Fall of Angels (The Saga of Recluce #6)(38)

He was carrying up the fifth stone, and almost wishing he were back practicing when Huldran asked, "Are you about ready for more mortar?"

"Start mixing it. One more stone, and we'll be ready."

"You've almost got the north side filled in between the supports."

"With luck, we'll get the west done, too." He continued up the stone stairs, almost tripping on the top step. By the time he returned with the next stone, Huldran was stirring the mortar components together.

"This tower will last forever," she said. "Maybe."

"The captain says it will, longer than any of our descendants will live here, and that's a long time."

"She said that?"

"Yes, ser."

Nylan paused before lifting the stone into place, then said, "Can you bring that tub up when you're done?"

"Not a problem."

After reaching the fifth level and setting down the oblong stone, Nylan took a deep breath, then measured the six heavy stones, and rearranged them in the order he wanted. What had Ryba meant by saying that the tower would last forever?

While he waited for Huldran, he glanced out toward the southwest, taking in the ice-needle of Freyja, the peak that glittered in the midday light like a de-energizer beam sensed through the Winterlance's net. He swallowed. That was past, and no reminiscing would bring back that time or universe.

This was indeed a different place, not that different on the surface, but more different than most of the angels realized.

Still... Ryba's comments-both the ones he had heard and those reported by Huldran-bothered him. Was she getting delusions of grandeur, of some sort of omnipotence? How could she say she knew what was going to happen? Was she getting delusions because she had trouble accepting that she could no longer wield the Winterlance like a mighty blade to smite the demons?

"Here's the mortar, ser." Huldran eased the trough onto the planks.

With the trowel-another laser-cut adaptation-he began to smooth the next line of the reddish-gray mortar across the top of the stones already set.

Clang! Clang! The off-key sounds from the crude triangle gong resounded across the Roof of the World.

"Bandits!"

Nylan eased the fifth heavy stone into place on the mortar, trying to ignore the whinnying of horses and the shouted commands.

"Istril! Take the lower trail! Try to cut them off. Use the rifle."

"Fierral! Run the second group . . . with Gerlich ..."

"Form up! Form up .. ."

By the time Nylan finally could let go of the stone and hasten up the steps to look over the top edges of the outer wall, he only saw the dust of departing marines, riding off behind Ryba and the redheaded force leader-and a dozen marines remaining with blades and sidearms stationed in the rocks on each side of the top of the rise.

From the far side of the rise was what was becoming a packed road down the ridge, Nylan could hear hooves. In time, he reflected, they should consider putting in marker cairns or something for winter travel. Or, considering the mud, a real paved road.

A horse-carrying double-trotted back over the rise and downhill. Blood streamed down the face of the marine riding in front.

"Medic! Medic!" shouted the other rider.

"That's Denalle!" said Weblya, balancing on the last of the big beams she and Cessya were setting in the slots, the beams that would form the floor for the sixth level of the tower and the roof of the fifth.

"She's bleeding and got an arrow through her arm," added Cessya.

Nylan watched for a moment before going back to the stones. The mortar would set before he got the last stone in place if he didn't hurry, and there wasn't anything he could do that Ayrlyn or one of the combat medics couldn't do better.

He laid out another line of mortar, then lifted another stone into place, trying to ignore the conversation between the two marines above.

"... think he feels he can't waste an instant..."

"You look at that ice up there. You want to be in one of those thin-shelled landers when the snows are up over our heads?"

"But.. . Denalle's hurt..."

"What can the engineer do that the medics can't?"

"Glad I'm not an officer ... or the captain."

"No ... I wouldn't want to be in her boots. Or the engineer's."

A whispered remark came next, followed in turn by a laugh.

"You'd better not. You'd really be in trouble."

Nylan blushed, but laid another line of mortar. After he set the sixth stone, he carried the nearly empty tub of mortar down to the yard space where Huldran was using the sledge and a wedge Nylan had made to split slate.

Clunk!

"Damned stone . . . doesn't always split right," grunted the stocky marine.

"I know. Nothing works quite the way we want."

"You didn't use all of it?" asked Huldran.

"No ... can you powder it or something?"

"Do that all the time. Just spread it out on the clean section of stone there-the one with the dents in it. When it dries, we turn it into powder and add it back in."

A cooler breeze whipped across the meadow and the tower work area, along with the shadow from a puffy and fast-moving cloud.

"Wind feels good," commented Huldran.