When the Heavens Fall

by Marc Turner

  “It appears she does not consider us worthy of her attention.”

  “Mottle is ever underestimated.”

  With a rumble of hooves, the consel’s company rode out of the camp toward the forest.

  Grimes spat on the ground. “Never thought I’d be sad to see the back of that black-hearted whoreson.”

  Ebon could only agree. “Mottle, how does one … incapacitate … an undead sorceress?”

  “An interesting question. Mottle has been pondering that very subject since we left the barracks. Sever a warrior’s sword arm and you nullify his threat, yes? But a sorceress does not need her hands to shape the energies she wields.”

  “Then what? Her eyes?”

  “Precisely. Without her sight the witch cannot direct her considerable might.”

  “And in the meantime? Can you extend your wards over the whole squad?”

  The mage spread his hands. “Mottle could, my boy, but stretched so thinly…”

  “They would buckle under the first assault,” Ebon finished. Meaning if he ordered a straight attack on the Fangalar his company would likely be slaughtered before they got close enough to bring their swords to bear. He looked round. The camp would offer cover of sorts if he could persuade the sorceress to approach, but why should she take an interest in them now when she had ignored them thus far? “Can you lure her here?” he said to Mottle. “Can you bring her to us?”

  “But of course. Mottle need only call her over. The poor woman can do naught but heed his summons.”

  Ebon turned to Sergeant Grimes. “The first attack belongs to the mage. I want a couple of your troop watching his back. The rest of us will split into two groups, wait for the Fangalar to draw near, then attack from the flanks.”

  Mottle’s forehead crinkled. “Mottle is to be used as a diversion?”

  “Call it what you will. Do whatever you must to keep her distracted. A moment of vulnerability is all we need.”

  The sergeant spoke. “And if the old man can’t take down the witch’s wards?”

  “Such impudence!” Mottle said. “Such faithlessness! Such—”

  “Enough!” Ebon cut in, suddenly feeling his exhaustion. “The mage knows what is expected of him, as do we all.”

  * * *

  Luker rode at a gallop through the storm, a few lengths back from the rest of his party. Above him the sky rained sand down in sheets, while the shadowy forms of stormwraiths spun and flapped and twitched in the grainy light as they waited to feast on the maelstrom’s leavings. They’d be getting a bellyful and more before this brute was done, Luker reckoned. Last time he’d seen fury like this, whole villages west of Arap had been snatched up into oblivion. Get too close to the core of the storm, and he might suffer the same fate.

  He looked over his shoulder to see the Kalanese less than a stone’s throw behind and reeling him in so steadily he could almost feel the hook in his mouth. No mistaking them in their gray robes and headscarves. Drawn up in an arrowhead formation, they numbered maybe two dozen, but at least there was no soulcaster among them else the man would surely have made his presence felt by now. As Luker watched, the lead rider rose in his stirrups and hurled a spear at him. Buffeted by the wind, the weapon shivered in its flight before falling to earth to his left.

  The next missile followed moments behind. If it had been aimed at Chamery, Luker might have let it find its mark, but instead it came arcing toward him, and he batted it aside with a flick of his mind. Another nudge of his Will sent the spear-thrower’s horse careering into the mount to its right, and they went down squealing in a tangle of legs, taking their riders with them and spoiling the stride of a horse behind. The fallen Kalanese disappeared amid the spinning sands.

  Luker returned his gaze to the front. Several hundred paces away was a wall of darkness spewing out cascades of dust. No way the Kalanese would find Luker’s party in that. He dug his heels into his mare’s flanks, and the animal responded with a fresh burst of speed. In front, the hooves of his companions’ horses were throwing up sand, and Luker narrowed his eyes to slits, his face burning-raw. Two huge mounds of white stones reared up from the plains, and as Luker steered his mount between them the wind momentarily lost its bite.

  Merin had taken the lead, his gelding flowing over the ground with a grace that suggested the tyrin had drawn the trump card at Arkarbour’s stables. The animal’s leg muscles bunched, and it soared into the air. Luker saw it then: a gulley two steps across, running left to right a short distance ahead. He had time only to register Chamery’s and Jenna’s horses clearing the fissure before he was upon it. His mare slowed, gathered itself, leapt. A glance below revealed dust pouring like waterfalls over both ledges of the gulley. Then the mare touched down on the other side, its hooves scrabbling for purchase on the sand and loose stones. Luker was thrown forward in his saddle, his upper teeth tearing into his bottom lip. Cursing, he spat blood.

  The war cries of the Kalanese were audible now above the hissing dust. Luker did not look round. In front, Merin had reached the wall of darkness. Slowing to let Chamery draw level, the tyrin seized the mage’s reins and wrapped them about his wrist. Together they plunged into the maelstrom, Jenna behind.

  Ducking his head, Luker followed them in.

  The gale hammered him from all sides, lashing him with sand and grit. His horse whickered. The outlines of the Guardian’s companions were fading into the haze. A score more heartbeats and the dust would swallow them beyond any hope of the Kalanese following.

  A score more heartbeats, though, was time they did not have.

  Luker brought his mare round to face his pursuers. The Kalanese would be fools to trail him into the storm, but with their quarry so close, and with the numbers weighted so heavily in their favor, Luker suspected they would do just that. Sure enough, the first riders now materialized in front of him, faceless shadows in the murk. He drew both swords and took a breath. An attack would be the last thing they were expecting. And that made it the only option in Luker’s mind.

  Tensing his Will, he unleashed it in the midst of the Kalanese, and the air concussed with a roar that transcended the din of the storm.

  Mounts and riders went down, screaming.

  Luker kicked his mare into the chaos. A woman with a great slab of a nose raised her wicker shield to block one of his sword strokes, but the Guardian was too fast, his blade cutting into her neck. A spear flashed at him, and he swayed aside, watched it fly harmlessly past. The thrower was reaching for a second spear when Luker’s sword ran him through. Ahead a man knocked to the ground by Luker’s earlier Will-attack was trying to regain his saddle. With the flat of one blade, the Guardian slapped his enemy’s horse on the rump, and the animal bolted into the storm taking its rider with it.

  Suddenly there were no more Kalanese in front of him, and he wheeled his mount for another pass.

  A horseman closed from his right, shouting as he lowered his spear. Luker used his Will to bat the weapon’s tip aside with enough force to spin its wielder off balance. A flick of Luker’s left sword and the Kalanese toppled from his saddle, hands clutching his throat as blood seeped between his fingers.

  Half a dozen paces away a woman was struggling to her feet, leaning on a spear. Luker’s cut sent her head tumbling from her shoulders. Even as her spear slipped from her senseless fingers, the Guardian was sheathing his right blade and using his Will to summon the falling weapon to his hand. Grasping the shaft, he charged another rider. The spear’s point deflected off the rim of the man’s shield and buried itself in his left eye. Luker released the weapon as his mare took him past.

  Then, with only dust before him, he galloped into the raging winds.

  A count of fifty and he drew up his slavering horse before turning to look back. His eyes were so gritty it felt like he’d got splinters in them, but he kept his gaze moving over the shifting walls of sand. Nothing was visible beyond twoscore paces in every direction. He could see farther with his Will than with his eyes,
though, and he knew none of the Kalanese were following. Wiping clean his sword, he resheathed it.

  At the edge of his vision a stormwraith spiraled down out of the maelstrom, a patch of darkness broken only by two red eyes. It circled the Guardian once, forcing him to twist in his saddle to keep it in view. Then, with a lazy flap of its wings, it disappeared in the direction of the Kalanese, no doubt drawn by the scent of blood.

  Luker dismounted to hood his horse’s head. The mare’s flanks heaved as it nosed at his hand. Like Luker, though, it would have to wait a while longer before it could eat and rest.

  With a final look west, the Guardian swung into the saddle again. He sent his senses questing into the storm to locate his companions, then spurred his horse east.

  * * *

  “Here she comes,” Vale said.

  Ebon steered his horse to the corner of a tent and looked in the direction of Majack. The Fangalar sorceress was at the crest of a low rise, walking toward the camp. Whirling funnels of Mottle’s air-magic buzzed and zipped against her invisible wards, bouncing off like spinning tops. The wind did not so much as part her hair. Not a good sign in truth, but with any luck Mottle was holding back part of his power. A moment of vulnerability was all Ebon had asked for, and if the old man was able to deliver as much, he would do so when Ebon was bearing down on the witch, not when he was hiding behind a tent a stone’s throw away.

  Ebon drew back before the sorceress noticed him.

  Only to feel something brush his thoughts. No, not something, someone. He glanced at Vale. The Fangalar. The woman must have anticipated a trap and was now using sorcery to scan the camp for Ebon’s party. There was no question that she’d sensed him. So much for the element of surprise. For a heartbeat he considered calling off the attack, but only for a heartbeat.

  He wasn’t going to get another shot at this.

  The spirits in his head had shrunk back at the Fangalar’s touch, and in their place the mysterious presence from his dream stirred to life again. At its coming a chill gripped him as if ice ran through his veins. When he shivered a jab of pain went through his wounded side. He groped toward the entity as he had on the battlements, but it withdrew from him now as it had then.

  Ebon looked round the corner of the tent again. No point in trying to hide from the sorceress now. The woman was approaching the ditch that surrounded the camp. As the king watched, one of Mottle’s vortices cannoned off her wards into a tent, and the canvas was ripped from its stays and sucked up into the sky. Behind her came three four-armed warriors carrying a spear in each hand. Overhead a vast ring of gray cloud was forming.

  “Leave the four-armed freaks to me,” Vale said. The Endorian swung down from his saddle and tied his horse’s reins to a tent peg. Drawing his sword, he moved off in a blur.

  Ebon turned to the two Pantheon Guardsmen behind him. “Wait for my signal, understood?”

  The first soldier, Corporal Ellea, inclined her head. Blood from a scalp wound had colored her blond hair crimson on one side. She appeared calm, but Ebon could read her tension in the line of her mouth. The second Guardsman, Bettle, gave no indication he had heard Ebon’s words. Dark-haired and red-cheeked, he sat slouched in his high-backed saddle, using the tip of the dagger in his right hand to trace patterns on the scarred palm of his left.

  A gust of wind slapped at Ebon and sent his destrier sidestepping. The entrance flaps of one of the tents to his right had torn loose and were now snapping in the breeze. A hissing noise came from the direction of the Fangalar, then the air at the center of the camp flashed black and a whoosh sounded as a handful of tents burst into flames. Sorcery. Doubtless Mottle had been the target of the woman’s attack, but the old man’s whooping told Ebon she’d missed her mark.

  The king lowered his helmet onto his head. Its padding was clammy against his skin. “Let’s go,” he said to the Pantheon Guardsmen.

  He turned his destrier.

  The tents in the encampment had been laid out in even rows to leave narrow avenues between them, and he steered his mount along one, looking right for a glimpse of the sorceress as she moved along the road toward the center of the camp. When the moment came to charge, he would need to time it just right. Reach the road before the witch, and he’d likely be greeted by a volley of her sorcery. Reach it too late, and she would have time to see him coming and prepare a similar welcome.

  That was a damned fine line he’d left himself to walk.

  The wind began to pick up. Ebon passed a tent with a long slash down the back where its owner must have a cut a way out. Trampled into the mud ahead was a blood-speckled nightshirt, a boot missing its sole, a severed hand still clasping the hilt of a sword. Ebon stood up in his stirrups. Over the top of a sagging tent he caught sight of the sorceress’s four-armed bodyguards. Vale was in among them, moving so quickly it appeared the undead were fighting each other. Wounds blossomed over the body of one, then he toppled to the ground, his right leg severed above the knee. A few paces in front, and seemingly oblivious to the plight of her defenders, was the witch, a pale shape in the dust whisked up by Mottle’s vortices.

  Much closer than Ebon had expected.

  He kicked his destrier to a canter. The drum of the horse’s hooves kept time to the beating of his heart. Tents whipped past to either side. The road was just ahead now, and riding toward him from beyond it he saw Grimes and the other two Pantheon Guardsmen. Ebon drew his saber, wishing he had the extra range a lance or a spear would give. The absurdity of what he was doing struck him. If the sorceress had considered him a threat she could have razed the camp to the ground when she sensed him earlier. Hells, he wouldn’t even know if her wards were down until he swung his saber, and that was assuming he got close enough to try.

  Strange how you only saw the flaws in a plan when it was too late to do anything about them.

  Grimes must have started his charge before Ebon, for he reached the road now, a score of paces ahead.

  Just as the sorceress stepped into view. Without breaking stride, she gestured at the sergeant and his companions. Magic erupted about them, and they shrieked.

  Behind the Fangalar, Vale appeared. The Endorian had evidently disposed of her four-armed defenders and now lunged for her unprotected back. Only for his sword to strike an invisible shield. Lightning streaked along the length of his blade, and he fell writhing to the ground.

  The witch’s wards were still in place.

  Ebon’s limbs felt leaden. “Mottle,” he whispered, “if you’ve got any more cards up your sleeve, now is a good time to play them.”

  The Fangalar’s dead eyes swung to look at Ebon, and her hands came up.

  “Split!” he yelled to Ellea and Bettle, hoping the Guardsmen would be able to ride clear.

  A wave of flaming earth and roots came roaring toward him from the witch’s fingers, igniting the tents to either side. No chance to throw himself from its path. Instead he brought his shield up in what he knew was a pointless gesture, then flinched as black fire washed over him. The darkness was so complete it was as if someone had put a bag over his head. Sorcery crackled in his ears, and his destrier whinnied. He opened his mouth to scream, drew in a mouthful of air that scorched the back of his throat. And yet as the magic sizzled about him he experienced a sensation not of raging heat but searing cold, sharp enough to set him trembling. He felt the weight of his shield lift from his left arm, knew it had been burned away—just the strap remained, clutched in his hand. He shouldn’t have been able to feel even that, though. He should have been hurting too, but all he felt was a tingle.

  A heartbeat later he emerged from the blackness into dusty light.

  Ebon blinked. His clothes were smoldering, and he smelled like he’d been dragged through a bonfire. All he could think of was that there had to be some mistake. No time to dwell on it, though. His destrier hadn’t slowed its pace, and the witch was only a handful of paces away. Her protective wards of fire- and earth-magic were visible as glittering multicolored
energies, but they peeled away as Ebon’s horse thundered closer to leave her standing defenseless.

  Just one more impossibility to add to the others.

  He swung his saber, wincing at the stab of pain the movement sparked in his wounded side.

  The Fangalar must have been as shocked as Ebon that he’d survived her salvo, for she made no attempt to evade the cut. The weapon took her in the face, just above the bridge of her nose, and Ebon surrendered the blade as his charge carried him past.

  Pulling on the reins, he wheeled his mount.

  In time to see Vale come staggering up behind the sorceress. His face was flash-burned, and the sword in his hands was fire-blackened. Stepping in close, he delivered a decapitating stroke that sent her head spinning to the dust, Ebon’s blade still fixed in it. A kick to the back of her knees drove her to the ground. Then the Endorian raised his sword two-handed and brought the point spearing down into her lower back, pinning her to the earth. The Fangalar struggled feebly, hands reaching behind her in an attempt to grab the weapon.

  “Get away from her,” Ebon said. “Before she starts firing blind.”

  Vale grunted and retreated.

  Ebon slid from his saddle, his legs almost buckling as he touched down. It hardly seemed possible he was still breathing. Fire flickered along his left sleeve, and he rolled the arm against his body to smother the flames. To his left Ellea and Bettle sat astride their horses, watching him blankly, while to his right Grimes lay unmoving, wrapped in his red cloak …

  A warning shout brought his head round.

  Two Pantheon Guardsmen advanced on him with swords drawn—the two Guardsmen who’d been with Grimes when the sorceress attacked. The cautionary cry had been Mottle’s, and the mage now came skipping from behind a tent, flapping his arms as if he were trying to fly. A wave of his hand, and the two undead soldiers were lifted from their feet to float helplessly above the ground. Their legs kept moving nevertheless, treading the air as if it were water, and Mottle giggled.