L. Modesitt - Fall of Angels

“Those who do not use resources while they can often wish they had.” The needle flashes, as though it contained a silver flame.

“A good thought, provided one knows the price of such resources.” Sillek leans forward slightly.

“You lost a wizard-a foolish one, but a strong one-because you attempted to regain your heritage indirectly. Indirection does not become your father’s son.” The first droplet of blood is complete, and Ellindyja’s needle begins the second, darting through the pale linen like a rapier.

“I suppose you’re right, especially since I have no choice.”

Ellindyja sets the embroidery hoop down, and her eyes fix on her son’s. “Lord, you never had a choice. A lord whose holders believe he cannot hold his own lands will not trust him to guard theirs. A lord who allows their women to flee will find his holders demanding his women, and his head. A lord who will not protect his holders against attacks on what they hold dear cannot long count on holding even his own tower, let alone his lands.” She lifts the embroidery, and the needle flashes.

Sillek nods ever so slightly, but says nothing.

“It has been so nice that you came to visit me, dear,” Ellindyja says sweetly. “And do tell your lady that I appreciate her kindness. I would not keep you now, for there must be much you must do.” The needle knots at the back of the second droplet of blood.

Sillek rises. “I do appreciate your wisdom, Mother, and your indirectly forthright expressions, as well as all thoseconversations with your old friends, which have helped to leave me little choice. Still, I trust you will recall that I sought your counsel before I began my preparations to reclaim my patrimony. And I will certainly convey your thanks to Zeldyan. She is most respectful of you.”

“And I of her, dear.” Ellindyja smiles as Sillek bows before departing. “And I of her.”

“EASY, EASY …” THE three new guards, led by Ydrall, eased the heavy section of log into the hole.

Nylan nodded. “Wedge it in place with the heavy stones.”

Two of the guards began to roll a round stone toward the hole while the other two braced the log in place.

Nylan surveyed the two lines of holes. Each hole was about eight cubits from the next, and the first line lay just short of the top of the ridge on the tower side, below the narrowest point between the rock outcroppings that constricted the open space on each end. Still, the distance was over two hundred cubits, and that was a lot of engineering in what might be a very short time.

If he couldn’t complete the pike line he had in mind, perhaps a cable that could be raised at the last moment would provide some carnage. Nylan massaged his temples. Ryba’s thoughts about power notwithstanding, designing destructive systems still gave him headaches.

A single horse broke away from the mounted drills and started up toward Nylan and his crew. After leaving the paved lower section of the road by the tower, Saryn turned her mount from the packed clay trail and rode up across the grassy slope toward Nylan.

“The marshal said you were going to try something else,” Saryn said as she reined up. “Are you putting up a fence?Those posts are more than a half cubit across, and you’ve sunk them nearly two cubits deep. Isn’t that a lot of work? A fence isn’t going to stop a horde of armsmen, not for long, anyway.”

“It’s not a fence.” Nylan offered a wry smile. “And it is a lot of work. If I get time, there will be two lines of these posts, and what goes with them.” Nylan wiped his damp forehead.

“Do you want to explain?” Saryn surveyed the lines of holes, turning in the saddle.

“Not really, except that I’m trying to put something together to cause trouble for any attackers. If I can get it in place and it works, then I’ll let you know. If I don’t, then I won’t feel so stupid for promising something.”

Saryn shook her head as she rode back toward the road.

Ydrall watched the exchange with a puzzled look.

Nylan hoped everyone stayed puzzled.

The idea was simple enough-semiautomatic pikes-a whole line of pikes attached to stringers or crossbeams, weighted to slip up at the right angle and set to ground if a horse and rider impacted them.

Nylan had set them on the flat just over the crest of the hill. All an attacker would see would be a line of squat pillars, with nothing between them until the last moment-he hoped.

As the crew finished wedging the second post in place, he nodded to the third hole. “Let’s try for another.” He picked up one section of the harness, and they began to drag the log toward the next hole, while behind them, two of the guards tamped soil in between the wedging rocks.

Below them, another crew supervised by Weindre was building a fortified platform for the weapons laser-to the east of the road leading down from the ridge. The platform would allow the laser a sweep of the entire downslope.

Lasers and semiautomatic pikes-what a strange combination of weaponry. Would it be enough against thousands of attackers?

Nylan doubted it, but what choices did they have? The localsseemed enraged enough to tear apart anyone from Westwind if they tried to flee, and most of those on the Roof of the World, for one reason or another, could not survive elsewhere.

“All right,” Nylan said. “Let’s get this one in place.”

The sound of stonework drifted up from below, along with those of practice wands, and horse drills, carried by the wind that bore the faintest hint of fall.

SILLEK WEARS A purple tunic over a lighter shirt, and maroon leather trousers. The scabbard holding the sabre at his side and his riding boots are both scarred and workmanlike. He carries a heavy leather jacket in his left arm as he stands by the door. “I need to go.”

“I know.” Zeldyan offers a gentle smile. “Be careful.”

“I always am.”

“Don’t be a hero,” says Zeldyan quietly, holding a squirming Nesslek, whose fingers grasp for the blond strands held back from his hands by her green and silver hairband.

“I have no intentions that way-as you know. My idea is to win, not to follow some outdated idea of honor.”

“Please remember that.”

“I will. If … though … If it comes to that, you have what you need … Summon your father …” His voice turns husky for a moment.

“I know. It won’t be necessary.” Her tone is bright, despite the darkness in her eyes.

Sillek enfolds them both in his arms, and his lips and Zeldyan’s touch, gently, desperately gently.

Nesslek’s fingers seize his father’s tunic and twist.

Sillek reaches up and disengages the chubby fingers. “You, young imp. Always grabbing.”

“Like his father,” Zeldyan says gently.

Sillek holds his son’s fingers, and his and Zeldyan’s lips brush again, more delicately, more longingly than the last time.

“ … WHAT NEWS DO you have, Ayrlyn?” asked Ryba.

Five people and an infant had gathered around the head table in the great room-Ryba, Saryn, Fierral, Ayrlyn, Nylan, and Dyliess. Dyliess dozed in the carrypack on Nylan’s chest although, he reflected, she was already growing too big for it, and her upper body half sprawled out of the pouch and across Nylan’s chest. He patted his daughter’s back gently.

The two fat candles on the table created a circle of dim light that barely included the table and those around it.

In the gloom, Nylan glanced across the table at Ayrlyn, her hair still damp from the shower she had taken immediately upon her return from her latest trading/scouting venture. She returned his glance with a faint smile, then turned toward Ryba, and began to speak.