Fall of Angels

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  Istril sat down at the second table.

  Ayrlyn-dark circles under her eyes-nodded as Nylan sat down at the head table.

  “You’re tired,” Nylan said, reaching for the pot that held the bitter tea he needed-badly.

  “It was a late night.”

  “You went with the archers?”

  Ayrlyn finished the mug of tea. “I can see in the dark. It helps.”

  Sensing her exhaustion, Nylan stretched across the table and refilled her mug.

  “Thank you.” The healer put a chunk of bread in her mouth almost mechanically, as if each bite were an effort.

  “Do you want some meat?”

  “No… thank you,” the redhead added. “It’s not your fault, Nylan, but it was a long and hard night.” She slowly chewed another piece of bread.

  “It’s too early,” grumbled Huldran. “Bad business to fight before dawn.”

  “We’re not fighting before dawn,” said Fierral. “We’re eating.”

  “How did it go last night?” asked Nylan.

  “Well enough that any other idiot would have turned around. There are bodies everywhere along the road. Their commander was smart enough to keep them moving, and not try burial. They’ve got a half-fortified encampment a valley or so down out on a rise that’s surrounded by grass.” Fierral chewed through a thick chunk of bread, and then a lukewarm strip of unidentified meat that Nylan had tried and choked down despite a taste like gamy venison. “We didn’t get many after they camped. Too open.”

  “We got a lot, and lost a few ourselves,” Ayrlyn said tiredly.

  Nylan understood her exhaustion went beyond mere tiredness, and he wondered how many she had healed, or had been unable to heal.

  Ryba, fully dressed, had carried Dyliess into the great room, although she had left her bow and blades on the shelves by the stairs. As she seated herself, and Dyliess, she answered Ayrlyn’s comment. “That leaves a lot, and us with fewer guards.”

  Nylan repressed a wince, wondering how Ryba could sometimes be so insensitive-or so strong-as to ignore such pain. Which was it? he wondered. Then his eyes crossed Ayrlyn’s, and he offered a quick and apologetic smile.

  He got a brief one in return.

  “We’ll have the first of the picket posts set in a bit, ser,” said Fierral. “I had some of the newer guards out real early, scrounging shafts and weapons from the ones that fell last night. They should be back not too long after dawn, well before the army starts moving.”

  “Men are slow in the morning,” mumbled Huldran. “Excepting you, ser,” she added to Nylan.

  The smith-engineer wondered why he was the exception to everything-or was that just because Ryba needed him? Or because he disliked the use offeree to solve everything, even when he was guilty, or more guilty than just about anyone, of employing it? He took a sip of tea, then lowered the mug to his chin, letting the steam seep around his face.

  After a few more sips, he slowly chewed a strip of hot-sauced venison, and then another, and then some more bread. All of it tasted flat, but he kept eating.

  “… engineer’s off somewhere… got that look…”

  “… wouldn’t want to be in his boots…”

  “I would.”

  “That’s not what I meant…”

  In time, he looked up. Ayrlyn and Fierral were gone. The tables were half-empty, and Ryba was wiping her face one-handed, juggling Dyliess on her leg.

  “Can you take her?” asked the marshal. “Antyl and Blynnal are keeping the children, while Siret holds the tower…”

  “I know. Istril told me.” He stood, then took his daughter, still looking at her mother.

  “You know what you’re going to do?” Ryba asked.

  “It’s pretty simple, in theory anyway. You and the guards get them bunched on the hillside, and I fry them. That doesn’t take into account that they may not want to bunch or that their wizards may have other ideas, or that the wizards may be able to block the effect of the laser. Or that the wizards may be able to fry me. But,” he concluded, “I understand the plan.” He paused. “Was there any problem getting some of the newer guards to trip the pikes?”

  “No. There were a handful who’d have done it on a suicide basis.”

  Nylan winced. “There’s a lot of hatred here.”

  “There’s been a lot of hidden hatred between men and women in a lot of cultures, Nylan. It’s just more obvious here.” Ryba half turned. “I’ve got to go. Ill either check with you or send a messenger once we’re set.”

  Nylan shifted Dyliess to his shoulder and patted her back as he walked slowly to the other side of the tower, trying and succeeding in not tripping over the pair of blades he wore.

  He eased Dyliess into the cradle, then patted her arm and touched her smooth cheek. She smiled, then threatened to cry as he stood.

  “Istril told me you were here earlier.” Siret had just handed Kyalynn to Antyl, and she stepped toward Nylan. The silver-haired guard had deep circles under her green eyes, and a narrow slash across her cheek.

  Nylan reached out and touched the skin beside the wound, letting a little order seep into it.

  “You didn’t have to do that.”

  “You didn’t have to go out last night and try to reduce the odds against us.”

  They just looked at each other for a long moment.

  Then Nylan cleared his throat. “Take care of them. Just… take care of them.”

  He turned and headed up the steps to the fifth level and the components of the weapons laser. Huldran joined him on the way up.

  The sun had just begun to ease above the great forest to the east of the cliffs when Nylan carried the weapons laser head and cables across the lower meadow to the crude brick revetment. From the raised position on its platform on the highest point of ground east of the tower, amid the fields, the weapons laser had a clean field of fire in nearly any direction.

  Behind him followed Huldran and three of the newer recruits, none of whose names Nylan knew, carrying the heavy firin cell block and the rest of the equipment.

  Nylan positioned the tripod, then clicked the firing head onto the swivel. After that came the power cable.

  “Let’s move the cells to the center here,” he suggested, and one of the new guards, a mahogany redhead, helped.

  After that he straightened and looked at the three new guards. “That’s all we need for now. Go do whatever you’re supposed to do.”

  “We’re supposed to guard you,” the redhead said. “Oh… all right. Then get as many shafts as you can and whatever else you need and report back here. When the time comes, try to use arrows and keep them at a distance. The farther away the better.”

  “Yes, ser.”

  The three guards started walking toward the tower. Nylan shook his head and turned to Huldran. “I’ll check this out while you get our mounts. When you get back, I want to inspect the pike lines. Is that all right?”

  “I get to walk up to get the horses and bring them back, and you get to ride?” asked Huldran, raising her eyebrows. “I thought it was a good idea,” said Nylan. “Sometimes, ser, you still have certain male characteristics.”

  They both laughed. Then Huldran trotted uphill along the paved road to the stables and the corrals where not only the horses were, but where the sheep had been gathered.

  As the early golden light fell across the meadows, and the fields, Nylan slowly went through each and every connection, letting his senses check the lines where the flows would follow. He did not power up the system. He could sense that it would work, and he knew that he would need every erg of power, and probably a lot more.

  When he had finished, Huldran had not returned, and he looked out to the west, to Tower Black standing in the light against the shadowed rocky hills that rose eventually into the higher peaks of the Westhorns. In the flat morning light, the Roof of the World was quiet except for the steps of the last guards heading up to the stables. The grass hung limp in the stillness, dew glittering l
ike tiny diamonds in the light. The scene appeared almost pastoral.

  As Huldran rode across the grass, leading the brown mare, Nylan took another deep breath, conscious that he had recently been taking a lot of deep breaths, a whole lot-and that nothing had changed. He still had to destroy hundreds of men, just so Westwind would be left alone. He walked behind the emplacement and started to check the mare’s saddle before he mounted.

  The triangle rang three times-twice. A squad or group of guards rode down past the smithy and the tower, and over Nylan’s short bridge and up the hill past the end of the paving. As they vanished over the crest of the ridge, the triangle rang again in triplets, and Nylan swung into the mare’s saddle and started toward the pike emplacements.

  Another set of riders passed the tower, and one turned her horse toward the laser emplacement, then changed her direction toward Nylan.

  Behind her, the three newer guards hurried across the meadows, followed by a man in black-Relyn.

  Nylan reined up and waited for Ryba.

  The marshal drew up beside him, and began to speak. “The Lornians are forming up and beginning to march toward the flat down on the other side of the ridge. The scouts say that they’re two kays down past the flat.” The marshal glanced toward the sun. “I’d guess it would be after midmorning before they’ll be in your range. Longer if we’re successful.”

  “Then I hope you are most successful,” Nylan said.

  “We’ll see. That’s something I don’t know. I’ll try to send you messengers, if we have any to spare.” Her eyes were bleak.

  “Don’t worry,” he answered. “I’ll do what I can.” As if I had tiny real choice at all, between you and them.

  As Ryba spurred her horse back toward her guards, Nylan glanced to the great forest beyond the steep eastern cliff that dropped away in its nearly sheer fall. The forest was almost a black outline against the morning sun, and Nylan’s eyes rose to Freyja, glittering mercilessly in the cool and the clear morning light.

  After a moment, he urged the mare up the hill. Rather than dismount and risk revealing too much, just in case the Lornians’ wizard could see what he did, he rode past each post of the lower line slowly, letting his senses range over what he had constructed. The weights and links seemed sound, and all the cords were in place. Then he repeated the effort with the upper line before easing the mare up to the crest of the ridge.

  All he saw on the northeastern side was what he always saw. There were no massed bodies, no horse soldiers, just grasses and road and trees.

  He squinted and studied the area to the west. Perhaps there was a low cloud of dust rising above the trees that bordered the wide meadows leading toward Westwind, but the trees shielded his vision.

  After a time, he turned the mare and rode back down the road and across the meadow to the laser.

  “See anything, ser?” asked Huldran as he rode past the front of the quickly bricked emplacement. “Some dust, I think, but it wasn’t moving that fast.”

  “It never is,” said Relyn, “unless it’s on the field and moving right toward you. Then the horses and dust rush at you. At the same time, you feel like they move so slowly.”

  Nylan reined up and tied the mare in back, beside Huldran’s mount where she would be largely sheltered from stray arrows or crossbow bolts or whatever missiles the Lornians might employ. Then he checked the laser again.

  For a while, as the sun climbed, and he began to sweat under the leathers, he walked back and forth. Then he wandered out into the grass. Except for the six of them, the entire Roof of the World appeared empty. The tower was barred and silent, and even the insects seemed quieter than normal. Or was that his imagination?

  “Why are battles always fought on clear days?” asked Nylan to no one in particular as he sat down in the narrow slit entry, his boots resting on packed clay that had once been grass.

  “They are not,” answered Relyn from the left side of the emplacement. “I have fought in rain and mud. Not snow.”

  The smith-engineer nodded. Then he looked at the man in black. After a time, he got up and walked back and forth behind the silent and still unpowered laser. He looked at Relyn a moment, then beckoned, and walked away from the emplacement, letting the one-armed man follow. He stopped a hundred cubits out into the meadow and turned.

  Relyn frowned. “What is it?”

  “After this is over, it’s time for you to leave-as soon as you can.” Nylan glanced uphill, but nothing had changed.

  “The Angel?”

  Nylan nodded. “One way or another, I won’t be in very good shape after this. Too much killing is hard on me.” He met Relyn’s eyes. “I promised. But don’t lay a hand on anyone, or I’ll chase you to the demon’s depths.”

  Relyn shivered. “I would not, not after all this. Not after what I owe you.” He shrugged, then smiled bitterly. “First, we must triumph.”

  “Don’t prophets always win?” Nylan gave a wry grin and walked back toward the laser emplacement.

  Relyn followed more slowly, fingering his chin with his left hand.

  Huldran glanced from Nylan to Relyn, then just shook her head.

  Shortly, a small group of riders appeared just over the crest of the hill, but turned their mounts to face the other way, presumably down on the advancing Lornians. Nylan thought he saw Ryba’s latest roan, but he couldn’t be quite sure.

  Nylan was blotting his forehead, and even Relyn had opened his jacket by the time a single rider cantered down the road from the ridge. Nylan didn’t know her name, though he had seen her in training, and she rode well.

  “Ser! The enemy is about a third of the way up the ridge. The marshal said that she won’t be able to send any more reports.”

  “Fine. Tell her to make sure the field is clear when the enemy comes down. Do you understand that?”

  The guard’s face crinkled. “The field must be clear when the enemy comes down?”

  “The field must be clear of guards when the enemy comes down.” Nylan corrected himself. “Do you have it?”

  She repeated the words, and Nylan nodded. Then she turned her mount and started back up toward the ridge.

  Relyn looked at Nylan’s face. “You plan some terrible magic.”

  “It’s not magic. Not mostly,” Nylan added as his head throbbed as if to remind him not to lie, “but, if it works, it will be terrible.” He muttered under his breath afterward, “And if it doesn’t work, it’s going to be terrible in a different way.”

  “What do you want us to do?” asked one of the new guards.

  “When the engineer works his magic,” answered Huldran, “his body will be here, but his thoughts will not. Our job is to protect him from anyone who would attack.”

  Nylan hoped no one got that near, but somehow nothing worked quite the way it was planned in any battle. Or in anything, he added mentally.

  As the faint and distant sounds of the tumult mounted and purple-clad riders finally crested the ridge, Nylan powered up the firm cell assembly-seventy-seven point five percent. Could he smooth the flows for the fiery weapons head, the way he had for the industrial laser heads?

  Another wave of purple riders reached the ridge top, and the Westwind guards began falling back, drawing back across the ridge top, sliding westward toward the road to the tower.

  The Lornian forces slowed where the pikes should have triggered, but Nylan could not see what exactly had occurred, except for the unseen whiteness that signified death and more death.

  Nylan sent out his perceptions, his eyes still on the hillside above. He could almost sense the Lornian commander, the arrows falling around him as the man gestured with the big blade. Idly, Nylan thought that he could have shot the man. Then he nodded, and his stomach chilled into ice. Ryba had ordered her guards not to kill him. She was not aiming for the defeat of the Lornians. She wanted to keep the Lornian army whole and moving into the laser’s range, and she was gambling on the laser and Nylan to destroy them totally.

  �
��Damn you! Damn you…” he muttered.

  Suddenly, as the Lornian forces began to move again, to flow around the east end of the pike defenses, the remaining visible guards seemed to peel off the hillside behind the pike lines and ride westward toward the tower. The flow of arrows dropped to a few intermittent shafts.

  Ryba reined up on the lower hillside, just above Nylan’s bridge, and the remainder of the guards did also-not much more than half a score. Even if some guards remained in the rocks and in the ridge trees, casualties had been high-as usual.

  Nylan hadn’t seen Ayrlyn, not since breakfast. Why did he keep thinking about her-because she was one of the few that seemed to care about more than force? Because he had come to care for her? He shook his head. The only thing he could do now was use the laser. His thoughts traced the power lines, and slowly smoothed out the fluxes and the swirls within the cells.

  Slowly, slowly, the black and purple mass on the hillside continued to move, mostly westward, holding to the high part of the ridge slope, although a lobe offerees seemed to swing downhill.

  Nylan let his senses settle into the laser, let himself feel the equipment again, as his eyes and senses also measured the hillside, and he took a deep breath. More than a third of the attackers remained shielded by the curve of the hill.

  “Why is he waiting?” whispered a voice. “Leave him alone. He’s got to get them all at once. Too many are hidden by the slope of the hill,” hissed Huldran. As the sweat dripped from his forehead, and he absently brushed it away from his eyes, Nylan continued to watch, to sense. As the dark forces swelled and surged across the hillside toward the thin line of guards, he waited.

  Finally, as he tasted salt and blood, he triggered the laser, and the beam flared, and spread into a cast of light that did nothing, just sprayed reddish light across the advancing Lornians.

  “What’s with the laser?” snapped Huldran. “We’ve got power.”

  “The wizards. They’ve got shields.” Nylan extended his senses toward the focal point of the shields, stepping toward Huldran as he did. “Ease it right, more, more. Hold it there!”

  White-faced, Huldran helped him ease the laser eastward.