When the Heavens Fall

by Marc Turner

  “Wait,” the king gasped, but his brother ignored him. Looking back, he saw Mottle and his two Adepts now standing alone above the gates.

  The wall of fire and earth rolled toward the guardhouse, throwing up dirt behind it like a great plough. The undead immediately to either side were engulfed by the fiery darkness, and their bodies seemed to feed the sorcery, for the wall swelled and gained momentum.

  A dozen heartbeats later it struck the guardhouse.

  Ebon was driven to his knees by the impact. The top of the flaming wall flowed over the battlements, swallowing up Mottle and his Adepts. A shriek sounded as the nearest of the three white-robed figures was enveloped in flames. There was a spitting hiss of conflicting magics as earth and fire collided with Mottle’s wards of air over the gates, then a stillness like an indrawn breath.

  With an ear-shattering concussion, the guardhouse was ripped apart.

  The explosion knocked Ebon onto his back, and for a moment he lay stunned, staring up at the spinning sky as chunks of rock looped into the air. Some fell on the plains, while others landed in the city to the sound of screams and collapsing masonry. A block of stone came crashing down onto the battlements where Ebon had stood just heartbeats before, shattering the parapet.

  Then a cloud of dust billowed up around him.

  Mottle.

  Ebon’s ears were ringing, and he could taste powder in his mouth. As he levered himself to his feet, the wall shifted beneath him. The guardhouse, or what remained of it, was invisible in the murk. From beyond the wall came the thump of feet, and when Ebon looked over the battlements he saw the undead army moving toward where the gates had been. No order to the advance, just a formless scrum made spectral by the dust. They swept through the newly created breach.

  Rendale was beside him again. He seized Ebon’s right arm and threw it across his shoulders. Together they staggered along the wall to the nearest tower where they joined a press of soldiers waiting to descend. Cries sounded all around, a turbulent babble to match the clamor of the spirits in Ebon’s head. From somewhere below, Reynes’s voice bellowed out, but the words were lost in the tumult. There was no sign of Domen Janir or the chancellor. Had they followed Ebon up onto the wall or remained in the guardroom?

  Entering the tower’s stairwell, the king took the steps on shaky legs and emerged into chaos. Soldiers and townsfolk dashed every way. A man hurtled round a corner into the path of a woman coming the other way, and they came together in a crack of skulls that Ebon heard even above the hubbub. From his right—the direction of the ruined guardhouse—came the crash of battle. Drawing his saber, he set off toward the noise, half swept along by those round him, half battling the tide coming the other way. When he reached the marketplace, his steps faltered. The guardhouse and a section of wall twoscore paces wide had disappeared to leave only a few broken stones protruding from the ground. The Vamilians were pouring through the breach. Some were still ablaze; all were covered in dust.

  Pantheon Guardsmen were arriving in scattered squads along the roads leading off the square.

  A voice rang out. “Get them into line! Form ranks, damn you!”

  Reynes. The general stood a short distance away beneath the awning of a shop. His cinderhound was gone, but around him was a group of messengers and officers that included Captain Hitch and Sergeant Grimes.

  Ebon swung his gaze back to the marketplace. Guardsmen were trying to form a shield wall, but there were too few soldiers to span the width of the square, and the defenders fell back toward West Gate Road before they were outflanked. Among the undead pursuing them was a four-armed warrior wielding a spear in each hand. He stabbed a bearded soldier in the neck, and the man fell clutching at the wound, only to rise moments later and attack the Guardsman at his side.

  Watcher’s tears. Soon we won’t be able to tell friend from foe.

  Ebon made for Reynes. “General,” he called. “We must fall back.”

  “We’ve got men arriving from the other walls. If we can push the stiffs back through the breach—”

  “It is too late for that. The city is lost.”

  “Aye, it is,” Reynes grated. “If we yield the walls.”

  Ebon frowned at his tone. “Do the other gates still hold?”

  “For now.”

  “Then retreat to the river and make your defense there. Fall back street by street—you know the drill. Use the time we have left to tear down as many bridges as you can.”

  Reynes glanced at the fighting. The four-armed warrior had a broken spear protruding from its chest, but still it came on. The carts across Koron Street had been set alight by one of the flaming undead, and the Guardsmen beyond the barricade were being forced back by the blaze. Vamilians swept over the wagons, heedless of the fire. The general bared his teeth, then turned to Captain Hitch. “You heard the man! Find some Adepts and get started on those bridges. Andresal! I want a shield wall at every junction…”

  Ebon felt Grimes’s gaze on him. The sergeant spoke for the king’s ears only. “The river won’t hold long, your Majesty. Too many crossing points.”

  “I know that, Sergeant. So does Reynes. If he can weather the tide for just a bell or two he will give people a chance to get to the palace.”

  Grimes’s frown betrayed his doubt. “Can the fortress hold any better against that witch’s fireworks…” His voice trailed off. He was staring at something over Ebon’s shoulder. “Watcher’s beating heart!”

  Ebon spun round to see a figure floating down through the clouds of dust above them.

  Mottle.

  The old man’s grubby robe was scorched, and a bruise colored the left side of his face. He touched down a few paces away, scratching at his groin.

  Ebon gave a half smile. “For once your arrival is timely, mage. I presume you heard the sergeant’s question. Can the sorceries invested in the palace’s walls withstand an attack by the sorceress?”

  “For a time.”

  “How long?”

  Mottle spread his hands. “So difficult to judge without knowing the full measure of the witch’s strength, yes? Mottle’s best estimation? A day, perhaps.”

  “Then we ride out now. Cut her down before she enters the city.”

  The old man nodded. “Assuredly, my boy. Assuredly. Mottle will join you, of course. The slaying of his Adepts demands a response in kind.”

  “Can you match her?” Grimes said. “Seems to me she’s one up on you.”

  “The gates? Pah! A lucky strike! A low blow when Mottle’s guard was down!”

  “Who is she, mage?” Ebon asked. “What is she?”

  “A Fangalar. One of the elder races, responsible, it is said, for the extermination of the Vamilian civilization. My studies suggest—”

  “Is she the power behind the undead?” Ebon interrupted. “Can we end this now if we kill her?”

  “Alas, no. Can you not sense the thread of death-magic holding her? The woman is just another pawn in this game. If the puppets’ strings cannot be cut, you must instead sever the hand plucking them.”

  “One thing at a time, mage. First we deal with the sorceress.” Ebon turned to Grimes. “How about it, Sergeant?”

  Grimes scowled. “You’re asking me?”

  “Unless you have other plans.”

  “There is that. Tarqeen barracks, then. I’ll muster the troop there.”

  Ebon nodded. “A quarter-bell, no more.” He watched the sergeant dart away.

  Rendale spoke at his shoulder. “I’m coming too.”

  Ebon had forgotten his brother. Rendale’s face was smeared with dust, and a trickle of blood ran down from one nostril. Ebon gripped him by the shoulders and pulled him close. “No. I need you to do something for me. Find Lamella. Get her to safety.”

  Rendale screwed up his face. “You don’t have to protect me. Any one of the Guardsmen—”

  “Please,” Ebon cut in. “I need someone I can trust. She will be alone … Her house in the Marobi Quarter—you know it? Ge
t her out by the river if you can. If not, take her to the palace.”

  Rendale stared at him for a while, his expression appraising. Then a flicker of a smile crossed his face. “Spiriting away the maiden in distress? At last a task suited to my skills.”

  They shared a quick embrace, then Rendale turned and hurried away along the street, pushing against the flow of soldiers coming the other way. Within moments he was lost from sight.

  A strangled cry sounded to Ebon’s right, and he spun to see a Pantheon Guardsman impaled by a spear wielded by the four-armed warrior. The soldier was lifted into the air and thrown back into the ranks of his companions. An arrow sprouted between the eyes of the undead fighter, but he did not slow. The enemy had now overrun the marketplace, and red-cloaked Guardsmen were retreating down the streets leading off it. With every heartbeat more Vamilians came streaming through the breach in the city walls.

  “Come, Mottle,” Ebon said. “We have tarried here too long.”

  CHAPTER 12

  LUKER SAT with his back to a needle of rock, looking down into the depression. At its center was a pool of silty water a score of paces across. Beside it, Merin knelt on the cracked mud and withered mosses, sieving water into his flask through an old shirt that must once have been white but was now the same hue as the muck. As if that was going to make the water any cleaner. Chamery was at the opposite end of the pool, stripped to the waist as he scrubbed his upper body. The pasty skin of his hairless chest contrasted starkly with the flush of his face and neck.

  Jenna spoke from behind Luker, startling him. “What a charming sight. I can almost smell the roasting flesh.”

  The Guardian frowned. The assassin had an unnerving ability to creep up on him unheard. But then that was her thing, wasn’t it? As she moved alongside, a gust of wind seized her hood and tugged it back. Luker’s gaze lingered on her face. While Chamery’s healing had repaired the worst of the damage from the attack at the inn, pale crisscrossing scars remained. Like as not, those scars would never fully fade, and they gave her a look of fragility. Of something broken and inexpertly fixed.

  Looking back at Chamery, he said, “Enjoy the show while you can. The boy heals himself every half day or so.”

  “With sorcery? But won’t that draw the soulcaster—”

  “Aye. Like a fly to shit.”

  “Then why haven’t you put a stop to it?”

  Luker shrugged. “What’s the point? With or without the boy’s help, the soulcaster can track us the same way I track him.”

  Jenna fanned herself with one hand. It was early morning, but the temperature had already risen to skin-prickling intensity. “Is there no escape from this damned heat?”

  “You could try wearing something other than black.”

  “Unfortunately my wardrobe is a little limited on that score. One of the hazards of my profession.”

  “Then be grateful the worst of the summer is behind us. Couple of weeks back this pool would’ve been nothing more than a puddle.”

  Jenna’s expression was thoughtful. “How far to the next water?”

  “Day and a half, maybe.”

  “So if the Kalanese couldn’t drink here…”

  Luker didn’t like the glint in her eye. “What are you thinking?”

  Jenna inclined her head in the direction of her pack. “I’ve brought a few surprises that could slow our pursuers down. Just a couple of drops of something subtle … With luck they might all wet their lips before they detect the poison.”

  Luker hesitated. “I’ll think on it.”

  The assassin smiled her crooked smile. “Worried some innocent might get caught out too? Why Luker, I hope you’re not going soft on me.”

  Muttering, he rose. “Need to stretch my legs. Join me?”

  “Why not.”

  The Guardian led the way up a rocky bank and paused at the top to look out over the plains. Over the Waste to the east another storm was brewing, while to the south the flatlands stretched into the distance, broken only by the huge cairns of dead tribal leaders that rose through the ocher haze. Who knows, maybe Luker had put one or two of them in the ground himself.

  Jenna had gone on ahead. At the foot of the slope she crouched to examine something half-buried in the sand, and when Luker joined her he saw bones—the curved ribs of a mule, perhaps, now riddled with teeth marks. Farther on was a human skull, both eye sockets cracked. Beside it lay a coil of tarnished silver inset with yellow jewels. The armlet of a Talenese elder.

  Jenna gestured to the skull. “Just a few paces away from the waterhole. Do you think he knew how close he got?”

  “Won’t have been thirst that did for him. Banewolves, most likely. Knew the pool would draw their prey. Cunning bastards—won’t hesitate to attack a tribesman on his own.”

  “Lucky for you that I came along as escort, then.” The assassin picked up the armlet and made to slide it over her wrist.

  “Don’t!” Luker snapped, seizing her arm. Her eyes flashed, but he did not release his hold. “That thing knows who its master is. Put it on, and the coils will constrict till they touch bone. Tribal magic. Saw it happen to some merchant guard in a trader camp near Karalat. Fool ended up losing the arm.”

  Scowling, Jenna pulled free of his grasp, then dropped the band and crushed it under a heel. “And for a moment there I thought I couldn’t hate this place any more.”

  “You knew what was coming. Or would you rather have stayed in Arkarbour?”

  “I don’t like these open spaces. Too exposed. The only shadows out here are ours. And I can hardly hide in those, can I?”

  “Get used to it. Three days till we hit the Sun Road. Another three before we reach Arandas. Assuming we don’t run into trouble in the meantime.” Or should that be more trouble?

  “How far behind is the soulcaster?”

  “When I last checked, same as before—three bells.”

  Jenna must have heard the uncertainty in his voice. “Would you rather it was two?”

  Luker pursed his lips. “Kalanese horses are more used to this terrain. They should outrun ours easy enough.”

  A wave of sand swept over them, and the assassin lifted a hand to shield her eyes. “You said their leader sensed you. Maybe he wants to keep his distance. Maybe he doesn’t like you any more than the rest of us do.”

  Luker looked at her askance. What, people didn’t like him? And he’d always tried so hard to be nice to everyone. “Then why bother trailing us at all? No, the soulcaster’s up to something.”

  “Is it personal?”

  “You mean, does he know me?” Luker shook his head. “Doubt it. But he’ll recognize a Guardian when one crosses his path. We’ve always been at the sharp end of Avallon’s dealings with Kal Mecath.”

  Jenna kicked at the sand round the skull in case it hid any more of the dead man’s possessions. “What is he, this soulcaster?”

  “Spirit-mage. Like a necromancer, except where a corpse-hugger feeds off death, soulcaster drains the souls of the living. Uses his enemies’ life forces against them. Unless they’re strong enough to resist, in which case he takes from his own troops.”

  The assassin’s eyebrows lifted. “And they just let him, I suppose?”

  “Aye. Fanatics, the lot of them. Soulcaster sucks them dry. Their souls never make it through Shroud’s Gate.”

  Jenna had found a dagger with a broken tip. As she examined its jeweled pommel her look became distant. “I can see why that might have its attractions.”

  Luker searched her eyes, but did not recognize what he saw in them. “If you wanted oblivion the Breakers would’ve been happy to give it to you.”

  “Perhaps I’m just too stubborn to make it easy for them.”

  “Stubborn, aye, I’ll not argue that.”

  Before Jenna could respond, a noise came to them on the wind. Luker tilted his head. At first all he could hear was the whisper of dust. Then, faintly … Hoofbeats. He exchanged a look with Jenna, then turned and scrambled b
ack up the slope. Stones skittered under his feet. Reaching the top, he scanned the plains once more. There was a disturbance on the horizon, a blur amid the swirling clouds of sand. Riders. Drawn up in an arrowhead formation, too. More Kalanese? He was sure of it. The soulcaster’s been driving us toward them all this time.

  With Jenna at his heels, he ran back to the waterhole.

  Merin looked up from where he was rooting through his saddlebags.

  “Riders,” Luker called. “Less than half a league away.”

  The tyrin’s face darkened. “Gods, man, you said three bells.”

  “Not the soulcaster. Another group, coming from the west.”

  “Kalanese?”

  “You want to hang around to find out?”

  Merin packed the last of his water bottles and closed the saddlebag. “How many of them?”

  “Enough,” Luker said, seizing his horse’s bridle.

  Chamery pulled on his robes as he stumbled from the pool. “Our horses are spent. We won’t get far.”

  “Aye. We ride east for that sandstorm.”

  “Into the Waste.”

  “For now. After we lose them in the storm we can head north, skirting the edge of the plains.”

  “And if the Kalanese follow us in?”

  Luker swung into his saddle. “Pray that they do, mage. Pray that they do.”

  * * *

  Ebon slowed as he passed through the gates of the Tarqeen Barracks. The barracks yard was littered with shattered roof tiles, discarded weapons, and riding tack. The mess hall beyond must have been hit by falling masonry, for there was a hole in its roof, and its flagpole, broken halfway up, had toppled into the yard. The crimson Pantheon colors lay stamped into the dirt at Ebon’s feet. Piled unceremoniously inside one of the empty horse stalls were a dozen twitching bodies—townsfolk, judging by their lack of uniforms. And now undead. The wrists and ankles of each captive had been bound. Smears of blood across the yard indicated where they had been dragged.

  To Ebon’s left thirty soldiers from Sergeant Grimes’s troop were saddling horses. Behind them was another group of riders, and the king blinked when he recognized the consel. With Garat were his sorceress, first adviser, and more than a score of his guard. The four armored demons stood to one side, leaning on their axes. There was no sign of the consel’s brother.