When the Heavens Fall

by Marc Turner

  “Ah, you were trapped,” Romany said. A thought struck her. “And so in a bid to escape your suffering you tried to … usurp … the bodies of those who stumbled into your domain.”

  “Others of my people did, yes. Not I.”

  “You would prefer to remain a spirit?”

  “I would prefer an end to it all. I have existed as a shade for millennia. Dead, but without release. A pity the Fangalar did not destroy my soul as well as my flesh. It would have been a mercy.”

  Romany rolled her eyes. Such joyous company. Just looking into the girl’s eyes was enough to send a shiver through her … Though now she thought of it, there was a breeze coming from the open doorway. Sinking deeper into the water she said, “I wish to be alone now. Sparkling though your conversation is, I feel the need for silence. You are dismissed.”

  Danel paused, then said, “You’re sending me back to the master?”

  There was something different about the girl’s voice, but the priestess was no longer paying attention. Far to the south and east she sensed ripples along the strands of her web. No, not so much ripples as … shudders. Romany’s wondrous creation, she realized, was being ripped apart by the arrival of some new power in the game.

  And what a power it was.

  Not even the Widowmaker …

  * * *

  Ebon sat with his back to a tree, listening to the leaves rustle on the forest floor. Dappled moonlight played across the campsite. A few paces away lay Vale, his head pillowed on his rolled-up cloak, resting. Beyond him were the still forms of Mottle and Corporal Ellea. For the past half-bell Ebon had tried to join them in sleep, but he couldn’t get comfortable on the hard ground. Yesterday Vale had removed the broken dagger point from his side and stitched the cut, but the wound still oozed watery blood, and a dark swelling was spreading across his ribs and chest, making it painful to raise his right arm. My sword arm. He rubbed his eyes. When the party next crossed blades with the Vamilians, he would be at best a passenger, at worst a liability.

  It was two days since they’d entered the forest. Two days following the Amber River south and west with no idea where they were going, or what they would find when they got there. For while the air was saturated with death-magic, enough earth-magic remained to thwart Mottle’s efforts to quest ahead. It would be days still, the mage said, before he could locate the consel, or scout the forest to find out what awaited them. As yet they had not encountered a single undead warrior, but their luck surely couldn’t hold.

  Ebon’s sight clouded suddenly, and he closed his eyes. After the defeat of the Fangalar sorceress, the spirits had returned to swarm his mind. At first there had been a triumphant note to their babbling, but it hadn’t taken long for that elation to give way to the familiar tormented murmur. Yesterday Ebon had succumbed to a fever, and that fever had fueled a flood of spirit-visions: a Vamilian hunting party battling some forest cat with a green striped coat and paws the size of plates; lines of white-robed figures on either bank of the river, keeping pace with a slow-moving funeral barge bearing a black-shrouded corpse; solemn-faced Vamilian children tying wind chimes to the branches of trees; and always in the distance the sounds of fighting, sorcerous explosions, screams. It was becoming harder for Ebon to distinguish what was real from what was imagined. Twice now he had raised an alarm over shadows seen flitting among the trees, only for Vale to give the all clear moments later.

  And when the visions relented, his thoughts were haunted instead by Lamella’s face. Ebon could not remember the last words he’d said to her, only that they had been spoken in anger. Had Rendale found her in time to lead her to safety? Had they reached the palace or the river before the undead swept over them? Please, let it be the river. For not only would that mean Lamella was beyond the reach of the Vamilians, it would also mean she was spared from the whispers and veiled looks she would doubtless endure at the palace. It was two years since he had brought her to Majack after her injury, yet still she remained a stranger to the court. And why? Because I let her remain so. Because I did not have the courage to choose. Most likely it was too late now to make amends—for Ebon, if not for her. He could only hope his failing strength held out until he reached wherever it was they were heading.

  He shivered in spite of the heat.

  Vale spoke. “Is your fever back?”

  Ebon nodded.

  The Endorian levered himself into a sitting position and began rooting through his pack. He took out two dried sissa leaves and passed them to Ebon.

  The king put them in his mouth and started chewing.

  Vale said, “Tomorrow I’ll hunt out some more galtane or blackroot for the infection.”

  He would not find any, Ebon suspected. The forest was dying, the color leaching from it as if it had been washed out in the last rain. The farther from Majack they traveled, the more the trees wilted, the deeper the silence about them became as the insects and birds melted away. Ebon studied Vale’s face. The Endorian’s sorcerous burns had improved markedly since the attack on the Fangalar witch. During the nights, Ebon knew, his friend was speeding his passage through time in order to accelerate the healing process. Still, though, Vale’s transformation took him aback, not least the heavy stubble that sprouted each night across his chin and jaw.

  Vale unsheathed the sword he had found in the consel’s camp and drew a whetstone along its edge. “What happened back there outside the city? You still haven’t told me. I saw the witch’s sorcery hit you…”

  Ebon looked at the sleeping figures of Mottle and Ellea before replying. “I’m not sure. I remember darkness and fire, yet I felt only cold. The Fangalar’s defenses just crumbled before me.”

  Vale waited for him to continue, then scowled. “And the rest of it?”

  Ebon gave a half smile. The Endorian knew him well enough to sense when he was holding back. “You remember when we were waiting in the consel’s camp? The sorceress’s awareness sweeping over us? Well, her touch stirred something to life inside me. Something that until then had been only a fleeting presence.”

  “And you reckon this … presence … stepped in against the witch?”

  “I can think of no other explanation.”

  “One of the spirits?”

  “I do not know. I cannot remember sensing it before the spirits returned, yet my perception is of”—he struggled to find the words—“something outside looking in. It is difficult to explain.”

  “Is it with you now?”

  The king shook his head.

  Vale grunted. “Well, whatever it is, at least it’s on our side.”

  “I am not so sure,” Ebon said. He spat the remains of the sissa leaves from his mouth. The herb had numbed his lips and tongue, making it difficult for him to form words. “There is some history, I think, between the Fangalar and this presence. It saw a chance to strike at the sorceress and took it. Will it be there the next time we run into trouble? Who knows. Is its power something I can use? Not a chance.”

  Vale gestured to Ebon’s wound. “I saw how you got stung in Majack. Protecting the consel’s back.”

  “You disapprove?”

  The whetstone paused in the Endorian’s hands. “It changes nothing. If the consel gets through this he’ll still have his sights set on us. Maybe more so now we’ve taken a beating. You can’t win him round.”

  “He spoke to me of a blood debt. The man has some notion of honor, however twisted it may be.”

  “Then use it against him while you still can. Strike before he does.”

  Ebon took a sip of water from his flask. “You are suggesting he has some sort of accident when we catch up to him?”

  “If the chance comes, aye. Stop the war before it starts.”

  “And when word gets back to Sartor?”

  Vale shrugged. “If it does, what have you lost? Most likely the consel’s court will be too busy squabbling over the scraps of his kingdom to care. At worst, you’d buy us time to regroup.” He resumed sharpening his sword. “Th
ink about it, at least.”

  Ebon was too tired to argue. “As you say.”

  At that moment Vale raised a finger to his lips. A figure had come into view, weaving between the trees to Ebon’s left—Bettle, judging by his red cloak and crablike gait. The soldier scuttled forward to crouch between Ebon and Vale. “We got company,” he said, pointing behind him.

  Ebon had already seen them: shadowy figures approaching from the south, avoiding the scattered patches of moonlight on the ground. The king heaved himself to his feet. More shadows, from farther west this time, flowing soundlessly between the trees. The newcomers must have seen Ebon’s campsite then, for they took cover behind the trunks. Within a dozen heartbeats the forest became perfectly still. If Bettle hadn’t warned him of the shadows’ approach, Ebon might have wondered if they were just another of his spirit-visions.

  Whoever the newcomers were, they couldn’t be undead, for Ebon doubted the Vamilians would be shy about attacking. Then the breeze picked up and he caught a familiar whiff of decay.

  Kinevar.

  Bettle had shaken Ellea awake, and the corporal was now crouching beside her pack, hands moving smoothly as she locked the crank of her crossbow and slid a bolt into its slot. Bettle stood over her, unlimbering his mace. Ebon held up a hand to signal them to hold. Vale stood with his back to a tree, gesturing to the river. Retreat? To what end? There was no boat to carry them away, no bridge they could cross, and any dash for the horses might spook the Kinevar into attacking. Best to remain still and wait the creatures out.

  In any case, with his chest as it was, it wasn’t as if he’d get far.

  He squinted into the gloom, tilted his head to listen. Guttural voices reached him. Then a creak of wood sounded like someone stepping on a loose floorboard, followed by a whistle of something cutting through the air.

  A white-feathered arrow thumped into a tree an armspan away.

  The king flinched, but held his ground. Strangely enough, the arrow settled his nerves. The archer could just as easily have put it in Ebon’s eye if he’d wanted to.

  All at once the shadows began to move, darting between the trees. Not toward Ebon, but to the east, circling round the campsite. Cutting off their escape route? Unlikely, for if the Kinevar had wanted to surround the king’s party they would have left numbers on this side too. Ebon turned slowly, keeping the creatures in view. Looking for the next arrow. If he’d closed his eyes he wouldn’t have known they were there, so silently did they move. Once the camp was behind them, they dispersed into the shadows, taking the smell of rot with them.

  As quickly as they had arrived, they were gone.

  Ebon released his breath.

  Bettle approached. “What in the Nine Hells just happened?”

  Ebon looked at the arrow. The white fletching was spattered with black flecks. Insects were pouring from the trunk of the tree the missile had struck. “I believe we have just been given a warning. In case it crossed our minds to follow.”

  “But if they knew we was here—”

  “We’re more dangerous to the Kinevar dead than alive.”

  Vale sheathed his sword. “How many would you say? Fivescore? More?”

  “A whole tribe, I would guess,” Ebon said. “Fleeing north.”

  “For once the creatures have the right of it,” Bettle muttered.

  The king glanced at him sharply. “Something you want to say, soldier?”

  The Pantheon Guardsman held his gaze for a moment before looking away. He reached up to grab the arrow.

  “Hold!” Vale snapped.

  Bettle froze.

  “Those black specks on the feathers … that’s the blood of a Kinevar mage.”

  “So?”

  “So it means the arrow’s pumped full of earth-magic. The smallest splinter and you’ll be eaten from the inside out by insects, just like that tree.”

  The Guardsman snatched his hand back, then let out a string of curses.

  Ebon said, “When you are finished, soldier, go and make sure the Kinevar have indeed moved on. And the next time someone creeps on us, perhaps you could warn me they are coming before I can see them myself.”

  With a last look at the arrow, Bettle started out north in pursuit of the shadows.

  As his footfalls faded, another noise came to Ebon. Frowning, he turned back to the campsite. Partly buried beneath fallen leaves was the recumbent form of Mottle, his chest rising and falling, his arms and legs flung out at all angles like a rag doll tossed on the ground. He was snoring.

  * * *

  It was less than a bell after dawn, yet the desert sun was already fierce as a naked flame against Luker’s skin. Ahead the raised road vanished north into the Waste, its flagstones half-hidden beneath a swirling carpet of windswept dust. To either side waves of sand rippled in the searing gusts.

  Luker licked his cracked lips. Time to find some shelter. If his memory served him right the remains of a Talui watchtower were a league along the road … Or was that farther north? It was impossible to say with certainty, because the desert, in its relentless march west, had swallowed many of the landmarks in this wilderness. Old trader tracks, karmight mines, Talui barrows: all had been devoured by the sands. The abandoned village Luker had ridden through a quarter-bell ago had been sinking into the desert, all but a few of the crude wooden shacks collapsed and scattered like driftwood.

  Riding at the back of the group, the Guardian spat past his bloated tongue. Shroud-cursed deserts. It seemed he’d spent half his life slogging across them, but that hadn’t made his time in this one any prettier. His thirst was a fire at the back of his throat, and a headache throbbed behind his eyes. In front, Chamery rode slumped over his horse’s neck like he was whispering in its ear. Surprise, surprise, it had been the mage who’d been broken first by the desert, and before the party set off last night Merin had strapped the boy into his saddle to ensure he didn’t fall on the ride. To be fair, the tyrin and Jenna weren’t faring much better. It was two days now since they’d found fresh water, and what little they had left to drink would have to be saved for the horses.

  Luker’s mare stumbled, then righted itself. They were pushing the animals too hard, he knew, but a lengthy rest was a luxury their pursuers would not allow them. Each day, Luker spirit-walked to keep track of their hunters. The remnants of the second group of Kalanese—the one that had attacked them at the edge of the desert—had brought a rare smile to the Guardian’s lips when they’d followed them into the Waste. How the fools had thought to track their quarry across the sands, he couldn’t imagine, and after three days of wandering lost they were now feeding the sandclaws in a dry streambed.

  The first group of Kalanese, though—the soulcaster’s—had kept to the plains, skirting the edge of the desert as they took a course roughly parallel to that of Luker’s party. An ambush by tribesmen had killed three of their number—not the soulcaster, alas—and lost them time, but after giving the Erin Elalese a head start of almost half a day they were now just a few leagues south and west. If they were able to overtake Luker and block his exit from the desert …

  Suddenly the Guardian’s mare stumbled again, its hooves sliding on the sandy flagstones. He shouted a warning to his companions, then pulled on the reins. The animal came to a stuttering halt. Luker swung down from the saddle. He didn’t need to search for the problem. At dusk yesterday a sandclaw had attacked the mare as Luker was mounting up, scoring a hit to the horse’s front right leg before the Guardian could drive the sandclaw off. That leg was now bandaged above the knee, and foul-smelling fluids were soaking through the dressings. The mare shied as Luker peeled them away. The flesh round the cut was tinged blue by the poultice he had applied, but judging by the swelling to the knee joint the ointment had failed to slow the spread of the sandclaw’s venom.

  Chamery was watching him through narrowed eyes.

  “Get over here,” Luker said to him.

  The mage’s voice was a croak. “There’s nothing I can do.�
��

  “Like Shroud there isn’t. You’re a damned corpse-hugger, aren’t you? Or are you telling me your powers don’t work on horses?”

  “My powers flow from the energies released in death. This hellhole you’ve led us into is dead already. I have nothing more than a trickle.”

  “Then use it.”

  “Better save it for one of us.”

  For you, more like. “If the horses die, so do we. Now get over here before I decide to swap your ride for mine.”

  Grumbling, Chamery loosened the ties keeping him in the saddle and slid to the ground. He staggered over to join Luker. “You owe me, Guardian,” he said.

  Luker snorted.

  Falling to his knees, the mage closed his hands round the horse’s wounded leg, one above the knee joint, one below. Luker felt the release of his power. A trickle is right. Not enough to burn away the sandclaw’s venom, so a temporary respite at best. Unless the mage is holding something back.

  Jenna steered her horse alongside. “What is that?” she said, pointing in the direction of the rising sun.

  Luker looked across. A few hundred paces away the desert sands were churning like water on the boil. A black tentacle burst from the dunes, twisting this way and that as if testing the air. “Roths,” the Guardian said. “Sharks of the desert, the Taluins call them. Never seen why myself—roths grow much bigger.”

  The assassin shot him a look, but he returned her gaze evenly, and after a moment she glanced back at the roths. “They’re coming this way,” she said. More tentacles were rising, and a wave of sand rolled toward Luker’s party.

  “We’re safe for now,” the Guardian said. “Roths won’t leave the deeper sands.” He gestured about him. “Lands round here used to be mexin fields. This road was raised above the level of the drainage ditches.”

  “For how much farther?”

  Luker shrugged. “If my bearings are right, though, we’re about to reach the site of the old Drifter’s Boneyard. Roths tend to steer clear of the area.”