L. E. Modesitt - Fall of Angels

LORD NESSIL, THE ang-the strangers are just over the rise, not more than twenty rods beyond the tips of the gray rocks. The armsman in brown leathers keeps his voice low and looks up to the hatchet-faced man in the heavy purple cloak. Blotches of moisture have soaked through the armsman's leather trousers, and green smears attest to his crawling through underbrush and grass.

Lord Nessil brushes back a long lock of silver and black hair, then smiles. Are they as attractive as the screeing glass shows?

Pardoning Your Grace, but I wasn't looking at them that way. The armsman's eyes flicker to his right as another trooper leads his horse back to him. They don't seem bothered by the chill. They wear light garments, like they were in Lydiar in midsummer, but I wasn't looking beyond the clothes, more for blades, and only the black-haired wench bears one. A pair she has.

A pair of what? asks Nessil.

Lettar looks down at the grass.

For that, Lettar, you shall have one to enjoy. Nessil laughs softly. Women warriors, and only one has a blade. I shall enjoy this. He turns toward the wizard in white. What do your arts show, Wizard?

There are less than a score that I can scree there, eighteen in all, and but three men. They bear some strange devices that radiate some small measure of order, and others that bear some measure of chaos. They have set up a spindly windmill that will be ripped apart in the first good wind. Hissl inclines his head.

What would you have us do, Wizard?

I would like your men to preserve their devices. We might learn something from them. I cannot advise Your Grace on tactics, My Lord. You are the warrior. I can but say that they are likely to be more formidable than they appear. I cannot tell you why.

Nessil laughs again, still softly, but more harshly. You caution me that they could be formidable, but not why. Thus, if I succeed in capturing them all, I will be pleased. His face darkens. If I fail, you may claim you warned me. Wizard's double words! Ride beside me, Ser Wizard.

Pardoning Your Grace, but what shall we do? Ride down on them? asks Lettar.

No. We will be civilized. We will ride up and demand their surrender for trespass. That way, we might get them all. We do outnumber them more than three to one. Nessil looks at Hissl. And we get the wizard close enough to use his firebolts if need be.

What about the men?

If they resist, kill them. If not, we can always use them somewhere. Try to save as many of the women as you can. I've never had a silver-haired wench-or one with fire-red hair. Nessil offers a boyish grin and looks along the line of threescore mounted troopers. Shall we make our appearance? Bring out the banners. After all, we do come in peace, one way or another.

Hissl's eyes glaze slightly, as if he is no longer quite within his body.

Then the horsemen ride toward the low rise, over which looms the ice-needle peak that dominates the Roof of the World. The banners flap in the brisk wind that blows out of the north and spins the windmill beyond the crest of the hill.

The starflowers left in the meadow on the far side of the ridge-those that have not been destroyed by the cultivation or wilted as their season has passed-bend in the wind.