When the Heavens Fall (59 page)

A heartbeat, though, was all Romany needed to spin her deception.

The axman's weapon swung low to intercept the woman's sword …

Only to find himself parrying air. The Vamilian's blade, disguised by Romany's sorcery, passed over the ax and bit into the warrior's neck in a spray of blood. A look of bewilderment momentarily clouded his eyes. Then he toppled to the ground.

So simple.

The undead rushed in to hack him to pieces.

Returning to her body, Romany opened her eyes. A stone in the wall behind her was digging into her back, and she sighed as she shifted position. The warrior's death brought her tally of victims to fourteen, and many more of Shroud's disciples had fallen to Mayot's undead servants. The Lord of the Dead would feel their loss keenly, she knew. And yet her defeat of the axman had left her feeling somehow … empty. Where was the thrill she usually felt at having outwitted another opponent? Had she expected more of a challenge, perhaps? A suitably dramatic climax to the encounter, more in keeping with the warrior's explosive entrance?

No, there was more to it than that.

The game, Romany realized with a start, had begun to lose its appeal.

*   *   *

Ebon leaned back against a tree and listened to its branches creak and crack in the wind. Vale sat across from him, hood drawn up against the leaves that swirled round the camp. The Endorian was running a whetstone back and forth along the edge of his sword.

Ebon rubbed a hand across his eyes. He had spent the best part of the night floundering through muck and brambles, searching for a way out of the valley where they had encountered the dwarf. When he finally found a clear section of bank to climb, it had taken a quarter of a bell to coax his destrier up the steep slope, its hooves quickly churning up the mud. Then, having linked up with the consel again, he had helped set up camp a short distance from the depression and waited for stragglers to arrive. By morning just two Sartorian soldiers had stumbled upon the encampment, bringing the number in Garat's troop to eight. But there was no sign of Mottle, Ellea, or Bettle. Unable to call out or light a fire for fear of attracting the wrong kind of attention, Ebon had sat staring into the blackness for his companions.
Assuming they are still alive.
Hells, he did not even know whether they had survived the attack by the dwarf's demons. Yet again he had been powerless to keep his people from harm.

Ebon's thoughts turned to Lamella, as they had so often of late. He would have liked to see her one last time; to hold her and breathe in the scent of her hair; to share with her the truths he had come to realize too late. Hard words, perhaps, but ones that needed saying. Mottle had been right when he'd talked of the futility of trying to evade duty, and Ebon had been neglecting his for too long. His expression tightened. It was easy to say this now, though, so many leagues from Majack, with Lamella's fate unknown and his own life hanging in the balance. Would his courage hold if they were ever reunited?

Ebon accepted a strip of dried meat from Vale and chewed on it. The camp was almost silent, the only sounds the snorting of the horses and the consel's voice as he spoke to his new tarda—a mustachioed man whose name Ebon could not remember. Was Garat thinking of turning back? He had to feel vulnerable now Ambolina and her demons were gone, but doubtless his pride would not countenance a retreat. And yet, the loss of the sorceress was as much a blow to Ebon as it was to the consel. For while Vale would argue the sorceress's death—if indeed she was dead—meant the threat of invasion had been lifted from Galitia, that would count for nothing if Ebon could not defeat this Mayot Mencada. And his chances of doing that had just taken a hit with Ambolina's disappearance.

Closing his eyes, Ebon quested inward for Galea. Seeking her out was like groping for a faded memory. Somehow, though, he was able to fashion a hold on her presence and pull himself toward it. After a moment of disorientation he found his spirit back in the goddess's temple. Galea stood facing away from him, but she swung round at his arrival.

Ebon forced himself to meet her gaze. “My Lady, we have to talk. I needed your help yesterday.”

“You forget yourself, mortal,” Galea said. “I am not some dog that you may summon to heel. It is
you
who are indebted to
me
.”

“And I will stand a better chance of honoring that debt if my companions remain alive.”

“You are referring to the demon witch and her spawn?”

“They were powerful allies.”

“Until such time as they chose to betray you.”

“You know for a fact they would have done so?”

Galea's only response was a chill smile.

Ebon paused, considering. He thought to ask her what had happened to Mottle and the others but knew his kinsmen's fate would be beneath her notice. “How far are we from Mayot Mencada and this Book of Lost Souls?”

“If you ride swiftly you will arrive at the mage's stronghold as the sun reaches its apex.”

“And when I face him, is that to be the first time I draw on your power? Would it not be prudent—”

“To test yourself beforehand?” Galea cut in, her voice mocking. “Careful, mortal. You may get what you wish for sooner than you think.”

“Meaning?”

But the goddess was already waving a dismissive hand, and Ebon found the temple fading to black around him.

Damn you, woman.

A moment of blurred light, then his vision cleared and he found himself back in the camp.

To see the consel bearing down on him. The Sartorian had shaved his face and oiled his hair, but his shirt remained creased and spattered with dried mud. Ebon pushed himself to his feet, Vale rising beside him.

Garat halted before them. “We have waited long enough, your Majesty.”

“My companions are still missing, Consel. My mage—”

“Is probably dead, else he would have found us by now. The next person to stumble on our camp is as likely to be an enemy as a friend.”

“I am aware of that. We will be taking as much of a risk, though, if we go on without Mottle's ability to scout the forest ahead. Another quarter-bell—”

Garat turned away. “Stay if you wish. My men and I are leaving.”

As the consel retreated, Vale leaned in close. “Let him go.”

Ebon shook his head. “He is right. Mottle can catch up to us if he still lives.”

“That's not what I meant.” The Endorian gestured at Garat's retreating back. “Let him go. Without the witch and her demons … We don't need his help anymore.”

Ebon frowned. “Maybe not. But he needs ours.”

*   *   *

Parolla moved from one low wall to the next as she made her way through the ruined settlement. The clamor of battle was drawing rapidly nearer, as if the combatants were moving toward her even as
she
approached
them
. A flash of sorcery blackened the air, and she shivered as the shadows washed over her, felt an answering surge of darkness within.

She entered a square at the center of which were the remains of a huge sculpture of a ship riding a turbulent sea of stone. Chunks of rock littered the ground. To Parolla's left was what looked like a section of the mast, while beneath the ship's bow lay a broken statue of a woman clutching a shaft of lightning in her right fist. For a few heartbeats Parolla stared at the detail of the carvings on the ship's prow: the rivets in the planks, the barnacles along the hull …

Then a sorcerous thunderclap sounded, making the rubble on the ground shudder.

She set off across the square. On the opposite side was a stone stairway leading upward to nothing, and she climbed to the top. Within the settlement to the south she saw light glinting off the armor of scores of Vamilians. At first all she could make out of their opponent was a shadowy glow partly hidden by a cluster of ruined buildings. Then, from behind a wall, a figure came into view: a dark-skinned man dressed in black leathers. He was taller than Parolla remembered, and he wielded a sword that left tendrils of shadow behind where it cut through the air. Sorcerous wards glittered about him. There was a casual arrogance to his movements, an almost lazy elegance to his attacks as he blazed a path through his assailants.

As each Vamilian warrior fell, the strand of death-magic holding him shriveled and vanished.

The undead were converging on the man from all sides. Those that came within range of his wards burst into flames, but they pressed ahead regardless, burning like torches until the swordsman's blade cut them down. From behind a protective cordon of spearmen, a Vamilian
magus
unleashed a volley of sorcery at the man. He countered with sorcery of his own, and the magics collided with a hiss and a thump that set the ground trembling. Parolla threw out her arms to steady herself. When the shadows lifted there was no sign of the undead
magus
or his protectors. The nearby ruins had been razed to their foundations, throwing dust into the air.

Tumbal's spectral form materialized beside Parolla. “My Lady, dost thou see? Where the stranger's blade falls, the Vamilians lie still.”

“The book's threads have been cut,
sirrah
.”

“Hallowed weapons,” the Gorlem breathed. “We knew Mayot had thrown down his gauntlet at Shroud's feet. Now we see the god's response.”

“And also, I think, a measure of how seriously he takes Mayot's threat.”

Tumbal looked over. “Thou dost recognize this stranger?”

Parolla nodded. She'd only met him once, but the encounter was hardly one she was likely to forget. “His name is Andara Kell. One of Shroud's elite.”

“A friend?”

“Hardly. Years ago, while I traveled in the west, I made it my business to … be present at … the deaths of certain powerful individuals. My hope was that Shroud would appear in person to lead their souls through his Gate. He never did, of course. Instead I met the disciples he sent in his place. On one occasion—the death of Muthin Qumari, the Sun Blade and First Protector of the Qaluit Empire—it was Andara Kell who came.”

“He wanted to honor this warrior?”

“No, to challenge him. To test this champion's skill for himself.”

The Gorlem cocked his head. “But would not Qumari's defeat have meant—”

“The destruction of his soul, yes. My presence put an end to Andara Kell's plans.”

“A turn of events for which he did not thank thee, I presume?”

That was one way of putting it. Parolla saw Andara's head turn in her direction, and she ducked down. “Most of Shroud's servants ignored me when I met them,” she said to Tumbal. “Some were civil enough. Andara was different. He took a keen interest in me. I suspect he would have killed me if my replies to his questions had not been to his liking.”

“He would dare to slay one of his own master's progeny?”

“Oh, come, you should know by now that my blood grants me no paternal privileges. A fact that Andara was at pains to point out. All that saved me, I believe, was his contempt. I was newly come into my power, then. No threat to him.” Now, though …

Shroud's disciple continued his advance. Black lightning streaked from his blade as he carved a path through the spearmen defending a Vamilian sorceress.

“Dost thou intend to intervene?” Tumbal said.

“On whose side?”

The Gorlem raised an eyebrow. “My Lady? Will not Andara Kell also have come here to bring about Mayot's downfall? Dost thou not share with him that goal?”

Parolla did not reply. Andara had fought his way to the Vamilian sorceress. The remaining warriors guarding her burst into flames at his approach, then melted away beneath his flashing sword. A backhand swing cut the sorceress in half even as her white cloak caught fire. Andara stepped over her body and turned left at the next intersection. Parolla said, “The fight is coming this way,
sirrah
. Perhaps we should leave now, while we still can.”

“I fear it may already be too late for that.”

Parolla glanced sharply at the Gorlem. He was not looking at her, though, but to the south and east. Following his gaze, Parolla saw dozens of Vamilians streaming through the ruins toward her. Cursing, she retreated down the steps. Tumbal had vanished, and not for the first time she found herself envying his ability to disappear whenever danger loomed. Her mind raced. She did not know whether she or Andara Kell was the newcomers' target, but it hardly mattered now—the Vamilians were a mere stone's throw away, meaning they couldn't have failed to see her. Judging by the state of the ruined buildings nearby, there was nowhere for her to hide. She could conceal herself in shadows, of course, but her sorcery would doubtless draw an undead
magus
to her.

Then her gaze fell on the statue of the ship in the middle of the square. Could she take cover within what remained of its hold? There were no openings in its hull on this side, but perhaps on the other …

Even as she strode toward it, the first of the Vamilians poured into the square.

 

C
HAPTER
18

L
UKER WATCHED
leaves blow across the deserted settlement. A rumble shook the air. For an instant he thought the storm was breaking. Then a flash of red lit up the skyline, and he realized it was just magic he was hearing. The rumble sounded again, louder this time. It came from the direction they were heading in. Since leaving the White Road in the early hours this morning the Guardian had witnessed dozens of distant sorcerous clashes, and he wondered whether someone had got to Mayot already. Maybe even Kanon. His master had lost days in Arandas chasing after the Spider's false trails. If he'd picked his way through the forest with his usual care then perhaps he was just catching up to Mayot now.