On the uphill side of the yard, near the causeway into the tower, Ayrlyn and Saryn were working to improve their cart, based on their ideas and what they had seen in practice in the cart obtained from Skiodra. On the downhill side, beside the remaining roof slates and building stones for the bathhouse, Gerlich and Jaseen sparred with the heavy wooden blades.
Nylan’s eyes moved south where, on the trail-road down from the ridge, a thin, red-haired figure walked between the two marines, and Fierral followed.
Since Ryba wasn’t around, Nylan waited until the four reached the base of the causeway. The marines stopped, and Fierral stepped forward, her eyes surveying the area before settling on Nylan.
The local, so thin she seemed to be little more than a child, barely reached Fierral’s shoulder, although her tangled hair fell nearly to the middle of her back. Her pale blue eyes darted from the marines to Nylan. She shrank away and back toward the marines.
“Ser,” Fierral began, “this local just showed up and bowed and bowed. Selitra and Rienadre don’t understand the local Anglorat, and I don’t do that much better, but I think she’s asking for refuge or something. Do you know where the marshal is?”
“No one here will harm you,” Nylan offered in his slow Anglorat, looking at the painfully thin figure.
The girl-woman looked down at the packed dirt leading to the causeway, and eased back until she was pressed against Rienadre’s olive-blacks.
“She’s clearly not fond of men. Better get the marshal,” Nylan suggested. He turned toward the nearest of his tower workers, who had stopped on the far side of the causeway by the main tower door. “Cessya? I think Ryba’s checking the space for stables up in the stone-cutting canyon. Will you get her?”
“Yes, ser. Wouldn’t mind a break from lugging stone.”
“Well… you could bring down a few of the larger fragments…”
“Ser?”
Nylan grinned.
“Master Engineer… someday… someday…”
“Promises, promises…”
Cessya flushed as she turned.
“You’re a dangerous man, Engineer,” said Fierral.
“Me?” Nylan laughed.
When the force leader, or armsmaster, just shook her head, Nylan’s eyes crossed the south tower yard to where Ayrlyn was bent over the axle of the creaky cart. Saryn stood on the other side.
“Ayrlyn?”
The redheaded healer lifted her head. “Yes, Nylan? What great engineering expertise can you offer to stop the creakiness of the wheels?”
“Roller bearings, except I can’t make them. Grease, otherwise, preferably from Kyseen’s leavings or from animal fat.”
“Grease?” Ayrlyn made a face. “I need engineering, and all you have to offer is grease? That was what you said yesterday.”
“That’s what they used for centuries. It’s smelly and messy, but I understand it works.” Nylan shrugged and grinned. “Can you give us a hand?”
“With what?”
The engineer motioned toward the local girl-woman. “We have a local problem. I need you and Narliat.”
“That worthless loafer?” Ayrlyn took a deep breath, then wiped her greasy hands on a clump of grass. “He’s pretending to stack grasses to dry. It’s the easiest job he can find.”
“I’ll get him,” Saryn volunteered. “You talk to the local kid, Ayrlyn. I still hate Anglorat.” The former second pilot, limping yet, turned and headed for the grass-drying racks.
Ayrlyn wiped her hands on the grass again, then crossed the yard, where she stopped and looked at the small redhead. After a time, the girl-woman looked back.
“Who are you?” asked Ayrlyn.
“Hryessa.” The name was so faint that all of the angels had to strain to catch it.
“Where are you from?”
“Lornth. The way was hard.” Nylan nodded at the long scratches, and the scabs, on the scrawny legs below the gray dresslike garment, and the purple and green bruises on the left side of the face. A white line in front of her left ear bore witness to a previous injury. “Why did you come?”
“Because… because… I heard that you were angel-women, and that you had defeated Lord Nessil. Even the mages of Lord Sillek fear you.” Hryessa pursed her lips as though she feared having said too much.
“Some of that is true,” answered Nylan. “We have defeated Lord Nessil, and some of the bandits.”
The small redhead stiffened and swallowed, but her eyes finally met Nylan’s, although she shivered as she spoke. “They say that you are a black mage who devours souls and puts them into the stones of your tower.”
“Oh… frig…”The expletive whispered from Rienadre’s lips.
“I do not devour souls. All of us have built the tower,” Nylan explained.
“You are too modest,” interjected Narliat. “The mage made the tower possible, and he used a knife of fire-”
Hryessa shrank back until her back pressed against Rienadre’s legs.
Nylan wanted to smash Narliat for making things harder, but Rienadre spoke before Nylan had figured out what to say.
“Easy, easy, kid,” said the marine. “The engineer’s good people.” Rienadre patted the girl-woman’s shoulder, and the small redhead straightened, more in response to the tone than the words she could not have understood.
“He is a good mage,” explained Ayrlyn in Old Anglorat. “His works have saved many, and his tower will protect us all against the winter. It is only made of stones and timber and metal-nothing more.”
Nylan tried not to wince at being called a mage. He was an engineer, and a poor excuse for one in a low-tech culture. That was all he was. Except… as he thought that, his head throbbed. Was he more than an engineer?
“You wanted to see us?” asked Ayrlyn.
“I had… hoped, great lady ..‘.” Her eyes fell to the clay underfoot. “I had hoped to find a place.”
“It will be a cold and long winter,” Ayrlyn offered.
“I do not care… you are women.” Her eyes glistened, but the tears remained unshed, and Hryessa stiffened, gathering herself together in pride.
“You do not have to beg, or humble yourself,” Nylan said softly. “The lady Ayrlyn only wished you to know that winter on the Roof of the World will not be easy.”
“Is he really a man?” asked Hryessa, directing his words at Ayrlyn.
Nylan tried not to frown.
“Yes,” answered Ayrlyn with a smile. “He is very much a man, but he is an angel, as are we all.”
The sound of hoofbeats interrupted the process, as Ryba guided the big roan to a halt by the causeway, letting Cessya slide off first, then dismounted and handed the marine the reins. The marine led the roan to the hitching rail.
Ryba walked toward the group, halting beside Nylan and looking at the small redhead. “You are Hryessa,” she said slowly, “and you have come for refuge. You are welcome.” With that, the marshal smiled. “All such as you are welcome.”
Nylan froze for a moment. How had Ryba known the woman’s name?
Hryessa bent her head, then knelt. “Thank you, Angel of Heaven.”
Ayrlyn’s and Nylan’s eyes met, and Nylan realized that they shared the same feeling-one of awe, a sense of experiencing something that transcended either of them.
After a moment, Ayrlyn spoke. “These others-they are also angels.”
“But she is the angel,” said Hryessa in a calm voice. “I have seen.” She bowed again to Ryba.
Ryba inclined her head to Ayrlyn. “Would you take care of her? Get her washed and clean and clothed? And you and Fierral need to work on sleeping arrangements and blade training.”
“We’ll take care of it.” Ayrlyn nodded. After a moment, so did Fierral.
Hryessa frowned, her eyes darting from Ryba to Ayrlyn.
“They’re going to make sure you get bathed, clothed, and fed,” Nylan explained in Old Anglorat. “Then, you will learn our ways, and they will teach you the way of the blade.”
“Teach me a blade, like an armsman?”
“Better, Hryessa, better,” said Fierral in accented Anglo-rat.
Again, Ayrlyn and Nylan exchanged glances, and Nylan felt that they shared almost a sense of foreboding.
Ryba nodded and turned back toward the long hitching rail on the west side of the causeway, where her roan was tied.
“Let’s go, Hryessa,” suggested Ayrlyn, leading the young woman toward the tower.
Nylan headed for the stream to wash, wishing, again, that he had gotten around to finishing the bathhouse.
After washing, he turned back toward the tower and walked across the short causeway and into the great room. All eight narrow windows to the great room were open to admit the cool breeze. In four, the armaglass windows were pivoted and the shutters folded back. In the other four, without the armaglass, the shutters were just folded open.
In time, Nylan hoped, they would be able to afford glass for the remainder of the tower windows, but glass was a lower priority than food or weapons, especially now that Ryba had declared that the destiny of the guards of Westwind would be the double blades.
No wonder she had pressed him for the forty blades he had made so far!
He stepped toward the mostly filled tables. The grass baskets were filled with loaves of fresh-baked bread. Ayrlyn had finally brought back a yeast starter or whatever it was, and Kyseen had only exploded dough all over the kitchen a handful of times before learning how to mix flour, yeast, and water in making loaves suited to the big, wood-burning ovens that everyone had thought were too big when Nylan and Huldran had started laying bricks and mortaring in the metal cooking surfaces and oven grate slots.
Nylan sniffed the air, trying to determine the composition of the steam rising from the two big pots-one on each table. Some sort of stew, with local roots and greens tossed in.
Jaseen turned toward Nylan as he passed the end of the second table, and he noted the scratches on the medtech’s forearms.
“What happened?” he asked.
“Frigging pine trees. The second and Kyseen discovered the cones have nuts, and you can roast them or bake them or whatever. Only problem is that if you wait for the cones to fall, the nuts are gone. Selitra and me, we’ve been climbing pines. I slipped, and some of those needles are like knives.”
“I’m sorry.”
“So am I. Frigging nuts. Bet they don’t even taste good.” She took a savage bite from the chunk of bread she held, and Nylan walked toward the hearth end of the first table.
Ryba, as usual, sat at the head of the table, and Nylan slipped onto the end of the bench to her left, the space that was always left for him.
As he sat, he noticed Ayrlyn leading Hryessa toward the second table. The local woman now wore leather trousers, boots, and a shirt somewhat large for her thin frame. Her face had been washed, and her hair had been cut short, marine-style.
As Hryessa looked down the table, her eyes widened, and she swallowed. Ayrlyn said something, easing Hryessa onto the bench and breaking off a large chunk of bread for her.
“There’s our first recruit,” noted Ryba.
“She’s not that big,” said Gerlich from the other side of the table.
“Given time, she’ll be as good or better than any except Istril or a few others.” Ryba’s words were matter-of-fact. “We’ll see more before long.”
Beside Saryn, Relyn frowned, struggling with a spoon in his left hand. “You will teach her the blade?”
“Of course. Why not?”
Relyn opened his mouth, then looked at Nylan. “Mage? What do you see when women have blades?”
“More men and women will get killed-at first.” Nylan stood and spooned stew onto his trencher. “After that, most of those who die will be arrogant men.”
“You sound displeased at that,” Saryn offered.
“I’m displeased any time force is the only answer, and these days I’m displeased a lot,” said the engineer as he reseated himself, forcing his tone to be wry.
The silver-haired Siret smiled shyly and passed Nylan a basket of bread.
“Thank you.” Nylan handed the basket back after breaking off a chunk of the heavy bread.
“You’re welcome, ser.”
“Would you pass me some, dear Siret?” asked Berlis.
“I certainly would, dear Berlis. About the time you bed a demon-except you already have. So enjoy it.” The deep green eyes flashed.
“Talk about bedding…”
“If you want to bed a blade,” suggested Siret, “just say another word.”
“Guards!” snapped Ryba.
Both women closed their mouths.
“Thank you.” Ryba turned to Nylan. “You were working on something different this morning.”
“Yes. I finally got the bow thing worked out, I think.” Nylan turned to Gerlich. “You might want to try it later this afternoon.”
“Try what?” Gerlich lifted his eyebrows.
“A metal-composite bow.”
“I’ll try it, but I finally made one out of a local fir-type tree that works pretty well.”
Nylan took a spoonful of stew. The meat and sauce tasted more of salt and some spice than meat, but he was hungry and shoveled in several mouthfuls, followed with a bite of bread. The bread was better-tasting than the stew.
Perhaps because of the outburst between Berlis and Siret, the midday meal was relatively quiet, although Gerlich had a long and low conversation with Narliat.
After eating, Nylan went back to the north yard and the next group of metal-composite bows.
First, he laid out three more strips of composite, and trimmed them, before rough-shaping the braces into the bow outlines. After that, he turned off the power and rested for a moment, letting the chill breeze off the western heights cool him and dry his sweat-soaked hair.
Behind him, the clink of trowels and mortar and stone continued as the outside walls of the bathhouse rose. The walls separating jakes, showers, and laundry could be installed after the roofing.
His break done, Nylan adjusted the goggles over his eyes once more and eased power through the laser. He could sense the raggedness of the powerhead, and he sweated even more heavily as he strained not only to meld the metal around the composite core, but to keep the energy flow from the powerhead constant.
As he turned the curved shape in the tongs, his breath became more and more uneven, but he managed to smooth the last curves before shutting down the power and pushing the goggles back.
The quick quench was followed by his slumping onto a stone to rest.
Four bows. How many more could he coax from the laser? Should he stop and use the life of the powerhead to do the delicate stonework? He took a deep breath. He still had the other powerhead.
With a quick rest and a mugful of cold water, he went back to work on the next bow. The powerhead wavered more; Nylan strained more; and he took even more time gasping and recuperating. Five bows rested on the stones.
The third bow of the afternoon creased his arms with lines of fire long before he finished, and left a knifelike pounding inside his skull. As he started on the final smoothing and melding, coaxing power out of the cells and through the powerhead, the line of light and power stuttered more and more in green bursts. Sweat poured from his forehead and around his goggles and even inside them.
His eyes burning, Nylan completed the last smoothing and flicked off the power to the wand, then set it aside and stepped toward the quench tub. He slipped on the clay, but caught himself as he dipped the bow into the quench for its momentary bath before laying it on the stone.
He sat on the stone for a long time, sipping water, eyes closed.
“Are you all right, ser?” Cessya finally asked.
“I will be.” / hope, he added mentally, considering I’ve created six bows that might not even work, nearly destroyed the laser in the process, and feel like the local mounts have tromped me into the stone.
“Are you sure?”
/> The engineer opened his eyes and nodded.
“What are these?” asked Cessya.
“A new kind of bow-if they work.”
“Do you need some help?”
“Well… if you could take the firin bank back to storage,” Nylan admitted.
“Selitra! Give me a hand here. We need to store the energy cells,” called Cessya.
Nylan slowly disassembled the power cables and the wand and powerhead while they carried the cells back into the tower. Then he followed with the laser components and stored them on the shelves above the power cells.
When he returned, the three were back at their stonework. Nylan extracted the woven bowstring from his pocket and tried to string the first bow. It took him three tries, probably because his arms were still aching.
Then he had to go back into the tower and find some arrows. Instead, he found Gerlich off the main hall.
“Are you ready to test the bow?” asked the engineer. “We’ll need arrows and a target.”
“Sure. Why not? I’ve got an area where I’ve been practicing at the south end of the meadow, near those scattered firs. We’ll see what your toy will do, compared to the wooden one I worked out.” Gerlich grinned, but the grin made Nylan uneasy.
The two walked back to the north tower yard, Gerlich with his own bow and quiver. The western wind felt good as it ruffled through Nylan’s hair, and the engineer realized he was still hot. He handed the composite bow to Gerlich.
“Hmmm… a little heavy, and probably too short.”
Nylan looked at the curves. “Too short?”
“Well, Relyn says that a proper bow should be chin high, about three and a half cubits local.”
Nylan shrugged. His bows were not quite chest high, but, easier, he suspected, to carry on horseback.
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