When the Heavens Fall (58 page)

Death-magic.

Then, as the echoes of power washed over Parolla, her eyes widened.

For the signature of the sorcery was one she recognized.

*   *   *

Dozens of corpses lay scattered across the White Road, and Luker raised a hand to signal a halt. The fallen were Vamilians, yet he could not detect any threads of death-magic coming from their chests, nor was there any sign of the enemy they had been fighting. Another surprise attack gone wrong? He scanned the ground between the trees on either side. Or a trap?

The Guardian dismounted to examine the body of a man wearing an ivory-colored gown over a hauberk that extended to his knees. The Vamilian's hair and beard were plaited with silver thread, and a spear lay alongside his body. The eyes staring back at Luker were dead, yet the Guardian still half expected the corpse to twitch back to life. His gaze was drawn to a hole through the warrior's armor over his heart.
The killing blow.
It had been delivered with near-surgical precision by some thin-bladed weapon. The edges of the bloodless wound were stained black, and the Vamilian's skin had peeled back to reveal a breastbone covered with hairline cracks.

Jenna spoke from behind Luker. “At last, a corpse that stays dead.”

And all the more interesting for that. “There's some sort of residue round the wound. Sorcery, I reckon.”

“An invested weapon?”

“Maybe.” Luker turned to Chamery. “What do you make of this?”

The mage stared at him blankly before sliding from his saddle and approaching. Kneeling beside the body, he closed his eyes. “The tremors are faint. Death-magic.”

“No shit.”

“Not from the severed thread,” Chamery snapped. “From whatever weapon caused these wounds.”

“You reckon the stiffs have started fighting each other?”

The mage seized the spear lying beside the Vamilian's body. “Do you sense any sorcery in this?” he said, sneering.

“Then who?”

Chamery's gaze returned to the wound over the dead man's heart. “One of Shroud's inner circle,” he said. “I can think of no one else with the power to cut the Book's threads.”

A moment of silence passed. Luker shook himself.
Things just got a whole lot more complicated.
“Seems Mayot has been stepping on a few toes.”

“It's taken you this long to work it out? Hah! Mayot's dragged countless souls back from the underworld—”

“The Vamilians never passed through Shroud's Gate.”

“But others did. Others that died in this forest. Then there are the souls of the recently departed—souls Mayot has stopped from passing over. Souls that belong to Shroud. Of course the god wants the Book!”

“You knew this all along, yet still you came here? Why? You going to risk butting heads with Shroud himself?”

“The Lord of the Dead won't intervene personally. He wouldn't dare set foot in the mortal realm.”

“Whether it's him or his lackeys, he won't take kindly to you sticking your staff in. You're playing with fire.”

“For power to rival the gods? The rewards are worth the risks.”

Luker laughed. “And here I was thinking you meant to take the Book back to the Black Tower.”

“I was speaking of Mayot,” Chamery muttered, rising to his feet. He flung the broken spear shaft into the trees and walked back to his horse.

Luker looked at Merin. “What about you? You going to spit in Shroud's eye as well?”

The tyrin's expression was grim. “The emperor's orders haven't changed.”

“The
emperor
can't have known how things would turn out here, else he wouldn't have sent just the three of us along. Would he want you to go on, knowing what you do now?”

“All the more, I expect.”

“Shroud can make eternity damned uncomfortable for you.”

Merin held his gaze for an instant, then looked away. “I gave an oath.”

“Right. Just don't forget to tell Shroud that when the time comes. I'm sure he won't hold it against you.”

*   *   *

Romany stood before the dome of death-magic that spanned Estapharriol, her arms crossed in front of her chest. The surface of the sorcerous construction shimmered like rippling water, making the trees beyond appear blurred. With the approach of the storm, the air inside the dome had turned stifling. Looking over her shoulder the priestess saw Danel, the wounds to her hands now healed by Mayot, dutifully fanning her with a branch of dead honeyheather. The servant's efforts, though, served only to wash yet more of the fetid warmth over Romany, and she signaled the girl to stop.

Sounds of fighting were audible in the distance, but the priestess had a little time yet before the combatants drew near. She transferred her gaze to the burial pits beyond the sorcerous dome. Dozens of Vamilians were crouched on all fours in the trenches, displaying typical indefatigable zeal as they tore at the earth with their hands. Their efforts caused a young tree to be uprooted, and work halted briefly as it was dragged away. Standing at an angle amid the freshly disturbed dirt to the diggers' left was a pillar of gray rock. Some monument to the fallen, perhaps? There were carvings on it.

“Girl,” Romany said, gesturing. “What does the inscription say?”

“I have no idea. I died before the stone was raised.”

“Truly? How intriguing! History records that barely a handful of your people survived the massacre by the Fangalar, and yet clearly the burial pits did not dig themselves. So who tidied up after your conquerors? Not the Fangalar themselves, surely.”

“I have no idea,” the servant said again.

Romany scowled. The girl was obviously in another of her moods. Perhaps a few words of admonishment were in order …

“What are they digging for?” Danel asked.

The priestess raised an eyebrow. Was that the first question the girl had asked in all their time together?
Maybe her reserve is finally starting to thaw.
“Some ancient monstrosity that ought never to see the light of day again. Fortunately Mayot still has to unearth the thing.”

“Will he succeed?”

“This time? I think not. Too far underground.”

“But there are others?”

Romany smiled. “One or two, yes.” Among them, of course, was the tiktar she had hidden from Mayot, still safely shielded behind her wards. That particular game piece would have to wait a while longer, though, before she played it.

Danel turned back to the diggers. “I had hoped…”

“Yes?”

“There are still some of my people trapped underground.”

“Somehow I doubt Mayot has any real interest in freeing them.”

The branch of dead honeyheather slipped from Danel's hands. “My mother and daughter both died with me here. I have not seen them since my … rebirth. Perhaps they have been sent elsewhere.”

Romany pursed her lips, but did not respond.

“Why have you allied yourself with the master?” Danel said suddenly.

“We are not allies. We simply share a common enemy.”

“Is it the Vamilians?”

“I'm sorry?”

“The enemy you speak of, is it the Vamilians?”

Romany was left speechless for an instant. “My dear, why ever would you think that?”

“Have my people not suffered enough already? Slaughtered by the Fangalar, cast adrift as spirits for generations, now resurrected and enslaved. You see dead flesh, yes? Did you think the same was true of our spirits?”

The priestess sniffed. “Your kinsmen are not the targets in this.”

“So we are merely pawns in a greater game. And I am supposed to take comfort in that?”

“Perhaps you should ask Mayot. He is the one pulling your strings.”

“I was not talking about the master. I was talking about you.”

Recovering some of her poise, Romany drew herself up to her full height. “My reasons for being here are my own—”

“No doubt,” Danel cut in. “I trust the cause for which we are sacrificed is a noble one.”

The priestess had no response to that. On reflection she preferred Danel's silence to this uncharacteristic loquaciousness, particularly if the girl insisted on speaking of matters beyond her understanding. Imagine suggesting Romany would willingly associate herself with Mayot! Did the girl think her devoid of both scruples and discernment? For a time Romany watched the diggers scrabbling about in the burial pits, scooping out handfuls of soil and stones, or hacking at roots with their swords. The walls to one of the trenches collapsed, burying the workers in soil.

Romany looked across at her servant. “When Mayot falls, you will be freed from his grasp.”

“
If
he falls.”

“No, my dear,” the priestess said softly, holding the girl's gaze. “When.”

There was a flicker of emotion behind Danel's eyes, and Romany blinked.
Spider's blessing, is that sadness I see?
Had the girl mistaken her meaning, then?

The moment was broken by the distant crash of steel on steel.

Romany looked back at the burial ground. She could see movement between the trees beyond the dome of death-magic.
Ah, my next victim has arrived.
A black-bearded man came into view in the midst of a knot of Vamilians. Over banded armor he wore a surcoat adorned with the image of a rearing black bear. In one gauntleted hand he held a bronze-faced shield bearing the same emblem; in the other, a butterfly-shaped ax that he wielded with breathtaking grace. Each blow when it landed was accompanied by a flash and a dizzying release of death-magic.

Among the undead surrounding him was a four-armed Gorlem clutching a spear in each hand. As Romany watched, the axman's weapon crashed through the spearman's defenses, splintering his ribs before exiting above the left hip. The Gorlem toppled to the ground, the thread of death-magic holding him snapping free and dwindling to nothing. The ranks of undead were quickly receding, each elegant swing of the disciple's ax sending two, three, sometimes four attackers spinning away. More Vamilians—children among them, Romany noticed with distaste—were rushing from the city to intercept him.

“We had best find cover,” she said to Danel.

The girl nodded.

Romany led the way into a ruined house. Crossing to the far corner, she sat with her back to a wall.

To business.

This wasn't the first time Romany had encountered this particular disciple of Shroud. Yesterday she'd watched him approach from the east mounted on a bone-colored palimar. A handful of the Vamilians that Mayot tossed into his path had fallen to his ghastly ax, but most had simply been outdistanced by the prodigious strides of his horse. The priestess had brought the palimar's running days to an end by using sorcery to conceal a pothole in the road Shroud's disciple was galloping along. She had then withdrawn, thinking Mayot's servants would complete the formality of dispatching the axman himself.

She should have known better.

The warrior was not the first of Shroud's disciples to reach the dome of death-magic, but he was certainly the most capable. Romany had a plan to knock him out of the game, yet it would require her to approach to within a few paces of him—far closer than she could risk in the flesh—and so she relaxed her mind and allowed her spirit to float free from her body, then followed the strands of her web out of the building and toward the battle. The numbers of undead surrounding the axman had risen to threescore, yet he seemed untroubled by their attacks, surging forward with no hint of tiredness in his strokes, no hesitation in his steps. He reached the dome of black sorcery and pushed through without pause. A net of crackling energy engulfed him, obscuring his frame in scintillating blackness. Then the mesh of death-magic dissipated to leave the bearded warrior unharmed. He continued on, leaving a tear in the dome behind.

As she drifted closer Romany rubbed her spiritual hands together. The art of illusion lay in conforming to her victim's expectations. If she had wanted to, she could have conjured up any number of formidable foes to throw themselves at the axman, but why bother painting an entire canvas when a single brushstroke would suffice? Real mastery required subtlety, guile, a delicacy of touch. A woman's touch, in fact. Releasing her sorcery, she began spinning threads about the warrior. As ever, timing would be critical. Shroud's disciple moved with inhuman speed, his ax chopping and cutting. He used his shield not only to intercept attacks, but also as a weapon, slamming its rim into the faces of the undead to cave skulls or crush eyes. The Vamilians had no answer to the ferocity of his assault. His ax moved faster than the weapons that tried to parry it, or simply smashed through the undead's spears as if they were made of kindling.

The bearded warrior was now level with Romany's hiding place. Without the dome of death-magic to blur the scene, the priestess was forced to witness the true gruesomeness of the destruction wrought on the man's assailants: the smashed faces, the crushed rib cages, the severed limbs. She could not avert her gaze, however, for she was looking for the smallest mistake, the slightest opening in the warrior's defenses. Few of the Vamilians came close enough to strike at him, and still fewer had the opportunity to deliver a killing blow. Romany, though, was nothing if not patient.

Then she saw her chance. As a Vamilian woman pressed forward on the axman's right, he turned to meet the attack of two undead spearmen on his left. Dropping to one knee, he raised his shield at an angle so his enemies' spear points deflected over his head, then swung his ax in a murderous arc below his shield, cutting through the legs of his assailants. As they fell he was already rising to his feet, lashing out with his shield to hurl their bodies into the ranks of undead behind them.

The maneuver had taken only a heartbeat, and the bearded warrior now spun to face the Vamilian woman attacking from his other flank.