to return to Diev. Clearly, warfare is not for him.

  “As soon as I’m feeling a little better, I’ll be leaving.”

  “Dorrin, you can’t travel that road again. You just can’t,” snaps Kadara. “The White Wizards would send three or four squads after you now.”

  Dorrin slowly eats the bread and cheese. What Kadara says makes sense, too much sense. But no one in Diev knows he will be staying. “Will your armorer mind if I work here?”

  “You’re the only hope we may have, and you worry about that?”

  “I didn’t bring any tools.”

  “I wouldn’t worry about that, either. Welka won’t mind. Besides, Brede needs you now. He’d have my head if we let you go unprotected-and we really don’t have any way to protect you.”

  If he is the last hope of Kleth, the city is doomed. In the time before the White horde arrives, he can forge perhaps another dozen devices similar to those he used on the road. If they are well-placed, if the Whites do not notice them, if they work as designed, if Brede can round up enough raw materials to make the gunpowder, or find some… if, if, if…

  He rubs his forehead. Even contemplating what he must build intensifies the headache that never seems to leave him now. Darkness knows what will happen if his linked mines work as designed. He takes a last bite of the bread and cheese and sips the thin beer-Kadara says that the water is not safe to drink, and he doesn’t want to search for potable water.

  “Aren’t you eating?” Dorrin asks Kadara.

  “I’m not hungry right now.” A faint look of distaste crosses her face. “Do you want any more?”

  “No. This was fine.” His headache has subsided to a faint throbbing, and only occasionally do the flashes of blackness flicker before his eyes. Why is Kadara not hungry? Is she healthy? “Are you all right?” he asks, extending a hand to touch her wrist.

  “I’m fine.” She jerks away her hand, but not before Dorrin has a sense of her problem. “I’m sorry, Dorrin. This isn’t easy now. We’re outnumbered, and the Council won’t let us retreat.”

  “They’re still insisting?”

  “Of course. You think they want to risk their skins? That’s what we’re paid for.”

  “Don’t they understand?”

  “No. They still think that somehow they can buy off the Whites.”

  The door to the yard opens, and Brede steps inside, accompanied by the faint odor of horse manure. His blue tunic looks like he has slept in it for an eight-day, and his normally smooth-shaven face is covered with blond stubble.

  Kadara gives a half-salute, half-wave. “Hail, great commander. ”

  “Hail, great squad leader.” Brede’s grin fades too quickly as he steps toward the table.

  Dorrin takes another sip of beer, and finishes the bread in his hand.

  “Kadara,” asks Brede, “can your people check out whether the Whites are sending outriders toward the road to Diev? Rydner is checking on the old Axalt road.”

  “Now?”

  “You don’t have to go. You could send some of your squad.”

  Kadara snorts. “You want it done right, don’t you?” She gets up from the bench on the other side of the table. “How far?”

  “If you can’t see any evidence within ten kays, there won’t be anything. They aren’t about to try the Kylen Hills.”

  “I wish they would.” Kadara turns to Dorrin. “You need to get busy.”

  “I know.”

  “Good luck, Kadara,” Brede says gently.

  She walks toward the bedrolled troopers at the far end. “Stow your bedrolls, and saddle up. Scout run to the south. I’ll see you in the yard.”

  Brede slides onto the bench beside Dorrin, watching as Kadara leaves the barn by the end door, heading for the stable that remains a stable. His eyes remain on the closed door through which she has left.

  Outside of a few groans, there are no complaints from the troopers who struggle up in the wake of Kadara’s orders.

  Dorrin slides the half-full pitcher of beer to Brede, and the chipped mug. “You look like you need this.”

  “Thank you.” Brede refills the mug and swallows about half of it in one gulp, but his eyes drift back in the direction of the stable he cannot see. After a moment, he leans forward, but he does not say anything, instead wetting his lips.

  “Kadara?” prompts Dorrin.

  Brede nods.

  Dorrin understands Brede’s silence, even though a part of him finds it amusing that the always-eloquent Brede is having trouble speaking his mind. “She’s a little touchy.”

  “Isn’t she always?” Brede asks with a laugh that dies too soon.

  “Do you want me to guess?” Dorrin tries not to sound sharp, but his head still throbs, and he feels sore all over.

  “You know, don’t you?”

  “That she’s carrying your child? But not until just before you arrived.”

  “Did she tell you?”

  “Of course not.” Dorrin forces a grin. “She may not even know that I know. She jerked away from me when I touched her arm.”

  “It wasn’t a good idea. Not now.”

  Dorrin disagrees, at least in a way, since Brede has been told to hold Kleth at any cost. “Was it her doing?”

  “She told me…” Brede looks around the near-empty room and lowers his voice. “… that if I were going to be a demon-damned hero I should at least leave her something.”

  The smith nods slowly. Will it make any difference? Will any of them leave the battlefield for “Kleth alive? ”She feels strongly. How do you feel?“

  “I love her. It doesn’t always show, and I just can’t leave these people. I’m not talking about the traders. I mean the troops, and the farmers-people like your Yarrl and Reisa and Petra.” Brede refills the mug, rubs his neck and shoulders, and then his eyes. “If… if… anything happens… and you’re there…”

  “I think you’re more likely to survive this than me.”

  “That’s demon crap. Will you take care of her?” Brede’s eyes bore into Dorrin.

  “If I’m there… yes.” Dorrin looks at the table, feeling guilty because he still wants to finish and sea-test the Black Diamond, guilty because he has doubts about the usefu
lness of throwing himself into a battle when his success may blind him-possibly forever. “What does the battle look like?”

  “Not good. They’ve added another five thousand levies from Hydlen. We’ll do what we can. But with everything I can drag together, we’re talking perhaps thirty-five hundred troops-and you.”

  “I appreciate the flattery,” Dorrin says dryly, rubbing his forehead. “How long do I have to work this magic?”

  “The way they’re advancing-maybe ten days.”

  “Is there any way I can tell Liedral where I am?”

  “I don’t think you’ll have to.” Brede shakes his head. “I had Tylkar-he was the one raising the last levy in Diev-request that she come back with the levies. They should be here tomorrow.”

  “Wasn’t that a little presumptuous?”

  “Darkness, yes. But I’d use whatever I could to keep you here. This isn’t a game, Dorrin. A lot of people are going to die.”

  The smith swallows. In Brede’s and Kadara’s terms, he never really had a choice about staying. He could have left-they couldn’t hold him-except for Liedral. “You’re a bastard.”

  “I had to learn that.” Brede coughs. “Welka’s expecting you. You’ve also got the small room in the headquarters next to mine. That’s the least I can do now, and little enough.” He laughs harshly as he stands.

  Dorrin watches as the tall blond commander strides out of the converted barn. Then he stands up. He needs to find the armorer and begin forging destruction.

  CXLVI

  THE SPIDLARIAN FORCES comprise an entrenched circle on the hillside. The road from Elparta to Kleth angles up the slope from southwest to southeast. To the east lie the bluffs overlooking the river, and to the west, the hill slopes downward into the Devow Marsh, which stretches westward a good four kays. Beyond the marsh are the Kylen Hills, rugged and filled with potholes and crumbling sandstone ledges.

  Dorrin peers over the earthworks at the banners on the lower and opposing hill-the crimson of Hydlen, the purple of Gallos, the green of Certis, the gold of Kyphros, and, of course, the crimson-edged white of Fairhaven. He looks uphill, hoping that Liedral will stay with the rear guard, wishing that she had stayed in Kleth itself.

  The sky is covered with high thin clouds that give a gray cast to the morning. A light breeze out of the south, barely lifting the banners of the White forces, carries the odor of burned fields uphill.

  A thin wavering horn sounds from the chaos forces. Dorrin’s eyes flicker from the earthen barriers to the troops arrayed across the low valley. After a second blast from the horn, fire gouts from the area of the white banners, flaring toward the Spidlarian hillside, spreading until it impacts. Only a handful of screams follows the fire, demonstrating the effectiveness of the earthworks against the direct impact of the wizards’ fire. Several thin lines of greasy black smoke spiral into the sky. A second line of fire follows the first, with even less impact.

  Then the ground shakes.

  The blue-clad riders stand by their blindfolded mounts, waiting for the shaking to end, calming the nervous animals.

  Dorrin grins. So far, Brede has anticipated the wizards’ tactics.

  A semi-hush falls across the hills, and Dorrin waits. Then the purple banners surge uphill toward the lower front line of timbered trenches where the outlines of Spidlarian pikes and halberds wait. Only a handful of troops are there, and they should be scuttling back up the trench to higher ground.

  Behind his own higher timbered wall, Dorrin holds his breath, his perceptions trying to check the situation, hoping that the last troops will be up the trench before he must act.

  The Gallosian troops crash over the first line, and pour into the trenchworks, splitting to follow the trenches to the higher emplacements. Dorrin swallows and pulls the line buried in the wooden casing that sticks out of the side of the shallow pit. Once the line is taut, and his senses tell him that the striker has lit, he pulls the second line, the one that removes the supports from one section of the casing. Then he climbs out of the pit and begins to refill the area around the flattened wooden casing.

  “Now!” he snaps to the two men beside him. “Shovel.”

  They shovel as if the demons of light were after them, and before the fuse lit by the striker has reached the buried charges.

  The purple banners continue to push uphill, nearly halfway to the higher emplacements. Arrows-not many, but enough- fly toward the first ranks, trying to slow them.

  Dorrin gnaws on his lower lip, hoping his advice to Brede-pulling back the troops and leaving wooden weapons decoys-will be borne out. He sits down, fearing what is about to happen, both to the advancing troops, and to him. The banners follow the troops near the trenches, with attendant shouts, as the Gallosians sense victory, despite the handfuls of arrows that rain down upon their uphill charge.

  CRUUUMPPPPPP!!!! The hillside erupts, and even the clay-filled pit under Dorrin wells up, throwing him against the wall and plastering him with clay.

  “Light,” screams one soldier.

  The other gurgles for a moment. Dorrin tries not to claw out his eyes from the pain and from seeing the splinters of wood protruding from the man’s abdomen and throat.

  His own shoulder burns, and he blinks at the wooden barb that has ripped through his jacket and tunic. His senses tell him that the wound is flesh only, and he slowly works out the wood, fumbling with the dressing in the small pack he has carried, before finally wedging one in place.

  Only then does he look downhill at the mass of churned earth that has covered almost all of the charging Gallosians. The wave of whiteness from the devastation strikes him, and he slumps to the bottom of the trench under his own darkness, darkness propelled with a white agony that slams at his skull.

  “Where is he… ?”

  Words pass by, as he lies there, vaguely aware of Spidlarian troopers easing their way downhill toward his observation trench, or what is left of it. How long he has lain there, he does not know, only that his head pounds.

  “Light! Look at this mess.”

  “Ugggghhhh…” Someone retches.

  “This one looks like a pincushion.” The voice is cool.

  “Where’s Dorrin?”

  At the sound of Liedral’s voice, Dorrin tries to open his eyes, but the blackness remains, despite the diffused warmth of the midmorning sun that tries to penetrate the high clouds. Slowly, his fingers touch his fluttering eyelids. His eyes are open, but he cannot see.

  “One of them’s alive. His hand moved.”

  “That’s the smith.”

  Dorrin coughs, bringing up a mixture of bile and what tastes like clay. With Liedral’s help, he sits up. His head pounds. When it does not pound, a fire burns within his skull. She eases some cider down his throat.

  Finally, he coughs again. “What… happened? After the explosion?”

  “Nothing,” Liedral says. “What was left of the Gallosians withdrew to their positions.”

  “Probably not a score of their two thousand left,” adds one of the troopers accompanying Liedral.

  Dorrin swallows. “Two thousand?”

  “See why the Force Leader wanted us to help him?” demands another voice in the darkness.

  Dorrin tries to reach out with his senses and gain an impression of those around him. With effort, he gains the blurred image of Liedral and three other troopers.

  “What’s the matter?” Liedral asks. “You aren’t looking at me.”

  “I can’t see you,” he admits. “I can’t see anything.”

  “Shit!” exclaims one of the troopers.

  “I need to get him out of here,” Liedral says.

  “We’ll help. Leastwise, he got rid of those damned Gallosians.”

  Dorrin staggers along the trench, partly leaning on Liedral, losing track of the direction in which they are heading. Even before they have reached the hilltop, the effort leaves Dorrin shaking. Each step seems to intensify the pain in his head.

  In the distance, he
can hear screams, horses, and shouts. He tries to take another step, but the darkness is too heavy, and pounds him into the damp soil.

  CXLVII

  “DARKNESS WITH THIS measured approach!” snaps Jeslek.

  “It was your idea,” observes Anya.

  “So? I can be wrong.” Jeslek looks across to the hillside that resembles an instantly churned and plowed field.

  “You can? I never would have guessed it.” Anya’s voice is bitter.

  “Fydel,” orders Jeslek, “have all the levies march over the mined ground there.”

  “What?”

  “The one thing we know is that they can’t have planted more of those devices where they already exploded. And we don’t want them to retreat and mine another section of hill or field.”

  Even Fydel nods at the logic.

  “Everything that damned smith has done requires advance preparation. We can’t give him any more chances. Order the charge. Pour everything into that point. And keep the troops moving.”

  “Yes, Jeslek.”

  “I mean it. Keep them moving.”

  As Jeslek turns to survey the battlefield, Anya and Fydel exchange glances. They nod.

  Then Fydel hurries toward the field commander’s tent.

  CXLVIII

  THE SOUNDS OF metal on metal rumble in the distance, and the ground trembles under him. Muffled curses, yells, grunts, and other assorted sounds creep toward him, but the sharp, knife-edged whiteness that throbs and slashes within his forehead continues to dominate his consciousness.

  He swallows, and feels something cool against his lips. “Drink this, Dorrin… please.”

  The voice is gentle, and he sips slowly. Is it his imagination, or is the pain in his head receding slightly?

  “Dorrin?”

  He recognizes Brede’s voice.

  “He’s blind,” Liedral says. “Are you satisfied?”

  “Satisfied?”

  “You can’t expect a Black smith to create so much destruction and not suffer, can you? Even your great Creslin was blind most of his life.”