L. Modesitt - Fall of Angels

After looking at the threadbare garments and cloak, Nylan agreed with Ryba’s assessment of their use as rags. He also wondered how many vermin the clothes harbored. At the same time, in a way, he felt sorry for the dead man. Life couldn’t have been that easy for him.

“Another attack?” Gerlich had ridden in from the trail to the west, the one that looped north from the ridge before descending and turning west, unlike the other two-one of which descended around the lower east side of the ridge and eventually led to Nylan’s brickworks. Across his saddle lay three large and brown-furred rodentlike creatures, already gutted.

“This one was a little different,” Nylan explained as Siret dragged another body across the ground and let it fall next to the one Nylan had stripped. “They used that herder there as bait.”

“Dump the clothes there in that pile,” ordered Fierral, still mounted, and pointed to the stack Nylan had made.

“What about the coins and other stuff?” asked Siret.

“You can keep a knife-if you don’t have a belt knife,” answered Ryba. “If you do, pass it to someone who doesn’t. You can keep the local coppers, too. Share them if you think you can. Give any silvers or golds to the comm officer-Ayrlyn. We’ll need those to buy food and supplies-from the next honest trader.”

“They seem to have things well in hand,” observed Gerlich.

The herder and Narliat had crawled out from beneath the cart. Berlis and Rienadre stalked toward them. So did Huldran and another seven marines. The herder looked up at thecircle of marines. Then he slumped into a heap.

“He’s just fainted,” said Ayrlyn softly.

“Never saw angry women with blades,” snorted Ryba. “What about the others?”

“I did nothing,” pleaded Narliat. “Nothing, I swear it.”

“Just stuff it,” growled Berlis as Ayrlyn sprayed a disinfectant into the guard’s wound. “Don’t tell me how you didn’t see it coming.”

Llyselle leaned against the side of the cart, her face paler than her silver hair.

Bra w w w w kkk … a w w w kkkk … From the handful of cages behind the injured marine came the sound of chickens.

“Are there any other bandits around?” Ryba asked Fierral.

“Istril and I chased down the two who ran. Istril was complaining that she had to shoot them. She didn’t want to waste the ammunition.”

“We need to think about bows,” snapped Gerlich as he eased his horse next to Ryba’s. “We need some sort of long-range weapon.”

“There are four or five here. Two got broken,” announced Siret.

“We’d better start learning to use them,” suggested Gerlich.

Nylan frowned. Gerlich was right. But could he build a better bow? One with a longer range? Out of some of the composites in the lander?

“Look out,” whispered Istril. “The engineer’s got that look again.”

“What about these damned sheep?” asked Gerlich, gesturing around at the near dozen ewes and lambs.

“They’re all ours,” snapped Ryba. “We’ll let the herder go.”

“Don’t forget the chickens,” Nylan said. “Good source of protein.”

“Pay him one copper. I only suggest,” Narliat added hastily as Berlis glared at him while Ayrlyn continued wrappinga tape dressing around the wounded marine’s thigh.

“Local custom?” asked Nylan.

“It is traditional for treachery. He cannot claim he was not paid.”

“Fine. Nylan-you and Ayrlyn take care of it,” said Ryba. “Just make sure he understands.”

“He already understands,” said Ayrlyn. “That’s why he passed out.”

Ryba pointed toward Denalle and Rienadre. “You two, and anyone else you can round up, figure out how to get these animals up over the ridge and into the grass on the west end. We can use the manure to fertilize the crops-or maybe compost it some way for next year. I’m no herder, but they’ll provide meat at the least and maybe wool, if we can figure out what to do with it.” She gestured up the ridge.

“Yes, ser.” The two nodded and looked at the sheep, then slowly circled downhill of the milling animals.

The herder moaned, and Berlis levered her blade out, wincing, but the point was firm as it rested against the herder’s neck. The man’s eyes bulged.

“Go ahead. Explain it to him, Narliat,” Ayrlyn suggested. She rummaged through the prepackaged medical gear.

“I have no copper.”

Nylan fished out the purse he had taken from the dead bandit, extracted the single copper, and handed the worn coin to Narliat. “There.”

Narliat looked at Nylan, turned to the herder, then to Berlis. Berlis retracted the sword. The herder swallowed, but did not move.

“Sit up,” Nylan commanded in his poor Anglorat-good enough because the herder sat up slowly. “Go ahead,” the engineer told Narliat.

“This is your payment. It is full payment for your treachery. There is no other payment, save death, should you reject this coin.”

The herdsman gulped, looking toward Ryba. “Kind lady … they made me. They would have killed me. My ewes, they are half my flock … my children will suffer … Takethe fowl … take them as my gift, but … the flock …?”

Ryba’s eyes were as hard as emerald. “Your treachery has killed a dozen men, not that they were worth much, and one of my marines, who was worth much. Another has lost the use of her arm, and a third took an arrow in the thigh. Don’t talk of suffering.”

Narliat looked at Nylan, and the engineer realized that the herder had not understood a word. “Our people have suffered from your treachery,” Nylan explained in Old Anglorat. “You helped make that treachery. The marshal has been generous. Will you take payment or death?”

Narliat’s slight nod confirmed that Nylan’s words met the formula.

“And,” Nylan added, though he could not have said why, “do not think to take the coin and reject the offer. Do not take the coin and curse us. For then you will live all your days as though you had died, and you will be tortured endlessly.” He could feel something flash before-or from-his eyes.

The herder fell forward in another dead faint.

“Friggin’ torps,” said Berlis. “Man has no guts. Faints twice, and nothing touched him.”

“The … mage … did,” stuttered Narliat. “He-the herder-will never think a dangerous thought again.”

“Impressive,” said Ayrlyn.

The herder groaned and slowly picked himself up. “The coin … the copper … please … please …”

Narliat handed him the copper.

“Please … can I take my cart? Please let me depart.”

“Go on,” said Ryba.

The herder looked at Nylan.

“Go. Never forget.”

“No, great one. No. No.” The herder shivered as he slowly unstacked the four crates, each with a pair of chickens with reddish-brown feathers. Then he took the pony’s reins and untied them from the stake in the ground. Leaving the white banner on the ground, he led the cart away, looking back over his shoulder every few paces.

“We need a cart,” Nylan said, looking at the departing herder.

“A cart?” asked Ayrlyn.

“For firewood, bricks, you name it …”

“Fine,” laughed Ayrlyn. “Saryn and I will work on it.”

“You?”

“Why not? If you can build towers and forge swords, surely two of us can find a way to build a simple cart.”

“Now that you’ve disposed of those logistics, how did you manage that last bit of terror, Nylan?” asked Ryba.

Ayrlyn frowned, but stepped back from the marshal as Ryba edged the roan closer to the engineer.

“What?”

“Terrifying that poor sot.”

“He’s not a sot, ser,” said Berlis. “He’s a worthless hunk of meat.” Then she paused. “I have to admit that the engineer scared me for an instant, and I didn’t even know what he was saying.”