Fall of Angels

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  Relyn extended his hook.

  Nylan slipped the pieces in place, then nodded toward the knife. “I need to see how tight it should be.”

  “As tight as you can make it, Mage.”

  The knife slid into the makeshift clamp easily, too easily. Nylan studied the construction, then took his own knife and scratched where the changes should be.

  “We’ll try again.”

  “You do not admit failure, do you?”

  Nylan laughed, harshly. “Life is trial, and error. Those who succeed are those who survive their failures and keep trying. So far, I’ve been lucky.”

  Relyn looked back at the tray. “It is not luck-that I know. You understand how the world works.” He smiled wryly. “I hope to learn that, too.”

  “You probably know more about that than I do,” admitted Nylan.

  “Never, Mage. You refuse to accept how much you do know.”

  “That’s all,” Nylan said, uneasy with Relyn’s words. “Now, I have to make it work, and then forge scores and scores of arrowheads.”

  “You will,” promised Relyn.

  “I hope so.” Nylan wished he were as sure as the young man from Carpa, but when he returned to the smithy, he carried the pieces for Relyn’s clamp.

  Huldran was waiting, and they loaded more of the charcoal into the forge.

  XC

  ZELDYAN EASES HERSELF into the armchair facing the alcove where the lady Ellindyja embroiders.

  “You do me honor, Lady,” offers Ellindyja.

  “You are the Lady of Lornth,” responds Zeldyan easily.

  “No longer. That is your position, now, but you are most kind to recall my past… honor.” The needle carries crimson thread into the white fabric. “How might I be of help?”

  “I thought you might like to hear. There was a dispatch from Lord Sillek, Lady,” answers Zeldyan.

  “And you were thoughtful enough to come to tell me, and in your condition, too. I appreciate that. I do.” Ellindyja knots the crimson strand and threads green through the eye of the needle.

  “I am well indeed, only sore, and that is passing. Nesslek is strong, and healthy indeed, and for that I am glad.” Zeldyan laughs. “But I stray. Lord Sillek has taken the ford below the great fork and nears Rulyarth. According to the dispatch, they have destroyed nearly a thousand Suthyans, and less than that number stands ready to defend Rulyarth. The city was never walled, you know,” she adds conversationally.

  “I had heard that somewhere,” Ellindyja assents. “You understand these things, I can tell. It must help, being raised in an honorable warrior’s holding.”

  “I was fortunate,” Zeldyan says, shifting her slender figure in the chair. “My mother was learned, and taught my father and her children. My father was skilled in arms and taught her and us both honor and arms.”

  “He taught arms to the lady Erenthla?” Ellindyja raises her eyebrows.

  “But, of course. He wanted no helpless women in his holding.” Zeldyan smiles as she rises. “I must go, but I did want you to know that Lord Sillek is well.”

  “I appreciate your thoughtfulness, Lady.”

  Zeldyan inclines her head.

  As the door closes behind her, Ellindyja snaps the green thread, and knots it in a quick, hard motion.

  XCI

  THE ALLOY IN the tongs began to change color, getting redder under the influence of the coals. Above the open doorway to the unfinished smithy, a fly droned, circling toward the sweating smith-engineer.

  Arrowheads! Nylan was already sick of dealing with them, despite the acclaim the product had received from Istril and Fierral. Roughly two hundred had been finished. Nylan smiled. That meant two hundred that Fierral and the marines had to smooth and sharpen and fletch-and that also meant netting birds. Relyn had proved helpful there, explaining how to net them and which ones worked better.

  With the tongs, Nylan flipped the red-hot metal onto the now-dented makeshift anvil, then began hot-cutting the shape of the arrowhead with the chisel and hammer while Huldran took over the tongs.

  The hammer rose, and fell, and Nylan moved the chisel. Sparks of metal flew with each impact. One rough shape lay on the anvil, and Nylan began the cutting on the next. He concentrated on following the hidden grain of the metal, letting his senses guide him, even more than his sight.

  That guidance resulted in stronger arrowheads, but each was subtly different from the next-not enough, Nylan hoped, to affect their flight.

  Through the roof beams, the sun beat into the smithy, and sweat dripped down Nylan’s face. He brushed back a fly, twice, before it buzzed across the meadow toward the smelly sheep from whence it had probably come. Nylan blinked back sweat. While he and Huldran forged, around them Cessya and, surprisingly to Nylan, Nistayna had worked on getting the roof timbers in place, but the roof had to wait for the completion of the forge itself.

  Each day, after completing forging, Nylan mixed up some mortar and added to the hood and chimney of the forge. The door and windows could wait.

  Before the metal cooled enough to need reheating, he had five shapes cut. With each day, his strokes, while probably crude compared to the local smiths, had gotten surer, and the finished product needed less and less smoothing.

  Nylan nodded, and Huldran swung the uncut section of metal back into the coals. The smith-engineer brushed the sweat off his forehead with the back of his forearm, then took the tongs. “Need more air, Huldran.”

  The stocky blonde began to pump the bellows. While some air wheezed out through the sides of the bellows, most came up through the air nozzle, and the coals glowed hotter.

  Nylan walked out to the dwindling pile of charcoal-another problem-and used a shovel to bring in another scoop, which he distributed evenly. Then he flipped the metal to get a better heat distribution.

  He lifted the metal onto the anvil and turned to Huldran. “You try one.”

  Huldran just nodded and slowly picked up the hammer and chisel.

  Clung!

  Nylan winced as he felt the shiver up the guard’s arm. “Angle the chisel a shade-to the outside. It cuts cleaner, and it doesn’t hurt as much.”

  The second blow did not ring quite so off-key. Huldran finished two rough arrow-shaped forms before Nylan lifted the metal back into the forge.

  “Harder than it looks, ser,” Huldran admitted as she pumped the bellows.

  “Yes. You didn’t do badly. My first were pretty crude. I’ll do the next batch, and then you can do some.”

  “You’re a lot faster, and Fierral needs a lot of arrows.”

  “I know, but you need some practice, too. Westwind needs more than one person who can handle things like this. Otherwise, an accident-or an arrow from one of the locals- could wipe out everything I’ve learned.”

  When the metal came out of the forge again, cherry-red, Nylan resumed cutting. The two kept working until past mid-morning, when they came to the end of the sheet of alloy. All that remained were a few scraps that Nylan swept into an already battered wooden bucket.

  “Someday, I’ll work on reforging the scraps into stock. I think that’s what they call it.” He wiped his forehead. “We need a break, and I need to find another panel in one of the landers that won’t take forever to unfasten.”

  “I’ll bank the fire,” Huldran volunteered.

  “Thanks.” Nylan blotted the sweat out of his eyes again, then began to walk downhill along the trail he hoped would someday be a real road.

  To the south, by the cairns, grazed the handful of sheep. Desain and Ryllya were weeding and working the fields, along with Selitra, who was supervising while weeding and cleaning out the small irrigation ditches.

  A cart, carrying a stack of rough-cut planks for the smithy roof-slate was out, now that the laser was gone-creaked down from the ridge. Weindre walked beside the cart horse, one hand briefly touching her blade.

  On the flat exercise area beyond the causeway, two figures sparred.

  One was Cessya, the ot
her Relyn. Relyn was using the knife and clamp over his hook, but had fashioned a wooden cover for the blade.

  Nylan stopped and watched for a time as the wooden wands flashed.

  The two paused, and Relyn turned to Nylan. “It works. I have much to learn about using a blade left-handed, but the knife helps.”

  “He’s… better… than that…” puffed Cessya. “Glad he wasn’t this good back when he attacked.”

  “I must be better,” Relyn said. “My left arm is not as strong as my right.”

  “Manure,” responded Cessya.

  Nylan offered a wave that was a half-salute and started across the causeway. His arms still ached. Would he ever get used to the heavy labor involved with smithing-or everything in a low-tech culture?

  He crossed the causeway, but stopped short of the tower door, thinking about the children and their mothers in the great room. He didn’t want to face company, not when three of the four children were his, and he’d be obligated to comment on each, play with each, and possibly even sing a lullaby to each. He did most of the time, anyway, since he’d finally made his uneasy peace with himself, if not with Ryba. Her high-handedness still made him seethe, but that wasn’t his children’s fault. Still, he wasn’t up to infants this particular morning.

  Their mothers don’t have any choice. He pursed his lips, then, after a moment, headed for the sheltered corner formed between the bathhouse and tower walls. He just wanted to be alone.

  That wasn’t going to be. As Nylan neared the corner of the tower wall, he heard the sound of the lutar. He stopped and listened, recognizing Ayrlyn’s clear voice.

  Oh, Nylan was a smith, and a mighty mage was he.

  With lightning hammer and an anvil of nigh forged he.

  From the Westhorns tall came the blades and bows of the night,

  Their lightning edges gave the angels forever the height.

  Oh, Nylan was a mage, and a mighty smith was he.

  With rock from the heights and a lightning blade built he.

  On the Westhorns tall stands a tower of blackest stone,

  And it holds back the winter’s snows and storms all alone…

  When the notes died, Nylan stepped around the comer and looked at Ayrlyn, sitting on a stone above the ditching.

  “That’s awful,” muttered Nylan. “Just awful.”

  “Who was it that told me the songs that people remember and love to sing are generally awful?”

  “Those weren’t about me.”

  “That makes it different?” asked the healer.

  Nylan eased himself onto the ground. His feet and legs were tired, too, and it wasn’t even midday.

  “You’re still doing arrowheads?”

  He nodded. “I wish I could get the coals hot enough to melt the metal and cast them, but when I try that it takes green heartwood, and the metal burns, and I can’t damp it. With plain charcoal, it’s hard enough just to get the metal hot enough for cutting them. Some of those arrowheads are going to rip up the people they hit.”

  “Isn’t that the idea?”

  “Unfortunately, but I still have trouble with the idea that people only respond to force.”

  “It’s especially clear on this planet.”

  “It’s clear everywhere, but in a high-technology setting, it’s easier to ignore. On the powernet, you see a de-energizer beam, and a mirror tower, and, poof, the tower’s gone. You don’t see the demons die. If someone commits a murder, the government carts them off, and, poof, they’re lase-flashed into dust. Here it’s obvious and slow. I seem to feel it more and more.” His eyes turned to Ayrlyn. “I suspect you do, too.”

  “I get so nauseated I can’t hold anything down.” Her eyes dropped. “It seems so… weak. I tell myself it must be in my mind, but the reaction’s so immediate, so physical…”

  “It’s more like a splitting headache for me. The last few times, it’s been so intense I couldn’t see or move for a moment or two.”

  “Great survival reactions for a violent culture.” Ayrlyn’s tone was dry.

  “It’s more violent here because Ryba’s changing things, and change usually is violent.”

  “We’re part of that change,” Ayrlyn said. “And there’s not much way to get around that.”

  After a long silence, Nylan finally asked, “You’re really not going to sing that song, are you?”

  “No. I’ve got another trading run to make.” Ayrlyn laughed. “So I won’t be singing it. Not now. I’ll teach it to Istril. It’s simple enough, and she’s actually getting passable with the simple lutar we built. It doesn’t have the depth of tone this one does, but it works.”

  “Why are you going to teach her that song?”

  “Why not?” answered Ayrlyn. “As many untrustworthy people have said, ‘Trust me.’ ”

  “I guess I have to.” He stood. “But the song’s awful… ‘a mighty mage’? You have to be joking.” He paused, then asked, “Is it safe for you to keep trading?”

  “It’s as safe as sitting here waiting to be attacked, if I’m careful. We avoid the larger towns, and I’ve got some ideas where this Lord Sillek has his garrisons.”

  “I don’t know. I don’t like it.” He shook his head.

  “I’ll be all right.”

  “Be careful.”

  “I will.”

  “And try not to sing that song anywhere.”

  “As these things go, it’s a good song.”

  “Try not to have it sung for a while.” Not until I’m dead, preferably, and I hope that’s a long while, he added to himself.

  “After I teach it to Istril… we’ll think about it.”

  “Please don’t.” Nylan frowned. “I’ve sat around too long. After I get something to drink, I’ve got to find another lander panel to turn into low-tech weapons of destruction.”

  “Good luck.” Ayrlyn rose. “I’m going back down to the loggers. It’s amazing how experience changes people’s views. After the cold of the winter, now all they can think about is making sure there’s enough wood for next winter. That bothered them more than the short rations.”

  “Food wasn’t that short. How are we doing now?”

  “Those horses have helped a lot, and so have our local recruits. There’s more out there in the forest than we knew.” Ayrlyn shrugged. “For now, we’re all right, but we’ll need a lot more coin for supplies-a lot more.”

  Nylan started back uphill, conscious that Ayrlyn’s eyes stayed on his back for a long time.

  XCII

  HISSL GLANCES AT the candle, then at the darkness outside. A lamp in the barracks courtyard casts a faint glow across the wooden steps that lead up to his quarters.

  He looks at the beaker of wine on the table, already beginning to turn, for all that he has had the bottle less than a day, then back out through the window. Beyond the courtyard, on the far side, the windows of Koric’s room are dark.

  “Out with his woman,” snorts Hissl. “He has his power and his woman, and Terek rides beside Sillek, and I… I wait for an attack that will never come, not while I am here. Not while Ildyrom knows I am here.”

  He fills the beaker from the bottle and drinks fully half what he has poured, wincing as he swallows.

  A sense of unease fills him, and he looks at the flat glass on the table. Leaving the beaker half-full, he walks to the doorway.

  A tall figure slips up the stairs, gracefully, yet not furtively, followed by a second smaller figure.

  Hissl touches his dagger, but does not draw it as the others approach. Instead, he opens the door and waits.

  The man who stops in the doorway fills it, and towers over both Hissl and the sturdy armsman in the cloak behind the stranger.

  “I understand you bid me visit you, Wizard?” asks the visitor in accented speech. The tall man wears only a sleeveless tunic in the cool evening, yet his brow is damp, and his face appears flushed in the indirect light.

  Hissl nods, “I did. What would a warrior, a true warrior from the R
oof of the World, wish from a poor wizard?”

  “To make our fortune. To keep the world from being changed. To provide you with fame and position.” The tall stranger glances toward the table and the flat glass and the beaker. “Might we come in?”

  “Of course.” Hissl steps back and offers a deep and ironic bow; “My humble quarters await you.”

  The tall man takes the high stool and leans forward, waiting until Hissl seats himself. The cloaked armsman stands by the door.

  “Why have you taken so long?” Hissl begins.

  “I beg your pardon, Ser Wizard, but it has taken somewhat longer to accomplish the necessary.”

  “The necessary?”

  The stranger smiles coldly. “To travel here. To raise coins. Such coins, I understand, are necessary. Gold, after all, is the mother’s milk of ambition, is it not?”

  “I had not heard it expressed quite that way,” admits Hissl.

  “You wish position and power. I offer that. With your help, we can take Westwind-”

  “Westwind?”

  “The Roof of the World. Once we take Westwind, the Lord of Lornth, I understand, will be most suitably grateful.” The tall man wipes his forehead again.

  “That is what has been said,” offers Hissl cautiously.

  “To take Westwind will require four things: good tactics based on knowledge, an adequate number of armsmen, a good leader, and a very good wizard.” The stranger looks straight at Hissl. “You are said to be a very good wizard. You also must have some coins and contacts which would supplement our coins in hiring armsmen.”

  “Many would claim what you propose is impossible. Many have already died.” Hissl’s eyes stray to the blank glass on the table and then to the half beaker of wine.

  “Hardly impossible. Difficult, perhaps, but nothing is impossible.”

  Hissl raises his eyebrows.

  “When we take Westwind, you may have the lands and title that Lord Sillek offers. I will take Westwind, and offer immediate and faithful homage to His Lordship. I think he will accept it,” the stranger says.