When the Heavens Fall (40 page)

Grimes bellowed, and the Guardsmen veered into a side alley.

The consel's four demons sprang to engage the enemy. A Vamilian man was cut in half by a single ax stroke, the weapon entering below his right shoulder and exiting above his left hip. Another demon's ax struck a building in its follow-through, and a wall crumbled into ruin. Mutilated bodies and severed limbs fell to the ground and were trampled beneath the feet of the armored warriors. But as the demons surged on, a handful of the mangled undead lurched upright again in their wake and turned to hack at the creatures' backs.

At the consel's order, the Sartorian horsemen spurred their mounts forward. The front line lowered their spears in unison, shouting battle cries as they smashed into the undead with a sound like a metallic peal of thunder. A Vamilian woman missing a chunk from her skull took a lance in the back with such force the weapon drove right through her and into the gut of another undead, pinning them together and sending them tumbling. A second woman, her stomach caved in where a demon must have stamped on it, was hit by the chest of a horse and flattened to the cobbles.

Ebon kicked his mount forward, a tickle of fear at the back of his throat. Impossibly, the stricken undead were beginning to rise again in the wake of the Sartorian charge. A horseman was dragged screaming from his saddle by a man he'd carved open moments earlier. Another Sartorian, slowing to help his companion, took a sword thrust in the neck and toppled from his saddle.

“Keep moving, soldiers!” Grimes shouted to his troop. “Any whoreson among you eases up, I'll kill him myself!”

Then the undead were all about Ebon, and his world shrank to the few armspans round his destrier.

A woman with a gaping throat attacked from his left, swinging a rusty sword. He caught the blow on his shield, but before he could counter, his horse took him past. A man in the armor of a Pantheon Guardsman closed from his right, and for a heartbeat the king hesitated, suspecting the soldier was one of the undead, but not knowing for certain. A spear thrust at his head cleared up the confusion. Ebon brought up his shield to block, but Vale's horse was already barreling into the attacker to send him sprawling. Vale shouted something Ebon couldn't hear above the uproar, yet he could guess the message all the same. His next hesitation, the Endorian would be saying, could cost Ebon his life, but that was a risk the king would have to take.

A Vamilian woman ran at him from the left, and he buried his spear in her chest, tensing himself in readiness for some backlash from the spirits.

None came.

The woman twisted as she fell, and Ebon's spear was torn from his hands. He drew his saber.

Vamilians were now pouring from a side street. Ahead one of the demons was battling a four-armed spearman, the undead warrior jabbing out with its spears in search of a weak spot in the demon's armor until an ax stroke broke through his defenses and sheared off his head. To Ebon's right, a Galitian woman holding a cleaver was clambering onto the rump of Garat Hallon's horse. Instinctively Ebon spurred his mount forward, reaching the consel just as the woman raised her weapon. The king's blade took her in the side and knocked her to the ground. As she fell he felt something pierce the armor on his right side. The point of a knife scraped against his ribs, sending a twist of agony through his chest. Gritting his teeth, he hacked down at the arm wielding the dagger. Limb and blade fell away.

What remained of the West Gate was visible now to Ebon's right. As Rook Way opened out onto the marketplace, the cobbles gave way to hard-packed dirt and clouds of dust. The padding of Ebon's helmet was becoming damp, and his sword arm was aching from the ceaseless slashing and hacking. A man rushed at him from the left, sword raised—another Pantheon Guardsman, and this time there was no doubting his intent. His gaze locked with Ebon's. The soldier's expression was blank, but there was something behind his eyes, a recognition …

The merest hitch in his stride, then he came on.

Ebon lashed out with his shield, and its rim slammed into the man's forehead, snapping his head back. He crumpled to the ground.

The ruined guardhouse was directly in front now, but still tantalizingly out of reach. The consel's demons had slowed almost to a halt, the advancing host of undead plugging the gap in the battlements like a cork in a bottleneck. Blood pounded at Ebon's temple, and he could feel more blood flowing from the cut in his side, soaking his shirt round the wound. Every movement sent a jolt of pain through his chest as if he were being stabbed anew. To his right Mottle was wrestling with his horse's reins. A spear hurled at the mage hit an invisible barrier and bounced away. Then Mottle's mount seemed to trip, and Ebon lost sight of the old man amid the melee.

An unseen blow glanced off the armor at his back. A Vamilian man with a sword lodged in his neck stumbled into Ebon's destrier, tugging its head round as his hands tangled in the reins. Ebon swayed in the saddle, kicked out, and connected with a boot to the man's chin. Ebon found himself looking back the way he'd come across the marketplace. The remainder of Grimes's troop, less than a dozen red-cloaked riders, were fighting a desperate rearguard action. Vale was there, his sword a blur as he dealt out destruction to the undead round him. But for every undead assailant struck down, two more rose in his place.

We are trapped.
Retreat was no more an option now than making the gates seemed to be. The end, Ebon sensed, was but moments away, but at least by fighting the undead here he was keeping them from joining the battle at the bridges. The thought came as scant consolation. If he fell, he promised himself no power would make him turn on his kinsmen. But then doubtless every Galitian who had died this morning had believed the same, and he pictured himself raising a sword against Lamella, the look of betrayal in her eyes …

Yanking on his reins, he turned his destrier back toward the ruins of the West Gate.

In time to see Ambolina gesture with one hand. The four armored demons surged left and right to leave her standing alone before the undead spilling through the opening in the city wall. A wave of black fire leapt from her hands. The Vamilians in its path burst into flames and disintegrated, flesh and bone collapsing into steaming piles of detritus. The consel's demons charged into the void, Garat's and Ambolina's mounts at their heels. As Ebon spurred after them, his destrier slipped for an instant on the slick ground before righting itself and springing forward. Bones crunched underfoot.

From outside the city, Vamilians came surging back through the gap like a wave through a fissure in a seawall. The demons hit them in a line, axes swinging tirelessly, and the enemy ranks crumbled. An undead warrior had climbed onto a mound of rubble where the guardhouse had been, and now threw himself at one of the demons as it passed. A metal fist swung to meet him, catching him a blow to the skull and half spinning him round. His momentum still carried him crashing into the demon. He slid to the ground and was trampled into the dirt.

Suddenly Ebon was past the wall. The crush of Vamilians was thickest ahead and to his left, while to his right—the direction of the river—the undead were spread more thinly. At a command from Ambolina the demons turned that way, punching a path through the enemy. Rising in his stirrups, Ebon looked round for the Fangalar sorceress, but he could see nothing through the dust beyond a score of paces.

As the numbers of undead fell away, the demons changed course again, curling round to the west and the Forest of Sighs. Ebon caught sight of the wreckage of the consel's camp, wisps of black smoke spiraling up into the sky. The only enemy in front of him now were scattered Vamilians emerging in a trickle from the woods. He looked over his shoulder expecting to see undead following them, but the foe was apparently happy to let the company go, for there was no sign of any pursuit. Whatever the reason for the attack on the city, it seemed neither Ebon nor the consel was its target.

The Sartorian camp was surrounded by a ditch an armspan deep. Earth had been piled up on the inside, faced with turf, and leveled off to form a low rampart. A road crossed the ditch on this side, and the demons followed this into the center of the encampment before slowing to a halt. Ebon drew up behind them. The place was bigger than some of the military camps he'd visited. Towering over him was the consel's pavilion—a mountain of rippling golden canvas from which the Sartorian flag flew. A handful of the tents had been gutted by fire to leave just scraps of charred cloth and squares of blackened grass. The ground between them was dotted with blocks of stone and splinters of wood. Ebon's eyes widened.
The guardhouse?
Could rubble from the explosion have carried this far?

At Garat's order, Sartorian soldiers dismounted to gather supplies and take down the flag over the pavilion. Ambolina had survived the clash unscathed, but the consel's first adviser, Pellar Hargin, was missing.

Ebon's fingers explored the cut to his side. Through his bloodstained armor he could feel a broken knife point beneath his skin. Every breath sawed in his chest, but he would have to wait a while before removing the shard of metal. Vale, Mottle, and the remnants of Grimes's troop filtered into the camp. Aside from the sergeant, only six red-cloaked soldiers had survived, every one of them battered and bloodied. Grimes had lost his helmet, and four angry red scratches marked the left side of his face.

Garat steered his horse to Ebon. “You saved my life,” he spat.

It was a moment before the king could respond. “My apologies. I will try not to make the same mistake again.”

“Do you claim blood debt?”

“I am unfamiliar with your customs—”

“Blood of my blood has first calling. Do you deny me this?”

For a heartbeat Ebon was tempted to call in the debt and demand that Garat unleash Ambolina and her demons against the undead sorceress. He knew the consel well enough by now, though, to realize the Sartorian would refuse him if he tried to do so. Men like Garat Hallon honored their obligations only if and when it suited them to do so. “I deny you nothing,” he said. “Now, leave us. We have work to do.”

Garat's humorless smile told Ebon he'd read the man right. The consel jabbed a finger at him. “Stay alive, your Majesty. The debt survives only as long as you do.” He wheeled his horse.

Putting the Sartorian from his mind, Ebon took off his helmet. The wind was hot on his skin as he looked back at the city. Between the remains of two tents he could make out the undead army still streaming through the breach in the city walls. There was no sign of the Fangalar sorceress.

Grimes spoke. “What's the plan?”

Ebon looked at Mottle. “Mage, can the Fangalar sorceress sense us?”

The old man was sitting in front of his horse's saddle, his legs wrapped round the beast's neck. “Mottle suspects so, my boy. The witch observed our departure from the city, but she made no attempt to intervene. Her attitude is, Mottle believes, one of indifference.” The mage's tone was indignant.

“It appears she does not consider us worthy of her attention.”

“Mottle is ever underestimated.”

With a rumble of hooves, the consel's company rode out of the camp toward the forest.

Grimes spat on the ground. “Never thought I'd be sad to see the back of that black-hearted whoreson.”

Ebon could only agree. “Mottle, how does one … incapacitate … an undead sorceress?”

“An interesting question. Mottle has been pondering that very subject since we left the barracks. Sever a warrior's sword arm and you nullify his threat, yes? But a sorceress does not need her hands to shape the energies she wields.”

“Then what? Her eyes?”

“Precisely. Without her sight the witch cannot direct her considerable might.”

“And in the meantime? Can you extend your wards over the whole squad?”

The mage spread his hands. “Mottle could, my boy, but stretched so thinly…”

“They would buckle under the first assault,” Ebon finished. Meaning if he ordered a straight attack on the Fangalar his company would likely be slaughtered before they got close enough to bring their swords to bear. He looked round. The camp would offer cover of sorts if he could persuade the sorceress to approach, but why should she take an interest in them
now
when she had ignored them thus far? “Can you lure her here?” he said to Mottle. “Can you bring her to us?”

“But of course. Mottle need only call her over. The poor woman can do naught but heed his summons.”

Ebon turned to Sergeant Grimes. “The first attack belongs to the mage. I want a couple of your troop watching his back. The rest of us will split into two groups, wait for the Fangalar to draw near, then attack from the flanks.”

Mottle's forehead crinkled. “Mottle is to be used as a diversion?”

“Call it what you will. Do whatever you must to keep her distracted. A moment of vulnerability is all we need.”

The sergeant spoke. “And if the old man can't take down the witch's wards?”

“Such impudence!” Mottle said. “Such faithlessness! Such—”

“Enough!” Ebon cut in, suddenly feeling his exhaustion. “The mage knows what is expected of him, as do we all.”

*   *   *

Luker rode at a gallop through the storm, a few lengths back from the rest of his party. Above him the sky rained sand down in sheets, while the shadowy forms of stormwraiths spun and flapped and twitched in the grainy light as they waited to feast on the maelstrom's leavings. They'd be getting a bellyful and more before this brute was done, Luker reckoned. Last time he'd seen fury like this, whole villages west of Arap had been snatched up into oblivion. Get too close to the core of the storm, and he might suffer the same fate.

He looked over his shoulder to see the Kalanese less than a stone's throw behind and reeling him in so steadily he could almost feel the hook in his mouth. No mistaking them in their gray robes and headscarves. Drawn up in an arrowhead formation, they numbered maybe two dozen, but at least there was no soulcaster among them else the man would surely have made his presence felt by now. As Luker watched, the lead rider rose in his stirrups and hurled a spear at him. Buffeted by the wind, the weapon shivered in its flight before falling to earth to his left.