Fall of Angels

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  The heavy tinted goggles protected his eyes, although he realized that he wasn’t using his vision, but that sense of feel, a sense that somehow seemed to break everything into degrees of something. What that something was and how he would categorize it were more questions he couldn’t answer.

  He didn’t try, instead releasing the power stud and letting his senses check the cut and the metal-which felt rough, almost disordered.

  With another deep breath, he flicked on the laser and spread the beam for a wider heat flow, using his senses and the power from the laser to shape and order the edge of the blade, trying to replicate something like the feel of the . Sybran blade.

  After the second pass, he unpowered the laser and pushed back the goggles, wiping his forehead. Then he bent and picked up the plastic cup, swallowed the last of the water in it, and set the empty cup back on the ground beside the cell bank where the power cable wouldn’t hit it.

  One of the marines-Istril-sat atop one of the rocky ledges and watched as he readjusted the goggles and studied the model blade again.

  Once more, he picked up the metal that had been a brace and triggered the laser, shifting his grip, and trying to ensure that his gauntlets were well away from the ordered line of powered chaos emanating from the powerhead.

  After his first rough effort at shaping the blade, he turned to the curved hand guards and tang. As he shaped the metal, he tried to smooth it, just as he once had smoothed power fluxes through the Winterlance’s neuronet. When the rough shape was completed, he unpowered the laser and checked the cells-a drop of less than one percent so far. Not too bad for a first try.

  He pushed back the goggles and blotted the area around his eyes, then studied the blank blade. Even with one rough cut, the shape looked better than the local metal crowbars.

  He could feel Istril’s eyes on him, but he did not look toward the rocks. The smoke from the cook fire was more pronounced, as was the hum of people talking. He did not look toward the landers, either. Instead, he inhaled, then exhaled deeply and replaced the goggles and lifted the laser.

  Trying not to feel like an idiot, he triggered the laser and continued to use his mental netlike sense and the power of the laser to work the metal, almost to smooth the grains into an ordered pattern while trying to create the equivalent of a razor edge on both sides of the blade.

  By the time he finished with the laser, not that long it seemed, sweat poured down his forehead, out and around the goggles, and his knees trembled. Done with the laser, he set the powerhead down and waited as the metal cooled toward the color of straw.

  The oil - and - water mixture in the crude trough felt right, but whether it was… time would tell. Using the modified space gauntlets, he swirled the mixture in the trough and eased the blade into it, letting his new sense guide the tempering-or retempering. Then he laid the blade on the sheltered sunny side of the black boulder where it would complete cooling more slowly.

  He set aside the goggles and checked the power meters- a drop of one percent, maybe a little more. He nodded. He could make something that looked like a blade, but was it any good?

  As he saw Ryba’s broad-shouldered figure striding grimly toward him, he offered himself a smile. He’d get one opinion all right-and soon.

  “Why did you take my blade? It had to be you. No one else would-”

  Nylan held up a hand to stop her. “I’m guilty. I didn’t hurt it. I needed a model, and I didn’t want to feel like a fool.”

  “Model for what?”

  His eyes turned toward the flat rock where his effort rested.

  “Darkness! How did you do that?”

  “Art, laser, dumb luck-all of the above. Don’t touch it; it’s still hot enough to burn your skin, and I don’t know if it will work. It looks right; it feels right, but I’m no swordsman. It could shatter the minute it’s used. I don’t think so, but it could.”

  Ryba stepped up to the blade and looked down at the slight curves of the deep black metal. “It’s beautiful.”

  “Technology helps,” Nylan admitted. “But I don’t know if it will even work. It could break apart at the first blow.”

  “I don’t think it will.” Ryba looked at him. “It looks like it will last forever.”

  “It doesn’t matter what it looks like. It’s how it feels and lasts.”

  She studied the blade again. “I need to teach you more about using blades. It would be a shame for someone who can create this not to be able to use it well.”

  “You don’t even know if it’s right.”

  Ryba’s dark green eyes met his. “About some things, I can tell.”

  Nylan shrugged.

  “How many of these can you make?”

  “Over time, enough for everyone, and probably a few more. I’d guess a little less than a two-percent charge on the bank for each. But I don’t want to do that many until we’ve got enough stone for the tower.”

  “We need both.”

  “It will take more than half a season with the portable generator to fully charge a whole bank of cells. We’ve gone through nearly three banks, and that only leaves one that’s completely full. We’ll probably have the first recharged before we finish the tower. I haven’t done the math, but I could probably forge ten blades on a depleted bank if I recharged two cells. But I need a base load of twenty percent for stone-cutting.”

  “You’ve got piles of cut stone here,” pointed out Ryba.

  “It’s not enough.” He shrugged. “Right now, the mortar’s the problem, but I think I’ve got that set.”

  “That’s a terrible pun.”

  “Didn’t mean it that way.”

  The former captain looked at the smooth and sheer black stone wall that rose nearly twice her height, then at the square door frame whose base stood nearly her height above the visible base of the tower. “You’re building a demon-damned monument.”

  “Why are you letting me? Could it be that I’m right?”

  Ryba laughed. “The others look at this, and they all see that it can be done, and that we’re here to stay. Nothing I say is as effective as your killing yourself. They all see how you drive yourself. But is everything that you’ve planned really necessary?”

  Nylan pointed to Freyja-the ice-needle peak that towered above the unfinished tower, above the other mountains. “You can tell from the ice on those peaks that the winter is as cold, if not colder, than northern Sybra. Also, a tower isn’t enough. We need stables, and next year, we’ll need more storehouses, and workrooms for all the crafts we’ll need to develop, and we’ll have to defend them all. I’ll end up cannibalizing the landers for metal and everything else, because that’s easier than trying to develop iron-working from scratch or than trading for it. Once we run through the plunder, what can we use to buy goods? Or food? I certainly haven’t seen traders galloping to find us. Also, there’s going to be a gap between when we lose all high technology and when we can master lower technology.”

  Ryba looked at the blade. “What gap?”

  “It would take me days to forge a blade like that with coal or charcoal and hammers. Maybe longer, and that’s if I knew what to do. That’s if I had an anvil, if I could find iron ore, if…” He snorted. “How long will the emergency generator and the charging system last? Maybe a local year… and it might quit in the next eight-day.”

  “Then you’d better do at least a few blades, and others, as you can fit them in. We’re going to need them. I hope not soon, but we will.”

  Nylan wiped his forehead. “I’ll try to balance things. Has anyone heard anything about this so-called bandit trader? Can’t we get something from him? Big cook pots, even cutlery?”

  “I’m working on a list. What do you think we really need?”

  “Some heavy cloth, wool maybe, and something like scissors, to cut it, thread and needles. We’re not equipped for winter. There were-what?-two cold-weather suits in the paks? Any dried or stored food we can buy. What about something like chickens… for eggs? Th
e concentrates might last until mid-winter. Salt. Some of that stuff Gerlich kills could be dried and salted. Oh… I need to figure out how… never mind…”

  “What?”

  “I’ll use the laser to glaze it. That will make cleaning it easy.”

  “What?” repeated Ryba.

  “The water reservoir, cistern, whatever you want to call it. I’d like it to be on the second level in the center, but I don’t know if I can work that. I still haven’t quite figured out piping or a reservoir near the head of the spring. We’ll run hidden piping, like a siphon, so we can have some continuous water flow in winter or if we get besieged…”

  “You are a pessimist.”

  “A realist.”

  “Probably,” she admitted. “What if the laser goes?”

  “There are two spare powerheads and a spare cable. I can use the weapons head, if I have to, but the power loss is enormous, and that might not work at all. If it goes now, we do it the hard way, and not nearly so well, and people die. If it lasts into winter, then I should have the basics done”

  “Dreamer.”

  Nylan grinned ruefully.

  “Go get something to eat.” Ryba motioned to Istril, who had edged down the rocks, and who hurried up in response to Ryba’s preemptory gesture. “Istril… would you watch this equipment while the engineer eats? Don’t touch it, and don’t let anyone else, either.” Ryba pointed to the blade that Nylan had used as a guide. “Use that if you have to.”

  “Yes, ser.” Istril’s eyes flickered to the.black blade on the stone. “You made… that… ser?”

  “I tried,” conceded Nylan.

  “It’s beautiful… sometime… could you forge me one?”

  “Istril should get one of the first ones.”

  Nylan sighed and nodded at the slight silver-haired marine. “It’s cool now. Pick it up and see if it’s half as good as it looks.”

  “You mean it?”

  Ryba and Nylan nodded.

  Istril touched the hilt-designed to be wrapped in leather-and slowly lifted the blade. She stepped back and lowered it, then smiled.

  “Is it tough enough?” Nylan asked. “Bend it or something.”

  Ryba lifted her blade. “Just blade to blade.”

  Nylan watched as they fenced, the silvery metal of the Sybran blade glittering against the black of his.

  After a time, they both lowered their weapons, and Ryba wiped her forehead. A moment later, so did Istril.

  “I think it might be better than mine,” said Ryba, “at least in blade work. It might not be balanced right for throwing.”

  “It’s beautiful,” said Istril.

  Ryba looked at Nylan.

  He nodded at Istril. “It’s not perfect, but you may have it. The hilt needs to be wrapped.”

  “It’s too good for me.”

  “Then you’ll have to get better for it,” said Ryba. “In return for the blade, you’ll have to teach the engineer how to use one.”

  “Can I start now?”

  “After I eat, and only for a little,” said Nylan. “We’ve still got a tower to build.”

  XVII

  “I WAS NOT exactly amused by your reference to the chief wizard the other day before Lord Sillek,” begins Terek.

  “You are the chief wizard,” points out Hissl calmly, “and I only spoke the truth. To have done otherwise…” He shrugs.

  “There is truth, and there is truth,” says Terek slowly, shifting his bulk as he ambles toward the table with the screeing glass upon it.

  Hissl remains silent.

  “Let us see if you can find anything which may impinge upon these… fallen angels. For if something does not, sooner or later we will be called to help avenge Lord Nessil’s death.”

  “The longer before we ride to the Roof of the World, the better.”

  “I would prefer never to ride there,” replies Terek.

  Hissl concentrates. The white mists part, and a half-built tower appears, a tower whose walls seem as smooth as glass and as dark as winter water unruffled by wind. A silver-haired man struggles to position a long slab of stone to form the top step in a wide stone staircase.

  “Great wizardry…” mumbles Hissl, the sweat beading on his forehead from the effort to maintain the image.

  “It would take a score of scores to take that tower even now with the weapons they have.” Terek paces away from the table. “Those stones seem steeped in order.”

  “Could you not fire it?” Hissl relaxes, and the image fades.

  “Now-but what if they roof it with split slate? It would be two or three eight-days before Lord Sillek could assemble a force and ride there. Can you see Lord Sillek building siege engines upon the Roof of the World?”

  “He could,” suggests Hissl. “Anything is possible for a great lord.”

  “You are so dense. What would Lord Ildyrom be doing once he discovered Lord Sillek and his engineers and most of his armsmen were upon the Roof of the World?”

  “So Lord Sillek leaves them alone? Is that so bad? It’s only good for summer pasture anyway, if. that. What does he lose?”

  “Honor… face. We told Lord Nessil about the strangers. If his son and heir cannot defeat them, what do you think he will do to us? And it will be us, not just me, Hissl.” Hissl pulls at his chin. “It could be a cold winter.”

  “In irons below the castle, your hands and arms would be burned apart-if you lasted that long.” Terek glances at the glass. “See if you can find anything else.”

  “What?”

  “Anything.”

  Hissl concentrates once more, and a band of riders now appear in the screeing glass, with one of the lead riders bearing a white banner with a dark square in its center.

  “Traders…” mused Terek. “Almost armed like bandits.”

  “Skiodra, probably…” muttered Hissl, the sweat beading more heavily on his forehead with the effort of holding the second image.

  “Can you open it a little more?”

  Hissl concentrates, and more sweat pours off his forehead, even as the mists widen to reveal dark pines and rocks, and a needle peak in the background.

  “It looks like the Westhorns, along the high road toward the Roof of the World.” Terek smiles. “Skiodra is just the type to steal what he can and destroy the rest. He only trades when he has to .”The chief wizard rubs his hands together.

  “What if he trades them weapons?” Hissl releases the image and blots his forehead.

  Terek frowns and stops rubbing his hands. “That’s not the problem. They have weapons. They have more weapons than they have soldiers, if that’s what those women in dark gray are. What if they trade weapons for goods? Even a poor sword is worth half a gold.”

  “You said Skiodra is not much better than a bandit:”

  “Let us hope he is an effective bandit-a very effective bandit.”

  Hissl nods, but his eyes drop to the glass.

  XVIII

  NYLAN STUDIED THE staircase again, considering the wisdom of such a massive central pedestal. He’d had five purposes in mind-to provide a central support for the square tower, to make flooring each level easy, to provide an interior storage space, to allow for firm stone steps, to provide for chimneys, and to provide an interior air tunnel for ventilation. All that was well and good, but its construction had slowed that of the tower wall, still only slightly above the second level.

  He put his foot on the nearest brace, wiggled it gently. Because Nylan had no really accurate way of calculating loads, he was estimating and feeling the bracing, setting the stripped logs that formed the bracing for the floors only about three handspans apart.

  “Cessya, this isn’t solid on the outside.”

  “Weblya is bringing up some wedges now. Then we’ll mortar it in place.” Using the crude tripod crane, Cessya and another marine eased another timber toward the stone-lined slots.

  “Frig! It’s still too big. Needs more trimming.”

  As the big roan bearing Ryba n
eared the tower, Nylan stepped away from the long flat section of stone that would anchor the next section of the staircase and started down the stone stairs.

  Ryba had tied the roan’s reins around one of the larger building stones when Nylan met her. She now carried one of the Sybran blades and the second blade Nylan had forged in the other Sybran scabbard-as well as the bolstered slug-thrower.

  Nothing like a walking armory, he reflected. “Where have you been?”

  “I’ve been checking out the approaches from the west. We’re better protected than I thought. You can’t get here except by coming up the ridge. I stopped to see how you were coming before I go check out the road. There still haven’t been any signs of travelers-just scouts from Lornth.”

  “How do you know?”

  “They wear purple. Subtleness isn’t exactly ingrained in the local culture.” Ryba started up the steps. “Let’s see how things are going.”

  “Not bad, actually.”

  When they reached the spot where Nylan had been working, he glanced down toward the fields and the meadows that surrounded them, now dotted with the small sunflowers. A silver-haired marine weeding in the field suddenly dropped her hoe and dashed across the ditch, where she vomited.

  “Ryba? Did you see that?”

  “What?”

  “Look down there. She looks sick.” The engineer pointed.

  “That’s Siret. She’s sick, but it’s not an illness. I suspect her contraceptives have worn off-if she’s been taking them at all.”

  “I haven’t seen Gerlich with her.” Nylan didn’t think the thoughtful silver-haired marine was the type to go for Gerlich.

  “Who’s been looking?” Ryba shrugged.

  “You did make a point about stud value with him.”

  “That’s true.” Ryba half laughed. “You’d think you were building this tower to stand forever.”

  “I figure that it will be a generation before anyone can expand on what we build. If they’re prosperous, fine. If not, this buys them time.”

  “Assuming we can finish it.”