Fall of Angels

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  “What?”

  “Terrifying that poor sot.”

  “He’s not a sot, ser,” said Berlis. “He’s a worthless hunk of meat.” Then she paused. “I have to admit that the engineer scared me for an instant, and I didn’t even know what he was saying.”

  “I’m waiting, Nylan,” said Ryba lightly.

  The engineer finally shrugged. “A little applied psychology and a menacing tone in a foreign accent.” His head throbbed slightly as he said the words, and he frowned.

  “Psychology, my left toe,” muttered Ayrlyn under her breath. “Wizardry, plain and simple.”

  Nylan flushed, but Ryba had eased her mount back slightly and missed the byplay. The engineer said more loudly, to catch Ryba’s ear, “I still need to go down and check the brickworks. There’s nothing I can do here right now, and I want to get the tower ready to live in.”

  Ryba opened her mouth, closed it, then said, “All right. I trust you’ll use your senses to scout the way.”

  The slight emphasis on “senses” was not lost on the engineer, and he nodded. “I will, Marshal.”

  “Thank you, Honored Mage.” She flushed at the title. “And Istril and Siret can ride with you.” She laughed. “The silver angels.”

  Nylan frowned before he realized that the three of them all had the bright silver hair created by the underjump that had brought them to the Roof of the World.

  “Siret can take Llyselle’s mount,” continued Ryba. “You can try one of the captured ones. They look spiritless enough even for you.”

  Nylan nodded. “That’s fine.”

  “… what was all that about?”

  Nylan caught the question Siret whispered to Ayrlyn as he climbed into the saddle of the old bay.

  “A little formality, that’s all,” Ayrlyn answered Siret in a dry tone.

  After settling himself into the saddle, Nylan gingerly flicked the reins of the bay and followed Berlis and Istril toward the descending ridge road. As he bounced along, he wondered why he’d insisted on going to the brickworks. Was he worried that the brigands had found it and damaged it? Or because he had to do something after looking so stupid?

  Belatedly recalling Ryba’s admonition, he tried to sense beyond the trail that was still not a road, for all the travel between the clayworks and the tower. Slowly, he caught up with the marines.

  “I’ll go first,” suggested Istril, “then the engineer.”

  Nylan started to object, then shut his mouth. If anything went wrong, with only three of them, it didn’t really matter where he rode. Besides, given all the dead brigands, why would any who had survived stick around?

  “Hate this frigging place,” said Siret, now riding behind Nylan. “Everyone out to kill us, just because we’re women.”

  “They seem to want to kill me and Gerlich as well,” Nylan answered. “And Merlin might have had something to say about it. They don’t seem to like any strangers.”

  “You’re different, ser.” Siret’s voice held less anger. “The men here… they’re not human.”

  “Even Narliat?”

  “He’s the same as the rest. He’s just scared stiff of us, especially the captain, the second, and you, ser. Especially you, ser.”

  Why him? Ryba was far deadlier than Nylan. Why, Nylan couldn’t hit someone with a slug-thrower at nearly point-blank range.

  The three rode down from the next rise in the rising and falling trail, and when Nylan glanced back, he saw only the sky, the plateau rocks, and the trees. Istril had opened more distance between them, and her head swung from side to side, her head cocked almost as though she were trying to listen for trouble or even sniff it out.

  Nylan tried to follow her example, looking, sensing…

  They continued down the winding trail, nearly silently, when a vague sense of unease drifted, as if on the wind, toward Nylan. He squinted, and looked toward the tall evergreens to the left, but the silence was absolute. That bothered him. All he could smell was the scent of pine, of fir.

  But there was something… somewhere…

  “Ser!” cried Siret.

  Even before her words, Nylan had seen the flicker of motion to the left of the trail. As he yelled “Istril!” he turned in the saddle and drew and threw his blade toward the man who had stepped clear of the thick underbrush and leveled the bow at the slender marine who led the three angels.

  In a fashion similar to working the ship’s power net and the laser, Nylan smoothed the air flow around the spinning blade, extending its range, and somehow ensuring that the point struck first.

  “Uhhh!” The brigand crumpled.

  Nylan rode toward the forest, sending his senses into the trees, but felt no others nearby. Siret had ridden up beside him, her slug-thrower out in one hand. Istril had wheeled her horse, ducking low against her mount’s back as she rode up.

  Before the engineer and Siret reached the bandit, the figure convulsed, and a wave of whiteness flared across Nylan. He shivered and barely hung on to the saddle as the power of the death he had created washed over him.

  “Ser? Are you all right?” Istril reined her mount up beside Nylan.

  “He’s fine,” affirmed Siret.

  “Fine… now,” said Nylan after drawing a deep breath, trying not to shake as he forced himself out of the reflex step-up that he hadn’t even realized that he had triggered. He took another deep breath and glanced down at the dead brigand’s young face-another man barely out of youth, looking for all the world almost like the one he had stripped farther up the mountain. Brothers? Or did a lot of dead bearded young men just look alike? He took another slow deep breath, wishing he had something to eat or drink.

  Why all the bandits? Surely, the word was out that it was dangerous to take on the angels up in the mountains?

  “You stopped him. He was going to shoot me, wasn’t he?” asked Istril.

  “Yes.”

  “Frigging right,” added Siret, the deep green eyes cold.

  “How did you know he was here?” asked Istril, adding belatedly, “Ser?”

  “I just sort of felt that someone was here.” Nylan dismounted and eased his blade from the bandit’s chest, then wiped it clean before replacing it in the scabbard that the blade did not really fit. “And I couldn’t reach him. Gerlich was right. We need longer-range weapons.”

  Istril studied him and pointed. “You have your sidearm.”

  Nylan swallowed. “I guess I really didn’t think. So I threw the blade. I hoped it would distract him, anyway.”

  His head throbbed with the lie. He’d hoped to kill the bandit, plain and simple, and instinctively he’d known that he couldn’t have with the slug-thrower. He’d always been a lousy shot. So he added, “I hoped it would kill him, but I wasn’t sure I could do it. Not with a pistol.” With his uttering of the truth, the sharp throbbing in his skull faded into a dull ache. The engineer rubbed his forehead. What was happening to him? Throwing blades on a low-tech planet, getting headaches from lies, forging blades with magic-or the equivalent, knowing that he could kill with a blade and not a sidearm. Was he dreaming? Was he dead?

  He shook his head. The pain, the aches, the constant tension-they all seemed too real for death or dreams.

  “Are you certain you’re all right?” Istril’s eyes continued to survey the forest to their left, then the cliffs to the right.

  “Yes. Mostly.” Nylan bent and went through the brigand’s purse. A few coppers, and three shiny silvers. A thin gold ring. A beat-up knife. He checked the clothing and boots. “Boots worn through and stuffed with some old leather.” He stood and sniffed. “He had to have a mount somewhere.”

  The engineer cast out his senses again, searching not for more brigands, but the horse. “I’m not sure, but I think his mount is tethered back there.”

  “What about more bandits?” asked Istril.

  “We thought we had them all,” said Siret, “and this one popped up.”

  The engineer shook his head. “There aren’t
any. Not alive.”

  “Narliat says you’re a wizard, too-a black one. Do you know what that means?” Istril glanced back toward the trail and then focused on Nylan.

  “No.” Nylan took the reins and began to lead his mount through the trees toward the horse tethered behind a massive pine just past a large boulder sunk in pine needles. “A black wizard? I’ve got enough trouble just being an engineer.”

  Istril ducked and rode after him. After a moment, so did Siret.

  XXXI

  “NOW THAT YOU have reclaimed the grasslands, when will you reclaim the Roof of the World? And your father’s honor?” The gray-haired Lady Ellindyja shifts her not-inconsiderable bulk on the upholstered bench in the alcove. Her fingers dart across the embroidery hoop, the needle shining like a miniature blade that she deftly wields. Sillek stands behind the carved chair with the purple cushion, resting his arms on the back. “The grasslands are reclaimed only so long as Koric and Hissl remain in Clynya. The moment they leave, Ildyrom’s forces will return, in even greater numbers, no doubt. I send armsmen into the Westhorns, and I won’t only lose the grasslands, but half the land between Clynya and Rohrn.”

  “If you cannot reclaim that honor, you must do something to solidify your position. You need an heir, Sillek.” His mother’s voice is flat. “You know you do.”

  “I also need score five more armsmen, control of Rulyarth, and Ildyrom in his grave.”

  “Not to mention regaining control of the Roof of the World.” The needle continues to dart through the white fabric, trailing crimson-red thread.

  “As I have told you, most honored mother, that might be a very bad idea, right now.” Sillek straightens and purses his lips. “A very bad idea.”

  “A bad idea? To reclaim your patrimony? Given all that your father has done for you, Sillek, how could you possibly even think that, let alone say it so soon after his last sacrifice for you?” The glittering needle darts through the fabric like a cavalry blade chasing a fleeing footman.

  Sillek waits until the pace of the needle slows. “I took your advice, dear Mother, and we are already reaping its benefit, and it has cost us little.”

  “Costs? You talk so much of costs.” The needle shimmers, then plunges into the fabric. “Costs are for merchants, or for scoundrel traders.”

  “I am not being clear, I fear.”

  “Clear? I fear you are all too clear. You will give up your patrimony because your enemies are too much for you.”

  “I do not intend to forfeit my patrimony, Mother dear, and your assumption that I would do so speaks poorly for me, and not well for you. I would certainly never wish to relinquish that which my honored sire had gathered for my benefit or the benefit of our people.” Sillek walks toward the alcove.

  “Could you explain your logic to your poor benighted mother, Sillek, Lord of the Realm? How can you retain your patrimony when you refuse to reclaim it? Are you a magician now?” The needle stitches another crimson loop in a droplet of blood that falls from a gray sword.

  Sillek smiles. “From what Terek has told me, and from my other sources, so far the angels on the Roof of the World have destroyed at least three bands of brigands trying to claim my reward-that reward you suggested so wisely. And two of the lesser angels have been killed, and four or five wounded, while close to a score of brigands have been destroyed.” His smile turns into a laugh. “I couldn’t do nearly so well, and I certainly am in no position to lose another score three of trained armsmen.”

  Sillek glances out the window and toward the river. “Next spring… after winter up there-then we’ll see.”

  “I do hope so, Sillek, dear. I do hope so.” The sharp needle stitches in another loop of blood.

  Sillek’s lips tighten, but he does not speak.

  XXXII

  NYLAN OPENED HIS eyes slowly in the gray light that came through the open tower window. Although fall had scarcely arrived, the nights had begun to chill, enough so that the single blanket seemed thin, indeed. Blankets were not used in large numbers on spacecraft, and the few that had been brought down felt less than adequate for the winter ahead. That meant another set of items to be bought from the all-too-infrequent traders. Nylan blinked as he wondered how they could pay for all that they still needed.

  Although the landers had been stripped of what would make the tower more habitable, that had provided little enough. The marines occupied the third level of the tower. Gerlich, Saryn, Ayrlyn, and Narliat occupied part of the fourth level. The fifth was used for miscellaneous storage, and Ryba and Nylan rattled around in a sixth level that had little in it except for the two lander couches lashed together and a few weapons and personal effects.

  Only the shutters on the second and third levels were finished, the results of Saryn’s and Ayrlyn’s handicrafts, and there were no internal doors. Rags had been pieced together to curtain off the two jakes and provide some privacy. Nylan hoped that they could finish the bathhouse and additional jakes facilities before too long-not to mention the shutters.

  As he moved slightly, Ryba’s eyelids fluttered, and she moaned. He waited, but she did not open her eyes. So Nylan slowly shifted his weight more in order to look out through the casement. A trace of white rime frosted the outer edge of the window ledge, but the whiteness seemed to vanish as the first direct rays from the sun touched the dark stone. The hint of wood smoke drifted in the window, blown down from the chimney momentarily.

  Over the crude rack in the corner hung their clothes, including the ship jackets that probably would not be heavy enough for the winter ahead.

  Nylan’s eyes shifted back to Ryba’s face, to the curly jet-black hair cut so short and the pale clear skin, to the thin lips and the high cheekbones. Her eyelids fluttered again, and she groaned.

  “Not yet… not yet,” she murmured.

  Nylan waited, almost holding his breath.

  “No…”

  He reached out and touched the cool bare shoulder. “It’s all right. It’s all right.”

  Ryba shook her head and moistened her lips, but her eyes did not open for a moment. Then she shitted her weight on the lander couch and looked directly at the engineer. “No it’s not. I was dying, and I won’t finish everything that needs to be done for Westwind, or for Dyliess.”

  “It was just a dream…” Nylan paused. “It was a dream, wasn’t it?”

  Ryba shook her head again, and squinted as she sat up. Then she swung her feet off the couch, letting the blanket fall away from her naked figure, until it covered only her waist and upper thighs. Her back to Nylan, she faced the open window, looking out toward the northern peaks that showed a light dusting of snow from the night before. The faintest touch of yellow and brown tinged the bushes and meadow grasses.

  “It wasn’t a dream. It was real. My hair was gray, and I was lying here, except I was in a big wooden bed, and there was glass in the windows, and people in gray leathers were standing around me.” Ryba shivered and then stood, padding to the clothes rack, where she pulled on her undergarments and then the brown leather trousers and an old shirt-both plunder.

  “If your hair had become gray, that had to be a long time from now.” He stood and stretched.

  “Nylan… I wasn’t finished, and it hurt that I didn’t finish.”

  “Ryba,” Nylan offered gently, “no one who really cares about anything is ever finished with life. And you care a lot.” He forced a smile, then began to dress himself.

  Ryba finished with the bone buttons of the trousers and then buttoned the shirt. “You’re probably right, but it was real… too real.”

  “Another one of your senses of what will happen?”

  She nodded. “They come at odd times, but some have already happened.”

  “Oh?” He hadn’t heard that part.

  “Little things, or not so little. I saw your tower almost from the beginning-and I know what the bathhouse will look like.” She sat back on the joined lander couches that served as their bed and pulled on her boots.<
br />
  “Who is Dyliess?”

  “Our daughter. I’m pregnant, and she’ll be born in the spring, just before the passes melt.”

  Nylan’s mouth dropped open. “You… never…”

  “She’ll be a good daughter, and don’t you forget that, Engineer.” Ryba smiled. “I wanted the timing right. You can’t do that much in the winter here, and next summer… we’ll have a lot of problems when people realize we’re here to stay. They think the winter will finish us, but it won’t.”

  “Promise?” he asked.

  “I can promise that, at least so long as you keep building.” She stood in the open doorway at the top of the steps. “I want things to be right for Dyliess, and they will be.”

  “A daughter… you’re sure?”

  “You wanted a son?”

  “I never thought-one way or another.” He shook his head, still at a loss, still amazed.

  “You’ll have a son. I’ll promise that, too.” Her voice turned soft, almost sad.

  “You don’t…”

  “I know what to promise, Nylan. I do.” Her eyes met his, and they were deep and chill, filled with pain. “There’s no time to be melancholy, Engineer.”

  The forced cheer in her voice contradicted her calm and pale face. As they looked at each other, Nylan could hear the hum of voices from below, and the smell of something cooking, although he wasn’t sure he was in any hurry to find out what Kyseen had improvised for breakfast.

  “We do our best, Nylan, in spite of what may be.”

  “May be or will be? Can these visions of yours be changed?” Nylan sat down on the couch-bed and reached for his shipboots, his eyes still on her.

  Ryba shrugged. “Maybe I only see what can’t be changed. Maybe it can be. I don’t know, because this is something new.”

  “All of this is something new.” Nylan pulled on his ship-boots, getting so worn that he could feel stones through them.

  “You need new boots. You ought to check the spares. We’ve only got about twenty pair left over.”