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That still leaves us on the point, Nylan said, not quite sacrificial
goats, since we volunteered. He stood and surveyed the yard, watching as
Weryl trudged behind Sylenia, his small sandaled feet raising puffs of yellow
dust.
After the time in the grove, do you think it s wrong? asked the redhead.
It could be futile.
It could be, but what are the alternatives? After what Ryba and we have
done, we wouldn t last a moment anywhere else. We have to see this through,
and I have the feeling that things will just keep getting harder. He forced a
smile. Why do I think that?
Because they always do.
He took a deep breath. Time to check the makeshift distillery, and the
makeshift forge, and the makeshift grenade fabrication facilities, and the
makeshift whatever s next to be makeshifted& Then he looked down at the
blade. He really didn t need that-or did he?
No! Leave me alone!
Not two dozen cubits from where Nylan stood, a squat armsman had accosted
Sylenia, grasping her free arm. He laughed, once, twice.
The nursemaid threw the bucket-water and all-at the armsman. Even before
the bucket slammed into the man s face, Sylenia had scooped up Weryl and begun
to run toward the dwelling.
Nylan jumped off the stoop and headed toward the armsman.
From the area by the shed barracks, another figure sprinted toward Sylenia,
drawing a blade as he ran. A handful of levies turned, as if in slow motion.
With water and blood streaming across his tunic, Tregvo- it had to be
Tregvo-pulled out his crowbar blade and lumbered after Sylenia-and Weryl.
Weryl! Almost without thinking, Nylan yanked his shortsword from the
scabbard. As Sylenia darted toward him, he stepped to one side and threw the
blade, automatically smoothing the flows around the dark iron.
The heavy blade slammed through Tregvo s chest and drove him over
backwards, to the clay, pinning him there. The squat armsman s mouth opened,
closed, then opened, and hung there, under sightless eyes. & glare of the
demons&
& see why you don t threaten an angel&
& glad he s on our side&
Sylenia stood shivering on the stoop, shuddering despite the early morning
heat. & told me awful things& what he& would&
Enyah& Weryl said plaintively. Enyah. Ayrlyn touched the black-haired
woman s shoulder. It s all right. It s over.
But it wasn t, Nylan knew as he walked toward the dead man, absently noting
that puffs of dust rose with each step he took.
Tonsar reached the corpse first and tugged at the blade. Neither corpse nor
blade moved. He yanked again, then pulled aside Tregvo s shirt. Metal glinted.
The subofficer s mouth was the next one to open.
Nylan stopped beside the burly Tonsar, trying to conceal the headache that
throbbed through his skull. The last thing he needed was to have to kill in
camp. He bent and retrieved the blade, wiping it on the dead man s tunic, then
sheathed it, squinting against both the glare of the low sun and his headache.
I am glad you were near, ser angel, Tonsar said. Though I would have liked
to have struck him down.
I wish you could have, Nylan said, meaning every word. His head kept
throbbing, and his eyes watered from the pain behind them. For the hundredth
time or so he wondered why. What was it? Why did it strike him and Ayrlyn? Did
the sensitivity go with the ability to use the planet s order fields?
And why had he even been carrying a blade? He never did around the camp.
Had it been subconscious aggression against Fornal? Would Tregvo be dead if
Nylan hadn t reacted to Fornal s baiting of the night before?
I would have used mine on him, sooner or later, Ayrlyn said quietly,
beside his shoulder, having arrived so silently he had not even noticed. But
I wonder about the mail vest.
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So did Nylan. Another of Fornal s intrigues, designed to show the
capriciousness of the angels, and how they interfered with the rights of
real men? Or just coincidence? Or just an indication of the cultural
conflict that he and Ayrlyn were generating, just by example?
Somehow, Nylan doubted that he d ever find a clear answer. Nothing was ever
clear. Of that he was certain, quite certain.
Iyltar, Borsa-strip and bury this vermin, Tonsar ordered, sheathing his
blade, his eyes turning to the quarters stoop, where Sylenia sat on the
bench, still holding Weryl, as though the child were a talisman.
CII
IN THE DARKNESS past midnight, the air was almost cool enough to be
comfortable as Nylan stood and stretched, and stretched again.
Ready? asked Ayrlyn.
Ready as I m likely to ever be for this sort of thing. He turned and
embraced the redhead, and they held each other for a long moment in the
silence broken only by the faint chirping of some insect.
Well& she finally said.
Nylan let go. As she headed toward Borsa s inert form, he turned and walked
over to the sleeping Tonsar, curled on his right side. Time to rise and
shine. The angel tapped the other s boot with his own, not quite certain how
the burly armsman would react.
What& ?& dark& mumbled Tonsar.
That s the idea, remember? Nylan forced cheerfulness into his voice.
Now? Borsa asked. It s still dark.
Now, insisted Ayrlyn, moving toward Vula.
Slowly, the squad awakened, and began to check mounts and arms.
No one will expect an attack at this demon-awful hour, grumbled Tonsar,
adjusting his saddle, his fingers fumbling slightly in the darkness. Truly,
they are the dark angels. We stumble and trip, and they move as if it were
daylight.
Nylan s night vision wasn t that good-the depth of night was more like
twilight to him-but it probably seemed that way to the struggling armsmen.
The breeze was strong, almost a real wind, reflected Nylan, and he could
understand why some animals in the Grass Hills might well prefer the night to
the day. He would, if he weren t hardwired to be such a day person.
After checking his mare, he turned to Ayrlyn, who had stretched out on the
ground again, presumably sending her perceptions out on the wind once more to
check the Cyadoran camp. Nylan waited, while the rest of the squad packed
bedrolls and formed up behind Tonsar.
Anything? he asked when Ayrlyn finally shifted her weight, indicating her
perceptions had returned to her body.
Nothing. I think half the sentries must be asleep.
Nylan could sense the sadness behind her words, and he half-nodded! He was
beginning to understand Fornal s feelings. What they were doing was nothing
short of despicable- but it was necessary to stop people who were despicable
all the time, rather than just in war. The problem with honor was that history
had demonstrated all too clearly on all too many planets that it wasn t
terribly effective against an enemy unless you had superior forces, and that
was what they didn t have. All they had was a better catapult that could heft
larger incendiary grenades with a much nastier and longer-and-hotter-burning
fluid and an even larger supply of the ceramic grenades. All in all, he
hoped-mostly-that their improvements would penetrate the thick-walled
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