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

had been shot in both lungs and the abdomen. Part of her jaw had been blown away. Her tongue flopped about. The man died, his jugular vein and femoral artery pumping macabre fountains. The woman passed a moment later.

The Troublers looked to Troy. What now? said a man with a sandy beard and one eye clouded in cataracts.

Troy closed the dead Troublers’ eyes. The guards we passed out yonder? Some of em are probably headed this way. We gotta push through em and be gone before anybody else gets here. You bunch keep em busy while Ernie and me—

A series of explosions close by rattled the walls. A chorus of voices shrieked in pain. Troy ran to the nearest window and looked out.

The Crusaders who had formed a skirmish line on the walk now lay everywhere, some dead, others alive but shattered. It looked like one of them had erupted and taken the rest with him, along with several nearby prisoners, some of whose ruined limbs still hung, disembodied, from their chains.

What the fuck? Tetweiller said.

No idea, but we gotta move.

Ignoring his stiff knee’s protests, Troy led them through the foyer and outside, guns drawn. They fanned across the yard, stepping in blood and onto bits of flesh and bone. One by one, they dispatched the wounded.

Willa McClure and Bandit sauntered out from behind a house across the street. The girl stopped in the center of the carnage and observed, thumbs hooked in her gun belt.

Where’d you come from? Troy asked.

McClure spat on a dead guard’s forehead. After we reconnoitered the lake, we snuck over here and holed up in yonder house. Figured you’d come for Ernie, seein’s how Stransky’s taken a shine to Jack.

Troy indicated the bodies. I reckon you did this?

She reached down and rubbed Bandit’s belly. The dog rolled about in the street, mindless of the gore. You reckon right. I buried a cache of grenades and such a couple blocks down. Same time y’all started hidin your own supplies. This bunch was so focused on y’all, they never seen me walk over and roll four grenades up under em. Too bad about these other folks, but I figured it was them or you.

The street was an abattoir, a sodden arabesque of war. She just killed at least a dozen folks and wounded twice that many, but it don’t faze her. I reckon that kind of coldness comes from growin up hard, with only killers for friends. There was nothing to say, no platitude that could rekindle the girl’s lost childhood, the story of which Troy himself had helped author. So he tossed his hatchet to a nearby Troubler, who began hacking away at the locks. The rest of Troy’s band passed out their blades, all of which were snatched up in emaciated hands.

What do we do when we’re loose? someone asked McClure.

Find a weapon and start killin, she said. Or run. Or die.

Lord, girl, Troy said.

The child wiped blood off her dog’s coat. What?

Troy opened his mouth to reproach the kid, but he closed it again. On a killing field, lecturing about the virtues of compassion and empathy seemed too hypocritical even for the damned. So he turned back to the Troublers. All right. Just like we planned. And don’t forget where I hid my caches. They’ll help.

The group split in two and set out toward opposite ends of the street, McClure and Bandit trotting at Troy’s side with half the Troublers. Tetweiller led the rest toward whatever might come.

33

Bullets struck the wall with a sound like axes falling on thick logs. Someone shoved a cloth onto Royster’s wound hard enough to crack bones. He groaned and gritted his teeth as the world went gray. The cries of the injured rose like the calls of strange birds. A Crusader lay on his back fifteen yards away, a flaming arrow in his heart, his uniform and flesh sizzling like a beefsteak in a hot skillet. The acrid smoke burned the envoy’s eyes and nose.

Benn and Clemens had climbed a ladder and were firing on the Conspirators from up top. Ford and Long stood on either side of the gap. Every so often, one of them would lean out and return fire, but neither seemed all that eager.

Are they faltering or conserving ammunition?

Melton and Glau cowered ten feet away, backs against the wall, both pale, both watching Royster with wide eyes. Jerold Babb knelt in the dirt and prayed aloud. Gordon Boudreaux watched Royster bleed, his face an inscrutable image carved in a granite cliff.

Royster grabbed the sleeve of the guard tending his wounds. How is it?

The guard’s face was pale and wan. The bleeding’s slowed, sir.

Help me get up.

You’re liable to make it worse.

Royster shoved him away. And the Troublers are liable to overrun us. If you’re not going to help me, go shoot someone. Gordon, your assistance, please.

Boudreaux hauled Royster up by his good arm, the envoy groaning and wincing and hissing through his teeth. He caught Long’s eye across the way and motioned her over. She waited for a lull in the fire and then sprinted across the gap, bullets spattering the dust and grass at her feet. When she passed Ford, he fired once more and followed her.

Hear me, Lord, Babb cried. Deliver us.

Gordon, Royster said. Please scale that ladder and ask Misters Benn and Clemens to join us. Then go find my highest-ranking officer present, not counting all of you or those two weaklings over there. He nodded at Melton and Glau.

Boudreaux left without a word. Somewhere up there, Benn and Clemens crouched behind the blast barriers running four feet high on both sides of the wall. Moments later, all three men descended and gathered round. Babb said his amen and crawled over.

Highest-ranking man present, except us, is Aaron Listerall, Benn said. He’s down that way, unless he’s dead. He nodded to Royster’s right. The envoy flapped a hand at Boudreaux, who ran off in that direction.

Very