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

Nobody here’s gonna follow your orders. Not till they see you’re really with us. That means you go alone, or I go with you.

You need to lead the wall assault. Send Bushrod with me and tell him I’m in charge.

Bushrod can take the wall. He’s better at that we who are about to die shit than I am. Besides, I wanna see Jack Hobbes’s face when he sees who’s rescuin him.

Troublers leading both prongs of the attack seemed like letting a couple of wolves guard a newborn babe, but Troy could not dictate terms. If Stransky wanted, she could order him bound, gagged, and buried to his neck in the back yard while she took her chances. And she was crazy enough to do it too.

He sighed. Fine.

For a while, they watched the furious activity in the yard and at the dock. You sure the Crusaders won’t blow the levees as soon as they hear shots? Stransky asked.

Can’t be sure of nothin, but they ain’t known for independent thinkin. They’re taught from birth to follow orders. If I was a bettin man, I’d take odds they won’t light them fuses until we’re about to overrun em.

She flicked her hair from her eyes and looked hard at him. So our lives depend on a guess.

Yep. But we’re outta time.

Stransky grinned and slapped him on the shoulder. Then she got up and went inside.

Troy prayed for courage, for guidance, for the rightness of his cause. After he said his amens, he followed Stransky in and stretched out on his cot. Perhaps he could sleep a little before they moved out. He might never see a bed again.

29

The sun was a thin rind when Royster arrived at the wall on horseback and sauntered before his gathered people. Thirty yards outside the main structure, the final section awaited like New Orleans’s tombstone, wanting only a steady hand to carve it. Facing the opening, Clemens and Benn stood beside their mounts, flanking Jerold Babb, who seemed to have come afoot. Boudreaux, Ford, and Long lined up behind them, their old and tattered horses grazing. They have chosen poor mounts for the occasion. We must find them better horseflesh before they ride into Washington at my side. On the other hand, those broken-down animals seemed in keeping with the city dump festering nearby, its stink curling upper lips and watering eyes. I must reprimand Misters Melton and Glau for their poor planning. This is no setting for an august occasion. The architects and more than two dozen higher-ranking guards stood behind the deputies. Beyond them, gaggles of off-duty Crusaders lined up at parade rest, their numbers stretching far back into the city.

The great segment rested on crude log rollers. Teams of horses and Troublers were yoked to it. No one guarded them. Where would they go? Seeing Royster, some of them turned aside and spat.

Those heathens disdain my holy office. Before we flood the city, I will see them drawn and quartered by the very horses they toil beside. Even drowning is not enough to purify their souls. In hours, a day at most—as soon as the last Crusader clears the wall and the ladders have been retracted, when the guards stand ready to repel all who try to escape—corpses will pile and stack like detritus damming a swollen river. Clouds of insects and battalions of vermin will attend them. These wretches who dare spit in my presence, though—they will know the tortures of the damned.

He smiled his shark’s smile. Then he took a deep breath and shouted, My friends! Fellow servants of the Most High and His Holiness Matthew Rook! Today we etch our names in history! Today we strike down iniquity! Today we complete the wall that is part and parcel of Brother Rook’s vision! Rejoice, for today, more than ever, we walk under the loving and protective gaze of God!

The faithful erupted in cheers and raised their fists. Babb spread his arms and lifted his hands to heaven, his eyes closed, his lips moving. Melton and Glau embraced and slapped each other on the back. The Troublers looked away.

Royster raised his hand in the air. Once he let it fall, the elite guards would march outside and steer the Troublers and horses to their work. And when the last section had been driven in place and sealed, Royster would issue only two more commands in New Orleans—one to begin the faithful’s exodus, the other to light the fuses.

And then we can ride from this pond full of dead scum and never look back.

Then something struck his right shoulder.

Pain and heat shot down his arm and across his chest as he spun and fell off his horse. He landed on his back, the breath driven from his lungs in a single gush. A second later, a rifle’s flat report. Crusaders cried out and ran, ducked for cover, scanned the city or the trees beyond the wall for the shooter. One of them screamed something about the forest, and those guards who were both armed and near the gap began firing. Horses reared and threw riders. Royster’s own mount’s forelegs smashed into the dirt only inches from his face. Troublers cheered. Panicked voices blended together. Benn was shouting for everyone to cease fire, keep your heads, know what you’re shooting at. He, Clemens, Boudreaux, and two guards lifted Royster and carried the envoy to safety. Royster’s wounded arm dangled and jounced with every footfall, fresh waves of pain washing over him. He moaned. Jerold Babb jogged alongside him, huffing with effort. Just before they ducked behind the wall, Royster saw Troublers boiling from the woods, out of the ground itself. Their leader, a man almost as big as Jevan Dwyer, paused at the lone segment and hacked at the Troublers’ chains with a hatchet. Several of his fellows did the same.

Chaos everywhere—Crusaders took positions at the gap and clambered up ladders and