L. Modesitt - Fall of Angels

“This tower will last forever,” she said.

“Maybe.”

“The captain says it will, longer than any of our descendants will live here, and that’s a long time.”

“She said that?”

“Yes, ser.”

Nylan paused before lifting the stone into place, then said, “Can you bring that tub up when you’re done?”

“Not a problem.”

After reaching the fifth level and setting down the oblong stone, Nylan took a deep breath, then measured the six heavy stones, and rearranged them in the order he wanted. What had Ryba meant by saying that the tower would last forever?

While he waited for Huldran, he glanced out toward the southwest, taking in the ice-needle of Freyja, the peak that glittered in the midday light like a de-energizer beam sensed through the Winterlance ’s net. He swallowed. That was past, and no reminiscing would bring back that time or universe.

This was indeed a different place, not that different on the surface, but more different than most of the angels realized. Still … Ryba’s comments-both the ones he had heard and those reported by Huldran-bothered him. Was she getting delusions of grandeur, of some sort of omnipotence? How could she say she knew what was going to happen? Was she getting delusions because she had trouble accepting that she could no longer wield the Winterlance like a mighty blade to smite the demons?

“Here’s the mortar, ser.” Huldran eased the trough onto the planks.

With the trowel-another laser-cut adaptation-he began to smooth the next line of the reddish-gray mortar across the top of the stones already set.

Clang! Clang! The off-key sounds from the crude triangle gong resounded across the Roof of the World.

“Bandits!”

Nylan eased the fifth heavy stone into place on the mortar, trying to ignore the whinnying of horses and the shouted commands.

“Istril! Take the lower trail! Try to cut them off. Use the rifle.”

“Fierral! Run the second group … with Gerlich …”

“Form up! Form up …”

By the time Nylan finally could let go of the stone and hasten up the steps to look over the top edges of the outer wall, he only saw the dust of departing marines, riding off behind Ryba and the redheaded force leader-and a dozen marines remaining with blades and sidearms stationed in the rocks on each side of the top of the rise.

From the far side of the rise was what was becoming a packed road down the ridge, Nylan could hear hooves. In time, he reflected, they should consider putting in marker cairns or something for winter travel. Or, considering the mud, a real paved road.

A horse-carrying double-trotted back over the rise and downhill. Blood streamed down the face of the marine riding in front.

“Medic! Medic!” shouted the other rider.

“That’s Denalle!” said Weblya, balancing on the last of the big beams she and Cessya were setting in the slots, the beams that would form the floor for the sixth level of the tower and the roof of the fifth.

“She’s bleeding and got an arrow through her arm,” added Cessya.

Nylan watched for a moment before going back to the stones. The mortar would set before he got the last stone in place if he didn’t hurry, and there wasn’t anything he coulddo that Ayrlyn or one of the combat medics couldn’t do better.

He laid out another line of mortar, then lifted another stone into place, trying to ignore the conversation between the two marines above.

“ … think he feels he can’t waste an instant …”

“You look at that ice up there. You want to be in one of those thin-shelled landers when the snows are up over our heads?”

“But … Denalle’s hurt …”

“What can the engineer do that the medics can’t?”

“Glad I’m not an officer … or the captain.”

“No … I wouldn’t want to be in her boots. Or the engineer’s.”

A whispered remark came next, followed in turn by a laugh.

“You’d better not. You’d really be in trouble.”

Nylan blushed, but laid another line of mortar. After he set the sixth stone, he carried the nearly empty tub of mortar down to the yard space where Huldran was using the sledge and a wedge Nylan had made to split slate.

Clunk!

“Damned stone … doesn’t always split right,” grunted the stocky marine.

“I know. Nothing works quite the way we want.”

“You didn’t use all of it?” asked Huldran.

“No … can you powder it or something?”

“Do that all the time. Just spread it out on the clean section of stone there-the one with the dents in it. When it dries, we turn it into powder and add it back in.”

A cooler breeze whipped across the meadow and the tower work area, along with the shadow from a puffy and fast-moving cloud.

“Wind feels good,” commented Huldran.

“It’ll make it easier to finish the sides before the day’s over.”

“You think you can?” asked the stocky blond.

“There’s enough stone cut, and I’m trying to let the generatorrecharge some more firin cells before I have to cut more. The captain wants me to forge more blades, and …” Nylan shrugged.

“You’re trying to have enough power to finish the tower and do that?”

The engineer nodded before returning to carting stone. He had almost finished getting what he would need before several horses appeared at the top of the rise and headed down toward the landers. Over one horse was another body, one clad in olive-black.

Nylan shook his head. Did every bandit attack mean another death?

He watched as the mounted marines rode straight for the smoldering fire where Kyseen, hampered in combat by her broken leg, struggled with cooking.

Nylan still hadn’t done much on that front, besides designing the kitchen layout and the stoves for the tower. He hoped that the bandits who had attacked Denalle and the others hadn’t done too much damage to the brick-making operation, but he wasn’t about to say that out loud.

The engineer recognized the slim, silver-haired figure of Istril, and he waved. “Istril!”

The marine turned her mount toward the tower, after saying something to the two others and letting them continue toward the landers.

Nylan and Huldran waited, then the engineer gestured. “Who?”

“Desinada.” Istril reined up.

Nylan vaguely remembered the woman; she’d been among the group that he’d brought down on his lander. “Sorry.”

“That sort of thing happens here. A lot, it seems.”

“Anything good?” asked Huldran.

“One of them had a purse.” As she turned the horse toward the landers, Istril lifted the leather pouch and shook it, letting Nylan and the three marines hear the clank and jingle of mixed coins. “Not that I wouldn’t have Desinada back for a dozen of these and then some.”

“Was anyone else hurt?” Nylan asked.

“No. Rienadre ducked behind your brick oven and winged one of the bastards. I got the other one. We think one got away, maybe more, but Berlis ran down the winged one. He gave her some lip, and she ran him through. She gets mean sometimes.”

“Yeah …” muttered Weblya. “Like always.”

“Thank you.” Nylan inclined his head to Istril.

“No problem, ser.” Istril turned her mount back toward the landers.

More hoofbeats announced the return of Ryba and the rest of the marines, along with two more mounts, each with a bandit’s body slung across the saddle.

Nylan nodded and bent to lift another stone. “Back to work.”

“Don’t you stop for anything, ser?” asked Cessya.

“Winter won’t.” Nylan started up the stairs.

“One more timber,” announced Cessya. “Just one more.”

“Then we got to saw planks,” pointed out Weblya.