L. Modesitt - Fall of Angels

“Visions? Images?”

“Those and all the scattered reports.”

“So we need a superweapon? A magic sword that slices armsmen in quarters without anyone holding it? Or perhaps a magic bow?”

“Nylan.” Ryba’s voice was as cold as the ice on Freyja.

“I’m sorry. What am I supposed to do? Make more blades? Even with better blades, we still lost a lot of good guards.” He cleared his throat, his eyes flicking to the window and Freyja, the ice-needle that sometimes seemed warmer and more approachable than Ryba.

“We can’t afford those kinds of losses again,” Ryba said. “Even with all the new recruits … we can’t train them well that fast, and half are scared to death of men with weapons. It takes time to overcome that.”

Nylan rubbed his forehead. At times, especially when he thought of weapons, his head still ached. “Huldran is working on arrowheads. She can’t give them that final ordering, but she makes good arrowheads. I can make more, too. I don’t like it, but I can. Or blades. What do you want?”

“The weapons laser. I told you we’d need it for the big battle. How usable is it?”

“We’ve got one bank of firin cells left. They’re at about eighty percent and deteriorating-probably won’t be much good past the coming winter. The generator’s gone; so we’re stuck with what we have in the cells.” He looked at the marshal. “How big a battle?”

“I don’t know the exact numbers, but they’ll have enough troops to cover the ridge fields. They’ll have some siege engines for the tower. That’s why I told you to save the laser for the battle with this Lord Sillek. He’s supposedly using all his loot from taking over that seaport for just two things. Fortifying his hold on the conquered city … and building up and buying armsmen.”

“The laser won’t be enough, then.” Nylan massaged hisforehead again. “We need some defensive emplacements. I have an idea-if I can have some guards.”

“How many? I don’t have that many of the original marines left.”

“New ones will be fine, with maybe one experienced one.”

“Can you tell me what you have in mind?”

“It’s an idea. Call it a booby trap. One way or another, it will work.” He sighed. “It will work. Everything I build works.”

“All right, but stop feeling sorry for yourself about it. It takes strength to survive here, and there’s nothing either one of us can do about that.” The marshal paused, her eyes straying to the window again, before she continued. “There’s another thing. From what Relyn learned from the two survivors, before we sent them off, Gerlich was stupid, and this Lord Sillek isn’t.”

“Stupid in what way?” asked Nylan.

“Gerlich got caught up in the fighting and forgot his original plan. The wizard was supposed to throw firebolts at the guards and incinerate them one by one. Instead, Gerlich charged, and when everyone got mixed together, the wizard couldn’t.”

“That was probably because you parried that wizard’s fire,” Nylan said.

“Parried? I didn’t do that.”

“I saw it. You threw up the blade, and the firebolt turned.”

“It must be your blades, then,” Ryba laughed. “The great smith Nylan whose blades turned back the wizards’ fire.”

Nylan not only doubted her analysis, but failed to see the humor. “That’s probably why Gerlich ordered the charge. He thought the wizard’s fire wouldn’t work, and that the guards would pick off his men one by one.”

“Our arrows can’t pick off a thousand invaders.”

“That many?”

“That few, if we’re lucky.”

Nylan stood. “I think I’d better figure out more than a few tricks.”

“Nylan … we still need arrows and the laser.”

“I know-and magic blades, and a complete set of armaments from the Winterlance.” He tempered his words with a forced grin. “And a lot of tuck.”

“We can’t count on luck.”

“Of course not. We’re angels.” He inclined his head. “Maybe Relyn can pray to his new religion.”

For the first time in seasons, Ryba looked surprised. “His what?”

“Once we destroy Lornth, he’s going out to preach the faith of the angels, the way of black order-something like that. He’s convinced you and I and Ayrlyn will change the world.”

“I can’t say I like that. Not at all.” Ryba’s fingers seemed to inch toward the blade at her hip.

“Let him go,” Nylan said wearily. “If we win, we can use all the propaganda we can get, and religion’s good propaganda. If not … it doesn’t matter.”

“It won’t be the same. It won’t be Westwind-what we believe. The last thing this forsaken planet needs is a new messianic religion.”

“No, Ryba, he won’t follow your vision. You’re the only one with your vision, but I’d trust his version more than any alternatives that might crop up.” He took a deep breath. “Let’s worry about this later.”

Ryba shook her head.

“Relyn’s one man. We have to fight a frigging army first. A lot of your guards respect Relyn. It wouldn’t exactly help morale …”

“All right … but after this is over … we’ll have to settle that.”

Nylan nodded and rose. “I’ll see you later.” He knew how she would settle the issue, and that bothered him, too. Would she always be like that?

“Nylan … just do what you can. You work hard, and it will be enough. Trust me.”

“I have, and I am.” As he stepped back, before turning toward the door and the steps, he gave another not quite false smile, thinking, And look where it’s gotten me!

SILLEK PAUSES BEFORE the open tower window, letting the faint breeze, warm as it is, lift the sweat off his face.

Despite the late-summer heat, the lady Ellindyja sits in the alcove, away from the breeze, wearing a long-sleeved shirt and an overtunic. The embroidery hoop in her lap shows the figure of a lord, wearing a gold circlet, with an enormous glittering blade ready to fall upon a woman warrior in black. The face of the lord is blank, unfinished.

“How nice to see you, my lord,” she says politely.

“You are looking well, Lady Mother.” He offers a slight bow as he turns from the window and steps toward the straight chair.

“Well enough for an old woman who has outlived her usefulness.” She threads the needle with crimson thread, her fingers steady and sure.

“Old? Scarcely.” Sillek laughs as he seats himself opposite her.

“Like any grandmother, I suppose, I see more of my grandson than his father. He looks much like you. And your lady is most solicitous of my health and opinions.”

“You imply that I am not.” Sillek shrugs. “I am here.”

Ellindyja knots the crimson thread and takes the first stitch, beginning a drop of blood that falls from the left arm of the lord in the embroidery hoop.

“You know of Ildyrom’s envoy, and his proposal …” Sillek lets the words trail off.

“I was under the impression that it was somewhat more than a proposal. He sent a sealed agreement, a chest of golds, and removed all his troops back to Berlitos.” Ellindyja completes another loop in the first droplet of blood. “That should free you to reclaim your patrimony.”

“With what?” Sillek laughs. “I have nearly a thousand armsmen still in Rulyarth, and that doesn’t count those supplied by Gethen.”

“I understand-or was I mistaken? — that Lord Karthanos offered to place score forty troops under your command for the purpose of taking the Roof of the World.”

“You understand correctly.” Sillek leans back in the chair. “It is truly amazing that my former foes have suddenly become so solicitous of my need to reclaim my patrimony. Truly amazing.”