Fall of Angels

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  “A smith, yet? Probably not…” He shook his head, then began to carry in bricks.

  LXXXVI

  NYLAN STUDIED THE completed rear wall of the would-be smithy, and took a deep breath. He was getting tired of the building that seemed endless. His eyes flicked to the high puffy clouds. Would it never end?

  His mother had been right, though. No one else cared about his troubles, except Ayrlyn. He smiled, tentatively, then blanked his face at the sound of boots on the road.

  “How soon will you have this forge operating?” asked Fierral as she stepped within the uncompleted walls.

  Nylan glanced around the area, trying to estimate. “A while,” he finally said. “Only have half the walls done. The forge itself…” He shook his head.

  The guard leader frowned.

  “Why?”

  “We don’t have that long. We’re reaching the limits of the blades you forged. We’ve never had enough of those bows. And we’re getting more and more women showing up. They don’t have the training the best locals do. Most of us don’t, but we’re getting there.” Fierral ran her hand through her short-cropped fire-red hair. “What gives us a chance is your weapons.”

  “But you need more?” asked the engineer.

  “We need more of everything. Arrowheads first. Frigging Gerlich-he took off hunting this morning with a good fifty shafts. Showed how few we have left.”

  Nylan pursed his lips. Gerlich, again. Now what was the man up to?

  “Ser…” Fierral asked quietly. “Do you really need a smithy built like the tower? We just can’t wait for that. The locals won’t.”

  Nylan looked around again. “I can put together a forge of some sort in the next few days-I have to have that-and develop a bellows of some sort. And you’ll have to help me make charcoal. You can’t smith without coal or charcoal.”

  “Whatever it takes, ser.” Fierral’s eyes drifted to the practice yard below the front of the tower. “I’m just a guard leader. I’ll never be that much more, not like you or the marshal. But the guards, all of the women, they need the weapons.”

  Nylan understood that the words were as close to a plea as Fierral would ever offer; that, like him, she kept the doubts and fears and concerns held tightly.

  “I’ll get working on it,” he promised.

  “Thank you.”

  Nylan did not sigh until she was halfway back to the practice yard.

  LXXXVII

  THE SCOUTS RIDE vanguard nearly a kay before the column that follows, riders under the purpled banners of Lornth and trailed by a far longer column of foot soldiers, levies leavened with professionals from Carpa, Lornth itself, and even from Spidlar and far Lydiar.

  As it takes the road skirting the rapids, the army approaches the ford that prefaces the split in the trading road. Less than a kay below the rapids lies the junction of the greater and lesser rivers. Another kay below that is the ford, and beyond that the river flows smooth and deep on its northward course to Rulyarth. On the east side of the ford, the road splits, the left-hand highway following the river, the right slowly rising into the hills until it reaches the west branch of the River Arma where it follows Arma all the way to the city of Armat, capital of Suthya.

  By straining, Sillek can see the edge of the fields in the flat below and to the northwest of the hills through which the road passes and the river rapids pass. Those fields are a lighter green than those in Lornth, and half the ground shows brown where the crops have not spread so early in the year.

  With the wind out of the east, occasional drops of moisture fly from the rapids to the road, and more than once Sillek looks to the clear sky in surprise, before turning his head toward the dull roaring of the river.

  On Sillek’s right rides Ser Gethen. Behind them, flanked on each side by hard-faced armsmen, ride Terek and Jissek.

  “Fornal was reluctant to remain at the Groves,” says Gethen.

  “Someone we can trust has to,” answered Sillek easily.

  “Don’t speak of trust loudly, Lord Sillek. Soldiers might presume that such planning implies an expectation of failure.” Gethen laughs. “Call that the insight of an old man.”

  “You’re scarcely old, with those few gray hairs,” points out the younger man, looking to the low hill beyond, the last hill before the ford. His face tightens as one of the scouts in the van pauses his mount at the hill crest, then turns and gallops back toward the main force.

  “I’d say that means a Suthyan force holds the ford,” Gethen says.

  “Probably.”

  They continue to ride toward the messenger.

  “Suthyans, Lord Sillek,” announces the rider in the purple tunic.

  “How many?”

  “Not more than score twenty, I’d say. Two- to threescore mounted, and none are archers.”

  Sillek nods. “Stay back on the hill. Don’t let them see you. We’ll be there presently.”

  “Yes, ser.” The messenger heads back toward the five other scouts.

  “What do you plan, Lord?” asks Gethen.

  “To destroy them,” answers Sillek.

  “You have more than enough forces to make them retreat.” Gethen turns in the saddle to survey the more than two thousand troops following.

  “If I let them escape, then I’ll have to fight them later.”

  “They are outnumbered, and will fight desperately, and that will cost you disproportionately,” advises Gethen.

  “In a head-to-head battle, yes.”

  The older man waits. “I await your orders, Lord.”

  “With the option to disengage if I plan something too stupid, Ser Gethen?” asks Sillek with a smile.

  “You are both your father’s and your mother’s son, I think.”

  They proceed to the grassy back side of the hill overlooking the ford-and the Suthyans-where Sillek gathers in the chief armsmen and the two wizards.

  “Hold the body of the troops just below the hill crest on this side,” Sillek orders the chief armsmen. “Keep them still. About half the mounted troopers will come with me. We’ll hold the hill crest in full view of the Suthyans.”

  Gethen frowns, but says nothing.

  Sillek turns to Terek and continues with his instructions. “You and Jissek will be with us, and when I give the order, you’re to start casting those firebolts into their ranks. We’ll start downhill, slowly, but stay short of really effective bow range. They don’t have any Bleyani bowmen, thank the light.”

  Sillek pauses and scans the faces, then bites back the words he might have said, instead adding, “We’ll be showing less force than they have, and by coming downhill, we’re also showing that I’m young and inexperienced. The firebolts will get them angry, because that’s not fighting fair, and they’ll come charging after us-”

  “If they don’t?” asks Gethen.

  Sillek shrugs. “Then we stop a third of the way down the hill and let Terek and Jissek fry as many of them as we can. I’m not in this for honor. The idea is to take the river and Rulyarth as effectively as possible. If you would, Ser Gethen, I’d like you to arrange the forces here so as to trap the Suthyans once they cross the hill crest. Could we set the pikes so their horse couldn’t stop in time?”

  Gethen purses his lips. Then his lips twist. “You have a nasty turn of thought, Lord Sillek. Nasty… but it should work.”

  The chief armsmen nod in agreement.

  Sillek looks to the armsmen. “Don’t let anyone charge down that hill. If anyone tries it, I’ll have Terek turn him into charred bacon. Let them all know that, if you have to.”

  The grizzle-bearded armsman on the right coughs and spits from his saddle and onto the damp grass. “Isn’t that being a mite hard, ser? Especially when it’s an easy fight, us havin‘ so many more than them?”

  “No. We’ll need every man we have alive and well when we reach Rulyarth. I’m not interested in glory hounds. You can tell them that, too. I want to win with the fewest lives lost.”

  The slightes
t nod from the oldest armsman greets his statement.

  Shortly, Sillek leads more than twoscore mounted troops over the hill crest and slowly downhill under a pair of purpled banners. To the right of the hill is the river, and from farther east comes the muted rumbling of rapids above the point where the two rivers meet.

  A trumpet sounds from the Suthyan forces, and the Suthyan horse, numbering nearly twice those Sillek leads, form up on the flat before the long gentle slope that leads up toward the banners of Lornth.

  The Suthyans wait as Sillek’s troop descends. In time, Sillek gestures, and his troopers rein up.

  The Suthyans continue to wait.

  Sillek shrugs and says, “Make ready, Wizards.”

  “We are ready, Lord,” answers Terek.

  “Now!” orders Sillek.

  Terek concentrates, almost wavering in his saddle, but a white-red bolt of fire arcs downhill and into the mounted Suthyans.

  A single horse rears, flame rising from where the rider had been, and screams as only a horse in pain and agony can.

  Jissek follows with a second firebolt, then Terek with a third.

  By the time a half-dozen Suthyans have been brought down with wizard fire, some of the horse troopers trot uphill. Then, the trumpet sounds, and all the Suthyans begin the charge toward the apparently outnumbered Lornians.

  “A few more firebolts,” orders Sillek, before turning to the armsman mounted on the horse beside him. “Let them get within a hundred cubits.”

  “That’s too close, ser. They’ll chase if they get to two hundred.”

  “Two hundred, then. Would you suggest a flat gallop, or a quick trot?”

  The other grins. “A good commander would order a gallop, get you clear, then a walk. A dumb one always orders a quick trot, then a gallop, and your mount’s got nothing left.”

  Sillek grins back. “A quick trot to the top of the hill, then.”

  As they have talked, three more Suthyan troopers have been incinerated, and the Suthyan mounted are riding quickly toward them.

  “Back!” orders Sillek, after a quick glance at the armsman, who nods. “Quick trot!”

  The Suthyans are less than a hundred cubits behind when Sillek’s horse crosses the hill crest and he orders his mounted troop to swing to the west.

  “Get the pikes set!” snaps Gethen. “Horse on the flanks! Archers-stand fast! Between horse and flank!”

  The Suthyan horse is a ragged line by the time the riders surge over the crest chasing the “fleeing” Lornian forces.

  Fully twenty horse and riders are spitted on the waiting pikes. The others slow into a milling mass.

  “Archers!” shouts Gethen, and the arrows turn half the remaining Suthyans into pincushions.

  Perhaps a dozen horse troopers swing out to the flanks, only to be encircled and brought down by Sillek’s troopers on the left, and Gethen’s reserves on the right.

  “Move up! Move up!” snaps Gethen, and the pikemen and the .foot move forward.

  “Measured pace! Measured pace! Archers forward and to the flanks,” orders Gethen.

  Sillek brings the wizards back to the hill crest. By now the Suthyan foot are more than halfway up the hill.

  “Firebolts!” he orders.

  Jissek strains, and a small ball arches into the left side. Greasy smoke rises, along with the shriek of a man who rolls in the damp grass-in vain as he writhes before subsiding into a blackened lump.

  “Terek.”

  The chief wizard casts another bolt, and two Suthyan troopers turn to flaming brands.

  A trumpet bugles, and the Suthyan forces begin to trot uphill.

  “Idiots,” mutters Sillek, looking over his shoulder to see that the pikes are set in the forward position. Then he signals, and his horse troopers reform in a double line, waiting.

  As the Suthyan forces halt at the hill crest, wavering in sight of the pikes, Gethen drops his arm, and arrows sheet through the Suthyans.

  The line wavers, and then breaks, ignoring the shouted commands from the Suthyan commanders.

  Gethen swings his arm, and the Lornian horse charges.

  Less than twoscore Suthyans scramble into the river, and less than half those make it across the ford.

  On the west side of the river, Sillek reins up and watches. His eyes stray, not to the hundreds of Suthyan bodies, nor to the fallen horse, but to the relative handful of fallen Lornians. He turns to Gethen.

  Gethen cleans his blade and turns to Sillek. “They’ll call you a butcher, Lord.”

  “I don’t care what they call me, just so long as they respect me.” Sillek takes a deep breath and looks to see that they are beyond easy earshot of the wizards and the chief armsmen, who are directing the looting and burial details. “Fighting is not glorious, and anyone who thinks so…” He does not finish the thought, but shakes his head.

  “Many in your land would dispute that, Lord.”

  “Even as I save their sons, yet.” Sillek laughs harshly. “Would you dispute me, Gethen?”

  “No.” Gethen laughs harshly. “You have learned young what many never learn. But do not speak it except to those as gray-haired as I, or those who have buried sons lost in useless battles, not unless you wish to kill them.”

  “I won’t.” Sillek tightens his lips. “Is this useless battle?”

  “It is less useless than most, My Lord. Else I would not be here.”

  “On to Rulyarth.”

  “On to Rulyarth,” echoes Gethen.

  “After our gloriously victorious troops claim their just rewards,” Sillek adds darkly and under his breath.

  LXXXVIII

  NYLAN TAPPED THE brick level on the mortar and troweled away the excess mortar. That finished the base of the forge. Sometime, Huldran and Cessya and the others could set the roof timbers. He had to finish the forge and start making more weapons… for more killing.

  “Need more mortar, ser?” asked Huldran.

  “No.” He glanced toward the west, but the sun was just above the peaks, and they wouldn’t have much time before the evening triangle rang. He rubbed his shoulders. After a year, things should be easier, but it didn’t seem that way. He paused as he saw Ayrlyn hurrying toward the unfinished smithy. “I sense trouble.”

  “We’ve got more than enough, ser,” said Huldran. “That new one, Desain, she thinks that showers are unhealthy, and the other one, Ryllya, she had a fit when the healer cut her hair. Said her strength was in her hair. Things like that remind me how strange this place is.”

  “It is strange.” Nylan wondered what was driving Ayrlyn.

  “Here comes the healer,” announced Huldran.

  “Gerlich is gone,” Ayrlyn announced even before she stepped inside the brick-framed doorway of the smithy. Her face was flushed.

  “How do you know?”

  “Day before yesterday, he said he’d be gone for two days-that he’d been having trouble finding game. He took a mount and the old gray for a pack animal. Llyselle found that out when she was cleaning the stables. She told me, and I told Ryba. Today, I happened to look at his space, and both bows were gone. There were rags folded where his clothes were. I started checking, and he took all the coins in the strongbox I had hidden on the fifth level.” Ayrlyn wiped her forehead. “Ryba has the golds somewhere, but that’s a lot of silvers, and a bunch of coppers. He also made off with a handful of blades-the poor ones in the back of the chest.”

  Nylan nodded. “He’s also been sneaking arrows out of the tower.”

  “You didn’t say anything?”

  Huldran’s eyes widened as they moved from Ayrlyn to Nylan and back again.

  “I didn’t know. All I knew was that every time he went hunting he came back with a few arrows missing, sometimes more than a few shafts. Then the morning he left, Fierral told me he’d taken fifty shafts hunting. I just thought he was a poor shot, but didn’t want to admit it. Now…”

  “It makes sense,” pointed out Ayrlyn.

  “Narliat’s d
eparture was no accident, either, then,” Nylan continued. “That bastard Gerlich has something arranged.” He turned to Huldran. “Can you clean up? The healer and I need to find the marshal.”

  “Yes, ser.”

  The engineer and the healer headed toward the tower.

  “Where is she?” asked Ayrlyn.

  “Up in the tower, I think. I carted Dyliess around this morning. Bricklaying is slow with an infant strapped to you, but she liked the motion, I only had trouble if I stood still.”

  Nylan and Ayrlyn found the marshal on the fifth level, working with one of the newcomers. Saryn sparred with another and Fierral with a third. At a break in the sparring, Nylan motioned to Ryba.

  The marshal stopped. “With two of you, it must be serious.” Ryba turned to Saryn. “Desain needs to stop letting her wrist droop.”

  “I can manage that.” Saryn laughed.

  “And Fierral,” added Ryba. “Nistayna doesn’t have any follow-through. She’s afraid she’ll hurt someone. If she doesn’t, they’ll kill her.”

  Ryba racked her wand, and the three walked up the stone steps.

  On the top level of the tower, Ellysia sat in the rocking chair, holding Dephnay on her knee with one hand and rocking the cradle containing Dyliess with the other, the cradle that now rested at the foot of the two separated lander couches.

  “Thank you, Ellysia,” said Ryba. “You can go now.” She crossed the room and opened both windows wide.

  Behind her Ellysia shivered as the wind gusted into the room, then stood and picked up Dephnay. Dyliess started to murmur the moment the unattended cradle began to slow.

  As Ellysia, shivering, her face flushed, started down the steps, Ryba eased Dyliess from the cradle. “You’re about to wake up anyway, little one.”

  Ryba sat in the rocking chair and unfastened her shirt. Dyliess began to nurse, as greedily as always, reflected Nylan.

  “What is this problem?” asked the marshal.

  “Gerlich is gone,” said Ayrlyn. “He also took all the silvers from the lower strongbox.”