Fall of Angels (The Saga of Recluce #6)(136)

The thin man started to reach for the bow.

"I would not touch that bow, not if you wish to live," said Ryba, her voice carrying across the suddenly silent trail and woods.

The burly man reined in the black stallion, a trace of foam at the edge of his mouth, and skittering at his rider's rough handling.

"Nistayna's my woman, and no mountain women are going to take her away. You keep her, and I'll have every man in Linspros here to tear down your fancy tower. Yes, we've heard about your tower, and no tower's going to stop us."

"That would mean a lot of graves," pointed out Ryba.

Nistayna shivered, but stood straight.

"I want my woman back. Now."

"You don't own her." Without taking her eyes off Surba, Ryba asked, "Do you wish to return with him?"

"No. I would die first." The words were soft, but firm. "We both would."

Ryba's lips curled. "They do not like you much."

"They are mine, and they will return with me."

"I think not."

Surba looked at the four bows trained on him. Then he looked at Nylan, who had drawn his blade, but not lifted it. His eyes darted to the blond man, who shook his head. Finally, he answered Ryba, "There are a lot more of you than us, but we'll be back, and we'll tear that tower down stone by stone."

"I see," said Ryba. "So you and your friend just rode after this woman, and I'll bet you didn't even bother to tell anyone where you were going. You just thought you'd ride her down and beat her and take her back. Is that it?"

"Real men don't have to tell anyone where they're going." He shrugged. "All of Linspros knows me. No one walks on Surba."

"I wouldn't think of it," murmured Ryba. She nodded at Berlis, then slowly took out her throwing blade. She rode forward slowly, stopping a dozen paces away from the stallion. "Do you know what this is?"

"It's a toy blade."

Ryba smiled, and the blade flashed from her hand.

The burly man slumped over the saddle, tried to straighten up, and finally did. "Bitch .. . dirty . . . bitch." The stallion whickered and skittered sideways. "... unfair . . ."

Nistayna's hand went to her mouth, then her arms went around her daughter, and she turned so the child looked to the forest.

"It's so fair to beat someone who can't flee or fight back," murmured the marshal. "So honorable ..."

The slender hard-faced man took one look at the dying man, ducked to one side of his mount, and spurred the beast toward the woods.

"Get him!" Ryba ordered, urging the roan after Pretar.

Fierral nocked and released an arrow. So did the other four guards.

The blond man and the horse went down, the horse screaming.

Nylan's legs felt weak, and he forced himself to remain erect, despite the white flashes of death that washed over him. He was glad he hadn't been forced to use his blade, but how often could he avoid it on this frigging brutal planet?

"Damn!" muttered Fierral. "That was a good horse."

Ryba studied the two corpses before riding back to Nistayna. "One always pays for freedom." Her voice was cold. "I hope you will use that freedom well."

Nistayna looked from the marshal to Nylan.

"Angels are not sweet, lady," he added. "They are often just and terrible, and few indeed are strong enough for justice." Even as he spoke, he wondered how just murdering two men had been.

With a sigh, he walked toward Fierral. "Put the bodies on the cart. I'll take them up to the tower. Then, after I unload, I'll send someone down with the cart for the horse. Maybe Blynnal can make a few meals out of it."

Nylan glanced from Fierral to Ryba, still seated on the roan. Ryba shifted her weight in the saddle, and he realized that the ride had been painful for her.

"This was a setup." She answered his unspoken question. "Either they brought her back, and that proved we could be intimidated or taken, or they came back empty-handed, and set it up for an army. This way, no one knows for sure." She shrugged. "People don't like to send out armies or armed forces when they don't know what happened."

She turned the roan back toward the tower. "Hryessa?"

The young guard drew her mount beside the marshal as the two horses slowly walked uphill.

"Stupid . . . they were stupid . .." muttered Berlis.

Nylan looked from Ryba to the two refugees, and then to the bodies on the cart. While he understood Ryba's logic, he couldn't say he was pleased with the speed with which it was made and the dispatch with which it was executed. Literally executed, he reflected sardonically.

He turned toward the gray mare, wondering again. Ryba anticipated trouble, and in any "civilized" world, that would be called murder. Yet . . . was preventing abuse and death through death exactly wrong? He shook his head. The problem was that you couldn't always be sure that a killing before the fact was justified, visions or no visions.

He untied the leather leads to the cart horse and flicked them. The wheels creaakked as he resumed the long climb up to the ridge, the tower, and the smithy site.





LXXXIII



AT THE THRAP on the door, Hissl turns from the window. The knocking continues when he does not move.