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

shooting. Screams and curses and meaty thunks, probably the machete being put to use. Listerall watched as best he could. Some of the Troublers ran for the trees. One Crusader limped past Listerall, headed for the city, a bullet lodged in his guts. Aided by snipers on the wall, the other eleven fanned out toward the tree line, picking off wounded Troublers. Two of them were shot and fell dead. The rest kept pressing forward, probably burning with battle fever. Two more fell. And three more. Everywhere on that hellish field, the dead and dying lay in pools of their own blood and viscera, limbs blown off, torsos churned into ground meat, skulls shattered, brains puddling out like vomit. Troublers dropped charging Crusaders in midstride and were in turn avenged from the wall with withering fire that ravaged trees, men, women, and horses. Hidden artillery boomed from the woods, spewing foliage onto the field. Seconds later, the shells either hit the snipers’ positions, digging chunks in the wall and vaporizing flesh and bone, or sailed into the city, blowing holes in the earth and tearing horses in half. The last of Listerall’s crew to charge the tree line—the tiny woman with the steady gaze—fell only yards short of the woods. The rest of his crew pulled and yanked on the chains and ropes or worked the rollers, picking them up as the segment passed over them and toting them up front. The section inched forward one tug at a time. Someone tried to bring a team of horses through the gap, but the Troublers shot the animals down and then sighted back in on Listerall’s crew. The air turned sharp and deadly. Acts of great valor and courage on both sides, the kind from which ballads are born, yet none there marked those moments, for all were killing or being killed, drawing the last piece of the wall forward or arresting its progress.

Finally, Listerall retreated through the gap and knelt beside Royster, his chest heaving, blood from his bullet-grazed temple caking his dirt-smeared and gunpowder-blackened face. I’m sorry, sir, he panted. We can fight them, or we can move that thing, but we can’t do both. We just don’t have the hands.

Royster’s face was a pale moon, his eyes bruised fruit. Pull your people back. Keep the Troublers outside the wall at any cost.

Listerall saluted and hurried away.

35

Gordon Boudreaux squatted next to Royster. The envoy licked his lips and swallowed with some difficulty. I wonder if you’d do me a service, he said.

Boudreaux’s expression was blank. I reckon so.

Royster squeezed his forearm. No one has come to our aid. I fear our comrades have encountered some fell treachery. Yet if we pull any more souls from the wall, we will lose too much covering fire. Therefore, you must ride into town and gather some troops. Enough to drive back those Troublers in the woods. We must finish the wall before the waters come.

Boudreaux stood and slapped dust from his hat and put it back on. For a moment, he studied Royster, paying special mind to the wound.

Okay, he said and walked away.

He caught his horse and mounted up. Royster watched him go until he disappeared in the smoke. Only then did the envoy allow himself to sleep a little.

36

Bushrod lay on his belly, watching the gap. He estimated his losses thus far at around fifty. At least another four hundred hid in the trees and natural ditches and foxholes dug out of raw earth. Some sat their horses ten or fifteen yards back of the tree line. Bullets whined through the air in irregular volleys, probably just to keep them honest. One foolhardy bravo rode to the forest’s edge, and a sniper blew him off his horse. The animal neighed and bucked and ran off, uninjured but scared half to death. More sense in the animal than the man.

We gave better than we got. We could breach with sheer audacity and meet Lynn in the middle. I could bring her Royster’s head. But Troy wants it done right here, with most everybody watchin at once, and Lynn’s with him. Well, if the city floods, we ain’t lost nothin. We live on the water anyway.

Nearby a woman stood and aimed her rifle and caught a bullet between her eyes. She fell over in the dirt and lay still. More food for the insects and carrion birds, one less gun in his arsenal.

Stay down if you don’t wanna get killed, you knuckleheads, Bushrod shouted.

Then he hunkered down to wait.

37

Long, Ford, Benn, and Clemens rode down I-10. Prisoners sat on the roads unattended, their guards siphoned to one battleground or another. We gotta play this just right, Long thought. As they approached the causeway in Metairie, individual sounds began to separate from the city’s low hum—explosions, gunfire, high-pitched screams of pain, the cacophonous and ancient voice of war. We always come back to this. Hand to hand, knife against knife, who’s the faster draw or which one brought more ammo. It’s as natural as breathin, eatin, comin in outta the rain. Lord of order ain’t right. They should have named me lord of slaughter.

Something exploded less than a mile away. They reined up. Benn turned pale.

Clemens spat. Blast the Troublers. They don’t know when to lie down and die. We better get over there.

Sounds like your people stepped in it, Ford said, shaking his head. LaShanda and me can head to the lake if y’all wanna go get bloody.

No, Benn said. You two have no authority over our guards. They’re under orders not to blow those levees unless they hear from one of us or they’re being overrun. Clemens, you and I have the levees. You two rally your people. We’ve got to carve a path through the Troublers and get out of town.

Benn and Clemens spurred their horses and rode lakeward. Ford and Long