by Marc Turner
“I’ll be more use to you in the shadows.”
He searched her eyes. Was she making a break for it? No, she’d had plenty of chances before now to walk away if that’s what she’d intended.
When Jenna spoke again, her voice sounded hollow. “You think I’m going to run.” Her expression was hidden by the darkness.
“Never said—”
“You didn’t have to.”
“Jenna—”
“I don’t blame you for doubting me, Guardian. I doubt myself. Perhaps we both have good reason to.”
Before Luker could respond, she crossed to the doorway and slipped out into the shadows.
* * *
Running as fast as she could, Parolla followed the trail of Vamilian corpses left in the Fangalar’s wake. In a short time she reached a well-trodden road and tracked the riders’ hoofprints east. A few hundred paces brought her to the dome of death-magic she had encountered on her first visit to the city, now hissing and sparkling where the rain struck it. The Fangalar had made a breach in the black wall, and curls of death-magic crackled round the opening. Parolla passed through without slowing.
Inside the dome there was a chill in the air. From the right came the sound of running water, and she looked across to see a stone watercourse. The river flowing along it foamed as it divided into three smaller channels that snaked their way between the ruined buildings before cutting across the road ahead of her. Each channel was narrow enough for Parolla to jump over, and she continued on.
A scattering of undead moved to block her path, and she swept them aside with her sorcery. In the distance she heard the din of a score of minor battles, but the gloom about the city was such she couldn’t see the combatants. She should be taking more care herself to avoid detection, she knew. Andara had warned her of other disciples abroad, and at the pace she was traveling she risked running headlong into the arms of one. Thoughts of the Fangalar, though, spurred her on. If the four riders reached Mayot before her, would they destroy the book? It was not a chance she was prepared to take.
A forested hill materialized in the murk ahead, and visible beyond it—though almost entirely obscured by the hill’s southern slope—was Mayot’s dome. Parolla slowed. Swirling round the summit of the hill was a vast spiral of gray cloud that had ripped a hole in the dome of death-magic. From within the vortex a shaft of lightning flashed down toward the hilltop where it was met by a burst of white light. The lightning ricocheted away to hit a tree, and the trunk exploded.
Parolla smiled without humor. She recognized the signature of that defensive sorcery, for its caustic residue still prickled across her skin. The Fangalar. And it seemed from the clash of powers that they had come up against an opponent worthy of their enmity. So much for them reaching the dome ahead of her. Who had they picked a fight with this time, though? A disciple of Shroud? One of Mayot’s undead champions? Curious, Parolla began the ascent.
She followed a muddy track that led up the heavily wooded, southwestern slope of the hill. The path had been churned up by the footsteps of those who had gone before her, and she slipped and slithered through the muck. The wind strengthened. The branches of the trees round her thrashed in its grip. A few Vamilians struggled up the trail ahead, bent almost double against the gale. Parolla’s sorcery cut them down, left them twitching and smoldering behind her. It had to be done, she told herself, but in truth was she was getting tired of this need to justify everything she did. As she approached the crest of the rise another flash of lightning illuminated the sky.
She halted.
There was something moving in the storm. No, not something, someone. An old man dressed in a white robe, cackling as he spiraled round on the vortex. An air-magus without question—and judging by the lack of any thread of death-magic holding him, not one of the undead. On the hilltop beneath him were two Fangalar sitting astride their snow-white horses. Only two? Parolla’s gaze searched the trees to either side for their missing companions, but she could make out nothing through the shadows between the boles. One of the mounted Fangalar—a woman—sent a shaft of sorcery streaking up toward the circling air-magus, and the magic detonated within the tattered clouds, briefly setting them alight. The old man, though, had already disappeared deeper into the maelstrom.
Beside the sorceress, and facing away from Parolla, was the orange-robed leader. His attention was fixed on a figure half-hidden among the trees in front of him, and Parolla moved to get a clearer view. A shaven-headed man was on his knees in the mud, writhing in the grip of a fist of light. All about him the ground was crusted with ice, and his body convulsed as waves of sorcery blazed from his hands. Like the air-magus, he was no undead. Meaning he is here for the book. Once more her rivals for the prize were contriving to remove themselves from her path.
Parolla’s body started to tremble in response to the power raging on the hilltop. She looked at the two Fangalar, felt her blood rise. In her mind’s eye she saw again the lines of pain across Tumbal’s earnest face, the disconsolate look in his eyes …
She shook her head. No! This was not her fight. The Gorlem himself had told her not to avenge him, and even if he hadn’t, the Fangalar were not her enemy. Yes, they had hurt her in their attack on the Vamilians, but that attack had not been directed at her. She should leave them and their opponents to tear each other apart. She was not here for Tumbal or the Vamilians, any more than she was here for the Fangalar or the unfortunate souls they were battling. She owed them nothing. Nothing!
I came for Mayot. For the book.
For Shroud.
Taking a breath, she turned to leave.
* * *
Sorcery roared about Ebon. A blinding white light, bright as sunshine on snow, burned his eyes through their closed lids. The goddess’s magic coursed through him, scalding his blood with freezing fire even as it shielded him from the Fangalar’s attack. He shivered uncontrollably, teeth chattering so hard he thought they might crack. Still Galea poured more and more power into him. It was not enough for the goddess merely to hold the Fangalar at bay, yet when Ebon attempted to push back against his opponent’s sorcery the pressure bearing down on him only seemed to increase.
He could sense Galea raging at his weakness. Doubtless she was more than a match for the Fangalar leader, but Ebon was not. The goddess’s power was flooding into him faster than he could channel it. He was losing feeling in his hands and feet, and the chill was creeping along his limbs, first to his wrists and ankles, then to his elbows and knees. If it reached his chest he would die, he knew. He was caught between the breaker and the cliff. The wards around him were failing beneath his enemy’s assault, yet if Ebon tried to strengthen them by taking in more of the goddess’s magic it would kill him as surely as the Fangalar’s. Black spots flashed before his closed eyes. The darkness started to build as unconsciousness reached for him.
It took Ebon a while to register that the Fangalar’s attack had broken off. The crackle of magic in his ears gave way to the rush of the wind. Galea continued to deluge him with sorcery, but he wrenched himself free from her grip. Perhaps he should have been curious as to why the enemy had halted their attack, yet he could not think past his next tortured breath. Sensation gradually returned to his limbs, and he felt the rain on his face, the cold muddy ground beneath his knees. He opened his eyes a crack. Through a film of tears he could make out two of the Fangalar, the leader and the sorceress, still mounted on their ghostly white horses. There was no sign of their companions.
Twin forks of lightning flashed down toward the two riders, only to deflect off invisible wards. One bolt struck the ground a handful of paces from Ebon, throwing up a spray of earth that was caught by the storm and whisked away. The smell of rancid eggs filled his nostrils. The female Fangalar sent a shaft of sorcery lancing up into the gloom. Amid the clouds Mottle rode the maelstrom with arms outstretched, whooping like a child. The mage’s robe had ridden up above his waist, and Ebon was suddenly grateful for the darkness that cloaked
the hilltop.
The king’s gaze shifted to the orange-robed Fangalar. The man was no longer looking at Ebon. Instead he had half turned to glance back along the trail he had followed here. There was a figure among the trees. Vale. It had to be. The Endorian must have circled round, hoping to catch the Fangalar unawares with an attack from the rear. Now that Vale had lost the element of surprise, though, he would have no defense to a sorcerous strike.
Grimacing, Ebon pushed himself to his feet.
* * *
As Parolla began to turn away, the Fangalar leader’s head came round, his blond hair fluttering behind him. His expression showed uncertainty, then a look of recognition crossed his features. His scowl set Parolla’s heart drumming in her chest.
She was not going to let him catch her unawares as he had in the forest, and she spun wards of shadow about herself.
The Fangalar flinched, then gestured at her.
A flash of sorcery exploded round Parolla, and her blood roared up in answer.
That, she thought grimly, was a mistake.
* * *
Romany stamped a spiritual foot. This was not supposed to happen!
She had watched events unfold on the hilltop with increasing bewilderment. The actions of the shaven-headed man on his knees—Ebon, she had heard him called—had come as the greatest surprise. Romany had observed his party when it first entered the forest many days ago, but she’d paid no notice to Ebon, believing any threat would come from his companions: the black sorceress with her lumbering mountains of scrap metal, or the ridiculous old man now cavorting among the clouds. Yet here Ebon was, holding back a torrent of magic so powerful even Romany herself would have been hard pressed to withstand it. There was a strange flavor to his sorcery, she decided, reminiscent of the elite mages among the Vamilian undead. A curious detail, but not one of any significance, for whatever the source of his magic he was no match for the Fangalar leader. It had taken a while for the orange-robed rider’s superior might to tell, but Ebon’s wards had eventually begun to collapse in the face of his opponent’s offensive.
Then Parolla had appeared, and the balance of power had shifted. She’d done no more than raise defensive wards about herself, but the Fangalar had obviously interpreted her actions as a precursor to a strike for he had responded by attacking. The woman’s strength was prodigious, fueled as it was by the threads of death-magic in the air, and if she were to combine forces with Ebon the two of them might well overwhelm the Fangalar. Ebon, though, had apparently been driven from the game by the orange-robed rider’s earlier assault. Clambering upright, he had managed only a half step forward before being bludgeoned to his knees by the storm. He did not rise again. His capitulation had left Parolla to face the Fangalar alone, and she was now being forced back by the man’s sorcery.
Romany cast her eye over the combatants once more, then threw up her hands in disgust. How by the Spider’s grace did these fools expect to bring down Mayot Mencada if they spent all their time squabbling among themselves? Didn’t they realize Mayot was likely rubbing his hands together as he watched the battle? The old man would be the only winner here, for whichever faction emerged triumphant would probably be so weakened by the conflict that they’d make easy pickings for the undead now converging on the hilltop. And if Mayot was to resurrect the losers, their conquerors’ triumph would be short-lived indeed …
A flicker of movement caught Romany’s eye. A third Fangalar rider had appeared among the trees behind Ebon. Bending low over his horse’s neck, he thundered toward the shaven-headed man’s unprotected back, brandishing a sword in one hand.
A shadowy figure sped to intercept him, and suddenly the Fangalar and his mount were tumbling to the ground. The rider turned his fall into a dive, twisting in the air before rolling on one shoulder and coming to his feet in a crouch. A blur of motion before him, and the Fangalar’s eyes started streaming crimson tears. He lifted his hands to his face, screaming. A gray-haired, grizzled man wearing chain-mail armor appeared beside him for a moment, a bloody dagger in his right hand.
Romany blinked and he was gone.
Oh my! An Endorian!
Clever of the timeshifter to incapacitate his victim rather than kill him, thereby ensuring he could not be resurrected by Mayot. Clever, if a little … clinical. In any event, with the Vamilians closing in on the hilltop, the stricken man’s stay of execution would not last long.
As Romany looked away, she sensed another tremor along the strands of her web. Ordinarily she would have ignored it—the whole city was going to the Abyss, after all—but this disturbance came from one of the entranceways to Mayot’s dome. It seemed someone had managed to fight their way through the hordes of undead and was now knocking on the old man’s door.
Taking one final look at the combatants, Romany sighed. There was nothing she could do to untangle this particular knot, even if she had known which faction to side with.
Perhaps at the dome she could be more of a thorn in Mayot’s side.
* * *
Looking round the corner of an alley, Luker studied the dome. The building was no more than two hundred paces away at the end of a street choked with bodies. From an arched entranceway, curls of black sorcery snaked like tendrils of smoke. The air was flush with power. It just needed a spark and the whole damned place would go up.
A spark Luker intended to provide.
First, though, he had to get to the archway, and while nothing stirred in the blackness ahead, he could sense dozens of threads of death-magic converging in the shadows between the buildings. No doubt there were other entrances to the dome, and other roads leading to those entrances, but he suspected they would offer no better prospect of safe passage.
One road to the Abyss was as good as another.
The rain was sheeting down now, and Luker edged closer to the wall on his right. After separating from Jenna he had spent a quarter-bell weaving through the city’s streets. Only once had he met trouble, and that was of his own making. He had been seeking a victim on which to try out his newly acquired weapons, and a one-legged Vamilian man crawling along an alley had proved too tempting a target to pass up. The encounter had brought both good news and bad, for while the Vamilian had ultimately died beneath Luker’s sorcerous blades, it appeared that simply bringing the weapons into contact with the undead did not sever the threads of death-magic holding them. For that, a mortal wound was required.
A noise sounded in the alley across from Luker, and he shrank back into deeper shadow. There was movement in the darkness opposite—a lone figure picking its way through rubble and corpses. Not one of the Vamilians, since there was no thread of death-magic emanating from the stranger’s chest. Jenna, maybe? He couldn’t decide how he felt about that, because if the assassin had walked out on him then at least she’d be out of harm’s way.
The newcomer halted at the mouth of the alley facing Luker. A man, judging by his height. His features were hidden by a cowl, but his eyes were still visible, shining with yellow light. He was clothed all in black, and in his gloved hands he held oversized, golden-bladed sickles. Death-magic swirled about the weapons.
When the stranger spoke, his voice was soft and sibilant. “Greetings, Luker. My name is Kestor ben Kayma. I’ve been expecting you.”
Luker said nothing.
Sickle Man looked at the sword in Luker’s hand. From the shadows of his cowl came a flash of white teeth. “I see you’ve met the lovely Lady Carlem. Such a tragic loss.”
The Guardian shifted his grip on the sword’s hilt. “I’m not the one with her blood on my hands.”
“If you were, we wouldn’t be having this conversation. Shroud sends his greetings and bids me convey to you an offer.”
Luker hawked and spat. “Things going that bad for him, eh?”
“There have been setbacks, yes. Temporary only.”
“So he’s decided he wants to add me to the ranks of his lapdogs. How flattering.”
Kestor did not react to
his sarcasm. “He’ll be pleased you see it that way. My master is aware that you’ve distanced yourself from the Sacrosanct. That you are now, shall we say, a free agent.”
“The answer is no.”
“You haven’t heard my offer yet.”
“I don’t like the strings attached, whatever they are.”
Sickle Man examined the blade of one of his weapons. “What if I were to tell you my Lord has information that may be of interest to you? That Mayot Mencada is no more than a pawn in someone else’s game, and that the responsibility for Kanon’s death ultimately lies with another?”
“The Spider, you mean.”
Kestor’s lengthy silence confirmed Luker’s shot had hit the mark.
A man’s strangled cry ripped through the air from somewhere behind and to Luker’s right. It rose in pitch to an agonized shriek, then was cut off.
The Guardian raised an eyebrow. “Friend of yours?”
Sickle Man’s eyes flashed a deeper yellow. “Shroud is a generous master—”
Luker’s snort interrupted him. Was this joker for real? A leash round his neck was still a leash, irrespective of the hand holding it. And when you signed up with a Lord such as Shroud, you wrote your name in blood. “I am no one’s servant. Not now. Not again.”
Kestor’s voice held a note of warning. “The friendship of Shroud is not lightly spurned, friend.”
“Your master wants Mayot dead, right?”
“Correct.”
“So do I. Means we’re on the same side.”
“Allegiances can change.”
“Aye,” the Guardian said, “and if that’s your intent, you’re going the right way about it, friend.”
There was a long pause. Carried on the wind came the sound of running feet from a few streets away. Sickle Man’s gaze, though, held steady on Luker. “As you will,” he said finally. “I assume I don’t need to warn you about the perils of treachery.”
“I reckon you just did.”
Kestor showed his teeth again, then looked at the dome. “Mayot resides within. He has assembled a formidable host of guardians.”
