Fall of Angels

CX

“FRIED RODENT, AGAIN,” muttered Huldran from beside Nylan. “Demon-damned stuff to put in your guts before smithing.”

“The rodents serve two saving purposes,” answered Ayrlyn with a smile. “Serving them saves other food for the winter, and killing them keeps them from eating the crops. They like the beans and, for some reason, they want to dig up the potatoes. So they also serve who are served.”

Nylan hastily washed down a mouthful of fried rodent meat. “That’s a terrible pun.” He followed his comment with a mouthful of cold bread.

“Oooo,” commented Dyliess from the carrypack Ryba wore.

“That’s fine, dear,” said Ryba, “but you’re not the one who has to eat it.” Her eyes flicked toward the doorway, again.

Ryba seemed on edge all the time, Nylan reflected, but especially in the morning, as the days had dragged out since Istril had discovered what seemed to be Gerlich’s back route to the Roof of the World.

“How soon, do you think?” he asked.

Ayrlyn rubbed her forehead, and Nylan smiled faintly. Thinking about a battle and all those who would need healing would certainly give any healer a headache-at least, he thought it would.

The sound of hoofbeats on the paved section of the road from the smithy to the tower rat-a-tatted in through the open windows to the great room. Ryba stood, unstrapping the carrypack, even before Liethya burst into the room. The young guard glanced toward the marshal and then to Fierral, as if uncertain as to whom she should report.

“I presume the traitor has returned,” Ryba said, her voice hard as she eased Dyliess, still in the carrypack, to Nylan.

“There are armsmen on the trail, ser.” Liethya’s voice trembled slightly.

Fierral stood. So did Saryn.

Saryn motioned. “Stable detail. Let’s go.” She left the room almost at a run, followed by Hryessa, Jaseen, and Selitra.

Fierral added, “The rest of you to the stables-with full weapons.”

All the guards at the tables, except for Istril, boiled off the benches and toward the end of the great room, some hurrying up the stone steps, presumably for weapons and gear, others straight out the main door.

Ryba touched Nylan on the shoulder. He turned, the carrypack unfastened, Dyliess in it and looking wide-eyed at him.

“Blynnal and Niera will take care of the children. Relyn, Siret, and Istril will hold the tower, if necessary. Join us as soon as you can,” Ryba whispered to Nylan as he took their daughter. Then she was hurrying for the door as well, picking up her bow and a full quiver from the shelves by the stairs.

“Off to the slaughter,” announced Ayrlyn. “Sometimes, I wonder if it will ever stop.”

“Not until they destroy us or it’s clear we’re strong enough to destroy them.” Nylan shifted Dyliess into a more comfortable position to carry her.

“Demon-hell of a world,” said Ayrlyn with a laugh. She gulped down the last of her cool tea and added, “Just like every other world.”

“You’re so cheerful.”

“Cynically realistic, Nylan. I’d like to change things, but I haven’t figured out how.”

“That makes two of us. I’d better stop talking, though, and start moving.” Carrying Dyliess in his arms, not bothering to strap the carrypack in place, Nylan half walked, half ran up to the fifth level, breathing heavily by the time he stopped in front of the space where he kept his weapons.

Dyliess whimpered, jolted by his running, and he patted her back and laid her on the floor momentarily as he pulled out the second blade-one of the newer iron ones-and strapped it in place. That way, as Ryba had suggested, he could throw one, if he needed to, and still defend himself. Privately, he wondered if he’d be in any shape to defend himself if the first blade were accurate. Then, he could miss, and without the second blade, he’d be dead meat.

He picked up Dyliess and patted her again and again, before starting down to the third level, where Blynnal and Niera were rearranging cradles. Dephnay and Kyalynn were in two of them, and Niera held Weryl. The girl handed Weryl to Blynnal, who eased the squirming boy into an empty cradle.

“Blynnal?”

“Ser?”

“Here’s Dyliess. I need to go.” Nylan brushed his daughter’s forehead with his lips.

“We’ll keep her safe.” The dark-haired guard and cook took Dyliess, carrypack and all. “Now, you take care, Ser Mage.”

“I’ll try.” Nylan took a last look at the children, trying notto shake his head at the thought that three of the four were his.

He headed down the stairs, then stopped as he saw Siret laying out quivers by the first window to the right of the south door.

“Do you have plenty of arrows?” he asked.

“Two quivers.”

“If any of them even look like they’re getting close, pick them off.” Nylan paused and pointed to the timbers behind the heavy plank door. “As soon as the last guard leaves, drop those in place. Don’t wait. And barricade the north door, too.”

“I will, Father Brood Hen.” Siret gave him a crooked grin. “I’ll even close all the tower shutters and windows except the ones that Istril and I are using to shoot from. She’s up on the fourth level. That way we have two different angles.”

“See that you keep them closed,” Nylan said with mock gruffness. He turned to go.

“Ser?”

Nylan turned back to meet the deep green eyes.

“I’m glad you took a moment. I’ll tell Istril.”

A dull thump echoed through the lower level, followed by a second thump, and then a third. They both looked toward the north side of the tower.

Relyn strolled forward from the north door. “The north door’s barricaded. So is the outside door to the bathhouse, but they could break through that pretty quickly.” He slipped on the clamp and the knife over his hook, then the wooden sheath. “I hope I don’t have to use these.”

So did Nylan.

“I’d better go.” The engineer-smith nodded to both, and slipped out the south door, hurrying uphill.

In the east, the sun hung just above the great forest beyond the drop-off, and tendrils of mist cloaked the taller distant firs. Nylan turned uphill. To the west, the morning mist was still rising off the hills.

As he half walked, half ran up the road, Nylan realized one other thing. The warning triangle had never rung. Then,he nodded. Gerlich knew what the triangle meant.

By the time he reached the stable, almost all the guards were mounted, and the three who had left the tower’s great room with Saryn were riding farther up the canyon behind the former second pilot.

Llyselle held the reins of the brown mare for Nylan. “We thought you’d need this, ser.”

Nylan, still breathing heavily, shook his head. His slowness in saddling his mounts was unfortunately all too well known.

“Follow your squad leaders!” ordered Ryba.

Nylan swung himself up into the saddle, the scabbard on his right side banging against the side of his leg as he thrust it across the saddle.

“Squad one!” Fierral raised her blade.

Across the grim-faced riders, Nylan caught Ayrlyn’s eyes and pantomimed the question, “Which squad?”

Ayrlyn shrugged.

“Let’s go,” called Fierral, and almost a dozen riders followed her. The remainder followed Ryba.

After a moment of hesitation, Nylan rode after Ryba’s group, where he and Ayrlyn brought up the rear.

“Do you know the plan?” he asked quietly.

“Not exactly. Gerlich is coming down the second canyon, and they’ll try to use the ledges to pick them off, some anyway, before they can get out of the canyon. Saryn’s supposed to get the ones headed for the stable, and then rejoin the main group.”

“Not terribly well organized,” mused Nylan.

“How can it be? Ryba can’t station people everywhere eight-days on end. What if Gerlich never showed up? She’s probably got plans for a dozen different cases.”

“Still, it seems risky going out after him.”

“It is, and Gerlich probably would have trouble cracking the tower. But we couldn’t survive another winter without livestock and mounts, and he knows it.”

Nylan nodded. So, to protect the outbuildings and what they contained, the guards had to take the fight to Gerlich,before he knew it. He also realized why ancient castles held everything-a realization that, as seemed all too frequent, came too late.

“Pickets here!” called Fierral. The newest guards-Denize, Liethya, Miergin, and Quilyn-served as pickets, holding mounts ready, as the more experienced guards, or at least those more trained, swarmed up the ropes already fastened in place on the slope.

Nylan nodded as he dismounted and handed the mare’s reins to Quilyn. Maybe things weren’t so disorganized. He and Ayrlyn were the last on top of the ridgelike overlook.

“Down,” whispered Ryba.

Nylan went to his knees. So did Ayrlyn.

Ryba had lined up the guards in two rows, sitting or kneeling, behind the low scrub on a flat ledge that overlooked the widening opening of the second canyon. Fierral was crouched at the uphill end, Ryba at the lower end.

Nylan studied the placement-hardly ideal, since the canyon walls were too steep for anything but a mountain goat farther uphill and since Gerlich’s troops only would be in a field of arrow fire for a short time. Still, if attrition were the idea, it might work, because it would take time for Gerlich’s armsmen to circle the hills, assuming they knew from where the arrows came.

“Listen!” hissed Ryba. “You fire four arrows-just four-as accurately as you can. You know which row to aim for. Then you bat-ass down to your mounts and form up, just like we practiced. Now … quiet. We wait.”

Nylan had no bow. That was no great loss, since his accuracy with the weapon was less than most of the guards, especially at a distance, and the number of bows-the good composite ones-was limited. Besides, with everything else, he had scarcely practiced with the bow since winter.

He looked at Ayrlyn, also without a bow, and motioned to the ropes behind them. “We leave after they start to fire,” he mouthed.

She raised her eyebrows.

Nylan repeated his words, and she nodded.

The sun, early as it was, warmed Nylan’s back, but the end of the canyon remained in shadow.

Nylan nodded again as he realized Ryba had planned better than he had thought. Gerlich’s troops would come around the final turn in the canyon with their eyes facing right into the rising sun. Nylan bet the big hunter hadn’t even considered that fact, but he hadn’t the slightest doubts that Ryba had. When it came to using force, she tried to consider everything.

The sun climbed a bit higher, and the air remained still. Not even a bird chirped, and Nylan worried about that. Would Gerlich sense the unnatural quiet?

The faintest of clinks echoed across the rocks.

Ryba raised her hand, and nearly a score of guards nocked arrows, but Ryba kept her hand just above shoulder level.

A single rider turned the corner into the low-angled sunlight, his hand up to shield his eyes. Two more followed, their mounts walking easily. Ryba’s hand remained up until more than a score of armsmen squinted their way into the sunlight.

Then her hand snapped down.

The second snap was that of bowstrings.

Nylan saw several riders pitch forward and one reach for a shaft through his upper arm.

“Arrows!” came Gerlich’s bellow. The big man dropped down low on his mount almost as the shafts flew. “Follow me!”

Nylan scrambled back and down the rope, noting just as he ducked that the armsman he thought was Narliat had gone down with at least two shafts through him. The white wizard and his mount vanished, just as the one had in the very first battle on the Roof of the World.

Nylan came down the hillside in a haze of dust and struggled up into his saddle, trying to get the mare moving toward the canyon mouth, realizing that, for all Ryba’s training, the guards might be too slow if someone weren’t near the canyon mouth to slow the attacking armsmen.

He leaned back and whacked the mare’s flank, and she jumped forward so quickly that Nylan almost lurched backwardout of the saddle. He grabbed the front rim of the saddle with his free hand and levered himself forward, wondering what he was doing trying to hold off a charge of horsemen by himself.

Another horse drew up beside him on his right.

“Demon-damned way to run a battle,” yelled Ayrlyn.

“Not exactly the best people to blunt an attack,” he answered without looking at her, just doing his best to guide the mare around the rocky hill and toward the mouth of the canyon.

He glanced ahead to his right. The canyon opening was ahead, and none of the attackers had emerged. Maybe Ryba had planned it right. He hazarded a quick glance over his shoulder. At least a handful of guards were mounted and following them.

He looked back ahead, and the first armsman came charging out of the canyon, almost without seeing Ayrlyn, lost in the glare of the early sun. Although the invader turned toward her and raised a long blade, she slipped under it, and her own blade flashed, driving into the angle between chest and neck. Blood welled up everywhere, as did a white haze that shivered the healer where she rode, even as she beat back a feeble thrust from the dying armsman by instinct.

“Back off!” called Nylan, knowing that she could not see. That white impact of death had seemingly shivered against him, against his blade, but he shook it off. He hadn’t done the killing, and that helped.

Another handful of riders rode out of the canyon, circling south, so as to avoid riding straight into the sun, and reforming into a line.

Behind him, Nylan could hear hoofbeats. He hoped there were enough.

An arrow arched over him and toward the invaders, but passed through them. Nylan half wondered who was good enough even to shoot while riding. That took two free hands, and half the time, he needed one hand to grab the mare’s mane or the saddle to keep from getting jounced off.

A firebolt hhissssed past Nylan, its heat skin-searing. Thewizard had reappeared beside Gerlich, who waved the big sword in Nylan’s general direction.

Another firebolt flared across the distance between the mounted groups.

Aeeeiii!

The sickening scream was cut short, as if by a knife.

“Aim for the wizard!” ordered Nylan, and almost immediately several shafts arrowed toward the white-clad man.

Nylan could sense the white wizard throwing up some short of shields, and parts of the arrows flared into flame. The arrowheads tumbled forward untouched.

“More!” snapped Ryba. “He can’t use his powers while cold iron’s flying at him.”

How did Ryba know that? wondered Nylan. It made sense, but how had she known?

HHHssstttt!

Another of the wizard’s firebolts flared toward Ryba, and she raised her blade and half ducked, half parried it.

“To the tower!” ordered Gerlich, spearheading a wedge of horsemen aimed slightly to the left of the center of the guards.

The invading horsemen charged forward, and the wizard vanished. Nylan extended his senses, probing for the wizard … and finding him behind a wall of unseen white. Maybe … maybe, he could do something like that, or figure out a way to break down-

“Nylan!”

At the scream, Nylan blinked, then lifted his blade as a bearded armsman bore down. The engineer wanted to turn and flee, but he’d just get himself cut down from behind.

Nylan barely managed to get the blade up to deflect the smashing blow, and his entire arm ached. He urged the mare sideways, raising his own weapon again, and hacking the bearded man, who caught Nylan’s blade with the big crowbar. Again, Nylan’s arm shivered, but he actually gouged a chunk of iron from the huge sword.

He wished he had had the time to try his shield idea, but the armsman brought the huge blade around in a sweeping,screaming arc, and the engineer was forced back in the saddle. He could no longer see what else was happening, though he could feel the lines of white-red force flying toward and around Ryba.

Almost automatically, as the attacking armsman overbalanced, Nylan felt the moves that Saryn and Ryba had drilled into him taking over, and his blade flashed-once … twice.

The bearded man’s surprised look stayed on his dead face, even as the white shock of his death shivered through Nylan.

“Move, ser! Move!”

At the sound of Huldran’s voice, Nylan forced his eyes back open, despite the needles of pain that shivered through them, and weakly lifted his blade. Three guards had swept in before him and seemed to hold back twice their number.

His guts churned, and his eyes burned. His arm just hurt.

Another armsman rode up, circling toward Huldran’s blind side, and Nylan, again mostly reacting, threw the heavy balanced blade, and immediately grabbed for his second blade.

As the thrown blade sliced through the armsman’s chest, Nylan’s fingers groped for, and almost lost, his other blade. For a moment he sat on the mare, paralyzed, knives of liquid lightning stabbing through his eyes, and lines of ionized fire streaming down his arms.

He forced his blade up, but, for the moment, it wasn’t needed. The last armsman attacking Cessya wheeled his mount, turned, and started to flee. Cessya threw one of her blades through his back, then rode after the trotting mount to reclaim it.

HHHssttt!

Nylan’s stomach churned as the ashes that had been Cessya flared into the morning air, but he forced himself to turn the mare toward the white-clad figure and raised his remaining blade. “Let’s go.”

Extending his perceptions again, ignoring the fire that ran through his body, he let the mare trot forward, afraid a run would jolt him right out of the saddle.

Huldran rode on his right, Weindre on his left, and twoothers he didn’t look back to identify slightly behind.

Another firebolt flared, but Nylan raised his blade, using his senses somehow to deflect it.

A third firebolt slammed at Nylan, cascading around his blade, and almost singeing his hair.

The engineer felt as though he were riding in slow motion, but he kept moving, holding the blade like a talisman, ignoring the soreness in his muscles as he and the guards narrowed the distance between them and the wizard.

Two firebolts, in quick succession, flashed toward them, but Nylan, with his senses, eased them aside.

As the white wizard saw the guards beating their way through the armsmen, he glanced left, then right, and squinted.

Nylan could feel the sense of distortion, the wrenching feeling twisting at his sight, and he fought it, muttering under his breath, “I will. I will see what is. I will … will …”

His head seemed to split as unseen lines of fire stretched from the wizard to him, but he held firm, his eyes blurring, only knowing that the wizard’s defenders were melting under the flashing, often crudely hacking, blades of the Westwind guards.

Suddenly, the wizard turned his mount and started to gallop away. Two blades flashed through the air. One struck, almost a glancing blow, Nylan thought, but the wizard almost seemed to disintegrate.

“Get those blades!” ordered Huldran.

Nylan, ignoring the blinding knives that accompanied each glance at the bodies strewn across the area around the fields, and the gash in his arm that he had not even noticed before, urged the mare toward the knot of armsmen besieging Ryba and the guards around her.

As the two guards reclaimed their blades, Huldran, Weindre, and Nylan rode over the corner of the bean field toward the dust-shrouded figures struggling in the mid-morning light.

Gerlich loomed over the group, and his blade cleared a guard from her mount, almost bisecting her.

Nylan winced at the additional pain of more death, but leaned forward in the saddle, still gripping his blade.

“Now, we’ll see, Angel and Marshal!” yelled Gerlich, spurring his mount toward Ryba, pushing aside one of his own armsmen as he came up on her left side, the huge blade spinning like night toward the marshal, even as she turned.

The dark-haired leader dived sideways as the blade clove through the neck of the roan. The big red horse crumbled, but Ryba tucked and rolled out, staggering erect into a space in the midst of the dust and horses.

One of Ryba’s arms hung loosely as Gerlich wheeled his mount toward her.

Her shoulders slumped, and Nylan watched helplessly. Gerlich’s blade rose again.

At the last moment, the forgotten slug-thrower came up … and four even shots stitched four welts of red across Gerlich’s chest. The big blade slipped from his fingers as his mouth dropped open.

As the ten or so armsmen turned, as if to attack the dismounted marshal, Saryn lifted both her blades. Each glittered like black fire in the midday sun, each impossibly reflecting the sun. Saryn and the half-dozen guards beside her charged the remaining armsmen, splitting off half the group and backing them away from Ryba. The guards’ black blades glittered in the late morning light, glimmered like black fire.

A second group of five guards, led by Fierral, formed a tight circle around Ryba against nearly twice their number.

Nylan turned toward Ryba’s attackers, and the mare pulled up short, almost slamming into an armsman’s mount from behind. As the man turned, seemingly in slow motion, Nylan’s iron blade slashed.

With the cold white of another death, Nylan shuddered, and his senses screamed.

No matter how hard he tried to hold on, the engineercould feel himself slumping in the saddle, almost in slow motion, as the power of that exploding whiteness slammed into him, and his fingers grasped at the mare’s mane, trying to hold on. Trying …