When the Heavens Fall (20 page)

There was always the possibility, she supposed, that they might destroy each other in the struggle.

Her mood brightened.

*   *   *

From the darkness of an alley, Parolla looked left and right along the waterfront. Her breath caught. As she had feared, the Hunt had guessed her destination and made it to the river ahead of her, for the street was dotted with antlered horsemen. If her bearings were correct the docks lay upriver, and judging by the number of dactils wheeling in the distant gloom that was where the high priest was focusing his search. Downriver four riders guarded the approach to a bridge, a gentle curve in white stone supported by three evenly spaced pillars—and from what Parolla could make out, the last bridge east of her position within the city borders.

That gave her an idea.

For her plan to work she'd need to find a better vantage point within striking distance of the bridge, and she retreated along the alley into deeper shadow. Then hesitated. Something had set her teeth on edge. Something nearby. She stilled her breathing and listened. Nothing.
Just my imagination.
If the Hunt knew she was here they would have come charging in with all fanfare. At the very least Parolla would be able to hear approaching hoofbeats or the creak of a dactil's wings, but instead all she could make out was the low rush of the river behind her.

Raising her hood, she strode along the alley and turned left at the first intersection. The passage she entered smelled like a latrine, and the cobbles were greasy underfoot. She would have to circle east to approach the bridge—

A shout from behind.

Parolla spun to see a group of Huntsmen on foot, pounding toward her along the alley. A hundred paces away, but closing quickly. Parolla swore. Hells, where had they come from? The passage had been empty when she turned into it. One of the warriors blew a thunderous blast on a horn that was followed moments later by an answering note from the west. The darkness in Parolla bubbled up, demanding release. Her hands were already pointing at the Huntsmen, but she dragged them to one side, unleashing a wave of sorcery that struck a derelict warehouse between her and the enemy. With a rumble, a section of wall collapsed, spilling debris into the alley.

Parolla didn't wait to see if the way was blocked. Weaving a cloak of shadows about herself—no option now but to hope there was no
magus
nearby—she fled in the opposite direction. Past a turning on her right, shouts fading behind, then she reached a crossroads and drew up. She'd only run a short distance, yet already she was out of breath. From her left came the sound of footsteps, and she pressed herself flat to a wall. Two Huntsmen turned into the alley, so close she could feel the wind of their passage. Shadow-spell or not, it seemed that they
must
see her, but they just continued past her in the direction of the damaged warehouse.

She turned left into the street from which they had come.

Deep breaths, searching for calm. There were shops along this side of the road, and Parolla edged forward, keeping to the gloom cast by their tattered awnings. The bridge was in front of her now, a stone's throw away, together with the four antlered horsemen guarding it. One of them clutched a net and a spear; two held crossbows. The fourth rider was clearly the leader, for the antlers on the man's helm were tipped with silver. There was a glint of armor where his cloak parted at the neck, and he held a sword in one hand, a throwing ax in the other.

And he was looking straight at her.

Parolla froze. Had he spotted her? No, not at this range. Not if the two Huntsmen in the alley hadn't pierced her shadow-spell from an armspan away. Even so she considered retreating into deeper darkness, but what if the rider spied the movement? Better to wait until his attention moved on. His horse was pawing the ground, and he stilled it with a word. From behind Parolla came another horn blast, an exchange of shouts, but the two Huntsmen who'd missed her must have told their friends she hadn't come this way, for the sounds were slowly receding.

The rider's gaze followed them south.

Parolla crept to the corner of the last building. The waterfront was lit by scattered torches, and the oily smoke coming off them had a smell that reminded her of the slave girl's melting eyes.
No,
she thought, pushing the image away. No sense in picking at that scab. There'd be time enough later to wallow in self-recrimination.

Looking west toward the port, she saw distant riders approaching along the waterfront. Scores of them.
By the Nine.
Not since Texiki had the Hunt committed such numbers in pursuing her, and on that occasion she'd only escaped through blind luck when she stumbled across a Merigan portal. This time would be different, she knew. If her plan failed, there was nowhere left to run.

She looked back at the river.
Come on, come on.

The horsemen were less than thirty paces away. The net-carrier made a comment too low for Parolla to hear. In response, his leader said, “If the Lord favors us, she will. Now be silent.” Beyond them, the river was a sweep of muddy black and smeared torchlight. Swarms of feathermoths fluttered above it. A boy was making his way upriver in a boat little bigger than he was, paddling with his hands against the slack current. Parolla's gaze followed his progress through the gloom.

Then she saw it.

Letting her shadow-spell fall, she sprang at the Huntsmen.

The leader gave a warning shout, and two crossbow strings twanged. One of the bolts missed to Parolla's left; the other bounced off her magical defenses. Then the leader hurled his throwing ax. The weapon must have been invested with sorcery, for it cut through Parolla's wards and glanced off her left shoulder, shattering her collarbone in a rush of hot agony. Yet even through the pain she had the presence of mind to aim her answering bolt of sorcery not at her attackers but over their heads, and it exploded with an earth-shaking concussion. The Huntsmen screamed and raised their hands to their ears even as their horses bolted along the waterfront. One of the riders slipped from his saddle. He hit the road and lay unmoving, blood streaming from his eyes and nose.

Parolla hurdled him. As she ran, she cradled her left arm to her body. A warm red stain was spreading across her shirt. Every step jarred her injured shoulder, but she had known worse pain in her time, and would undoubtedly do so again if she did not get clear. She had the bridge now. Feathermoths crowded every finger's width of stone, and they took flight at her approach, fluttering about thick as blizzard snow. Left foot, right foot, willing herself on. It was only as she stumbled to a halt at the center of the bridge that she saw Huntsmen dashing toward her from the opposite bank.

Moving to the stone balustrade, she looked down.

Just as the riverboat—the one she had seen from her hiding place—began to emerge from the arch beneath her.

Parolla sat on the balustrade, facing downriver, and swung her legs over the side. From either end of the bridge the shouts were getting closer, but she did not look across. Below, the prow of the boat slid into view, two men at the rail, followed by the deck. It seemed a long way down suddenly, but there was no changing her mind now.

Parolla pushed off with her good arm, and the deck rushed to meet her. Her legs buckled as she landed, and she fell to her knees. A sharp pain went through her left foot as if she'd stepped on a spike, but that was nothing compared to the agony in her shoulder. Her collarbone had already started knitting back together, but it cracked again with a brittle sound. Her breath snorted in her nose.

“What in Shroud's name?” said a voice.

Parolla glanced up. A balding man—the
casanto
of this boat, she supposed—was watching her from the prow. She could smell his breath even from this distance: ale and blackweed smoke. To his left, a younger man stood knotting a coil of rope. His cheeks were pierced with metal studs, and there was a scar where his right eye had once been.

The
casanto
looked her up and down, his scowl giving way to a leer. “Well, well, what 'ave we 'ere. Takes a dim view of stowaways on board the
Riverbird,
don't we lads.”

Parolla heard rough laughter from behind. “Take cover,
sirrah,
” she said.

The man's response was lost in the sound of a crossbow quarrel hitting the deck next to Parolla's foot. A second bolt bounced off her wards. Then the air was alive with missiles, four, five, six of them thudding into the boards. The
casanto
cursed and bounded past Parolla toward the stern, almost colliding with her in his flight. His one-eyed companion took a bolt in the thigh and went down clutching his leg.

Parolla rose and staggered to the mast. The riverboat had floated clear of the bridge and was inching farther away with each heartbeat. A Huntsman climbed to the balustrade and tried to jump across. As he fell, Parolla lost sight of him behind the wheelhouse, but the distance must have been too great, for she heard a splash off the stern. On the bridge, more antlered figures were milling about. One woman gestured upriver, and through an arch Parolla saw a galatine boat drifting on the current, its triangular sail stained red by the dying sun. Another Huntsman clambered onto the balustrade and swung his legs over as Parolla had done, no doubt intending to board the galatine and give chase.

It was time for her to put into action the final part of her plan.

Raising her good arm, she released her power and sent a wave of death-magic rippling toward the bridge's leftmost pillar. The feathermoths in its path burst into flames and fell blazing into the river like drops of fire. As the sorcery struck the pillar, there was a sizzling hiss as if the stone were dissolving. Fissures formed and began to spread. Then a section of the bridge collapsed, pitching a handful of shrieking Huntsmen into the river. The remaining antlered figures ran for the northern bank. They'd done nothing to merit Parolla's restraint, but still she waited until the last of them was clear before destroying the other two pillars. The bridge crumbled into the water, throwing up spray.

A flash of light came from her right, and she saw a flaming arrow fired from the riverbank arc high into the gloom before dropping into the water short of the boat. A second arrow followed, this one overshooting its target to land a dozen armspans beyond the starboard rail. There was as much chance of Parolla being hit by lightning as by the next missile, and so she held her ground and looked at the Huntsmen still flailing in the waters round what remained of the bridge's pillars. A few had climbed onto the stonework and were offering their hands to companions struggling under the weight of their armor.

Parolla watched their struggles until a bend in the river took her out of sight.

It's done.

She rubbed a hand across her eyes. Her plan had worked. There was no prospect of the Huntsmen boarding a boat in pursuit any time soon, and there were no bridges ahead from which they could stage an ambush. She should feel a sense of relief. Of triumph, even. But instead she felt only bone weary, and she leaned against the mast. Shroud's temple was behind her, and what did she have to show for her time in Xavel save an aching shoulder and a few more deaths to blight her dreams? What would she do now? Where would she go? Her months of study among the dusty scrolls of the Great Illicanthian Library three years ago had elicited few ideas, and she'd exhausted them all. The guardians of the Thousand Barrows protected nothing more than the memory of some ancient Fangalar atrocity; the Carin Citadel had long since fallen into ruin; and the Shrine of Ages had proved to be merely the nesting place of some nameless Krakal shade.

There were always other empires, though, other worlds, for Parolla had only just begun to explore the Merigan portals. Perhaps the time had come to risk another journey through them—to leave this continent behind and with it, if luck was with her, the Antlered God and his servants. A path through to Shroud's realm was out there if she could but find the strength to keep searching. No secret could hide from eternity, after all, and Parolla had eternity in which to look. She would go on. She
must
go on, into the Abyss itself, if that's where her path took her.

Her brooding was interrupted by a bloom of sorcery. She tensed, her gaze flickering to the riverbank. But no, the power she sensed was not that of the Antlered God's
magi
.
Death-magic.
It came from the distant east …

A net of coruscating sorcery closed round her, sinking into her flesh like a thousand barbed hooks. She screamed and thrashed, tried to grab the net and shake it off, but the links had her tight. Where they touched her skin, her flesh sizzled as if someone were branding her with an iron. Then she was
pulled,
and she stumbled forward. She threw out her arms seeking something to hold on to, but her hands grasped only air, and she sprawled to the boards. The strength of the tug increased, dragging her across the deck to the starboard rail. Parolla locked her legs round one of the supports. She needed to counter the sorcery somehow, but could not shape conscious thought through the pain. Another wrench and her body pivoted about the post, her head and torso now hanging out over the river.

The post groaned, bowed.

Then her tainted blood rose inside her. She tried to fight it down, but her power would not be denied. A shadow stained her vision.

The net of sorcery enveloping her disintegrated.

She smiled. The darkness was like a cool towel pressed to burning flesh, and her pain receded. It made her wonder why she'd resisted its call before. There'd been a reason, she sensed, but it hardly mattered now.

Levering herself back onto the deck, she climbed to her feet.

In time to see a ball of flames come rushing at her across the river, vaporizing the water in clouds of steam. With a cry, Parolla sent a burst of black fire flashing to intercept it. The two sorceries annihilated each other off the port rail, and the thunder of the detonation set the riverboat rocking. Flames rained down on the deck, fizzing on Parolla's skin. She barely noticed. A crack sounded, and the mast came crashing down on the wheelhouse. Sailors scattered.