When the Heavens Fall (66 page)

“I am … grateful, my Lady,” Tumbal said.

“Grateful? For what?”

“For saving me … Thy magic…”

A coldness touched Parolla. “What I did, I did for me. I never stopped to think—”

“Thou could'st not have known.”

“I should have realized.”

“Thou had'st no warning.”

Parolla rounded on him. “I should have realized!” The darkness came bubbling back, and she took a shuddering breath to calm herself. “I cannot heal wounds of the spirit, but perhaps one of Shroud's servants … Can you hold on?”

Tumbal forced a smile. “I have little choice … but to try…”

Parolla stared in the direction the Fangalar had taken. “Wait for me here.”

“Do not … pursue them, my Lady.”

“Did I say that I would?”

“Please. I would not be … the cause of more pain to thee…”

Parolla could feel the Gorlem's gaze on her, but she did not turn to meet it. Steeling herself, she set off at a run.

*   *   *

Romany rubbed her hands together. The end for Mayot was close, for the powers drawing near to his stronghold were too great to be held back by his feeble collection of undead servants. Yes, the largest bands of Shroud's followers were still some distance from Estapharriol, but over a score of his disciples had now pierced the dome of death-magic, to say nothing of the various strangers drawn here by the Book's power.

Sensing the Fangalar's burst of sorcery, Romany had flashed along her web to investigate the ruckus. She had arrived too late to witness the newcomers' confrontation with Parolla, but the fact that both sides remained standing indicated they had exercised restraint, evidently recognizing that Mayot was their real enemy here. Was it too much to hope that they might work together to bring about the mage's downfall?

Romany's gaze moved to the steaming remains of the Vamilians. The Fangalar had not, alas, shown the same forbearance in relation to their ancient enemy. Thus far the priestess hadn't sensed any other groups of Fangalar along the strands of her web, and since four riders could not possibly expect to hunt down every Vamilian in the forest, their goal would be the elimination of the power animating the undead. And that meant exterminating Mayot. In other circumstances Romany might have found it amusing that, in destroying the Book, the Fangalar would free the Vamilians from the misery of their enslavement …

Unless, of course, they intended to use the Book's mastery of the undead for some altogether darker purpose.

Frowning, Romany went in pursuit.

*   *   *

Luker had ceased to be aware of anything beyond his master's sword. He needed every last scrap of concentration just to stay alive, thrusting and parrying with the Will even as his blades danced to keep Kanon's sword at bay.

Luker had long considered himself a match to his master's skill. During their final days traveling together he had held his own when they sparred, getting past Kanon's guard as often as his own defenses were breached. If they had been dueling now with swords alone, perhaps the scales might have been weighted more evenly. When it came to the Will, though, his master was stronger—even struggling in the grip of that Shroud-cursed Book he was stronger. If Kanon had wanted him dead, the fight would have been over by now. Indeed, Luker suspected it was only his familiarity with his master's technique that had kept him alive this long.

He had not been helped by the lingering numbness in his left hand caused by Chamery's death-magic. Early in the duel a Will-strengthened cut from Kanon had almost wrenched Luker's sword on that side from his deadened fingers, and full feeling was only now beginning to return. Luker already had a new problem to contend with, though. An attack from Kanon, only partly blocked, had opened a gash along his left wrist, and blood ran in a steady trickle to his palm, making his grip slick.

As he was forced back by a flurry of strikes, he slipped on the boggy ground. He turned the stumble into a dive that took him out of reach of Kanon's blade, rolling behind a tree stump. Now covered in mud, he regained his feet in time to meet a blow from his master's Will that sent him reeling back a step. Sparks flew as he parried another lightning-quick thrust from Kanon's blade.

Defending, always bloody defending.
True, his master's struggles against the Book had presented a handful of openings, but the wounds Luker had been able to deliver as a result were inconsequential to an undead opponent. To end this fight he would have to deliver a more telling strike. But how? For just as Luker knew Kanon's technique, so his master knew his. How could he not—Kanon had taught him everything he knew.
Well, not everything.
Could Luker gain some advantage from that? Did Kanon know his moves
too
well?
Maybe it's time I showed him some of the tricks I've learned in the years we've been apart.

A clash of their Wills rumbled across the clearing. Luker swayed back from a cut, then winced as his opponent's sword nicked his left shoulder.

Now seemed as good a time as any to try.

Attacks rained down on Luker once again, but instead of retreating he turned on his heel, his left blade flashing for his master's head. Kanon blocked the move, of course—it was one of Luker's favorites—then countered. Luker caught the thrust, rolled his wrist, and stabbed for the chest, his master parrying.

All as it should be.

But as he stepped in to follow up his momentary advantage, Kanon's sword was already sweeping down to intercept the next move in the sequence: a cut to the right hip.

Which never came.

A feint. The slightest pause, then Luker's left blade clanged against his master's weapon, pinning it for an instant as Kanon tried to disengage.

Enough time for Luker's right sword to flash in a horizontal arc, aiming a cut to his master's neck.

Surprised though he must have been, Kanon had time to see the blade coming, to sway back or turn the attack aside with his Will. Instead his master stood unflinching, a shadow of a smile crossing his face.

Luker's sword carved through flesh and bone, and Kanon's head went tumbling to land with a splash in a pool of water.

*   *   *

Vamilian warriors swarmed toward Ebon from the side streets, only to strike Galea's invisible sorcerous barrier and be thrown back. The numbers of undead about him seemed to swell with each moment, yet he'd seen dozens more lying motionless among the ruins, and his thoughts turned to the sickle-wielding stranger he'd glimpsed in the forest yesterday. Could a single warrior, however skilled, be responsible for killing so many? Ebon doubted it. During his ride here he'd seen numerous pockets of fighting in other parts of the city. Plainly
someone
was taking the battle to the undead, but were all of those mysterious warriors able to sever the threads holding the Vamilians, as the sickle-wielder had been? If so, who in the Watcher's name were they and why hadn't they joined forces in one coordinated assault?

Just as there was little sign of collaboration between the attackers, nor was there any evidence of organization among Mayot's defenders. For while many of the city's streets were blocked by fallen trees or mounds of rubble, there were no barricades, no shield walls or lines of archers, no dead-ends into which riders could be channeled. Unsurprisingly, Mayot was showing the same lack of tactical acumen in his defense of the city as he'd displayed during his attack on Majack.

The dome was directly ahead of Ebon now at the center of a district of buildings that remained mostly intact. He had assumed that would be his destination, but as he skirted the debris of a collapsed house he sensed a surge of anger from the goddess, and she ordered him to make for a hill to the east. Ebon swung his destrier right, onto a tree-lined avenue. Half a dozen Vamilian spearmen blocked his path, but a nudge from Galea, channeled through Ebon, bowled them from their feet, and he thundered past.

Ahead the avenue divided. Ebon took the right fork leading to the hill, the dome now on his left. As the ground began to climb he sensed the goddess's anger rise with it. A short distance away the ruins ended. The slope of the hill beyond was covered with trees. There were no buildings, not even a single undead warrior to contest his passage.

Frowning, Ebon sent a thought questing inward. “Galea, where are you taking us?”

Predictably the goddess did not answer.

After a few hundred heartbeats Ebon reached the summit. He drew up beside a fallen tree trunk and glanced back to locate his companions. They emerged from the rain in ones and twos, Vale and Garat at the front followed by the consel's soldiers, with Mottle bringing up the rear. A quick head count revealed the company had made it here without losses. Wherever “here” was.

Ebon wiped water from his eyes and turned to look down on the city. Through a gap in the trees he could see the domed building, shrouded in shadow and towering over the ruins round it. Wisps of black mist curled upward from holes in its roof into a sky already darkened by the sorcerous dome, and becoming gloomier all the while as the storm approached.

“Impressive view,” Garat said. “Have we come, then, for a tour of the sights?”

Before Ebon could respond he felt a hand on his arm and looked round to see Vale gesturing to the far side of the hill. From the shadows between the trees four riders emerged along a track. They were dressed in brightly colored robes, and their skin was so pale it seemed to glow in the darkness. Ebon felt Galea's rage burgeon inside him, so all-consuming that for an instant he thought it his own.

Fangalar.
Now he understood.

The newcomers saw him and halted.

One of the Sartorian soldiers spoke. “A trap, Consel! We have been lured—”

“Silence!” Garat snapped.

The consel said something to Ebon, but the king was not listening. He summoned the goddess. “Galea, attend me.”

Nothing.

Ebon hurled his thoughts at the wall the goddess had raised between them. “Do you think I don't know why you led me here? I did not come all this way to settle old scores between you and the Fangalar.”

Galea was with him suddenly, cold and indignant. “You will do as I tell you, mortal. Were it not for me, you would have died countless times already. Your life is mine!”

“This was not part of our arrangement. We agreed—”

“I know what we agreed. I am changing the bargain. You had better hope I don't change it any further.”

Ebon scowled. He'd been expecting Galea's knife in his back for a while, but that didn't make it cut any less. “Why are you doing this? If I die here, you lose your chance to bring down Mayot. And I lose my chance to save my people.”

“I am willing to take that risk.”

“And if I am not?”

There was a note of humor in the goddess's voice. “It is too late for that. The Fangalar sense my presence in you.”

Ebon felt his blood rising. “Then their quarrel is with me, and me alone,” he said. “I will not sacrifice my companions in your cause.”

“You cannot win without them. Two of the Fangalar are mages—”

Ebon broke off the contact. He'd have liked to have severed for good the ties between them, but he needed her power now more than ever.

Across the hilltop one of the riders—a man dressed in orange robes—was shouting something lost to the wind.

Garat maneuvered his mount across Ebon's line of sight.

“Shroud take you, your Majesty!” the Sartorian said. “I will not be ignored. Why have you brought us here? Are these the ones controlling the undead?”

Ebon shook his head. “There is no time to explain, Consel.”

“The Abyss there isn't! I want answers!”

“Then head for the dome,” Ebon said, pointing through the trees. “The threads of death-magic lead there, to a mage named Mayot Mencada. He is the power behind this.”

“You expect me to—”

“Please, Consel. This is not your fight.”

“But it is yours? Why? Who are these Fangalar? How did you know they would be here?”

Ebon did not respond. He doubted the Fangalar would sit idly by while he enlightened the consel, or that the Sartorian would believe him if he did.

Garat studied him for a heartbeat, then spun his horse round, his face twisted with fury. “Very well,” he said. “As of this moment, consider my blood debt repaid. If we meet again I will cut you down where you stand.” With that he whipped his mount with his reins and galloped back down the hill. His troops spurred their horses after him.

Ebon turned to Vale and Mottle. “You too,” he said. “Go.”

Vale shook his head.

“Listen to me. There is no need for us all to die here.”

“Save your breath. I ain't going nowhere.”

“This is not a request, Vale. We came here to cut the undead's strings—”

“No,
you
came to cut the undead's strings. I came to watch your back.” He nodded at the Fangalar. “Once we're finished with this lot we can deal with the stiffs.”

Ebon smiled faintly.
Finished?
They had barely managed to defeat one Fangalar at Majack. What chance did they have against four, even if, as the goddess claimed, only two of them were sorcerers?

Only.

Ebon looked at Mottle. The old man's eyes were closed, his head cocked to one side, a frown creasing his brow.

“Mage, are you with us?”

Mottle's eyes remained shut. “Can you sense them, my boy? The Currents are strong in this place. Innumerable secrets swept up by the storm and borne across empires and oceans. A cacophony of voices all clamoring for Mottle's scholarly attention—”

“Later, mage,” Ebon cut in, eyeing the orange-robed Fangalar. “Just now I fear you have more immediate concerns at hand.”