Lord of Order, Brett Riley [e ink manga reader .TXT] 📗

McClure nodded. Cold sweat dripped down her face, her back. Ain’t nothin. We gonna go after Gabe and them?

Course we are. Can you ride?

What kind of goddam question is that?

Long smiled. Then she whistled at a nearby Troubler and gestured. The man caught a riderless horse and led it to them. McClure gathered her pistols. One had been trampled. It was nicked and dented and misshapen, as if it had been struck by lightning. The other seemed fine. She holstered the good one and tossed the other.

Nobody better hurt my dog. I hope he’s got sense enough not to eat that dynamite.

49

Troy and Tetweiller rode in the Conspirator vanguard, heading for the river. Jones, Derosier, Baptiste, and Gautreaux flanked them. Some of their troops rode captured horses, but most went afoot, carrying all manner of weapons—revolvers and pistols and hunting rifles and shotguns and clubs of all kinds and bladed weapons of every make. Those who could find nothing else carried rocks, bricks, nail-studded boards pulled from buildings. The Conspirators heard their enemy before seeing them—the low susurrus of hundreds, perhaps thousands, of voices. Soon, as the river bridge loomed closer, higher, Troy’s army and the Crusaders spotted each other. Voices on both sides rose in anger.

The Crusaders waited, lined up shoulder to shoulder, their front line at the bridge’s apex, the rest falling back to the south. They all seemed to be armed. At their head, Jevan Dwyer sat his horse, his long locks flowing in the wind. He was shirtless, a bandolier of shotgun shells crisscrossing his chest, the weapon itself lying across his saddle.

Troy pulled out his spyglass. The herald looked at peace, even happy. A long hunting knife was strapped to his leather belt. Whenever he shifted, his muscles rippled like water in the wind, the forearm sinews working and working as he maneuvered his string, more cat’s cradles and hexagons and zigzags.

Looks like God Himself sculpted him outta marble, Tetweiller said.

Troy counted the troops. Dwyer must have held in reserve every living man and woman south of the river, and some from the north besides, at least two thousand. We got more, but most of ours are half dead and poorly armed. I don’t know how long pure spirit will last. He turned to Tetweiller. You think we got a chance?

Tetweiller shrugged. We always got a chance. But I’d send half our number against that goddam mountain if I was you.

Troy spat. I reckon he bleeds like any other man.

He’s too pretty to bleed. You might just tap milk and honey.

I aim to find out.

They halted at the bridge’s base. Troy watched Dwyer, who sat like a statue, hard and unafraid.

Troy turned his horse about. His voice was already hoarse from shouting, but he did his best. I reckon you see what’s before us. I aim to kill em all, startin with that Goliath up yonder. They got more guns, and they’re better fed. But we got somethin they don’t.

Shit pants? someone yelled.

Everyone laughed, even Troy. Some of the tension drained from the horde.

Troy took a deep breath of smoke-scented air. No. You got your spirit and your pride. It’s your town they aim to flood. These streets they dumped you on? They’re yours. They’ve taken your houses. They’ve chained up your families. Now they wanna take your lives. Well, I say that ain’t God’s plan. I say this is our city, unless we let em have it right here, right now. You gotta pick your road, hoist up your pack, and tote it for the rest of your lives. You gonna roll over and die? Or will you stand with me?

The Conspirators roared, raising their weapons over their heads. Mordecai Jones fired two shots into the air. Laura Derosier let out a war cry that might have curdled even Stransky’s blood. The sound rolled over Troy and Tetweiller and up the bridge and crashed against Dwyer, who sat solid and stoic before it, as immovable as a continent. Troy turned back toward Dwyer and raised his hand in the air.

But before he could drop it and spur his horse, Dwyer raised his right arm. His string had disappeared. Instead, he held a white flag. It hung limp on the end of its short pole.

Troy turned in the saddle and held his flat palm to his troops. Their collective sigh kissed him like a breeze.

Now that ain’t nice, Tetweiller said. He ruined your speech.

I reckon he’s impolite.

A white flag. You think he’s surrenderin?

I think he wants a parley.

What do you wanna do?

See what’s on his mind. If he moves on me, ride him down to the ground.

Before Tetweiller could reply, Troy spurred his horse.

Dwyer ambled down the bridge.

Be careful, Tommy Gautreaux called.

Troy snorted. That was the most redundant piece of advice he had ever heard.

They met equidistant between the hordes. Dwyer was expressionless, as if he were watching a particularly dull children’s game. Up close and shirtless, he looked bigger than ever, all muscle and jutting jaw.

Greetings, Lord Troy, he said. And congratulations. You wanted to be a Troubler. Now you’re the worst traitor in the history of the Bright Crusade.

Troy spat. And your chin looks like a shovel. You got an offer, or did you just come down to flap your gums?

Dwyer grinned, his even white teeth looking strong enough to rend bone. I offer a bargain. Personal combat, just you and me. No guns. Only knives and the strength of our flesh. The loser’s troops stand down. I see no sense in slaughtering your people. Only you.

Troy snorted. Behind him, the stamp of hooves, the murmur of whispered conversations. I reckon you’re used to scarin people with all them muscles, but I’ve faced down nutria bigger than you.

Then you accept my offer.

No.

Dwyer looked puzzled. I don’t understand.

Troy laughed. If you won, you’d kill everybody anyway. Maybe not with gun or knife, but with water. You want to fight me?