When the Heavens Fall

by Marc Turner

  “I will race you for the honor,” the prince replied, digging his heels into his horse’s flanks.

  The gelding leapt forward gamely. Ebon held it back during the descent from the hilltop, then gave it its head as the land leveled out. The plains had been baked hard by the summer sun to leave the mud riddled with potholes, any one of which could snag a hoof and bring the gelding down. Ebon, though, did not slow its flight. As he closed the distance on the Kinevar back markers, the smell of rot became stronger. The raiders hadn’t given any sign they were aware of their pursuers, but it was only a matter of time before they heard the rumble of the horses’ hooves. Yet Ebon was still glad for the noise if it meant a respite from the spirits’ whispering.

  Even as the thought came to him, one of the Kinevar looked back and let out a shrill cry.

  The prince could now make out the Galitian captives—a knot of lighter-skinned figures roped together near the middle of the Kinevar column. The enemy nearest the prisoners started milling around, and for a heartbeat Ebon hoped the raiders would abandon the captives and flee for the forest. Then a voice rang out, cutting through the chaos. A score of the raiders separated from their kinsmen and turned to face Ebon. The rest of the party resumed their flight to the woods.

  Ebon smiled without humor. That made his job easier. First rule of military engagements: never split your forces. Just because the stationary Kinevar wanted a fight didn’t mean he had to oblige them. He raised a hand to signal the troop to ride round and continue the pursuit of the main group.

  Then his gaze came to rest on the man who had taken command of the smaller force. A handspan taller than his companions, he carried a staff and was chanting in a deep voice. He thrust his arms into the air as if he were beseeching some immortal for aid. His face was painted with symbols that flashed silver as the sun caught them.

  Ebon cursed. An earth-mage.

  There was no sorcerer in Seffes’s troop who might counter the Kinevar’s magic, but they still had a chance if they could get to him quickly. The warriors surrounding him had no shields with which to form a shield wall, and there were too few of them to withstand the squad’s charge.

  Suddenly the mage whirled his staff above his head and brought it down to strike the ground.

  The earth trembled.

  Ebon’s horse stumbled, and he pitched forward in his saddle. He threw his right arm round the gelding’s neck and hung on. “Steady!” he shouted as the animal struggled to regain its footing.

  The lead elements of Seffes’s squad thundered past, throwing up a cloud of dust.

  As the earth tremors began to subside, the ground in front of the Kinevar mage bulged and split. A vast head burst from the earth, followed by two arms as thick as tree trunks. Ebon’s hands went slack on the reins. The elemental clawed its way out of the ground like a corpse escaping from the grave and gave a gravelly roar. The wind tugged loose dust from its sides, making its form appear hazy round the edges. One of the Galitian riders ahead of Ebon hurled a spear into the creature’s chest. The elemental ignored it. It surged to attack the thrower, battering him with an enormous fist. The soldier raised his shield to take the blow, but the metal crumpled like parchment. Man and horse were crushed into the ground with a tortured cry.

  “Not the elemental!” Ebon called. “Take out the mage! The mage!”

  But his words were drowned beneath another despairing yell as a second man went down.

  The prince drew his saber. Somewhere Vale was shouting at him to ride clear, but Ebon ignored him. Wrestling with his horse’s reins, he coaxed the gelding into the elemental’s shadow. The creature loomed above him, its arm swinging down like Shroud’s scythe. Ebon’s saber flashed to meet it, intercepting the strike and severing the limb between elbow and fist. It fell to the ground in a spray of dust. Then Ebon was past, the elemental’s bellow of rage ringing in his ears.

  The Kinevar were waiting a short distance beyond, bonewood swords and spears in their hands. Scalps hung from their belts, and about their necks were necklaces of blackened human ears. They were drawn up in a ring with their commander at its center, and around the mage buzzed a cloud of flies. The ground swarmed with more insects, an endlessly moving mass that rippled like black water.

  A spear flashed toward Ebon’s head, and he raised his shield. The missile struck with a clatter and fell away. The next spear, though, was onto him before he could react, and it buried itself in his horse’s neck. Ebon felt the force of it through his thighs. The gelding screamed, half rearing as it snapped its jaws at the spear shaft. Then its front legs gave way, and the prince flung himself from the saddle.

  He took the brunt of the landing on his shield, the impact sending a jolt up his left arm. The ground here was shin-deep in insects, biting and rustling and scuttling. As he rolled to his feet, bugs tumbled from his shirt. No time to put his thrashing horse out of its misery. A glance behind revealed the elemental had stopped the squad’s charge and was in among them. Its severed arm had re-formed, and the creature was flailing around in a berserk frenzy, punching riders from their saddles. For a heartbeat Ebon considered going to their aid, then he remembered his own advice.

  The mage. The mage was the key.

  He could see the man more clearly now. Insects crawled over his bare arms and torso like a second skin, and the power radiating from his staff made the air about him shimmer. A handful of Seffes’s squad had fought in close and were hacking down at the fighters circling him. Then the sorcerer opened his mouth and a cloud of wasps spewed out to engulf a Galitian horse and rider. The man shrieked, his horse bolting. For a moment the pressure on the Kinevar warriors eased, but they made no move to advance, seemingly content to defend and watch while the elemental wreaked its havoc.

  Time for me to create some of my own.

  Insects crunched beneath Ebon’s feet as he waded forward. One of the Kinevar moved to intercept him, hissing between black teeth. Its skin looked like tree bark, and its bonewood sword glistened as it swung for Ebon’s chest. The prince parried once, twice, then ducked under a head-high cut and kicked his attacker’s legs out from under him. The Kinevar went down, tripping another assailant behind. Ebon’s saber darted out, quick as a striking wither snake, and both raiders died.

  Their bodies sank beneath the heaving swell of insects.

  A Kinevar female jabbed at Ebon’s face with her spear. He raised his shield at the last instant but could only deflect the weapon’s point, and it traced a line of fire across his left temple. Blocking another thrust with his shield, he hacked his attacker’s spear shaft in two with his saber. As the Kinevar reached for a knife at her hip, Ebon stepped in close and ran her through, then spun in time to parry a lunge from a second assailant. The saber danced in his hand, feinting high before striking low as another enemy fell.

  Seffes’s squad was now pressing in all about in a melee of dust and blood. The thunderous steps of the elemental were close behind Ebon, but he dared not look round. Vale was to his right, also on foot, attacking in a blur of motion too fast for the eye to follow. Ebon was damned if he’d let his friend have the kill. As the Kinevar mage turned toward the Endorian, the prince saw his chance. He thrust his shield into the chest of a defender, sending him staggering backward. A gap opened in the Kinevar ranks, and Ebon burst through.

  A swarm of flies enveloped him, so thick the world disappeared behind a buzzing black curtain. Better flies than wasps, though. A wave of Ebon’s shield scattered the swarm enough for him to make out the mage beyond. The Kinevar was facing away from him, chanting as he unleashed a shaft of crackling sorcery at an unseen target. Not Vale. Please, not Vale.

  Ebon shouted a challenge.

  The mage swung to confront him.

  Ebon’s saber flashed out, and the Kinevar lifted his staff to block. The blade should have cut a good chunk out of the wood, but instead when the weapons clashed there was a shower of sparks and the prince’s saber shattered midway along its length.

  A
heartbeat passed as he stared disbelieving at the broken blade.

  The mage counterattacked. Ebon tried to angle his shield so the Kinevar’s weapon would glance off it, but the crunching contact still drove him to his knees. The staff punched a hole through wood and steel, only to trap itself in the mangled slivers of metal. A sharp twist of the prince’s wrist wrenched the weapon from the mage’s hand. Ebon surged to his feet. The Kinevar tried to back away but found his retreat checked by the ring of his defenders. Trapped by the very warriors meant to protect him.

  A backhand cut with the stub of Ebon’s saber opened his throat in a spray of blood.

  There was a roar of frustration behind, and the prince turned to see the elemental a dozen paces away, a snarl frozen on its face. As it advanced a final faltering step, its left leg crumbled to dust. Then its entire body collapsed, raining dirt down on the combatants.

  The fight went out of the remaining Kinevar, and they were quickly dispatched.

  Breathing heavily, Ebon shuffled through the mass of insects until he reached clear ground. He shook loose the bugs in his hair and clothing, but he could feel more moving beneath his shirt, and he tore it off and flung it away. His skin was swollen with bites, and burned as if flames played across it. A tic-beetle had burrowed into his right wrist. Swearing, he used his broken saber to dig the insect out.

  The body of his gelding lay a pace away. Flies had settled around the horse’s eyes, and the prince bent down to close them. Blood was running down his cheek. Raising a hand to the cut at his temple, he found a flap of skin hanging loose. He pushed it back into place and held it there. His fingers came back sticky red. He saw again the Kinevar’s spear coming at his face, his shield rising to intercept it. A moment later with his block and the thrust would have taken him through the eye. The years of seclusion that followed his spirit-possession had left him weak and slow. It is time I put that right.

  Ebon searched the distant line of trees to see the main Kinevar party disappear into the forest. There was movement both north and south of the point where the group entered, and the prince kept his gaze on the shadows between the trunks in case the creatures returned. Screams started up as the Kinevar began avenging their mage on the Galitian prisoners. In Ebon’s mind, the sound was echoed by the spirits. The sound of my failure.

  Vale moved alongside. The Endorian had emerged from the battle with no more than insect bites and a shallow cut to his neck. “Tell me we ain’t going in after them.”

  Ebon shook his head. “We have done all we can.”

  “Sense at last,” the Endorian said, turning to leave. When Ebon made no move to follow he added, “You done admiring the view?”

  A single Kinevar warrior stepped from the forest. He hopped from one foot to another, gesturing at Ebon with his spear. “It seems daylight no longer holds any fear for these creatures,” the prince said. “The villages bordering the forest will have to be evacuated.”

  Vale eyed him skeptically. “Because of one raid?”

  “The Kinevar would not leave the forest unless they had to. They must have known they would be hunted down.”

  “Fancied a change from chewing on roots, I expect.”

  “The forest is full of easier prey.”

  Vale bent to tear up a handful of grass and used it to clean his sword. “You reckon this marks the start of something? We got another Jirali’s Bane on our hands?”

  “Perhaps.”

  “Then why this raid to warn us it’s coming?”

  Three survivors from Seffes’s squad were moving among the fallen Kinevar, cutting the throats of any that still breathed. The remaining soldiers were tending to the wounds of their injured companions. “Reynes tells me scouts have spotted the Kinevar as far north as Linnar,” Ebon said. “Not just hunting parties, either. Whole tribes. Maybe they are on the move.”

  “You reckon they’re fleeing something?”

  Like birds taking flight. “Why not?”

  The Endorian considered this before shaking his head. “I don’t buy it. Ain’t no army this side of Shroud’s Gate that could drive them out of the forest.”

  “We will find out soon enough.”

  Vale must have heard something in his voice, for he looked at him sharply. “There’s something else, ain’t there? Something you’re not telling me.” He studied Ebon. “It’s the voices. They’re back.”

  Ebon hesitated, then nodded. “They returned when we came within sight of the forest. The spirits are close.”

  The Endorian drew a breath, then blew it out. “Do you think they’re caught up in this somehow? With the Kinevar?”

  The voices in Ebon’s mind grew louder as if to confirm the Endorian’s suspicions. There was something in their tone that troubled the prince, some new note that hadn’t been there when they had last afflicted him. They’re afraid, he realized with a start. And what do spirits of the dead have to fear?

  Footfalls sounded behind, and the prince turned to see one of Seffes’s soldiers approaching. There were flecks of vomit on the woman’s chin and down the front of her uniform. She gave a tired salute.

  Ebon glanced at the stripes on her shoulder. “Corporal,” he said. “What are our losses?”

  “Nine dead, your Highness. Two more about to join them.”

  “Sergeant Seffes?”

  The corporal shook her head.

  A dark day, indeed. “Is there a healer among your squad?”

  The soldier looked back to where the bodies were being laid out. “Not anymore.”

  “Then round up the horses. Strap the dead in their saddles…”

  Just then the air ahead of Ebon crackled, and a ghostly figure materialized a few paces away, hovering a handspan above the ground. The corporal’s sword was halfway out of its scabbard, but Ebon put a hand on her arm to restrain her. The newcomer was a gaunt old man, standing barefoot and wearing a grubby white robe. The top of his head barely reached Ebon’s shoulder. He grinned, showing yellow teeth. “Ah, there you are, my boy!”

  “Mottle,” the prince said. “As ever your timing leaves much to be desired. A quarter-bell sooner and you could have made yourself useful.”

  The mage’s nose was in the air, sniffing like a tracker dog. “Earth-magic. An elemental, yes? Its spirit lingers still…” His voice faded away, and a thoughtful look crossed his face. “And something else.” He spun toward the forest.

  Ebon was suddenly conscious of the soldier at his shoulder. “That will be all, Corporal,” he said. The woman flinched as if she had been roused from some reverie, then saluted and backed away. When she was gone, the prince turned to Mottle. “What is it? What do you sense?”

  For a while the mage gave no indication he had heard. Finally he said, “The burgeoning of fell powers, my boy. Chaos, and its partner in devilry, Ruin. A storm is coming. The Currents have long warned Mottle of its approach.”

  “I have no time for your riddles. Why are you here?”

  The old man turned back to him. “Did Mottle not say? Sincerest apologies. A genius such as Mottle’s is invariably prone—”

  “Mage,” Ebon warned.

  “Ah, yes. To the point, indeed. Your humble servant brings a message from the king. Your father summons you to the palace with all speed.”

  A chill ran through Ebon. He thought he had prepared himself for this news, but still it felt like he had taken a punch to the gut. “Is it time, then? Has his health deteriorated?”

  “No, no. He keeps Shroud waiting still, though the hunt is nearing its end and death’s Lord is ever patient.”

  “Then what is so urgent that my father has dragged himself from his sickbed?”

  The mage spread his hands. “Would that Mottle could tell you. A meeting of the King’s Council, yes? But as to why? Shrouded in mystery.”

  “Meaning you do not know.”

  The old man’s voice dropped to a whisper. “Mottle has his suspicions, of course…” Then, as Ebon leaned in closer to hear his words, he went o
n, “But your humble servant has never been one to deal in rumor, as you know. The answer to your questions must await your return. Make haste to Majack! Mottle will beseech the Furies to speed your passage.” He cast a final look at the forest. “We have much to discuss.”

  Before Ebon could respond the old man’s ghostly image began to fade, dispersing on the breeze like smoke.

  The prince snorted in disgust. “I am going to wring his scrawny neck when I next see him,” he said to Vale. “Let’s get out of here.”

  “We’re leaving now?” the Endorian asked.

  Ebon nodded. “The corporal can finish tidying this mess. Find us some horses and saddle up. We ride for Majack.”

  * * *

  “They are coming for you, my Lady,” a voice said.

  Parolla looked across. To her left a young man leaned against one of Xavel’s slums, striking a pose as if he were having his portrait painted. He was no one she recognized—hardly surprising since she’d only arrived in the city yesterday—and so she shifted her gaze back to Shroud’s temple on the opposite side of the Round.

  Six weeks it had taken her to reach this place. Ordinarily she’d have traveled six weeks to avoid one of the Lord of the Dead’s shrines, but this particular temple had a notoriety she couldn’t afford to ignore. The dark, hulking structure was windowless but for two round, high-set openings, gaping like the sockets of a skull. Doubtless the building’s maker had intended it to look foreboding. Parolla wasn’t so easily intimidated, though. One day she would rip this shrine down, along with all the others. The power bleeding from the place had an alien undercurrent, faint as a dying man’s breath. She’d encountered nothing like it at any of the scores of similar temples she had visited over the years, but different was good …

  The youth stepped into her line of sight and cleared his throat.

  Parolla shot him a look. She’d assumed when he’d spoken earlier that his words were meant for someone else, yet now when she glanced about she saw she was the only person within earshot. The youth’s cheeks were colored with some crimson blush, and he wore a blue silk shirt and matching pantaloons tucked into calf-high leather boots. A dueling sword hung from a scabbard at his waist, its hilt too shiny to have ever seen use. He returned her gaze with unashamed interest.