L. Modesitt - Fall of Angels

After his round of shaping, he concentrated on the hand guards and tang. As he cut and melted the metal, he eased the metal into shape and order, trying not to remember how he once had smoothed power fluxes through the Winterlance’s neuronet.

Almost as an afterthought, he tried to bind that … darkness … that accompanied the local net into the metal. He’d gotten better. Not only did the blade glow with a lambent darkness, but it felt more right for him. He’d keep this blade and pass the one he had been using along.

By the time he’d completed and tempered the blade, the power loss was only about a half percent from the cells-but he was exhausted as he slumped onto one of the extra wall stones and gulped down the water from the battered and scratched gray plastic cup. Perhaps the extra energy required by the darkness he had put in the metal?

He licked his dry lips and looked across the tower yard. Beyond the extra wall stones were the thicker slate chunks that would be used for flooring-at least in the lowest tower level and in the great hall.

The wind had picked up, its cooling welcome as it ruffledhis unevenly cut short hair. Jaseen had tried, but the aesthetic effect left something to be desired. Not that he cared that much-or did he?

To avoid that speculation, Nylan glanced up beyond Freyja, noting that the sky was darkening, becoming almost black upon the mountains that formed the horizon.

“Frig … he’s here early … and another miracle blade,” mumbled Weindre to Huldran as the two entered the area outside the tower that was coming to be known as the yard.

“Don’t complain. Your life just might rest on those blades. How many rounds are left in your little slug-thrower?” Huldran grinned at Nylan.

The engineer offered a quick smile in return, then glanced at the roof, where three sides were complete, with the black-gray slate tiles spiked in place. Only the east side remained unfinished, with three lines of tile in place along the bottom stringers.

They’d used mortar to seal the ridges, although Nylan knew something more plastic, like tar or pitch, would have been far better-but where could they find that?

“I know. I know,” answered Weindre as she stopped in the yard. “But I feel so awkward with a piece of sharp metal in my hands.”

“Better learn to get comfortable with it,” suggested the stocky blond marine. “Otherwise you’ll end up like Desinada or Frelita.”

“You want us like the captain or the second, or Istril? They’re scary.” Weindre paused. “Even the engineer-pardon, ser-he’s pretty good, and he doesn’t practice that much.”

A dull rumbling echoed off the western peaks, followed by another round of thunder. Three quarters of the sky was black, but the sun still shone in the east.

He forced himself up. “I’ll need some help getting all this into the space in the center of the tower.”

“Ser?”

Another roll of thunder pounded out of the mountains.

“This is going to be a demon-damned storm. Let’s go! Now!”

“Yes, ser.” Huldran grabbed Weindre by the arm, and the two marines unfolded the carry-arms for the firin cell racks.

Nylan began gathering tools and loose objects as the wind began to tear around him.

Overhead, the clouds gathered into a dark mass almost as black as deep space. The wind had risen to a whistling shriek by the time the three had stowed all the equipment, as well as the just-finished black blade, back in the tower, and Nylan had secured the heavy door.

“Now what?” shouted Huldran above the wind.

The lightning cracked across the sky, the white-yellow bolt reflecting off the ice of Freyja, the rumbling echoing back and forth between the high peaks after each bolt.

“Just stay here in the lower level of the tower,” suggested Nylan. “We’ll see how well we built.”

Weindre looked at the two.

“I’d rather be here than in one of those flimsy landers,” snapped Huldran.

Nylan sat on one of the steps, his eyes resting on the low lines of brick that represented the base of the stove. The furnace was waiting on the results of his efforts in firing clay piping.

Weindre glanced up the stairs, then followed Huldran over to a side wall. Unlike Nylan, neither sat-they just stood listening to the storm.

His eyes closed as he leaned back against the stones, Nylan let his senses follow the patterns of the storm. Even without straining, he could feel the interplay of chaos and order, like the power flows that occurred when the angels’ de-energizers fought with the mirror towers of the demons. He doubted he’d sense that type of battle again, not with technology, anyway.

Like ice knives, the rain slashed down, heavy droplets dashing against the stone walls of the tower, then running in rivulets downward.

Clack! Clack!

Fist-sized hailstones banged off the stones of the tower walls.

A small trickle of water, blown through the unfinished main doorway, began to drop from one side of the stairwell above, down onto the packed clay of the tower’s lowest level. Before long, the drops became a stream.

The wind continued to howl, and Nylan wished that he’d insisted that the big front door be finished and hung. He still hadn’t done much more on the waste-disposal problem than rework the two casements.

The water had formed a large puddle, almost a small pond in the lowest part of the tower basement, that grew as Nylan watched.

Almost as suddenly as the storm had begun, the clacking of the hailstones died away, and the wind’s whistling dropped off.

Nylan stood and eased his way up the steps and onto the water-soaked timbers and stone subflooring of the tower’s entry level. From the doorless front portal, he looked out across the Roof of the World. The lower corners of the larger field were little more than knee-deep gullies, leading into a man-deep canyon that ran right off the edge of the plateau.

Even in the middle of the northernmost fields, some of the small potato nodules were half-exposed, hanging out over ditches. Only the stone cairns-one large and eight smaller ones-looked untouched. That figured.

Nylan shrugged and walked out into the drizzle, then looked back at the tower. The walls seemed solid and the foundations untouched, although the open casements on the upper levels were dark with moisture. His eyes went higher. From what he could tell, only the lower line of slate tiles on the east side had been damaged, and about half, a good twenty, were either askew or missing.

Nylan hoped the laser lasted longer, because trying to hand bore or punch those slates would create a lot of broken tites-and more than a little wasted effort for Weblya, Huldran, and Cessya.

“Shit!” Huldran’s voice was bitter.

“That’s only a handful of roof tiles,” Nylan pointed out, turning back toward the landers and trying to ignore a sense of loss as he plodded through ankle-deep water and mud. He didn’t know what he should-or could-do, but he needed to find out the rest of the damage.

“Yes, ser, but we didn’t need any of this.” Huldran walked at his elbow.

“Probably not. We should have expected it, though. I imagine fall, winter, and spring are all this violent, if not worse.”

“Hate this place.”

“You’d rather be down on the plains, melting into a pile of goo?”

“The whole friggin’ planet, ser.”

“None of us planned this. We do what we can.” And hope that it’s enough and that we didn’t do anything too stupid, he added to himself. “We’ll need to run wider diversion ditches around the field to stop this sort of thing.”

Heaps of hail lay strewn everywhere across the meadow, and the drizzle that kept falling was tinged with ice flakes.