When the Heavens Fall

by Marc Turner

  Yesterday the last signs of life had faded from the forest. The branches of the trees now sagged under their own weight. There were no animals, no insects, not even a coral bird to greet the dawn as it broke hot and humid each morning. Parolla hadn’t encountered a single soul, undead or otherwise—except Tumbal, of course, and even her times with him were becoming fewer. Sometimes when she stopped to rest, the Gorlem would materialize to share some observation or discuss whatever riddle was tormenting him at that moment. Each time he left her, Parolla wondered if she’d see him again. Each time he then reappeared, her spirits lifted.

  She was making a mistake, she knew, in allowing him to stay. Soon her days with the Gorlem would end, and the years of solitude that followed—if she survived—would be harder to endure for the memory of their time together. She should send him away. Now, before it was too late. But she did not. For not only did Tumbal’s talk serve to distract her from the discomfort caused by Mayot’s death-magic, his presence also acted as a check on the advance of the darkness within her. She needed his light to sustain her own. Just one more sign of my weakness.

  Tumbal’s voice interrupted her thoughts. “Another mystery, my Lady,” he said, his ghostly form coalescing beside her. He gestured at the thunderhead. “A forest fire, thou think’st?”

  “Fire would explain the smoke,” Parolla said dryly. “Though I suspect that is only part of the story. I sense the clash of sorceries ahead.”

  “Mayhap we should investigate?”

  “To skirt the area completely would take several bells.”

  Tumbal rubbed both sets of hands together. “Excellent! I will scout ahead for thee.”

  “For me, sirrah?”

  The Gorlem, though, had already gone.

  Shaking her head, Parolla set off at a run in the direction of the smoke.

  Half a bell later she noticed the first smudge of green appear amid the sea of grays and browns. Where before there had been only bare branches, now leaves fell from a threadbare canopy overhead. The trees here were in the last throes of death, but they were alive all the same. The faint scent of honeyheather became perceptible.

  In the midst of winter, a pocket of deepest autumn.

  Parolla could detect it now: almost wholly obscured by the fog of death that hung about the forest was the faintest spark of earth-magic. For the sorcery to have survived Mayot’s onslaught, it must once have been powerful indeed, and it occurred to Parolla that she was standing on sanctified ground. The Kinevar. She had heard tales about the creatures’ holy sites: midnight glades that had never known the touch of the sun, where the trunks of the trees were so huge that even ten people holding hands could not encircle them; where the earth was stained black by centuries of blood sacrifice; where the Kinevar gods themselves made their home.

  Now, it seemed, they were under attack.

  Parolla smiled without humor. First Mayot picked a fight with Shroud, then he moved on to the Kinevar gods. The old man chose his enemies well.

  She slowed to a walk. Amid the smoke that crowned the forest canopy, flames were now visible. Noises were building: the crackle of fires, the clash of weapons, the concussion of sorcery. And beneath it all … something else. A voice of earth and wood and stone. Parolla could hear it in the keening of the wind, the hissing of the leaves, the creaking of the branches overhead. A deep-throated rumble sounded beneath her feet as if the forest were giving vent to its outrage.

  The smoke started to sting her eyes, and the rain of ash became heavier. As she blinked away tears, Parolla saw movement ahead. She froze. A score of paces in front of her, and several handspans above the ground, the body of a Kinevar male hung from a tree. A branch was wrapped round his neck. Another had burst through his torso below the heart, and shattered ribs jutted from the wound. Yet still the man fought to free himself, fingers tearing at the bough that throttled him, his body twisting round as his legs kicked out. A bonewood sword lay on the ground below him.

  The Kinevar had seen Parolla, and his black eyes followed her progress as she edged forward. Stretching out with her senses she found the thread of death-magic burrowing like a bloodworm into his chest. The man became still for a heartbeat before thrashing about with renewed frenzy. More hanging figures came into view ahead: Kinevar and Vamilians mostly, but there were also Ken’dah tribesmen, snowy-haired Maru, rusty-skinned Sartorians, and others Parolla did not recognize. Those that still held weapons tried to strike at her as she passed, and she was forced to weave a path through the swinging bodies. One of the Vamilians threw a spear at her, but it missed to her left.

  Something brushed her leg. She looked down to see a root coiling round her ankle, and kicked out to free herself. To her right another Kinevar male was ensnared in a tangle of nettleclaw, while ahead a black arm emerged from amid mud and leaves, its fingers clawing the air. Parolla drew up. In front of her rose a virtual wall of corpses, swaying in the wind. Above the treetops, shadows wheeled and dived, wreathed in smoke and fire. Shafts of lightning flashed up from the forest to strike at them, and a dark shape fell shrieking to the ground, its wings ablaze. It seemed the battle between Mayot and the Kinevar gods still raged on, but a long way to the east.

  She could go no farther.

  I should have left the scouting to Tumbal.

  As she turned away, her gaze settled on a young Kinevar female hanging from a tree. The girl held a bonewood knife that she was using to saw at the branch round her throat. In doing so she drove the tip of the dagger over and over into the flesh under her chin, and the bone of her jaw was now visible through shredded skin. Her expression was blank, but there was a weight of sorrow behind her eyes. As her gaze met Parolla’s she whimpered. It was, Parolla realized, the first sound she had heard any of the undead make.

  She hesitated. Now was not the time to linger. Doubtless some of the undead she’d passed were close to freeing themselves from the trees, and Parolla did not relish the prospect of running into them as she retraced her steps out of this Shroud-cursed place. Now she thought about it, perhaps she should raise her shadow-spell about her. The scattering of leaves on the branches overhead cast just enough shade …

  The sound of another moan drew her attention back to the Kinevar girl. The tree garroting her was nearly dead, the last flicker of earth-magic concentrated in the branch curled round the girl’s neck. When that faded the Kinevar would wrest herself free. But only to fight once more. Most likely she would stumble toward the distant conflict and become trapped in some other part of the forest where the earth-magic was stronger. Most likely she would fight again and again until either Mayot or the Kinevar gods were defeated.

  Parolla set her jaw.

  The time had come to test Mayot’s hold on his servants.

  * * *

  Ebon’s gaze tracked a fissure in the front of the white building. The lintel over the doorway had cracked along the center, and the two halves tilted downward at such an angle it seemed the next gust of wind must bring them crashing down. Talking a half step back, he scanned the fascia. The carvings across it had a strangely skewed cast to them, as if a sculptor had tried to fashion new images from ones that had already existed …

  He felt another tug, the sharpest yet, and he staggered drunkenly through the doorway into darkness beyond. Black spots danced before his eyes. “Show some patience, damn you,” he muttered. “I’ve come this far, haven’t I?”

  Inside, he waited for his eyes to adjust to the gloom. He was in a square chamber with walls covered in painted plaster that had crumbled in places to reveal carvings behind. The air was tickling-cold, and Ebon drew his cloak about him. The tug led to a doorway on the left, and he tottered across to it, his feet scuffing on the floor.

  Beyond was another dark room, empty but for a woman standing with her back to him. She wore a sleeveless white dress and sandals. Her long blond hair hung down to her waist and was plaited with white flowers. When she turned to him, Ebon struggled against an impulse to prostrate himself a
t her feet. Her green eyes fixed on him. Meeting her gaze was like trying to stare at the sun, and he looked away.

  The murmurings of the spirits in his head were coming together, a score of voices rising and falling as if they were chanting some mantra. A name became recognizable. Galea.

  When the woman spoke, her tone was as welcoming as the chill gray air. “Welcome to my temple.”

  “Yours?” Ebon said. “The old or the new?”

  “The old, of course. The fools who tried to claim it as their own did not realize the ground was still sanctified.”

  “Perhaps they thought you died with your people.”

  The woman’s eyes narrowed. “You know who I am?”

  “You are the goddess of the Vamilians. The one who saved me from the Fangalar sorceress.”

  “Saved you, yes,” she said, regarding him with her depthless eyes.

  “Why have you summoned me here … Galea?”

  If the goddess was surprised he knew her name she did not show it. “What do you know about my people?”

  “Little, my Lady, save what I have seen with my own eyes. The horror of their final days…”

  Galea’s already wintry expression cooled another degree. “The Vamilians were not native to these lands. Their homeland was far to the west of here—its name would mean nothing to you, since it has long ceased to appear on any map. They were a people of enterprise. Explorers. Traders. And at the height of their power, their empire was the largest of any of the elder races.”

  “Until the Fangalar came.”

  The goddess took a step toward him. The room felt suddenly small. “Millions of my people were butchered. The rest were scattered across the globe. Those that came to this continent took refuge here in the forest. But the Fangalar found them eventually, and the slaughter began again. For millennia they existed as spirits—”

  “The ones that tried to invade my mind.”

  “Invade, yes. Oh, you were strong enough to prevent them possessing you, but still they left behind shreds of their souls.” She gave a thin smile. “The voices are becoming stronger, are they not? Soon they will drag you down. Unless, of course, I choose to help you.”

  “Now why would you do that?”

  “Why indeed.” The goddess turned to examine one of the carvings on the wall, but Ebon knew she was not finished, and so he waited for her to continue. “Perhaps there is something you can offer me in exchange,” she said at last.

  “Clearly you have something in mind.”

  Galea did not look round. “I am aware of the attack on your city.”

  “An attack by your people.”

  “But not by my command!” she said, spinning to face him. “If I had the power to resurrect my subjects would I have waited all these millennia to do so? Would I save them from one torment only to deliver them into another?” She stabbed a finger at him. “We share an enemy, mortal. You wish to save your kinsmen, I wish to free my people from the power that enslaves them.”

  “You want to ally with me?” When Ebon laughed it felt like someone was running a saw through his chest. “In case you had not noticed—”

  “I will heal your wounds.”

  “Even so, a goddess asking for a mortal’s assistance? Why?”

  “For me to intervene directly in this affair would create … complications.”

  “Meaning you fear to surrender the safety of sanctified ground.”

  “Meaning I cannot risk drawing the attention of other powers. Powers that might take an interest in what goes on here were they to discover my involvement.”

  Ebon’s sight blurred as a spirit-dream tried to claim him. He forced the vision down. “Who controls the undead, my Lady?”

  “A mortal.”

  “Just a mortal.”

  “A mage. He possesses an artifact of great power. The Book of Lost Souls.”

  “This mage, what is he called?”

  “Mayot Mencada.”

  “I do not know the name.”

  “I see no reason why you should. He comes from Erin Elal—a kingdom to the south.”

  Ebon had heard of it. “Then why has he attacked Majack?”

  The goddess shrugged. “Because he can. Because he seeks more servants for battles to come. Because your city is located on the borders of the forest.”

  Feeling bone weary, Ebon rubbed a hand across his eyes. Is that all this is, then? Are we no more than victims of circumstance? He was struck by the absurdity of the thought. If the attackers were Sartorians, or the soldiers of some other conquering empire, would the fate of his kinsmen be easier to bear? Would that have given their deaths meaning? Why should this Mayot Mencada’s motives, or his lack of them, matter? But somehow it did matter. Somehow it made Ebon feel like he had a score of maggots crawling in his gut. “What do you require of me?”

  “Only that you accept my aid when it is offered. As you did against the Fangalar sorceress.”

  “You want to use me to channel your sorcery?”

  “Channel, yes.”

  Ebon considered this. “When you intervened before, you did so without my agreement. Why do you need it now?”

  “Because in the days ahead you will face more formidable challenges. To overcome them you must … surrender … yourself to me.”

  “As easy as that?”

  Galea pursed her lips. “There are risks, I will not deny it. Your body is not attuned to the ravages of sorcery.”

  Then why do you not seek out a magicker such as Mottle or Ambolina? Ebon did not voice the thought, however—the answer seemed obvious enough. Because I am the only one desperate enough to consider striking a deal with an immortal. “What you’re saying is, my mind could be blasted away.”

  “Does the sacrifice concern you? Would the suffering be any worse than what you are experiencing now?”

  “What do you offer in return?”

  “I have already told you. I will banish the spirits from your mind, heal your wounds.”

  “Not good enough.”

  Galea’s eyes flashed. “You are in no position to bargain, mortal. Your life hangs by a thread.”

  Ebon’s laugh turned into a fit of coughing. “Do you think I care about my own life? Do you think that is why I am here? My city—”

  “You are not listening,” the goddess cut in. “I cannot interfere.”

  “No, Lady, I am listening. You said to do so would create complications. That is your concern, not mine. If you wish to ally with me you must help my people, just as I help yours.”

  Galea was silent for a time. Ebon looked at the floor. He could feel the weight of her gaze on him. The voices of the spirits had grown louder throughout his exchange with the goddess, their tone indignant. Above them the king could hear Vale calling to him from outside the temple, but he did not respond.

  “Very well,” Galea said at last. “I will do what I can.”

  Ebon forced himself to look into her cold green eyes. “Do my people … Does the palace in Majack still hold?”

  “It does.”

  Ebon’s sense of relief almost made his legs buckle. He was a fool, he knew, to trust the word of an immortal. Most likely there was much she had not told him of the power behind the undead, of the risks he faced, even of her motives in choosing to help him. And, of course, there would be no way for him to know henceforth whether the goddess was keeping her side of the bargain. If she will not step in directly to aid her own people, why should she do so for mine?

  Ebon pushed his suspicions aside. This was not the time for doubts. Galea was offering him a glimmer of hope where before there had been none.

  A fact she knows as well as I.

  He paused, then nodded. “We are agreed.”

  * * *

  Parolla reached out with her senses toward the tendril of death-magic that held the Kinevar girl. Mayot’s sorcery was unlike anything she had encountered before, the thread made up of scores of smaller strands of energy, interwoven like knotted steel. Elegance allie
d with strength, breathtaking in its mastery. The craftsmanship was far beyond anything Parolla could accomplish, but her task here was not to create, but to destroy. Something she’d had lots of practice at over the years. Releasing her power in a trickle, she fashioned it into a cutting edge and brought it scything down.

  The thread did not so much as quiver. Parolla, though, was sent staggering backward by shock waves from the clash of sorceries. She had not thought to raise wards about herself, and ripples of death-magic crackled round her, singeing her skin. As quickly as the burns formed, however, they were healed by the dark energy coursing through her. The strand of sorcery remained undamaged. Parolla probed it once more, searching for a weakness, the slightest flaw she could target for her next strike.

  Nothing.

  Weaving shields about herself, she gathered her strength and struck out again at the thread. It held firm. But this time when the backlash came she was ready for it, and the wave of magic broke harmlessly against her defenses. The energy surging along the strand had increased at the place where Parolla’s attack fell, as if some conscious will were directing power to where it was most needed. Was Mayot aware of her efforts? Was he setting his will in opposition to hers? She shifted the focus of her assault to a point closer to where the strand entered the Kinevar’s chest. If she could not sever the tendril she might at least interrupt the flow of sorcery along it long enough to break Mayot’s control over the girl.

  Still the thread resisted her.

  As Parolla poured more and more of herself into the effort, she felt the darkness within her build. Her expression tightened. The darkness … After all these years, she still clung to the pretense that it was something distinct from her—some malign presence for whose actions she was not accountable. The reality was, the taint was a part of her. The part she had tried to suppress for so long. The part that was growing stronger every day. The part I will need if I am going to defeat Shroud.