When the Heavens Fall (61 page)

“Is it guarded?”

“No.”

“But … you said this was a trap. Why would the undead go to the effort of driving us here, only to leave us an easy way out?”

“You will see for yourself soon enough.”

Ebon mastered his irritation. “What lies beyond the bridge?”

“The city of Estapharriol, once the capital of this forest kingdom.” The goddess's mouth twitched. “And for you, the end of the journey.”

With that, she was gone.

Another burst of white and the forest came into focus once more. Garat was still ranting at his scout.

“There is a bridge, Consel,” Ebon cut in. “South and west of here.”

Garat rounded on him. “My patrol would have seen…” His expression grew wary. “How? How do you know this?”

Ebon ignored the question. He could now hear the jangle of armor to his left, see flickers of movement between the trees—white-robed figures for the most part, but there were larger, darker shapes among their ranks. Two four-armed warriors strode ahead of the throng, stripped to the waist. In each hand they carried a spear. The nearest of the two pulled back an arm and hurled a spear at Ebon, only for the weapon to tangle in the low branches of a tree.

Ebon wasn't waiting for the next. He turned his horse. South and west the goddess had said, but with the sun hidden behind storm clouds one direction looked much the same as the next. The river lay ahead of him, though, a faint rustle of water above the wind, and he urged his destrier toward it.

Within moments he came upon the remains of a road, its flagstones half-buried beneath dead leaves. It made sense it should lead to the bridge, so he swung his mount onto it. To either side, the trees leaned over the road to form a brown latticed tunnel, and one trunk had fallen across the way. As Ebon's horse hurdled it he heard a cry from behind, but he dared not take his gaze from the road to look round. Already the murmur of water had risen to a hiss in his ears, and as the trees thinned, the muddy banks of the river came into view, covered in froth and scum. Ebon saw the bridge …

Or where it must once have been.

Now all that remained were stubs of broken rock protruding an armspan over the swift, gray sweep of the river. Chunks of stone were scattered along its banks and in the shallows at the water's edge, and patches of white foam in the center of the channel hinted at more blocks beneath the surface. Ebon drew up his destrier next to the ruined crossing.

Garat sawed on his horse's reins as he came alongside. He laughed. “Is this your bridge? Would you have us walk on water, then?”

Ebon glanced up- and downriver. The watercourse curled away for fifty paces in each direction before disappearing from view behind the trees and nettleclaw growing thick along its banks. No bridge in sight. Downriver a ketar tree had fallen partway across the flow, but Ebon doubted that was what Galea had been referring to. Could there be a second crossing farther along one of the banks? If so, it was useless to him now, for the undead horde would descend on him before he hacked his way through to it. The Sartorian horses were stamping and milling about. Someone shouted a warning, and Garat ordered the soldiers to turn and face the enemy.

Ebon sent a thought questing inward.
Well, my Lady, what now?

Even before he had finished framing the question, Galea swirled into his mind like a breath of glacial air. He felt her release her power through him and gasped as his blood ran cold. A chill started at the tips of his fingers and toes before spreading along his arms and legs. His palms itched, and he rubbed them along his saddle.

From the corner of his eye he saw Garat drag his sword from its scabbard, raise his blade to signal the charge.

The chunks of rock along the banks began to rise, making sucking sounds as they pulled free from the mud. There was movement within the river too, water frothing as more stones broke the surface, streaming foam. The rocks spun slowly round as they lifted and converged on the place where the bridge had once been. They came together with a grinding noise to form a new crossing, wide enough for half a dozen horsemen to ride abreast.

The Sartorians had fallen silent, and Ebon could now hear the stamp of feet from the east as the undead host approached. They were closing quickly, no time to hesitate. Stepping down from his saddle, he led his destrier to the crossing. The centuries had smoothed the edges of the stones, and through the gaps between them he could see the river rushing below, misty gray air between. A handful of dead birds swept past on the current.

He shuffled closer to the bridge, then paused.

“If you're gonna do it, do it now,” someone behind him said.

Whispering a silent prayer to the Watcher, Ebon tested his weight on the first suspended block.

It held.

He took another step, then another. Many of the stones were caked in mud and slick with water, and the largest of the cracks between them were wide enough to snag a boot or a hoof. Ebon moved from one rock to the next as if they were stepping-stones, stopping each time to allow his destrier to find footings. The stones were set firmly, thank the Watcher. At the center of the bridge he looked back and gestured for his companions to dismount and follow.

Vale came first, his horse's reins held lightly in one hand in case the animal slipped or bolted. Behind him was the consel, his expression calculating. The Sartorian soldiers brought up the rear, and Ebon counted them as they filed past.
Seven.
Meaning one had fallen during their flight to the river—the cry he had heard earlier? He did not trust the goddess to hold the crossing in place any longer than she had to, so he waited until the last of the soldiers passed before turning to follow. Ahead one of the Sartorian horses took fright and dragged its rider to within a handspan of the edge before it was brought under control.

Hurry,
Ebon silently urged.

The tramp of enemy feet from the east became louder. On the far bank one of Garat's men unslung his bow and fired an arrow at something behind Ebon. When the king looked back he saw the two four-armed warriors emerge from the trees, each now carrying but a single spear. They stepped onto the bridge and set out across it.

Just as the last of the Sartorians reached the other side. Ebon was a pace behind.

Abruptly Galea's power faded in him, and the crossing collapsed, pitching the undead into the river and sending up fountains of spray.

*   *   *

The first Vamilian spearman ran across the square toward Parolla, and she released her power. A stream of coruscating blackness hit the man. Blisters formed on his face. Then his hair, his robes, and finally his armor burst into flames. Parolla didn't ease up on her attack, though—the Vamilian wasn't going to let a small thing such as being set on fire slow him. Sure enough, he tried to advance against her sorcerous onslaught, only for his boots to slide on the chips of stone on the ground. He went down. As wave after wave of Parolla's magic battered him, his flesh turned black and sloughed from his bones. Moments later his skeleton crumbled to ash.

A group of Vamilians had entered the square behind, and Parolla's power cut through them like a scythe through a field of mexin. A shadow fell across her vision, making it seem as if dusk had fallen. Among the undead was a black-robed
magus,
bald and stooped with age. He sent a shaft of fire roaring at her, and it thundered into her wards with a concussion that hurled the nearby Vamilians from their feet. Parolla's counterattack shredded his defenses like they were wisps of cloud, and he was ripped apart by the dark swell of her sorcery.

Parolla's lip curled. Were these the best Mayot had to send against her? He might as well have left them buried in the ground for all the threat they posed.

Time became a blur. More Vamilians rushed at Parolla, only to be cut down by her power. A wall to her left came crashing to the ground. She was vaguely aware of something thrown at her—a spear?—and watched with detached interest as it struck her wards and disintegrated. The rubble on the ground, the buildings round the square, even the remains of the statue of the ship: all were crushed to dust by the storm of sorcery. Clouds of powdered stone now hung in the air, tugged this way and that by the wind.

Slowly Parolla became aware that there was no one left to face her.
More!
She looked round for the next enemy, but the square was empty. All about, the ruined buildings had been reduced to banks of ash. Nothing remained of the Vamilians except for the occasional helmet or piece of armor, warped and smoldering. Reluctantly Parolla gave up her power, and the shadows across her vision paled, but did not fade entirely. How long had the skirmish lasted? How many of the undead had she killed?
No, not killed,
she told herself.
Released.
The Vamilians were dead already, after all. Their souls were free now, weren't they? Liberated from Mayot's enslavement. What she had done to them was a blessing.

There was movement at the corner of her eye, and she turned to see Andara Kell approaching. His eyes shone in the gloom, yet in spite of their glow they remained somehow lifeless, as if they were windows on a soul as dark and foreboding as the sorcerous shadows that enveloped him. He was breathing heavily. Earlier when Parolla had watched him fight it had seemed as if not a single opponent had got close enough to lay a glove on him, but closer now she saw his shirt had been cut to ribbons and was soaked through with blood. Had her presence here saved his life by drawing some of the undead away? She doubted it, for there was still a disturbing poise to the swordsman, an avidness to his gaze.

And he had not sheathed his blade.

Parolla drew in a whisper of power again, felt it tingle in her fingertips.

Andara stopped a few paces away. “Well, well,” he said. “This is indeed a pleasant surprise.”

“The pleasure is all yours,
sirrah
. For me, one meeting was enough.”

The swordsman smiled. “I have been looking for you everywhere,
jezaba
. So many questions left unanswered after our first meeting. So many doubts unresolved. Countless empires I have traveled, seeking word of you. And yet after all my searching, it is
you
who come to
me
.”

Parolla held his gaze. If he expected her to back down as meekly as she had the last time, he was mistaken. “I didn't come here to find you.”

“Indeed. Why
are
you here, then?”

“I could ask the same of you.”

Andara lifted his sword and inspected it for nicks. “I do so dislike having to repeat myself. Please don't make me ask again.”

Parolla considered. Her safest option was to feign ignorance concerning Mayot and the source of his power, and so she shrugged and said, “The forest is brimming with death-magic. It draws power like a lodestone. Where else would I be?”

“I really don't care, so long as it is somewhere else.”

“Can you blame my curiosity? Here is a power that can call souls back through Shroud's Gate, can animate an army of undead, all to the considerable irritation of my beloved father, no doubt. And now here you are, one of his most trusted servants”—Andara scowled at her use of the word—“come to this place in order to, what? Challenge whoever wields that power? Take it for yourself, perhaps?”

“This does not concern you,
jezaba
.”

“
What
does not concern me?”

“Any of it. The pretender's claim—”

“‘Pretender'?” Parolla cut in. “Does your master consider this rival a threat, then?”

“A nuisance, no more than that. Even now the mage's defenses are being torn asunder, assailed from all sides.”

Parolla stiffened.
All sides?
Had Shroud sent other disciples to the forest, then? If his servants were here in numbers she might be forced to reconsider her plans. She forced a light tone. “All sides,
sirrah
? Does your master not trust you to complete the job alone?”

Andara's eyes flashed. “It is
because
he trusts me that I am here now. To finish this before there are further losses.”

“Who? Who has been lost?”

“The Widowmaker, Bar Kentar, Jelan Gelan, others. A much-needed whittling down of the weaker elements of my Lord's forces.”

Parolla covered her surprise. She had heard those names before.
Weaker elements?
“Have they been resurrected like the Vamilians? Do they now fight for the pretender?”

“Of course not. Shroud would never permit his disciples to be used against him like that.” Andara's smile returned. “Doubtless the fools cower before him even now, begging forgiveness for their incompetence.”

A gust of wind blew Parolla's hair across her face, and she reached up a hand to push it aside. “It would appear your Lord underestimated the scale of the opposition he faced.”

“No longer.”

“You are sure of that?” An image came to Parolla's mind of the undead forces battling the Kinevar gods. “Perhaps the pretender has held back the greater part of his strength.”

The swordsman took a step toward her. “And perhaps you know more of this than you are letting on.”

Parolla kept her expression even. “I was simply observing that there seem to be more of these undead as we approach the pretender's stronghold.”

Andara sneered. “The Vamilians are weak.”

“And if the Vamilians are not the only opponents you have to contend with? There may be others drawn to this place as I have been.”

“Then they will meet the same fate as the pretender.” He looked at her pointedly. “If they are foolish enough to step into my path, that is.”

“Perhaps I can be of assistance.”

The swordsman went still, the aura of darkness around him deepening. “Now why would you make such an offer, my dear?”