When the Heavens Fall (67 page)

Mottle opened a single beady eye and looked at the riders.

Then he closed it again.

 

C
HAPTER
20

L
UKER HEARD
voices calling to him, but he could not make out any words above the roaring in his ears. Kanon's head lay facedown in a pool of water. For an improbable heartbeat his decapitated body stayed upright. Then his legs gave way, and he collapsed. The thread of death-magic holding him remained intact, though, meaning his spirit was still trapped inside his body. Luker stood frozen. He couldn't leave Kanon here any more than he could take him with him, but suddenly the Vamilians were lurching forward to spare him the choice. A blessing, really—no time to dwell on what had happened.

Reins were thrust into his hands, and he looked up to see Merin mounted on his horse, the motionless form of Chamery slung in front of him across the animal's shoulders. Luker stepped into his own saddle. He glanced round the clearing, hoping he would be able to find his way back here when the time came. Then he dug his heels into his horse's flanks and set off after Merin and Jenna, already carving a path through the undead at the end of the clearing.

Time passed in a blur. Luker was vaguely aware of leading his companions along a game trail, Vamilians closing from the sides. He reached for his Will, fumbled it, realized his flesh was hot and his hands were shaking. He needed to clear his head. Just cut away from it, concentrate on the business at hand. There'd be time for all the other stuff later. Too much time. But he kept seeing again the last moments of the duel, his master's head lying in water. Kanon had let him win, he knew. Helped him, even. For as Luker's blade was flashing for his master's neck he had sensed Kanon throw his Will against the Book's mastery in a final attempt to break free. He had failed, of course, but the effort had bought Luker the instant he needed to land the decisive blow.

His stomach heaved, and his rage came boiling up his throat. So Mayot had thought it would be amusing to reunite the two of them, had he?
Are you laughing now, mage? Can you see your death coming for you?
Not even Shroud would stand between him and Mayot now. Then Kanon's words from the clearing came back to him. Four Vamilian champions, his master had said. What chance did Luker have of defeating Mayot's bodyguards where Kanon had failed? He pushed the thought aside. He would succeed because he had to.

He also had one distinct advantage over his master: the presence of Shroud's disciples in the forest.
All I have to do now is find one of the bastards.

After a while he came to a muddy road leading north toward the source of the threads of death-magic. Steering his horse onto it, he saw something that shook him from his reverie. A wall of black sorcery. No, a dome curving up to brush the storm clouds. As rain fell on it, its surface twinkled with a thousand sparks of dark fire. There was a gash where the road passed through it, and scattered across the ground were the motionless bodies of scores of Vamilians.

Luker drew up his horse at the opening, Merin alongside. The tyrin half stretched out a hand to the dome before letting it fall. When he looked at Luker, there were flames reflected in his eyes. “What is this thing?”

Ignoring the question, the Guardian rode through. From half-light into gloom in a heartbeat. Ahead the road was flanked by huge pillars and lined with Vamilian corpses. Nothing but darkness beyond until a flicker of light from some distant sorcerous confrontation revealed ruined buildings and dead trees as far as the eye could see.

Luker pressed on, conscious that the undead from the clearing would be following behind. After a few hundred paces he turned into a rubble-strewn alley, looking for a building with four walls intact. In the end he had to settle for a house that was sound on three sides with its remaining aspect partly screened by the drooping branches of a ketar tree. Swinging down from his saddle, he picked his way through a tangle of roots and led his mare inside. The floor of the building was covered in stones, potsherds, and a covering of dirt and leaves. The branches of the ketar tree acted as a shield against the worst of the rain.

Merin and Jenna followed him in.

“Why have we stopped?” the tyrin said.

Luker did not respond. He took a length of rope from one of his saddlebags and crossed to Merin's horse. Seizing a handful of Chamery's robes, he dragged the mage to the floor. The boy's robes were soaked with blood. Luker checked him over for wounds, slapped him hard in the face. Nothing. Flipping him onto his front, he began tying his wrists behind him with the rope.

“What are you doing?” Merin said.

“Practicing my reef knots. What does it bloody look like I'm doing?”

“The mage needs healing.”

“And who's going to give it to him? You? The boy's got a chest full of broken ribs. Chances are, he's bleeding out inside.”

“You're just going to leave him here?”

“You got a better idea?” Luker pulled a knot tight and started working on Chamery's ankles. “If he comes round, he can heal himself. If not, at least when Mayot brings him back he can't come after us.”

Merin was silent, considering. “We need him.”

“The Abyss we do! The boy's a liability.”

“In case you hadn't noticed, we're somewhat thin on allies at present.”

“Is that what he is? And when we take the Book from Mayot, what then? You want to fight Chamery for it as well?”

There was a pause. “Since when have you cared what happens to the Book?”

Luker met the tyrin's gaze. “The Book must be destroyed.”

“Our orders—”

“To the Nine Hells with our orders! Shroud's mercy, man, get your head out of the emperor's ass for a moment and think! Have you stopped to ask yourself why Avallon wants the Book?”

“I don't question—”

“He wants it because he means to use it,” Luker cut in. “That's why he got Mayot to steal it in the first place.”

It was no more than a hunch, but Merin was not bothering to deny it. “You don't know what Avallon is up against. The scale of the threat the empire is facing.”

“The Kalanese—”

“The Kalanese are the least of our worries.”

“Then who?”

Merin did not answer.

With a snort, Luker finished tying the rope. Not that he gave a shit anyhow. He'd been born in Talen, not Erin Elal, and aside from Kanon there were precious few in Arkarbour who'd shown an interest in helping him forget it. And most of those were dead. He rose. “Even if I believed you, not even Avallon is stupid enough to think the Book will help him.” He pointed outside as another burst of sorcery lit up the room. “He'll be too busy fighting this lot off to use it.”

“What the emperor does with the Book is not our concern. All that matters is that he has ordered us to bring it to him.”

“And how are you going to do that, for Shroud's sake? Even if you get your hands on the thing, what chance have you got of getting home with it alive?”

“Whoever holds the Book controls the undead.”

“If he's a corpse-hugger, maybe. Are you?” Luker squinted at him. “Unless, of course, you're planning on cutting a deal with Mayot.”

The tyrin gave no reply.

“What can the emperor offer Mayot that he can't take for himself?”

“I'm done answering your questions, Guardian. It's time you decided where your loyalties lie. I won't face Mayot with an unknown at my back.”

Luker laughed. “You know where the door is.”

Merin stared at him for a while, rubbing a hand across his neck as if remembering their clash at the inn in Arkarbour. Then he swung his mount round and left the building.

Jenna had dismounted and now stood to one side, her arms folded across her chest. Steel glinted in one of her hands. She cast him a querying look.

The Guardian shook his head. “Let him go.”

*   *   *

The orange-robed Fangalar leader was shouting again, but when Ebon tried calling back in the common tongue the man's expression only darkened. Galea had said the riders could sense her. If that was true, they did not appear overawed by her presence. Were the leader's attempts at communication directed at the goddess? Was he expecting a reply from her?

Ebon looked at Mottle. Strands of the old man's hair were plastered across his forehead, and his grubby white robe hung sodden from his shoulders. “Do you understand their language, mage?”

“One does not need to comprehend the words, my boy, to deduce their meaning.”

“I have only the goddess's word that their intent is hostile. Perhaps they seek to parley.”

Mottle raised an eyebrow. “The Fangalar are not renowned for their love of diplomacy.” His sweeping arm took in the ruined buildings visible between the trees. “Observe, if you will, the destruction wrought on this once fair city.”

“If conflict were inevitable the Fangalar would have attacked by now. What is their leader saying? Why is he seeking to talk at all?”

“Perhaps you should direct your questions at the goddess.”

“Would you trust the answers she gave? She
wants
this confrontation.”

There was a rasp of steel as one of the Fangalar drew his sword. Another of the riders, a yellow-robed woman, was speaking to her leader in an urgent voice. Without breaking Ebon's gaze, the orange-robed man raised a hand to silence her.

The king looked at Vale. “Options?”

“If we back off now,” the Endorian said, “we surrender the initiative. I say strike first.”

“To what end? We cannot win here. Even if we defeat the Fangalar they will just be raised…” His words trailed off. The wind had died abruptly, the branches of the trees round them falling still as the driving rain gave way to drizzle. Ebon turned to Mottle. “What's happening?”

The old man was shaking his head in disbelief. “The Fangalar are drawing on the power of the storm! Furies bless me, such witlessness! Do they not realize Mottle is the master here?” His eyes glittered. “With your leave, my boy.”

“Wait—”

Before Ebon could finish, the wind rose with a whistle to hammer into the Fangalar. One of the riders, the man who had drawn his sword just moments ago, dropped his weapon. Another of them, the yellow-robed woman, sawed on her mount's reins as the animal reared. The leader, though, remained sitting unmoving astride his horse, his hair and robes unruffled by the gale. His stony gaze remained fixed on Ebon for a few heartbeats. Then he smiled.

In answer to the unspoken challenge, Galea's anger grew within Ebon. Her power flooded his veins, and a chill gripped him as if he had been plunged into a pool of ice-cold water. He ground his teeth together.

The clouds overhead were spinning to form a huge vortex centered on the hilltop. A gust of wind battered Ebon, and his destrier sidestepped, snorting. He shouted to Mottle, but the mage did not respond. Instead the old man raised his arms and was snatched into the air with a squeal of delight, his arms windmilling. He disappeared amid the swirling gray clouds.

Watcher's tears.

Suddenly the Fangalar leader gestured, and the air round Ebon ignited. Galea's wards shielded him from the brunt of the sorcery, yet still he was sent toppling backward over his destrier's rump. As he landed on his back the air was driven from his lungs. His head struck the ground.

The world spun.

*   *   *

Luker watched the fight from the shadows of a doorway.

Through the hordes of Vamilians he caught only glimpses of the shaven-headed swordswoman they were attacking. More than a head taller than her assailants, she wielded a longsword in one hand as if it weighed no more than a dueling rapier. In her other hand she clutched a battered shield adorned with the image of a crakehawk. Her features were hidden behind a mask of blood, and her right ear had been cut clean away.

The most striking feature about her, though, was the strand of death-magic emerging from her chest. The swordswoman wasn't one of the undead. One only had to look at the trail of motionless corpses in her wake to figure that. But then what else could explain that thread? An illusion? If so, it was a good one, for Luker could detect no differences between the strand coming from the swordswoman and those holding the Vamilians. Then Merin's words from the slavemaster's house in Hamis came back to him—about someone spinning Kanon false trails.
The Spider.
If anyone had the skill to weave this deception—not to mention the will to bring about the fall of one of Shroud's disciples—it was that slippery goddess or one of her minions.

The shaven-headed swordswoman retreated down the alley past Luker's hiding place, only to find her way blocked by the ruins of a collapsed house. There was a doorway to her left leading into one of the houses, but the Vamilians must already have found another way into the building because a white-robed man appeared at the opening. The swordswoman carved him open from shoulder to crotch, then grabbed him by the throat and tossed him into his kinsmen following along the alley. Her sword was a blur as she rained destruction down on her tormentors.

Like spitting into the wind.

The Vamilians appeared numberless. Wave upon wave poured into the passage, scrambling over the corpses of their kin to get at the foe.

Jenna's voice was a whisper in Luker's ear. “Are we just going to watch?”

“Damned right,” he said. “The bitch is more useful to us dead than alive.”

“Until Mayot raises her.”

“Shroud won't let that happen to one of his own.”

“You're sure of that?”

“Watch.”

A sword finally pierced the swordswoman's defenses, stabbing her in the left shoulder. It might have been a scratch for all it slowed her, though, for her blade was already flashing down to sever her attacker's arm. She had retreated as far as the rubble blocking the street, and now she attempted to clamber backward over the stones, only for the debris to settle underfoot. As she threw out her arms for balance, a Vamilian spear slammed into her midriff, half spinning her round. Then a sword thrust from a second attacker caught her leg a blow above the knee.