When the Heavens Fall (72 page)

That game, though, was already won. Dozens of Shroud's minions had been slaughtered, and yet more would likely fall before this business was done. It would not take the Lord of the Dead long, Romany suspected, to enlist new servants, but she had at least bought the Spider valuable space in which to make her next move in the greater game. A game of which Romany knew nothing, she realized.
In a way, I am no less a pawn in this than the Vamilians.

A most unedifying thought.

“Isn't this entertaining?” a voice said.

Romany sighed as the Spider's image appeared in her mind's eye. Would the goddess never tire of these melodramatic entrances? For once, however, the priestess's exasperation was tempered by relief—though she was not about to let the Spider know that, of course. “If you say so, my Lady.”

The goddess's expression was one of wry amusement, and Romany remembered with consternation that the Spider could read her thoughts. “I've been following your progress with interest,” the goddess said. “You have done well. Verrry well, in fact. What is your personal tally now? Seventeen?”

“Eighteen.”

The Spider eyed her skeptically. “I hope you are not counting that Demonstalker from the Broken Lands.”

“I most certainly am!”

“As I recall, he contrived to impale himself on his own sword.”

“True. A most unfortunate tumble from his horse. But then the tumble would not have happened had the animal not been panicked.”

“By a falling tree, I believe.”

Romany sniffed. “Trees do not fall by themselves.”

“No, a stray burst of sorcery from a Vamilian mage, wasn't it?”

“And who do you imagine led the mage to the Demonstalker? If you mean to—”

“Peace,” the Spider interrupted, holding up her hands. “If it means that much to you, I will give you the Demonstalker. With or without him, your haul is impressive.” The goddess paused before gesturing at the sickle-wielding fighter. “Although I couldn't help but notice you appear to have missed one.”

Romany scowled. With the Spider there was always a “but.” “We need to talk.”

“I guessed as much from your … summons. I presume you wish to withdraw from the game?”

Romany shook her head. “This isn't over yet.”

The goddess looked down at the combatants. “Perhaps not, but soon now.”

“That's not what I meant. My Lady, I have an idea.”

*   *   *

The tiktar hurtled up the hill. Alone, Parolla knew, she was no match for it—at least not without drawing more deeply on her power than she had ever dared before. All the same she had yet to decide whether her newfound ally, Mottle, was more likely to prove a help or a hindrance. She looked at the old man just as the wind lifted his robe above his waist, and she hurriedly averted her gaze. “Do you know anything about tiktars,
sirrah
?”

“What doesn't Mottle know! Born in the darkness that preceded the First Age—”

“I mean, do you know anything that may be of use to us in fighting it? What are its weaknesses?”

The
magus
cocked his head. “Weaknesses?”

“How can we destroy it?”

“How can we not? Granted, the elderling's strength is formidable, but Mottle is peerless in guile, matchless in cunning…”

Parolla had stopped listening. The tiktar had passed momentarily from sight behind a cluster of trees. “Your element is air, is it not?”

“It is.”

“Neutral against fire, then.”

The old man puffed out his chest. “In the fullest of his power Mottle has been known to bend air's servant, water, to his will.”

Parolla raised an eyebrow. “You are an
archmagus
?”

“Mottle is ever underestimated, my girl.”

The tiktar came into view again, no more than a hundred paces away. Parolla had not appreciated at the lake just how tall the elderling was. Twice the height of a man, it flashed between the trees. She could now make out the blazing swords in its hands, the black pits that were its eyes.

Fifty paces.

A blast of wind struck the tiktar, but did not slow it.

Parolla took several steps to her left.

Thirty paces.

She released her power, glorying in the darkness coursing through her. This once she didn't have to second-guess the need to draw on her blood. As the shadows across her vision deepened, death-magic erupted from her hands, hammering into the approaching elderling.

The tiktar cut through her sorcery like the keel of a boat through water.

Parolla blinked.

Ten paces.

Hells.
She tensed to throw herself to one side.

Too late.

Suddenly she was lifted into the air, the tiktar passing beneath with a roar of flames, its swords cutting the air a hairbreadth from her feet. For a heartbeat Parolla hung helpless above the ground, legs kicking, before she began to descend. Touching down, she looked at Mottle and gave a brusque nod in thanks. The old man winked at her.

The tiktar had shuddered to a halt, colliding with a tree and setting it on fire. A single slash with one of its swords sent the trunk toppling to the ground. Then the elderling turned to face them.

When it charged again Parolla was ready for it.

*   *   *

Sensation was finally returning to Ebon's hands and feet, the icy tingle giving way to a burning itch. He still couldn't draw his sword, but the numbness in his legs was the greater concern, for his right foot dragged across the ground when he walked, and if he stumbled on any undead he wouldn't be outrunning them. As luck would have it, this part of the ruined city was still, the sounds of distant combat muffled by rain. Down a side street he saw the corpse of a horse, blood leaking from a wound in its chest. One of the Sartorians' mounts, maybe? Had Garat succeeded in fighting his way through to the dome? Or did the consel and his soldiers now number among the ranks of undead, perhaps lying in ambush ahead?

Ebon glanced at Vale. The Endorian would like that, he suspected.

A score of paces away the road was half-blocked by the debris of a collapsed building. The king slowed and squinted into the gloom, waiting for the blacks to melt into grays. Amid the rubble …

He shrank back.

Protruding from the stones was an arm half as long as Ebon was tall. Its four fingers ended in claws, two of which were broken. The arm itself was crisscrossed with bloodless cuts and covered in scales. Whatever body it was attached to remained immersed in shadow.

“You think it's just playing dead?” Vale whispered.

“No,” Ebon replied. “But I
do
think it's time we found out what killed it.” He sent a thought questing inward. “Goddess, attend me, please.”

For once Galea did not keep him waiting. “What it is?” she said as she swirled into his mind.

“The creature ahead … You said the Book's threads cannot be cut.”

“What I said was, they cannot be cut by
you
.”

“Then who? Who has the power to do this?”

Galea's lip curled. “Are we talking hypothetically?”

“Enough of your games. First that sickle-wielder we saw in the forest, now this creature. The cuts across its arm are bloodless, meaning it was undead before it was slain.”

“As I have already told you, the Book will have drawn to it a host of powers. As to which particular individual slaughtered this creature, I cannot say. Nor do I think it relevant who else might have an interest in acquiring the Book. All that matters is that you are first to the prize.”

Ebon's eyes narrowed. A certain softening of the goddess's eyes suggested she was being less than fully honest with him, but that wasn't what concerned him most. “Prize, my Lady? I thought the Book was to be destroyed.”

“Not necessarily.”

“I thought you wanted freedom for your people. I
know
you promised freedom for mine.”

“I honor my bargains, mortal.”

After you've rewritten them, perhaps.
“You pledged to help my city.”

“And I have done what I can for now. Its fate still hangs in the balance, a fact you would do well to remember…”

Her voice trailed off, and through the link between them Ebon sensed a bloom of power far to the north and west that was followed by an explosion like a thousand peals of thunder. The aftershock of the blast swept through the ground moments later, and the road bucked beneath him.

“My Lady? What just happened? My Lady!”

Galea's voice held a note of apprehension. “The first of the Kinevar gods has fallen. The rest will soon follow.”

Ebon's blood ran cold. “Gods? What do you mean, gods?”

“There is no time to explain! Mayot will summon the immortal here. You must hurry! To the dome!”

*   *   *

The Spider's expression held a mixture of curiosity and suspicion. “An idea, High Priestess?”

“A way to burst Mayot's bubble,” Romany said.

The goddess shook her head. “The game is over for us. We have achieved what we set out to do.”

“But the old man—”

“Will fall with or without our help…” The Spider paused as a ripple of power shook the dome. A distant shriek sounded, raw and primal, then a grinding noise came from the roof. Powdered dust fell about Romany's spectral form. Below, Mayot gave an exultant cry.

“My Lady,” Romany breathed.

“Yes. The first Kinevar god has fallen.”

“Has Mayot been able to enslave it with the Book?”

“He has. Even now it approaches.”

“How long?” Romany said.

“A few bells.”

“Then there is little time left for us to act. Will you now intervene to end this?”

“Why would I?”

“Because with the subjugation of the Kinevar gods we will lose control of the game. In time Mayot may become a threat even to you.”

“Then I will deal with him when he does,” the Spider said mildly. “For now, he remains a thorn in Shroud's side, and a useful thorn at that.”

Romany tried a different tack. “Did you foresee this? The power Mayot would come to wield?”

The goddess shrugged. “I knew what the Book could do. In truth Mayot has been surprisingly creative in exploiting its powers. His preemptive attack on the Kinevar gods has proved to be a masterstroke. More unexpected still, though, was your victory over Shroud's minions—”

“A moment, my Lady.
Unexpected?
”

“The extent of it, yes. High Priestess, you have excelled yourself.”

Romany frowned. When had she ever done less? “Then you will not object to granting me a boon.”

The Spider's expression was calculating. “You seem rrremarkably anxious to engineer Mayot's downfall. I trust you haven't let this become personal.”

The priestess looked at Mayot on his throne. The old man was hugging the Book to his chest, his eyes shining with exhilaration. Romany's gaze shifted to take in the ranks of undead round the dais, the line of Vamilian girls behind the throne, the naked withered corpse on the floor beside them. “We have created a monster, my Lady.”

The goddess covered a smile. “But of course we have. How else could the game have been won? Mayot is precisely what we needed him to be. What other man would have dared to take on Shroud?”

“And yet the suffering he has caused…”

The Spider laughed. “Oh, Romany,” she said, not unkindly. “Your nose has been buried in scrolls for too long. I blame myself for that. In the games we play there are always winners and losers. Enjoy your victory while you can. Or have you already forgotten the attack on your temple?”

Romany saw again the face of her servant, Danel. “When I spoke of suffering, I was not referring to Shroud's disciples.”

The Spider's smile only broadened. She remained silent for a time, her fingers stroking their invisible strings.

A grunt sounded below, and Romany looked down to see Shroud's sickle-wielding disciple take a sword cut to his leg. His riposte opened a gash along the cheek of the female Prime fighting him, but the woman did not so much as flinch.

“What did you have in mind?” the Spider asked finally.

Romany clasped her hands together. “I will go to Mayot and offer to deliver to him the Book's final secrets.”

“And when he lowers his defenses you wish me to seal off the sections already accessible to him?”

“Can it be done?”

“In theory. But then Mayot already believes himself to be invincible, and soon he will have the Kinevar gods on his side. Why would he risk dropping his shields?”

Romany snorted. “
Because
he thinks himself invincible. And because a man such as he can never have too much power.”

The Spider studied her. “You are taking a great gamble. For me to act through you, you will need to attend the mage in person. I will not be able to intervene if things go wrong.”

“The risk is to me alone.”

“And is it a risk worth taking?”

Wetting her lips with her tongue, Romany looked away.

*   *   *

The tiktar sped toward Parolla, trailing flames that set alight the trees to either side. She drew in as much power as she dared, then released it in a roar that eclipsed the growl of the storm. A wave of death-magic struck the elderling, stopping it no more than ten paces away. It stood writhing in the grip of her sorcery, hissing and spitting and stabbing its swords at her. Parolla could now see a naked humanoid form within the fire, but already that form was melting away. Soon nothing remained of the elderling except the flames that had once clothed it, and those flames now flashed to merge with the fire consuming one of the trees to her right.

Parolla scowled. Nice trick, but the tiktar couldn't escape her that easily. She sent a volley of sorcery smashing into the trunk, and it toppled to the ground, throwing up sprays of muddy water. The flames, though, continued to lick greedily at the blackened wood, seemingly unaffected by Parolla's magic.