Fall of Angels (The Saga of Recluce #6)(48)

With a deep breath, he pulled on the goggles and the gauntlets and touched the power-up studs on the firin cell bank. After picking up the heavy brace, he readjusted and pulsed the laser, slowly cutting along the grain of the metal. He'd finally gotten used to guiding a laser by feel, and he even didn't try to analyze what he was doing too deeply.

When he had completed the rough cut, he released the power stud and checked the cut and the metal-still rough, still partly disordered. Next came spreading the beam for a wider heat flow and to get the heat and power to guide the semifinished shape of the blade.

After his round of shaping, he concentrated on the hand guards and tang. As he cut and melted the metal, he eased the metal into shape and order, trying not to remember how he once had smoothed power fluxes through the Winter-lance 's neuronet.

Almost as an afterthought, he tried to bind that... darkness ... that accompanied the local net into the metal. He'd gotten better. Not only did the blade glow with a lambent darkness, but it felt more right for him. He'd keep this blade and pass the one he had been using along.

By the time he'd completed and tempered the blade, the power loss was only about a half percent from the cells- but he was exhausted as he slumped onto one of the extra wall stones and gulped down the water from the battered and scratched gray plastic cup. Perhaps the extra energy required by the darkness he had put in the metal?

He licked his dry lips and looked across the tower yard. Beyond the extra wall stones were the thicker slate chunks that would be used for flooring-at least in the lowest tower level and in the great hall.

The wind had picked up, its cooling welcome as it ruffled his unevenly cut short hair. Jaseen had tried, but the aesthetic effect left something to be desired. Not that he cared that much-or did he?

To avoid that speculation, Nylan glanced up beyond Freyja, noting that the sky was darkening, becoming almost black upon the mountains that formed the horizon.

"Frig . . . he's here early . . . and another miracle blade," mumbled Weindre to Huldran as the two entered the area outside the tower that was coming to be known as the yard. "Don't complain. Your life just might rest on those blades. How many rounds are left in your little slug-thrower?" Huldran grinned at Nylan.

The engineer offered a quick smile in return, then glanced at the roof, where three sides were complete, with the black-gray slate tiles spiked in place. Only the east side remained unfinished, with three lines of tile in place along the bottom stringers.

They'd used mortar to seal the ridges, although Nylan knew something more plastic, like tar or pitch, would have been far better-but where could they find that?

"I know. I know," answered Weindre as she stopped in the yard. "But I feel so awkward with a piece of sharp metal in my hands."

"Better learn to get comfortable with it," suggested the stocky blond marine. "Otherwise you'll end up like Desinada or Frelita."

"You want us like the captain or the second, or Istril? They're scary." Weindre paused. "Even the engineer-pardon, ser-he's pretty good, and he doesn't practice that much,"

A dull rumbling echoed off the western peaks, followed by another round of thunder. Three quarters of the sky was black, but the sun still shone in the east.

He forced himself up. "I'll need some help getting all this into the space in the center of the tower."





"Ser?" Another roll of thunder pounded out of the mountains.

"This is going to be a demon-damned storm. Let's go! Now!"

"Yes, ser." Huldran grabbed Weindre by the arm, and the two marines unfolded the carry-arms for the firin cell racks.

Nylan began gathering tools and loose objects as the wind began to tear around him.

Overhead, the clouds gathered into a dark mass almost as black as deep space. The wind had risen to a whistling shriek by the time the three had stowed all the equipment, as well as the just-finished black blade, back in the tower, and Nylan had secured the heavy door.

"Now what?" shouted Huldran above the wind.

The lightning cracked across the sky, the white-yellow bolt reflecting off the ice of Freyja, the rumbling echoing back and forth between the high peaks after each bolt.

"Just stay here in the lower level of the tower," suggested Nylan. "We'll see how well we built."

Weindre looked at the two.

"I'd rather be here than in one of those flimsy landers," snapped Huldran.

. Nylan sat on one of the steps, his eyes resting on the low lines of brick that represented the base of the stove. The furnace was waiting on the results of his efforts in firing clay piping.

Weindre glanced up the stairs, then followed Huldran over to a side wall. Unlike Nylan, neither sat-they just stood listening to the storm.

His eyes closed as he leaned back against the stones, Nylan let his senses follow the patterns of the storm. Even without straining, he could feel the interplay of chaos and order, like the power flows that occurred when the angels' de-energizers fought with the mirror towers of the demons. He doubted he'd sense that type of battle again, not with technology, anyway.

Like ice knives, the rain slashed down, heavy droplets dashing against the stone walls of the tower, then running in rivulets downward.

Clack! Clack!

Fist-sized hailstones banged off the stones of the tower walls.

A small trickle of water, blown through the unfinished main doorway, began to drop from one side of the stairwell above, down onto the packed clay of the tower's lowest level. Before long, the drops became a stream.