L. Modesitt: Fall of Angels

“The angels, you think?” asks Jissek.

Hissl shrugs.

“Angels? Bah … tales to frighten children with. That’s all.”

“Every wizard who can scree will see these women, and such tales will get passed, especially to those few who follow the black.”

Terek pulls at his smooth chin. “Such tales … that wouldnot be good. Perhaps someone should travel west.”

Hissl and Jissek exchange glances. Finally, Hissl, the youngest wizard, the only balding one, clears his throat. “Would it be … proper for us to undertake such a mission-given the concerns raised by Lord Nessil of Lornth?”

“That might work to our advantage,” points out Terek. “Lord Nessil would not wish the example of armed women to be made known, especially to the Jerans. Their women ride with the men, and he has had some trouble …”

The other two wizards nod.

“He would appreciate our concern, and he would be most intrigued with women of silver or fiery red hair.”

“These … angels … might not take to being taken,” says Hissl.

“Have they shown weapons? Thunderbolts, or firebolts such as we can bring?”

“No,” admits the balding wizard. “Not that we have seen used.”

“Then fourscore armsmen should be more than enough.”

“As you wish.” Hissl inclines his head.

“I will recommend, of course, that you accompany His Lordship.” Terek smiles. “Since you have discovered the strangers, you should share in the rewards. And one wizard should be more than enough. We would not wish to imply a lack of confidence in the abilities of His Lordship.”

“No … no, indeed,” murmurs Jissek, wiping his forehead.

“You are most kind, High Wizard.” Hissl offers a head bow. “Most kind.”

THE LANDER SHELLS formed a square on the rocky upper slope of the alpine area, adjacent to one of the two small streams that wound through the grass and shrubs, and belowthe staked-out pattern that Nylan had made. One of the shells contained several body-sized dents, and plastic foam filled a long gouge on the left side. On the uphill side of the shells were several plastic-covered stacks-the disassembled sections of the landers’ exterior removable parts.

The wind whispered in from the north, barely above freezing.

Nylan and Ryba lay together in the forward part of lander one, sharing the command couch, under the light thermal blanket that was more than warm enough for them.

Only the faintest light crept in through the short corridor from the hatch, but Nylan had no difficulty seeing. With the silver hair had apparently come some form of enhanced night vision that took in the objects around him in the dimmest of light. He looked at Ryba, short hair tousled, face calm in steep-not quite relaxed, but he had never seen her completely relaxed.

Beyond the couch were their clothes … and the twin blades Ryba had brought down from the Winterlance and begun to wear. Nylan did not shake his head. She was doubtless correct in assuming that the blades would have to serve as a defense before long and in accustoming herself to their use. What weapon could he use? A blade probably, since Ryba could teach him, although the idea of an edged weapon bothered him. But where would they get blades?

Though he knew the basics of metallurgy, he’d never tried anything so primitive as smithing, and he had no idea if there were any metallic deposits nearby. Charcoal he could make, if he ever had the time, and he could devise some sort of bellows, but they would be useless without iron or copper. The landers held enough steel alloys, but a primitive smithy would be hard-pressed to reach temperatures high enough to melt or cast them.

He took a long, slow breath.

Ryba’s eyes flickered, and then, as always, she was awake. “What are you thinking about?”

“Weapons, smithing, how to use the materials in the landers …” He shrugged, suddenly conscious of her nakedness next to him.

“That’s not all you’re thinking about,” whispered Ryba. Nylan could feel himself blushing.

“And after last night? Shame on you.”

Nylan nibbled on her neck.

“Not now … I can hear someone in the back.”

“They certainly heard last night,” he hissed back.

“It’s different in the morning. Besides, we’ve got a lot to do. The growing season is so short. We’ll have to get those grow-paks figured out and started. They’re really designed as deep-space hydroponic units, but there are instructions for conversion, and there’s one planet or soil-based unit.” The captain swung her feet onto the chill composite flooring of what had been the cockpit area.

Nylan swung his feet to the other side, aware of the warmth of her back against his and of the faint scent of evergreens and the whispering of the wind outside.

Ryba pulled on her shipsuit, as did Nylan. He followed her into the dawn, and toward the stream to wash up. Neither spoke.

As the day lightened, long before the sun had edged above the tree-fringed eastern horizon that lay beyond the drop-off, Nylan had whittled a small limb into shavings, then used one of the matches to light the cook fire. He looked down at the match, then shook his head. “Strikers, maybe.”

“Strikers?” Ayrlyn broke off a handful of dried end branches from the dead tree limb that several marines had dragged nearly a kay the day before.

“Steel and flint … maybe I could cut some pieces from the lander and bend them into an arc, attach the stone. Haven’t seen any flint, though.”

“You are planning for the long haul, aren’t you?” Ayrlyn fed more of the tinder into the small flickering flames, flames duller than her flaming hair.

“Not so long. Three boxes of matches might last a local year if we used only one a day. We don’t exactly have a chemical-processing industry here.” Nylan picked up a plasticbucket, checking the scrapes on the gray material, then began to walk toward the stream.

“Does he sleep?” Saryn limped toward the fire that Ayrlyn fed, leaning heavily on the rough staff that allowed her to avoid putting too much weight on the hardened foam cast around her broken right leg.

“Neither he nor the captain seem to need much.” Ayrlyn yawned.

“Where’s the captain?”

“In number two with Mertin, sorting through the grow-paks,” answered the engineer, returning with a full bucket of water. “She wants to get started on laying out fields and planting.”

“We’ve been down less than an eight-day, and she wants us to be field hands?” asked Saryn.

“What about Gerlich? Where’s he gone?” inquired Ayrlyn.

“He’s got the one bow and the arrows-out hunting. He claims there’s something like a wild boar out there.” Nylan gave a short laugh.

Saryn shook her head.

The captain and the junior officer emerged from the shell of lander two and walked toward the fire. Mertin ducked to avoid the line of smoke that seemed almost to seek his face.

From lander four emerged Fierral. The red-haired marine commander and the two ships’ officers converged on the fire, stopping well back.

“Why the fire?” asked Fierral. “We’ve still got firin cells.”

“Cooking. We’re saving the cells for things we can’t duplicate locally,” answered Ryba.

“Such as?”

Two more marines eased up toward the fire.

“Powering the combat laser, if we need to.” Ryba adjusted the makeshift hairband to keep the short and thick black hair totally away from her face.

Nylan emptied half the water into the kettle and swung it out over the fire on the makeshift crane. He frowned as he set aside the bucket.

“You don’t approve, Ser Engineer?”

“I hope we can avoid that. The combat laser gobbles power. The more power we can use for constructive purposes the better.”