When the Heavens Fall

by Marc Turner

  Luker’s gaze swung to Harelip. You are mine. A flurry of blows forced the undead warrior backward, then a strike with Luker’s Will knocked him off balance. The Guardian followed up with a disguised attack, feinting with the longknife in his left hand before slashing with the sword in his right. The Prime read his intent late but still brought his weapon up to block. Not this time. Another flick of Luker’s Will batted aside the parrying stroke, leaving his blade unimpeded as it swept down to sever his opponent’s sword arm at the elbow. A backhand cut came next, aimed at Harelip’s neck. As the undead warrior attempted to sway out of the way, he lost his footing and ducked into the blow. Luker’s sword took him full in the face and caught there, just below the nose. The undead warrior went down, poleaxed, wrenching Luker’s blade from his hand.

  The Guardian looked at Poxface to see her struggling to regain her feet. No danger there.

  He transferred his longknife to his right hand, then spun and threw in one motion. The blade flashed end-over-end through the gloom.

  To impale one of Sickle Man’s opponents through the neck.

  A roar of sound was Luker’s only warning. He raised a Will-barrier just before a wave of sorcery struck him, and it pitched him onto his back in a pile of leaves. Shaking his head, he rose to one knee. Another burst of power slammed into his defenses. He gritted his teeth as death-magic raged about him. A dozen figures were making their way round the dais toward him, and the stranger in the lead, a woman dressed in multicolored robes, raised her hands to send another wave of blackness thundering against his defenses. A second undead sorcerer added his strength to hers, then a third and a fourth. What, four on one now, was it? Seemed Mayot had had enough of sporting chances.

  As each assault struck, the Guardian felt an answering flash of agony in his skull. Poxface was caught in the path of the attack, and her body disintegrated to ash.

  Then a flicker of light caught Luker’s eye—an arc of movement through the darkness. A glittering object—no, two—sailed through the air toward the undead sorceress and her coterie. Through his pain, it took Luker a heartbeat to recognize what the things were.

  Merin’s globes.

  He recalled the two globes that had already been used: earth against the soulcaster, water in the forest. Assuming the tyrin had one of each element, that left …

  Shroud’s mercy!

  Luker flung himself to the ground.

  CHAPTER 22

  VALE SWEPT through the undead, leaving a dozen broken bodies twitching in his wake. Ebon followed behind, his gaze searching the shadowy doorways to either side. A single Vamilian swordswoman had escaped Vale’s initial pass, emerging from the darkness to his right. She sprang at the Endorian, her ivory-colored robes flapping about her.

  There was no time for Ebon to shout a warning. Instinctively he struck out at the woman, and an invisible force hit her, sent her crashing into the wall of the house on her left. The wall groaned and collapsed, then the entire building folded in upon itself. Vale spun round, his eyes darting. Three quick steps brought him to the mound of debris that was all that remained of the house. His sword swung down, and the Vamilian woman, already making to rise, toppled back into blackness, her right leg severed.

  Ebon lifted his hands and stared at them. Had that burst of sorcery been his? If so, why had there been no icy prickle when he’d lashed out? And why had Galea intervened to help one of his companions when thus far she’d been at best indifferent to their fate? Unless … He quested for the goddess, found her a distant presence at the back of his mind. Could he now draw on her magic without her agreement? Had he inherited some of her power through the link between them?

  His questions would have to wait. From a street or two away came a clatter of stones and the sound of running feet. Gesturing for Vale to join him, Ebon ducked into shadow mere heartbeats before more Vamilians dashed past. As their footfalls faded, he slipped into their wake. Mayot’s dome was just a stone’s throw away, and he led Vale at a jog toward an arched entranceway.

  They drew up in darkness beyond the threshold. A hissing noise filled the air like waves breaking against a shore. Within the gloom ahead he could make out nothing except shadows, but the clash of metal striking metal was unmistakable.

  Looking back at the hill where he had left Mottle and Parolla, he saw a ring of trees ablaze. Galea had refused to let her power be used in the battle against the tiktar, insisting that Ebon make his way to Mayot’s dome. At the time he’d been incensed, but now, following the death of one of the Kinevar gods, he understood the reason for her urgency. A god … He had felt its power through his link with Galea. There would be no defeating the immortal, the goddess had told him, if it reached this place, and this once Ebon had had no trouble believing her. His only hope was to cut its strings—to cut all the undead’s strings—before it arrived.

  Vale’s face was pale. Blood leaked from a cut at the top of his left arm, and his shirt round the wound was torn and drenched crimson.

  “How bad is it?” Ebon said.

  “A scratch.”

  “We should find somewhere quiet so I can stitch it.”

  “Yeah right. And maybe one of the stiffs will lend you a needle and thread.”

  Ebon hesitated, then took the Endorian’s arm in his hands. Without the goddess to guide him he had no idea how this worked. To swat the Vamilian swordswoman aside he’d done no more than will it to happen. Was it the same with healing? Peeling back the blood-soaked cloth, he focused on the wound. Vale flinched as the flesh knitted together. An instant later, all that remained was a jagged scar.

  “Not a work of art,” the Endorian said.

  “Neither are you.”

  “Have I got the goddess to thank for that?”

  “No.”

  Vale frowned, but said nothing more.

  Another crash of blades sounded from inside the dome. Ebon shot a look at the Endorian. “The consel, do you think?”

  “Maybe we should give it a while longer before going in.”

  Ebon gave a half smile.

  Suddenly a gust of wind hammered into him from behind, propelling him down the corridor. A deep-throated rumble sounded from within the dome, followed by an explosion that shook the walls of the passage. The ground beneath Ebon’s feet heaved, and he stumbled into Vale.

  A blast of cold signaled Galea’s arrival in his mind. The goddess shouted a warning.

  Then a wall of fire came rushing at him from inside.

  * * *

  Luker watched the glass globes smash at the feet of the undead sorceress in the multicolored robes.

  The floor kicked like a horse. A flash of orange lit up the dome, then the firestorm rolled over Luker’s Will-shield. He closed his eyes. Above the roar of the flames he could hear the shriek of the wind, feel it tugging at his limbs even as it crushed the breath from his lungs. Gasping, he drew in a mouthful of fiery air, then clamped his teeth shut as flames seared his throat. The hairs on the back of his hands began to curl and crisp. Biting down on the pain, he honed his concentration in an effort to strengthen his shields. Just stick it out a bit longer, the sorcery had to fade soon.

  Another score of agonized heartbeats passed before the wind started to die down. The heat eased as well, leaving Luker’s skin feeling tight as if he had spent too long in the sun. When he opened his eyes it seemed as if the whole dome was on fire. One of the trees at the corners of the dais had been incinerated; the others were pillars of flame. The leaves blanketing the floor had also been set alight and now rippled like the surface of a lake of fire. All about, the Vamilians blazed like human torches. Of Mayot’s undead sorceress and her coterie, nothing remained except oily black fumes. A section of the dome’s roof on the opposite side of the dais collapsed. Chunks of stone came thumping down onto the motionless ranks of undead. Not one of the Vamilians tried to evade the falling masonry, and dozens were crushed or crippled. Rain swept down through the hole in the roof.

  Even Mayot himself had not
escaped the inferno unscathed. His throne had been toppled, and the mage was on his hands and knees beside it. The Book of Lost Souls lay on the floor, smoldering. For an instant Luker wondered if the fire would take hold, but the old man used his robes to beat at the Book’s cover, and the smoky flames faded.

  The Guardian clambered to his feet and looked about him. No sign of Jenna. He hadn’t seen where she’d fired her crossbow from, but she must have been close to make that shot. Had she had time to retreat before Merin’s globes smashed? Hells, had she even survived Mayot’s sorcerous tantrum earlier? He thought to shout her name, then decided against it, for if she still lived he would do her no favors by calling her out of the shadows.

  To Luker’s right, Kestor ben Kayma lay curled in a pool of blood, his black robes slashed in scores of places. Looks like he’ll be sitting the rest of this one out. The man’s cowl had slipped down to reveal blue-black skin that was scaled like a snake’s. His sickles jutted from the corpse of one of the Prime, and Luker considered taking the weapons but rejected the idea. If Shroud’s disciple had been dead, his body would have vanished. Perhaps he might still recover enough to take part in the struggle to come.

  Merin stood beside Sickle Man, his beard and eyebrows singed, his face a lurid red. Beyond him Consel Garat Hallon stooped to retrieve the sword he had lost in his fight with the Prime. Two of his soldiers crouched beside a fallen comrade, shaking the woman.

  The Guardian’s longsword lay among the calcined remains of Harelip’s skeleton, and he used the Will to summon it to his hand. Next he retrieved his longknife from the body of one of the Prime that had been fighting Sickle Man.

  The nearest Vamilians lurched into life and shambled toward him, their ivory robes ablaze.

  Merin approached.

  “What in Shroud’s name are you playing at?” Luker said to him. “If you’d landed those globes in Mayot’s lap this would all be over now.”

  The tyrin gave him a dark look. “I will not risk damaging the Book.”

  Luker’s laugh was little more than a croak. “You still think Mayot will deal? Gods, man, you just tossed away your last bargaining chips.”

  “As ever, you underestimate the emperor.”

  “You’ve got more of those things?”

  “No.”

  “Then what?”

  Merin rubbed a hand across his jaw. “Mayot will bargain when he hears what I’ve got to say.”

  “Assuming he even lets you get the words out. The bastard said—”

  “I heard what he said! He’ll change his mind before this is done.”

  The undead were almost on them. Luker’s gaze fixed on a charred figure in the front rank, its flesh so badly burned it was impossible to tell if it was a man or a woman. The warrior’s left eye had melted and was running down its cheek. Its chain-mail armor glowed red beneath scorched robes.

  Luker handed Merin his longknife. “You know how to use this, right?”

  The tyrin accepted the weapon with a frown.

  A new voice spoke. “Gentlemen, I am Garat Hallon, consel of Sartor. While you’ve been wasting time arguing, the undead have moved to block our path to the archway. When I give the order—”

  “Save your breath,” Luker cut in. “Last time I looked, I wasn’t wearing one of your soldiers’ pretty uniforms.”

  “That can easily be arranged.” Garat glanced at Merin. “Much as the notion offends me, a temporary withdrawal would seem—”

  “Run if you want,” Luker said. “We’re staying.”

  “You think you can put out all of these human torches? Just the two of you?”

  Luker looked at Mayot. “Won’t have to. Just enough of them to carve us a path through to that bag of bones on the dais.”

  * * *

  Romany’s spirit returned to her body, and she opened her eyes. She started. Danel stared back at her from where she sat a few paces away. The girl’s eyes glittered as if with some inner light, but the rest of her features were hidden by shadows. She looked small and alone in the dark, knees drawn up to her chest, arms wrapped round her knees.

  Romany propped herself up on one elbow, then sank back as hot needles of pain stabbed her head. How long had she been spirit-traveling? Three bells? Four? Her body could not match the fortitude of her mind, alas, but then again, what could?

  She had fashioned invisible magical barriers over the windows and roof of her house to shield it from the rain, yet still she could hear a steady drip, drip of water nearby. Then she realized her right sleeve was wet. Tutting with disgust, she lifted it out of a puddle and wrung it dry. For a time she lay looking up at Mayot’s dome of death-magic. Over the past bell the storm had swelled, and she could hear the wind prowling outside, gusting strong enough to shake the walls of the house. The air inside, however, remained hot and humid and thick as butter.

  I could be back at the temple by now. A bottle of Koronos white …

  Pushing the thought away, she rose to her feet. In order to carry out her plan she would have to confront Mayot in person, and that meant braving the storm. True, the old man’s dome was not far from here, but the wind and rain were hardly conducive to a dignified entrance. Romany felt her pulse quicken. There was a certain thrill to being part of the game once more. It was not for her, this standing in the wings, watching the other players stumble over their lines. Admittedly the Spider had seemed less than enamored with her plan, but then the goddess probably resented the fact that the idea had not been hers.

  Lifting the hem of her robe so it did not drag in the puddles, Romany made for the door.

  Danel spoke from the darkness. “You are leaving?”

  “Yes, my dear.”

  “For the dome?”

  “Indeed.”

  The girl rose, her hands clenched at her sides. “Perhaps you should remain here. There are fell powers converging on the city.”

  “Such nonsense!” Romany scoffed. “Formidable these strangers may be, but they are none of them immune to a woman’s wiles. The fools will not even see me.”

  “And if the strike aimed at you is also unseen?”

  The priestess halted. There was something odd in Danel’s voice. It’s nervousness, she decided. The poor thing fears for my safety. Did Danel really think, though, that any of Romany’s enemies could hide from her? An absurd suggestion, for her web would long since have alerted her if someone had come close enough to be a threat.

  Still, it would not hurt to check, if only to assuage Danel’s concerns. Tentatively Romany probed the threads of magic woven round the building. If anyone waited in the shadows outside, she would sense them.

  Nothing.

  How could she ever have doubted herself? She would have to be wary, of course, as she made her way to the dome. A confrontation with one of Shroud’s vermin would be most regrettable, but it should be a simple matter to slip past anyone who crossed her path. She looked at Danel. “Do you wish to accompany me?”

  “No.”

  Romany pursed her lips. “Yes, perhaps it is best that you stay. The city is dangerous, after all.”

  “I have my orders.”

  Romany stared at her. A strange thing to say, but there was no time to think on it now. She crossed to the door, then paused. If her plan worked—If? When!—the souls of the Vamilians would be freed and she would not get another chance to say good-bye to Danel. A word of farewell was only proper, yet if she observed the correct social niceties she risked alerting Mayot to her intent if he were somehow listening in on the conversation. Unlikely, considering his current predicament, but Romany had ever been one for details.

  A footfall sounded behind her.

  Then the priestess felt a lancing pain as something cold and hard entered her back, scraping against one of her ribs. A moment later the dagger—for that was what it surely was—was twisted and withdrawn.

  She collapsed.

  * * *

  Parolla wiped tears of laughter from her eyes.

  These would
not be the same Huntsmen from Xavel, she knew, for there was no way they could have tracked her through Mezaqin’s demon world. But then where had the riders come from? She had passed through no settlements on her journey across the Ken’dah Steppes, and besides, these riders did not have the look of tribesmen. Perhaps the high priest had sent word ahead to a temple in one of the nearby cities, but then how had he known she would come this way?

  The lead Huntsman was a huge man wearing dented plate-mail armor. The antlers on his full-face helm were tipped in silver, and he wielded a half-moon ax. When he saw her he bellowed a challenge and dug his heels into his horse’s flanks. Its hooves threw up spray as it splashed through the puddles.

  “Huntsmen,” Mottle said. “Servants of—”

  “I know who they are,” Parolla cut in.

  “Just as they appear to know you. Mottle presumes their intentions are not friendly.”

  The leader approached the fallen tree where the tiktar sheltered. As his horse gathered itself to leap, the flames flickering over the trunk roared to new life. The elderling was suddenly among the startled Huntsmen, its blazing swords leaving glowing trails in the gloom.

  Parolla smiled. “It seems the tiktar is as not perceptive as you, sirrah, when it comes to distinguishing friend from foe.”

  “There are few that are, it is true.”

  A lone rider had broken free from the melee and was galloping toward Parolla. He lowered a lance.

  “Allow me,” Mottle said.

  A fist of air punched the man from his saddle, and his legs wheeled over his head as he tumbled backward. He landed in the mud with a crash of armor and lay still. His now riderless mount continued toward them.

  “Take the horse,” Parolla said to Mottle. “Get out of here.”

  “What, and entrust my life again to one of those brutes?”

  “This isn’t your fight. It never was.”

  The old man appeared not to have heard her. He gestured at the Huntsmen. The tiktar was cutting a swath through the riders. “Ought we not to intercede? With the elderling distracted…”