“They are cowards,” added Sias. “Not like you.”
Thanks for the setup, Sias, Nylan thought, sensing Ayrlyn’s grin as they rode through the empty square and the closed chandlery. The white-plastered walls of the buildings looked gray and dingy in the fading light.
The burned-out inn remained burned out, but the charred sign had fallen from its brackets-or been knocked from them.
The far side of Rohrn was also shuttered and silent.
Several armsmen turned from a woodpile as the group rode past the perimeter guards and toward the barracks.
“The angels…”
“They have returned…”
The mutterings and the whispers seemed to go on and on, although Nylan and Ayrlyn had not even reached the stable when the dark-bearded Fornal appeared in the twilight, flanked by two armsmen with torches that flickered in the light breeze. In the wavering light, shadows chased each other across the regent’s face.
“I am so glad you have returned.” Fornal’s voice was lazily cold. “The white legions are less than three days’ march to the southwest, and they have seared the grasslands for kays around them. The holders ask what good was our victory at the mines, and you are not here to answer.”
“We have returned, as we promised.” Nylan’s voice sounded ragged to himself, and he hated sounding weak, especially in front of Fornal.
“That you did.”
The two armsmen glanced from the regent to the angels and back again.
In the whispering quiet, Gethen walked into the vague circle of torchlight, followed by Zeldyan, whose blond hair glinted in the dimness.
“You have returned.” Gethen’s voice was flat. “But you return alone.”
“You suspect the worst, but we have returned before we must fight,” Ayrlyn said quietly, her hand on her blade’s hilt. “And we are here to fight.”
Gethen looked askance momentarily before turning his eyes back to Nylan and quickly smoothing his face.
“Fairly spoken,” grudged Zeldyan, her eyes on Ayrlyn, ignoring Sylenia. “What aid or succor do you bring? Is there any hope?”
“Yes,” answered Nylan. For all the gratitude you have…
Ayrlyn suppressed a wince at his thoughts, and the smith felt ashamed. The Lornians were desperate, deservedly so.
“Where did you go?” asked Gethen.
“To the magic forest…to the enemy of Cyador,” replied Ayrlyn quickly.
Nylan added, “We went to the Accursed Forest. It is real, and it is accursed-at least for the Cyadorans. And it will help us defeat them.”
“What is the price?” asked Zeldyan. “Our submission to some green goddess?”
“It is not a god or goddess.” Nylan shook his head. “The forest-it thinks of itself as ‘Naclos’ or something like that-the one that is and always will be-only needs the lands that are now eastern Cyador. I doubt it will ever need or want more. That was its historic range, before the ancient whites destroyed and confined it.”
“That is all?”
“Look at Nylan,” Ayrlyn commanded. “Look closely.”
Silence fell. Gethen motioned to one of the armsmen with a torch, who stepped warily toward the angels.
“He is aged.”
“Ten years, maybe more.”
“So have you, lady,” Zeldyan acknowledged. “You did this for us?”
“No,” answered Nylan with a faint smile. “We did it because it needs to be done. If it did not…” he shrugged, “we’d probably be dead.”
“You seem to have risked much for a people to whom you owe little,” said Gethen.
“We hope…we hope…to find a place where we are welcome.” Nylan took a deep breath. “We’ve been riding from dawn to beyond sunset for more than an eight-day, except once,” he added. “We want to live in peace and in harmony.” Realizing he was so tired that he was repeating himself, Nylan snorted. “And we’ll spend the rest of our lives fighting to do so-that’s what being human is all about, anyway.” He paused, then added, “We would like some food and rest before the Cyadorans get here.”
“As you wish, mighty angels.” Fornal offered a deep bow. “As you wish.” He turned and marched into the darkness.
“Have you heard what has occurred in your absence?” asked Gethen. “Ildyrom lies dead, and even his bitch consort fell. Their mounts are cinders or scattered hundreds of leagues across the grasslands. Clynya, on both sides of the river, is in ashes and ruins, and the white demons march toward Rohrn.”
“We rode through Clynya. We know.” Nylan dismounted slowly. “All except about Ildyrom. He was the lord of Jerans, wasn’t he?”
Zeldyan nodded.
“They know of the demons and their fires. They have already destroyed fivescore of the white demons,” added Sylenia. “Just to return to Rohrn.”
“Is that true?” asked Zeldyan.
“Yes.” Nylan coughed. His legs ached, as they did after every day’s ride, and his neck and shoulders were stiff again. “We’re still learning. It’s costly.” He led the mare toward the stable doors.
“That aged them,” interjected Sylenia.
“You have a champion,” said Gethen with a half-laugh.
“You have changed, Sylenia,” said Zeldyan. “Best you remain with the angels.”
“If I must.” Sylenia nodded toward the regent. “If I must, Lady.”
“You are dangerous, angels,” said Zeldyan. “You will change all of Lornth before you are done. In that, Fornal was correct.”
“Hardly dangerous,” suggested Ayrlyn as she dismounted. “Just tired and sore.”
Zeldyan offered a faint smile. “I said you would return, and your quarters are ready.” She inclined her head. “Nesslek is waiting for me.”
“How is he?” asked Nylan.
“Well, and hungry.” Another nod, and the blond was gone.
“I needs must attend to…certain matters.” Gethen nodded and disappeared into the darkness.
“Once again, we’ve made ourselves so welcome.” Nylan’s laugh was low and bitter.
“You are too powerful for them,” said Sylenia.
Was that true? They were tired and all too human. Nylan shook his head. Too powerful? When they were outcasts wherever they went? Powerful? Hardly. Just tired and grasping at less than straws in a world where the only constant was the need for force.
The engineer began to lead his mare toward her stall.
CXXXVIII
“They have returned…as they promised,” pointed out Gethen.
“Yes, my sire. They keep their word. Always do they keep their word, and each time, Lornth changes.” Fornal’s words were slow, measured. One hand dropped to his waist, where his fingers tightened around the hilt of the dagger at his belt. “What can I say? They have killed more of the white demons than any of us, yet still the white demons threaten to destroy all we hold dear. If whatever magic they have brought does destroy the Cyadorans, will it also not destroy Lornth?”
“Can we afford to lose their aid now?” asked Gethen, sitting upright in the old wooden chair, a chair pushed away from the table on which still rested a half a loaf of dark bread, a partly cut wedge of cheese, and an earthenware mug. The older regent’s blade, still in its sheath, lay half across Gethen’s knees. One hand was circled loosely around the hilt.
“Yet, in little ways, they will destroy Lornth. A nursemaid looks at me as though I were the serf. My armsmen question me silently. What will come next?” Fornal eased his fingers from the dagger’s hilt.
“If we win, we can work out something. We still hold Rulyarth, and Ildyrom is dead.”
“That may be true. Yet I say that should they bring down the Cyadorans, that success will bring down the Lornth I have known and given my life to serve. This I cannot prove, nor have they been other than honorable in their own way. But our Lornth will be no more.”
“If they cannot defeat the white ones, our Lornth will cease tomorrow.” Gethen touched his gray beard with his left hand.