Fall of Angels

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  “The center building is mostly wood,” offers Hissl in a low voice.

  “Thank you, Master Hissl,” responds Terek.

  “Stop it, you two,” mumbles Jissek. “Let’s get on with it.”

  “You also, Master Jissek,” hisses Terek. “I’ll do the first, then Hissl, and then you, Jissek. Take your time, and hit something.”

  Whhsttt!

  The first firebolt arcs out of the grass and drops into the fort- slamming into the side of a building where flames lick at the rough-dressed log wall.

  Clang! Clang!

  The Jeranyi warning bell echoes through the fort.

  More fireballs arc out of the darkness and fall across the buildings within the earthen walls.

  The bell clamors more, then falls silent as the sound of voices and muffled orders fill the once-still evening.

  “… mount up and fall in!”

  “Archers!… Where are the frigging archers?”

  “Fire! Water for the cook hall! Fire!”

  Three additional fireballs, the first the largest, drop in succession into the fort.

  “Aeeeeüü!” A scream tells that at least one has struck more than wood.

  The crackling of flames joins the chorus of orders and the whuffing and whinnying of hastily saddled mounts. The night air lightens with the growing flames from the buildings in the fort, with burning canvas, and the smell of smoke thickens as it drifts toward the wizards.

  Another round of fireballs flares eastward. After his fourth firebolt, Jissek drops to his knees and holds his head. Terek snorts and flings another ball of fire toward the fort, and so does Hissl, who ignores the sweat beading on his forehead despite the cool night wind.

  The flames continue to build, and the cool wind becomes warm, then hot, and the Jeranyi redoubt blazes with the light of a second sun.

  Terek grunts as he lets go a last firebolt. “Can’t do much more here.”

  “All right. Let’s move back. Keep low until we’re out of the light.”

  As all three wizards stumble after the surefooted Koric, the fort’s gates open, and the Jeranyi horse ride quickly down the road toward the ford, in rough ranks, blades glittering in the light of dozens of fires.

  The whirring of arrows, like soft-winged birds, is lost in the clatter and thump of hooves, in the low-voiced orders, and the crackling of the fire. The bodies slumping in saddles are not.

  “Charge the river!” orders a strong tenor voice.

  “The river!” adds a second, deeper voice.

  The column straightens, and the Jeranyi forces gallop downhill, hooves thudding on the damp-packed clay of the road, before splashing through the water and heading into the darkness that leads to Jerans.

  More soft-winged arrows fly out of the darkness into the backlighted horse troopers, and more bodies fall from saddles. Some few wounded riders are fortunate enough and strong enough to hang on and keep riding into the safety of the western darkness.

  Shortly, the road is empty, except for more than two dozen bodies and two riderless horses.

  Behind the empty road, the pillar of fire that had been a Jeranyi outpost slowly subsides, consuming as it does all that can burn, and filling Clynya, kays downwind, and the barracks there, with the odor of smoke and burned meat.

  Later, much later, in the small upper room of the barracks, Sillek smiles. “That should give Ildyrom something to think about.”

  Koric nods slowly. “This time. What if he rebuilds?”

  “This time, the wizards will watch. One of them will stay here with a detachment.”

  The three wizards exchange glances.

  Koric nods slowly. “Might I?”

  “If that would please you, Captain.” Sillek turns to Terek. “I would appreciate it if Master Hissl might serve my captain Koric here.”

  “I am most certain that Master Hissl would be pleased,” answers Terek.

  “Indeed, I would be pleased, Your Grace,” responds Hissl. His voice is low, only a shade more animated than if it were absolutely flat.

  In the corner, Jissek wipes his forehead.

  XXVIII

  HIGH HAZY CLOUDS hovered above Freyja, moving slowly eastward, and behind them, to the west, lurked a hint of darkness.

  Nylan cleared his throat and checked over his equipment, from the worn gauntlets and the scratched goggles never designed for such intensive use down to the crude trough of water and hydraulic fluid.

  He ran his fingers over the blade he was using as a model once more before picking up another of the endurasteel braces from the landers. His senses, now more practiced, studied the metal, checking the imperfections hidden within.

  With a deep breath, he pulled on the goggles and the gauntlets and touched the power-up studs on the firin cell bank. After picking up the heavy brace, he readjusted and pulsed the laser, slowly cutting along the grain of the metal. He’d finally gotten used to guiding a laser by feel, and he even didn’t try to analyze what he was doing too deeply.

  When he had completed the rough cut, he released the power stud and checked the cut and the metal-still rough, still partly disordered. Next came spreading the beam for a wider heat flow and to get the heat and power to guide the semifinished shape of the blade.

  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 Winter-lance’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 ruffled his 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 som
e 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 tiles-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. Ryba looked up from a prone figure where she and Jaseen, the combat medtech, struggled. “We need dressings, Nylan. Gerlich’s out hunting, and he knew the storage plan by heart. Try lander three. Huldran, can you take charge of the diversion in the fields so that we don’t lose any more crops?”

  “Yes, ser.” The blond marine was moving as she spoke. “Will do.” As Nylan turned to go for the medsupplies, he asked, “What happened?”

  “One of those skinny little trees with the gray leaves- the storm ripped off a top branch. Kadran didn’t even see it coming in the wind and rain. Went through her shoulder like a set of barbed arrows.”

  Nylan winced, but stepped up his pace. He was halfway through the second bin in lander three when Ayrlyn joined him and started at the other end of the bins.

  Nylan ran through an emergency medical kit. “There are a couple of modules missing here.”

  “Don’t bother with that, Nylan.” Ayrlyn frowned. “Great help here. This one says it’s the emergency surgery section, and here’s the section for emergency childbirth. Someone’s been into it, but it’s been resealed.”

  “Be a while before we need that.” Nylan glanced through the lander door, but did not see the all-too-visibly-pregnant Ellysia. “How Gerlich…” He turned back and discarded the single remaining bone-splint kit.

  “There are some stupid ones left. Every generation there always are. Not many, but she’d never considered birth control. Now, what about this-standard first aid-”

  “That’s it. We need to run that over to Jaseen.”

  “I’ll do that. See if you can find any more. We might need them. Who knows what happened to those who were caught out in the open?” Ayrlyn grasped the sealed package and left while Nylan carefully worked through the dwindling medical supplies, before finding another sealed package of surgical dressings. He decided against taking them, but set the package in the now-empty first bin before leaving the lander.

  In the short time he’d been in the lander, Ryba had managed to start the process of restoring order. Kyseen was rebuilding the cook fire, and straightening up that area, while Huldran had managed to divert the main flow of water from the bean field and had a crew working on the potatoes.

  Ryba was checking over the mounts, and Istril headed off with two others to see about rounding up two mounts that had left the makeshift corral.

  Everything, except the tower, it seemed, was makeshift, and he still didn’t have the demon-damned thing finished- or even the plans worked out for the bathhouse and laundry addition and the jakes in the tower.

  Slowly he walked back to the tower, where the lower level lay filled with puddles, one of them almost a half cubit deep. Drains. He had forgotten drains-another mistake to be rectified.

  When he reached the tower yard, and the slowly vanishing puddles, he turned and looked up, studying the rain, now only falling steadily in a form somewhere between a fine mist and a heavy drizzle. The piles of white hailstones, like bleached bones, stood out on the green of the meadow.

  Then he walked up into the tower and started up the stairs to check on the damage to the east roof.

&
nbsp; As he climbed, he wondered about his brick-making and the crude oven, then shook his head. That had been low tech, and if the rains had carried it away, he would find a way to rebuild it.

  XXIX

  HISSL STARES INTO the glass, looking at the waving stalks of grass, and at the burned fort, with the few wisps of smoke still threading into the sky. Concentrating again, he waits for the image to re-form, and it does, showing an empty road that would lead to Berlitos, should he desire the glass to follow the track.

  There are no signs of the Jeranyi. Hissl tugs at his chin. Ildyrom must have pulled back a long ways, perhaps as far as Berlitos.

  The wizard frowns, and the white mists fill the glass, eventually showing a line of horse troopers trudging down a forest road behind the fir-tree banner. Since there are no forests near Clynya, that means Ildyrom has in fact stopped pressing his claim on the grasslands-for now.

  The white wizard shakes his head. “You’ll be stuck here for seasons-seasons, angel-damn!” His words are low, but they hiss with frustration.

  He looks around the small room, then out the narrow window into the blue of the morning and over the low thatched roofs of Clynya toward the West Fork he cannot see from the second story of the barracks. As he does, the image fades from the glass.

  “Terek… with you scheming in Lornth, how will I ever get out of here? If I’m successful, Ildyrom won’t get the grasslands back, and I’ll be stuck here. If I’m not…” He shakes his head and looks down at the blank glass.

  In time, he studies the mirror once more, and the mists swirl, and in the midst of the swirling white appears the Roof of the World, and the black tower that stands, despite the storm, and the silver-haired figure in olive-black who trudges up the stone steps. The glass also shows the aura of darkness that surrounds the man in the glass.

  “A mage, and he knows it not.” After a time, Hissl gestures, and the image vanishes, leaving only a blank and flat mirror on the small table.

  Finally, he smiles, tightly, thinking about bandits and the Roof of the World.