Fall of Angels (67 page)

  
Beyond the dead Gallosian was another ... of more than a score strewn across the slope.

  
"Nistayna!" ordered Ryba. "You and Cessya bring back the carts. We've got a lot of hauling to do."

  
"I don't understand it," Ayrlyn said. "They just kept coming. Half of them were dead before they even reached us. It was as though they couldn't believe they were being killed."

  
"They couldn't," snapped Fierral. "In their mind-set, women can't even try to kill, except maybe to protect their children. These idiots'd rather give up their lives than their beliefs."

  
"That just might change after a few battles," Nylan said heavily from his saddle. "You'll be devils, and they'll try to kill you without mercy."

  
"There are rumors everywhere," said Ryba, reining the roan up beside Nylan. "We're angels; we're devil women. We're beautiful; we're hags. The rumors don't matter. What matters is that we've got to get better. Every guard has to handle a bow and blade as well as Fierral or Istril. It would help if they could also throw a blade like you can because things are just going to get worse." Ryba surveyed the battlefield, where women in leathers stripped and stacked bodies and loot, where other women collected horses.

  
The creaking from below the ridge indicated that the carts were on the way to recover the assorted leavings and loot.

  
"With each success and each new rumor," said Ryba, "we'll get more women trying to escape, and more armsmen and brigands looking for easy loot because they can't believe we're real. Then, as Nylan says, one day, they'll believe it, and someone will head up here with a real army, and we'd better be ready. We'll need more arrowheads."

  
"More arrowheads," groaned Nylan.

  
"It's better than having to meet them blade to blade, and, speaking of blades, can you make any more?"

  
Nylan looked at Ryba. "We're having enough trouble with arrowheads. I made those blades out of structural braces, and I barely could handle those with a laser. All that charcoal I've got up wouldn't warm one lousy brace."

  
"We need something."

  
"I'll see about reworking some of the locals' blades-the terrible ones," said the engineer-smith, "if you don't mind the potential revenue loss."

  
"Good." Ryba paused, then added, "At least all this loot will help us get supplies for winter."

  
Nylan and Ayrlyn rubbed their foreheads and exchanged glances.

XCVI

AFTER THE LONG afternoon of cleaning up carnage and wounds, and building a cairn for Ryllya, the guard he'd never known, and an evening meal filled with quiet and exhaustion, Nylan sat in the rocking chair, holding Dyliess. Ryba lay in the darkness, silent on her separate couch.

  
For whatever reason, rocking his daughter in the gloom of the tower helped his throbbing head, more than the darkness or the hot and welcome meal prepared by Blynnal.

  
. . . and who will rock you to sleep?

  
Your daddy will rock and sing you a song, There s only a cradle and nothing is wrong. When the sun has set and the stars are so high, I'll rock you and hold you 'til morning is nigh . . .

  
By the time Dyliess dropped off and he had slipped into his separate couch bed, the throbbing inside his skull had subsided to a dull echo of the former hammering.

  
After a quick flash of light through the window, the evening breeze brought the rumble of distant thunder over the western peaks and then the dampness of air that had held rain. Perhaps the rain would wash the sense and stench of killing off the Roof of the World. Perhaps sleep would help.

  
Again, not for the first time, nor for the last, Nylan wondered why so many people respected only force. He tried not to sigh.

 
 
"The killing is hard on you," Ryba observed.

  
"You've noticed." He tried to keep the bitterness from his voice, knowing he failed.

  
"You're good for about one killing a battle, aren't you?" asked Ryba quietly. 'That makes it hard when people are riding around with blades."

  
"Very hard, especially when you're on a horse and can't see." Nylan stretched. His legs and arms were sore, from some combination of riding and smithing, neither of which he did terribly efficiently, he feared.

  
"Why?"

  
"With every killing, there's a whiteness that fills the field, or the local net, or whatever you want to call it. It goes through me like an invisible but very sharp dagger."

  
"This place . . ." said Ryba heavily. "The more we succeed, the more everyone wants to destroy us."

  
"That's true everywhere." Nylan yawned. "It's just more obvious here."

  
"We're going to get more women, and that means we'll need more weapons."

  
"More arrowheads," groaned Nylan, trying to put aside the thought of more deaths.

  
"Can't you make any more blades? We need both. I'd really like each guard to have two blades. That way they could throw one if they had to. The more standoff capability we have ..."

  
Nylan wanted to laugh at the thought of a throwing blade being a standoff capability. How far they'd fallen from lasers and de-energizer beams, although the weapons laser still remained mostly intact. "We're having enough trouble with arrowheads."

  
"We need something."

  
"I told you. I'll try to rework some of the captured blades-the terrible ones," said the engineer-smith, "that's if you don't mind losing some coins."

  
"After today, we have enough coins and blades that you can have a few of them to work with. I'm sure you can figure out something."

  
Nylan yawned again, wishing he were that certain.

XCVII

ZELDYAN RISES FROM the scrolls that are stacked on the desk by the window and turns to greet her visitor. "Lady Ellindyja, I must apologize for a certain disarray." Despite her apology, every blond hair is in place under the silver hair-band inlaid with malachite, and her green tunic and trousers are spotless.

  
" 'Disarray' is not a term I would ever think of applying to you, dear," responds Ellindyja. "You are always prepared."

  
"I thank you for your kindness, and I am most happy to see you. Is there anything in particular to which I owe this happy visit?"

  
"I understand that a force of Gallosians attacked the Roof of the World an eight-day ago," begins the lady Ellindyja. "You, of course, as Lady of Lornth, would know more of this than I. Perhaps you could enlighten me?"

  
"I would be more than pleased to share what little knowledge I have, although you doubtless have many more sources than do I." Zeldyan picks up the small bell off the table and rings it. "Please, do be seated, and I will have cool, sweetened green juice sent up." She gestures to the largest armchair in the sitting room.

  
"I so appreciate your kindness." Ellindyja smiles and eases her bulk into the large chair. Her eyes cross the room-to the cradle. "You are sure that ringing will not wake young Nesslek?"

  
"If it should wake him, I will hold him." Zeldyan smiles. "Children, I have seen, grow so quickly, and I am not yet tired of enjoying him while my comfort means much to him."

  
"They do grow quickly, and you are to be commended for your care and concern."

  
A stocky serving maid appears and bows to Zeldyan. "Yes, my lady?"

  
"A carafe of the cold fresh green juice, with honey, and some of the fresh pastries, if you please."

  
The dark-haired maid nods and slips out through the door.

  
Zeldyan steps toward the cradle and studies her sleeping son, then takes the straight-backed chair across the low table from her consort's mother. "I received a report from one of the wizards-he sent a report directly to Lord Sillek as well-that a Gallosian force attempted to attack the angel outpost on the Roof of the World. The Gallosians lost many armsmen. The wizard was uncertain if any of the angels were killed, but some were wounded."

  
"That must have been Hissl. He is never certain about anything. Except his own importance," Ellindyja adds.

  
"Still . . . wizards, uncertain or not, have a usefulness."

  
"This ... incursion ... has a disturbing flavor. I was also under the impression that a dispatch arrived from Gallos, something about the inability of Lornth to control the depredations of its inhabitants?" Ellindyja smiles sweetly.

  
"Yes," replies Zeldyan. "As you doubtless know from the dispatch, though it was addressed to Lord Sillek, Lord Karthanos expressed his regrets. He wrote that he felt compelled to take action because the situation on the Roof of the World had become most distressing to his holders. Lord Karthanos expressed the hope that Lord Sillek, once he returned to Lornth, would redress the situation on the Roof of the World."

  
"I had gathered it was something like that."

  
The door opens, and the serving maid returns with a silver tray, on which there are a crystal carafe filled with a green liquid, two empty goblets, and a pale green china plate on which are heaped a number of miniature pastries. The maid sets the tray on the table, bows, and retreats, closing the door behind her.

  
Zeldyan pours two goblets and waits for Ellindyja to take one.

  
The older woman also takes a small pastry and eats it delicately. "These are good. I recall something of the like from when I visited your mother-a family recipe, perhaps?"

  
"I learned a great deal from Mother, for which I am most thankful." Zeldyan takes a sip of her green juice, holding the goblet and waiting.

  
"You can see, I am sure," the lady Ellindyja finally continues, "the difficulty this situation has raised."

  
"Yes. It is rather clear. The male holders on each side of the Westhorns are outraged that a group of women has created what appears to be an independent land. If Sillek refuses to conquer them, then he faces dissatisfaction here in Lornth, and possible greater loss of face and lands if Lord Karthanos takes matters even more into his hands." Zeldyan sets the goblet down and smiles. "Of course, Karthanos was unsuccessful, and that may be why he is requesting, so politely and indirectly, that Lord Sillek put his lands in order."

  
Ellindyja sips the green juice, blots her lips with a silksheen cloth, and replaces the goblet on the table. "You are suggesting something, my dear, but I am afraid that suggestion is not as clear its it might be."

  
Zeldyan shrugs. "Lord Karthanos is known for his cunning. Perhaps he has judged that this would-be country of women cannot be taken."

  
"That would seem unlikely. A mere handful of women?"

  
"Unlikely it might be, but were it so, and were my lord to squander his funds and forces upon the Roof of the World, then what would there be to keep Karthanos from acknowledging these women and then expanding his domains into such areas as Middlevale or eastern Cerlyn?"

  
Lady Ellindyja purses her lips, but for a sole moment. "You are dubious about the skills and valor of your lord?"

  
"I love, honor, and respect my lord, and that love, honor, and respect demand that I offer him my best judgment. No one stood against the eagles of the demons when they landed ages ago in Analeria, and I would rather my lord be cautious than suffer the fate of Lord Pertelo."

  
"Such caution would be wise, save that such caution would have all holders on both sides of the Westhorns clamoring for your lord's early departure from his stewardship."

  
"You may well be right, my lady, for most men are ever fools, and those who are not, such as my lord, are often captives of the multitudes," Zeldyan acknowledges.

  
"Lord Sillek must make his own destiny, and reclaim his patrimony. Would you have him do otherwise?" Ellindyja holds the glass, but does not sip from it.

  
"My lord must follow his destiny, as you have pointed out so clearly," answers Zeldyan. "Do have another pastry."

  
"One more," agrees the lady Ellindyja.

  
"Some more juice?"

  
"I think not, but you are so kind."

  
Zeldyan pours herself another half goblet, and her eyes flick, ever so briefly, to the cradle.

XCVIII

A FAINT LINE of sunlight crossed Nylan's face as he loaded more charcoal onto the forge coals started from wood. The basic planks for the smithy roof were in place, set almost clinker fashion, but in one or two places, thin beams of sunlight shone through.

  
There were no shutters, nor doors, nor a real floor. The only reason he had a roof was that Ryba and Fierral needed weapons, and that meant the ability to forge in poor weather. Would Westwind always rest on weapons?

  
The engineer-smith picked up the heavy iron/steel blade and extended his senses, studying the metal, following the grain. His lips curled as he felt the weakness that ran up what he would have called the spine of the blade. Not only did he not know smithing-he didn't even know the right terms.

  
He had no real tools, no real idea of how iron should be forged-just a basic understanding that a sort of waffled forging and reforging of steel and iron, combined with a quench that he developed more by feel than by physics, might improve the local product.