Fall of Angels

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  “When she determined that the men who assaulted Westwind were of the demons, with a great sigh, Ryba reclaimed the fires of winter and with those fires and with the black blades of Nylan that were sharper than the edge of night, she and her angels smote the demons. They destroyed all but one, and drove him into the east, leaving none upon the Roof of the World.

  “So after that time, whenever angels departed the Roof of the World, whether unto the southlands or the western ways, they carried forth the message of Ryba: Remember whence you came, and suffer not any man to lead you, for that is how the angels fell…”

  Book of Ryba

  Canto 1, Section II

  [Original text]

  CXXIX

  NYLAN WOKE, BUT could not move. His face burned, and his eyes stabbed so much he could neither open them, nor see. He listened, and even the words fell on him like hammers, most rebounding, their meaning lost in the force of their impact.

  “… not a mark on him…”

  “… more than that in him… who else… strong enough to hold a thousand deaths…”

  “… it’s all in his mind… guards died…”

  Ryba’s words-“guards died”-stabbed through his ears, and he would have lifted his hands to close them, but could move neither hands nor head, and again he sank, not into darkness, but into a sea of white chaos that burned his body and soul, into a river of fire that flared from the sky he could not see and singed his body like an ox upon a slowly turning spit.

  An ox, he thought, a dumb ox… and then, for a time, he thought no more.

  Cool cloths bathed his face when he awoke again, if indeed it were the second time, for that was what he remembered.

  Blinding light flared through his eyes, tightly squeezed shut as they were.

  “Are you awake, Nylan?” asked a husky voice-Ayrlyn’s voice.

  He started to nod, but white needles stabbed through his brain, and instead he rasped, “Yes,” afraid to move his head. Even thinking hurt, each thought like a thin knife.

  “You need to drink, or you’ll die. I’m going to put a cup to your mouth. Don’t worry if you get wet.”

  Nylan eased his mouth open, and swallowed, then opened and swallowed, ignoring the unseen white knives that slashed his face but left no marks, just pain. Some little of the blinding agony eased as he drank, as the water ran across his cheeks and chin, as Ayrlyn softly blotted away the dampness, a dampness welcome for its cooling.

  “In a bit, you’ll need more.”

  “All… right… now.”

  He drank more, and the dryness in his throat subsided, and he slept, still flayed with red-tinged white whips that left no marks, but scarred his sleep and soul.

  Over the next uncounted days, he drank and slept and drank and slept, and finally ate, until one morning, he could finally leave the single lander couch with Istril’s and Ayrlyn’s help and sit in the rocking chair that had been moved beside the couch for him.

  But the pain and glare were so bright when he tried to open his eyes that he nearly doubled over.

  “Ooooo… I even felt that,” said Ayrlyn quietly.

  “So did I,” added Istril. “I think it will be a while before you want to try to see again.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “We don’t know,” admitted Ayrlyn. “You ought to be able to see, but whatever you did with that laser had a backlash, and it’s not exactly psychological-it had an effect on your entire nervous system. It should wear off, but it’s going to be eight-days or longer, maybe years before the pain leaves totally.”

  Nylan didn’t want to deal with that, not then, not ever, but it didn’t seem like he had much choice. “Where am I?”

  “You’re on the other side of the sixth level. Ryba was afraid that Dyliess would disturb you, and here was the best place. Also, with her shattered arm-”

  “Shattered arm?”

  “Flying debris,” Ayrlyn said dryly. “Everything was either blown off that part of the hill or turned to ashes.”

  “What’s left?” he asked.

  “Away from the hill above the tower… most everything,” Istril answered. “We had another rush of women. We’re short of trained guards, but there are more than enough bodies to keep things going. Saryn’s working on training, and Siret and ‘ Weindre are helping. Huldran’s trying to forge the pieces for the sawmill, and in time we might be able to sell timber or planking. Blynnal’s found another cook, and the food is better yet.”

  “I have noticed that.”‘Nylan paused. “What about Fierral?”

  The silence gave the answer.

  “Who else?”

  After a moment, Istril answered. “Denalle, Selitra, Quilyn-those are the ones you knew.”

  “So…” Nylan tried to count them all in his head. “We landed with thirty. We have nine left. Great survival ratio.”

  “It’s better than everyone dying in orbit,” said Ayrlyn.

  “Or being a slave,” added Istril.

  “What a wonderful world. What a wonderful life…” He stopped. “Don’t mind me. It’s just hard. Darkness, it’s hard.” His mouth and throat were dry, and though he swallowed, they remained dry.

  Ayrlyn’s hand touched his, and he was surprised at the warmth, and the huskiness in her voice. “We know.”

  “We know,” echoed Istril.

  Later, as he rocked slowly in the chair, steps echoed through the white darkness that enshrouded Nylan, hard firm steps that Nylan recognized as Ryba’s.

  In the darkness, he might be able to open his eyes for a few moments before the pain became too great, and, in time, he supposed, his normal vision might return. But he preferred to keep his eyes closed when he had no immediate need to see, and he had no need or any desire to look upon Ryba.

  “How’s your arm?” he asked.

  “Ayrlyn says it will heal straight. So does Istril. She’s giving up the blade, except as necessary in emergencies, to be a healer. She had to. Ayrlyn was down for quite a while.”

  “I thought that might happen.” Eyes still closed, he massaged his temples, and then his neck, hoping that would help relieve the pain. “What else is new in the sovereign domain of Westwind?”

  “I’m sending Lord Sillek’s blade back, and his ring-a bit melted around the edges-that was all we could find in that mess. With them go some fancy language. It’s an effort to make peace-in return for keeping the Westhorns, this part, anyway, clear of bandits.” Ryba cleared her throat, and Nylan could sense that she leaned against the lander couch.

  “Will it work?”

  “Yes,” Ryba said calmly. “Lord Karthanos has already sent an envoy disavowing the use of his troops and a small chest of golds as a payment for our efforts to maintain the Westhorns, as he put it, ‘clear of any impediments to travel and trade.’ ”

  “Convenient to blame poor dead Lord Sillek. He probably wasn’t even a bad sort,” Nylan said. “Like a lot of us, he probably just got pushed into a situation from which there wasn’t any escape.”

  “He was bad enough to kill a lot of guards, and bad enough to lose an entire army. That will do for me, thank you. And anyone who lets himself be pushed into that kind of situation probably shouldn’t be running a country.”

  “We didn’t do much better. Nine out of thirty, isn’t it? And how many of those who came to us are dead?”

  “It’s better than the alternative. Over time, probably only you, Saryn, and Ayrlyn could have survived in the lowlands. The rest of us were all Sybran.”

  “That’s true. We didn’t have too many good alternatives, and the locals left us even less choice.” Nylan didn’t feel like arguing, not when he knew there was no purpose to be served. Not when he knew that Ryba was right. Right she might be, but again, he realized he wanted to be neither captain nor marshal. Apparently, neither he nor poor dead Lord Sillek had any business running a country-or a ship-not when men and women only respected force and always wanted more.

  “And your friend Relyn disappeared r
ight after the battle. He was considerate, though. He took a Lornian horse and not a thing from us. You warned him, didn’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “I trust we don’t live to see his new faith threaten us all,” Ryba said tiredly.

  “It won’t.” Nylan could feel that it wouldn’t; despite his threats to Relyn, he’d felt that way for seasons. Relyn needed the faith of order, and others would, too.

  “I hope you’re as good a prophet as an engineer.”

  So did Nylan, but instead of admitting that openly, he asked the question to which he already knew the answer. “Would you mind if I just turned this side of the tower into my quarters for now?”

  “No. I wondered when you’d ask.”

  Nylan heard the sadness, and the acceptance, and the inevitability in her voice, and he nodded, saying, “I know you did what had to be done, and I did what I did in full knowledge.” But it hurts, and it always will, and every time I open my eyes for the rest of my life, I’ll know what I did, and you don’t even understand why I did it.

  “You’ll go down as one of the great ones, Nylan, and you’re a good man, but you still don’t accept that the world is governed by force. Cold iron is master of them all.”

  “Now,” he agreed, without opening his eyes. “Now.” But we can try to change that, and that’s worthwhile.

  “Always,” answered Ryba. “Always.”

  CXXX

  ZELDYAN ENTERS THE tower room, flanked by Gethen and Fornal. All wear white armbands, and the faces of all three are stern. They glance toward the alcove.

  Lady Ellindyja rises, setting the embroidery on the far end of the bench. “Your Grace.” Her eyes fix on the blond woman, as if Zeldyan’s father and brother were not present.

  “My lady Ellindyja, and grandmother of my son, I came to wish you well in your time of grief and loss.” Zeldyan offers a head bow, one which is but the minimal formality.

  “Your courtesy does you well, inasmuch as your grief must be even greater than mine own to have lost a mate and a lover and your son’s father all at once.”

  “Great is my grief, as is yours. Yet I thought of you, and of how painful it must be for you to remain here, where you have lost so much.” Zeldyan takes one step beyond those of her father and brother, so that she stands that much closer to Ellindyja.

  “This little is all I require.” Ellindyja’s eyes harden. “And I trust, regents of Lornth, that you will not take this from me.”

  “As regents, we must look to the welfare of Lornth, and ensure that the gains made by Lord Sillek are preserved for his heir and his people.” Zeldyan’s voice is smooth, almost soft. “He sacrificed much to the cause of Lornth, and I would not see that squandered.”

  “You are all so devoted to Lornth. So devoted that you ensured that the one who showed the greatest concern would not be considered as one of my son’s son’s regents.” Ellindyja turns her eyes on the gray-haired Gethen.

  He does not flinch, and his gaze is steady as he answers. “That decision was his, My Lady. You know that. Know also that we, and the holders, agree in that decision. Those same holders also felt that the gains attained from the acquisition of Rulyarth should not be jeopardized by any effort to reclaim the wilderness on the Roof of the World.”

  “Wilderness now? I can recall when the area was prime summer pasturage. And when they were screaming to reclaim it.”

  “Wilderness,” affirms Gethen. “My losses there have matched yours, and the holders scream no longer.”

  “Your losses are nothing as to what will happen to Lornth if those angels are not driven back to whence they came.”

  “There are times, lady,” returns Zeldyan, “when the wisest course is to recognize what is. For a modest sum from us-”

  “One might term it tribute.”

  “-they have agreed to maintain the new borders and to ensure the peace in the Westhorns.”

  “Whatever one calls it, the service is worth the price,” adds Fornal. “They have destroyed every raiding band in their territory, and they have made the mid-Westhorn road the preferred trading route from Gallos. Already the traders are talking of doubling their runs and using Rulyarth instead of Armat.”

  “Those women will destroy Lornth.”

  “Attempting to defeat them has nearly destroyed us already,” answers Gethen. “Karthanos has disavowed his agreements, and without the buffer of Westwind, we would be hard-pressed to hold Rulyarth.”

  “Westwind? You have recognized this… bastard… tabletop… a place that has less than score two in their keep?”

  “The number is more like fivescore now,” says Fornal dryly. “With a mere twoscore, they destroyed more than two thousand armsmen. Would you care to lead the next force, Lady?”

  “Do not be unkind, Fornal,” says Zeldyan. “Lady Ellindyja has suffered deeply, as have we all. As have many of her old friends.” Zeldyan bows deeply, cutting off the discussion, her high-collared tunic severe against her chest and beneath her silver-corded hair and coronet. “The world should see more of you, Lady Ellindyja.”

  “I have no desire to see more of the world.”

  “Alas…” Zeldyan inclines her head slightly. “For the sake of Lornth, and for the sake of your son’s son, the time has come for you to be seen in the world.”

  “You would take what little that remains to me?”

  “The world would take it, Lady. You may leave of your choice or face a hearing of holders, who may not be so generous.” Ser Gethen bows.

  “A hearing of mongrel landowners?”

  Fornal takes a half step. “I lost my brother to your devices. My sister has lost her lord, who wished not to face the witches of heaven, and you sit here and deny your schemes, the ideas you placed?”

  Gethen extends a hand. “We wish you the best, Lady. My lady Erenthla bids you join her in Carpa.”

  “Oh, a gilded prison, now?”

  Gethen shrugs. Zeldyan’s eyes harden, as do Fornal’s. All three stand like crags of the Westhorns-looming over a field to be stripped and turned.

  Ellindyja bends and picks up the embroidery. “Never let it be said that I would stand in the way of Lornth. And it has been a long time since I have talked to Erenthla.”

  She nods to the three. “I will make ready.”

  Epilogue

  NYLAN EASED OPEN the south door to Tower Black one-handed, carrying Dyliess in his right arm. He stepped out into the dampness. To the south, all but the base of Freyja was shrouded in the heavy clouds, but even the lower cliffs that Nylan could see were already sheathed in snow.

  For a moment, the smith and mage rested his cheek against his daughter’s forehead, ignoring the questing fingers that pulled at his ears. He let his eyes fall on the small brick fort-now empty-that had held the laser, and the rows of cairns in the southeast corner of the Roof of the World, cairns from which bloodflowers had sprouted and half wilted.

  Despite the fine mist that dropped from the dark clouds, mixed with the smallest of ice flakes, Nylan walked out across the causeway. There he turned and forced himself to look up to the ridge.

  The paved section of the road nearly reached the ridge crest, and the darker hues of the newer stones showed the progress made since the battle. A pile of unused stones stood at the end of the paved section, waiting to be used to transform more mud and clay into an all-year road.

  Nylan’s eyes slowly moved eastward across the hillside. In the damp late autumn air, after the rains, the black and white had faded into gray, and a few sprigs of fireweed had sprouted, along with some grass.

  For a moment, he closed his eyes, then opened them. The expanse that had been seared by the laser remained gray, faded gray.

  He supposed everything faded in time. And in time, new life filled in for the old. He disengaged Dyliess’s fingers from his earlobe and held them, his green eyes meeting his daughter’s green eyes.

  Behind him, he heard the tower door open and close, but he continued to stand on the dam
p stones of the road, ignoring the small, sharp knives in his eyes, holding Dyliess and taking in the sodden gray ashes that had been flame and fire, man and mount, green and grass.

  Then he turned to see who had followed him.

  Ayrlyn, red hair as intense as the gray ashes were dull, crossed the causeway, carrying Weryl. She smiled. “He wanted to see where you had gone. So I brought him.”

  Nylan smiled at the healer who had begun to heal him, and they turned back and looked once more at the gray hillside, framed by rock and tree, where life again had begun to sprout.