When the Heavens Fall

by Marc Turner

  The Guardian shook his head. “The temple isn’t sanctified. Hasn’t been for years.” He tested the air again. “I don’t know the sorcery.”

  “I do,” Chamery said. “A titan’s.”

  “Where in Shroud’s name have you come up against a titan before?”

  The mage smiled, but said nothing.

  Merin scowled. “I’d have heard if there was a titan on the loose in these lands. The emperor is meticulous in such matters.”

  “Maybe the titan’s on his way to report in now,” Luker said.

  Merin ignored the comment. “Can you sense the immortal nearby?”

  “No, though he can likely hide from me easy enough.”

  Chamery laughed. “But not from me. The titan has moved on, I am sure of it.” He looked at Luker. “It is safe for you to enter. Unless you’d prefer I went in first.”

  Jenna spoke from behind. “You’re going in there? Why?”

  “We need water,” Luker said. “There’s a well inside.”

  Merin crossed his arms. “Do we have time for this, Guardian? How far behind is the soulcaster?”

  “Maybe three bells. It’s either the well or a waterhole farther east.”

  “Closer to the Waste, then.”

  “Aye. Might be under sand by now.”

  The tyrin looked once more through the doorway, then nodded.

  Jenna snorted and turned away. “Someone has to stay to watch the horses. Knock yourselves out in there.”

  * * *

  Parolla crossed her arms as the riders approached up the slope. Earth-spirits crowded the ground beneath them, their rumble of outrage mixing with the thunder of hooves to make it sound as if a great host were bearing down on Parolla instead of the score or so clansmen.

  The slope was covered with boulders, but the horsemen guided their mounts round them with the skill of a people born to ride. They wore leather armor and carried spears and shortbows. Black-fletched arrows protruded from quivers strapped across their chests. At the front of the group was a man—the leader, probably—mounted on a gray horse with a white patch across its chest. The rider’s eyes were closed, but a large tattoo of a third eye, its lids partly opened, adorned the center of his forehead. A shaman, then. His face was gaunt to the point of emaciation, and his skin had a feverish cast to it. He’s dying, Parolla realized, his life force no doubt consumed by the threads of death-magic in the air.

  As yet the horsemen had not strung arrows to their bows, but she knew it would take but a heartbeat for them to do so. And there was no reason to think this tribe would be any less hostile to strangers than the ones she’d clashed with previously. Releasing her power, she wove wards of shadow about herself. A few days ago a score of horsemen bearing down on her would have set her heart pounding, but not now. For while the touch of the strands of death-magic seemed to be toxic to the tribesmen, for Parolla they had had the opposite effect. Her power had grown since she left the Shades. Disturbingly so.

  At a distance of thirty paces the shaman raised his spear and barked a command. The clansmen split into two parties. One group rode to Parolla’s left, the other to her right, and moments later she was surrounded by twin circles of riders, turning in opposite directions. A cloud of dust thrown up by the horses’ hooves swept over her, and she blinked grit from her eyes. The tribesmen were blurred shapes in the fog. A single arrow came whistling toward Parolla from ahead and to her right. It burst into fire as it passed through her sorcerous shadows and disintegrated. A crackle behind marked the incineration of another missile, then another, and another, as the horsemen wasted their shafts trying to pierce her wards.

  Parolla heard one of the clansmen call out, and a dozen voices responded with an answering cry. The pattern of shouts was repeated, growing louder each time, and in the chanting Parolla heard the beginnings of a ritual. The darkness within her started to build in response. Through the murk she could see the savages holding their spears out before them, the points sketching glittering symbols in the air. The ground beneath her feet shuddered, then her skin tingled as whatever power they were fashioning broke against her defenses. She had tensed herself for its impact, but the clansmen’s sorcery was weak, and she shrugged it off with ease.

  It was time to send a shot across their bows.

  She unleashed her power, and shadows rippled outward to deepen the gloom. As the darkness drew near to the tribesmen it was slowed by a wall of their magic. When Parolla pushed against that barrier, though, it gave way like rotten wood. Her tainted blood wanted her to keep pushing, but she held it back.

  Suddenly the riders broke on all sides, wheeling away with ululating cries. Another wave of dust rolled over Parolla. She could no longer see the horsemen through the murk, but she could hear their mounts’ hooves as they galloped down the slope. The earth-spirits rumbled their fury as they set off in pursuit. Parolla could detect the derision they directed at the backs of the retreating clansmen, but then it was easy to be brave when you were already dead. As the hoofbeats faded, she reached out with her senses to explore the rise in case one of the savages had remained behind to surprise her. The hilltop, though, was deserted.

  Parolla surrendered her power, and the gloom began to melt away, revealing a circle of withered black grasses all about, two score paces across. Beyond the circle lay a bow dropped by one of the riders, the wood warping as the last of her shadows lapped over it. The dust cloud was slower to disperse than the darkness. Her clothes were powder white, and she brushed herself down. In truth, she had not expected the tribesmen to withdraw so quickly, for on her journey from Enikalda to the Shades only blood had sufficed to drive her attackers off. Then she remembered the dwarf and his demons, and heard again Tumbal Qerivan telling her about other powers abroad on the steppes, drawn to the far-off source of death-magic. Evidently the clans had learned the wisdom of caution from those who had gone before her.

  A cough sounded behind her, and she turned to see Tumbal standing a short distance away. As he approached he spread his four hands as if to assure her he carried no weapons. “Good day to thee.”

  “And to you, sirrah. Forgive me for leaving without you this morning, but when you did not return from scouting…”

  Was it possible for a spirit to blush? For a heartbeat Tumbal’s ghostly cheeks seemed to darken. “The scream we heard … It was not, ah, as we believed, but rather two clanspeople, who did not, ah, welcome the interruption.”

  Parolla covered a smile. “No wonder you were so keen to investigate.”

  “My Lady! I would not—”

  “Of course not, sirrah. Yet I notice you did not return to the grove to watch over me, as you said you would.”

  The Gorlem bobbed his head. “A thousand apologies. I have been in conversation with the earth-spirits of this land, a more arduous endeavor than thou might’st suppose. They are—how may I put it?—somewhat lacking in education. I had hoped to negotiate safe passage for thee across the plains, but it appears the spirits have not the intelligence to see reason.”

  Parolla looked down the slope at the fleeing riders. “Perhaps not the spirits, but I think the tribesmen may be more accommodating.”

  “They fear thee, my Lady?”

  She did not respond.

  The dust cloud was at last settling, and Parolla stared out over the plains below. The land appeared to be in the grip of a drought, for the ground was blanketed in a sickly haze, and the tall swaying grasses were scorched brown. To the south and east a great host was emerging from the fog. First came a line of perhaps fifty wagons flanked by horsemen. Behind was a herd of lederel patrolled by yet more riders and, in the ground beneath, earth-spirits. Dogs ran yapping up and down the column. An entire tribe. Were they fleeing from the source of the death-magic she was traveling toward?

  The horsemen who had confronted her were riding to join their kinsmen. Parolla would have welcomed the chance to trade for a horse, but she suspected a clan on the move would have none to spare. If they even
let me come close enough to ask. In front of the host was a broad pillar of rock supporting a horizontal stone slab. A territorial marker. The fugitives, it seemed, were about to enter another tribe’s domain, but Parolla doubted their neighbors would open their arms in welcome. The clansmen of the steppes had a reputation for being more hostile to rival tribes than they were even to strangers. Overhead redbeaks were circling. Even the carrion birds know it.

  Removing the stopper from her water bottle, she took a swig. Tumbal moved alongside her, his outline a blur at the edge of her vision. When she glanced across, the Gorlem was crouching beside a pile of rocks, one of his spectral hands opening and closing round a stone.

  “What are you doing, sirrah?”

  Tumbal did not look up. “I once met a man who had lost an arm to a sword stroke. He told me that, on occasion, he could still feel the missing limb. It is the same for me. When my fingers close round this rock, some part of me refuses to accept that I cannot grasp it.”

  “A memory of the flesh. It will fade in time.”

  Tumbal straightened. “It is the same with victuals. At mealtimes I feel cramps from a stomach I no longer possess. Curious.”

  The Gorlem’s look was one of such solemn deliberation that Parolla could not help but smile, and she felt a pang that she had not arrived at the second demon rent in time to save him from the Jekdal. Then the moment passed, and her face twisted. Don’t be a fool. You wouldn’t have lifted a hand to help him. “It seems you have much to learn about being a spirit.”

  “Just so,” Tumbal said, nodding. “Alas, there is one aspect of my condition to which I believe I will never grow accustomed.” He settled the palms of all four hands across his ample girth. “If I’d known that I would spend eternity in such poor trim…”

  “I think it suits you.”

  “I had not thought of myself as being so … expansive.”

  “Are you sure of that? Your spirit doesn’t have a physical form, after all. The image I see before me is no more, I suspect, than a projection of how you see yourself.”

  “Thou art suggesting I can make myself appear any way I choose?” Tumbal considered her words. “An intriguing proposition. I must needs think on this further.”

  Parolla returned the stopper to her flask. Her gaze took in the muscles of the Gorlem’s forearms. “Tell me of yourself. You are a warrior?”

  “No, my Lady. I am a scholar—an engineer by trade.”

  “What did you build?”

  “Cities. Well, dwellings, if truth be told. And only for a time, at that.” Tumbal looked at his feet. “Few of my constructions stood the test of time. When demand for my services diminished, I decided to become an inventor.”

  “And what did you discover, sirrah?”

  “Only that I was less than accomplished in that calling also.”

  Parolla’s mouth twitched. “I always thought your people were a myth. I’ve seen mention of your civilization in only a handful of texts, and even those claim you died out centuries ago.”

  “My civilization, yes, but some of my kinsmen remain, scattered across the world. I fear, my Lady, that I am … was … among the last of my kind. It is scores of years since I last saw one of my people.”

  “You have traveled alone all that time?”

  “I have.”

  A cloud passed in front of the sun, and Parolla shivered. “How do you cope? With the solitude, I mean?”

  Tumbal crouched to try his luck with a smaller stone. “My kinsmen are, in many respects, a private people, and over time I have grown used to my own company.” He paused. “I have also learned to accept those things in my life I cannot change.”

  Parolla looked back at the column of clansmen. A handful of lederel had broken away from the main herd and were being rounded up by whooping riders. “I wish it were that easy.”

  “My Lady?” Then, when she did not reply, he continued, “Thou art not a stranger to solitude thyself?”

  Parolla should not speak of this to Tumbal, she knew, but the words were suddenly spilling out. “Can you sense what is happening to the steppes, sirrah? The effect of the threads of death-magic? The land is becoming barren, the air poisonous. Soon everything will die. It is the same with me.”

  “I do not understand.”

  The lead elements of the migrating tribe had reached the territorial marker, and a group of horsemen was gathering about the stones to spit at them and strike them with their spears.

  Parolla said, “No living soul can survive in my presence for long. Over time, they fall ill. The skin swells and blisters, the blood runs black, the limbs turn gangrenous. The process can be a slow one, and it took me years to realize I was responsible for the sickness of those round me.”

  Tumbal edged closer. “Is there no controlling this taint?”

  “Don’t you think I’ve tried? A while ago, I met someone I … came to care about. In my selfishness I allowed myself to stay with him for a time. Then one day he was taken ill. I fled. I haven’t had the courage to return. To see whether he survived. To explain why I left.”

  “But thou art a necromancer, art thou not? Life and death are but two sides of the same coin. Can thy power not be used to heal as well as harm?”

  At the territorial marker one of the clansmen had looped a coil of rope round the supporting pillar of rock and was now pulling on the rope in an attempt to topple the stones. A dozen of his kinsmen dismounted to join him.

  “It can,” Parolla said in response to Tumbal’s question. “Wounds, diseases, I can cure. I can even regenerate lost flesh and bone. But whether I can undo the … corruption … that I myself cause … I doubt that.”

  “But thou dost not know for certain.”

  Parolla met the Gorlem’s gaze finally. “You would have me find out? And what if I fail? How many more must die before I discover the answer? No, it is better this way. Alone.”

  Tumbal’s shoulders straightened. “Alone no longer, my Lady. Tumbal will abide.”

  Parolla studied him for a while, then nodded. “The dead, at least, I cannot harm.”

  The sound of distant hoofbeats came from the west, and Parolla looked across. Two horsemen emerged from the haze that shrouded the steppes, whipping their mounts with their reins. A heartbeat later scores more riders appeared behind them, less than a quarter of a league away. Earth-spirits thronged the ground beneath them.

  They were heading toward Parolla.

  Muttering an oath, she gathered her power about her again. For a moment she thought to duck behind a boulder, but the horsemen would already have seen her. Apparently the retreat of the shaman and his men had not been a retreat in truth. Apparently they’d simply withdrawn to wait for reinforcements. She should have taken the chance to flee when she had it.

  Then she noticed the approaching riders, unlike the fugitive tribesmen, wore metal skullcaps and capes made from lederel hides.

  They veered their mounts toward the rival clansmen to the south.

  Looking down the slope, Parolla saw the fugitives preparing for battle. To the sound of shouting and yapping dogs, they began to maneuver their wagons to form a circle into which the lederel were driven. While some of the clansmen took up positions between the wagons, others unleashed a volley of arrows at the incoming riders. As the rain of death fell about the horsemen, a loud rumble signaled the clash of the two groups of earth-spirits that accompanied the tribes.

  Parolla turned away. “Let’s get out of here, sirrah.”

  * * *

  Luker crossed the entrance room of the temple, keeping close to the wall in spite of the aching cold radiating from the stone. What remained of the floor seemed sturdy in spite of the yawning hole at its center, but Luker was taking no chances, testing each tile before trusting his weight to it. Ahead was a jagged crack in the ground, more than a handspan wide. The tiles were crumbling along its edges, while below …

  Light blossomed at his back, and he started. When he looked round he saw Chamery a pace behi
nd, the tip of his staff glowing. Too damned close by half. A nudge at the wrong time would send Luker plummeting into darkness.

  “You trying to climb into my pocket?”

  Chamery gave a mocking salute and shuffled back.

  The Guardian risked a look into the fissure. A score of armspans below lay the corpse of a pentarrion. Its black, chitinous carapace was encrusted with ice, and rivulets of water trickled down its flanks. Of the subterranean chamber itself, nothing could be made out except row upon row of amphorae—some whole, but most shattered—stretching into darkness. The floor round the pentarrion shifted like ripples on a lake, and Luker heard the hissing of wither snakes.

  Another hiss sounded, closer this time, and he looked down to see a serpent slithering between his feet. Instinctively he drew back only for his left elbow to brush the wall. A stab of cold passed through his arm, and he jerked away, leaving shirt and skin behind. Cursing, he kicked out and sent the snake twitching into the air. It disappeared into the hole in the floor. Chamery chuckled.

  Just as well the mage was behind Luker at that moment, else he’d have been getting a shove himself.

  Stepping over the fissure, the Guardian advanced to the doorway at the end of the room. Beyond was a colonnade of pillars and a courtyard ending at a towering sandstone wall covered with carvings, and set farther back at the top than at the base. The ground was covered with a layer of frost, and there were footsteps in the glittering white, leading from the yard, not into it. Clearly the titan had disturbed the pentarrion on its way out of the temple, but how had it got into the building if not through this chamber?

  Luker edged between the pillars and paused at the edge of the colonnade. At the center of the wall opposite was a rectangular opening, beyond which a ramp led down into darkness. Farther to the left was a smaller doorway, while in the shadow of the pillars to his right was the well he sought.

  “The titan’s trail leads this way,” Chamery said. Ice cracked beneath his sandals as he strode toward the smaller door.

  Luker ignored him and made for the well. A wooden bucket lay to one side, its handle still tied to a length of rope. The stone blocks that made up the well were crusted with ice, and the Guardian grinned as he pictured savoring his first cool drink this side of the Shield. Then he caught the stench of rot, noticed the cloud of flies hovering above the shaft. Snarling his disgust, he spun round and went to join Merin and Chamery in front of the wall.