Fall of Angels

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  “Stupid… they were stupid…” muttered Berlis.

  Nylan looked from Ryba to the two refugees, and then to the bodies on the cart. While he understood Ryba’s logic, he couldn’t say he was pleased with the speed with which it was made and the dispatch with which it was executed. Literally executed, he reflected sardonically.

  He turned toward the gray mare, wondering again. Ryba anticipated trouble, and in any “civilized” world, that would be called murder. Yet… was preventing abuse and death through death exactly wrong? He shook his head. The problem was that you couldn’t always be sure that a killing before the fact was justified, visions or no visions.

  He untied the leather leads to the cart horse and flicked them. The wheels creaakked as he resumed the long climb up to the ridge, the tower, and the smithy site.

  LXXXIII

  AT THE THRAP on the door, Hissl turns from the window. The knocking continues when he does not move.

  “Just a moment.” The wizard composes himself and steps forward, his fingers on the hilt of the white-bronze dagger at his belt.

  A hooded figure stands at the outside door to Hissl’s room and bows. “Have you thought about the keys to your wishes?”

  “The keys to my wishes? How would you presume?”

  “You are tired of being thought of as the second wizard, as a tool to be used and left aside. You would like position and power in your own right.” The hooded figure remains on the landing.

  “Stay there.” Hissl takes two steps back, still watching his visitor, then circles behind the table with the glass. He looks from the hooded figure to the glass, then concentrates.

  Slowly, a shape appears in the swirling mists, the figure of an armsman in brown leathers with a purple sash across the thin breastplate. Behind the figure is a black stone tower.

  Hissl does not wipe his sweating brow as he releases his hold upon the glass.

  “You are an armsman, but you come from the black tower of the devil angels. I could kill you.” He pauses. “I should kill you.”

  The armsman takes one step into the room and stops. He extends his right hand, missing the index finger and thumb, but does not throw back the hood, for all that his features had just appeared in the screeing glass. “The angels took those from me. I cannot return to Lornth or my family. I offer you the chance for power and position.”

  “How can you offer me power and position? You have nothing.” Hissl laughs. “And you have returned to the lands of Lornth, if not Lornth itself.”

  “My… patron would like to see Westwind fall.”

  “Westwind?”

  “That is what the evil angels call their tower and the lands they stole from the Lord of Lornth.”

  “If your patron is so powerful, why does he not take this… Westwind himself?”

  The armsman shrugs. “Lord Nessil could not, not with threescore armsmen. You and the great hunter could, knowing what he knows and what you know, and what I know.”

  “And what is that?”

  “He will have to tell you that.”

  “I am supposed to take that on faith? Ha!” Hissl laughs again.

  “Here is another token.” Slowly, the armsman extends an object, bending forward and setting it on the table beside the glass.

  Hissl looks at the thunder-thrower, smaller than he had realized. “Why would I need that?”

  “So you will not take the hunter on faith.”

  Hissl licks his lips as he regards the metal object that radiates both chaos and order. Finally, he says, “What does the hunter want?”

  “To meet with you. To plan the conquest of Westwind.”

  “Ha! Young Relyn of Gethen had nearly twoscore armsmen, and he failed. So did Lord Nessil. You, your hunter, and I are supposed to succeed when they did not?”

  “I was bid to tell you that more than a third of the angels who faced Lord Nessil are dead. Four are with child or have a babe, and only one thunder-thrower still works. Many of the angels are unhappy with the highest angel, and the black mage has lost much of his magic.”

  Hissl shrugs. “If your… patron is so eager to see me… why, have him come to Clynya.”

  The hooded figure nods. “He said you would bid me so. Before long, he will come.”

  “I would like to see him.” Hissl forces a smile. “That I would.”

  LXXXIV

  “I’LL TAKE HER.” In the darkness, Nylan slipped out of his side of the bed, his former lander couch, and picked up Dyliess. “She can’t be hungry. You just fed the little pig.”

  He checked her makeshift diaper-too much remained makeshift within Tower Black-but she was dry. Nylan eased into the rocking chair. “Now… now… little one…”

  Despite his gentle singing, Dyliess’s moans changed into a full-fledged crying.

  Ryba sat up. “I’m tired, but not enough to sleep through that.”

  The engineer kept rocking, kept singing. Ryba flopped back on one side and rubbed her forehead. Outside the tower, the night wind whispered, its gentle hissing lost behind the cries and songs in the tower.

  Dyliess continued to cry for a time. Then her cries dropped off to moans, and the moans to sniffles. Finally, she gave a last snuffle. Nylan continued to rock, and the wind whispered through the cracks in the shutters.

  “I can’t sleep, now,” said Ryba, just above a whisper. “And I have a headache.”

  Nylan refrained from saying that he had several, and instead patted Dyliess on the back and stood, walking back and forth between the partly open armaglass window and the cradle. Finally sensing she was asleep, he eased Dyliess into the cradle, then immediately knelt and patted her back with one hand while rocking the cradle with the other.

  Dyliess took three noisy breaths and settled back to sleep, but Nylan eased off the rocking slowly. After a time, he stopped and returned to his side of the bed, where he sat on the edge, eyes closed, and rubbed his temples with the fingers of his right hand.

  “We haven’t talked about children,” Ryba said quietly into the darkness.

  “What about them?”

  “You never answered my question. You’re being difficult.”

  “Probably.”

  “Do you want everything we represent lost?”

  Nylan took a deep breath. “I don’t know. It seems as though, so long as I build towers, and bridges, and bathhouses, and smithies, everything is fine, but when I say… oh… never mind… I can’t explain how I feel.”

  “You haven’t tried,” said Ryba in a reasonable tone.

  “You have everything figured out. If we don’t kill these two men, dozens will arrive, and we’ll have to kill them, too, or be killed. If we don’t use the two men as studs, we might have our gene pool contaminated too soon…”

  “Aren’t you being harsh?”

  “You’ve said or done all those.” Nylan’s shoulders slumped in the darkness, and his eyes dropped to the cradle. Would Dyliess be as coldly reasonable as her mother?

  “We landed with twenty-seven women. No sooner had we landed than a local lord showed up wanting to turn us all into serfs or concubines, or worse, and probably to slaughter all three of you men. Since then, we have made not one aggressive gesture toward the locals. We have not raided; we have not stolen. All we have done is build a place to live where they can’t and try to survive. The locals are still trying to kill us or cheat us… or both. The local women, some of them at least, are risking death to find refuge here. Maybe all this local male behavior is mere lousy socialization. Maybe it’s not. Do you want me to gamble after everything that’s happened? Do you really want Gerlich’s genes to dominate Westwind?”

  Nylan rubbed his temples again. Finally, he said, “The killing hurts. Even when I don’t do it, it hurts.”

  “You think I like it?”

  “I know you don’t,” Nylan said. “I’m telling you something different. It’s part of this net, or whatever it is, but when someone’s killed, a wave of whiteness, like mental acid or somethi
ng, washes through me.”

  “Ayrlyn told me the same thing happens to her.” Ryba paused. “You both have that ability to help healing. They’re probably tied together.”

  “I wouldn’t be surprised.”

  “We still haven’t dealt with the children problem. Do you want me to risk-”

  Nylan raised a hand to wave off the question, but realized that Ryba couldn’t see the gesture. “You’ve been right about most things, but… and this sounds like a woman… I still feel violated.”

  “I’ve noticed that. You stay on your side of the couches. Are you… do you need time?”

  Nylan took a slow deep breath, wondering if time would ever heal anything. “I don’t know that time would heal things.” He paused. “Do you want me to move my stuff elsewhere?”

  “No.” Ryba’s voice was cool.

  “What do you want?”

  “I want you to think about things. We can move the couches apart, if that will help.”

  Nylan puzzled at Ryba’s tone, wondering about the wrongness again. “More visions?”

  “You could say that.”

  Nylan could sense the sadness and reserve in the tired voice, and the anger. “I’m sorry.”

  “So am I, but being sorry doesn’t solve things.”

  He eased his body next to hers, putting his arms around her shoulders.

  She pushed him away. “I don’t need your comfort.”

  “Ryba…” He put his arms back around her. Who else could hold her, and who else besides Ryba was strong enough to bring them through? His eyes burned, even as his own anger seethed, but he whispered, “Even marshals need to be held.”

  “I don’t need you… I don’t need anyone.”

  In the end, he looked into the darkness, while Ryba, the marshal, the farsighted, sobbed silently, again, with her face away from him.

  Dyliess slept, and the wind hissed through the window.

  LXXXV

  THE WATCH TRIANGLE rang once, well before mid-morning, and Nylan ignored the summons to the tower, continuing to lay brick, although he hoped that it signaled Ayrlyn’s return, and that she’d been able to find saw blades.

  The back wall was complete, and the side walls were thigh-high. Where the front wall would be, the space for the double doors was framed in brick-but only knee-high- and he needed to leave spaces for two windows.

  By the time he finished using the last of the mortar, Ayrlyn and the cart were headed down from the ridge. Nylan squinted. There were two people on the cart seat, and two in the cart, and five on horseback. A stranger accompanied the four guards who had gone with the healer on her trading run.

  The engineer wiped his forehead with the back of his hand, then looked down at the empty mortar tub. Beside it were the baskets of crushed lava, clay, and what passed for lime. He set the trowel down and started downhill.

  Four strange women stood by the causeway with the healer, three shifting their weight nervously from one foot to the other, while the shorter dark-haired woman on one end gentled her mount.

  Ayrlyn was supervising the unloading. “The barrels of flour and meal go down to the big shelves in the corner off the kitchen.”

  With that, Weindre carted off a large barrel.

  “The saw blade is for Nylan, but put it up on the fifth level. We haven’t built a sawmill yet.”

  Murkassa laughed at the comment as Ayrlyn handed the blade to Berlis.

  “He says he will-then he will.” Ayrlyn turned. “Speak of the demon.”

  “I see you got the saw blade.”

  “Just one, and it was nearly a gold itself, and I had to promise that it was going up on the Westhorns. That was an easy promise.”

  “I see you brought some recruits. We picked up one-with a daughter.”

  “Word is getting around.” Ayrlyn gestured toward the tower. “Selitra went to find Ryba.”

  “I suppose you took them all.” Gerlich stepped up beside Ayrlyn.

  “Hardly. I must have been approached by a dozen women. I settled on these four.”

  “Only four. Imagine that.”

  “Don’t push it, Gerlich,” Nylan said quietly. “I haven’t seen too much game lately, and you don’t offer much besides that.”

  “Game is scarce.” Gerlich eased away to the other side of the cart, frankly appraising the three women. Relyn stood beside Cessya, an ironic smile on his face, his semihook resting on his belt.

  Nylan still had to make and deliver the clamp for the one-armed man-another area where he’d fallen short, but he didn’t have the smithy working.

  With the sound of hoofs on the short stretch of pavement heading up toward the stables, the engineer turned. Ryba sat easily on the roan, though Nylan knew riding was slightly painful, but not so painful as their uneasy peace, a peace held together by separated couches, necessity… and Dyliess.

  All four women turned to Ryba as well, the tallest shivering enough that her discomfiture was obvious to all the guards gathered round.

  Ryba reined up, but did not dismount. “So you wish to join the guard of Westwind?”

  “If it pleases you, Angel,” answered the dark-haired woman, the shortest of the group.

  “That’s Ydrall,” whispered Ayrlyn. “She even had her family’s permission, and brought a few things we could use-needles, a few silvers… and some dried fruit from their trees-pearapples, they’re called. She rides well and can use a blade.”

  “I’m no angel. I’m the marshal of Westwind. If you choose to remain here, you will have to fight for it. It appears half the men in Candar would wish to beat you down and to tear down our tower stone by stone. Are you willing to fight them, even if they are cousins?” Ryba’s voice was hard. “If one is your sister’s consort?” Ryba straightened in the saddle. “If you are that determined, you may share what we have, and we will teach you the way of the blade and bow.”

  The four nodded, and several quietly said, “Yes.”

  Ryba’s eyes turned to Gerlich for a moment, then passed to Fierral. “Will you make the arrangements, guard leader?”

  “Yes, Marshal.” Fierral turned to the four. “Bring your gear, your things, with me, and we’ll find you space on the third level…”

  As Ryba turned her mount back up toward the stables, and as the four left following Fierral, Nylan remarked, “Too many more, and we’ll have to start making bunks and mattresses or pallets.”

  “We’d better start now,” answered the healer. “I’ve avoided any large towns, places where there would be armsmen, but everywhere I’ve been, there are women ready to leave. There aren’t too many in any one place, but…”

  “I’m glad you avoided the armsmen. It has to be getting more dangerous.” Nylan added quickly, “What do we make mattresses from?”

  “I tried not to be too obvious… and thank you for saying that you care.” Ayrlyn smiled as Nylan swallowed, then said, “Grasses might do for mattress filling, if they’re dried well and thoroughly debugged, but we don’t have that much cloth to cover them, or sew them.”

  “I wouldn’t sew them all the way,” suggested Nylan. “Leave an end open so it could be folded shut. That way-”

  “That makes sense. We could tuck dried flowers in there. They might help.” Ayrlyn glanced at Cessya. “We need to finish unloading the cart.”

  Nylan shifted his weight from one sore foot to the other. “I’ve got more brickwork to do, and I need to raid a lander lock. Maybe I’ll do that first.”

  “A lander lock?” asked Ayrlyn.

  “Something I promised for Relyn.”

  “That’s something I like about you, Nylan, another thing,” Ayrlyn said before turning to Cessya. “You keep your promises.”

  A small face peered out the window from the great room, and Nylan waved to Niera. Was she helping with the infants? Or just keeping their mothers company or running errands?

  Niera gave the smallest of waves, then ducked back from the window. Nylan crossed the causeway and headed inside.
r />   After reclaiming a tool kit from the fifth level of the tower, Nylan trudged uphill to the lander used for grass storage. “I promised him eight-days ago, longer.” He shook his head.

  The lander door was ajar, as always, since the lock mechanism had been disconnected and the lock plates removed, and most of the guards didn’t bother using the sliding bolt that had replaced the automated system.

  After removing three access plates, and sneezing intermittently the whole time from the hay and grass dust that rose every time he moved his boots, he found something that might work-more like an inside lock-plate shim with large screw holes at each end. If he could bend a control arm. That meant removing another access plate and disconnecting the other end of the rod.

  Nylan was sweating, his tattered work shirt soaked through, by the time he had all the miscellaneous parts he needed-or thought he needed. But he smiled as he carried them, and the tools, back to the smithy where Cessya greeted him.

  “Now that we stowed the trading goods, the healer said I’m supposed to make myself useful, ser,” she announced, “and I’ve got no interest in pulling weeds or sawing timbers. What, do you need?”

  “More mortar.” Nylan grinned. “Are you sure you want to make yourself useful here?”

  “Grinding that lava rock for mortar is better than grubbing through the mud or having that fir sap fall all over you. The rock dust washes off. Besides, what you do lasts, and I can say that I helped do it.”

  “Well… I appreciate that honesty. We’ll all learn, you and Huldran and I, how to build and operate a smithy.”

  “Sounds good. I’ll be back in a bit. I need to get those mallets and a bucket of water.” Cessya inclined her head and was gone.

  Nylan set the tools and parts in the corner. Because he needed some of the cruder and heavier tools in the lower level of the tower, he’d start work on Relyn’s knife-holder-grip after the midday meal, hoping he wouldn’t need to actually forge it, but just bend metal.

  He looked around the unfinished smithy. With Cessya’s help, it might not be that long before they had the building and the forge done. The charcoal was another story, and trying to forge metal was going to be a disaster.