“Were there people already here?” asked the comm officer.
“There were the druids, the people of the Great Forest, and many others … especially those in other lands beyond Candar-”
“Candar?” asked Nylan.
“Ah, the wizard, he does speak.” Narliat turned to the engineer. “Candar-that is all the lands that are surrounded by the oceans here, the lands of Gallos and Lornth, and Jerans, and Naclos, and Lydiar in the east.”
“Candar is the name of the continent,” said Ayrlyn.
“It is Candar, not continent,” explained Narliat. “Candar is where the old ones landed … the old tales claim that the mighty iron birds took all of the plains of Analeria to land. That is how big they were, and their wings shadowed whole towns …”
“Analeria is the high plains region east of these mountains,” added Ayrlyn, brushing flame hair from her eyes, still acting as a comm officer.
“ … and the old ones were glad, for they had fled from the awesome ice lances of the angels of Heaven. The wizards, the white ones, they say that you are fallen from the angels of Heaven. Is that true?”
“We’ve certainly fallen,” quipped Nylan, slowly, in what he recalled from his service indoctrination in Rationalist dialect, “but-”
“So they were right!” Narliat’s eyes widened. “You are angels. Do you freeze everyone to death who opposes you? Are you going to freeze me?”
“No,” said Ayrlyn and Nylan, nearly simultaneously.
“What does our friend have to say?” Ryba, both blades on her hips, looked down at the three.
“He was telling us about the old legends. Sit down. If you can follow tangled Old Rat, you might find it interesting,” suggested Ayrlyn.
Ryba eased herself onto a cut-off tree-trunk section that served as a seat. The remainder of the tree had been laboriously cut into a handful of planks with the single collapsible grip saw.
“She is the cherubim-or a seraphim. Truly, she was terrible,” stammered the local armsman.
“Terrible?” murmured Ryba. “How delightful.”
Nylan frowned, but only cleared his throat.
“You were telling us about the old ones,” prompted Ayrlyn, “how they came to the high plains of Analeria on the backs of the great birds …”
“Those birds, they had feathers whiter than snow, and the tips of those feathers were like mirrors, and they even turned back the sun … and the old ones brought with them the knowledge of metals, and of the cold iron that turns back the fires of chaos …” Narliat paused and looked up at Ryba.
Nylan followed the local’s glance, trying to picture the captain as Narliat saw her-an angular face, with a regular but sharp nose and high cheekbones, pale clear skin that tanned only slightly, dominating and penetrating green eyes, broad-shouldered and muscular without being overly stocky, and short hair that had become so dark that it seemed to swallow light. In fact, she looked like an avenging angel.
“The fires of chaos?” asked Ayrlyn. “What can you tell us about the fires of chaos?”
“No wizard am I,” declared Narliat, and his eyes went to Nylan, then back to Ayrlyn. “Those who are wizards control the fires of chaos.”
“Like the man in white?” suggested Nylan.
“Hissl? Yes, he is … he was one of Lord Nessil’s three wizards.”
“He still is,” added Nylan. “He escaped. Hissl did, I mean. What about this Nessil?”
“Lord Nessil-your seraphim killed him with the iron lightning she flung through him.” Narliat coughed. “He was the lord of Lornth, and Lornth claims the Roof of the World.”
“Not anymore,” said Ryba.
Nylan’s eyes looked down toward the cook fire where various small rodents had been spitted and were being turned. The horse meat from the animals killed in the attack had been tastier than the rodents, but not much. A lot of the meat had been wasted, because they’d had no way to preserve it. Ryba hadn’t been pleased with that, Nylan reflected, not at all. Then, some days, she didn’t seem pleased about much. That hadn’t changed much, though, not from when she’d had a sound ship under her.
On the far side of the fire, Gerlich leaned close to a lithe marine-Selitra. The former weapons officer, who had taken to wearing Lord Nessil’s hand-and-a-half blade, said something, and they both laughed, but Selitra glanced sideways at Ryba, who remained concentrating on Narliat.
Charred and fire-roasted rodents, mixed with the vanishing ship concentrates, were scarcely Nylan’s idea of a good meal. Ayrlyn had found some roots that resembled-or were-wild onions, but without cook pots, their culinary value was minimal.
“ … the lords of Lornth came out of the Westhorns here, many, many years ago, almost as long ago as when the old ones came in from the skies on their mighty birds with feathers like mirrors …”
“Are there any traders that cross these mountains?” interrupted Nylan.
“Traders?” asked Fierral from behind Nylan.
“We’ve got some local coin now, and some jewelry, and a bunch of blades. We could buy a few things-like sledges or wedges, cook pots. Most traders don’t care about politics.” Nylan cleared his throat. “Maybe other things.”
“But … to trade with the angels … who would dare?” declaimed Narliat.
Nylan suspected that, had it not been for the stories, there might already have been traders, or some travelers, on the high road that crossed the mountains and ran below the ridge that led up to the high meadow.
“Anyone who wants coins,” suggested Ryba.
Narliat looked blank, and Ayrlyn translated.
The armsman grinned. “Skiodra.”
“Is he a trader?”
“That is what he calls himself, but he is a thief, and his guards carry blades that are often in need of sharpening.”
“Sharpening?” Fierral’s red hair glinted as she shook her head.
“They get nicked when they fight,” said Ryba dryly.
“How do we find this Skiodra?”
“He will find you if you fly the trade banner.”
“We don’t have a pole or a trade banner,” pointed out Ayrlyn.
“Poles we can make,” said Nylan, turning toward Narliat. “What does a trade banner look like?”
“A trade banner.” The armsman shrugged. “It is a white banner with a dark square in the middle.”
“We can put something like that together.”
“With what?” asked Ayrlyn. “I didn’t notice such things as needles or thread in the survival paks.”
“There are some needles in the medical kits-for sutures,” said Ryba.
Nylan frowned, wondering why Ryba was so familiar with the medical kits. That hadn’t been her training at all. Then again, as captain, she’d looked at everything. He’d been mostly involved in solving the shelter problem.
“We’ll also have to make a show of force when this Skiodra shows up.”
Ayrlyn translated for Narliat.
“Skiodra is very polite if you are strong.” The armsman shrugged. “If not, you become slaves, and he sells you to the traders from Hamor. That happened to a cousin of Memsenn’s. She lived on a farm outside of Dellash. One day Skiodra passed by, and when her consort came home, she was gone. He chased Skiodra’s men, and they killed him.”
“Not a pleasant fellow.” Fierral’s fingers went to her sidearm.
“I don’t think any of Candar is what we’d term peaceful,” said Ryba. “The only way to ensure peace is through strength.”
“That was what Lord Nessil said. But … now that he is dead, it may be that the Jeranyi will march, or the Suthyans.” Narliat edged closer to the fire, then looked at the angels around him. “Truly, you are people of the winter. Is Heaven cold?”
“Colder than Candar, even than here,” replied Ayrlyn, “except maybe in winter.”
Across the fire, Gerlich and Selitra stood and eased away into the shadows, hand in hand.
Ryba and Nylan exchanged looks.
Ayrlyn snorted. “Poor woman. Thinks she’s special.”