When the Heavens Fall

by Marc Turner

  Garat ignored the remark, his gaze still on Ebon. “It appears your dog wants me dead. Now why, I ask myself? Surely not because he perceives me as a threat to your kingdom. Doubtless that will have fallen already.”

  Ebon looked back through the rent in the dome. Magic flickered through the murk ahead, and a distant scream rang out. “Are you sure of that, Consel?” he said. “Have you not wondered at the source of my … abilities? The powers I can now call on?” He faced Garat. “The alliances I have forged?”

  The Sartorian’s attempt at a smile came out more as a grimace.

  Then he turned at the sound of weapons being drawn. His soldiers were on their feet, peering between the trees to the north. His new tarda gestured for him to take cover.

  Ebon cursed. Had the undead found another way across the river? Or had a second Vamilian force been lying in wait on this bank? If the enemy knew they were here, they might still slip away if the goddess could close the breach in the dome behind them after they passed through it.

  Just then one of the consel’s soldiers emerged from the trees. The man made a chopping motion with his right hand before pointing back the way he had come and holding up a single finger.

  Ebon blinked. Just one?

  A voice became audible.

  “Brute! Foul-tempered beast! Forward! Forward, Mottle commands! No, not that way…”

  For the first time in days Ebon smiled.

  * * *

  Luker reached out with his senses to examine the thread of death-magic entering Kanon’s chest, hoping he had imagined it, knowing he had not. When his gaze finally locked to his master’s, he saw his fears confirmed in Kanon’s bloodless skin and blue-tinged lips. Luker searched his eyes for some hint of recognition, of friendship even. There was none.

  Kanon raised a hand, and the Vamilians closing in halted at the edge of the clearing.

  A laugh sounded, and Luker turned to see Chamery advancing. Water dripped from the mage’s hair and robes. Did he know who he was facing? If so, he clearly hadn’t learned anything from the Black Tower’s mauling on the night of the Betrayal. His power roared to life, black waves pouring from his hands to strike a Will-barrier in front of Kanon. The Guardian almost disappeared within a haze of shadow, his shield a pale outline in front of him. The tree stumps about him burst into flames and disintegrated.

  Kanon stood unmoving, his gaze still on Luker. If Luker had thrown his weight behind Chamery at that moment, their combined powers might have cracked Kanon’s defenses. Instead Luker just watched as his master gestured at Chamery and released his Will. The attack lifted the mage from his feet and hurled him across the glade. The mage hit a tree stump and flopped down into ankle-deep water, his sorcery winking out.

  Luker heard Merin speak his name, but none of the words that came after. “Stay out of this,” he told the tyrin, dismounting with a splash.

  As he approached Kanon, his slow steps were in marked contrast to the whir of his thoughts. He should not have been surprised, he knew, to find his master among the undead. Kanon had lost time in Arandas, yes, but he’d still left the city weeks before Luker left Hamis, and he would have had to crawl here for Luker to stand any chance of overtaking him. The whole thing seemed so obvious now. Kanon would never have left the forest empty-handed, and since Mayot remained in control of the undead and thus in possession of the Book …

  Luker took a breath. It was, he realized, a truth he’d been hiding from for some time.

  A part of his mind, though, still refused to believe. He could feel the force of Kanon’s Will in the strength of his gaze. Among the surviving Guardians perhaps only Gill was more powerful, and a mere handful of others could claim parity. Senar Sol, maybe. Sekel Endrada. If Luker hadn’t walked out on the Guardians—if he and Kanon had faced Mayot together—this would likely be over by now. No force on earth could stand against the two of them. No force ever had. His eyes narrowed. Maybe there’s still a way.

  He inclined his head. “Master.”

  “Luker,” Kanon said. The lines round his eyes had deepened since Luker last saw him.

  “You don’t look surprised to see me.”

  “Mayot sensed your approach. He thought it would be amusing if he sent me to intercept you. A mistake he will come to regret.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you are going to beat me.”

  “Glad one of us is sure of that.”

  A hint of a smile crossed Kanon’s face. “A crisis of confidence, my friend? Clearly a first time for everything.”

  “Aye, maybe.” Luker nodded at Kanon’s drawn sword. “But then, this’ll be the first time we’ve played for keeps. What makes you so certain you know which side the coin will come down on?”

  “Against you, my Will is at its weakest.”

  “You reckon it’s any easier for me?”

  “Why not? You at least still have something to fight for. The Book of Lost Souls—”

  “I’m not here for the Shroud-cursed Book. I came to find you.”

  Kanon frowned. “It’s too late for me, Luker. You must see that.”

  “The thread holding you—”

  “Cannot be broken.”

  “Maybe together—”

  “You don’t understand,” Kanon cut in again. “Mayot has ordered me to kill you. The Book holds me in an iron fist. I don’t have the strength to oppose it directly—it has taken all my Will just to give us this time to talk. Even now my resistance falters. Can you not feel it?”

  Luker could. Kanon’s power was closing round him like the coils of a boa snake. He focused his own Will, and the pressure eased a fraction. “If you can’t help me cut the thread, I’ll do it myself.”

  “If you try, I will kill you.” Kanon raised his blade a handspan, then halted the movement with an effort that showed as a tremble in his sword arm. “Even if you succeed, you cannot bring me back. If my soul is freed, it will pass through Shroud’s Gate. There’s nothing you can do to stop that.”

  Luker was finding it difficult to breathe. He needed space to think. “What happened to you?”

  “We do not have time.”

  “Tell me!”

  Kanon shrugged. “I failed. Mayot is guarded by four undead Vamilian champions. Alone, I was no match for them.”

  Alone. “I should’ve been with you.”

  The shake in Kanon’s sword arm was becoming stronger. “But you were not. Do not follow that line of thought, Luker. It will only weaken your resolve. To defeat me, you must control your doubt, your remorse. Clear your mind.”

  His words stirred in Luker a memory of his first days studying under Kanon on the Sun Road west of Bethin. His concentration slipped, and his master’s Will tightened about him. A gasp escaped his lips. His ribs felt as if they would crack.

  “You must fight me,” Kanon said.

  “Fight? I can … hardly breathe.”

  “Focus your Will.”

  “I’m trying, damn you!”

  “Anger will serve you no better than guilt.” Kanon paused, then said again, “You must fight me.”

  Luker’s face twisted. As easy as that? The thought of finding Kanon had been the one thing driving him since he had left Arkarbour. Now he was supposed to cross swords with him? True, he could not kill his master—Kanon was dead already—but to … incapacitate … him would just inflict suffering of a different kind. The invisible coils about him tightened again. “There must be … another way…”

  “To save me? No, my friend.” Kanon looked over Luker’s left shoulder. “But you can still save your companions.”

  Luker had forgotten the others. He could hear Merin’s and Jenna’s horses snorting, but their riders remained as silent as if they were spellbound. Jenna. The pressure about Luker eased slightly, and he gulped in a lungful of air.

  “Better,” Kanon said.

  “There must be another way,” Luker repeated. “Of breaking Mayot’s grip on you. If the threads can’t be destroyed, what about the Bo
ok?”

  His master smiled faintly. “To destroy the Book you must first kill Mayot.”

  And to kill Mayot, I’ve first got to beat you, aye. So his master had been trying to tell him, but Luker was not of a mind to listen. When he reached out again with his senses toward Kanon’s thread of death-magic, though, his master shook his head and raised his sword. Luker swore. He should have found time before now to test the undead’s threads more fully, for he still did not know whether it was possible to break the things. But then even if it could be done it would likely take all his concentration. And since Kanon had made it clear he would attack if Luker tried …

  Luker bowed his head. He understood then what he had to do. Perhaps he could not restore Kanon to life, but there was at least a form of release he could grant him. Luker had always believed his quest would end when he found his master. Now it seemed that was not to be.

  The crushing weight around him diminished further, and he drew in a heaving breath.

  “About time, my friend,” Kanon said. “I had begun to wonder if I’d overestimated you.”

  Luker unsheathed his swords. “This may hurt some.”

  His master attacked.

  * * *

  The way ahead was blocked by a throng of undead standing two or three ranks deep. They were turned away from Parolla, facing a clearing barely visible through the trees. A rapid series of clangs sounded.

  She should give this place a wide berth, she knew. There was little cover afforded by the trees, and the undergrowth had been trampled into the mud by scores of feet. If she tried to approach any closer she risked being seen, and there was no guarantee that whatever was distracting the Vamilians would continue to claim their attention. And yet, what was it that could hold the undead in such thrall? A duel, judging by the clash of swords, but that did not explain why the Vamilians were standing round watching.

  Parolla crept forward. It was slow going, moving from tree to tree, checking all the time for twigs that might snap underfoot. The ground was becoming heavier. Mud sucked at her boots, and her footprints left impressions that quickly filled with water. She frowned. Water? As yet the storm clouds had failed to deliver their promised deluge, and even then only the fiercest of downpours could have created such a quagmire. Was there another lake ahead, perhaps? A river that had burst its banks?

  Parolla had come as close as she dared. The Vamilians, no more than a score of paces away now, partly obstructed her view, but she could still see enough to recognize that what she had taken for a clearing was in fact … something else. Dozens of tree stumps rose like broken columns from the boggy ground. The devastation was worse to her left, where splintered trunks lay partly hidden beneath standing water and tangles of branches.

  Near the edge of the clearing to her right, a young man dressed in black robes lay facedown in the mud. Beside him were two riders, one of whom—a grim-faced, middle-aged man with gray hair—was even now swinging down from his mount and hoisting his stricken companion across his saddle. The attention of the other rider, a woman, appeared fixed on two swordsmen battling among the tree stumps.

  Parolla shifted her gaze to the combatants. The older of the two seemed familiar—one of the undead she had seen in Mayot’s dome when she surprised the magus six days ago? It was difficult to know for sure in the half-light. The warrior fought with a breathtaking economy of movement, seemingly always unhurried despite the speed of his opponent: a younger, taller man who wielded two blades as if they were extensions of his arms.

  Together the strangers spun a dazzling web of steel in the air. There was a hidden battle taking place as well, Parolla sensed. The clearing thrummed with the clash of invisible energies, a whirlwind of conflicting wills with as many strikes and parries as the swords. There was a bond between these two warriors, she realized—so closely matched in skill, so similar in style and movement that it was like watching a single swordsman duel his own shadow.

  What have I stumbled onto here?

  Both fighters appeared to be waging some inner conflict too. The soul of the undead warrior thrashed in the grip of Mayot’s spiritual chains. Though his efforts did nothing to weaken the book’s hold on him, they did have the effect of creating occasional gaps in his defenses. Yet in spite of the younger man’s speed, he seemed unable or unwilling to take advantage of the openings when they came. Did he believe his opponent’s moments of vulnerability to be no more than shams?

  A truly mesmerizing spectacle all in all, though in witnessing it Parolla felt as if she were intruding on something personal.

  Whatever the outcome of the duel, there would be no victor here, she knew.

  A final look at the combatants, then Parolla began retreating the way she had come.

  * * *

  When Romany had first seen Andara Kell enter the Forest of Sighs she’d immediately recognized him as the man who had attacked her temple all those months ago. Unable to match his power, she had been forced to watch helplessly as he ransacked the shrine. She might have forgiven him for the slaying of her servants—any acolyte careless enough to get caught in his sights was hardly destined for great things, after all—but the blow to her dignity, not to mention the damage to her quarters, was another matter entirely. Had the fool thought he would get away with such an outrage? Preposterous! Her only regret was that she could not reveal herself to him now and let him know who had engineered his downfall. Over the past few days she’d worked tirelessly to lead him to the lake beneath which the tiktar was buried. The rest had been easy: simply release her spells of concealment from around the elderling’s bones and inform Mayot of their whereabouts.

  She watched the tiktar drive Andara backward through the trees with a flurry of attacks too fast for her eyes to follow. The elderling’s strength was formidable, and if what she’d read about the creatures was true Shroud’s disciple had a few more unpleasant surprises awaiting him. The tiktar had set ablaze the trees round it, and was now drawing on the flames to fuel its power in the same way Andara drew on the death-magic in the air. A burst of fire streaked toward Shroud’s disciple from the end of one of the tiktar’s blades, causing cracks to appear in the man’s sorcerous shields.

  With characteristic deftness, Romany started weaving strands of magic about Andara as he fought. Nothing that would arouse his suspicion, of course. Just a touch here to slow his sword arm, a nudge there to hinder his footwork. As ever, it was the little things that made a difference. No doubt the tiktar didn’t need any help in dispatching its opponent, but the priestess was not about to take any chances. Truth be told, she’d had doubts about this part of her master plan. By awakening the tiktar she was delivering into Mayot’s hands a weapon that could win him the war. For the opportunity to eradicate this particular disciple of Shroud, though, she was prepared to take that risk.

  She had watched with interest as Parolla took the right fork round the lake and continued alone toward Estapharriol. Clearly the woman knew Andara, for Romany had seen them talking together after their massacre of the Vamilians in the settlement to the west. But then why had they not traveled together to the lake? And why had Parolla made no move to intervene in Andara’s clash with the tiktar? The priestess stroked her chin. Come to think of it, how in the Spider’s name had the woman managed to cross half the Forest of Sighs in only six days? A journey of more than fifty leagues? On foot? Impossible!

  Her thoughts were interrupted by a disturbance in what remained of her web. Another player had entered the game, a short distance to the north. Looking back at Andara and the tiktar, Romany saw Shroud’s disciple momentarily seize the initiative, his blades flickering with black flames as he forced the elderling onto the defensive. She hesitated for a heartbeat before flashing toward the new arrival across the intervening stretch of forest.

  Well, well.

  Not one arrival, as it turned out, but a dozen. Huntsmen, to be precise, riding along a road leading to Estapharriol. Each horseman wore an antlered helm, the front piece of whic
h was shaped to resemble a snarling mountain cat. The lead rider was a huge man garbed from head to toe in plate-mail armor. In one hand he held a half-moon ax; in the other, a battered shield. The antlers on his helm were tipped with silver. Antlers also sprouted, Romany noted with distaste, from the head of the horse he was riding.

  A disordered group of Vamilians blocked the road ahead, but the Huntsmen did not check their advance. To the sound of clanging metal and breaking bones, they smashed through the undead.

  Frowning, Romany watched the riders thunder into the distance. What interest did the Lord of the Hunt have here? Had the god sent his followers to claim the Book? If so, did he really think he could defeat Shroud’s legions of disciples with but a handful of Huntsmen? Then Romany saw the nets hanging from the saddles of the rearmost riders. Magic was woven into the fibers—magic intended to drain the power of anything that became entangled in the nets’ links. And since it was safe to assume the Huntsmen weren’t here on a fishing trip, they had to be stalking someone. Someone their Lord must want badly indeed to have sent his minions into this godforsaken place. But who? Mayot, perhaps? One of his undead servants?

  It mattered not. Whoever the Huntsmen’s intended target, their presence here would inevitably bring them, and consequently their Lord, into conflict with Mayot.

  And that, Romany decided, could only be a good thing.

  * * *

  Rain had started to fall, and Parolla raised the hood of her cloak. The world all about her was gray, from the cloud-filled skies, to the charcoal husks of trees, to the leaf fragments and ash that had mixed with the rain and mud to turn the ground into a morass the color of steel.

  The Vamilians were becoming more numerous, and Parolla had abandoned the main road for a game trail. As she followed it east she had to battle against the urge to run. During the clash at the settlement she had burned off much of the dark energy inside her that had built up since entering the forest, but her power was swelling again.

  Tumbal appeared beside her, walking with both sets of arms folded across his chest. “Thou took’st a grave risk at the clearing, my Lady. If but a single Vamilian had observed thee…”