The Chaos Balance

LXXII

Nylan lowered the hammer and turned the cooling blade, but it looked and felt right. From the partial shade under the eaves, his eyes strayed toward the trampled grasslands beyond the corral, where Ayrlyn again worked the levies in the already hot mid-morning sun.

He smiled. No longer, not after the skirmishes, was there such reluctance to the drills. Some of that was doubtless because several of those who had been clumsy or reluctant were dead or wounded. Still, neither the other levies nor the professionals drilled, and, after a while, it might be a problem to keep upgrading the skills of the angel-led squads.

“You can stop pumping,” the smith added to Sias. “Take a quick break.”

Fornal strolled toward the makeshift smithy as the apprentice trotted toward the well and as Nylan slipped the blade into the cooling tank, not much more than brackish water, and not nearly so effective as what he had used on the Roof of the World.

“I see why you didn’t allow your trainees to practice with blades,” said Fornal. “Don’t the narrow blades break more often, though?”

Nylan set the blade on the forge stones to anneal before turning to face the black-bearded regent. “They might. We work on how to avoid taking a big blade straight-on. That’s hard on both the armsman and a blade. Besides, the point is to take out your enemy, not bang up his blade.”

Fornal nodded. “You have a different view of arms.”

“I suppose so. We don’t like to fight.” The smith shrugged. “If we have to, we want to get it over as quickly as possible, with as little injury to us or to our armsmen as possible.”

“Are all angels that way?”

“Most of them. Ryba likes to humiliate her personal opponents as quickly as possible, I think. She’s good enough that it’s never been a problem.” Looking over Fornal’s shoulder, Nylan could see a line of dust on the south road. “Do you have scouts out? Someone’s riding hard.”

The dark-haired regent glanced south for a minute, then back at Nylan. “Ours. Perhaps the Cyadorans are on the move.”

“I’d be surprised if they weren’t. Empires don’t like being stung by wasps, especially barbarian wasps.” Nylan grinned.

“You are pleased to think of yourself as an insect?”

“Fornal…as you pointed out, I’m more interested in what works than in how I look.” Except that you like to be well thought of as much as the next person. Nylan repressed a frown at the inadvertent self-correction. Whatever it was about Candar, he was having more and more trouble deceiving himself-about much of anything. “Not that I mind looking good,” he added to quiet the twinges in his skull.

“It is good to know that a terrible angel has some vanity.” Fornal did not quite grin as he waited.

“More than some,” Nylan admitted.

Fornal did offer a faint smile.

The rider guided his dust-streaked mount straight to Fornal, reining up, then swallowing as he looked at the regent. “Must be more than score twenty riding this way-still more than ten kays south, though,” panted the scout.

“Score twenty? All mounted?”

“Yes, ser.”

“Go,” snapped Fornal. “Send Huruc, Lewa, and the other angel here.”

The scout flicked the reins and turned his mount toward the barn.

“Should we fight?” asked the regent after the sweating scout trotted toward the barn barracks.

“Against that many? Why? We can keep picking them off, bit by bit. This attack just points out that what we’re doing is right.” Nylan paused as Ayrlyn rode up and dismounted.

She tied the chestnut to a corner post and stepped toward the two men, her face impassive. “Bad news? A big Cyadoran force?”

“Gifrac says there are score twenty,” answered Fornal.

“We must have upset them,” observed Ayrlyn.

“I don’t think it takes much,” said Nylan.

The three waited as Huruc and Lewa strode across the dusty ground toward them. The sole chicken pecked at the ground along the east side of the old barn, ignoring the hurrying humans and the armsmen who gathered and watched the five.

“Gifrac said the white demons were bringing score twenty against us.” Huruc’s voice was neutral.

Lewa just bobbed his head and waited.

“I do not like to retreat,” Fornal said. “You know that. But a dead commander does not fight again, nor does one without many armsmen.” He offered a grim smile. “We move to Syskar, and then…then we kill more white demons.”

“I’d better get the men loaded out,” said Huruc.

Lewa nodded once more and turned to follow the senior armsman.

“Ours are mostly mounted already, because of the drills this morning, but they’ll have to get gear.” Ayrlyn inclined her head to the regent, then turned and untied her mare.

As Fornal walked toward the dwelling, presumably to gather his own gear, Nylan turned back toward the smithy and an open-mouthed Sias.

“Sias! Unfasten the anvil-knock it loose if you have to. We don’t have time to waste. Dump the anvil, the bellows, and the tools in the wagon. Any of the bagged coal. Forget the loose coal.”

“We aren’t holding here?” A puzzled look crossed the face of the lank blond man, and he brushed back a lock of sweat-stained hair.

“Not this time.”

Sias shook his head. “I thought you angels…”

Nylan paused. “Sias…we’re not gods. We’re people, and the Cyadorans have about twentyscore troops marching this way. If I got lucky and wanted to commit suicide, maybe I could stop a dozen-individuals, not scores. How many could you stop?”

The armsman/apprentice looked down at the dusty clay. “…hoped…”

“We’re not giving up, damn it! In a couple of days, we’ll be back killing Cyadorans.” Unfortunately. “Now, let’s get this packed up so that we have the gear to keep giving them fits.”

He glanced toward the dwelling where Sylenia stood, Weryl in her arms. Her entire body posture reflected concern and confusion. “I’ll be right back. I need to get Sylenia moving, too. Start with the anvil and the tools….”