Fall of Angels (The Saga of Recluce #6)(182)

Ydrall watched the exchange with a puzzled look.

Nylan hoped everyone stayed puzzled.

The idea was simple enough-semiautomatic pikes-a whole line of pikes attached to stringers or crossbeams, weighted to slip up at the right angle and set to ground if a horse and rider impacted them.

Nylan had set them on the flat just over the crest of the hill. All an attacker would see would be a line of squat pillars, with nothing between them until the last moment-he hoped.

As the crew finished wedging the second post in place, he nodded to the third hole. "Let's try for another." He picked up one section of the harness, and they began to drag the log toward the next hole, while behind them, two of the guards tamped soil in between the wedging rocks.

Below them, another crew supervised by Weindre was building a fortified platform for the weapons laser-to the east of the road leading down from the ridge. The platform would allow the laser a sweep of the entire downslope.

Lasers and semiautomatic pikes-what a strange combination of weaponry. Would it be enough against thousands of attackers?

Nylan doubted it, but what choices did they have? The locals seemed enraged enough to tear apart anyone from Westwind if they tried to flee, and most of those on the Roof of the World, for one reason or another, could not survive elsewhere.

"All right," Nylan said. "Let's get this one in place." The sound of stonework drifted up from below, along with those of practice wands, and horse drills, carried by the wind that bore the faintest hint of fall.





CXXI



SILLEK WEARS A purple tunic over a lighter shirt, and maroon leather trousers. The scabbard holding the sabre at his side and his riding boots are both scarred and workmanlike. He carries a heavy leather jacket in his left arm as he stands by the door. "I need to go."

"I know." Zeldyan offers a gentle smile. "Be careful."

"I always am."

"Don't be a hero," says Zeldyan quietly, holding a squirming Nesslek, whose fingers grasp for the blond strands held back from his hands by her green and silver hairband.

"I have no intentions that way-as you know. My idea is to win, not to follow some outdated idea of honor."

"Please remember that."

"I will. If... though ... If it comes to that, you have what you need... Summon your father..." His voice turns husky for a moment.

"I know. It won't be necessary." Her tone is bright, despite the darkness in her eyes.

Sillek enfolds them both in his arms, and his lips and Zeldyan's touch, gently, desperately gently.

Nesslek's fingers seize his father's tunic and twist.

Sillek reaches up and disengages the chubby fingers. "You, young imp. Always grabbing."

"Like his father," Zeldyan says gently.

Sillek holds his son's fingers, and his and Zeldyan's lips brush again, more delicately, more longingly than the last time.





CXXII



"... WHAT NEWS DO you have, Ayrlyn?" asked Ryba.

Five people and an infant had gathered around the head table in the great room-Ryba, Saryn, Fierral, Ayrlyn, Nylan, and Dyliess. Dyliess dozed in the carrypack on Nylan's chest although, he reflected, she was already growing too big for it, and her upper body half sprawled out of the pouch and across Nylan's chest. He patted his daughter's back gently.

The two fat candles on the table created a circle of dim light that barely included the table and those around it.

In the gloom, Nylan glanced across the table at Ayrlyn, her hair still damp from the shower she had taken immediately upon her return from her latest trading/scouting venture. She returned his glance with a faint smile, then turned toward Ryba, and began to speak.

With his free left hand, Nylan idly brushed the bread crumbs off the table as he listened, ignoring the creaks of the crickets that had begun to invade the tower.

"There's nothing absolute yet, except that Lord Sillek has either just begun to move his army, or that he will shortly. Everyone seems certain that he is getting reinforcements from the Lord of Gallos, and that the Lord of Jerans has sent gold and a pledge of peace." Ayrlyn took a sip of cold tea from her mug, then set it back on the table.

"In effect, we have three local kingdoms determined to wipe us out, just because we've armed some women and given others a place to flee to." Ryba laughed harshly. "It's wonderful to be so well liked."

"Giving women an option is radical, even revolutionary, in this culture. It has been in most noncold-climate cultures," pointed out Ayrlyn. "People with power don't like change. Just by existing, we're creating change."

"We'll keep doing it," said Ryba, asking, after a moment, "How did you do with your trading?"

"Trading-not that well. The word is out everywhere. We couldn't trade for much. All the traders felt we should be paying double or triple." Ayrlyn gave a half smile as if she were anticipating the next question.

"But the carts were full," said Fierral, as if on cue.

"Peasant women, herders' women, even a trader's consort-they gave me things. There are linens, bandages, salves, and food-all in small packages. There are even coppers and silvers."

"You can't tell me that every woman in Candar is praying for us," said Saryn.