L. Modesitt - Fall of Angels

Nylan shook his head, glad Ryba did not have his night vision.

“Don’t doubt me on this, Nylan. I’m not saying it won’t be costly, or that it will be easy. I am saying that we can win. And that it will be worth it, because no one in our lifetime will try again-if we do it right.”

Dyliess snuffled, then settled into a deeper sleep, and Nylan slowly eased the cradle to a stop. Before long, it seemed, she'll be too big for the cradle. He wondered if he’d see that day. Ryba had said Westwind would prevail. That didn’t mean he would, and he wasn’t about to ask-not now. He wondered if he really wanted to know-or feared the answer.

He eased into his separate couch, looking past Ryba’s open eyes to the cold stars above the western peaks.

NYLAN RAISED THE hammer and let it fall, cutting yet another arrowhead, knowing that it might not matter, but not knowing what else he could do while they waited for the ponderous advance of the Lornian forces. Not that one more arrowhead probably ever made a difference in a big battle, except to the man it killed.

He lifted the hammer, and let it fall, lifted, and let fall, and as he did, from the smithy, he could see the constant flow of messengers and scouts, tracking the oncoming force and reporting to Ryba and Fierral or Saryn.

As he set the iron into the forge to reheat, the triangle rang, twice, then twice again.

“That’s it, ser,” announced Huldran. “Time to make ready.”

“Ready for what?” Nylan hadn’t paid that much attention to the signal codes. Two and two, he thought, meant the arrival of Sillek’s force in the general area.

“The scouts and the pick-off efforts.” Huldran set down the hammer and the hot set she had been working with and racked both. Nylan followed her example with his tools. It wouldn’t hurt to check on his pike arrays and make sure all the laser components were ready to set up.

After banking the fire, as he left the smithy, he glanced at the afternoon sky, with the scattered thunderclouds of late summer rising over the peaks. Surely, the Lornians wouldn’t attack late in the afternoon?

He headed down to the tower. When he started across the causeway, he looked up to see Ayrlyn waiting by the door.

“The end of the golden age,” she said ironically.

“What?” Her words halted him in his steps. “What do you mean by that?”

Her brown eyes seemed to flash that dark blue shade, and then her lips quirked. “If the angels win, then women will throw off their shackles, and men will see the past as the golden age. If we lose, why then, we will have been that bright shining age forever aborted by the cruelty and stupidity of men.” Her tone turned from faintly ironic to bitterly sardonic. “I think that’s the party line.”

Nylan thought for a moment. “I suppose that is the official line. The problem is that it’s got a lot of truth within it, especially on this planet.”

Ayrlyn gestured to the causeway wall. “Why don’t you sit down? They really don’t have any use for a healer who loses her guts when they kill someone, or for an engineer who’d rather build than kill. Not today. Tomorrow they’ll need us both.”

Nylan hoisted himself up on the low wall. “I haven’t seen you this bitter, I don’t think ever.”

“I haven’t been.” She paused while she climbed onto the wall. “I’m tired, Nylan. I’m tired of having to heal people because no one can ever solve anything except with force. I’m tired of being thought of as some sort of weakling because killing men upsets me. Frig it! Killing anything upsets me. It’s just that a lot more men have been killed around here lately.”

“That’s true.”

“I’m tired of traveling and trading, and seeing women with terror in their eyes, seeing women barely more than girls pregnant and not much more than brood mares. Ryba may be right, that force applied in large enough quantities is the only solution, but I’m tired of it.”

“So am I,” Nylan said, almost without thinking. “And I’m tired because nothing is enough. More arrowheads, more blades, more violence. And what happens? We’ve got one of the biggest armies in this culture’s history marching after us. And if we do manage to destroy it? What then?”

“Why … everything will be roses and good crops and strong healthy baby girls, won’t it?” Ayrlyn sighed. “Andwarm fires, and good meals, and smithies and sawmills and … and … and …”

“Of course. Isn’t that the way the story’s supposed to end?”

Ayrlyn laughed, harshly. “Frig … frig, frig … the story never ends. People fight, and fight, and “fight. If you win, you have to keep fighting so others won’t take it away. If you lose and survive, you have to fight to live and to regain what you lost. Why?”

“Because nothing is ever enough,” Nylan said harshly. “We talked about this before.”

“And nothing ever changes?”

“Not yet. Not that I’ve been able to figure out.”

“Nylan …?”

“Yes.”

“If we get through this, can we try to change things … so it’s not just fight, fight, fight?”

He nodded.

“You promise?”

“Promise.”

For a time, they sat there silently, hands clasped, watching the departures and the hurrying guards, until Kadran came out and rang the triangle to announce supper for those few left in Tower Black.

NYLAN LAY AWAKE on his couch, his ears and senses listening to the gentle sound of Dyliess’s breathing, his thoughts on scattered feelings and images-including an evening meal with only a handful of guards even there, most gone out into the twilight with full quivers; including the idea that the whole world was decided by violence and where no achievement or possession was ever enough.

His breath hissed out between clenched teeth.

“Are you awake?” Ryba asked quietly from across the gap between them.

“Yes. It’s a little hard to get to sleep, no matter how much you need the rest, thinking of two thousand men who want to kill you and destroy all you’ve built.” Nylan really didn’t want to discuss the problems of violence and greed with Ryba.

“They won’t do it. Not if we all do our parts.”

“You’ve said that before. I know in my head that you’re probably right, but my emotions don’t always follow reason. You seem to have more faith than I do that we can destroy a force close to fifty times our size.”

“Fierral thinks our archers have already taken out between a hundred and two hundred of their armsmen. She still has a few out there, the ones with night vision,” Ryba said. “Tomorrow, if we can take out another two hundred and get them in a murderous mood coming up the ridge, your little traps could add a hundred or two more. We might get them down to an even thousand before you have to use the laser.”

“And … poof … just like that, our troubles are over?”

“What’s gotten into you, Nylan? I know you don’t like all the killing, but, outside of dying or running like outlaws until we’re hunted down, what choices do we have?” She paused. “Oh, I forgot. We could spend the rest of our very short lives barefoot and pregnant and beaten, unless we were fortunate enough to subject ourselves to someone who’s as kind as you are, and I’ve met exactly one of you in a life a decade longer than yours.”

Nylan had no answer, not one that made sense. Logically, what Ryba said made sense, but he wanted to scream, to ask why logic dictated violence and killing, when the only answer was that only violence answered violence, and that some people refused to give up violence.

“Your problem is that you’re basically good and kind, and you really have trouble accepting that most people aren’t, that most people require force or discipline to live in any sort of order.”