When the Heavens Fall

by Marc Turner

  The clang of steel on steel interrupted her thoughts—a perception not from her spiritual body, but from her corporeal one back in Estapharriol. She paid it no mind.

  Scores of Shroud’s minions were now converging on Mayot’s stronghold, cutting a swath through the undead hordes with their weapons of oblivion. Up until now the Vamilians, under Romany’s direction, had prevented the foe from banding together in great numbers, but Shroud had responded by assembling squads of his disciples beyond the borders of the forest. Now they were on the march. The largest, a group of Black Priests under the command of an Everlord, was just thirty-five leagues west of Estapharriol, and Mayot had sent a veritable army of undead to intercept them. As a result, dozens of Shroud’s other followers wandered unopposed through the more distant parts of the forest. Romany had given up trying to track them all, confining her attention to Estapharriol and the woods round it. It was a move she had been loath to make, since it meant new pieces might appear on the game board without warning, leaving her insufficient time to orchestrate a countermove. Just a handful of days ago, for instance, she had seen a small party of Fangalar enter the forest to the west and start butchering the Vamilians with reprehensible fervor. Where were they now? And why had—

  The crash of weapons sounded again in the ears of her corporeal body. What was that racket? More to the point, why was it getting louder with each moment? Hastening back along her web to her house in Estapharriol, Romany opened her eyes. Danel sat by the far wall of the room, watching her with her unblinking gaze. The priestess rose and crossed to look out of the doorway along the west-facing wall.

  In the street outside, four strangers were engaged in a frenzied clash. One of the combatants, a giant of a woman clad in blackened chain mail, was a disciple of Shroud. Shaven-headed, she had a nose that had evidently been broken so many times she’d given up trying to reset it. She carried a longsword and a shield that had been mangled into something barely recognizable. Facing her were three brown-robed figures carrying maces and figure-eight shields. Each wore his hair in a topknot and had a long plaited beard. Their flaming eyes marked them as warrior-priests of the fire god, Hamoun.

  The combatants were only a dozen paces from Romany’s vantage point, but she was not concerned. Thanks to the sorcerous wards she’d spun about her abode, there was no risk of the strangers seeing her, let alone stumbling inside. That being the case, and since Romany was in no hurry to return to the hanging gallery of Kinevar, perhaps she could spare a few moments to watch this drama unfold.

  The swordswoman had shoulders wider than any of her three male opponents and wielded her sword with a speed that belied her bulk. This particular disciple of Shroud had proved to be something of a nuisance to Romany, having survived the three previous encounters with the undead the priestess had arranged for her. On one occasion she’d even contrived to blunder into an ambush intended for another of Shroud’s minions, thereby saving the fortunate man’s life, albeit temporarily. This time, to put the matter of her fate beyond doubt, Romany had enlisted the unwitting help of Hamoun’s monks, all of whom remained, for now at least, among the living.

  It was of course absurd that these enemies of Mayot Mencada should be fighting each other so close to where Mayot himself was holed up. Or rather it would have been were it not for the illusory threads of death-magic emerging from the chests of all four strangers—threads that Romany herself had spun just a quarter of a bell ago. She smiled. Such a simple ruse, yet the fools were clearly so accustomed to tripping over Mayot’s servants that, on encountering each other earlier, they had not hesitated to attack.

  Ah, and here come the Vamilians to join the fun.

  The street was suddenly swarming with undead, surging from the ruins on all sides. If the swordswoman and the monks had stopped to think about it they might have wondered why the Vamilians were attacking not just them but also their erstwhile opponents. Then again, they probably have other things on their minds just now. The undead had driven a wedge between the four strangers, and the swordswoman retreated down a side street, leaving a trail of motionless corpses in her wake. The monks, meanwhile, were fighting with their backs to each other, wielding their maces against …

  Romany blinked.

  The Vamilians had thrown down their spears and were now hurling themselves at the warrior-priests with only their bare hands as weapons, seeking to seize the monks’ maces or shields.

  Curious.

  She must have spoken the thought aloud because a moment later Danel said, “The master wants them taken alive.”

  Romany looked at the girl. “What’s that, my dear?”

  “He bleeds them dry. The weaker ones—those not fit to be his champions. Their life force gives him back the years the Book takes from him.”

  “You have seen him do this?”

  “I have seen what he leaves behind. Empty husks, their owners’ souls consumed.”

  Romany suppressed a shudder. Yet another of the Book’s powers that the Spider, in her wisdom, had not seen fit to warn her about. It seemed the old man had found a way to negate the harmful effects of the Book’s death-magic on his health. His strength was growing.

  The monks’ maces were inflicting terrible damage on the unarmed Vamilians. A mound of twitching bodies now surrounded the warrior-priests, and it swelled as more undead fell broken beneath their attacks. Romany saw a female Vamilian clamber over her fallen kinsmen and succeed in wresting a shield from the grasp of one of the monks before a blow from his mace smashed her knees to shards. To the woman’s left, a white-robed man took a mace full in the face. His skull crumpled with a wet, crunching sound, gray matter spurting between cracked bone. Somehow, though, he managed to stay on his feet, and he continued groping toward the warrior-priests, his fingers hooked into claws.

  Romany tore her gaze away.

  * * *

  The expression of the Sartorian scout was hidden by the mud plastered across her face. Shifting her weight from one foot to the other, she kept her gaze on the ground between the hooves of Garat Hallon’s horse. But is she more concerned, Ebon wondered, about the news she brings, or the consel’s reaction to it?

  Garat took a drink from his flask. “Report!” he said at last.

  “Sir, the river curls away north and south—”

  “What you’re telling me, soldier, is that we’re trapped in a bend.”

  The scout nodded. “The stiffs have already moved to cut off our retreat.”

  “How many?”

  She shrugged.

  “Any gaps in the line? Any places we could attempt a breakout?”

  Another shrug.

  From beside Ebon, Vale said, “They’ve been herding us like lederel for the last bell.”

  “I’m aware of that,” Garat said, still looking at the scout. “What I’m less clear on is how this was allowed to happen…”

  Ebon did not hear his next words. A flash of light, then Galea stood before him in his mind’s eye. The sleeveless white dress she’d worn previously had been replaced by a long, almost translucent gown dyed green to match the color of her eyes. She gave no greeting, but then Ebon doubted she was here to exchange pleasantries. “We’re in trouble, aren’t we?” he said.

  “You’ve walked into a trap, mortal. A geralid mage is at your back—one of my elite from the days of empire.”

  “A pity you did not think to warn us earlier.”

  “Be grateful that I’m warning you at all. Were it not for me, you would soon be joining the ranks of Mayot Mencada’s servants.”

  Ebon struggled to hold her piercing gaze. “Are we to fight them?”

  “No. I will not aid you in attacking my people.”

  “Can you break the threads holding them?”

  “I could. The power required to do so, however, would burn you to a crisp.”

  “Then why are you here?” Ebon grated, his temper rising. “We do not have time for this.”

  Galea was a long time in answering. “There is
a bridge to the south and west.”

  “Is it guarded?”

  “No.”

  “But … you said this was a trap. Why would the undead go to the effort of driving us here, only to leave us an easy way out?”

  “You will see for yourself soon enough.”

  Ebon mastered his irritation. “What lies beyond the bridge?”

  “The city of Estapharriol, once the capital of this forest kingdom.” The goddess’s mouth twitched. “And for you, the end of the journey.”

  With that, she was gone.

  Another burst of white and the forest came into focus once more. Garat was still ranting at his scout.

  “There is a bridge, Consel,” Ebon cut in. “South and west of here.”

  Garat rounded on him. “My patrol would have seen…” His expression grew wary. “How? How do you know this?”

  Ebon ignored the question. He could now hear the jangle of armor to his left, see flickers of movement between the trees—white-robed figures for the most part, but there were larger, darker shapes among their ranks. Two four-armed warriors strode ahead of the throng, stripped to the waist. In each hand they carried a spear. The nearest of the two pulled back an arm and hurled a spear at Ebon, only for the weapon to tangle in the low branches of a tree.

  Ebon wasn’t waiting for the next. He turned his horse. South and west the goddess had said, but with the sun hidden behind storm clouds one direction looked much the same as the next. The river lay ahead of him, though, a faint rustle of water above the wind, and he urged his destrier toward it.

  Within moments he came upon the remains of a road, its flagstones half-buried beneath dead leaves. It made sense it should lead to the bridge, so he swung his mount onto it. To either side, the trees leaned over the road to form a brown latticed tunnel, and one trunk had fallen across the way. As Ebon’s horse hurdled it he heard a cry from behind, but he dared not take his gaze from the road to look round. Already the murmur of water had risen to a hiss in his ears, and as the trees thinned, the muddy banks of the river came into view, covered in froth and scum. Ebon saw the bridge …

  Or where it must once have been.

  Now all that remained were stubs of broken rock protruding an armspan over the swift, gray sweep of the river. Chunks of stone were scattered along its banks and in the shallows at the water’s edge, and patches of white foam in the center of the channel hinted at more blocks beneath the surface. Ebon drew up his destrier next to the ruined crossing.

  Garat sawed on his horse’s reins as he came alongside. He laughed. “Is this your bridge? Would you have us walk on water, then?”

  Ebon glanced up- and downriver. The watercourse curled away for fifty paces in each direction before disappearing from view behind the trees and nettleclaw growing thick along its banks. No bridge in sight. Downriver a ketar tree had fallen partway across the flow, but Ebon doubted that was what Galea had been referring to. Could there be a second crossing farther along one of the banks? If so, it was useless to him now, for the undead horde would descend on him before he hacked his way through to it. The Sartorian horses were stamping and milling about. Someone shouted a warning, and Garat ordered the soldiers to turn and face the enemy.

  Ebon sent a thought questing inward. Well, my Lady, what now?

  Even before he had finished framing the question, Galea swirled into his mind like a breath of glacial air. He felt her release her power through him and gasped as his blood ran cold. A chill started at the tips of his fingers and toes before spreading along his arms and legs. His palms itched, and he rubbed them along his saddle.

  From the corner of his eye he saw Garat drag his sword from its scabbard, raise his blade to signal the charge.

  The chunks of rock along the banks began to rise, making sucking sounds as they pulled free from the mud. There was movement within the river too, water frothing as more stones broke the surface, streaming foam. The rocks spun slowly round as they lifted and converged on the place where the bridge had once been. They came together with a grinding noise to form a new crossing, wide enough for half a dozen horsemen to ride abreast.

  The Sartorians had fallen silent, and Ebon could now hear the stamp of feet from the east as the undead host approached. They were closing quickly, no time to hesitate. Stepping down from his saddle, he led his destrier to the crossing. The centuries had smoothed the edges of the stones, and through the gaps between them he could see the river rushing below, misty gray air between. A handful of dead birds swept past on the current.

  He shuffled closer to the bridge, then paused.

  “If you’re gonna do it, do it now,” someone behind him said.

  Whispering a silent prayer to the Watcher, Ebon tested his weight on the first suspended block.

  It held.

  He took another step, then another. Many of the stones were caked in mud and slick with water, and the largest of the cracks between them were wide enough to snag a boot or a hoof. Ebon moved from one rock to the next as if they were stepping-stones, stopping each time to allow his destrier to find footings. The stones were set firmly, thank the Watcher. At the center of the bridge he looked back and gestured for his companions to dismount and follow.

  Vale came first, his horse’s reins held lightly in one hand in case the animal slipped or bolted. Behind him was the consel, his expression calculating. The Sartorian soldiers brought up the rear, and Ebon counted them as they filed past. Seven. Meaning one had fallen during their flight to the river—the cry he had heard earlier? He did not trust the goddess to hold the crossing in place any longer than she had to, so he waited until the last of the soldiers passed before turning to follow. Ahead one of the Sartorian horses took fright and dragged its rider to within a handspan of the edge before it was brought under control.

  Hurry, Ebon silently urged.

  The tramp of enemy feet from the east became louder. On the far bank one of Garat’s men unslung his bow and fired an arrow at something behind Ebon. When the king looked back he saw the two four-armed warriors emerge from the trees, each now carrying but a single spear. They stepped onto the bridge and set out across it.

  Just as the last of the Sartorians reached the other side. Ebon was a pace behind.

  Abruptly Galea’s power faded in him, and the crossing collapsed, pitching the undead into the river and sending up fountains of spray.

  * * *

  The first Vamilian spearman ran across the square toward Parolla, and she released her power. A stream of coruscating blackness hit the man. Blisters formed on his face. Then his hair, his robes, and finally his armor burst into flames. Parolla didn’t ease up on her attack, though—the Vamilian wasn’t going to let a small thing such as being set on fire slow him. Sure enough, he tried to advance against her sorcerous onslaught, only for his boots to slide on the chips of stone on the ground. He went down. As wave after wave of Parolla’s magic battered him, his flesh turned black and sloughed from his bones. Moments later his skeleton crumbled to ash.

  A group of Vamilians had entered the square behind, and Parolla’s power cut through them like a scythe through a field of mexin. A shadow fell across her vision, making it seem as if dusk had fallen. Among the undead was a black-robed magus, bald and stooped with age. He sent a shaft of fire roaring at her, and it thundered into her wards with a concussion that hurled the nearby Vamilians from their feet. Parolla’s counterattack shredded his defenses like they were wisps of cloud, and he was ripped apart by the dark swell of her sorcery.

  Parolla’s lip curled. Were these the best Mayot had to send against her? He might as well have left them buried in the ground for all the threat they posed.

  Time became a blur. More Vamilians rushed at Parolla, only to be cut down by her power. A wall to her left came crashing to the ground. She was vaguely aware of something thrown at her—a spear?—and watched with detached interest as it struck her wards and disintegrated. The rubble on the ground, the buildings round the square, even the remains of the
statue of the ship: all were crushed to dust by the storm of sorcery. Clouds of powdered stone now hung in the air, tugged this way and that by the wind.

  Slowly Parolla became aware that there was no one left to face her. More! She looked round for the next enemy, but the square was empty. All about, the ruined buildings had been reduced to banks of ash. Nothing remained of the Vamilians except for the occasional helmet or piece of armor, warped and smoldering. Reluctantly Parolla gave up her power, and the shadows across her vision paled, but did not fade entirely. How long had the skirmish lasted? How many of the undead had she killed? No, not killed, she told herself. Released. The Vamilians were dead already, after all. Their souls were free now, weren’t they? Liberated from Mayot’s enslavement. What she had done to them was a blessing.

  There was movement at the corner of her eye, and she turned to see Andara Kell approaching. His eyes shone in the gloom, yet in spite of their glow they remained somehow lifeless, as if they were windows on a soul as dark and foreboding as the sorcerous shadows that enveloped him. He was breathing heavily. Earlier when Parolla had watched him fight it had seemed as if not a single opponent had got close enough to lay a glove on him, but closer now she saw his shirt had been cut to ribbons and was soaked through with blood. Had her presence here saved his life by drawing some of the undead away? She doubted it, for there was still a disturbing poise to the swordsman, an avidness to his gaze.

  And he had not sheathed his blade.

  Parolla drew in a whisper of power again, felt it tingle in her fingertips.

  Andara stopped a few paces away. “Well, well,” he said. “This is indeed a pleasant surprise.”