When the Heavens Fall (68 page)

With a roar of frustration she went down.

The Vamilians swarmed over her, hacking and slashing.

A score of heartbeats later it was over.

As the undead returned down the alley, Luker drew back into the shadows and listened to their footfalls die away until only the drumming of the rain could be heard.

When he risked another look outside, the street was still.

“Wait here,” he whispered to Jenna, then crept into the gloom.

The Vamilian bodies were piled knee-high in the alley, and it took him an age to scramble over the shifting mound of flesh, looking round at every sound to check the undead hadn't been alerted to his presence. Shroud's disciple lay half-hidden beneath a decapitated white-robed spearman. Luker seized the Vamilian and heaved him off. Then almost wished he hadn't since it gave him a clear look at the swordswoman's head. She must have taken a blade in the face, and it hadn't done much for her looks if he was honest. Her left cheekbone and lower jaw had been sheared away, and the bone round the wound was smashed to shards. Everything else was blood.

Luker located her right arm and followed it down to her hand. Even in death Shroud's disciple clung to the hilt of her sword, and he had to pry apart—

The woman's eyes snapped open, the fingers of her left hand curling round Luker's wrist. Blood frothed at her lips as she tried to speak. The Guardian growled wordlessly. Didn't anything die in this Shroud-cursed place? Curling his free hand into a fist, he struck her on the bridge of her nose. Her whole face shifted, and blood spattered his shirt. With a groan, the swordswoman slumped back.

Luker waited a handful of heartbeats to see if she would stir again before resuming his search for weapons. Sheathed in a scabbard at the woman's waist was a longknife, and strapped to her wrist, a dagger. The Guardian removed these, then wiped his now bloody hands on the woman's cloak. A breath rattled in her throat …

And her body began to fade.

Stiffening, Luker took a half step back and almost lost his footing as his heel came down on something soft. By the time he recovered, the swordswoman's corpse was pale as mist, the flagstones of the alley visible below. Moments later she was gone. Luker grunted—evidently Shroud was wasting no time in claiming his disciple's body. The Guardian had been fortunate to reach the woman when he had, he realized, for if she'd succumbed to her wounds any sooner she would have disappeared taking her weapons with her.

A last look round to ensure nothing moved in the passage, then Luker hurried back to the building where Jenna waited. The assassin's eyes widened when she caught sight of the swordswoman's weapons. “Of course,” she said. “The corpses that stay dead.”

“Time to find out whether it's the weapon or the hand that wields it that's responsible.” He ran a finger along the flat of the longsword, tracing a line of blackened symbols etched into the metal. The contact numbed his skin. He smiled. “Seems the odds just evened out in our favor.”

“Sorcery?”

“Aye. Damned thing reeks of death-magic.”

He took a few practice swings with the sword. The blade was longer than his own weapons, but lighter and equally well balanced. He offered the longknife to Jenna, but she shook her head and took the dagger instead. It vanished up one of her sleeves.

“Follow me,” she said. “You're going to want to see this.” She led him to the opposite side of the building. In the far wall was a window, and Jenna gestured beyond.

Luker peered into the gloom. At first his gaze was drawn to a hill ahead and to his left. A fight seemed to be taking place on its summit, for a burst of sorcery momentarily lit up the sky. Then he saw a domed structure near the foot of the slope, rising above the ruins in its shadow. The threads of death-magic converged on the building like arteries leading into some diseased heart, and the air round it shimmered with black sorcery.

“Let's go,” Luker said.

Jenna shook her head. “You should know by now I never use the front door.”

“You want to split up?”

“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 some
thing,
some
one
. 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.