L. Modesitt - Fall of Angels

Zeldyan nods to Sillek to keep speaking as she eases Nesslek into the cradle and starts to rock it gently.

“ … now Ildyrom is as devious as a giant water lizard and about twice as dangerous. What if he’s backing Hissl, not directly, but through some adventurers? Ildyrom can’t lose. If Hissl wins, I lose the wizard that’s kept him at bay. I also lose face, and that’s a problem with the holders that will tie me up. If Hissl loses, that’s worse. Those angels will have enough plunder that it will take all the free armsmen in Candar to pry them out. And even more women will start fleeing unhappy situations here and in Gallos, and whatever it is, those people on the Roof of the World know how to fight and to teach other to fight. So all my holders will be up in arms if I don’t act. So will Karthanos. And Ildyrom, with his pledge not to take the grasslands, loses nothing, only a small chest of coins. Even if I win, it will be a bloody mess, and it will be years before we could consider more than holding on to what we already have.”

“That’s more than enough now,” Zeldyan points out.

“I know that. But from Ildyrom’s position, a few coins behind Hissl is a cheap way to weaken Lornth no matter what happens. And I can’t afford to stop Hissl, either. That’s what’s so demonish about it.”

Zeldyan lets the cradle slow and steps back. Nesslek snuffles momentarily, but continues to sleep. She turns to Sillek.“You can tell me more later. We can talk when he’s awake. Unless you’re too sleepy?”

“Never.”

“Good.” She leans over and blows out the candles.

THE AIR WAS still, hot, and humid-for the Roof of the World-in the brickworks canyon. The three who toiled beside the stream were soaked in sweat, except where their boots and trousers were damp from the running water.

One knee-high line of rocks and bricks mortared together ran from the north side of the stream to the canyon wall. On the south side of the stream a trench extended toward the hill that straddled the middle of the canyon. There, Rienadre, Denalle, and Nylan struggled to remove the silty and clayfilled soil, at least enough to provide footings for the crude retaining wall that would, Nylan hoped, form the millpond.

Nylan paused and leaned on the shovel, wishing he had explosives, even crude black powder, but while he could make charcoal, he hadn’t seen or heard of anything resembling sulfur or potassium nitrate. As for more sophisticated explosives-gun cotton or blasting gelatin-he was no chemist. None of them were.

Clank …

“Friggin’ rocks,” muttered Denalle, attempting to lever a stone more than a cubit long and half as thick and wide out of the trench. Nylan lifted his shovel, and the two of them levered it out of the way.

The engineer-smith blotted his forehead and began digging again.

Rienadre walked up from where she had been toiling nearer the stream, halted by Nylan, and gestured. “Is where I’ve outlined that second channel far enough from the first?”

Nylan stopped digging momentarily. His eyes followed her gesture. “Should be. We’ll put a small gate in each spot. That way we can drain the pond if it’s necessary for repairs.”

“Why two?” puffed Denalle.

“The stream has to have somewhere to go while we’re working on the first one,” answered Rienadre for Nylan. “Same’s true when we go back to work on the second one.”

“Just when I think we’re done making bricks,” commented Denalle as Rienadre passed, “the engineer comes up with something else. We’ll never be done.”

“We weren’t ever done when we were marines, either.” Rienadre started to walk down toward the stream. “Rather take my chances against the locals than the demons of light.”

“Maybe,” grunted Denalle as she thrust the shovel into the ground. “But dying here is dirty, and it hurts more.”

As Nylan kept digging, his thoughts spun through the shafts, the gearing and mill structure. He was probably stuck with an overshot wheel, just because he knew how to make that work, but somewhere he had the notion that an undershot wheel was more efficient-or was it the other way around? How would he have known that kind of knowledge would come in useful?

Nylan lifted out another shovelful of dirt and clay. He had to have thought of a sawmill, hadn’t he? And half the guards had to bitch about it, because none of them could see that the mill mechanism could be used for dozens of applications. Why was it that no one ever liked the practical side of things, in songs, trideo dramas, or in real life? No, the people who were practical always lost to the warriors and the glory hounds. He shook his head and kept digging.

CLOUDS SCUDDED QUICKLY across the greenish-blue morning sky, leaving the Roof of the World intermittently darkened by fast-moving shadows. Gusts of wind, cooled by the ice-capped peaks to the west, whipped back and forth those few scrawny firs that clung to crevices in the walls of the narrow canyon above the Westwind stables.

Nylan checked the shovels and other gear strapped to the back of the mare’s saddle. Another long day of earth-moving and rock-mortaring! In an eight-day or so, they might even be able to start work on the mill’s foundation. He patted the mare’s shoulder and led her out into the light. “Come on, lady.”

At the end of the stables, Ryba stood, talking to Istril, Hryessa, and Ydrall. All three guards stood before saddled mounts, and all three were fully armed with twin blades and bows.

Nylan paused, then strained to listen, his hand absently patting the mare to quiet her.

“ … they won’t try a frontal attack. Even Gerlich isn’t that stupid. So your job is to scout around the area and discover any possible place they could bring up horses and armed men … start with the second canyon there. Look for traces on the trees and bushes, up high. Remember, the snow was deep …”

The engineer-smith swung up into the saddle, teetering there awkwardly for a moment. He still wasn’t totally comfortable riding, but one way or another he’d eventually learned. He didn’t have any real alternatives to horses and skis, it appeared. He flicked the brown mare’s reins and slowly rode toward the three guards who listened intently to Ryba.

“Just a moment. I need a word with the engineer before he heads off down to the lower works,” Ryba said, stepping back from the guards and turning toward Nylan.

The engineer-smith reined up.

“Do what you can down at the mill over the next few days.” Ryba lowered her voice. “After that, I’d like you and Rienadre and Denalle to stay close to the tower.”

“Gerlich?”

Ryba nodded. “I can’t tell when, but it feels like it won’t be long.”

“Do you want me to get the weapons laser ready?”

“No. We’ll need that later, when we face a real army.”

“If we don’t stop Gerlich, there won’t be a later.”

“I know.”

The flatness of her voice stopped Nylan. After a moment, he said, “All right.”

After another silence, she added, “You can work on more blades, if you would. We’ll need those, too, as many as you and Huldran can make.”

“A good anvil would help,” Nylan said.

“Tell Ayrlyn. It’s a good investment.” She flashed him a quick smile, bright and shallow.

“We’ll hold off on the millrace and the mill. We might get the pond finished in the next few days. Then, we can certainly go back to forging a few blades.”

“Good.” Ryba turned back to the guards, continuing almost as though she hadn’t talked to Nylan. “Gerlich should have left traces, bent branches, scars. He might even have marked a trail. Look for them …”