L. Modesitt - Fall of Angels

“You don’t sleep much, do you?” Ryba stopped several paces short of him.

“Neither do you, apparently.”

“Burdens of leadership, curse of foresight …” Ryba cleared her throat, then turned toward the tower.

His eyes followed hers. “Still a lot to do. Sometimes, more than sometimes, I wonder what else I’ve forgotten.”

Her hand touched his shoulder. “It’s beautiful … the tower, and I can see, you know, that it will last for generations. Maybe longer.”

“You can see that?”

Ryba shrugged, almost sadly. “Some things I can see. Like the women who will climb the rocks searching for Westwind, for hope, for a different life. Like the men who will chase them, not understanding.”

“Westwind?”

“I thought it was a good name. And that’s what it will be called.” Her laugh was almost harsh. “So we might as well start now.”

Nylan turned to her. “You’re seeing all this?”

“Nylan … you can bend metal and power, and Ayrlyn can touch souls with her songs, and her touch heals small injuries-and Saryn-she glitters when her hands touch the waters or a blade. Why shouldn’t I, who rode the greatest neuronets of all, why shouldn’t I have a power beyond the blades?”

“Foresight?” he whispered.

“At times … yes … It’s only occasional … now … but I wonder …” She shook her head. “You think it’s easy to kill one of your own, to be as hard as the stones in your tower? To see what might be, if only you’re strong enough …? To know that everyone will die if you’re not …”

His hands touched hers, and found that her hands and fingers were cold, trembling, for all that he had to raise his eyes to meet hers.

SILLEK LOOKS DOWN the lines of horse, then back toward the west branch of the river, and the ford. Behind him, the fourscore armsmen shift in their saddles.

On the next rolling hill is another force of cavalry, under the white banner bearing a single fir tree-the banner of Jerans. Sillek studies the Jeranyi force, noting the varying sizes of the troopers opposing his. Men and women both bear arms, their mounts standing, waiting, in the knee-high grass.

“Barbaric,” he mutters.

“The women?” asks Koric. The mustached and slightly stoop-shouldered captain spits out onto the grass. “Sometimes they’re nastier than the men. Rather fight the Suthyans any day.”

“Do you see Ildyrom over there?”

“He’s the one in the green jacket. Verintkya’s the big blond bitch next to him. She uses a mace sometimes, they say. Split your head with a smile, she would.”

Sillek turns in the saddle. “Master Terek.”

“Yes, Your Grace?” The chief wizard eases his mount closer to the Lord of Lornth.

“Will your firebolts reach the Jeranyi?”

“From here, ser? It’s a long pull …” Terek’s ungloved hand brushes his white hair. Behind him Hissl and Jissek watch Sillek intently.

“Yes or no?”

“Yes, ser.” Terek holds up a hand. “But we can’t send so many. It takes more energy to send bolts that far.”

“Can you tell if Ildyrom has any archers there?”

Terek gestures to Hissl.

“There are a couple of troopers with the short curved bows, but no longbows, ser.”

“So they can’t quite reach us with arrows …” Sillek pauses, then turns to Terek. “Go ahead, Chief Wizard. Fry as many as you can.”

Beside Sillek, Koric clears his throat. “Ser … begging your pardon.”

Terek waits, as do Hissl and Jissek.

“Yes, Captain?” Sillek’s voice is smooth-and cold.

“Using firebolts … I mean … what if they’ve got wizards?”

“Is that your real concern, Captain, or are you clinging to my father’s outdated sense of nobility?”

“Ser …” Koric drew himself up in the saddle.

“Koric … I’m not interested in battlefield tales or boasts. I’ve got a bunch of bitch-women at my back with thunder-throwers. I’ve got Ildyrom and Verintkya trying to take over the good grasslands between the South Branch and the West Fork, and the Suthyans are raising the port tariffs in Rulyarth. Now, if I can get rid of Ildyrom without losing anyone … so much the better.”

“Next time, they’ll bring wizards,” said Koric.

“There aren’t many, if any, as good as ours.” Sillek turns to Terek. “Is that not correct, Master Wizard Terek?”

“I believe so, ser.”

“Good. Prove it.”

Koric frowns as Terek concentrates, then points.

Whhhhssttt! With a whistling, screaming hiss, a firebolt arcs from Terek’s fingers out over the valley between the two hills and falls across two Jeranyi troopers.

The twin screams shriek across the gently waving grasslands, and greasy smoke billows from the other hillside. A riderless horse rears into the midday sky, then lets forth a screaming whinny before bolting down the hillside in the general direction of Berlitos, the forest city of Jerans that lies more than four days of hard riding to the west.

The remaining Jeranyi horse hold, though the troopers on them seem to shift in their saddles before several arrows fly eastward. The shafts drop harmlessly in the tall grass well below the hilltop where the forces of Lornth wait.

“Another!” commands Sillek.

Terek frowns, but concentrates. A second firebolt arcs over the valley and toward Ildyrom.

The bolt splashes across the chest of a roan who rears, screaming, so suddenly that the rider is flung backward and falls into a crumpled heap. More greasy smoke rises as the fatally wounded horse falls and rolls, then quivers, in the damp grasses. A trooper dismounts, checks the still figure in the grass. Shortly, two Jeranyi troopers quickly put the body on a packhorse.

Then the fir-tree banner jerks, and then the Jeranyi turn and ride westward, disappearing behind the hilltop, leaving three piles of smoldering ash.

As Sillek watches, Terek takes a deep breath, and Hissl, observing the pallor on Terek’s face, nods to himself.

“Now what, ser?” asks Koric.

“We follow them, discreetly.”

“We could ride’em down, maybe get rid of them.”

Sillek holds in a deep breath, purses his lips, then finally responds. “How many armsmen did we lose?”

“Why, none, ser.”