Fall of Angels (The Saga of Recluce #6)(78)

His eyes went back to the two bows. All told, the engineer had made twelve over the eight-day before, each a struggle sandwiched between limited stone-cutting and building the heating stove for the bathhouse, and welding the two laundry tubs. Ellysia, relegated to laundry as a collateral duty because her obvious and early pregnancy had limited her riding, had immediately commandeered both. According to what Nylan had overheard, though, she refused to launder anything of Gerlich's.

Nylan permitted himself a smile at that, before he forced his concentration back to controlling the laser, and smoothing the metal around the cormclit composite core of what would be another bow.

As the tip of greenish light flowed toward the end of the bow, the energy flows from the powerhead fluctuated more and more wildly, and Nylan staggered where he stood, trying to hold the last focal point.

Pphssttt! Even before the faint sizzling faded into silence, Nylan could tell from the collapse of the flux fields around the laser focal points that the powerhead had failed. The engineer slumped. The other cutting powerhead was in little better shape. The weapons head, although scarcely used, would squander power, depleting the cells in a fraction of a morning-without accomplishing much, except destroying whatever it was focused on.

The last powerhead might last long enough to finish another handful of the composite bows.

He frowned. First, he needed to cut the shower knife plates. Then, if the second powerhead lasted that long, he could go back to the bows. At least, the black tower was finished. That is, the basics were-roof, floors, the hearth, chimneys, the stove and the furnace itself, and the water system from the tower wall to the lower-level cistern.

Everyone had needed something. Ryba had wanted weapons; everyone had needed shelter; the horses had needed stables; the tower had needed some windows ... the list had seemed endless.

He disconnected the powerhead from the wand, glancing toward the uncompleted bathhouse behind him. Huldran, Cessya, and the others were raising the roof timbers on the stables.

The single clang of the triangle announced the noon meal, and Nylan took the artificial hand and the broken power-head. He dropped off the powerhead in the tower, then found Relyn by the causeway. The mahogany-haired man sat on the stones watching Fierral and Jaseen spar, his eyes narrow.

"Greetings, Mage."

"Greetings. I brought you something." Nylan extended the device.

"What. . . might that be?"

"What I promised the other evening when I measured your arm." The engineer extended the artificial hand and mounting cup, measured to fit over the healing stump.

"It might be better than nothing, ser." Relyn took it in his good left hand.

Nylan felt himself growing angry, and the darkness rising within him, but he bit back the personal anger and chose his words carefully before he spoke. "It is no evil to lose, either a battle or a hand, to someone who is better. It is a great evil to refuse to struggle against your losses. I offer you a tool to help in that struggle. Are you too proud to use that tool? Does an armsman refuse a blade when his is broken?"

Rather than say more, Nylan turned and left. He was one of the first at table for the midday meal, rather than the last, but he refused even to look in Relyn's direction.

After he ate, Nylan excused himself and trudged back to the north side of the tower, where he set up the laser with the remaining powerhead.

On the other side of the tower, in the fields, the field crew-Selitra, Siret, Ellysia, and Berlis, who still complained about her thigh wound-were gathering the beans, and digging up some of the bluish high-altitude potatoes. The potatoes that didn't seem ready could wait, but with the threat of light frosts growing heavier, the last of the aboveground produce had to come in.

Between the carcasses dragged in by Gerlich and salted or dried, and the wild roots, and crops, and the barrels of assorted flours gotten in trading, Westwind might get through the winter-on tight rations. The food concentrates were almost gone, far faster than Ryba or Nylan had anticipated.

Clang! Clang! The triangle sounded twice.

Nylan looked up from reconnecting the second power-head as Istril led four other riders uphill toward the ridge. Another set of would-be crop raiders, no doubt. There wasn't the swirl of the white chaos-feel on the local net that happened when large numbers of armsmen showed up. Why his senses worked that way, he didn't know, only that they did.

Since they didn't seem to need him, he turned his attention back to the work at hand. With the goggles in place, he studied the sheets of metal taken from lander three and the lines chalked on them.

Finally, he triggered the laser and began to cut the knife plates, quickly and without much smoothing. All eight went quickly, and he took a deep breath when the long-handled plates were completed. The rest of the "valves" could be worked out with local materials, if necessary.

He moved the leftover metal and laid out the three rough bow forms and the three composite cores he had already cut.

Maybe... maybe... the laser would last through all three.

At the sound of hooves, Nylan looked up. Istril led a mount, over which was a body. So did two of the marines who followed. Seven mounts, and three bows in all, and no obvious casualties for the marines. Nylan took a deep breath, then noticed that Istril had turned toward him.

She reined up well short of the laser.

Nylan checked the power and pushed back the goggles. "No casualties?"

"No." She smiled broadly. "The bows work well. Very well." Then the smile became a grin. "Gerlich doesn't know what the frig he's talking about. He couldn't have sent an arrow as far as your bows, even with that monster of his. It's technique."