Fall of Angels

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  “How can I trust you?” asks Hissl bluntly. “You ask me to risk much. Why would you offer me the leopard’s share?”

  The stranger spreads his hands, then wipes his forehead. “Look. You wear warm clothes. Na- The armsman wears a cloak. I wear as little as I can, and I am hot. Given any choice, I would never leave the high peaks. I would die during a long hot summer in the lowlands.” The man shudders. “I could not take lowlands if they were forced upon me.”

  “How would I know this?”

  The stranger glances at the glass and then at Hissl. “You know.”

  “Why do you come to me, and not to Lord Sillek?”

  “Because that would place him, and me, in a most difficult position. He cannot deal directly with a man associated with the angels, but he could accept the return of his lands, especially if that return is accomplished with the help of one of his loyal wizards.

  “To some degree, I am gambling that he will accept a man who is a stranger paying homage to him. But he has said that he will reward the man who overthrows the evil angels and returns the lands to Lornth. Because you are a loyal subject and of Lornth, he will certainly reward you.” The stranger smiles again.

  “How, exactly, would you accomplish this?”

  “By wizardry, and by unexpected attacks.” The stranger clears his throat. “Are you interested?”

  After a time, Hissl nods. “Yes.”

  XCIII

  NYLAN BRUSHED AWAY a persistent fly, the kind that hurt when it bit, as he had learned the painful way, before pulling the alloy from the forge. He blinked as he turned. Although (he brick forge now almost reached the roof line, it did not block the direct afternoon sun that beamed down on his dented, and oft-reflattened and -smoothed makeshift anvil.

  Huldran took the tongs. Nylan lifted the hammer once more, ready to hot-cut, wondering if Fierral’s endless appetite for arrowheads would ever be sated. Then, again, did any military commander ever have enough ammunition?

  He laughed as he finished the blank.

  “Ser?” asked Huldran.

  “Military commanders never have enough ammunition.”

  “If you say so, ser.” Huldran looked puzzled.

  Nylan lifted the hammer again, then paused as he glimpsed a motion from the corner of his eye. He turned his head. Ydrall, her dark hair now cut short, ran up the road. Nylan lowered the hammer, then raised it again and kept cutting until the new guard actually entered the smithy.

  “Ser?” gasped Ydrall.

  Nylan set the hammer aside, and brushed back another of the scattered but persistent flies. “Yes?”

  “Istril and Jaseen, they said you should come,” she said in Old Anglorat. “Ellysia is sick, very sick, and the other healer, she is off trading.”

  “What’s that about Ellysia?” asked Huldran.

  “She’s sick. Very sick.” Nylan set down the hammer. “It’s your turn to do what you can all alone. I’ll send someone up to hold the tongs for you.”

  Nylan hurried, not quite running, first to the bathhouse to rid himself of dirt and grime, and then back into the tower. Still damp, the engineer returned to the tower through the connecting south door.

  Ryba, carrying Dyliess in the chest pack, met him at the foot of the stairs. “They called you? Good. She’s really sick.”

  “I’ll do what I can. Ayrlyn would be better.” He paused. “Could you arrange to send a guard up to help Huldran while I’m gone? Cessya, Weindre, someone like that? She’s trying to keep forging arrowheads.”

  “I’ll take care of it.”

  “Thank you.” Nylan hurried up the stairs.

  Jaseen sat beside the bed. On her bed, a dozen cubits away, Istril held Dephnay and rocked the cradle holding Weryl. Ellysia’s face was blotched and pale, and Nylan could feel the heat welling off her face. Her entire body was drenched, both in sweat and in an unseen ugly whiteness.

  “What is this?” muttered Nylan to Jaseen.

  “Massive systemic infection, I’d guess. We don’t have any diagnostics, or those fancy nanotech probes.”

  “Please… help me, ser.” Ellysia’s voice was less than a whisper.

  Nylan took a deep breath, sending his perceptions out, trying to find a nexus, a center for the infection, but there seemed to be none. The ugly whiteness oozed from everywhere within the stricken woman.

  He wished he knew more about medicine and bodily systems. After a brief respite, he eased his senses out again, this time concentrating on her circulatory system, trying to strengthen the minuscule order he found there.

  Had a touch of color returned to Ellysia’s face? Was there a trace less of the whiteness around her?

  “Still… so hot… do something…just look at me…”

  “He is doing something, Ellysia. Healers do it with their thoughts,” insisted Istril from behind Nylan.

  Even as he watched, Nylan could sense the faint order he had instilled crumble. Again, he forced himself out, to try to strengthen the ailing woman’s internal order, to build dikes against the infection.

  His own eyes blurred, and his head ached, and he looked blindly at the floor, seeing nothing. His knees started to shake, and he sank down on the planks beside the lander couch, trying to keep the room from swimming around him, even as he knew that what he’d done hadn’t been enough.

  He reached out, but it was too late. He slumped into darkness.

  Someone was applying a damp cloth to his forehead when he woke. His eyes fixed on the silver hair.

  “Ellysia?” he asked.

  Istril shook her head. “She was better, but it didn’t last.”

  Nylan started to shake his head, then stopped. Even that slight motion hurt too much.

  Istril blotted his forehead again. “You tried to do too much. Even I could feel it.”

  “… wasn’t enough…”

  “You need to drink something.” She held a mug.

  Nylan struggled up into a half-sitting position. His head felt like his own hammers were pounding on it. The triangle rang for the evening meal, but he concentrated on sipping the water. By the time he had finished the mug, the hammering inside his skull had diminished to a dull thumping.

  “Try this.” Istril handed him a slice of bread.

  Nylan could hear the whimpering from the cradle. “Take care of Weryl. I’m feeling better.” He paused. “Dephnay?”

  “Siret has her now. Over there.”

  As he chewed the thin slice of bread, Nylan’s eyes jumped to the next alcove, where Siret held two infants.

  Istril eased Weryl out of the cradle and to her breast. The whimpering was replaced with sucking, interspersed with a noise sounding to Nylan suspiciously like a slurp.

  “He likes to eat,” said the smith.

  “I’ve started giving him a few mushy things. The solids seem to help him sleep a little longer, but he still nurses a lot.” Istril looked down at her son. “Little pig.”

  Some of Nylan’s dizziness passed, and he eased himself into a sitting position. He noticed that Ellysia’s bed was vacant.

  “Jaseen moved her. Said she wanted her in the ground as quick as possible.”

  Nylan nodded.

  “I don’t understand,” Istril said. “No one got sick all winter, and it was cold, and we didn’t really have enough to eat. Why now?”

  “Because it was cold,” Nylan tried to explain, as much for himself as for Istril. “It was too cold for mosquitoes, flies, and insects that carry diseases. We didn’t see any traders. Now, after the winter, there are a lot more ways to catch things, and Ellysia was just worn out.”

  He didn’t add that not having two healers around probably hadn’t helped either, but with the raging infection that had surged through Ellysia, he wondered whether even both he and Ayrlyn would have been able to do anything.

  His head turned toward the dark-haired baby girl Siret held. “She’ll have to be fed. I don’t suppose she’s had much solid food.”

  “I can nurse Dephnay
some,” volunteered Istril.

  “I can, too,” added Siret.

  “I suppose I can make it down to eat.” Nylan eased himself erect.

  “Are you sure?” asked Istril.

  “I’ll manage.” Since Nylan finally could move without his head spinning, he tottered down the single flight of stairs and into the great room, followed by Siret and Istril, and the three infants.

  “… silver-haired bunch…”

  “… they look after him.”

  “Engineer… looks like shit…”

  “… nearly killed himself… they said…”

  “… more dead than alive…” murmured Selitra.

  “I’m not that bad,” he rasped back. “I can still hear whispers.”

  Selitra blushed.

  Nylan continued past the lower tables and slid into his place. He immediately broke off a chunk of bread and began to chew.

  “You’re still pale.” Ryba patted Dyliess in the carrypack on her chest.

  Huldran, beside Nylan, nodded.

  “Healing’s harder than smithing or stone masonry,” Nylan grunted after chewing the first mouthful of bread.

  “Ooo…” interjected Dyliess.

  “I’m glad you agree,” said Nylan. “A daughter’s opinion is important.”

  “Oooo…”

  Huldran grinned.

  Nylan finally took a chunk of the sauce-covered unknown meat. He barely had to use his knife. The brown sauce wasn’t the burning dish that Blynnal called burkha, but a cinnamon mint, hot but not too hot. It also concealed whatever the meat was, and that, Nylan decided, was fine with him. He broke off another chunk of bread and dipped the end into the sauce, then took a sip of the cool tealike drink that was also new, and less bitter than the hot bark-and-root tea of winter had been.

  When Nylan stopped and took a last sip of the cool tea, Ryba slipped Dyliess out of the carrypack.

  “Would you hold her for a bit?”

  Nylan extended his arms.

  “Oooooo…”

  “I’m glad you agree, daughter.”

  Ryba stood, looking imperious. Nylan cradled Dyliess in his right arm.

  “Ellysia died,” Ryba began. “You all know that. You may be the best blades on the face of the world, but that doesn’t make you immune to disease. The engineer built a bathhouse. I expect you all to use it-regularly. Cleanliness is about the only defense against disease we have left.” The marshal turned to Blynnal and Kadran. “Everything you prepare is to be washed, cooked at least to a dull pink if it’s meat, and all the way through if it’s one of those wild pigs or a chicken. The same with eggs.”

  “… tastes… terrible…” came a murmur.

  “Do you want to have good-tasting food and die?” snapped Ryba. “There was a reason for all those primitive dietary laws we’ve abandoned. Just as there’s a reason why the engineer nearly killed himself to build that bathhouse.” Her eyes raked the group, and the silence was absolute, except for a faint infant whimper from the second table.

  Nylan patted Dyliess on the back and chewed another chunk of bread as Ryba took her seat.

  XCIV

  “IT’S REALLY A pity, you know,” Sillek says conversationally, as he bends forward in the saddle for a moment to stretch. “The harbor at Rulyarth is far better than the one at Armat. But the Suthyans are blessed with three decent harbors, and so they make the middle one their main trading point.”

  “Devalonia is icebound a third of the year,” points out Gethen.

  “So is Armat. That’s my point. We could do wonders-”

  “Let’s not talk about wonders, Lord Sillek, not until we have Rulyarth and its harbor and can hold it.” Gethen coughs and clears his throat, glancing up through the mist that is not quite rain toward the clouds that seemingly shift endlessly and yet do not move at all. “I hate this rain.”

  Sillek nods behind them. “Not so much as my poor wizards.”

  A messenger gallops toward them from the vanguard, and the two men wait.

  “Where the road narrows and goes through a gap in the hills ahead, there is a force drawn up behind a barricade of stone.”

  Gethen raises his eyebrows. “Plans for the harbor?”

  Sillek shakes his head. “I defer to the experience of wisdom and age.”

  The messenger glances from one lord to the other.

  “Have the van halt. We’ll be there presently,” orders Sillek.

  As the messenger rides north, Gethen asks, “Have you any miraculous plans?”

  “Not yet. I have an idea.”

  “I hope it’s as effective as the last one.”

  “So do I.” Sillek gestures toward the chief armsman. “Rimmur! Have the force hold here in readiness. There’s a Suthyan force behind those stones by the hill ahead.”

  “Yes, ser.”

  The two lords ride until they reach the van, and the rolling downhill stretch below the mounted foreguard. There Sillek reins up and studies the terrain. So does Gethen.

  In time, he motions to Gethen, and the two ride aside from the others.

  “They don’t have more than fourscore there-mostly foot levies,” points out Sillek. “The hill on the north side of the road is rocky, and they’ve only a handful of troops there. If we take the wizards, we should be able to use their firebolts and take the crest. From there, we can roll down rocks on them-rocks and firebolts.”

  “What if they reinforce the hilltop?” asks Gethen.

  “The hillside is exposed. You have our archers fire at them. We can get rid of their hill guards before they can send others up the hillside. Then it will be too late.” Sillek smiles.

  “They’ll start sending reinforcements as soon as they see what you’re doing.”

  “But they won’t see that. You’re going to draw up our forces just about a double bow-shot length from them and go through elaborate preparations for an attack.”

  Gethen nods, then asks, “What if they attack?”

  “Can you deploy the forces to kill them without losing many?”

  “With more than ten times their forces and archers, I can manage that.” Gethen smiles grimly. “I would still point out that you have a nasty turn of thought, Lord Sillek.”

  “That’s because I dislike fighting.”

  “So did I. I still do.”

  Both men shake their heads before Gethen turns his mount toward the main body of troops.

  XCV

  THIN HAZY CLOUDS covered the blue-green sky, not totally blocking the sky, but reducing the sun’s glare and direct heat. The usual breeze was absent, and the meadow grasses hung limp and still. The lack of wind left the early afternoon almost hotter than if there had been a breeze and no clouds.

  Nylan was crossing the causeway, on the way back to the smithy, when the outer triangle, located in the small brick tower recently completed on the top of the ridge, rang three times. He had scarcely taken two steps when the triplet clanged again.

  Across the fields, guards dropped warrens and hoes and scrambled toward the tower, fastening blades in place. As Nylan watched, two duty guards-Cessya and Nistayna, one of the older new guards-rode up toward the ridge. Before he could reach the smithy, Istril had ridden down past Nylan, leading three saddled mounts, taken immediately by Weindre, Kyseen, and Kadran, who all rode toward the watch tower.

  Istril frowned, but did not ride out with the three, instead spurring her mount back toward the stables, as Ydrall rode down leading three more mounts.

  Nylan nodded. Fierral, or someone, had figured out how to get the kitchen and the field details into the saddle quickly. They were still fortunate that the timber detail was involved in expanding the stables, rather than working down in the woods.

  Ydrall’s mounts included Ryba’s roan, Fierral’s mount, and a horse taken by Berlis.

  The engineer had just reached the front of the smithy when Istril rode back down with another set of three mounts. Behind her and the riderless three mounts rode Llyselle, Jaseen, and
Murkassa. Murkassa’s face was pale.

  At the tower, three more guards were waiting-Saryn, Selitra, and Hryessa.

  “Move it!” Saryn’s voice carried as she vaulted into the saddle, leading the six riders up toward the watch tower.

  Nylan paused as Istril turned and headed her mount back uphill. He waited outside the smithy for the silent silver-haired guard.

  She reined up and looked down. “With Ellysia dead, until the little ones are old enough to eat solid food, I’m ordered away from battle, unless attackers reach the tower itself.” Istril glanced toward the tower. “Siret has them now.”

  “You don’t have to explain to me, Istril. You’ve put your life on the line plenty.” Nylan gave the silver-haired guard a ragged smile. “You don’t see me charging out there, either.”

  “That’s different. If anything happens to you…” She turned her mount uphill. “I’ve got to get more mounts ready.”

  Nylan watched her for a moment before entering the smithy. Huldran was forging arrowheads, letting Desain, one of the newer guards, hold the tongs.

  “Over now. Easy.”

  When the triangle rang a third time, Nylan looked at Huldran. “We’d better get moving, too.”

  “The forge?”

  “Let it burn.” Nylan turned to Desain. “Find your blade, and then go down to the tower. Listen to Istril or the guards there.”

  At her puzzled look, Nylan repeated himself in Old Anglorat to her before turning to Huldran. “We’ll head up to the stables.”

  They didn’t have to go that far. Istril met them with two more mounts at the opening to the small canyon where Nylan climbed onto a brown mare he’d never ridden before. She seemed responsive enough and not ready to throw him every which way.

  “Take care, ser,” Istril said. “Don’t lead the charge.”

  “I won’t.”

  “That one cares for you, ser,” Huldran said quietly.

  “I know. She’s good, and she works hard.” He glanced toward the tower, where Fierral and Ryba, already mounted, waited for them just beyond the end of the causeway. “I worry about her.”