When the Heavens Fall

by Marc Turner

  Luker served up another mouthful of steel to one of his attackers. He didn’t like running, but these bastards weren’t playing fair. You took a sword in the face, you went down and stayed down. Seemed like there should be a rule about that somewhere.

  “Break!” he shouted to his companions before digging his heels into his horse’s flanks. The mare bolted forward, barreling through the ring of Luker’s assailants. He used his left blade to block a swing from a foe on that side, then found himself with a few paces of clear ground. Ahead two white-robed figures were trapped beneath the fallen tree, struggling to free themselves. A woman lay on the ground beside it, the bones of her lower legs protruding from her flesh at impossible angles, but still she tried to rise before falling back again.

  As Luker reached the tree his horse leapt, its hooves clipping wood as it sailed over.

  His companions were already on the move, and he spurred to join them as they galloped deeper into the forest along the White Road.

  After half a league Merin reined in at the head of the group. The tyrin was bleeding from a cut to his temple. Jenna, too, had been injured, and blood seeped from gashes to her shoulder and thigh. For once Chamery did not need prompting. Sliding from his saddle, he approached the assassin to heal her wounds.

  Jenna’s face was pale. “Who in the Nine Hells were they?” she gasped. “The bastards just kept coming.”

  Luker’s gaze swung to Chamery.

  “Undead,” the mage said. “Spirits of the Vamilians, raised by Mayot.” He looked at Luker. “Did you not wonder why we hadn’t encountered any spirits since we entered the forest?”

  Merin’s voice was cold. “You knew they’d be here? And you didn’t think to warn us?”

  “I thought I’d be able to break the threads, damn you!”

  “Threads, what threads? What are you talking about?”

  “The threads from the Book of Lost Souls, of course! With the Book, Mayot can regenerate dead flesh, bind the soul to it—even if it has already passed through Shroud’s Gate. You wanted to know what Mayot was doing with all that power, here’s your answer. Legions of undead! Every Shroud-cursed soul that ever died in this godforsaken forest! The Book’s magic sustains them. Not just sustains them, controls them too.”

  “And if the threads are severed?” Merin asked.

  “Shroud take you, I’ve tried!”

  “Then how do we defeat them?”

  “We don’t!” Chamery shrieked. He spun away from Jenna and staggered to his horse. “I need time to think! Mayot should never have been able to … So soon…”

  The tyrin turned to Luker. “The boy can’t break these threads. Can you?”

  Luker had already reached out with his Will toward the undead trailing them along the White Road. Honing in on the lead man, he located the thread of death-magic emerging from his chest. There was no time to study the sorcery or probe it for weaknesses. The strand was no wider than a piece of string, though, so how difficult could it be to cut the thing?

  Tensing his Will, Luker hammered a blow to the thread of death-magic.

  Nothing. Not even a twitch.

  Three more times he struck at the strand. On each occasion it resisted him, its sorcery burgeoning even as Luker’s own power increased. Frowning, the Guardian withdrew.

  In answer to Merin’s inquiring look he said, “Not easily.”

  “What in the Abyss does that mean?”

  “It means those walking corpses are closing fast. It means I’m not going to waste my strength trying to cut a single thread when there are scores of the stiffs out there.”

  Merin’s scowl deepened as he faced Chamery. “What else haven’t you told us, mage? What other surprises—”

  “Later,” Luker cut in. He switched his gaze to Chamery. “And as for you, you were supposed to be our eyes and ears. Riding point means you don’t fall asleep in your Shroud-cursed saddle.”

  “I could not—”

  “Spare me the excuses. Just keep your senses sharp. Next time we might not be so lucky.”

  “Lucky!” Chamery snorted.

  “Aye, lucky. Whoever organized that ambush doesn’t know one end of a sword from the other. Thought he could get by on numbers alone. Why didn’t the undead strike at the horses? Where were the arrows, the spears, the crossbows? Why did the attacks come in two waves instead of one?”

  Merin spoke. “Because they’ve got a mage calling the shots, that’s why.”

  Luker scratched his scar. “Aye. And right now, that’s the only damned thing we’ve got going for us.”

  * * *

  Ebon caught up to the Sartorians at the edge of a clearing ringed by standing stones, each carved from a different type of rock. In spite of the waning light, the obelisks cast distinct shadows on the ground, all pointing at the center of the glade. The Sartorian soldiers, silent but for the rustle of armor, had spread out left and right to half encircle the clearing. The consel’s demons waited in a line beyond, Ambolina between them, Garat immediately behind.

  Standing by a fallen tree in the middle of the clearing was a figure no taller than Ebon’s waist. The child whose tracks they had seen earlier? No, not a child, he realized suddenly. A halfling. And since the Book’s magic could not penetrate this place … Alive, too. The man wore only a loincloth. His body was covered in thick white hair, and his face was daubed with black paint. He was speaking to Ambolina as Ebon arrived.

  “… fortunate indeed, paramir,” he said. “I did not think to find fresh meat in this forest.”

  Garat said, “We have no provisions to spare you, little man. Now, step aside.”

  The dwarf’s smile revealed filed teeth.

  Ebon swallowed. Somehow I do not think that is what he meant, Consel.

  Garat turned to Ambolina. “You know this man?”

  “No. But I recognize the mark of his power. He is a patron of Deran Gelir.”

  Deran Gelir. Fourth of the Nine Hells. Watcher’s tears, more demons. And if the dwarf’s conjurings were not from the same world as Ambolina’s … Ebon shifted his grip on his saber. His gaze raked the trees round the clearing, but he could make out nothing through the pools of shadow between the trunks.

  “What is your interest here, Jekdal?” Ambolina said.

  The dwarf sat down on the fallen tree and fingered a bone tied to a string round his neck. “Is it not obvious? I am waiting for the earth-magic to pass.”

  Garat laughed. “The bone? You fool! The death-magic will not return its owner to life.”

  The halfling ignored the comment, his gaze still on Ambolina. “You serve this man?”

  “There is no victory to be gained here,” the sorceress said. “The death-magic cannot penetrate this place now, but the resistance of the earth-magic is fading. Whichever of us should fall would only rise again.”

  The dwarf laughed. “‘Whichever of us,’ paramir? Spare me your dissembling! I can smell your fear.”

  “The threads of death-magic cannot be broken. Even by such as you.”

  “What makes you think I will have to? Your soul will be taken far beyond the influence of the powers here.” A flick of the halfling’s hand, and the forest behind him blurred, an alien landscape overlapping the trees as if Ebon were witnessing another of his spirit-dreams. A barren, rocky plain stretched for leagues into the distance, and the far-off horizon was shot through with crimson streaks like a promise of approaching flames. “In any case,” the dwarf went on, “my pets are hungry, and that hunger cannot be denied.”

  “‘Cannot,’ Jekdal?” Ambolina said. “Who is master here, you or them?”

  The halfling’s smile faded. “They serve me, as soon shall you.”

  “I’ve heard enough,” Garat grated. “Sorceress, you will have to continue flirting with this freak some other time. If he will not stand aside—”

  “Consel,” Ambolina cut in, “you must leave.”

  A muscle in Garat’s cheek twitched. “You do not command me. Tarda Sulin, ha
ve your men—”

  “No,” the sorceress interrupted again. “This is personal.”

  “And since when have your personal concerns taken precedence over my orders?”

  Ambolina studied him for a while, then said, “I will hold him as long as I can.”

  Ebon’s eyes widened. Even with her demons flanking her the sorceress knew she was outmatched. And with Mottle hamstrung by the earth-magic, and Galea unwilling to assist … Ebon hesitated. If he were to step into the dwarf’s path, perhaps the goddess would be forced to intervene.

  And then again, perhaps not.

  In response to the woman’s words, Garat’s eyes blazed in anger.

  The king caught a flicker of movement in the forest behind the consel. Darkness swirled between the trees.

  “Look to the shadows!” he shouted.

  The Sartorian soldiers were already turning.

  The gloom erupted.

  Screams rang out as a pool of blackness flowed over three Sartorian horsemen before closing on one of Ambolina’s demons. Its armor screeched and buckled, huge gashes appearing across the chest. The hapless creature was lifted squealing from its feet, its ax falling from its gauntleted hands.

  That was the last Ebon saw of the clash, for his destrier turned and bolted from the clearing, whinnying in terror. The air flashed red, and a wall of heat struck his back. A shriek sounded, so close behind it seemed the screamer must be sitting on the destrier with Ebon. His throat closed up tight. He didn’t know whether to kick his mount on or try to turn it to help those left in the clearing. He was dragged through a patch of brambles. Branches scratched him, thorns plucked at his sleeves.

  The red glow faded, and darkness returned.

  There were more screams now, all around him. Horses pressed in tight to either side like he was on a battlefield, and he was jostled as he fought to bring his mount under control. He looked for Vale and the others. They’d been behind him as he approached the clearing, so they should be in front of him now, but he couldn’t make out faces in the gloom. Ahead a horse with its mane alight went down, throwing its rider. Ebon hauled on his reins, tried to slow his mount’s rush, but he might as well have been trying to hold back a landslide. To the sound of crunching bones his destrier half leapt, half scrambled over the thrashing forms before veering right to avoid a tree. Ebon swayed and clung to his saddle horn.

  Suddenly he was on the path the demons had cleared through the brush. There were horses in front and behind. The forest bounced and crashed round him, shadows rearing all about. He glanced back, saw nothing but more shadows and a skyline edged crimson as if the sun were setting in the south. A blubbering shriek sounded, followed by a chorus of squeals like someone had set loose a banewolf in a pigpen.

  Ebon gave his destrier its head, and it fled into the darkness, following the tail of the horse in front.

  It drew up finally in a pool of water, one hoof pawing the ground, its trembling flanks bleeding from nettleclaw scratches. Looking round, Ebon saw Vale farther along the trail. The Endorian kicked his mount forward, mouthing something that was lost beneath a sorcerous explosion. Fires now raged through the trees to the south.

  Garat’s horse came stumbling through the gloom, and Ebon seized the consel by the arm. He had to shout to make himself heard above distant bestial roars.

  “Consel—”

  “Get your hand off me!” Garat snarled, pulling away and wheeling his horse. “Sulin! Sulin, where are you, by the Abyss!”

  Vale drew alongside Ebon. “Let him go.”

  Before Ebon could respond a shadow came crashing through the undergrowth. The king raised his saber, but it was only a riderless horse, stumbling as it splashed through the muck. Another scream sounded, a stone’s throw away at most. “Where’s Mottle?” Ebon called to Vale. “Ellea? Bettle?”

  The Endorian shook his head. “No time.”

  “We can’t just leave—”

  “Think! We’ll not find them in this light, and Watcher only knows what we’ll run into instead.”

  “And Ambolina?”

  “Not our problem.” Vale’s tone suggested he was glad to be rid of her.

  The consel had gathered half a dozen Sartorian soldiers to him and was now striking west on a course at right angles to the path to the clearing.

  Vale grunted. “Sense at last. We’ve got to get out of this valley. We can regroup in the morning.”

  Ebon made a sour face. If we live that long. The Vamilians could not have failed to notice the sorcerous exchange between Ambolina and the dwarf, and were doubtless converging even now on the depression. The earth-magic would keep them away for a time, but it would still be folly to wait here.

  The consel’s voice bellowed out, calling on more of his soldiers to rally to him. Behind Vale’s horse Ebon saw a woman in Sartorian colors lying facedown in standing water, her back torn to bloody shreds. He stared at her corpse for a few heartbeats, then sheathed his saber. Perhaps Mottle, Ellea, and Bettle had stayed together, he told himself. Perhaps Mottle would be able to track him down once they moved beyond the range of the earth-magic’s influence.

  “Seek me out, mage,” Ebon said. “When these words reach you, get your head out of the clouds and find me.”

  The consel and his soldiers were nearly out of sight, carving a path through the undergrowth with their swords. Ebon dug his heels into his horse’s flanks and set off after them.

  * * *

  There was rain on the close, early morning air, and the dawn mist had given way to unbroken cloud, turning the sky the color of clay. A storm was coming from the west, Parolla knew, but the rain would not be enough to breathe new life into the dying forest round her.

  Since leaving the battlefield of the Kinevar gods she had run without resting for three days and four nights. With every step the death-magic in the air had grown stronger. Running now only granted her limited respite from the dark energy building inside, and her skin burned as if a fire raged within. As the discomfort increased, she ran harder and faster, pushing herself to the limits of her endurance in an effort to suppress the urge to lash out at someone, something. The muscles of her thighs and calves now throbbed, and her every breath was a rasp.

  Thus far it had been easy to evade the undead legions, bypassing any concentrations of death-magic she detected ahead. Soon, though, there would be no avoiding the Vamilians. Mayot’s city was but a few bells away, and the forest in front was swarming with the magus’s servants, the book’s threads knotted among the trees like the tangled strands of a ball of wool.

  No more so than in the settlement before her.

  Standing beside the buckled flagstones of some ancient highway, Parolla peered through the trees toward ruined buildings a stone’s throw away. A few tendrils of mist persisted, curling round the stones and the trunks. The ground between the boles was scarred with trenches, over a dozen in all, each five paces wide and fifty long. Mounds of freshly churned earth were piled up beside them, and covering everything was a layer of leaf fragments. A handful of ghostly white threads disappeared into the trenches, meaning some of the undead were still buried underground, trapped in darkness and unable to move, without even the promise of death to offer them release. The sight should have touched Parolla, yet when she searched inside she found nothing.

  Tumbal Qerivan materialized beside her. He took in the scene, then said, “Among my people there are legends of a half-life, a world of shadow that existed before Shroud’s realm—before any realm of the dead—was forged. The Rivenghast, we call it. A place of purgatory, of lost and tormented souls…”

  He did not need to finish the thought. “What happened here, sirrah?”

  “The Fangalar, my Lady.”

  “They destroyed the settlement?”

  “They destroyed every Vamilian settlement. Butchered every man, woman, and child. These are their graves.”

  “Why?”

  Tumbal spread his hands. “Would that I knew. It is one of the great my
steries of the Second Age. The Vamilians were explorers and seafarers, and for centuries the Fangalar tolerated their empire building. A fragile peace existed, though there was little in the way of trust or friendship on either side. Then toward the end of that Age…”

  “War.”

  “Genocide, my Lady. The Vamilians had no answer to the sorceries unleashed on them, yet the Fangalar showed them no quarter. They hounded their prey even unto the ends of the earth. Millions perished. Entire continents were laid to waste.”

  Parolla’s lips quirked. “Perhaps it is as well, then, that you have not discovered this secret, sirrah—the reason behind their enmity.”

  The Gorlem frowned. “How so?”

  “The Fangalar might not take kindly to your knowing.”

  Tumbal sighed. “Thou may’st have the right of it. At times, the search for knowledge is a hollow pursuit, my Lady. What truth could possibly explain what the Fangalar did here? What justification could suffice?” He shook his head. “I fear the solution to this riddle, were I ever to find it, would bring only disappointment.”

  Parolla looked down into one of the graves. Two threads of death-magic burrowed into the earth. She thought she saw the soil around them move, but maybe it was just the wind. “Your people’s civilization dates back to the time of the conflict, does it not? Why did you not try to help the Vamilians?”

  “We did, my Lady. Missives were sent to the Fangalar. Delegations. Endless requests for audiences. Some of my kinsmen chose to stand with the Vamilians, in the hope it might stay the Fangalars’ hand. Others, like myself, came after”—he gestured to the graves—“to bury the fallen. To honor them in death as we could not in life.”

  Parolla blinked. “You, sirrah?” That must have been twoscore thousand years ago.

  “We are a long-lived people, my Lady. Or rather we were. In a way, the death of the Vamilians also marked the beginning of the end of our civilization. The question of whether to aid them split our nation.”

  “Would it have made any difference to the outcome if you had entered the war?”

  The Gorlem rubbed a hand across his eyes. “No, it would not. A simple enough answer to thy question, yet many thought it the wrong question to ask. Ultimately the rifts that developed among my people proved irreconcilable.”