Lord of Order Brett Riley (best books under 200 pages .TXT) 📖

foot at a time. When it cleared a roller, the troops on foot heaved the log onto their shoulders and carried it to the front, where they pushed and pulled it under the ropes until it was positioned correctly. All of them watched the tree line, listened for shots, waited for the bullet that would cut them down.

Sure enough, after they managed to drag the section ten feet or so, gunfire erupted from the forest. Many of the foot soldiers cried out and fell and lay writhing, wounded in their torsos and legs and heads. Those on the wall returned fire, shredding the leaves and limbs so the Troublers must have believed the very forest had turned against them.

Boudreaux spotted Listerall on the wall and made a come on gesture. Listerall shouted to his guards. Some scampered down the ladders and, moments later, burst from the gap, running for the exposed rollers, humping them over the bodies of fallen comrades, placing them in front of the segment so the mounted troops could urge their straining horses forward again. The firefight continued, Crusaders falling every few feet, more coming off the wall and replacing them, the covering fire deafening. Everyone heaved and pulled until the wall could not have been more than five yards away, stretching in either direction farther than any eye could see. It would cut off New Orleans from the world for the first time since the great storm Katrina. It only broke for the levees at Lake Pontchartrain and the river, and Royster had confiscated all the boats, had mined the waterways themselves. He lacked the guards to keep people from trying to scale the wall, but most of the Troublers would not outrun the killing waters. Many would drown. Most of the others could be turned back from the high ground.

Lord, save us. It’s really gonna happen.

Then a great heaving cry from the woods. Boudreaux turned in his saddle. Troublers burst from hiding, riding for the gap in their hundreds, shooting at the wall, at Boudreaux’s troops, at the very sky in their ecstasy. A man the size of a tool shed led them, firing a shotgun one-handed. A handful of Crusaders fell bloody and lifeless around Boudreaux, while a volley from the wall took down a half dozen of the wild-eyed creatures bearing down on him.

What do we do, sir? a guard asked.

Pull, said Boudreaux. The man bent to his task, but then half his head disappeared. Blood and brain and skull spattered Boudreaux’s horse. Or die, I reckon. He turned his horse to face the sortie.

Listerall appeared beside him, mounted, pistol in hand, square jaw set, eyes calm. Mister Royster wants you inside, he said.

Bullets cut the air around them. He’s takin me outta the field. And I don’t care.

Behind and above them, the firing intensified.

44

Bushrod watched Boudreaux take cover in the city. Aww. Just when it looked like Troy’s poor little baby might get himself shot. The wall segment rested only feet from the structure itself, and the Crusaders were redoubling their efforts with reinforcements. This Royster ain’t no tactician. He’s givin up the high ground and cover while a bigger force charges him. That’s what happens when you put a goddam bureaucrat in command. Bushrod turned his attention to the big man who had sent Boudreaux inside. Look at that square head. If you stuck him in that gap and nailed some boards to his noggin, you’d finish the wall a lot quicker.

The reinforcements formed a skirmish line to protect the movers. Bushrod rode for the leader. Six or eight Troublers were shot from their horses, which, hemmed in, kept running forward. Fire shot through Bushrod’s left bicep. Blood flowed through a hole in his jerkin. Right through the meat. Y’all can’t aim for shit.

The big Crusader drew his weapon and spurred forward.

Bushrod shot him in the leg and shoulder.

The Crusader fell off his horse and disappeared amid the charging Troublers as his mare smashed headlong into one of the riderless mounts to Bushrod’s left. Bushrod reined up as his troops rode into the enemy’s teeth, bullets thucking into flesh and shearing bone as men and women screamed and fell and clashed in single combat.

Bushrod dismounted. He squinted against the gun smoke and dust as rounds hissed by. Those running drag passed him, waving blades and guns, screaming. Dead humans and dying horses lay everywhere, limbs broken or shot off, heads crushed.

The big Crusader lay on his back in the flattened grass, his clothes tattered, his face a bloody mask. Bushrod approached and kicked his leg.

The man’s eyes opened.

He grabbed Bushrod’s ankles and yanked. Bushrod landed on his back, his head smacking the ground. Light exploded behind his eyelids. The Crusader rolled on top of him and sat on his chest and punched him in the mouth. A tooth broke. His lips split open. Blood filled his mouth. Another blow knocked his head sideways.

All around them, his Troublers fought hand to hand, slashed, bit, gouged, the Crusaders giving as good as they got.

One hell of a scrap.

The leader punched him in the nose. More fireworks behind his eyelids, his nose a circle of numbness with fiery edges, pain radiating across his face and down his neck. His enemy grinned, teeth reddened and sharp.

I’m Aaron Listerall, the man said. Glad to meet you. He punched Bushrod’s injured arm. Bushrod roared. You’re the biggest Troubler I’ve seen in these parts. Maybe I’ll make a rug out of your hide.

Whoopty shit, Bushrod said, bucking as hard as he could. Listerall overbalanced and slipped forward, nearly to Bushrod’s neck. As Listerall tried to keep his balance, Bushrod bit him in the crotch.

Listerall screamed, his voice rising higher and higher, and punched Bushrod in the forehead, knocking him loose. The Crusader crawled away, searching for his sidearm with one hand, holding his privates with the other.

Bushrod forced himself to stand, pulled his pistol, and shot Listerall in the back. The Crusader