Fall of Angels

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  “Something in you feels rather strongly. Do you have any idea why?”

  “The white of the laser. It feels wrong… really wrong… disordered… ugly.” Ayrlyn shuddered.

  “I couldn’t see anything like that,” said Huldran, “but I watched the power meter, and you’re using a little less than half what’s normal, except for the first few instances. It seems to be cutting better than I ever saw.”

  “What is this place, anyway?” asked Weindre. “Who knows? A different universe, maybe, where the laws of nature, physics, are different. Not a lot different, or we wouldn’t be surviving, but different.” Nylan picked up the laser again. “And if we don’t get enough stone for the tower, we won’t be surviving.” He disliked his own tone, perhaps because it reminded him of Ryba’s attitude. What was happening to him? He was seeing patterns and neuronets that couldn’t be and getting ever more critical of Ryba. And yet he worried about sounding like her. “You’ll have to take it slowly,” insisted Ayrlyn.

  “Unless you can find someone else who can do it,” pointed out Huldran.

  “Why don’t I see if I can rotate some of the marines up here, just to see if anyone can do it-or even sense what you’re doing?” asked Ayrlyn.

  “Fine. But there’s only so much power here.”

  “I’ll send them,” said Ayrlyn firmly. “Take your time.”

  “Yes, mother fowl.”

  “Cluck, cluck…”

  Nylan grinned and readjusted the goggles. “Ready?”

  “Yes, ser.”

  He lifted the powerhead again.

  XV

  “HOW DID PEOPLE come here?” asked Ayrlyn, moving back from the heat of the cook fire.

  “The old ones?” Narliat edged toward the heat and half turned to face the redhead. “The old ones came a long time ago.”

  In the growing late twilight of early summer, Nylan sat behind the two, concentrating on Narliat’s speech and trying to catch the meanings of the slurred and modified Rationalist words.

  “… like you strangers, they came from the skies… not in tents of iron, but upon the backs of iron birds…” Narliat gestured with the healing hand, and the missing thumb and forefinger did not seem to hamper him as much as the still-splinted broken leg.

  “Were there people already here?” asked the comm officer.

  “There were the druids, the people of the Great Forest, and many others… especially those in other lands beyond Candar-”

  “Candar?” asked Nylan.

  “Ah, the wizard, he does speak.” Narliat turned to the engineer. “Candar-that is all the lands that are surrounded by the oceans here, the lands of Gallos and Lornth, and Jerans, and Naclos, and Lydiar in the east.”

  “Candar is the name of the continent,” said Ayrlyn.

  “It is Candar, not continent,” explained Narliat. “Candar is where the old ones landed… the old tales claim that the mighty iron birds took all of the plains of Analeria to land. That is how big they were, and their wings shadowed whole towns…”

  “Analeria is the high plains region east of these mountains,” added Ayrlyn, brushing flame hair from her eyes, still acting as a comm officer.

  “… and the old ones were glad, for they had fled from the awesome ice lances of the angels of Heaven. The wizards, the white ones, they say that you are fallen from the angels of Heaven. Is that true?”

  “We’ve certainly fallen,” quipped Nylan, slowly, in what he recalled from his service indoctrination in Rationalist dialect, “but-”

  “So they were right!” Narliat’s eyes widened. “You are angels. Do you freeze everyone to death who opposes you? Are you going to freeze me?”

  “No,” said Ayrlyn and Nylan, nearly simultaneously.

  “What does our friend have to say?” Ryba, both blades on her hips, looked down at the three.

  “He was telling us about the old legends. Sit down. If you can follow tangled Old Rat, you might find it interesting,” suggested Ayrlyn.

  Ryba eased herself onto a cut-off tree-trunk section that served as a seat. The remainder of the tree had been laboriously cut into a handful of planks with the single collapsible grip saw.

  “She is the cherubim-or a seraphim. Truly, she was terrible,” stammered the local armsman.

  “Terrible?” murmured Ryba. “How delightful.”

  Nylan frowned, but only cleared his throat.

  “You were telling us about the old ones,” prompted Ayrlyn, “how they came to the high plains of Analeria on the backs of the great birds…”

  “Those birds, they had feathers whiter than snow, and the tips of those feathers were like mirrors, and they even turned back the sun… and the old ones brought with them the knowledge of metals, and of the cold iron that turns back the fires of chaos…” Narliat paused and looked up at Ryba.

  Nylan followed the local’s glance, trying to picture the captain as Narliat saw her-an angular face, with a regular but sharp nose and high cheekbones, pale clear skin that tanned only slightly, dominating and penetrating green eyes, broad-shouldered and muscular without being overly stocky, and short hair that had become so dark that it seemed to swallow light. In fact, she looked like an avenging angel.

  ‘The fires of chaos?“ asked Ayrlyn. ”What can you tell us about the fires of chaos?“

  “No wizard am I,” declared Narliat, and his eyes went to Nylan, then back to Ayrlyn. “Those who are wizards control the fires of chaos.”

  “Like the man in white?” suggested Nylan.

  “Hissl? Yes, he is… he was one of Lord Nessil’s three wizards.”

  “He still is,” added Nylan. “He escaped. Hissl did, I mean. What about this Nessil?”

  “Lord Nessil-your seraphim killed him with the iron lightning she flung through him.” Narliat coughed. “He was the lord of Lornth, and Lornth claims the Roof of the World.”

  “Not anymore,” said Ryba.

  Nylan’s eyes looked down toward the cook fire where various small rodents had been spitted and were being turned. The horse meat from the animals killed in the attack had been tastier than the rodents, but not much. A lot of the meat had been wasted, because they’d had no way to preserve it. Ryba hadn’t been pleased with that, Nylan reflected, not at all. Then, some days, she didn’t seem pleased about much. That hadn’t changed much, though, not from when she’d had a sound ship under her.

  On the far side of the fire, Gerlich leaned close to a lithe marine-Selitra. The former weapons officer, who had taken to wearing Lord Nessil’s hand - and - a - half blade, said something, and they both laughed, but Selitra glanced sideways at Ryba, who remained concentrating on Narliat.

  Charred and fire-roasted rodents, mixed with the vanishing ship concentrates, were scarcely Nylan’s idea of a good meal. Ayrlyn had found some roots that resembled-or were-wild onions, but without cook pots, their culinary value was minimal.

  “… the lords of Lornth came out of the Westhorns here, many, many years ago, almost as long ago as when the old ones came in from the skies on their mighty birds with feathers like mirrors…”

  “Are there any traders that cross these mountains?” interrupted Nylan.

  “Traders?” asked Fierral from behind Nylan.

  “We’ve got some local coin now, and some jewelry, and a bunch of blades. We could buy a few things-like sledges or wedges, cook pots. Most traders don’t care about politics.” Nylan cleared his throat. “Maybe other things.”

  “But… to trade with the angels… who would dare?” declaimed Narliat.

  Nylan suspected that, had it not been for the stories, there might already have been traders, or some travelers, on the high road that crossed the mountains and ran below the ridge that led up to the high meadow.

  “Anyone who wants coins,” suggested Ryba.

  Narliat looked blank, and Ayrlyn translated.

  The armsman grinned. “Skiodra.”

  “Is he a trader?”

  “That is what he calls himself, but he is a
thief, and his guards carry blades that are often in need of sharpening.”

  “Sharpening?” Fierral’s red hair glinted as she shook her head.

  “They get nicked when they fight,” said Ryba dryly. “How do we find this Skiodra?”

  “He will find you if you fly the trade banner.”

  “We don’t have a pole or a trade banner,” pointed out Ayrlyn.

  “Poles we can make,” said Nylan, turning toward Narliat. “What does a trade banner look like?”

  “A trade banner.” The armsman shrugged. “It is a white banner with a dark square in the middle.”

  “We can put something like that together.”

  “With what?” asked Ayrlyn. “I didn’t notice such things as needles or thread in the survival paks.”

  “There are some needles in the medical kits-for sutures,” said Ryba.

  Nylan frowned, wondering why Ryba was so familiar with the medical kits. That hadn’t been her training at all. Then again, as captain, she’d looked at everything. He’d been mostly involved in solving the shelter problem.

  “We’ll also have to make a show offeree when this Skiodra shows up.”

  Ayrlyn translated for Narliat.

  “Skiodra is very polite if you are strong.” The armsman shrugged. “If not, you become slaves, and he sells you to the traders from Hamor. That happened to a cousin of Memsenn’s. She lived on a farm outside of Dellash. One day Skiodra passed by, and when her consort came home, she was gone. He chased Skiodra’s men, and they killed him.”

  “Not a pleasant fellow.” Fierral’s fingers went to her sidearm.

  “I don’t think any of Candar is what we’d term peaceful,” said Ryba. “The only way to ensure peace is through strength.”

  “That was what Lord Nessil said. But… now that he is dead, it may be that the Jeranyi will march, or the Suthyans.” Narliat edged closer to the fire, then looked at the angels around him. “Truly, you are people of the winter. Is Heaven cold?”

  “Colder than Candar, even than here,” replied Ayrlyn, “except maybe in winter.”

  Across the fire, Gerlich and Selitra stood and eased away into the shadows, hand in hand.

  Ryba and Nylan exchanged looks.

  Ayrlyn snorted. “Poor woman. Thinks she’s special.”

  “I’ve warned them,” added Fierral, “but it does get lonely.”

  “I would make you less lonely…” volunteered Narliat.

  Fierral shot a look at Narliat, who immediately glanced at the darkness beyond the fire.

  “He’s learning Temple fast,” laughed Ayrlyn. “Even if it’s not that different from Anglorat.”

  “Too fast,” said Fierral.

  “Supper’s ready,” called Saryn. “Such as it is.”

  At the call of supper, even Gerlich and Selitra reappeared, no longer quite hand in hand.

  Nylan followed the others, getting his helping of mush and chunk of blackened rodent, as well as a few berries and a chunk of wild onion. The roughly circular wooden platter was the result of a collaboration between some of the marines and Narliat.

  He sat farther from the fire, on a boulder overlooking the landers, using his fingers and a crudely carved spoon he had made. The slightly charred rodent was tastier than the mush, but he ate both, and washed them down with water from the plastic cup he had claimed and kept.

  Beside him, Ryba ate, equally silent.

  After he finished, Nylan stood. “I’m going to rinse this off, and rack it, and wash up. Then I’m going to collapse.”

  “Wait for me.” Ryba finished her last mouthful of mush. “I won’t be too long. I have to check with Fierral to make sure the sentries are set.”

  “All right.” Nylan walked over to the side branch of the stream, diverted for the purpose of washing, and rinsed off the wooden platter, then used the scattering of fine sand to wash his hands. After that he rinsed them and splashed off his face.

  “Next,” said a voice.

  He looked up to see Ayrlyn standing there. “Sorry.” He stood and moved away from the stream.

  She smiled. “You don’t have to be.”

  “You’re doing well with Narliat.”

  “He figures he’d better do well. He doesn’t have anywhere else to go. Besides, he likes the ratio of men to women.”

  “Has anyone… ?”

  “Right now, Ryba would have their heads, but that won’t last. She probably knows that, too. She thinks of everything.” Ayrlyn paused. “Just be careful, Nylan. She uses everyone.”

  He nodded, hoping the darkness would cover his lack of enthusiasm.

  Ayrlyn bent to rinse her platter, and Nylan walked to the lander, passing a pair of marines on the way. One was Huldran, the stocky blond who helped with stone-cutting; the other a solid brunette whose name he had not learned.

  “Evening, ser.”

  “Good evening, Huldran. Are you on sentry duty?”

  “Not tonight. Not tonight.”

  Once in the forward area of the lander, Nylan pulled off his boots. Then he sat in the darkness for a time barefooted, before he pulled off the shipsuit that, despite careful washing, was getting both frayed and stained.

  When Ryba still did not appear, he finally stretched out, folding the cover back to just above his waist. His shoulders and his forearms ached, and his feet hurt. He also worried about Ryba-their relationship. A lot of the time she was distant, commanding, just like he imagined an antique nomad-liege of Sybra. Of course, that was her heritage, and Candar seemed to reinforce those traits.

  In the distance, he could hear laughter, but could not recognize the voices.

  As his eyes began to close, he heard footsteps on the hard floor of the lander, and he propped himself up on his elbow. “I told you I wouldn’t be long.” Slowly, Ryba slipped out of her boots, and then out of the shipsuit, and eased under the thin cover. Her lips were cool, but found his, and her skin was like satin against him.

  Later-much, much later-they eased apart, although Ryba’s hand held his for a moment.

  “Don’t go away.” Ryba rolled away from Nylan. “I’ll be back in a moment.”

  “Where would I go?”

  She ruffled his hair slightly and pulled on her shipsuit over her naked body, thrusting her bare feet into her shipboots- boots that were beginning to wear, as were everyone’s.

  Nylan wondered absently if traders had boots, or if footwear would become yet another problem. He leaned back on the couch, letting the cool air from the door waft over him. Sometimes… on the one hand, Ryba was a good leader, captain, whatever, and she was receptive, sometimes aggressive in sex… and yet… he sometimes felt more like an object than a person.

  His eyes closed. It had been a long day, as were they all, and he.was barely aware when Ryba returned, slipping off her suit and lying beside him under the thin blanket that was almost too hot.

  XVI

  THE SUN HAD barely cleared the trees on the eastern side of the sheer drop-off at the base of the meadow when Nylan laid the endurasteel brace and the crowbarlike local blade beside one of Ryba’s Sybran blades. Beneath the blades was a crude quench trough, half-filled with water and the hydraulic oil for which there was really no other use-not for centuries, probably.

  Then the engineer walked around the working space outside the base of the unfinished tower construction. Should he consider a dry moat as well? He shook his head. Half the year or more a moat would be a bug-filled mess, and the other half the high snows would render it useless.

  “Stop spacing out. Get on with it,” he muttered, turning to the firm cells. The power bank was down to twenty percent, and the system wouldn’t work at levels below twelve. His eyes went to the windmill, which turned in the lighter morning breeze. The cell being charged was over eighty percent. Another day might find it at ninety percent if the wind picked up, if…

  Nylan laughed ruefully. Far less than a day of continuous heavy laser usage would discharge one bank of cells, and it would take near
ly half a local season to recharge the individual cells in just one of the four banks they had brought down from the Winterlance. The more he tightened the beam and the shorter the energy pulse, though, the less the effective power drain, and that meant some things were less power-intensive. Darkness knew he’d better find less power-intensive ways to use the laser.

  With a little more than half the stone for the tower cut, he’d exhausted two banks and most of the third. The emergency charger had recharged three cells, but each bank held ten. Still… he had gotten more proficient with managing the laser’s power flows, and each row of stones took a shade less power. Also, the cut edges and leftover chunks could be used, perhaps for the less exposed inside walls.

  Terwhit… terwhit. The call of one of the birds-a green and brown scavenger-drifted across the high meadow from beyond the field, along with the smoke from the small cook fire.

  The engineer studied the curves of the Sybran blade again, with his eyes, senses, and fingers, frowning as his senses touched a slight imperfection in the hilt. Then he grinned. Who was he deceiving? He was no bladesmith, just a dumb engineer trying to figure out how to counterfeit a workable sword while no one was around to second-guess him if his idea didn’t work-using questionable techniques in an even more questionable environment.

  Terwhit. With a rustle of feathers, the small greenish-brown bird flitted from a twisted pine in the higher rocks behind the partly built tower toward the firs in the lower southwest corner of the high meadow.

  Nylan ran his fingers over the Sybran blade again, then picked up the endurasteel brace he had unbolted from one of the landers. Again, he forced himself to feel the metal. It also had several imperfections hidden from sight-Heaven-based quality control or not.

  Finally, he powered up the firin cell bank, pulled on the goggles and the gauntlets, and picked up the heavy brace. After readjusting the laser, he pulsed the beam, slowly cutting along what felt like the grain of the metal. He pursed his lips, considering the apparent idiocy of what he did- guiding a laser with a sense of feel he could not even define to create an antique blade out of a brace from a high-tech spaceship lander.