Fall of Angels (The Saga of Recluce #6)(134)

"That we do." Rienadre picked up the axe.

Nylan flicked the leads, and the gray mare whuffled. The cart creaked as it rocked forward under the load of building bricks. A heavy gust of wind whipped through Nylan's hair, then dropped away. Overhead, high cumulus clouds dotted the sky, some showing dark centers, for all that it was only slightly before midday. The gray whuffled again, and the cart creaked, and Nylan walked beside, along the rutted trail that was not quite a road.

Whufff. . .

"I know. It's no fun carting bricks uphill. Well.. . it's no fun walking alongside you, either."

The cart-the one Saryn and Ayrlyn had built, not the one that they'd obtained from Skiodra and repaired-creaked again. The other was with Ayrlyn, and Nylan wondered if she would be able to obtain saw blades on her trading run. Then he, in his copious spare time and with his great ignorance of low technology, would attempt to build a sawmill.

He snorted. The healer had perhaps four golds, and several blades. What were they going to do to get through the early summer? He swallowed, thinking about her flame-red hair and the anger Westwind was generating.

A flash of yellow-banded black wings crossed the trail, and the yellow and black bird alighted on the end of a dead pine branch and cocked its head in an almost inquiring attitude at Nylan.

"Hello there," said the would-be smith.

Twirrrppp . . . twirrrppp . . .

The cart creakked once more, and the bird responded to that as well.

"I think you like noise."

At that comment, the wings spread, and the bird departed.

Ahead, Nylan heard voices, and saws, and the regular thump-chop of an axe. Fierral and the timber crew were at it, and before long, he'd have to come down and turn the piles of limbs, the crooked ones, the stumps, and the other sections unsuited to timber, into charcoal. The idea was simple enough, a controlled burn under low-oxygen conditions. That meant burying most of the wood, probably in a long pile and lighting one end. How many times would he have to try it before he got it right?

He flicked the reins again.

Before long, the cart crossed another low rise in the trail. To the right, downhill, was a clearing filled with stumps. At the east end was a pile of limbs, odd pieces of trees, flanked by a tall brush pile. Along the traillike road were two low piles, one of squarish timbers and one of planks.

From a pole fastened between two smaller pines and fashioned from a roughly smoothed and stripped fir limb hung four gutted hares.

Nylan's eyebrows rose, and he slowed to examine the game.

"Hryessa," explained Fierral, walking up. "She made some snares. Can you take those up to Blynnal and Kadran?"

"Where's Kyseen?"

"Working with us. There was a general consensus that she's better with a blade and an axe or saw than in the kitchen, and I really doubt that Blynnal will ever be much with a blade. Hryessa and Murkassa-they'll be good, but not poor Blynnal. On the other hand-"

Both turned at the sound of hoofs.

"Weapons! Blades and bows!" Fierral's blue eyes turned cold, cold as the ice on Freyja.

A black-haired woman clung to what seemed to be the plow-harness or horse collar of a big brown beast that lumbered down the slope toward the guards. Before her on the horse was a small, dark-haired child. With each step, they bounced, and Nylan winced.

Hryessa arrived almost instantly, and Berlis wasn't that far behind. Weindre stood by one end of the pole with the hares on it, her bow in hand.

The woman pulled at the leads, and the plow horse slowed.

Fierral glanced uphill, then stepped forward and caught the leads up short, just beyond the harness. Foam streaked the gelding's muzzle.

The dark-haired woman straightened on the horse's back, holding her head higher, her arm around the girl who sat before her. Their brown tunics had recently been cleaned, but both riders were mottled with dust, and muddy patches appeared on the mother's cheeks.

"Are you ... the... mountain women?" asked the woman in a hoarse voice.

"We live here," answered Fierral in accented Old Anglo-rat.

"I would like to claim refuge. For my daughter and me."

Fierral looked at Nylan. "What can you tell?"

Nylan took a breath and tried to let his feelings, through what he still conceived of as the local magic net, sense the woman. After a moment, he turned to Fierral. "None of that white stuff, that chaos that's almost like evil. She's tired, almost ready to collapse, probably ridden that beast a long way. All that doesn't mean she's good, though. The child's hungry," he added as an afterthought.

"It's a start," pointed out Fierral, who looked back at the exhausted riders. "We will not send you away, but the marshal must-"

"Decide," finished Nylan.

"Please ... help. Surba ... he follows, and Pretar is with him." With a convulsive gesture, the woman half climbed, half fell, off the horse. Her bare feet hit the ground hard, and she turned and lifted her daughter down.

Nylan shuddered. His feet would have hurt from hitting the rocky ground that hard, but the woman seemed unfazed by that. Instead she looked back uphill. The child looked boldly at Nylan, and he smiled back. She remained solemnly wide-eyed, her head reaching not quite to his chest.

"Hryessa-take your mount and get the marshal-and some reinforcements. Let the marshal decide, but tell her we have a refugee and a couple of incoming troublemakers."