Fall of Angels

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  “A good anvil would help,” Nylan said.

  “Tell Ayrlyn. It’s a good investment.” She flashed him a quick smile, bright and shallow.

  “We’ll hold off on the millrace and the mill. We might get the pond finished in the next few days. Then, we can certainly go back to forging a few blades.”

  “Good.” Ryba turned back to the guards, continuing almost as though she hadn’t talked to Nylan. “Gerlich should have left traces, bent branches, scars. He might even have marked a trail. Look for them…”

  Nylan flicked the reins gently, then leaned forward and patted the mare on the shoulder again as she whuffed and stepped sideways before walking downhill toward the smithy and the tower.

  CVII

  SILLEK STEPS INTO the hot tower room, dim despite the blazing summer sun outside, and hot and close, even with the breeze seeping through the two open windows.

  Despite his light shirt and thin trousers, Sillek begins to sweat almost immediately.

  “Lord Sillek,” says Terek, standing, “I found what you were seeking.” The white wizard rubs his forehead, then gestures to the blank glass. “If you’re ready, I’ll try to call it up again.”

  “Please do.”

  Terek seats himself on the high-backed stool, shifting his weight from side to side for a moment. White mists swirl across the silver of the glass. Then, in the midst of the white mists in the glass, an image forms. A line of horsemen winds its way along a narrow mountain road in the glare of the midday sun.

  “Yes?” Sillek’s eyes narrow, and he strains to discern details which would identify the horsemen. “Who are they? Where are they going?”

  Sweat drips from Terek’s face, and the lines in his forehead deepen as he concentrates. “I’ll try to get a closer picture.”

  After a moment, the image shifts slightly, to the head of the column where a white-coated figure rides between two armed men. The taller figure wears a huge blade across his shoulders.

  “That’s Hissl, all right,” murmurs Sillek. “And the smaller one, he looks familiar, but I don’t know why.” He studies the image for a time longer. “That looks like the road past the Ironwoods into the Westhorns, just into the real mountains.”

  Terek, sweat now pouring down his cheeks, clears his throat. “Ah… ser… do you need to see… any more?”

  “Oh, no.” Sillek pauses, then asks, “Do you know who the other fellow was? The big one?”

  Terek clears his throat, once, twice. “No, ser. He feels a little like a beginning white wizard, but I know I’ve never seen him.” Terek takes out a large white square of cloth and slowly blots his forehead. After a time, he slides off the stool and shakes the white robes away from his body.

  “Hissl must have gathered twoscore armsmen there.” Sillek purses his lips.

  “He wants to be Lord of the Ironwoods.” Terek’s voice is flat.

  “If he can defeat those angel women, I’d be most happy to grant him the title and those lands.” Sillek forces a laugh. “It would take a wizard to make that maze of thorn trees productive.”

  “I wish him well,” adds Terek.

  “I know you do. He’s difficult to work with, isn’t he?” Sillek’s eyes fix on the white wizard.

  Terek takes a long look at the Lord of Lornth, then speaks in measured tones. “Hissl has a great willingness to work hard, great talent, and a great opinion of that talent.”

  “As I said… difficult to work with.” Sillek chuckles. “Don’t mind me, Master Wizard. And I thank you for your images. They make things clearer.”

  He turns and walks from the small room, adding under his breath, “But not that much clearer.”

  CVIII

  NYLAN DISMOUNTED AND led the brown mare into the stable. His working clothes were almost tatters, and damp through, either from sweat or water, and his feet squished in his boots with each step he took. Mud streaked his arms and his clothes. As always, his arms ached, and so did his legs, and most of his muscles.

  Still, the footings and the base of the millpond wall were completed, and he had another day before he had to return to smithing. Behind him, Rienadre led her mount into the stables. If anything, she was damper and muddier than Nylan.

  The engineer-smith struggled with the cinch and girth, and finally unsaddled the mare. Mechanically, he brushed her, occasionally patting her flanks or neck. After stalling her and ensuring that her manger was full, he walked silently down the road and past the now-deserted smithy. The sun was almost touching the western peaks. Behind the faint chirping of insects and the intermittent songs of the green and yellow birds came the low baaing of the sheep grazing around the cairns.

  ‘He shivered slightly, knowing there would be more cairns, and hoping that he would not be laid under those rocks.

  He crossed the causeway, entered the tower, and paused. Ryba, Fierral, and three guards were clustered around the last table in the great room. Nylan extended his perceptions, feeling faintly guilty for his magical eavesdropping but being curious nonetheless.

  “The second canyon over-the one that looked like a dead end? It’s not,” declared Istril. “It’s narrow. Then it climbs before it widens, and it’s almost a flat run down to the trading road. I can’t say that Gerlich was there, but there are some marks on the trees, a good four to six cubits up in places, small crosses, and they were made recently.”

  “How recently?” asked Fierral.

  “Last spring or late winter. The bark’s puckered a bit. In one place, there’s a broken limb that has growth buds that died.”

  Hryessa nodded.

  “Anything else?” asked Ryba, her eyes circling the table. After a long silence, she continued. “We’ll need a place for an outpost-one that can be watched, but isn’t in the canyon itself-and a clear route to get back to the tower. I want two guards there all the time from now on.”

  “Two?”

  “One to watch, and one to get back the warning to us.”

  “Why don’t we just block the canyon?”

  “Because then I don’t know where Gerlich will attack from,” pointed out Ryba. “Oh… there’s a back path from the canyon to the stable-or a way Gerlich’s men will take to try to fire the stables. Find it, and work out the best place for an ambush. That will be a quick way to take out four of his armsmen, and they won’t be expecting it at dawn.”

  Fierral and Saryn exchanged glances.

  Nylan slipped past the stairs and headed for the north door and the bathhouse. He hoped that Ryba’s visions were correct, but he wasn’t about to question her, not when her perceptions had been so accurate so far. And this time, if Gerlich did as she foresaw, there wouldn’t be any question of guilt.

  CIX

  GERLICH HOLDS UP his hand, and the column slows to a halt. The early-morning mist rises out of the trees to the east of the road that continues to climb as it turns northward.

  “All right, Ser Wizard,” the big man announces. “Get out your glass or whatever you need, and scout out that trail.” He points to a gap between the trees on the side of the road. “I want you to make sure no one is on it.”

  “That’s not even a real trail, and it goes right into the mountain,” protests Hissl. “What good will that do?”

  “It is a trail,” answers Gerlich. “I’ve scouted it, and it curves through this slope and rocky ridge and comes out right behind the tower-inside their watch posts and defenses. And it’s close enough so that there’s a back way to their stables. You have the map on that, Nirso.” The hunter nods to the squat armsman riding behind Narliat.

  Narliat’s eyes flick from the wizard, who dismounts and eases a padded and leather-covered glass from one saddlebag, to Gerlich and then to the road ahead. His lips tighten.

  “Worried, friend Narliat? You have seen what I can do with the blade and bow, and they certainly will not be expecting an attack-especially from here.” Gerlich laughs.

  Hissl squats on the ground, concentrating on the glass before him, and the mists
that appear. After a time, he rises, wipes his forehead, and repacks the glass.

  “Well?”

  “There is no one on the trail. It is narrow, but I could see no tracks and no horses.”

  “Good.” Gerlich turns his mount uphill, and the others follow.

  CX

  “FRIED RODENT, AGAIN,” muttered Huldran from beside Nylan. “Demon-damned stuff to put in your guts before smithing.”

  “The rodents serve two saving purposes,” answered Ayrlyn with a smile. “Serving them saves other food for the winter, and killing them keeps them from eating the crops. They like the beans and, for some reason, they want to dig up the potatoes. So they also serve who are served.”

  Nylan hastily washed down a mouthful of fried rodent meat. “That’s a terrible pun.” He followed his comment with a mouthful of cold bread.

  “Oooo,” commented Dyliess from the carrypack Ryba wore.

  “That’s fine, dear,” said Ryba, “but you’re not the one who has to eat it.” Her eyes flicked toward the doorway, again.

  Ryba seemed on edge all the time, Nylan reflected, but especially in the morning, as the days had dragged out since Istril had discovered what seemed to be Gerlich’s back route to the Roof of the World.

  “How soon, do you think?” he asked.

  Ayrlyn rubbed her forehead, and Nylan smiled faintly. Thinking about a battle and all those who would need healing would certainly give any healer a headache-at least, he thought it would.

  The sound of hoofbeats on the paved section of the road from the smithy to the tower rat - a - tatted in through the open windows to the great room. Ryba stood, unstrapping the carrypack, even before Liethya burst into the room. The young guard glanced toward the marshal and then to Fierral, as if uncertain as to whom she should report.

  “I presume the traitor has returned,” Ryba said, her voice hard as she eased Dyliess, still in the carrypack, to Nylan.

  “There are armsmen on the trail, ser.” Liethya’s voice trembled slightly.

  Fierral stood. So did Saryn.

  Saryn motioned. “Stable detail. Let’s go.” She left the room almost at a run, followed by Hryessa, Jaseen, and Selitra.

  Fierral added, “The rest of you to the stables-with full weapons.”

  All the guards at the tables, except for Istril, boiled off the benches and toward the end of the great room, some hurrying up the stone steps, presumably for weapons and gear, others straight out the main door.

  Ryba touched Nylan on the shoulder. He turned, the carrypack unfastened, Dyliess in it and looking wide-eyed at him.

  “Blynnal and Niera will take care of the children. Relyn, Siret, and Istril will hold the tower, if necessary. Join us as soon as you can,” Ryba whispered to Nylan as he took their daughter. Then she was hurrying for the door as well, picking up her bow and a full quiver from the shelves by the stairs.

  “Off to the slaughter,” announced Ayrlyn. “Sometimes, I wonder if it will ever stop.”

  “Not until they destroy us or it’s clear we’re strong enough to destroy them.” Nylan shifted Dyliess into a more comfortable position to carry her.

  “Demon-hell of a world,” said Ayrlyn with a laugh. She gulped down the last of her cool tea and added, “Just like every other world.”

  “You’re so cheerful.”

  “Cynically realistic, Nylan. I’d like to change things, but I haven’t figured out how.”

  “That makes two of us. I’d better stop talking, though, and start moving.” Carrying Dyliess in his arms, not bothering to strap the carrypack in place, Nylan half walked, half ran up to the fifth level, breathing heavily by the time he stopped in front of the space where he kept his weapons.

  Dyliess whimpered, jolted by his running, and he patted her back and laid her on the floor momentarily as he pulled out the second blade-one of the newer iron ones-and strapped it in place. That way, as Ryba had suggested, he could throw one, if he needed to, and still defend himself. Privately, he wondered if he’d be in any shape to defend himself if the first blade were accurate. Then, he could miss, and without the second blade, he’d be dead meat.

  He picked up Dyliess and patted her again and again, before starting down to the third level, where Blynnal and Niera were rearranging cradles. Dephnay and Kyalynn were in two of them, and Niera held Weryl. The girl handed Weryl to Blynnal, who eased the squirming boy into an empty cradle.

  “Blynnal?”

  “Ser?”

  “Here’s Dyliess. I need to go.” Nylan brushed his daughter’s forehead with his lips.

  “We’ll keep her safe.” The dark-haired guard and cook took Dyliess, carrypack and all. “Now, you take care, Ser Mage.”

  “I’ll try.” Nylan took a last look at the children, trying not to shake his head at the thought that three of the four were his.

  He headed down the stairs, then stopped as he saw Siret laying out quivers by the first window to the right of the south door.

  “Do you have plenty of arrows?” he asked.

  “Two quivers.”

  “If any of them even look like they’re getting close, pick them off.” Nylan paused and pointed to the timbers behind the heavy plank door. “As soon as the last guard leaves, drop those in place. Don’t wait. And barricade the north door, too.”

  “I will, Father Brood Hen.” Siret gave him a crooked grin. “I’ll even close all the tower shutters and windows except the ones that Istril and I are using to shoot from. She’s up on the fourth level. That way we have two different angles.”

  “See that you keep them closed,” Nylan said with mock gruffness. He turned to go.

  “Ser?”

  Nylan turned back to meet the deep green eyes.

  “I’m glad you took a moment. I’ll tell Istril.”

  A dull thump echoed through the lower level, followed by a second thump, and then a third. They both looked toward the north side of the tower.

  Relyn strolled forward from the north door. “The north door’s barricaded. So is the outside door to the bathhouse, but they could break through that pretty quickly.” He slipped on the clamp and the knife over his hook, then the wooden sheath. “I hope I don’t have to use these.”

  So did Nylan.

  “I’d better go.” The engineer-smith nodded to both, and slipped out the south door, hurrying uphill.

  In the east, the sun hung just above the great forest beyond the drop-off, and tendrils of mist cloaked the taller distant firs. Nylan turned uphill. To the west, the morning mist was still rising off the hills.

  As he half walked, half ran up the road, Nylan realized one other thing. The warning triangle had never rung. Then, he nodded. Gerlich knew what the triangle meant.

  By the time he reached the stable, almost all the guards were mounted, and the three who had left the tower’s great room with Saryn were riding farther up the canyon behind the former second pilot.

  Llyselle held the reins of the brown mare for Nylan. “We thought you’d need this, ser.”

  Nylan, still breathing heavily, shook his head. His slowness in saddling his mounts was unfortunately all too well known.

  “Follow your squad leaders!” ordered Ryba.

  Nylan swung himself up into the saddle, the scabbard on his right side banging against the side of his leg as he thrust it across the saddle.

  “Squad one!” Fierral raised her blade.

  Across the grim-faced riders, Nylan caught Ayrlyn’s eyes and pantomimed the question, “Which squad?”

  Ayrlyn shrugged.

  “Let’s go,” called Fierral, and almost a dozen riders followed her. The remainder followed Ryba.

  After a moment of hesitation, Nylan rode after Ryba’s group, where he and Ayrlyn brought up the rear.

  “Do you know the plan?” he asked quietly.

  “Not exactly. Gerlich is coming down the second canyon, and they’ll try to use the ledges to pick them off, some anyway, before they can get out of the canyon. Saryn’s supposed to get th
e ones headed for the stable, and then rejoin the main group.”

  “Not terribly well organized,” mused Nylan.

  “How can it be? Ryba can’t station people everywhere eight-days on end. What if Gerlich never showed up? She’s probably got plans for a dozen different cases.”

  “Still, it seems risky going put after him.”

  “It is, and Gerlich probably would have trouble cracking the tower. But we couldn’t survive another winter without livestock and mounts, and he knows it.”

  Nylan nodded. So, to protect the outbuildings and what they contained, the guards had to take the fight to Gerlich, before he knew it. He also realized why ancient castles held everything-a realization that, as seemed all too frequent, came too late.

  “Pickets here!” called Fierral. The newest guards- Denize, Liethya, Miergin, and Quilyn-served as pickets, holding mounts ready, as the more experienced guards, or at least those more trained, swarmed up the ropes already fastened in place on the slope.

  Nylan nodded as he dismounted and handed the mare’s reins to Quilyn. Maybe things weren’t so disorganized. He and Ayrlyn were the last on top of the ridgelike overlook.

  “Down,” whispered Ryba.

  Nylan went to his knees. So did Ayrlyn.

  Ryba had lined up the guards in two rows, sitting or kneeling, behind the low scrub on a flat ledge that overlooked the widening opening of the second canyon. Fierral was crouched at the uphill end, Ryba at the lower end.

  Nylan studied the placement-hardly ideal, since the canyon walls were too steep for anything but a mountain goat farther uphill and since Gerlich’s troops only would be in a field of arrow fire for a short time.- Still, if attrition were the idea, it might work, because it would take time for Gerlich’s armsmen to circle the hills, assuming they knew from where the arrows came.

  “Listen!” hissed Ryba. “You fire four arrows-just four- as accurately as you can. You know which row to aim for. Then you bat-ass down to your mounts and form up, just like we practiced. Now… quiet. We wait.”