When the Heavens Fall (34 page)

Tumbal sighed. “Thou art correct, of course. Curiosity has ever been my curse. And now, it seems, predictability also.” He rose. “Rest, my Lady. I will keep watch over thee.”

Parolla pursed her lips. She should reject his offer, she knew, for it would take more than polite words to make her lower her guard. Tonight, though, she was too tired to care, too tired to argue. Tomorrow perhaps, when her head was clearer, she would think on all the Gorlem had said. “Be careful out there,
sirrah
. Even the dead are not immune from hurt.”

“Just so, my Lady. The soul is, after all, infinitely more fragile than the flesh.”

Parolla turned away from his penetrating gaze.

*   *   *

Motes of dust hung in the air, twinkling in the rays of morning sunshine that streamed through the guardroom's lone window. Ebon looked out across the marketplace through the grime-streaked panes of glass. On the opposite side of the square, carts had been tipped onto their sides to form a barrier across West Gate Road. A brown-robed woman with flaming eyes—a priestess of Hamoun—was jabbing a finger at one of the Pantheon Guardsman manning the barricade. The angry exchange was lost beneath the whispering of the spirits in Ebon's head.

A shout came from the makeshift infirmary behind the wall to his left. Half a bell ago he had walked between the pallets of the wounded, offering what words he could to the soldiers from Grimes's troop. With them was the Sartorian woman he'd rescued from the consel's camp, her uniform torn and bloody round a deep cut in her left side. Lost to a fever, she had moaned with each labored breath. Like the others who were critically injured, the woman had been strapped to her pallet. Ebon had stood beside her, watching as her chest fell still and the light faded from her frightened eyes. In the space of a few heartbeats, the skin round her wound had knitted together, and an altogether different light had kindled in her gaze.

He had left her thrashing against her bindings.

Pushing the memory aside, he turned to inspect the guardroom. Round the table in the center was an assortment of battered chairs. Rendale slouched in one of them, flicking a coin from hand to hand. The chain mail beneath his cloak was parade-ground bright. Across from him sat Domen Janir, palms down on the table as if he meant to push himself to his feet. Beside an unlit brazier stood Mottle, his gaze as sharp as a crakehawk's. Flanking him were two bleary-eyed Adepts, both women. Their gowns were spotlessly white next to Mottle's tattered and grubby robe.

A booming sound struck up as the undead host began again their assault on the city gates. There were coins on the guardroom table, and they rattled with each blow from the battering ram. When the door from outside opened, a wall of noise spilled into the guardroom, closely followed by Reynes's cinderhound, the general himself, and a hatchet-faced woman Ebon recognized as Captain Hitch. Chancellor Tamarin brought up the rear. He paused on the threshold and wrinkled his nose before entering. Hitch slammed the door shut.

Collapsing into a chair, Reynes pulled a flask from his shirt pocket and took a swig. For a while no one spoke.

We've all woken up to a different world. At least those of us who got any sleep at all.

“Before we start,” Janir said, “I would like to know how a Shroud-cursed
army
managed to creep up on us without so much as a
word
of warning.”

Ebon frowned. “We went through this in my father's chambers.”

“A meeting to which
I
was not invited.” Janir looked from Reynes to Mottle. “Let's hear what these fools have to say for themselves. Hells, I could do with a laugh.”

“This council has not been called for your entertainment,” Ebon said. He pulled out a chair and sat down. “General, I would hear your thoughts on the disposition of the enemy.”

Reynes roused himself. “I'd reckon their numbers at maybe eight thousand, with more arriving from the forest every bell.” He took another drink from his flask. “Their ranks are also being swelled from the boneyards round the city.”

Ebon grimaced. The awakening of Majack's burial grounds had been just one more harrowing development in the longest of nights, but at least the cemeteries were, for the most part, outside the city walls. More fortunate still, it seemed whatever sorcery animated the dead was unable to breach the wards woven into the walls of the palace's throne room. For now the khalid esgaril remained a skeleton. “Is there any sign of a command structure?”

“Not a sniff. No officers, no command centers, no horns, no signals at all. It's quiet as Jirali's grave out there, but the damned orders are coming from somewhere. At dawn, the attack on the walls broke off in the blink of an eye.”

“Your Majesty,” Captain Hitch said, “whoever's running the show ain't military. The stiffs just claw at the walls like they mean to scratch their way in. Where's the siege engines? The scaling ladders? The bastards ain't even bothered to strip the branches from that battering ram of theirs.”

“Do they have any archers?”

“Not a bow or an arrow between them.” Hitch touched her forehead, then added, “Watcher be praised.”

“Clearly they did not come equipped for a siege.”

“They did not come
equipped
at all,” Janir said. “Most of them have no armor, some don't even have weapons.”

“And yet if the walls are breached…” Ebon left the thought hanging. “The gates have to hold.”

Mottle cleared his throat. “Your humble servant has spun wards of air about all four of the entrances to the city. The enemy's battering rams will not so much as mark the wood.”

“And if the wards themselves are dispelled?”

“Impossible! Impregnable! Impenetrable!”

Janir banged his hands downs on the table, making the coins jump. “By the Abyss, someone's raised a whole army of Shroud-cursed
corpses
! You think a bit of
air
is going to stop him?”

The old man scratched at an armpit. “What Mottle may cede to the enemy in brute force—and he makes no admission in this regard—he more than makes up for in guile, craft, cunning…”

As the mage rambled on, Janir's face turned an ugly shade of red.

“Enough!” Ebon said. “The truth is, we do not know what the enemy is capable of. So, we are back to the gates. If the undead break through, we will have no choice but to retreat to the palace.”

Captain Hitch spoke. “The streets leading from the marketplace have been sealed off.”

“With carts, yes. Not good enough. I want the windows of the buildings surrounding the square blocked up, walls of stone built across the roads. Let's make the marketplace a killing ground. The same with the other gates.”

Hitch shrugged. “As you like.”

The murmuring of the spirits in Ebon's mind was getting louder, but he paid it no mind. “What have we missed? The river? Have the Water Gates been lowered?”

Reynes looked up from stroking his cinderhound. “Aye, though the enemy have no boats that we've seen.”

“What about the threat from within the city? The Necropolis?”

“Its grounds have been barricaded. A few of the stiffs had already flown the coop, but Vale's tracking them down with the help of Sergeant Ketes. There's still the problem of what we do with the undead once we catch them.”

Janir snorted. “Throw them in the river. Raise the Water Gate—”

“I hardly think,” the chancellor cut in, “that the Merceriens will thank us when that particular catch washes up on their banks.”

Ebon's tone was cool. “More to the point, Domen, undead or not, these are Galitians. We do not just flush our people away like refuse. A way may yet be found to help them.” He turned to Mottle. “Mage, what of the earth tremors during the night? Are they the work of the undead?”

The old man cocked his head. “Something stirs, my boy, deep beneath our feet. The city around you is naught but a skin over the shifting bones of innumerable generations. We must hope that the weight of ages suffices to deny the involvement of whatever skulks below.”

It was becoming increasingly difficult for Ebon to hear the mage's words above the drone of the spirits. A new note ran through their misery, he realized.
Fear.
Were they afraid, then, of what lurked underground?

Janir was speaking. “What of the granaries, the wells? With the river poisoned—”

“Supplies are not a problem,” the chancellor interrupted. “Much of the harvest has been gathered already, and so far the wells show no sign of succumbing to the infection that blights the river.”

There was a scrape of wood on stone as Janir rose from his chair. He began pacing. “And the palace? If a retreat proves necessary, how many wells are there
within
the fortress's walls?”

Ebon exchanged a glance with Tamarin. “Two,” he said.
Not nearly enough.
“What if we start moving the people out by river? Once through the eastern Water Gate, any boat would be vulnerable to attack for only a few moments before the current took it out of range.”

Reynes spoke. “We've barely a handful of boats in the city, and precious little wood to build more.”

“Then I suggest we find some. Strip buildings, bridges. Anything that will float.”

“We're talking about saving a few hundred at most. Not enough to make a difference.”

“What of the royal household, your Majesty?” the chancellor said. “Perhaps it would be prudent to evacuate your family now, along with other dignitaries.”

Like yourself, no doubt.
Ebon's thoughts strayed to Lamella. If the city walls were breached she would have little chance of escaping the undead. He would have to move her to the palace now, whatever his mother's objections. Even then, though, the safest place for her was outside the city. He paused, then said, “No, the royal household stays.”

“I fail to see what contribution they can make to the war effort.”

“That is not the issue, Chancellor. What message does it send out if my family is seen to flee? We are trying to allay the people's fears, not fuel them further.”

Tamarin held Ebon's gaze for a moment before nodding.

Ebon turned to General Reynes. He had to raise his voice to hear it above the moaning of the spirits in his head. “What about support from outside the city? Who commands at Culin?”

“Arin Forbes,” Reynes said. “But the messenger we sent won't have reached him yet.”

“Another day at least, then, before Forbes gets here.”
Time. Time is what we need.
“Culin's garrison has, what? Six hundred men?”

“Aye, give or take. With any normal siege, Forbes could hit and run—wear them down. But against the stiffs…”

Ebon nodded. “We have to find another way. Mottle, we need to know more about what we're facing.”

The old man smoothed his crumpled robe. “The bounties of Mottle's ineffable genius are ever at your disposal, my boy. Indeed, your humble servant retired to the palace library this very night.”

“What did you find?”

“A veritable trove of treasures! Such wonders of erudite scholarship—”

“The facts, mage. Just the facts.”

“If only it were that simple. As you know, the enemy force is comprised predominantly of an ancient people—the Vamilians—whose civilization was destroyed during the Second Age. The exact date is a matter of contention, but scholars so rarely agree—”

“
Who
they are is irrelevant,” Janir said. “I think we can assume they have not raised
themselves
from the dead. The question is, who controls them? Why are they here?”

The mage sighed. “Alas, Mottle is not all-knowing, though at times it may appear otherwise…”

The voices of the spirits swelled still further in Ebon's mind, but he couldn't afford to show any reaction with Janir in attendance. “On the wall, you mentioned we were dealing with a power to rival the gods. Do you sense some immortal's hand in this?”

“Mottle does not deal in speculation, as you well know. But any god interfering on the mortal plain must expect his or her schemes to be countered.”

“The convergence you spoke of.”

“Precisely.”

“Have you been able to sever the threads controlling the undead?”

Mottle's tongue darted across his lips. “Ah, as to that … If truth be told—and Mottle is never less than scrupulous in such matters—the threads have, thus far at least, resisted the totality of his efforts. Yet Mottle remains hopeful. Confident, even.”

Janir threw up his hands. “He can't even cut
one
of the bloody threads. What chance does he stand with an entire
army's
?”

Ebon was only half listening. The spirits were now gibbering with fear, and their dread was beginning to grip him as if it were his own. His hands shook, and he hid them beneath the table. Only Rendale appeared to have noticed his discomfort. In response to his brother's look, Ebon shook his head. “What of the consel's sorceress?” he said to Mottle. “Has she fared any better?”

“Mottle does not sense in her the ability to succeed where your humble servant has been … temporarily thwarted. In any event, the woman's skills lie elsewhere. Her power is demon-aspected.”

Demons.
Ebon's eyes widened.
The consel's four armored warriors.

Janir spoke. “Where is she
now
?” His gaze swept the room. “Has anyone seen the damned consel?”

Blank looks.

The domen's face darkened. “Shroud's mercy, I'm surrounded by idiots! Did no one
think
to have the snake followed? Did no one
consider
he might open a gate and let the enemy in?”