". . . can't believe him . . . kill us all or not..."

"... least he doesn't dither around . . ."

"Neither does the captain . . . probably why they get along ..."

Leaving the voices behind, the engineer slowly surveyed what was going to be their new home, like it or not.

The landing area was a long strip of alpine meadow, perhaps five kays long and a little more than two wide, bordered on three sides by rocky slopes that quickly rose into the knife-edged peaks that had shown so clearly on the screens. To the north was a ridge, lower than the surrounding rocky areas, almost a pass, through which he had brought the lander. The entire meadow area sloped slightly downhill from the northwest to the southeast, one of the reasons the landing had seemed to take longer than necessary, Nylan suspected. To the southwest, beyond the rocky slopes, rose a needle peak, impossibly tall, yet seemingly sheathed in ice.

"Freyja ... blade of the gods," he said quietly.

"It is, isn't it?" said Fierral from behind his shoulder. "How did you get us down?"

"It wasn't too bad."

Fierral glanced back to the west, along the trail gouged out by the lander.

"That's not exactly a prepared runway."

"No." Nylan laughed. "Would you give me a hand? We need to set up the beacon for the others."

"They can land here?"

'The beacon makes it a lot easier. You can lock in a direction and rate of descent."

"I would get the hard landing."

"We're here."

"Wherever that is." Fierral wiped her sweating forehead and glanced around the high plateau. "At least it's not too hot."

Behind them, the other marines dropped from the lander.

Nylan looked at the track he had made. From what he could tell, most of the rocks were small, nothing that would create too many problems. Rising from the grass between the rocks were small purple flowers, shaped like stars, that rose on thin, almost invisible, stems.

Nylan forced his thoughts from the fragile flowers and turned toward the lander itself. From what he could see, the ablative coating on the belly had been largely removed by the shrubbery and rocks.

"We've got some work to do-quickly. We need to set up the beacon and see if we can move the lander a bit." He headed toward the lander and the emergency beacon it contained. Fierral followed.

One of the marines walked the several hundred steps eastward from the lander, pausing just short of the sheer dropoff.

"... frigging long way down ..."

Nylan nodded. They had come a long ways down. He just hoped that they didn't have to fall any farther.

VI.

HISSL STUDIES THE images in the glass. Four rounded metal tents squat amid the late spring grasses that carpet the Roof of the World. On the high ground in the northwest corner of the grassy area, the silver-haired man hammers stakes in place in a pattern which Hissl cannot determine through the mists of the glass.

Thrap! At the sound, Hissl squints and the image in the screeing glass fades into swirling white mists that in turn vanish, leaving what appears as a circular flat mirror in the center of the small white oak table. He turns. "Yes?"

"Hissl, Jissek has recovered, and we are here."

"Do come in." The man in white erases the frown and stands, waiting, as the two other men in white step into the room.

Terek closes the door and smiles.

Hissl returns the smile and bows. "I am honored."

"What do you make of the people of the iron tents?" asks the rotund Jissek.

"From where did they come, do you think?"

"From beyond the skies-that is certain."

"Why do you say that?" asks Terek.

Both Jissek and Hissl look at the older wizard. Terek looks at Hissl as if waiting for an answer.

Hissl takes a deep breath before he speaks, ignoring the frown his sigh evokes from Terek. "There are many signs. It would appear that the tents flew down to the Roof of the World-"

"Flew? Iron cannot fly."

"They flew," confirmed Jissek.

"The people who were in the tents look mostly like us, but they are not. I have never seen silver hair on young people or hair that is red like a fire. And they sweat, as if the Roof of the World is warm, as though it might be hot like in the Stone Hills or the high plains of Analeria in midsummer."

"That seems little enough. What else?"

"They are mostly women. Out of a score, only three are men. Their leader is a woman. At least, she is shaped like a woman. And all the women bear what look like weapons, though I cannot be sure."

"The angels, you think?" asks Jissek.

Hissl shrugs.

"Angels? Bah . . tales to frighten children with. That's all."

"Every wizard who can scree will see these women, and such tales will get passed, especially to those few who follow the black."

Terek pulls at his smooth chin. "Such tales ... that would not be good. Perhaps someone should travel west."

Hissl and Jissek exchange glances. Finally, Hissl, the youngest wizard, the only balding one, clears his throat. "Would it be... proper for us to undertake such a mission- given the concerns raised by Lord Nessil of Lornth?"

"That might work to our advantage," points out Terek. "Lord Nessil would not wish the example of armed women to be made known, especially to the Jerans.

Their women ride with the men, and he has had some trouble ..."

The other two wizards nod.

"He would appreciate our concern, and he would be most intrigued with women of silver or fiery red hair."

"These ... angels... might not take to being taken," says Hissl.

"Have they shown weapons? Thunderbolts, or firebolts such as we can bring?"

"No," admits the balding wizard. "Not that we have seen used."

"Then fourscore armsmen should be more than enough."

"As you wish." Hissl inclines his head.

"I will recommend, of course, that you accompany His Lordship." Terek smiles.

"Since you have discovered the strangers, you should share in the rewards. And one wizard should be more than enough. We would not wish to imply a lack of confidence in the abilities of His Lordship."

"No... no, indeed," murmurs Jissek, wiping his forehead.

"You are most kind, High Wizard." Hissl offers a head bow. "Most kind."

VII.

THE LANDER SHELLS formed a square on the rocky upper slope of the alpine area, adjacent to one of the two small streams that wound through the grass and shrubs, and below the staked-out pattern that Nylan had made. One of the shells contained several body-sized dents, and plastic foam filled a long gouge on the left side. On the uphill side of the shells were several plastic-covered stacks-the disassembled sections of the landers' exterior removable parts.

The wind whispered in from the north, barely above freezing.

Nylan and Ryba lay together in the forward part of lander one, sharing the command couch, under the light thermal blanket that was more than warm enough for them.

Only the faintest light crept in through the short corridor from the hatch, but Nylan had no difficulty seeing. With the silver hair had apparently come some form of enhanced night vision that took in the objects around him in the dimmest of light. He looked at Ryba, short hair tousled, face calm in sleep-not quite relaxed, but he had never seen her completely relaxed.

Beyond the couch were their clothes . . . and the twin blades Ryba had brought down from the Winterlance and begun to wear. Nylan did not shake his head. She was doubtless correct in assuming that the blades would have to serve as a defense before long and in accustoming herself to their use. What weapon could he use? A blade probably, since Ryba could teach him, although the idea of an edged weapon bothered him. But where would they get blades?

Though he knew the basics of metallurgy, he'd never tried anything so primitive as smithing, and he had no idea if there were any metallic deposits nearby.

Charcoal he could make, if he ever had the time, and he could devise some sort of bellows, but they would be useless without iron or copper. The landers held enough steel alloys, but a primitive smithy would be hard-pressed to reach temperatures high enough to melt or cast them.

He took a long, slow breath.

Ryba's eyes flickered, and then, as always, she was awake. "What are you thinking about?"

"Weapons, smithing, how to use the materials in the landers..." He shrugged, suddenly conscious of her nakedness next to him.

"That's not all you're thinking about," whispered Ryba.

Nylan could feel himself blushing.

"And after last night? Shame on you."

Nylan nibbled on her neck.

"Not now ... I can hear someone in the back."

"It's different in the morning. Besides, we've got a lot to do. The growing season is so short. We'll have to get those grow-paks figured out and started. They're really designed as deep-space hydroponic units, but there are instructions for conversion, and there's one planet or soil-based unit." The captain swung her feet onto the chill composite flooring of what had been the cockpit area.

Nylan swung his feet to the other side, aware of the warmth of her back against his and of the faint scent of evergreens and the whispering of the wind outside.

Ryba pulled on her shipsuit, as did Nylan. He followed her into the dawn, and toward the stream to wash up. Neither spoke.

As the day lightened, long before the sun had edged above the tree-fringed eastern horizon that lay beyond the drop-off, Nylan had whittled a small limb into shavings, then used one of the matches to light the cook fire. He looked down at the match, then shook his head. "Strikers, maybe."

"Strikers?" Ayrlyn broke off a handful of dried end branches from the dead tree limb that several marines had dragged nearly a kay the day before.

"Steel and flint.. . maybe I could cut some pieces from the lander and bend them into an arc, attach the stone. Haven't seen any flint, though."

"You are planning for the long haul, aren't you?" Ayrlyn fed more of the tinder into the small flickering flames, flames duller than her flaming hair.

"Not so long. Three boxes of matches might last a local year if we used only one a day. We don't exactly have a chemical-processing industry here." Nylan picked up a plastic bucket, checking the scrapes on the gray material, then began to walk toward the stream.

"Does he sleep?" Saryn limped toward the fire that Ayrlyn fed, leaning heavily on the rough staff that allowed her to avoid putting too much weight on the hardened foam cast around her broken right leg.

"Neither he nor the captain seem to need much." Ayrlyn yawned.

"Where's the captain?"

"In number two with Merrin, sorting through the grow-paks," answered the engineer, returning with a full bucket of water. "She wants to get started on laying out fields and planting."

"We've been down less than an eight-day, and she wants us to be field hands?"

asked Saryn.

"What about Gerlich? Where's he gone?" inquired Ayrlyn.

"He's got the one bow and the arrows-out hunting. He claims there's something like a wild boar out there." Nylan gave a short laugh.

Saryn shook her head.

The captain and the junior officer emerged from the shell of lander two and walked toward the fire. Mertin ducked to avoid the line of smoke that seemed almost to seek his face.

From lander four emerged Fierral. The red-haired marine commander and the two ships' officers converged on the fire, stopping well back.

"Why the fire?" asked Fierral. "We've still got firm cells."

"Cooking. We're saving the cells for things we can't duplicate locally," answered Ryba.

"Such as?"

Two more marines eased up toward the fire.

"Powering the combat laser, if we need to." Ryba adjusted the makeshift hairband to keep the short and thick black hair totally away from her face.