Lord of Order by Brett Riley (the reading list book TXT) 📕

With their leaders out yonder at the wall, the southern outlanders will take a while to pick a move, but once they do, we won’t have much time. Where’s Santonio?

Long was worried about that too. He went after Benn and Clemens, she said.

Troy swallowed hard. All the faces around him turned somber. Well, surprise has been our best weapon. LaShanda, you and Jack and Stransky secure the lake. Me and Ernie’ll take Mordecai and them and hold the outlanders at the bridge. If we can.

Tetweiller raised his eyebrows. We’re really pushin our luck, dividin our forces over and over like this. Bad strategy.

Troy reloaded his pistols. We can’t let Royster have the levees, and we can’t afford to get hit from behind when the rest of em march north. So I don’t know what else to do. LaShanda, if you ain’t heard from us when you got your situation under control, come relieve us. If our part ends early, I’ll leave a crew to gather the ordnance on the bridge, and we’ll double-time it back here.

Take half my weaponsmiths, Long said. They can disarm the caches better than y’all.

Right. Troy paused, looking at each of them in turn. God bless every one of you.

With that, they broke apart, though Jones, Gautreaux, Baptiste, and Derosier remained behind. They approached and surrounded Long. Their faces betrayed nothing.

If they beat me down for givin in to Royster, I won’t stop em.

Then Jones clapped her on the back. I hoped you and Santonio hadn’t really turned. Gotta admit I thought about puttin a bullet in y’all’s heads more than once.

It was Gabe’s plan, she said, but we struggled with knowin what was right.

I reckon we all have, Derosier said. I’m glad we ain’t gotta kill you.

Long smiled. I’m glad we don’t gotta die.

Sweat poured down Baptiste’s face. Lord, I wish this was over. I’m right tired.

Long saddled up. Me too. Seein y’all alive makes me happier than a flea in a doghouse, but we got business. May the Lord watch over you.

They all mounted up and saluted her. Then they rode after Troy.

Long turned her horse and trotted amid the refuse. Her fellow deputies and Lynn Stransky were already giving orders to their lieutenants, who sent word down the chain of command. The resistance forces numbered in the thousands, and as they moved across the city, the sound of their boots on pavement rattled windows. Long rode at the head of her column, Hobbes and Stransky flanking her, their combined masses marching shoulder to shoulder toward the lakefront.

42

Royster felt a bit stronger, though still light-headed. Sweat poured off him, thanks to the wound and the southern weather. His shoulder throbbed with every heartbeat, but at least it had almost stopped bleeding. The firing from the wall and the woods beyond it had died down to the occasional burst, both sides waiting for the other to make a move. The levees had not broken, and Gordon Boudreaux had not returned. From the city proper, the clang and clash of steel on steel, hideous animal shrieks of pain, the guttural roar of ten thousand shouting voices. Yet he felt himself drifting.

Let sleep come. What else is there to do here at the edge of civilization?

Then the sound of galloping horses, dozens of them, drawing closer. Using the wall as a brace, Royster stood, his legs trembling.

In the distance, Gordon Boudreaux rode hard for the wall, leading at least a hundred men and women wearing Crusade colors, some standing in the stirrups and raising their weapons.

Praise the Most High! wailed Jerold Babb, his robes of office dirty at the knees, his face red and sweaty.

Yes, thank you, Lord. Boudreaux and company halted in front of Royster, the smell of the animals’ sweat acrid and heavy. Royster smiled. Gordon has again proven himself a loyal and resourceful servant of the Crusade. Now we can complete the wall.

It’s all I could find, Boudreaux said, dismounting. I count a hundred and twelve.

Babb shuffled over and clapped Boudreaux on the back. Bless you, Gordon.

Boudreaux glanced at him and said nothing.

Royster held out his hand. I would embrace you if it weren’t for this wound. Instead, I give you the honor of procuring the wall’s final section, with my thanks.

Boudreaux shook, his face as expressionless as ever. Then he turned to the troops. The first thirty of y’all, come with me. Give the others your guns. The rest of you, get on the wall and fire on that tree line. If so much as a squirrel sticks its head out, blow it off.

Boudreaux’s thirty Crusaders gathered around him, the rest dismounting and tying their horses to whatever they could find. They climbed the ladders and crowded in beside the others, clustering around the fortified firing positions, slipping their barrels through the notches.

When they were ready, one of them signaled to Boudreaux. Let’s go, the deputy lord said, spurring his horse.

He rode through the gap. The others followed.

I pray he is up to the task.

From above, the apocalyptic sound of all those guns firing at once, over and over, the cacophony punctuated with short pauses for reloading.

Don’t use all your ammunition, Royster called. Be sure of your target.

He could not tell whether anyone heard him, but the effort took all his energy. The world swam out of focus. Sounds retreated into the distance. He slumped back down the wall, holding his wound and breathing hard. Babb sat beside him. Royster lay his head on the old minister’s shoulder.

43

Boudreaux led his riders to the segment and dismounted. Then he picked up a towrope and looped it around his horse’s chest, tying it off. Others did the same. The rest swatted their horses on the hindquarters, sending them back into the city, and waited near the rollers. Boudreaux and the riders urged their horses forward, the animals straining against the ropes and the chains and the weight, the enormous block moving perhaps a