Fall of Angels (75 page)

  
"In a way you can see it," responded Ayrlyn, brushing the flame-red hair back over her ear. "It's a flow. If it's good, it's smooth, like a dark current in a river."

 
 
"I don't know that it's really magic," mused Nylan, looking at the cooling metal and then taking the tongs to slip it back into the forge. As the lander alloy reheated, his eyes flicked to the iron that had come from a broken blade. It waited by the forge for the next step of his blade-making when he would have to flatten the two and then start hammer-folding them together and drawing them out-only to refold and draw, refold and draw. If only the smithing weren't for blades ... He licked his lips and then he continued. "You can feel-"

  
"You can. I can't," pointed out Huldran.

  
"You may be better off that you can't in some ways," replied Ayrlyn.

  
"You can feel," Nylan repeated, "flows of two kinds of energies. Apparently, the ones I can use are the black ones, or at least they say I'm a black wizard, and you can build and heal, or they help build and heal. The stuff the wizard that came with Gerlich had, and Relyn thinks he was the same one that was in the first attack, is white, and it feels ugly, and tinged with red. It's almost like the chaotic element in a powernet, the fluxes that aren't that can still tear a net apart. Well, that's what the firebolts he was throwing felt like."

  
"Like a powernet chaos flux?" asked Ayrlyn with a slight wince.

  
"Worse, in some ways." Nylan looked at the alloy on the coals, barely red, but that was as hot as it was going to get. Initially, working with it was a cross between hot and cold forging, and slow as a glacier on Heaven. "I've got to get back to this. With all these recruits showing up, the marshal wants more blades, and Saryn wants more arrowheads."

  
"You know, ser," pointed out Huldran. "I could use the old anvil to make arrowheads or whatever, and we could bring in some help with the tongs and bellows."

  
Nylan nodded, ruefully. "I should have thought of that."

  
"Does this mean we really need another anvil?" asked Ayrlyn.

  
"Well . . ." began Nylan. "Since you asked . .."

  
"I search and search and finally get you an anvil, and now you want two." Ayrlyn gave an overdramatic sigh. "Nothing's ever enough, is it?"

  
"No. But no one pays any attention when I say it. We make hundreds of arrowheads, arrowheads that really ought to be cast, and Saryn and Fierral just want more. Ryba wants more blades." Nylan gave back an equally overdramatic sigh and pulled the metal from the coals and eased it onto the anvil. "And it's time to work on this blade." He looked at Huldran. "I can handle this alone. You go find an assistant. One, to begin with."

  
"I thought. . ." began the blond guard.

  
"Rule three hundred of obscure leadership. If it's your idea, you get to implement it."

  
Ayrlyn laughed. After a moment, so did Huldran.

  
Nylan lifted the hammer.

  
The cooling wind swept into the smithy, bringing with it the sound of the sheep on the hillside, the shouted instructions, and the clatter of wooden wands from the space outside the tower. The hammer fell on the alloy that would be the heart of yet another blade for the guards of Westwind.

  
Ayrlyn looked at the hammer, the anvil, and the face of the engineer-smith and shivered. Neither Nylan nor Huldran saw the shiver or the darkness behind her eyes.

CXV

SILLEK STEPS INTO the small upper tower room after a preemptory knock.

  
The mists in the glass vanish, and Terek stands. Despite the heat in the room and the lack of wind from the two open and narrow windows, the white wizard appears cool.

  
Sillek blots the dampness from his forehead, but remains standing.

  
"I have but a few moments, Ser Wizard, but since we last talked," asks Sillek, "what have you discovered about the angel women on the Roof of the World?"

  
"Discovering matters through a glass is slow and difficult. One sees but dimly."

  
"Dimly or not, you must have discovered something."

  
"Hissl was correct in one particular," Terek admits slowly. "The angel women have no thunder-throwers remaining."

  
"What else have you discovered?" asks Sillek.

  
"He underestimated the talents of the black mage."

  
"We knew that. Anything else?"

  
"The black mage is a smith, and even without his fires from Heaven he can forge those devil blades that seem able to slice through plate and chain mail. He and his assistant are also forging arrowheads."

  
"Forging? That is odd."

  
Terek shrugs. "It is slow, but the arrowheads are like the blades, much stronger, and they can cut some mail."

  
"Can you tell how many of these angels there are?"

  
"There are more than twoscore, perhaps threescore, women on the Roof of the World. A dozen or so remain of the original angels, and only the one man."

  
Sillek nods. "Then we should have less trouble than my sire."

  
"I would not be that certain," offers Terek. "Those who remain seem very good, and they are spending much time training the newcomers. I am not an armsman, but it seems to me that they are very good at teaching our women, or those who were our women before they fled Lornth. Some of the women who fled to the angels killed quite a few of Hissl's armsmen."

  
Sillek purses his lips. "That would mean that the longer we wait, the better the forces they will have?"

  
"You would know that better than I, ser." Terek shrugs. "I can tell that the mage is also getting stronger. He is also building something else, it appears to be a mill of some sort. Their smithy is largely complete, and they seem to have more livestock."

  
"Demons!" Sillek looks at the blank glass and then at Terek. His voice softens slightly. "I am not angry at you, Terek."

  
"I understand, ser. This situation is not... what it might be."

  
"No. It's not." Sillek offers a head bow. "Thank you."

  
After he. leaves the tower room, Sillek adjusts the heavy green ceremonial tunic and heads for the Great Hall.

  
By the side entrance, Genglois waits for him. "You have a moment, ser?"

  
"I suppose so. Do we know what this envoy of Karthanos wants?"

  
Genglois shrugs, and his jowls wobble as his shoulders fall. "It is said he has brought a heavy chest with him."

  
"That's not good. It's either a veiled threat or a bribe. Or both, which would be even worse." The Lord of Lornth stands for a moment, motionless, then opens the door and steps into the hall, where he walks to the dais and sits on the green cushion-the only soft part of the dark wooden high-backed chair that dates nearly to the founding of Lornth. He gestures.

  
A trumpet sounds, and the end doors open.

  
"Ser Viendros of Gallos, envoy from Lord Karthanos, Liege Lord of Gallos and Protector of the Plains." The voice of the young armsman - in - training almost cracks.

  
As Viendros marches in followed by two husky and weaponless armsmen carrying a small but heavy chest, Sillek stands and waits for the swarthy envoy to reach the dais.

  
Viendros offers a deep bow, not shallow enough to be insulting nor deep enough to be mocking, then straightens. "Your Lordship."

  
"Welcome, Ser Viendros. Welcome." Sillek gestures to the chair beside his. As he does, the armsman behind him turns his heavy chair. "Please be seated. You have had a long journey."

  
Viendros offers a head bow. "My thanks, Lord Sillek." He sits without further ceremony, as does Sillek.

  
"What brings you to Lornth?"

  
"My lord Karthanos would wish to ensure that you do not misunderstand the events of earlier this summer. I was sent to convey both his deepest apologies, and his regrets, and his tokens of apology."

  
Sillek forces his face to remain polite, his voice even. "Misunderstandings do occur, and we are more than willing to help resolve them."

  
Viendros glances around the Great Hall, then lowers his voice slightly. "I am not an envoy by choice, My Lord. I do not know the fancy words. I was sent because I am an armsman from a long family of those who have served Gallos."

  
"Gallos has been well served by those who bear its blades," Sillek agrees.

  
"Lord Karthanos was-how can I say it?-surprised by the unfortunate occurrence which befell your sire on the Roof of the World. He was further . . . upset, if I might be frank, that you chose to do nothing about that occurrence, especially when it became clear that the evil angels were luring women from Lornth to the Roof of the World. With the best of intentions, that of assisting you in regaining control of that portion of your realm, he dispatched a small force, well armed." Viendros takes a deep breath. "My brother was the chief armsman of that force. He did not return."

  
"I understand few returned," Sillek says quietly.

  
"Lord Karthanos also understands that a force led by one of your wizards recently traveled to the Roof of the World and failed to return."

  
"That is true," Sillek admits. "Although I must point out that while that effort had my blessing, it was not backed by my coin or men."

  
Viendros swallows. "This is difficult, you understand. I know that your sire and Lord Karthanos had other . .. misunderstandings in the past, but such ... misunderstandings should be put aside, if possible."

  
"What does your lord have in mind?" asks Sillek.

  
Viendros holds up his right hand. "A few words more, first, if you please." He clears his throat. "Lord Karthanos was fortunate to have a wizard, not so powerful as yours, but one skilled with the glass, and thus Lord Karthanos saw a portion of the battle. I would call it a slaughter myself," added Viendros. "Now, after seeing that fight, he understands the cruel position in which fate has placed you. He also understands the reasons for your ignoring the Roof of the World while reclaiming the ancient right to the river to the Northern Ocean."

  
Sillek nods and waits.

  
"Lornth is respected, most respected, and Lord Karthanos has been most impressed with the manner in which you have conducted your armsmen. Yet you have refrained from attacking the Roof of the World until your borders were more secure to the west and the north. Again, this appears most wise, especially considering the might of arms of the angels. Yet my lord Karthanos is greatly concerned-"

  
"As am I," interjects Sillek. "You may understand, however, that it will take a considerable force to subdue the angels, and one removed a great distance from Lornth itself."

  
"Yes. This also occurred to Lord Karthanos." Viendros turned to the armsmen who stand by the chest. "The chest contains a thousand golds for your use in reclaiming the Roof of the World." Viendros withdraws a scroll and extends it. "I am also bid to tell you that Lord Karthanos will place score forty armsmen under your orders for this campaign. All will be paid from his treasury. They will be under my command, and subject to your orders."

  
"That is most brotherly . . . and most generous," says Sillek. "I am overwhelmed."

  
Viendros snorts. "I am not a diplomat, Lord Sillek. It is not generous. It is a necessity. Those women have already created much trouble, both for Gallos and for Lornth, and those troubles will only get worse. You cannot, without the support of Lord Ildyrom and Lord Karthanos, afford to hazard your forces so far from Lornth. Nor would Lord Karthanos expect that, given the surprising abilities of these strange angels." The envoy/armsman shrugs. "There you have it."

  
"Yes, we do." Sillek smiles, a warm smile, yet somehow distant. "Will you remain with me to assist in planning this campaign, or will we meet later to discuss the particulars?"

  
"I am at your immediate disposal."

  
"Then let us find something to eat." Sillek rises. "We have much to do before the rains of autumn arrive."

  
Viendros smiles, the smile of an armsman awaiting a mighty battle.

CXVI

NYLAN STUDIED THE timber that would be the shaft linking the unbuilt wheel with the unforged collar. The shaft, a smoothed and peeled log, lay on the clay next to the wall that would hold it.

  
With the charcoal stick Nylan made a template on the wooden disc he had brought for the purpose, noting the dimensions with one of the pocket rules from the landers. Then he wrapped the disk in a rag and carried it to the brown mare, where he eased it into a saddlebag.

  
Then he walked back up on the mill foundation and surveyed the layout again. He frowned. Bearings-he really needed bearings-but a grease collar would have to do.

  
"You don't like it, after all this work?" asked Ayrlyn.

  
"It's fine. I was thinking about bearings. And about the wheel itself. And the gears we need to get the blade moving fast enough to cut." His eyes darted to the millpond walls, and the water sluicing out of the open gate, and then to the nearly completed millrace where Weindre and Quilyn were laying the last stones.