Fall of Angels

LXXXII

RIENADRE GESTURED TOWARD the brick forms stacked in rows on the crude trestles. “It’ll be another few days before these are ready.”

“We do what we can.” Nylan needed more of the bricks so that he could finish the smithy and the forge.

“That we do.” Rienadre picked up the axe.

Nylan flicked the leads, and the gray mare whuffled. The cart creaked as it rocked forward under the load of building bricks. A heavy gust of wind whipped through Nylan’s hair, then dropped away. Overhead, high cumulus clouds dotted the sky, some showing dark centers, for all that it was only slightly before midday. The gray whuffled again, and the cart creaked, and Nylan walked beside, along the rutted trail that was not quite a road.

Whuff …

“I know. It’s no fun carting bricks uphill. Well … it’s no fun walking alongside you, either.”

The cart-the one Saryn and Ayrlyn had built, not the one that they’d obtained from Skiodra and repaired-creaked again. The other was with Ayrlyn, and Nylan wondered if she would be able to obtain saw blades on her trading run. Then he, in his copious spare time and with his great ignorance of low technology, would attempt to build a sawmill.

He snorted. The healer had perhaps four golds, and several blades. What were they going to do to get through the early summer? He swallowed, thinking about her flame-red hair and the anger Westwind was generating.

A flash of yellow-banded black wings crossed the trail, and the yellow and black bird alighted on the end of a dead pine branch and cocked its head in an almost inquiring attitude at Nylan.

“Hello there,” said the would-be smith.

Twirrrppp … twirrrppp …

The cart creakked once more, and the bird responded to that as well.

“I think you like noise.”

At that comment, the wings spread, and the bird departed.

Ahead, Nylan heard voices, and saws, and the regular thump-chop of an axe. Fierral and the timber crew were at it, and before long, he’d have to come down and turn the piles of limbs, the crooked ones, the stumps, and the other sections unsuited to timber, into charcoal. The idea was simple enough, a controlled burn under low-oxygen conditions. That meant burying most of the wood, probably in a long pile and lighting one end. How many times would he have to try it before he got it right?

He flicked the reins again.

Before long, the cart crossed another low rise in the trail. To the right, downhill, was a clearing filled with stumps. At the east end was a pile of limbs, odd pieces of trees, flanked by a tall brush pile. Along the traillike road were two low piles, one of squarish timbers and one of planks.

From a pole fastened between two smaller pines and fashioned from a roughly smoothed and stripped fir limb hung four gutted hares.

Nylan’s eyebrows rose, and he slowed to examine the game.

“Hryessa,” explained Fierral, walking up. “She made some snares. Can you take those up to Blynnal and Kadran?”

“Where’s Kyseen?”

“Working with us. There was a general consensus that she’s better with a blade and an axe or saw than in the kitchen, and I really doubt that Blynnal will ever be much with a blade. Hryessa and Murkassa-they’ll be good, but not poor Blynnal. On the other hand-”

Both turned at the sound of hoofs.

“Weapons! Blades and bows!” Fierral’s blue eyes turned cold, cold as the ice on Freyja.

A black-haired woman clung to what seemed to be the plow-harness or horse collar of a big brown beast that lumbereddown the slope toward the guards. Before her on the horse was a small, dark-haired child. With each step, they bounced, and Nylan winced.

Hryessa arrived almost instantly, and Berlis wasn’t that far behind. Weindre stood by one end of the pole with the hares on it, her bow in hand.

The woman pulled at the leads, and the plow horse slowed.

Fierral glanced uphill, then stepped forward and caught the leads up short, just beyond the harness. Foam streaked the gelding’s muzzle.

The dark-haired woman straightened on the horse’s back, holding her head higher, her arm around the girl who sat before her. Their brown tunics had recently been cleaned, but both riders were mottled with dust, and muddy patches appeared on the mother’s cheeks.

“Are you … the … mountain women?” asked the woman in a hoarse voice.

“We live here,” answered Fierral in accented Old Anglorat.

“I would like to claim refuge. For my daughter and me.”

Fierral looked at Nylan. “What can you tell?”

Nylan took a breath and tried to let his feelings, through what he still conceived of as the local magic net, sense the woman. After a moment, he turned to Fierral. “None of that white stuff, that chaos that’s almost like evil. She’s tired, almost ready to collapse, probably ridden that beast a long way. All that doesn’t mean she’s good, though. The child’s hungry,” he added as an afterthought.

“It’s a start,” pointed out Fierral, who looked back at the exhausted riders. “We will not send you away, but the marshal must-”

“Decide,” finished Nylan.

“Please … help. Surba … he follows, and Pretar is with him.” With a convulsive gesture, the woman half climbed, half fell, off the horse. Her bare feet hit the ground hard, and she turned and lifted her daughter down.

Nylan shuddered. His feet would have hurt from hitting the rocky ground that hard, but the woman seemed unfazedby that. Instead she looked back uphill. The child looked boldly at Nylan, and he smiled back. She remained solemnly wide-eyed, her head reaching not quite to his chest.

“Hryessa-take your mount and get the marshal-and some reinforcements. Let the marshal decide, but tell her we have a refugee and a couple of incoming troublemakers.”

“Incoming?” asked the locally raised guard as she mounted.

“Bad men who are on their way here,” Fierral rephrased.

Berlis offered a brief grin at the rewording. Hryessa urged her mount uphill.

“Who might you be?” Nylan asked.

“Nistayna. I rode all the way from Linspros.” Her eyes darted back uphill, her hands remaining on the girl’s shoulders.

“Stand by for company!” ordered Fierral. “Berlis-you get over there on the other side where you’ve got a clear shot.”

The guard eased her way across the trail.

“And Linspros is where?” asked Nylan.

Her eyes widened. “Is it true that you fell from the skies?”

“Yes, in a way,” answered Nylan tiredly. “Now … where is Linspros?” He added to Fierral, “I’d like to know where else we’re going to be making enemies.”

The chief guard, or armsmaster or armsmistress-she had to be something like that in this culture now, Nylan reflected-responded with a grim smile, then motioned to Weindre. “They need something to drink.”

“Linspros …” Nistayna mumbled.

Nylan walked to the nearest stump, leading the cart horse, and tied the leads to a protruding root. Then he turned and extended a hand to the apparently tottering woman.

Nistayna shied away, her arms shielding the girl.

“Fine.” He motioned to Weindre, who approached with a plastic water bottle, one of the few remaining. “You get them to sit down before they both fall over.”

Fierral tied the plow horse to another tree, and glanced back uphill. Hryessa was already nearly to the top of the ridge and almost out of sight.

After the black-haired local slumped onto the stump, she took the bottle and offered it to the girl. After the child drank, and after the mother took several swallows of water, Nylan tried again. “We are strangers. Where is Linspros? Is it near Gnotos?”

“Oh, no. Linspros is between Analeria and Gallos in the great west valley.”

“It’s east of the mountains. How long did it take you to find us?”

“Days … many days, and yesterday … I saw Surba. I was on the heights, but he has Pretar. He is a hunter and a tracker. They will be here soon. We could not ride as fast as they can.” Again, she looked to the east.

“This refugee bit always disrupts work,” said Fierral dryly.

“We’ve gotten a good cook, a good rabbit hunter, and some blades.”

“We’ll need a lot more, the way things are going.”

“Why did you leave Linspros?” asked Nylan.

“Surba … only a woman would know. Only a mother.” Her eyes fell.

“Sexual abuse?” Nylan asked the redheaded head of the guards.

“Probably, but who knows? Any kind of abuse seems to be fair on this friggin’ planet. Maybe the girl.”

Nylan bridled inside, but only said, “That’s not representative. We only see the ones who are abused. The happy ones, or those from places where the women have some power, won’t be the ones seeking out the angels.”

Fierral opened her mouth, then paused. “You could be right.”

“Maybe what this shows is that the society doesn’t offer a place for those that don’t fit in, but it doesn’t mean every woman is degraded or oppressed.”

“No,” said Fierral. “Just those who want to be treated equally.”

“Maybe,” said Nylan. “Maybe not. Do we know enough?”

They looked back at Nistayna. She, in turn, kept her eyes on the ground, but clutched the plastic water bottle, then offeredit to her daughter again. The child drank, but kept her eyes on Nylan.

For a time, they all waited. How long, Nylan wasn’t certain. Then he frowned. Did he hear hooves? Ryba?

“Ready!” snapped Fierral.

Across the trail road, Berlis checked her bow.

Weindre checked her bow and held an arrow, almost ready to nock it.

Behind Fierral, Llyselle appeared, also carrying her composite bow, flanked by Kyseen, the former cook, who grinned shyly at Nylan.

Ryba rode down the trail, and the guards lowered their bows.

“Don’t relax too much,” said the marshal as she and Hryessa rode up together. “Your incomings are headed this way.”

“Will they go up to the tower?” asked Nylan.

“They might, but they won’t get far. Everyone else, except Ellysia and Blynnal, is waiting on the top of the ridge. And Gerlich, of course-he’s out hunting.”

Ryba surveyed the area. “If we have to go to weapons, use the bows first. I don’t want any of us hurt if we can avoid it.” Then she eased the big roan up next to the stump where the dark-haired Nistayna now stood.

“You are the Angel?”

“I’m Ryba, the marshal of Westwind.”

Nistayna bowed her head. “Please … save us … take us in. Do not make me return. If you must, I will leave, but please take Niera. She must not …”

Nylan’s lips tightened. He didn’t like Surba, and the man hadn’t even appeared.

Ryba glanced to Nylan.

“No chaos. Seems honest.”

“So long as you live by our rules, you may stay.” Ryba paused, and then added, “Westwind is not always an easy place, and we already have powerful enemies-” She broke off at the sound of hooves.

Two riders eased their way down the slope. On the leadhorse, a black stallion, rode a burly man dressed in a green shirt and tunic and brown leather trousers. Behind him rode a thin-faced blond man with a large bow across his back.

The thin man started to reach for the bow.

“I would not touch that bow, not if you wish to live,” said Ryba, her voice carrying across the suddenly silent trail and woods.

The burly man reined in the black stallion, a trace of foam at the edge of his mouth, and skittering at his rider’s rough handling.

“Nistayna’s my woman, and no mountain women are going to take her away. You keep her, and I’ll have every man in Linspros here to tear down your fancy tower. Yes, we’ve heard about your tower, and no tower’s going to stop us.”

“That would mean a lot of graves,” pointed out Ryba.

Nistayna shivered, but stood straight.

“I want my woman back. Now.”

“You don’t own her.” Without taking her eyes off Surba, Ryba asked, “Do you wish to return with him?”

“No. I would die first.” The words were soft, but firm. “We both would.”

Ryba’s lips curled. “They do not like you much.”

“They are mine, and they will return with me.”

“I think not.”

Surba looked at the four bows trained on him. Then he looked at Nylan, who had drawn his blade, but not lifted it. His eyes darted to the blond man, who shook his head. Finally, he answered Ryba, “There are a lot more of you than us, but we’ll be back, and we’ll tear that tower down stone by stone.”

“I see,” said Ryba. “So you and your friend just rode after this woman, and I’ll bet you didn’t even bother to tell anyone where you were going. You just thought you’d ride her down and beat her and take her back. Is that it?”

“Real men don’t have to tell anyone where they’re going.” He shrugged. “All of Linspros knows me. No one walks on Surba.”

“I wouldn’t think of it,” murmured Ryba. She nodded at Berlis, then slowly took out her throwing blade. She rode forwardslowly, stopping a dozen paces away from the stallion. “Do you know what this is?”

“It’s a toy blade.”

Ryba smiled, and the blade flashed from her hand.

The burly man slumped over the saddle, tried to straighten up, and finally did. “Bitch … dirty … bitch.” The stallion whickered and skittered sideways. “ … unfair …”

Nistayna’s hand went to her mouth, then her arms went around her daughter, and she turned so the child looked to the forest.

“It’s so fair to beat someone who can’t flee or fight back,” murmured the marshal. “So honorable …”

The slender hard-faced man took one look at the dying man, ducked to one side of his mount, and spurred the beast toward the woods.

“Get him!” Ryba ordered, urging the roan after Pretar.

Fierral nocked and released an arrow. So did the other four guards.

The blond man and the horse went down, the horse screaming.

Nylan’s legs felt weak, and he forced himself to remain erect, despite the white flashes of death that washed over him. He was glad he hadn’t been forced to use his blade, but how often could he avoid it on this frigging brutal planet?

“Damn!” muttered Fierral. “That was a good horse.”

Ryba studied the two corpses before riding back to Nistayna. “One always pays for freedom.” Her voice was cold. “I hope you will use that freedom well.”

Nistayna looked from the marshal to Nylan.

“Angels are not sweet, lady,” he added. “They are often just and terrible, and few indeed are strong enough for justice.” Even as he spoke, he wondered how just murdering two men had been.

With a sigh, he walked toward Fierral. “Put the bodies on the cart. I’ll take them up to the tower. Then, after I unload, I’ll send someone down with the cart for the horse. Maybe Blynnal can make a few meals out of it.”

Nylan glanced from Fierral to Ryba, still seated on theroan. Ryba shifted her weight in the saddle, and he realized that the ride had been painful for her.

“This was a setup.” She answered his unspoken question. “Either they brought her back, and that proved we could be intimidated or taken, or they came back empty-handed, and set it up for an army. This way, no one knows for sure.” She shrugged. “People don’t like to send out armies or armed forces when they don’t know what happened.”

She turned the roan back toward the tower. “Hryessa?”

The young guard drew her mount beside the marshal as the two horses slowly walked uphill.

“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.