Fall of Angels

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  “We’re hungry now.”

  “Shut up, Denalle,” added Rienadre. “Someone’s got to think ahead. You think there’s a food market over the next hill? Or a seed store?”

  “Stuff it! I’m tired of your superiority. I’m tired of you, and I’m tired of this whole planet. I just want out. Out! Do you hear me?”

  “I think the whole Roof of the World hears you,” added Nylan before the healer could speak. “The marshal will let you leave anytime. The only question is whether you want to be beaten, raped, killed, or just be a paid slut once you reach a town.” He shrugged. “Who knows? You might find some peasant nice enough to feed you, shelter you, and give you a dozen kids.”

  Denalle glared at the engineer. Nylan met her eyes evenly.

  Then she looked down. “I hate this place.”

  “I don’t think any of us would have chosen it,” Nylan said quietly. “We just have to make the best of it. You have any ideas to make it better, let someone know. We are listening.” He started toward the cart, then stopped and asked Ayrlyn, “You don’t mind if I use the cart around here? I’m going to cart stones.”

  “Stones?” asked Ayrlyn.

  “I’m going to build a stone culvert and crude bridge where the outfalls cut through the road. Unless I fix that, it will just get worse. Then, as I can, I’ll be using stones to pave the road from the causeway to the bridge, and then up the ridge. Someday, we won’t have to worry about the mud, then.”

  “I thought you were going to work on a forge.”

  “I’ll probably do both. I can’t use the forge until I make charcoal. I’d need help with the logs, and that’ll have to wait until after planting.”

  “That’s a lot of stones,” said Ayrlyn. “You can have the cart. It’s not as though we couldn’t come and get it almost immediately.”

  Nylan grinned and walked toward the stables.

  “Use the gray,” Ayrlyn called. “She’s used to the cart.”

  By the time the engineer had the gray harnessed and the cart ready, the planting detail had left.

  He had tucked his blade and scabbard in the narrow space beside the seat, so he could get it quickly-Ryba had insisted he have it near-and flicked the worn leather leads. “Come on, old lady.”

  His eyes went to the blade. With the practice that Ryba had also insisted upon, he was improving, but he still wasn’t comfortable with the blade, even as he found that he could now usually keep from getting spitted-or the equivalent with the wooden practice blades-and could actually strike most of the other guards at will, except for Ryba and Saryn. He could also run through the exercises with his own blades-finally-without danger of taking off an ear or other limbs.

  He flicked the leads once more, and the gray tossed her head vigorously but followed him through the mud toward the outcroppings farther up the gorge from the stable.

  Rough stones there were, more than enough, and Nylan slowly filled the cart until it seemed to sag over the wheels. By then his back felt as if it were sagging as well.

  “Hard labor-they never told me about this in engineer’s school,” he mumbled to the gray.

  The mare didn’t answer, but chewed the few green shoots she could reach from where Nylan had tethered her. She kept chewing as he untethered her and slowly led her and the creaking wagon down past the stables, past the smithy site, past the tower and causeway to the gaping hole in the muddy patch that passed for a road.

  Then he began to unload the stones, one after the other, stacking each where he thought it would be closest to where it would be needed. After the wagon was empty, he flicked the reins, half dragging the mare from cropping the white flowers and the tender leaves beneath, and headed back uphill.

  “Nice day, ser,” called Hryessa from the causeway, where she had taken off her boots and was knocking the mud from them against the stones of the causeway wall.

  Behind her, in the low-walled practice area, Llyselle and Siret sparred with wands, their mounts standing by, since Ryba had decreed that at least two outriders were to be ready at all times.

  “It is, at last.” He waved to Hryessa and kept leading the mare uphill.

  For the second load, Nylan concentrated on finding larger chunks of stone, the kind he could use.to frame a large culvert. Two long green trunks might help. Ideally, stone alone would last, but he couldn’t always afford to do the ideal.

  After he finished loading the cart, he stretched and tried to massage his back. The planting detail was still struggling with mud and seeds when he returned to the road and began stacking the stones from his second load.

  He glanced to the tower as the triangle sounded once. Almost before its echoes died away, Siret and Llyselle galloped up the hill. The guards in the planting group laid aside shovels, hoes, and warrens, and reclaimed bows and blades.

  Nylan continued to unload stones until he heard hoofbeats on the trail down from the ridge. Then he dropped the last stone and strapped his scabbard in place. Only the two Westwind mounts returned, but Llyselle and Siret each carried another rider.

  As the two slowed and picked their way around the gap in the road, and the gray and the cart, Nylan studied the newcomers-both women, one brown-haired, one black. Then he walked toward the causeway.

  The silver-haired guards set the two women on the stones at the end of the causeway. Both staggered as their feet hit the hard rock.

  Nylan arrived after the armed and curious guards of the planting detail.

  The black-haired woman, thin-faced, glanced at Nylan, then at Siret, then at Llyselle, and back at Nylan.

  The engineer glanced around. Ryba was still in the tower. Saryn was out Hunting, although Nylan suspected she was as much keeping an eye on Gerlich as hunting. Ayrlyn had been supervising the crop planting and stood at the back of the now-armed planting group.

  “I think they’re asking for shelter, ser,” said Llyselle, “but I still have problems with the local tongue.”

  “I don’t trust the dark one,” added Siret.

  Nylan turned his perceptions on the black-haired woman, wincing as he did. An aura of white chaos, laced with red, surrounded her.

  “See what I mean, ser?”

  Nylan grinned at Siret. “Your night vision is a Jot better than it used to be, isn’t it?”

  She looked down.

  “Don’t worry.” He glanced at Llyselle. “Yours is too, isn’t it?”

  Llyselle looked bewildered. “I thought most everyone’s was. So I didn’t say anything. Besides, I hate night duty.”

  Ayrlyn made her way around the half-dozen guards who had been planting and stepped up beside Nylan. He realized that, in their muddy and tattered work garb, none of them looked terribly prepossessing.

  Ryba stepped out of the tower doorway, dressed in clean leathers, both blades at her waist. Just inside the door, Nylan could make out Ellysia, Dyliess in one arm, Dephnay in the other. The marshal surveyed the group, her eyes halting on the two women.

  Both would-be refugees prostrated themselves. “Refuge, Angel of Darkness.”

  “You can get up,” she said wryly in Old Anglorat. “I’m the marshal of Westwind, not an angel of darkness.” She turned to Nylan and asked, “Have you talked with them?”

  “No. The brunette seems all right. The black-haired one is trouble, filled with chaos.”

  “Chaos?”

  “The white stuff that means no good. It’s like an aura.” Nylan glanced around. “She’s like a white wizard.”

  Ryba winced, then turned to Ayrlyn. “You’re the healer. What do you think?”

  “I’d go with the engineer’s assessment.”

  Ryba looked at the black-haired woman. “You still carry the evils of men, and of chaos. We will not harm you. We will not receive you. We will give you food and let you make your own way.” The black-haired woman swayed, and put a hand out to hold the causeway wall.

  “She’s acting,” snapped Ayrlyn.

  “Faker,” added Siret in a low voice.
<
br />   Nylan nodded in agreement.

  “You’re sure?” Ryba asked Ayrlyn.

  “Yes.”

  “You are bid to leave,” ordered Ryba. “Now. Walk up to the-”

  The dark-haired woman turned. Something glinted in her hand, and she jumped toward the healer.

  Siret’s blade flashed down, almost in reflex, cutting across the dark-haired woman’s shoulder and into her chest. Blood splashed, striking the stones of the causeway almost as fast as the corpse from which it came.

  Nylan staggered at the wave of whiteness coming from the death. His skull felt as if it might split for an instant, before the sensation subsided to a dull aching.

  Ayrlyn eased back and quietly retched into the depression behind the causeway.

  The brown-haired woman flattened herself on the stones. “Spare me!”

  Denalle stepped forward and kicked back me dead woman’s hand. Under it was a dagger with a jagged blade.

  “Nice,” said Ryba dryly. “What about the other?” Her eyes went to the groveling brunette.

  “No chaos. We can’t tell intent,” Nylan said, his eyes darting toward Ayrlyn, who had finally straightened up. Their eyes crossed, sharing the knowledge and the chaotic feeling of death.

  “Ayrlyn? Would you and one of the guards-and the mage”-her eyes focused on Nylan-“talk with the other one? If she seems all right, have Hryessa and Istril get her set up. If not, feed her, and send her on her way with some food, not a lot.”

  Nylan glanced at the marshal, as if to ask if she had any visions.

  “Not this time. They’re not always reliable.”

  Although Rienadre looked puzzled at the exchange, she said nothing. Ayrlyn nodded almost imperceptibly.

  “We’ve all got work to do. Let’s get on with it.” Ryba turned and went back into the tower.

  “You may rise, woman,” Nylan said in Old Anglorat.

  The brunette looked up, her eyes going to Siret, who remained mounted, cleaning the black blade on a scrap of cloth, then to the closed tower door.

  Ayrlyn glanced at Denalle. “Would you and Rienadre bury… don’t make a big deal of it, out by the bandits, deep enough…”

  “We’ll take care of it, healer,” answered Rienadre.

  Denalle glanced at Nylan and nodded.

  “The rest of you can get back to planting. I’ll be there before too long,” said Ayrlyn. “Siret and Llyselle, and the mage, are enough guard for one woman.”

  Denalle slipped the jagged blade into her belt before she and Rienadre lugged off the body.

  The brunette had gathered herself into a sitting position on the stones as the majority of the guards left. The entire left side of her face was yellow and green from a recent series of bruises.

  “Who are you?” began Ayrlyn.

  “Blynnal… I’m from Rohrn… I… we heard… there was a place…” Tears began to stream down her cheeks. “But… women… don’t… kill…”

  “Why not?” asked Ayrlyn. “Men do. Women have strong arms, too.”

  “But…”

  “Child…” said Ayrlyn softly. “If we are attacked, we defend ourselves. Is that wrong?”

  “Jrenya, she was strong. She said no man would ever force her, and you killed her.”

  “Why did you and Jrenya come here?” asked Nylan.

  Blynnal’s eyes dropped to the stones, to the patch of blood that marked where Jrenya had fallen.

  Ayrlyn and Nylan waited. So did Siret and Llyselle. Llyselle’s mount whuffed, and the guard patted its neck.

  “Dyemeni, he was my consort, he beat me after Kyel died… he kept beating me…” More tears rolled down Blynnal’s face. “Jrenya said it was wrong. She said we needed to do something. When… the snows melted… Dyemeni, he took out his big leather belt… he did… things…”

  “What about Jrenya?” asked Nylan, ignoring the faint glare from Ayrlyn. “Why did she come with you?”

  “She… she said, Nortya was mean…”

  “Did Nortya beat her?” asked Nylan. “Did Jrenya have bruises like yours?”

  “No… but… he was mean.”

  “How was he mean?” pressed Nylan. “Did you see him hurt her?”

  “No… but she hated him… she said… her father made her join him… because he was the factor’s only son.”

  “So… you left Rohrn because your consort beat you?”

  Blynnal nodded.

  “Did Jrenya kill Dyemeni?” asked Nylan.

  Ayrlyn’s eyes widened, as did Siret’s.

  Blynnal looked down at the stones.

  “Did she?”

  “I… don’t know… She stabbed him, and we ran. We meant to leave anyway, but he came home early, and he saw the packs, and he hit me. He didn’t see her.”

  “What about her consort?”

  Again the brunette looked down at the stones.

  “She killed him, too, I suppose?”

  The faintest of nods answered Nylan.

  He looked at Ayrlyn. “I don’t know. She’s weak-probably because everyone beat her up. She doesn’t seem evil or chaotic… but two murders?”

  “The dead one did both,” pointed out Siret.

  “I… was glad…” admitted Blynnal. “Dyemeni… hurt me… so much…”

  “Honesty helps,” Nylan offered.

  The brunette sat on the dust and mud of the causeway stones in her tattered trousers and tunic.

  Ayrlyn glanced from the green and purple side of Blynnal’s face to the two mounted guards. “What do you two think? She’ll be sharing your quarters.”

  “Her problem seems to be men, and we sure don’t have too many around here, especially since the weasel left,” said Llyselle.

  “The weasel?” Nylan said inadvertently.

  “Narliat.”

  Ayrlyn looked at Siret.

  “I’d say to give her a chance. First mistake, and she’s gone.”

  The healer looked to Nylan.

  “That’s my reaction… but I’m a man.”

  As the conversation proceeded, Blynnal had turned from one face to the next, eyes puzzled, almost like a trapped hare.

  “I think we agree,” said Ayrlyn, “and none of us are exactly happy about it.” She turned to Blynnal and switched to Old Anglorat. “We are not happy with how you came…”

  Tears oozed from the local woman’s eyes.

  “… but… you will have a chance to prove yourself.”

  Blynnal threw her arms around Ayrlyn’s legs. “Thank you, great lady. Thank you! I will be good. I will cook. I will scrub, but do not send me away.”

  “You may cook or scrub-we all do. Even the mage digs and lifts rocks. But once you prove yourself, we will also teach you the blade.”

  Blynnal’s eyes widened. “I had not thought…”

  “You will learn when to use it-and when not to. Both are important.” Ayrlyn glanced at Nylan. “I just hope…”

  “So do I.”

  “She’ll be all right,” said Siret softly. “She’s just a scared little rabbit who got with the wrong people. That other one, though…”

  “Very bad person.” Llyselle shook her head. “Very bad.”

  “Anything else?” asked the healer, looking toward the tower.

  “Before you go… I had a question,” said Nylan. “Could I get two green trunks, around a half cubit thick, for the bridge?”

  Ayrlyn looked over his shoulder at the stones stacked around the gorge through the road. “I’ll talk to you about that after I get Blynnal organized with Istril. But I think we can manage that-if it doesn’t rain.” She gave Nylan a brief smile and touched Blynnal on the shoulder. “You need to wash, and to have your hair cut and to get clean garments…”

  As Ayrlyn and her charge left, Llyselle looked to the sky. “It won’t rain. I can tell.”

  Nylan wondered what else the silver-haired guard could tell. He looked back at the cart and the stones. Then he took a deep breath and started back toward the unbuilt bridge,
trying to ignore the thoughts of the unbuilt smithy.

  LXXVIII

  THRAP!

  Hissl glances up from the table to the half-open door to the outside landing, half-open to allow in the spring breeze.

  “Yes?”

  “I seek the great wizard Hissl,” comes the voice from beyond the door.

  Hissl rises and picks up the white bronze dagger from the table as he steps toward the door. “And why might you seek him?”

  The door swings open, but the hooded figure standing there does not enter the room.

  “I’m not exactly interested in cutthroats sneaking around with their faces hidden.” Hissl’s tone is faintly ironic.

  “I am not a cutthroat, and I offer you the key to your wishes, honored Wizard,” begins the hooded figure.

  “My wishes? How would you presume to know my wishes?” asks Hissl.

  “An unnamed brethren of yours presumes, not I.” The hooded figure extends an object… very slowly.

  Hissl reaches, then draws back his hand. “Iron! That is no token of friendship!” His fingers tighten around the dagger.

  “Look again, I was told to tell you.”

  Hissl’s eyes narrow, but he studies the object on the other’s palm. “Chaos, bound in iron, and yet, the chaos binds the iron. How can that be?”

  The hooded man steps forward and sets the object on the white oak table. “I will leave that for you, and for you to consider.” He turns and walks down the narrow steps from the upper room.

  Behind him, Hissl studies the iron and the chaos which surrounds it. “But how? How?”

  He finally glances out into the afternoon, but the hooded figure has vanished into the streets of Clynya, and the spring wind bears no hint of the stranger or his origin.

  LXXIX

  THIS TIME, AT the low cries, and the sense of pain, Nylan had not waited, but followed Ayrlyn up to the third level, and to Istril.

  “It’ll be all right,” insisted the silver-haired guard. “It will be. I know.” Her breathing increased, and lines of pain creased her face. “But I feel better with both of you here.”