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

again, left arm twisted and pumping blood. Still screaming, he stumbled onward.

Sweet Father God, Ford said. He’s too stubborn to die.

When Ford passed Benn’s body, he spat on it. Thin red threads wove themselves through his slaver. Don’t think about it. Just ride. Just shoot.

Clemens wobbled down the street like a drunk.

Ford passed Benn’s thrashing horse and shot it in the head without stopping. Rachel’s every clop on the pavement seemed to shift something inside him. One broke rib, maybe more. Lungs filled with broke glass. Don’t think about it. Just ride. Just shoot.

Clemens looked back and saw Ford and screeched. He broke right and sprinted for the nearest house. Then he kicked in the front door and stumbled inside.

Ford dismounted near the yard and whispered to Rachel, who bobbed her head as if she understood: If I just mosey up the walk, he’ll blow my head off. Gonna be hard to flank him when he can probably hear me breathin half a mile away. Don’t wanna let him get you either. Two animals dead on this road, no tellin how many more out yonder where the fightin’s the worst. It’s how we always seem to repay you for your loyalty and love. We slaughter you and leave you to rot. I’m sorry, darlin.

He took the reins and urged Rachel through the yard at an angle, keeping her between himself and Clemens.

He’s only got the ammo he’s carryin, so he might not fire until he’s got a clear shot.

As they neared the house, Rachel tossed her head. Her eyes rolled as if she could smell burning gunpowder from the shots that had not been fired yet. Ford gripped the reins hard, ignoring the pain in his left side. Still nothing from Clemens. Perhaps he had fainted or died.

Five feet from the house, Ford let go of the reins and slapped Rachel’s hindquarters. He flattened himself against the outer wall as she trotted away and stopped in the street, where she turned to watch the drama play out however it would. Ford crept toward the front door. When he reached the picture window, he dropped to his belly and pulled himself along, trailing blood in the grass. His breath sawed in and out, agonizing and hot. He can hear me. I know he can. Might shoot this wall to pieces. Don’t think about it. Just move. After clearing the window, he sat with his back to the wall and scooted along until he reached the door. From inside, Clemens groaned. Ford pulled up his shirt. The bullet had gouged a wedge-shaped chunk out of his side a few inches below the armpit and passed on. A hint of jagged rib bone peeked out. At least the round ain’t in my belly or liver. Thank the Lord. I hope I don’t bleed out before I finish this. He took a slow, deep breath, clenching his teeth against the pain, tears welling. Forget it. Take the door. Kill the man. Then die if you must.

That you, Ford? called Clemens. He sounded like he was talking underwater. Wherever you’re shot, I hope it hurts, you devil.

No matter what, Clemens can’t reach the levees.

The main door was open, the screen shut. Ford took another breath and held it. Then, forcing himself not to moan, he pulled off his shirt. White lights danced behind his closed lids. His left foot squished inside his gore-filled boot.

Help me, Lord.

He inched his way up the wall until he leaned against it, panting. When the pain subsided, he stuck the shirt on the end of his pistol barrel and thrust it in front of the screen.

39

Clemens had thrown up three times and lacked the strength to move out of his own puddle of sick. Every time he shifted, waves of nausea struck him. His left arm was bent like a bird’s leg, the jagged bone protruding through his bicep. The floor was covered in his blood. As a deputy envoy, he had seen violence, had instigated it. Three years ago, he had taken a Troubler bullet to the thigh. Once, he had been slashed across the chest with a machete, costing him his right nipple. But he had never felt anything like this—the arm, the skin lost in his tumble, everything. Mixed with the pain, a deep sense of self-loathing, all of it burbling in his stomach like gas. How sloppy and prideful they had been, how sure of their own eminence and the citizens’ compliance. When Ford had opened fire, Clemens saw, as in a vision, all the errors born of their hubris. The hunter had never been on their side. He had lived in New Orleans all his life, had fought beside Troy since coming of age. Put beside that, how could they have been so sure, so bloody certain, that anything, even the Crusade, would take precedence? Ford would go to hell for turning on them, but that would do the men at the lake about as much good as it had done Benn. Clemens had to stay conscious long enough to put down the traitorous dog. He had called to Ford and gotten no reply, but the hunter was out there somewhere, on one side of the door or the other. If he had still had two hands to reload with and enough ammo, Clemens would have perforated the whole front wall, just to be sure. But he had to wait. He—

Movement from the door, a fluttering of white stained with red. Clemens roared and fired, pulling the trigger over and over until the hammer fell on empty chambers, the dry clicks like the chirping of an insect. His ears rang. The acrid smell of gunpowder filled the room. He wiped his eyes on the back of his hand and watched the door. Nothing moved.

He laughed and laughed.

I got you, he croaked, his throat parched, his mouth filled with gun smoke. Thank the Lord. I got you.

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