L. Modesitt - Fall of Angels

Nylan leaned over to see Narliat drinking in the reflected heat from the stone. “Yes?”

“The she-angels, those two, and I see why Lord Nessil is dead.”

“You liked Lord Nessil?” Nylan tried to keep his voice neutral.

“He was more honest than most, but he was terrible when he was angered, and he was angered a lot. That is not what I meant, Mage. I am a man, too, and I was an armsman.” Narliat shrugged. “I would not lift a sword against your she-angels. They would kill me in three strokes, even the one who is crippled, and I have killed a few men. They were poor farmers, but they were strong, and I did not want to die.” Narliat looked back to the practice space where Ryba had followed Saryn’s lead and set aside her weapon. “I see the she-angels, and I see the whole world change.”

Nylan could feel the sweat oozing from his forehead as he stood in the sun. He looked down at the local, wearing a jacket and huddled against the black stone, almost for warmth. “You’re cold?”

“Not if I stay here.” Narliat smiled. “You will make your tower warm, will you not?”

Nylan looked toward the stones, looking more like dark gray in the sunlight than the black they had seemed when Nylan had cut them from the mountain. “Not that warm-”

“A tower-on the Roof of the World. Only the angels would dare-”

“Nylan! Since you’re not cutting or setting stone, let’s get your practice done now.” Ryba motioned.

Narliat grinned as the engineer trudged toward the practice area.

“Here you go.” Ryba handed Nylan one of the handcarved wands. “It’s not balanced the way I’d like-”

“I know. We’ve been through this before.” Nylan lifted the wand. The last few times he’d actually managed to keep Ryba from tapping him at will, but he had no illusions about his ability to hold off a master swordsman or armsman or whatever they were called.

“Set your feet.”

Nylan shuffled into position.

“Not like an old man, Nylan.”

Behind them Nylan could see Saryn motioning to one of the marines.

“Pay attention,” snapped Ryba.

He took a deep breath and tried to focus on the wand, on Ryba’s face, framed in jet-black hair, and upon her wand.

“That’s better. Ready?” Her wand thrust toward him, and he parried, clumsily, barely deflecting it.

“You can do better than that.” This time her wand was quicker, and Nylan tried to counter, but the edge of the wood thwacked his shoulder.

“Ooo …” He wanted to rub it, but had to dance aside as another slash whistled toward him, and another … and another.

Somehow, he managed to slip, block, deflect, and dance away from most of the captain’s thrusts and slashes.

“All right.” Ryba stepped back. “That’s what you should be facing, but most of the locals aren’t that good. Most don’t use the points of their blades, but the edges, and that’s different.”

Nylan shook his head and blinked, then blotted the sweat from his eyes.

“They use heavier blades and try to beat you to a pulp.” Ryba picked up the wider wooden weapon, the one with a wooden blade that looked more like a narrow plank than a practice weapon. “You need to work on deflecting a heavier blade. You can’t meet it directly, not without losing your own blade or risking having it broken.” She took the bigger wooden slab in two hands. “Ready?”

“Yes,” said the engineer, even as he thought, No .

The first time his light wand met Ryba’s heavy one, theimpact shivered all the way up his arm, and he staggered back, dancing aside to avoid another counterstroke before the third one slammed into his thigh.

“You’d be crippled for life if that had been a real blade, and if I hadn’t pulled it at the end. Demon-damn, Nylan, this is serious, and these things can kill you-and they will.”

“Fine for you to say …” he gasped. “You grew up with them.”

“Get your blade up. Get it up.”

He raised his wand, ignoring the pun, and waited, then half ducked, half slid the heavier wand.

“Better. Get it back up.” Ryba sent another slash at his open side.

Nylan jumped and slid his wand over hers, then drove the heavier blade almost into the dirt.

“Good. Use their momentum against them. Those crowbars are heavy.”

But it didn’t seem that heavy for Ryba because she whipped it back up and around, and Nylan was backpedaling again, and again.

Still, in between all her hits, he did manage to drop the heavy wand into the dirt once more and actually strike Ryba on the shoulder, lightly.

Finally, she stepped back. “Not bad. You’ve got a feel for it. Right now, you could probably hold off the weaker locals. You just need more practice.” Ryba smiled. “I can see that you’ll be good-very good-with the blade.” Her smile vanished, replaced momeritarily with a look Nylan could only term somber. “It won’t be easy.” She looked toward the tower and shook her head.

Nylan lowered the wand, his entire body dripping sweat. Practicing against Ryba was worse than carting heavy stones up the seemingly endless tower steps, and probably a lot more futile. He handed the wand back to her. “Sometimes,” he said, “it feels futile. I’ll never be as good as you are.”

She took the wand from him, lowering her voice. “You don’t have to be. You’re an engineer, and you’re going to be a wizard or a mage or whatever they call them.” Rybapaused. “Narliat already thinks you are.” Then she added, “But you still need good basic defense skills, and that means more practice.”

Nylan wiped his forehead with the back of his forearm. “Mage?”

“It has to do with the way you use the laser. You ought to be able to use this local net or whatever it is for more than that.” Ryba offered a forced smile. “I know you can.”

“Thanks. You’re so encouraging.”

“I know what I know.” She shrugged. “Only sometimes … unfortunately.” Then she looked toward the two marines standing back beyond the stacked slate, and pointed at the silver-haired one. “Llyselle, we don’t have forever.”

Nylan trudged back to the stream to wash his face again before he returned to the business of setting stone in the walls of the tower. Even the cold water didn’t cool him much. The yellow sunflowers had begun to wilt, and were being replaced by small white flowers that hugged the ground between clumps of grass. Nylan felt like one of the wilted yellow flowers.

As he passed the practice area, he glanced at Narliat, sitting in the sun and fingering the splint on his leg. Nylan laughed to himself as he realized that the armsman was in no hurry to remove the splint, no hurry at all.

“She’s tough,” observed Huldran as Nylan lifted another stone and began to lug it up the stairs.

“Very,” grunted the engineer.

“So are you.”

“Not like she is.”

“You’re just as tough, ser … in a different way. She couldn’t build the tower, and we’ll need it, and you aren’t a fighter. You’re a defender.”

“Suppose so …” Nylan continued up toward the top of the fifth level where he set the stone on the rough planking. Then he turned and headed back for another stone. Above him Cessya and Weblya wrestled another of the big timbers into the stone slots.

He was carrying up the fifth stone, and almost wishinghe were back practicing when Huldran asked, “Are you about ready for more mortar?”

“Start mixing it. One more stone, and we’ll be ready.”

“You’ve almost got the north side filled in between the supports.”

“With luck, we’ll get the west done, too.” He continued up the stone stairs, almost tripping on the top step. By the time he returned with the next stone, Huldran was stirring the mortar components together.