Fall of Angels

CI

AS THE SUN neared the western peaks, Nylan eased the blade he had labored over for more than a day into the quench, watching the color intently, noting the flickering effect created by the wavelike patterns of the hard-forged intertwinings of alloy and steel. When the purplish shade crossed the edge he eased the weapon out of the liquid and onto the bricks to cool in the gentle and dying heat from the forge.

The slightly curved blade, similar to but subtly different from the laser-forged blades, carried order and strength without as much of a black sheen to the metal.

“Another good one,” offered Huldran.

“Tomorrow, you can start one.”

“Me? It won’t be near as good as yours.”

“Mine weren’t as good as mine when I started, either, but I’ll be demon-damned if I’m going to be the only one slaving over weapons. Let’s bank this down. I’ve had it.”

Huldran nodded. “Cessya’s working on doors and shutters for us, sometimes.”

“Good. We might get them before the frosts.”

“That’s a season away, ser.”

“I know.” After piling the coals into the corner of the forge, Nylan took a strawgrass broom and began to sweep the now-packed clay floor clean. “The paving crew’s going to put in a stone floor next eight-day.”

“Do we need it?”

“No more than doors and windows.”

The blond guard gave the engineer-smith a crooked smile as she racked the tongs and the hammers.

A cough caught Nylan, and he looked up.

Relyn stood in the unfinished door. He pointed to the cooling blade. “That is better than those you forged with the fires of Heaven.”

“I don’t know about that,” Nylan said slowly, setting down the broom. “I do know that it’s slower-a lot slower.”

The one-handed man gave a single headshake. “With a simple forge, you create almost a master blade a day. No smith I know could touch that. It is as though you could see inside the metal.”

“Not that fast.” Nylan frowned. He did see into the metal with his senses, but didn’t most smiths on this crazy planet? He looked down at his hands, “I need to wash up.”

“I’ll finish here, ser. You did the hard work.”

“Pumping that bellows is no fun.”

“You can do that tomorrow,” Huldran suggested as Nylan walked out into the cooler air outside the smithy.

Relyn followed.

“What have you been doing?” Nylan turned downhill.

“What a one-handed man can do. Gather grasses for drying, find leaves from the teaberry bush for Blynnal, lead cart horses with loads of paving stones. I keep busy. This is not a place where a man should be lazy.”

“You could slip away.”

“Where would I go?” asked Relyn. “I am nothing in Lornth, and anywhere he is not known, a one-handed man is first considered a thief.”

“They don’t cut off hands for that here?”

“Not everywhere, but it is said they do in Certis and Lydiar. So …” Relyn shrugged. “I make myself useful here.Some of the women, like poor Blynnal, do talk to me. None of the angels do, except you, the healer, and some of the other silver-heads. You are the true angels, the ones who can hold the black of order.”

“I don’t think you have to have silver hair to appreciate order,” Nylan answered, his boots scuffing on the stone of the road.

The paved sections of the road ran from the causeway past the smithy and up to the mouth of the stable canyon and to the bridge over the outfall. Piles of stones lined the upper section of the road leading to the ridge, indicating where the next paving and road-building would occur.

A cart full of cut wood creaked toward the castle, the cart horse being led by Kyseen, who flicked the long leather leads not quite impatiently. Already, long piles of cut wood more than guard-high stretched in three rows along the west side of the road leading to the causeway, forming another wall between the low crude one that marked the exercise yard and the road and causeway to the south door of the tower.

Nylan sniffed the air. The wind out of the south carried the smell of damp ground from the irrigated fields, and the fresher smell of cut grass. On the air, also, was the sound of wooden wands against each other on the open expanse of the south exercise yard.

In the late afternoon, Saryn and Ryba, helped by Istril and Kadran, drilled the newer guards with wands that resembled the blades of Westwind.

Nylan permitted himself a half-bitter smile. His legacies would probably be Tower Black and the shape and killing ability of the guard blades. Sooner or later, if not for years, the composite bows would fail, but his efforts in the smithy proved that, to some degree, he could replicate blades without the laser. While the alloys helped, he suspected that a good local smith could do the same entirely with local steels.

As he paused to watch the practice, he noted that Ryba alone wore a slug-thrower, in addition to her twin blades, for the first time in seasons.

“Nylan! You can spare a moment to spar with us,” called Ryba.

He shrugged and walked forward.

“You know Nistayna. This is Liethya, and this is Quilyn.” Ryba surveyed the three. “Nistayna, you’re the farthest along.” Then she handed Nylan the wand she had used.

“So long as this isn’t for blood. I’m stiff,” protested Nylan.

“Wands up,” ordered the marshal.

Nylan lifted his wand, trying to get into the spirit of the sparring.

Nistayna seemed almost diffident, and Nylan easily slid around her wand and tapped a shoulder.

“Nistayna! You’ll get killed that way!” snapped Ryba. “Let me have your wand.”

Nylan began to understand what was happening, and he waited as Ryba squared her shoulders and lifted the wand.

Then he attacked, as well as he could. Ryba parried, and cut back. Nylan backpedaled. The wooden wands hurt, especially with the force Ryba used.

The engineer-smith tried to gather to himself some of the feeling of order and pattern he felt within the smithy and with a metal blade, and, as he did, the wand seemed lighter, and almost wove a moving net with Ryba’s wand.

For a time, neither he nor Ryba seemed able to touch the other. But Nylan’s legs, rather than his arms, gave out, and he stumbled. Ryba’s wand cracked his ribs.

“All right,” he groaned, with a forced laugh.

Ryba handed the wand to Nistayna, whose eyes were wide. “That is how good you must be.”

“The mage-he is better than any armsman I have seen.”

“He’s better than any I’ve seen,” added a male voice from the causeway, “and I’ve seen a few.” Relyn gave a crooked grin. “And she’s better than he is. Not by much, but enough for it to count in a battle.”

Ryba erased a momentarily puzzled look from her face, as she said to Nylan, “You’ve gotten better, much better. You aren’t practicing that much.”

“Smithing the hard way is good for arm strength,” he saidwryly, handing the wand back to Ryba. “It’s my footwork that suffers.”

Liethya and Quilyn still looked from Ryba to Nylan and back again.

“I’m going to wash up before the evening meal.” The smith pushed hair that needed cutting back off his damp forehead.

“You’re quitting before the sun sets and before it’s pitchdark?” Ryba asked in mock amazement.

“I got to a stopping place. I’ve got another blade finished that needs to be wrapped and sharpened.”

“I’ll have Fierral get it in the morning, if that’s all right.”

“Fine.”

“Back to your drills!” snapped Ryba. “You’ll drill until you can hold off anyone who’s not as good as the mage-or until your arms drop off.”

Nylan could sense the unvoiced groans. He would have groaned, too.

Siret, Istril, and Niera had the youngsters in one corner of the third level as Nylan trudged up. He waved, briefly, and got a smile from Niera. Istril had her back to the stairs, nursing Weryl, and Siret was juggling Kyalynn and Dephnay.

Shortly, Nylan trudged back down toward the bathhouse and a shower, carrying his cleaner leathers, the ones he wore when he wasn’t dealing with coals, metals, and sweat.

The bathhouse was warm, hot, with a fire in the stove. While the showers were empty and the fire burning down, the floor stones in two of the stalls were still wet. Nylan stripped and soaked himself. The water was not freezing, but not quite lukewarm, either, but he was hot enough that it didn’t matter as he took what passed for soap and lathered up. Then he shaved, by feel, no longer needing a mirror.

After he dried off, a process more like wiping the water off his body and letting the rest evaporate than toweling dry, he eased into the cleaner shirt and leather trousers and boots.

As he passed through the archway, he nearly ran into Huldran.

“How’s the water, ser?” Huldran was smeared with soot,and her hair was sweaty and plastered to her skull.

“Someone fired up the stove. It’s not bad.” He looked at the guard.

“I had Denize do it.”

“Thank you.”

“It was as much for me as you, ser,” said Huldran with a grin.

“I still appreciate it. Enjoy your shower.”

Huldran gave a half-nod as she padded barefoot toward the showers. Nylan opened the north door, noting that the archway didn’t seem to trap moisture in the summer the way it had in the winter.

“Excuse me, ser.” Kadran scurried past him and out the big south door to ring the triangle for the evening meal.

Almost before the echoes died away, guards appeared from everywhere-outside following Kadran in, and from the third level, trooping down to the main floor of the tower.

Nylan stood back in the generally unused space on the east side. If they could bring in more glass, then perhaps the space could be used for the children, eventually space for schooling. And that was something else-books. They needed to preserve the knowledge base.

He took a deep breath, trying to regain his mental balance before crossing the foyer area into the great room. The great room now held five tables, although the fifth was sometimes not used, and not full when in use.

As Nylan passed the empty fifth table, and then the fourth, most of the newer guards looked down, almost as much as when Ryba passed. Unlike the others, Nistayna offered a faint smile, and Niera just looked up with wide eyes.

“Better eat all your dinner,” he told the girl, feeling awkward, but feeling he should say something.

Istril stood, awkwardly holding a squirming Weryl. Nylan extended his hands, and Weryl thrust out his pudgy hands.

“All right, Weryl.” As the boy smiled, Nylan grinned and scooped him up. “He’s growing. You must be feeding him right.”

Both Istril and Nylan blushed when he realized the inappropriateness of the remark.

“I tried one of the new blades,” began Istril after the awkward silence. “I like it even better than the others, even if I won’t be using it in battle for some time yet.”

“The new ones are a lot more work.” Nylan paused and shifted Weryl as his son’s fingers probed at his jaw. “Why do you like it better?”

“It feels more solid.”

“It’s heavier. That might be one reason. There’s more iron in it.”

“Not that much. The balance could be better.”

Blynnal passed, carrying one of the caldrons filled with sauce and meat.

“The last of the salted horse meat, dressed and sauced to disguise the taste.”

“Not the last,” prophesied Istril.

Nylan glanced across the table, but Siret was not around.

“She’s up nursing Dephnay. Kyalynn was still sleeping,” Istril explained. “I’ll feed Dephnay later.”

“How is that going?” Nylan shifted Weryl again to keep from being poked in the eye.

“Not that well. It’s a good thing both Siret and I can nurse. Dephnay has trouble with even the softest solid foods.”

Kadran passed them, hauling a second caldron, this one filled with what looked to be noodles.

“Fire noodles,” laughed Istril.

“They’re not bad.”

“How would anyone know? They’re so hot you can’t taste anything.”

Ryba entered the great room, holding Dyliess to her shoulder, and walked down the other side of the tables.

“Come on, Weryl,” said Istril, taking her son back. “Your father needs to eat, too. You already did.”

“Oooo …”

Nylan gently disengaged Weryl’s fingers and made his way to his place at the first table.

“Do you want to eat first or second?” he asked Ryba.

“First, if you don’t mind.”

“No problem.” He reached out and eased Dyliess into his lap.

“I can’t tell which of you she looks like,” offered Ayrlyn, sitting across from Nylan. “When I look at you, Ryba, and then at Dyliess, you look the same, except for the hair. But the same thing is true when I look at Nylan.”

Huldran slid into the seat next to Nylan. “Too early to tell, but she seems to favor both. Doesn’t matter. She’ll be a handsome woman whichever way.”

“What do you think of the new blades, Huldran?” Ryba asked after chewing and swallowing a mouthful of meat, sauce, and noodles.

Nylan eased Dyliess to his left knee and sipped the cool tea, then reached for the bread and awkwardly broke off a dark steaming chunk.

“Some ways, I like them better. There’s more weight there, and they seem to be just as tough. Maybe we should give the older ones, the first ones, to the smaller guards, or the newer ones.”

Her mouth full, Ryba nodded.

“The engineer, he’s teaching me how.” Huldran shook her head. “Never thought making a single small piece of steel would take so much work. But the new blades, they’ve got enough heft to make it easier to stand up to those crowbars-the kind Gerlich liked.”

When Ryba did not respond immediately, Ayrlyn asked, “Do we have any idea what he’s up to? Gerlich, I mean?”

“He doesn’t like the heat. So I can’t imagine he’s too far down in the lowlands,” mused Nylan.

“He’s trying to gather an army to attack Westwind. I suppose,” Ryba added after a pause.

Nylan’s stomach sank at the timing of the pause. Ryba wasn’t guessing.

“Do you think he’ll be successful?” asked Huldran.

“He took a lot of coin and some old weapons,” said Ayrlyn.

“I’d guess we’d see him in late summer, before harvest,”speculated Ryba. “Hired armsmen would be cheaper then.”

“He’ll try something sneaky. He’s that type,” said Huldran.

“True,” agreed Ryba.

Nylan grabbed Dyliess’s wandering hand just in time to keep his mug from being knocked over. “Hold it, little one. You don’t drink tea. I do.”

Ryba continued to eat, almost silently, her eyes half glazed over. When she was done, she held out her arms, and Nylan ate.

Dyliess began to fuss, and Ryba rose, nodding. “Excuse me, but my young friend here has some plans for me.” With a quick smile, the marshal was gone.

“She’s preoccupied,” Ayrlyn observed.

“Wouldn’t you be?” offered Huldran. “She’s got a lot to worry about.”

So do we all, thought Nylan, without speaking his thoughts. So do we all.

After the evening meal, Nylan walked uphill in the twilight, past the doorless and windowless smithy, and then northward until he came to a small hillock of rocks that overlooked the lander shell still used to store grasses and hay. The drying racks, half filled with grass, stretched across the space between the meadow and the rising rocky hills to the west. One empty rack lay broken and sprawled on the rocky ground.

The brighter stars were appearing in the south, one on each side of the ice-tipped Freyja. As the evening deepened, more points of light appeared, and no star looked that different to Nylan from those he had seen from Heaven. Only the patterns in the sky were different.

The wind had switched, and blew cooler and out of the north. Nylan sat on a smooth boulder and looked at the bulk of Tower Black, and at the dark fields beyond, and the lighter stones of the cairns to the southeast. So many cairns for such a short time, and he had no illusions. The number of cairns would continue to grow.

“Nylan?”

He looked down in the direction of the drying racks.

Ayrlyn stood at the base of the rocks. “Would you mind if I climbed up to talk to you? You look like you need someone to talk to. I do.”

Nylan waved her up and waited until she settled on a boulder beside him. Unlike Nylan, who sat in the dark in a shirt, the healer wore shirt, tunic, and a light ship jacket.

“Neither you and Ryba talk much anymore.”

“What is there to talk about? The situation seems impossible, that’s all. I feel so awkward. Weryl’s my son, and Kyalynn’s my daughter, and I’ve never touched Istril or Siret.” He laughed, a soft harsh sound. “Except with a wand in sparring. Yet I feel that Ryba wants me to ignore them. Even though it wasn’t my idea, they are my children.”

“You try so hard. Siret and Istril know that.”

“Does trying count? Or is Ryba right, that, in the end, only survival and results count?” He cleared his throat. “Oh, there are all the religions and philosophies about life being worth nothing if it isn’t lived well-but all that’s written for people who have the time and the resources to read, not for a bunch of high-tech refugees trying to scrape together a future on a cold mountaintop.”

“Go on,” said Ayrlyn.

“All I do is cobble together infrastructures that most places have years, if not decades, to build-and figure out better low-tech weapons for Ryba to train people to use. Every time someone dies, it hurts.”

Ayrlyn nodded.

“But I’m supposed to ignore that, too.” He paused. “I’m feeling too sorry for myself. The deaths hurt you, too.”

“Death’s everywhere, Nylan. We could have died on the Winterlance. Maybe we did. Maybe this is all an elaborate illusion.”

“It’s no illusion.” He glanced up at the cold stars. “There, I didn’t feel each death personally.”

“This might be better,” reflected Ayrlyn. “Death was a sanitary and distant occurrence there. It just happened-light-minutes away at the end of a de-energizer. No moredemons. Or no more angels. And we could ignore it. Here we can’t.”

“Most people can-here or there. We just can’t.”

Ayrlyn’s hand touched his forearm.

“Your fingers are cold.” He took her hand in his, then looked up again. The stars above were bright. Bright and unfamiliar. Bright and cold. He squeezed her fingers, gently.