When the Heavens Fall (56 page)

The force of Galea's outrage struck him like a blast of arctic air, strong enough to drive him to his knees. For several heartbeats her anger crushed him. His chest felt tight, and he struggled to draw in a breath.

Abruptly the goddess was gone from his mind.

For a while Ebon could do nothing but wait for his breathing to settle. The cold of Galea's touch lingered, yet his cheeks burned hot with indignity. It seemed his pride could still be goaded after all. He opened his eyes to see Vale in front of him, a sober expression on his face.

“You still with us?” the Endorian said.

The king nodded stiffly. Ignoring the hand Vale extended to him, he rose and stumbled to his horse. The Sartorians had gone, but Ebon could see the direction they had taken from the trail left by the demons.

Remounting, he set off in pursuit.

 

C
HAPTER
17

T
HEY CAME
in a silent rush from the shadows. Riding at the rear of his party, Luker had time only for a half shout to his companions before the white-robed attackers, twoscore in all, were on them. Drawing his swords, he struck out with his Will at the figures approaching from the left. The lead runners were hurled backward, bringing down those behind, and the charge on that side faltered. From the right, a wave of warriors rushed in.

The first attacker, a dark-haired man with sunken eyes, came within range. The Guardian parried his sword thrust and kicked him in the face, knocking him down. Two women took his place. A swing from Luker's right blade sent the first woman's sword arm tumbling away, then a reverse cut connected with the other assailant's temple, shearing away the top of her head. Expecting the woman to fall, Luker was almost taken by surprise by her counterattack, and he raised his second sword just in time to turn aside a cut to his abdomen.

Shroud's mercy, what is this?

Just then Luker's horse pitched into the woman and sent her stumbling into one of her fellows. The Guardian felt something rub against his side, and his gaze fell on the rope tied round his saddle horn. It was drawn taut, and he suddenly remembered the spare horse. For a heartbeat the line went slack before stretching tight again and jerking Luker's mount about so it faced back along the White Road. A score of paces away the spare horse—a gray—was tossing its head as it tried to pull free of the rope holding it.

A sword glanced off one of the scabbards at Luker's waist, then another skittered across the leather armor at his back. All around him was a shifting sea of bloodless faces, grasping hands, thrusting swords. Cursing all the while, he struggled to keep his seat as blows rained down on him.

A blinding black flash, then a wave of sorcery cut a swath through the attackers to his left. It seemed Chamery had woken up at last. Moments later there was a groan of wood followed by a crack as a tree crashed down across the road behind Luker. Close enough for him to feel the wind of it as it fell, but then no doubt Chamery would have counted it as good luck if it had hit him. Leaves were thrown into the air before falling back down to settle not on the White Road but on the mud to either side.

Another tug from the spare horse.

Luker tried to gather his thoughts. If he cut the gray loose, it would take most of their supplies with it.
No choice.
Before he could deal with the animal, though, he needed to buy himself some breathing space, and so he tugged on his reins and brought his mare sidestepping to the right. The rope, now drawn tight between his mount and the spare horse, struck the white-robed figures on that side with enough force to sweep three of them from their feet. Even as they fell Luker lashed out with his Will at the enemies to his left. The weight of attacks eased for a heartbeat, and he switched his focus to the rope.

He swung his right sword to sever it.

Just as it went slack. His blade cut a shallow nick along his mare's neck, before tangling in the animal's mane. The rope itself was unmarked. His horse whickered.

Luker let off a stream of curses. A white-robed swordsman sprang at him, and he raised his blade to defend, only for a jerk from the gray to pull his sword round. His enemy's weapon missed Luker's own to flash a finger's width from his knee cap. Struggling to control his temper, the Guardian leaned forward and aimed a backhand cut at his assailant's head, adding a touch of the Will to strengthen the attack. When the swordsman parried, his weapon was torn from his hand. Luker's follow-up caught him a blow to the chin, spinning him from his feet.

Now was his chance.

Shifting his attention to the spare horse, Luker unleashed his Will again, this time at the gray itself. The animal's head snapped back, and its legs gave way—back legs first, then front. When Luker tugged on his reins to make his mare retreat, the rope came taut and stayed taut. He swung the sword in his right hand.

The rope parted at the second cut.

Using his calves to exert pressure, Luker turned his horse in a circle, hacking down at the white-robed figures encircling him. Grisly work this, but work that needed doing. His assailants fought in unnatural silence, not a cry escaping their lips as the Guardian took pieces out of any who came within reach. Up and down his swords went until his muscles began to burn. He recognized a face among the press: one of the women he'd struck earlier, now missing half her head. Shards of bone clung to her scalp, but there was no hint of pain on what remained of her features.

Luker risked a look at his companions on the other side of the downed tree. Merin and Jenna had steered their mounts to take up positions flanking Chamery, and as a knot of white-robed figures bore down on them, the mage raised his hands and released a wave of black sorcery. The enemy went up in flames. More fighters were gathering in the trees behind, though, and they now came pouring onto the White Road.

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, have your men—”