L. Modesitt - Fall of Angels

When the snow drops on the stone,

When the wind song’s all alone,

When the ice swords form in twain,

Sing of the hearths where we’ve lain.

When the green tips break the snow,

When the cold streams start to flow,

When the snow hares turn to black,

Sing out to call our love back.

When the plains grass whispers gold,

When the red blooms flower bold,

When the year’s foals gallop long,

Hold to the fall and our song …

Nylan glanced around the fires, then to the unlit and dark tower looming against the white-streaked peaks, and back to the marines. More than a handful of faces bore eyes bright with unshed tears. Some marines blotted damp cheeks when Ayrlyn lowered the lutar.

Huldran slowly walked out into the darkness, and Selitra laid her head on Gerlich’s shoulder, sobbing silently at the old Sybran horse nomads’ ballad.

“How about something a bit more cheerful?” suggested Ryba.

“I’ll try.” Ayrlyn readjusted the lutar and began another song.

When I was single, I looked at the skies.

Now I’ve a consort, I listen to lies,

lies about horses that speak in the darks,

lies about cats and theories of quarks …

“Lies about cats and theories of quarks …” mused Nylan. “They’re all lies here, I suppose, at least the quarks.”

“You don’t think quarks are real here?” asked Ryba. Her hand rested lightly on his forearm, warm in the cool of the mountain evening.

“Who knows what’s real, or what reality even is?” he answered.

“Where we are is real.”

And that was a definition as good as any, Nylan thought, his eyes taking in the almost luminous ice of Freyja, the needle peak that would dwarf even the most massive tower he would ever be able to raise.

“LORD SILLEK LET it be known that he would not be displeased at whoever reduced the squatters’ holding on the Roof of the World to rubble and returned the seal ring of his father.” Terek pulls at his chin as he walks to the tower window.

“He’s not taking another army up there,” answers Hissl, leaning back from the glass upon the small table.

“We discussed that earlier. In his position, would you? This approach will encourage every cutthroat in Lornth to attack those women.”

“What good will that do?” Hissl stands and walks toward the second open window to let the breeze cool him. “Lord Nessil had score three armsmen. Not even Skiodra has that, and you saw how he backed down when he came face-toface with those devil women. What could a handful of brigands do?”

“Lord Sillek has to do something. The … expedition to the Roof of the World was rather … embarrassing for Lord Nessil …” Terek turns back toward Hissl.

“For his family, you mean?” asks Hissl. “A corpse is beyond embarrassment.”

“Young Lord Sillek wishes to avenge his father.”

“And to solidify his position?”

“He’s willing to grant lands and some minor title to whoever succeeds. Something like Lord of the Ironwoods, no doubt.” Terek laughs. “There are bound to be some who feel that no women can be that dangerous.” The chief wizard shrugs. “Besides, there are not that many of them, and for every one that is killed-that will make things easier for Lord Sillek.”

“Let us see,” muses Hissl ironically. “Lord Nessil lostforty-three armsmen, and those angels lost three. Say there are two dozen left up on the Roof of the World … why, that means Lord Sillek, or someone, only needs to sacrifice around four hundred armsmen.” Hissl’s voice is soft and smooth. “And that would be in a battle on an open field. It might take ten times that once their tower is completed. Do you suppose we could persuade Lord Ildyrom, Lord Ekleth of Spidlaria, and-”

“Enough of your foolishness,” snaps Terek. “The lord’s stratagem against those angels cannot hurt him.”

“Do you believe they are really angels?” asks Hissl.

“It might be in our interests to claim that they are-or at least that they are fallen angels.”

“Some of them died. Angels don’t die,” points out Hissl.

“I believe that was one of the men.”

“There were four graves for their own, and there are still two men walking around. That means three of the women died.”

“You are rather tedious, Hissl,” says Terek.

“I am attempting to be accurate.”

“Then let us call them fallen angels. That makes them seem more vulnerable.” Terek pauses, then adds, “And what other … accuracies … might you add? Helpful accuracies?”

“Those thunder-throwers … I do not think that they will be able to use them for too much longer.”

“Would you stake your life on that?”

“Not at the moment. In a year … yes.”

Terek waits. “Go on. Explain. Don’t make me drag everything out of you.”

“Only a handful of them are experienced with blades-the leader, one of the men, and one of the smaller women. But they are teaching the others. The thunder-throwers are more effective than blades. So …” Hissl shrugs. “Why are they spending time learning a less effective weapon? Also, they have begun to build a tower.”

“On the Roof of the World? One winter and they’ll be dead or ready to leave.”

“I don’t know about that.” Hissl touches his left cheekwith his forefinger, and he frowns. “We were wearing jackets and cloaks. The wind was cold. It was still just beyond spring up there. They were in thin clothes, and they were sweating-all of them.”

“We will see.” Terek pulls at his chin again. “We will see.”

“Yes. That is true.” Hissl frowns ever so slightly, then smiles.

THE GREEN THAT had sprouted from the hand-furrowed rows of two of the fields rose knee-high in places, waist-high in others, depending on the plants. The potatoes had been planted in evenly spaced hillocks, but the green-leaved plants nearly covered all the open ground of the third field, except along the diagonal line where the water from the storm eight-days earlier had created a trench, since filled in.

Behind the fields, the landers squatted, droplets of dew beading and then streaking the metal. Well beyond them were the large cairn and the seven others, including the latest one for Desinada. Already, dark blue flowers grew from between the cairn stones to mix with the red blood-flowers that were fading as the summer passed.

Nylan turned to the west, where, in the dawn, the fog seemed to rise off the squared structure of black stone that dominated the area above the field. The final upper sill of the wall stones stood more than ten times the height of a woman. Rising out of the middle of the tower was a square construction of mortared stones, and at the central point about half the rafters for the roof were connected. The remaining rafters were lined up in the stone working yard below the tower.

Nylan stood in the dawn and studied the south-facingopening that would be the doorway. While the heavy pins had been set in the stone lintels, the door had yet to be built, as did the causeway to it.

His eyes flicked from the tower base up the black stones. No great work of art, but it would be big enough and strong enough to do what would be necessary, unless the locals decided to drag siege engines through the mountains, or spent seasons building them and supporting the builders with an army. Neither seemed likely. Then, he reflected, nothing about the planet was terribly likely.

At the sense, rather than the sound, of someone approaching, he turned toward the landers.