L. Modesitt - Fall of Angels

“Good.” Gerlich turns his mount uphill, and the others follow.

“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.”