Nylan stood in the dawn and studied the south-facing opening that would be the doorway. While the heavy pins had been set in the stone lintels, the door had yet to be built, as did the causeway to it.

His eyes flicked from the tower base up the black stones. No great work of art, but it would be big enough and strong enough to do what would be necessary, unless the locals decided to drag siege engines through the mountains, or spent seasons building them and supporting the builders with an army. Neither seemed likely. Then, he reflected, nothing about the planet was terribly likely.

At the sense, rather than the sound, of someone approaching, he turned toward the landers.

"You don't sleep much, do you?" Ryba stopped several paces short of him.

"Neither do you, apparently."

"Burdens of leadership, curse of foresight . . ." Ryba cleared her throat, then turned toward the tower.

His eyes followed hers. "Still a lot to do. Sometimes, more than sometimes, I wonder what else I've forgotten."

Her hand touched his shoulder. "It's beautiful ... the tower, and I can see, you know, that it will last for generations. Maybe longer."

"You can see that?"

Ryba shrugged, almost sadly. "Some things I can see. Like the women who will climb the rocks searching for Westwind, for hope, for a different life. Like the men who will chase them, not understanding."

"Westwind?"

"I thought it was a good name. And that's what it will be called." Her laugh was almost harsh. "So we might as well start now."

Nylan turned to her. "You're seeing all this?"

"Nylan ... you can bend metal and power, and Ayrlyn can touch souls with her songs, and her touch heals small injuries-and Saryn-she glitters when her hands touch the waters or a blade. Why shouldn't I, who rode the greatest neuronets of all, why shouldn't I have a power beyond the blades?"

"Foresight?" he whispered.

"At times ... yes ... It's only occasional... now ... but I wonder..." She shook her head. "You think it's easy to kill one of your own, to be as hard as the stones in your tower? To see what might be, if only you're strong enough .. . ? To know that everyone will die if you're not..."

His hands touched hers, and found that her hands and fingers were cold, trembling, for all that he had to raise his eyes to meet hers.

XXIV.

"THUS CONTINUED THE conflict between order and chaos, between those who would force order and those who would not, and between those who followed the blade and those who followed the spirit.

"On the Roof of the World, those first angels raised crops amid the eternal ice, and builded walls, and made bricks, and all manner of devisings of the most miraculous, from the black blades that never dulled to the water that flowed amidst the ice of winter and the tower that remained yet warm from a single fire.

"Of the great ones in those times were, first, Ryba of the twin blades, Nylan of the forge of order, Gerlich the hunter, Saryn the mighty, and Ayrlyn of the songs that forged the guards of Westwind ...

"For as the skilled and terrible smith Nylan forged the terrible black blades of Westwind, and wrenched the very stones from the mountains for the tower called Black, so did Ryba guide the guards of Westwind, letting no man triumph upon the Roof of the World.

"For as each lord of the demons said, 'I will not suffer those angel women to survive,' and as each angel fell, Ryba created yet another from those who fled the demons, until there were none that could stand against Tower Black.

". . . and so it came to pass that Ryba was the last of the angels to rule the heavens and the angel who set forth the Legend for all to heed . . ."

Book of Ayrlyn Section I [Restricted Text]

XXV.

SILLEK LOOKS DOWN the lines of horse, then back toward the west branch of the river, and the ford. Behind him, the fourscore armsmen shift in their saddles.

On the next rolling hill is another force of cavalry, under the white banner bearing a single fir tree-the banner of Jerans. Sillek studies the Jeranyi force, noting the.varying sizes of the troopers opposing his. Men and women both bear arms, their mounts standing, waiting, in the knee-high grass.

"Barbaric," he mutters.

"The women?" asks Koric. The mustached and slightly stoop-shouldered captain spits out onto the grass. "Sometimes they're nastier than the men. Rather fight the Suthyans any day."

"Do you see Ildyrom over there?"

"He's the one in the green jacket. Verintkya's the big blond bitch next to him.

She uses a mace sometimes, they say. Split your head with a smile, she would."

Sillek turns in the saddle. "Master Terek."

"Yes, Your Grace?" The chief wizard eases his mount closer to the Lord of Lornth.

"Will your firebolts reach the Jeranyi?"

"From here, ser? It's a long pull..." Terek's ungloved hand brushes his white hair. Behind him Hissl and Jissek watch Sillek intently.

"Yes or no?"

"Yes, ser." Terek holds up a hand. "But we can't send so many. It takes more energy to send bolts that far."

"Can you tell if Ildyrom has any archers there?"

Terek gestures to Hissl.

"There are a couple of troopers with the short curved bows, but no longbows, ser."

"So they can't quite reach us with arrows . . ." Sillek pauses, then turns to Terek.

"Go ahead, Chief Wizard. Fry as many as you can."

Beside Sillek, Koric clears his throat. "Ser . . . begging your pardon."

Terek waits, as do Hissl and Jissek.

"Yes, Captain?" Sillek's voice is smooth-and cold.

"Using firebolts ... I mean . . . what if they've got wizards?"

"Is that your real concern, Captain, or are you clinging to my father's outdated sense of nobility?"

"Ser .. ." Koric drew himself up in the saddle.

"Koric ... I'm not interested in battlefield tales or boasts. I've got a bunch of bitch-women at my back with thunder-throwers. I've got Ildyrom and Verintkya trying to take over the good grasslands between the South Branch and the West Fork, and the Suthyans are raising the port tariffs in Rulyarth. Now, if I can get rid of Ildyrom without losing anyone ... so much the better."

"Next time, they'll bring wizards," said Koric.

"There aren't many, if any, as good as ours." Sillek turns to Terek. "Is that not correct, Master Wizard Terek?"

"I believe so, ser."

"Good. Prove it."

Koric frowns as Terek concentrates, then points.

Whhhhssttt! With a whistling, screaming hiss, a firebolt arcs from Terek's fingers out over the valley between the two hills and falls across two Jeranyi troopers.

The twin screams shriek across the gently waving grasslands, and greasy smoke billows from the other hillside. A riderless horse rears into the midday sky, then lets forth a screaming whinny before bolting down the hillside in the general direction of Berlitos, the forest city of Jerans that lies more than four days of hard riding to the west.

The remaining Jeranyi horse hold, though the troopers on them seem to shift in their saddles before several arrows fly eastward. The shafts drop harmlessly in the tall grass well below the hilltop where the forces of Lornth wait.

"Another!" commands Sillek.

Terek frowns, but concentrates. A second firebolt arcs over the valley and toward Ildyrom.

The bolt splashes across the chest of a roan who rears, screaming, so suddenly that the rider is flung backward and falls into a crumpled heap. More greasy smoke rises as the fatally wounded horse falls and rolls, then quivers, in the damp grasses. A trooper dismounts, checks the still figure in the grass. Shortly, two Jeranyi troopers quickly put the body on a packhorse.

Then the fir-tree banner jerks, and then the Jeranyi turn and ride westward, disappearing behind the hilltop, leaving three piles of smoldering ash.

As Sillek watches, Terek takes a deep breath, and Hissl, observing the pallor on Terek's face, nods to himself.

"Now what, ser?" asks Koric.

"We follow them, discreetly."

"We could ride 'em down, maybe get rid of them."

Sillek holds in a deep breath, purses his lips, then finally responds. "How many armsmen did we lose?"

"Why, none, ser."

"How many did they lose?"

"Three."

Sillek nods. "And what happens if we do this every time they stop, until we chase them back to their earthen fort?"

"It won't get rid of their fort."

"No ... but if we can kill five or ten troopers every time we meet and not lose anyone-how long before Lord Ildyrom is going to think about abandoning that fort? We can do the same to supply forces, you know?"

"He'll think of something, ser."

"He probably will, and we'll have to think of something better." Sillek motions, and the purple banners flutter in the light wind as the Lornian forces follow those of Jerans. "Preferably before he does."

XXVI.

THE WHITE-YELLOW sun beat down across the Roof of the World, and Nylan wiped his forehead, glancing across the fields. The melting ice from the mountains to the south provided some water, but the two small streams that wound out of the rocks and meandered across the meadow area before they joined seemed to shrink daily. The meadow area around the fields now bore no flowers, only grass and low bushes, except for the stony patches where nothing grew.

Nylan's eyes followed the general path of the stream to the cut on the north end of the eastern plateau where the stream plunged over the edge, dropping in a thin line of silver to the creek bed on which, far below, lay the gorge that contained Nylan's fledgling brick-making operation. He hadn't tried the clay piping yet. The bricks were proving difficult enough. He took a deep breath. With the laser, he could work what seemed miracles, so long as the firin cells lasted, and yet trying to get the consistency and texture of a demon-damned low-tech brick ...

With a shake of his head, Nylan turned, and as he walked back from the space in the rocks, feeling relieved, his eyes flicked over the tower. The outer walls were complete, and so were most of the inner walls. Cessya, Huldran, and Weblya had the roofing timbers in place, and the three of them were working on the cross- stringers, while he got the tiles ready.

At the southern base of the tower were the stacks of slate tiles that had slowly been split by Huldran, Cessya, and Weblya with the sledge from Skiodra and the wedges he had made with the laser-just waiting to be drilled so that the tower could be roofed.

He swallowed.

He'd never made provisions for waste disposal in the tower.

"Shit . . ." he mumbled. How could he have overlooked that? It didn't seem all that bad now, in the warmth of summer, but with ice and snow deeper than a man or woman, or deeper than that, some provisions definitely needed to be thought out-and he hadn't.

He walked toward the work yard and studied the tower again.

He could convert one of the fourth-level casements into a small facility, with an exterior drop shaft into a cistern-type enclosure with a drain for liquids. Maybe he could add another on the fifth level. But some sort of bathhouse or the like would have to be separate, and for safety's sake, have a separate water line-plus a covered and walled passage that could be blocked off in cases of attack, if necessary. Some part of the bathhouse probably ought to have laundry tubs, as well.

How ... how could he have overlooked those needs, and what else had he overlooked? Then again, the difficulty of covering the piping and the heights had forced him to put the tower's cistern on the lower level.

Back in the yard, he rechecked the power levels on the block of firin cells-down to thirty percent-mentally calculating and deciding he might, might, make it through the day before replacing the block. He'd also planned to use the laser to craft another blade or two-Ryba was insisting that he needed to provide more weapons before the laser gave out. In between times, he'd already managed to forge nearly a dozen of the black blades that all the marines clamored for. After scratching the flaking and itching sunburned skin on his forearm, he inspected the laser's powerhead with both eyes and his senses, still trying every trick he could think of to eke out the best use of the stored power that he was running through faster than the emergency generator would ever be able to recharge- assuming the laser even outlasted . the generator.

Nylan finally eased the laser on and focused the beam, as much now with his mind as with the manual controls, to drill the necessary holes in the slate roofing tiles that Stentana would stack as he finished each.

The barrel of heavy spike nails that Ayrlyn had charmed out of a traveling trader two days toward the plains of Gallos was definitely going to be a help.

Making nails was not something he even wanted to try with a laser, assuming he could even figure out how. The transaction, according to Narliat, had taken not only Ayrlyn's charm, but more than a gold in coin-and a gold was worth plenty in this culture- something like a season's work for a laborer-the looming presence of armed marines, and Narliat's guile. She'd also come up with another pair of heavy hammers and a huge chisel, plus, of course, some food. Nylan had appreciated it all, especially the cask of dried fruit from someplace called Kyphros.

He was drilling three holes in each slate, after having tested the idea by spiking several to sections of stringers that had proved flawed.

Once he got back into the rhythm of the work, Nylan moved through the big slates quickly, and that was a relief, because he felt everything he could do to stretch more life from the laser would make everyone's life easier.

In time, his arms began to ache, as they always did after using the laser, and his vision began to blur.

Clang! Clang! Clang! Someone banged the alarm triangle.

"Bandits!" yelled another voice, and before Nylan could finish the hole he was drilling and cut the. power flow and look away from the laser, Ryba and a handful of marines were galloping across the meadow and up the ridge.

"I thought we got the bandits earlier," said Cessya, wrestling a rough-cut stringer toward the makeshift earthen ramp that led to the tower door.

"This is probably another group," pointed out Nylan, his eyes on the additional marines taking up positions on the rocky heights that controlled the approach to the tower and the meadow and fields. He took a deep swallow from the cup and munched some of the stale flat bread, feeling guilty as he did, but knowing that he couldn't do what he did without the additional nourishment.

"Take a break, Stentana," he suggested. "It'll be a little bit before I can fire it up again."

"Power, ser?"