Fall of Angels (The Saga of Recluce #6)(12)

"Besides you, who can ride?" asked Fierral.

"You'll all have to learn, sooner or later. This way, we won't have to buy mounts."

The other two marines looked from the hard face of their squad leader to the harder face of the captain.





IX



"LORD NESSIL, THE ang-the strangers are just over the rise, not more than twenty rods beyond the tips of the gray rocks." The armsman in brown leathers keeps his voice low and looks up to the hatchet-faced man in the heavy purple cloak. Blotches of moisture have soaked through the armsman's leather trousers, and green smears attest to his crawling through underbrush and grass.

Lord Nessil brushes back a long lock of silver and black hair, then smiles. "Are they as attractive as the screeing glass shows?"

"Pardoning Your Grace, but I wasn't looking at them that way." The armsman's eyes flicker to his right as another trooper leads his horse back to him. "They don't seem bothered by the chill. They wear light garments, like they were in Lydiar in midsummer, but I wasn't looking beyond the clothes, more for blades, and only the black-haired wench bears one. A pair she has."

"A pair of what?" asks Nessil.

Lettar looks down at the grass.

"For that, Lettar, you shall have one to enjoy." Nessil laughs softly. "Women warriors, and only one has a blade. I shall enjoy this." He turns toward the wizard in white. "What do your arts show, Wizard?"

"There are less than a score that I can scree there, eighteen in all, and but three men. They bear some strange devices that radiate some small measure of order, and others that bear some measure of chaos. They have set up a spindly windmill that will be ripped apart in the first good wind." Hissl inclines his head.

"What would you have us do, Wizard?"

"I would like your men to preserve their devices. We might learn something from them. I cannot advise Your Grace on tactics, My Lord. You are the warrior. I can but say that they are likely to be more formidable than they appear. I cannot tell you why."

Nessil laughs again, still softly, but more harshly. "You caution me that they could be formidable, but not why. Thus, if I succeed in capturing them all, I will be pleased." His face darkens. "If I fail, you may claim you warned me. Wizard's double words! Ride beside me, Ser Wizard."

"Pardoning Your Grace, but what shall we do? Ride down on them?" asks Lettar.

"No. We will be civilized. We will ride up and demand their surrender for trespass. That way, we might get them all. We do outnumber them more than three to one." Nessil looks at Hissl. "And we get the wizard close enough to use his firebolts if need be."

"What about the men?"

"If they resist, kill them. If not, we can always use them somewhere. Try to save as many of the women as you can. I've never had a silver-haired wench-or one with fire-red hair." Nessil offers a boyish grin and looks along the line of threescore mounted troopers. "Shall we make our appearance? Bring out the banners. After all, we do come in peace, one way or another."

Hissl's eyes glaze slightly, as if he is no longer quite within his body.

Then the horsemen ride toward the low rise, over which looms the ice-needle peak that dominates the Roof of the World. The banners flap in the brisk wind that blows out of the north and spins the windmill beyond the crest of the hill.

The starflowers left in the meadow on the far side of the ridge-those that have not been destroyed by the cultivation or wilted as their season has passed-bend in the wind.





X



ABOVE THE PLOT where Gerlich and several marines half toiled at ditch-digging, partly sheltered by a line of boulders, Nylan studied the laser, and the array of firin cells in the portable rack. He mumbled and made another adjustment to the powerhead on the laser.

"Why don't you just try it, ser?" asked the stocky blond marine behind him.

"Because, Huldran, we can only replace a fraction of the power."

"What about the emergency generator?" Huldran nodded her head toward the man-sized but flimsy-looking windmill set near the crest of the hill. Beneath it was a small array of solar cells. Both the cells and the generator fed through a converter into a single firin cell.

Nylan laughed. "The laser uses more energy in a few units than the generator supplies in a day." After another readjustment to the powerhead, he straightened and wiped his sweating forehead. "It gets hot here in the day."

"Yes, ser." Huldran wiped away the sweat from her fair-skinned forehead.

"I heard that, Ser Engineer," said Gerlich from the plot. "It's frigging hot here. It would have been hard to try to live any lower. I'll bet those lowlands are like the demons' hell." The shirtsleeved Gerlich blotted his brow and handed the makeshift spade to one of the marines. "Your turn."

"Yes, ser." The dark-haired marine took the shovel and continued digging the ditch that would divert stream water through the plot. Her eyes continued to scan the rise to the north as she slowly dug.

Three other marines grubbed at the ground with makeshift implements resembling hoes to clear away the mixture of what appeared to be grass and a high-altitude clover bearing occasional reddish blooms. Their eyes occasionally darted toward the top of the ridge or toward one of the rock formations. The shortest marine wiped her forehead, her hand unconsciously touching the slug-thrower at her belt.