When the Heavens Fall (65 page)

The crushing weight around him diminished further, and he drew in a heaving breath.

“About time, my friend,” Kanon said. “I had begun to wonder if I'd overestimated you.”

Luker unsheathed his swords. “This may hurt some.”

His master attacked.

*   *   *

The way ahead was blocked by a throng of undead standing two or three ranks deep. They were turned away from Parolla, facing a clearing barely visible through the trees. A rapid series of clangs sounded.

She should give this place a wide berth, she knew. There was little cover afforded by the trees, and the undergrowth had been trampled into the mud by scores of feet. If she tried to approach any closer she risked being seen, and there was no guarantee that whatever was distracting the Vamilians would continue to claim their attention. And yet, what was it that could hold the undead in such thrall? A duel, judging by the clash of swords, but that did not explain why the Vamilians were standing round watching.

Parolla crept forward. It was slow going, moving from tree to tree, checking all the time for twigs that might snap underfoot. The ground was becoming heavier. Mud sucked at her boots, and her footprints left impressions that quickly filled with water. She frowned.
Water?
As yet the storm clouds had failed to deliver their promised deluge, and even then only the fiercest of downpours could have created such a quagmire. Was there another lake ahead, perhaps? A river that had burst its banks?

Parolla had come as close as she dared. The Vamilians, no more than a score of paces away now, partly obstructed her view, but she could still see enough to recognize that what she had taken for a clearing was in fact … something else. Dozens of tree stumps rose like broken columns from the boggy ground. The devastation was worse to her left, where splintered trunks lay partly hidden beneath standing water and tangles of branches.

Near the edge of the clearing to her right, a young man dressed in black robes lay facedown in the mud. Beside him were two riders, one of whom—a grim-faced, middle-aged man with gray hair—was even now swinging down from his mount and hoisting his stricken companion across his saddle. The attention of the other rider, a woman, appeared fixed on two swordsmen battling among the tree stumps.

Parolla shifted her gaze to the combatants. The older of the two seemed familiar—one of the undead she had seen in Mayot's dome when she surprised the
magus
six days ago? It was difficult to know for sure in the half-light. The warrior fought with a breathtaking economy of movement, seemingly always unhurried despite the speed of his opponent: a younger, taller man who wielded two blades as if they were extensions of his arms.

Together the strangers spun a dazzling web of steel in the air. There was a hidden battle taking place as well, Parolla sensed. The clearing thrummed with the clash of invisible energies, a whirlwind of conflicting wills with as many strikes and parries as the swords. There was a bond between these two warriors, she realized—so closely matched in skill, so similar in style and movement that it was like watching a single swordsman duel his own shadow.

What have I stumbled onto here?

Both fighters appeared to be waging some inner conflict too. The soul of the undead warrior thrashed in the grip of Mayot's spiritual chains. Though his efforts did nothing to weaken the book's hold on him, they did have the effect of creating occasional gaps in his defenses. Yet in spite of the younger man's speed, he seemed unable or unwilling to take advantage of the openings when they came. Did he believe his opponent's moments of vulnerability to be no more than shams?

A truly mesmerizing spectacle all in all, though in witnessing it Parolla felt as if she were intruding on something personal.

Whatever the outcome of the duel, there would be no victor here, she knew.

A final look at the combatants, then Parolla began retreating the way she had come.

*   *   *

When Romany had first seen Andara Kell enter the Forest of Sighs she'd immediately recognized him as the man who had attacked her temple all those months ago. Unable to match his power, she had been forced to watch helplessly as he ransacked the shrine. She might have forgiven him for the slaying of her servants—any acolyte careless enough to get caught in his sights was hardly destined for great things, after all—but the blow to her dignity, not to mention the damage to her quarters, was another matter entirely. Had the fool thought he would get away with such an outrage?
Preposterous!
Her only regret was that she could not reveal herself to him now and let him know who had engineered his downfall. Over the past few days she'd worked tirelessly to lead him to the lake beneath which the tiktar was buried. The rest had been easy: simply release her spells of concealment from around the elderling's bones and inform Mayot of their whereabouts.

She watched the tiktar drive Andara backward through the trees with a flurry of attacks too fast for her eyes to follow. The elderling's strength was formidable, and if what she'd read about the creatures was true Shroud's disciple had a few more unpleasant surprises awaiting him. The tiktar had set ablaze the trees round it, and was now drawing on the flames to fuel its power in the same way Andara drew on the death-magic in the air. A burst of fire streaked toward Shroud's disciple from the end of one of the tiktar's blades, causing cracks to appear in the man's sorcerous shields.

With characteristic deftness, Romany started weaving strands of magic about Andara as he fought. Nothing that would arouse his suspicion, of course. Just a touch here to slow his sword arm, a nudge there to hinder his footwork. As ever, it was the little things that made a difference. No doubt the tiktar didn't need any help in dispatching its opponent, but the priestess was not about to take any chances. Truth be told, she'd had doubts about this part of her master plan. By awakening the tiktar she was delivering into Mayot's hands a weapon that could win him the war. For the opportunity to eradicate this particular disciple of Shroud, though, she was prepared to take that risk.

She had watched with interest as Parolla took the right fork round the lake and continued alone toward Estapharriol. Clearly the woman knew Andara, for Romany had seen them talking together after their massacre of the Vamilians in the settlement to the west. But then why had they not traveled together to the lake? And why had Parolla made no move to intervene in Andara's clash with the tiktar? The priestess stroked her chin. Come to think of it, how in the Spider's name had the woman managed to cross half the Forest of Sighs in only six days? A journey of more than fifty leagues? On foot?
Impossible!

Her thoughts were interrupted by a disturbance in what remained of her web. Another player had entered the game, a short distance to the north. Looking back at Andara and the tiktar, Romany saw Shroud's disciple momentarily seize the initiative, his blades flickering with black flames as he forced the elderling onto the defensive. She hesitated for a heartbeat before flashing toward the new arrival across the intervening stretch of forest.

Well, well.

Not one arrival, as it turned out, but a dozen. Huntsmen, to be precise, riding along a road leading to Estapharriol. Each horseman wore an antlered helm, the front piece of which was shaped to resemble a snarling mountain cat. The lead rider was a huge man garbed from head to toe in plate-mail armor. In one hand he held a half-moon ax; in the other, a battered shield. The antlers on his helm were tipped with silver. Antlers also sprouted, Romany noted with distaste, from the head of the horse he was riding.

A disordered group of Vamilians blocked the road ahead, but the Huntsmen did not check their advance. To the sound of clanging metal and breaking bones, they smashed through the undead.

Frowning, Romany watched the riders thunder into the distance. What interest did the Lord of the Hunt have here? Had the god sent his followers to claim the Book? If so, did he really think he could defeat Shroud's legions of disciples with but a handful of Huntsmen? Then Romany saw the nets hanging from the saddles of the rearmost riders. Magic was woven into the fibers—magic intended to drain the power of anything that became entangled in the nets' links. And since it was safe to assume the Huntsmen weren't here on a fishing trip, they had to be stalking someone. Someone their Lord must want badly indeed to have sent his minions into this godforsaken place. But who? Mayot, perhaps? One of his undead servants?

It mattered not. Whoever the Huntsmen's intended target, their presence here would inevitably bring them, and consequently their Lord, into conflict with Mayot.

And that, Romany decided, could only be a good thing.

*   *   *

Rain had started to fall, and Parolla raised the hood of her cloak. The world all about her was gray, from the cloud-filled skies, to the charcoal husks of trees, to the leaf fragments and ash that had mixed with the rain and mud to turn the ground into a morass the color of steel.

The Vamilians were becoming more numerous, and Parolla had abandoned the main road for a game trail. As she followed it east she had to battle against the urge to run. During the clash at the settlement she had burned off much of the dark energy inside her that had built up since entering the forest, but her power was swelling again.

Tumbal appeared beside her, walking with both sets of arms folded across his chest. “Thou took'st a grave risk at the clearing, my Lady. If but a single Vamilian had observed thee…”

“Perhaps your curiosity is catching,
sirrah
.”

“Then why did'st thou withdraw? Dost thou not wish to know the outcome of the duel?”

“No, I don't think I do.”

Tumbal nodded. “I fear for thee. So many fell powers are converging on this place. I am grateful thou had'st no argument with either of those two dread swordsmen.”

“Not
yet,
perhaps,” Parolla said. “You forget, one of them is already under Mayot's control. As for his opponent, he will be here for the book, just as I am.”

“Thou dost not—”

Parolla raised a hand to cut him off. Ahead there was movement beyond a tangle of undergrowth, and she stepped behind a tree and shot a warning look at the Gorlem. Tumbal's image, though, had already faded to the point that he was almost invisible against the drizzle. The rustle of armor became audible above the patter of rain. Parolla extended her senses. Threads of death-magic, a dozen Vamilians at most. Not a threat, of course, but perhaps she should silence them anyway in case they spotted her and raised the alarm. Power bled from her fingers.

Abruptly she heard hoofbeats, yet she could see no horses between the trees.

Then she realized the noises came not from in front, but behind. And she remembered the Vamilians didn't have horses.

She turned into a wave of light and screamed as sorcery flickered over her. Instinctively she let slip the chains holding back her tainted blood, and the darkness came surging up inside. Power erupted from her, blackness warring with the light in a detonation that ripped apart the trees on all sides and drove Parolla to her knees. For a handful of heartbeats she could see nothing but a fierce white glow. Then, as her vision started to clear, she became aware of blurs of color sweeping past. A trunk groaned and creaked as it fell, hit the ground in a splash of leaves. The ground trembled, and Parolla lowered a hand to the mud to steady herself—a hand raw and blackened from the touch of magic, she noticed. The stench of scorched flesh filled her nostrils, and she tasted blood in her mouth, felt it running down her forehead into her eyes. The pain finally registered, and she stifled a scream. Already, though, her wounds were closing, her burns fading, her charred skin flaking away and pinching tight as scars formed.

The hiss of a drawn sword sounded. As the last of the glare fell away from Parolla's eyes she saw four riders—three men and one woman—mounted bareback on white horses a score of paces away.
Fangalar.
Their garishly colored robes contrasted starkly with their ice-white skin and cold blue eyes. Behind them, all that remained of the Vamilians Parolla had sensed earlier were smoking stumps of mangled flesh, oozing black slime. Strangely, the threads of death-magic holding them remained intact, but the souls of the Vamilians were gone, annihilated by the Fangalar's sorcery.

Parolla stared at the riders.
I wasn't even your target, was I?
She dug her nails into her palms.
Just in the wrong place at the wrong time. The wrong Shroud-cursed time!

One of the Fangalar, a man in orange robes, edged his horse forward. His hair had been shaved at the temples, emphasizing the contours of his outsized cranium. For a while he looked at Parolla as if weighing her soul in his hands. Then his lips curled upward at the corners. He held his hands out, palms toward her, in a gesture that might have signified apology were it not for his sardonic smile. Moments later he wheeled his horse and led his companions east.

Parolla watched them until they disappeared from sight.

“My Lady.” Tumbal's voice was a rasp in her mind.

Tumbal.
She spun to find the Gorlem floating an arm's length away, his image fading in and out of focus. There was a gray cast to his face, and his brow was lined with pain. The black tide within Parolla receded. “
Sirrah,
” she said. “You're hurt.”

“The Fangalar's sorcery … intended to destroy the Vamilians … the spirit, not just the body…”

Parolla's glanced at the undead, uncomprehending. Then understanding came to her. The Fangalar, after their massacre of the Vamilian centuries ago, must have thought whatever secret their enemy possessed was safe. Having arrived here and seen the Vamilians restored to the flesh, though, they had obviously resolved to destroy their souls in order to ensure their silence.