The Magic of Recluce - L. E. Modesitt [147]
“The olive groves may suffer,” she says to no one, “but if the autarch could do it, so can we.” After scanning the timbers, she begins to pry the iron edging away from one.
Puzzled expressions cross several faces, but her squad remains mounted, waiting.
As she pries the edging away from the wood and exposes the red beneath, she halts.
“Kassein.”
The heavy-set man dismounts, handing the reins to the blond woman. “Yes, sher?”
“Take this saw. Cut through this timber as far as you can—until the saw begins to bind.”
“Bind?”
“The wood will try to grab it.” She walks to another timber, and begins to pry.
The blond trooper hands the reins of two horses to a third man, dismounts, and walks up to the leader. “I can do this better.”
The squad leader nods and hands the pry bar to her. “I’m going up on top. I’ll leave the second saw. Weaken as many as you can.” Five quick steps carry her back to her mount. “Darso, you stay here and help with the sawing. Altra and Ferl will stand guard, just in case. Take turns with the saw.”
“I’m not…”
“I know. You’re cavalry, not a carpenter. But if you don’t saw, you’ll be dead cavalry. You can tie the horses to that root there.”
Back in the saddle, she nods at the remaining five troopers, and all six begin to pick their way along the slanting trail to the north, round and toward the top of the dam.
…creeakkkk…
…skkkraawwww…skrawaaawwww…
When she dismounts at the top of the dam and glances out toward the west, the dust cloud has almost reached the middle of the valley. “Damn…” The saddlebags come off the horse, and she forces herself not to show how heavy the bags are as she sets them down carefully, well back from the lake. She then loosens one set of buckles, easing the wax-impregnated and oiled leather bag containing the heavy powder out of the stiffer leather of one saddlebag. The other saddlebag remains closed. With a deep breath, she lifts the waxy leather container and walks out onto the flat stone bulwark that holds the iron hinges of the floodgates, finally setting her burden down with exaggerated care.
Creaaakkkkkk…
The dark-haired woman studies the gates, trying to determine whether they have begun to bulge or separate. “How many have you got done?” She leans over the stone wall.
“Five completed, maybe another five to go.”
The officer looks at the water, lapping less than a cubit below the overflow spillway, then at the gates. Then she bends over the wall again. “Finish up the ones you’re on, and mount up. Follow us up here.”
“Those beams are solid…”
“I know. I know.” The woman with the still-untarnished silver firebird on the collar of her green leather vest straightens up and looks at the leather bag resting on the stone by her feet.
With a deep breath, she bends.
“One should be enough…” She studies the dust cloud, and the ant-like horses that lead the more than a thousand renegade soldiers thrown out by the new duke.
Clickedy…click…
Below, the five troopers scramble onto their mounts and guide the horses along the narrow path the rest of the squad had taken earlier.
As the blond woman leads the remainder of the squad upward and toward the top of the dam, the squad leader returns to her mount and extracts a thin coil of waxed rope from her normal saddlebags. She carries the rope back to the dam, where she studies the dark-green water behind the main floodgates.
In quick sure strokes, she cuts four equal lengths from the coil. Two she sets aside. One remaining section she inserts through a plug in the coated leather before tamping wax around the edges. The second section she ties to the neck of the bag. Trying not to hurry, she slowly lowers the bag into the water, paying the rope—around which the fuse is threaded—out slowly, until the bag rests four cubits down. She ignores the puzzled looks from the mounted troops in the defile to the north of the dam.
At last she ties the connecting rope to the nearest iron wheel, and threads the second rope through the wheel as well. After retrieving the coil and the other two sections of