When the Heavens Fall

by Marc Turner

  “The pleasure is all yours, sirrah. For me, one meeting was enough.”

  The swordsman smiled. “I have been looking for you everywhere, jezaba. So many questions left unanswered after our first meeting. So many doubts unresolved. Countless empires I have traveled, seeking word of you. And yet after all my searching, it is you who come to me.”

  Parolla held his gaze. If he expected her to back down as meekly as she had the last time, he was mistaken. “I didn’t come here to find you.”

  “Indeed. Why are you here, then?”

  “I could ask the same of you.”

  Andara lifted his sword and inspected it for nicks. “I do so dislike having to repeat myself. Please don’t make me ask again.”

  Parolla considered. Her safest option was to feign ignorance concerning Mayot and the source of his power, and so she shrugged and said, “The forest is brimming with death-magic. It draws power like a lodestone. Where else would I be?”

  “I really don’t care, so long as it is somewhere else.”

  “Can you blame my curiosity? Here is a power that can call souls back through Shroud’s Gate, can animate an army of undead, all to the considerable irritation of my beloved father, no doubt. And now here you are, one of his most trusted servants”—Andara scowled at her use of the word—“come to this place in order to, what? Challenge whoever wields that power? Take it for yourself, perhaps?”

  “This does not concern you, jezaba.”

  “What does not concern me?”

  “Any of it. The pretender’s claim—”

  “‘Pretender’?” Parolla cut in. “Does your master consider this rival a threat, then?”

  “A nuisance, no more than that. Even now the mage’s defenses are being torn asunder, assailed from all sides.”

  Parolla stiffened. All sides? Had Shroud sent other disciples to the forest, then? If his servants were here in numbers she might be forced to reconsider her plans. She forced a light tone. “All sides, sirrah? Does your master not trust you to complete the job alone?”

  Andara’s eyes flashed. “It is because he trusts me that I am here now. To finish this before there are further losses.”

  “Who? Who has been lost?”

  “The Widowmaker, Bar Kentar, Jelan Gelan, others. A much-needed whittling down of the weaker elements of my Lord’s forces.”

  Parolla covered her surprise. She had heard those names before. Weaker elements? “Have they been resurrected like the Vamilians? Do they now fight for the pretender?”

  “Of course not. Shroud would never permit his disciples to be used against him like that.” Andara’s smile returned. “Doubtless the fools cower before him even now, begging forgiveness for their incompetence.”

  A gust of wind blew Parolla’s hair across her face, and she reached up a hand to push it aside. “It would appear your Lord underestimated the scale of the opposition he faced.”

  “No longer.”

  “You are sure of that?” An image came to Parolla’s mind of the undead forces battling the Kinevar gods. “Perhaps the pretender has held back the greater part of his strength.”

  The swordsman took a step toward her. “And perhaps you know more of this than you are letting on.”

  Parolla kept her expression even. “I was simply observing that there seem to be more of these undead as we approach the pretender’s stronghold.”

  Andara sneered. “The Vamilians are weak.”

  “And if the Vamilians are not the only opponents you have to contend with? There may be others drawn to this place as I have been.”

  “Then they will meet the same fate as the pretender.” He looked at her pointedly. “If they are foolish enough to step into my path, that is.”

  “Perhaps I can be of assistance.”

  The swordsman went still, the aura of darkness around him deepening. “Now why would you make such an offer, my dear?”

  Parolla’s pulse quickened. Had she made a misjudgment? Not a genuine offer of help, of course, but Andara could not have known that. “Such suspicion, sirrah. Do you count me as an enemy, then?”

  His gaze bored into her, but she did not look away. A moment’s inattention was all he needed to launch an attack. “Stay out of this,” he said at last. “Shroud is in no mood to tread softly. Your presence here will only muddy the waters.”

  “You’re saying he does not trust me?” she said with exaggerated hurt. “His own flesh and blood.”

  Snorting, Andara sheathed his blade. “I have wasted enough time on you. Leave this place. Run while you still can. Because when this is over I will come looking for you again. And the next time we meet will be the last, I promise you that.”

  As he strode past, his shoulder brushed Parolla’s, and her skin tingled at the touch of his wards. She turned to watch him walk away.

  Tumbal’s ghostly form appeared at her shoulder. “What now, my Lady?”

  “We follow.”

  The Gorlem’s brows lifted. “Thou wilt risk Andara Kell’s wrath?”

  “Will he risk mine? He fears me. There is no other explanation for what just happened here. For all his talk of hunting me down, he would never have left a loose end at his back unless he had to.”

  “And is he right to fear thee?”

  Andara had reached the edge of the settlement and now vanished into the forest beyond. He must have had a horse, for Parolla heard it whinny. “For years now, sirrah,” she said to Tumbal, “I have sought Shroud out, and always he has ignored me. Soon, though, he will have to break his silence. Soon … when I have what he wants.”

  “Then I hope he is able to give thee the answers thou seek’st.”

  Parolla frowned at the note of regret in his voice. “You do not need to go on. If Shroud has other servants nearby they may be able to grant you release.”

  “No, my Lady.”

  “No?”

  “I will see this through. Having come this far, I cannot abandon thee now.”

  Parolla gave a faint smile. “A noble gesture. Though no doubt you are also curious to see how this sorry tale ends, am I right?”

  The Gorlem sighed. “There is that.”

  * * *

  Hovering in spirit-form at the foot of Mayot’s dais, Romany stared up at the old man on his throne. Danel had warned her of Mayot’s newfound ability to steal the life force of others, yet still the mage’s transformation shocked her. His hunch was less pronounced, and there were flecks of gray in his white hair and beard. He sat poring over his wretched Book, not yet deigning to acknowledge her presence. On the floor in front of him was the body of a naked man, sprawled in death. His hands were bound behind him, and his skin was wrinkled as if he had just been fished from the river. Romany grimaced. It was only a small mercy his face was turned away from her, for she could read the suffering of his final moments in the contortions of his limbs.

  Romany looked round the dome. The ranks of Mayot’s champions had swelled, as had the crowd of Vamilians drawn up behind them. A sure sign, the priestess told herself, of the mage’s growing fear, for it was a characteristic male failing to equate numbers with strength, brute force with power. The old man had good reason to fidget in his chair. It turned out the incursion by the Everlord and his Black Priests had been no more than a feint, for they had retreated west as Mayot’s army of undead drew near. Meanwhile, another group of Shroud’s followers, perhaps thirty in all, had gathered to the north and was now advancing on Estapharriol. Recognizing the danger, Mayot had redirected some of his forces from the attack on the Kinevar gods in an attempt to head off this new threat, and along the threads of her web Romany sensed a fierce battle taking place fifteen leagues from the city. A smaller band of disciples was approaching on boats along the Sametta River from the south, and while the Vamilians had begun felling trees in order to fashion crude obstructions across the waterway, Romany doubted they would delay Shroud’s minions for long.

  She brought her attention back to her immediate surroundings. Among th
e undead in the dome were scores of wraithlike figures. When the priestess had first arrived she’d assumed they were merely shadows. Now that her eyes had grown accustomed to the gloom, though, she could see them for what they really were. Spirits. Shades from beyond Shroud’s Gate. The barrier that separated the mortal realm from the underworld was being dissolved by the Book’s magic. For now the spirits were little more than faceless black blurs, but their forms would coalesce as the veil weakened further.

  Romany cleared her throat.

  When Mayot’s gaze fixed on her, his eyes held their usual bloodshot malice. “Ah, it’s you, woman. But in spirit-form only, I see. Do you no longer dare to face me in the flesh?”

  “You mistake fear for distaste. In any event, it is becoming a little crowded in here.”

  “What do you want? My time is precious.”

  “I can imagine. You are keen, no doubt, to savor your last few bells among the living.”

  The old man’s errant eyelid began to flutter. “You have taunted me for the last time.”

  “I fear that may be wishful thinking—”

  “Silence!” Mayot roared. The golden-armored Vamilians flanking the throne had put their hands on their sword hilts, though what damage they thought they could do to Romany’s spirit she could not guess. “Do you think,” the mage went on, “you are safe from me just because you are here in spirit-form? I shall send your soul shrieking to the Abyss.”

  “You are not interested, then, in the gift I bring you?” Romany said mildly.

  Mayot sat forward in his chair. “Gift?” he whispered. “You will surrender the remaining secrets of the Book to me?”

  “I had in mind knowledge of a different kind. The final resting place of—”

  The mage’s snort cut her off. “You’re wasting my time. I have already resurrected every creature my servants can dig up.”

  “Every creature you could find, yes.”

  His eyes narrowed. “You have hidden something from me?”

  More than you could possibly imagine. “Not so much hidden as held back until the appropriate moment. A tiktar, my Lord. I see you are familiar with the name. A worthy addition to your forces, yes?”

  Mayot’s eyes shone greedily. “Where is it?”

  Romany wagged a finger at him. Did he really think she would yield the knowledge to him here, with his knife pressed to her throat? “When I am ready. After all, I have in mind a very particular target for the elderling.”

  The old man wriggled on her hook. “Who?”

  * * *

  Luker squinted through the trees but could make out nothing through the clouds of leaves whipped up on the wind. There could be a whole Shroud-cursed army just a stone’s throw in front and he wouldn’t know it. Nor was there any point trying to use the Will to scout ahead, so thickly were the strands of death-magic clustered.

  Each time he rode through one of the threads he felt a whisper of cold, chilling the sweat on his skin. Of his companions only Chamery seemed unaffected by the Book’s sorcery. The mage had been soaking up dark energy all morning. Now he was filled to bursting, his face flushed as if with excitement, his outline blurred amid a fog of death-magic. Even to look at the boy made Luker’s vision swim. Whenever their gazes met Chamery would give him a challenging smile, and it occurred to the Guardian he’d missed a trick by not putting the mage in his place before they’d entered the forest. Chamery’s indiscipline would likely cost them all before this was over. Already his horse was suffering from his excesses. The animal, partially obscured by the shadows that swirled about its rider, stumbled onward with head bowed and eyes glazed as if it were walking in its sleep.

  Distant sorcerous explosions split the air on all sides. Thus far Luker had been able to steer a rough course between them, but it would not be long before trouble found them. Even as the thought came to him, a dozen Vamilians appeared to his left. Like their kinsmen who’d attacked on the White Road, they were on foot, suggesting either the Vamilian civilization had never used horses or Mayot hadn’t thought to resurrect them. Luker didn’t much care which was the case so long as it meant the undead could be easily outrun. Looks like our luck still holds.

  Digging his heels into his horse’s flanks, the Guardian led his companions north. The undead changed course in an effort to head them off, but Luker’s party was already more than a score of paces in front and pulling farther away with each heartbeat. In this part of the forest the trees were spaced widely apart and the ground was free of nettleclaw, allowing the horses to lengthen their stride. When Luker next checked over his shoulder his pursuers had vanished. Still, he kept the pace steady, knowing the Vamilians would not tire in their chase.

  His mare crested a rise.

  And ran headlong into another group of undead, twice as large as the last one. Luker swore. Had that first group intended to drive them into a trap? He doubted it, for this new enemy was scattered in ones and twos, not set to receive a charge. The Guardian drew his swords and spurred his mount toward a helmeted man holding a spear. The Vamilian brought his weapon up, but Luker batted the point aside with his Will, then used his left blade to parry a blow from a second attacker. No need to counter with a strike of his own, it wasn’t as if he was keeping a score. His horse smashed into the undead warriors and sent them reeling.

  As easy as that he was through …

  Another two score Vamilians appeared between the trees ahead, and Luker tugged on the reins to slow his mount. Looking right and left he saw yet more undead. Surrounded.

  They had to keep moving, but which way?

  A woman brandishing a sword stepped from behind a tree in front of him. Luker parried a cut, turning his wrist at the last moment to send his assailant’s blade spinning from her hand. Then he leaned forward and struck her in the face with the hilt of his sword. She sprawled to the ground. A wave of heat broke against Luker’s face, and he heard a crackle followed by the sound of splintering wood as a tree came crashing down behind. Chamery laughed.

  Missed me again.

  Merin was ahead of Luker now, Jenna to the tyrin’s right. The assassin had acquired a spear from one of the undead and was twirling it with easy swings to crack the skull of any Vamilian who came within range. Then behind her …

  Luker’s eyes widened as a four-armed man, bare-chested and carrying a sword in each hand, pushed his way through a knot of undergrowth. Like a monster had stepped off the page of a Shroud-cursed picture book. The Guardian spurred his horse to intercept him, and the undead warrior swung round. He darted out of the mare’s path before spinning to meet Luker’s assault. He wielded his four blades in staggered attacks, each contact sending a jolt down Luker’s arm as he parried. For a while the Guardian could do nothing but defend the torrent of blows. Then a feint with his left blade earned him a moment’s respite. He lashed out with his Will, sending his opponent toppling to the ground.

  Luker yanked on his horse’s reins, and the mare reared. To the sound of crunching bone, its hooves came hammering down on the undead warrior once, twice, three times. The man struggled to rise, fell back on shattered legs.

  Luker wheeled his mount. A look round revealed the noose of undead tightening about them. “Merin!” he yelled. “Time to leave!”

  The tyrin, hacking down at two Vamilian spearmen, growled wordlessly in response.

  A cry brought Luker’s head round.

  Chamery.

  The mage had fallen behind and was now surrounded by white-robed figures. His horse had taken a spear in its chest and was coughing red froth. Its front legs buckled. Chamery tumbled from his saddle into a Vamilian spearwoman, and the two of them went down. Luker didn’t know whether he was pleased or pissed to see the mage rise again. Chamery’s staff stabbed out, striking the woman on the chin. Her outline flashed black, and she crumbled to ash. Chamery’s laughter rang out once more.

  Luker hesitated before spurring his horse toward him.

  * * *

  Parolla followed the hoof
prints of Andara Kell’s horse in the powdery leaf fragments on the road. A growl of thunder sounded overhead, and as it faded she heard the distant clamor of battle. The forest round her, though, remained oddly silent, and she could detect no threads of death-magic ahead. Perhaps the presence of Shroud’s disciples meant the undead were stretched thin, but so thin not even a single Vamilian patrolled the forest this close to Mayot’s stronghold? Parolla frowned. After the power she’d unleashed in the settlement, the old man was unlikely to let her walk up to his front door unchallenged. When her next encounter with his servants came, it would doubtless be more of a test.

  The ground sloped downward. Ahead the road split left and right. Beyond the junction was a vast lake—man-made, judging by the stone walls that marked the opposite shore. Washed up on a bank of cracked mud in front of Parolla were the bodies of dozens of animals and birds: wildcats and black boars, ruskits and dusken deer, coral birds and firedrifters. Yet more dead creatures bobbed in the shallows.

  Parolla looked along both forks of the road. No sign of Andara, but that wasn’t surprising considering how thickly the trees were clustered to either side. The wind was strong in her face, rippling the surface of the lake and forming waves that lapped at the bank. Along the waterfront to Parolla’s right was a small harbor, empty of boats, while to her left the road hugged the lake as it curled to the east. Beyond the far shore, a quarter of a league away, the land rose to a line of mounds covered with trees—mounds formed, most likely, from the soil excavated when the lake was created. What had Tumbal called the Vamilians? Seafarers. Parolla saw again the statue of the ship in the settlement behind her. Forced to hide from the Fangalar in a place far from the oceans, the Vamilians had apparently tried to bring the sea to them in order to keep alive the memory of their ancestry.

  Another rumble of thunder sounded. No, not thunder, the ground was shaking. An earthquake? As the tremors grew in intensity, the waves breaking on the shore started to swell. A hundred paces ahead light blossomed in the depths of the lake, first white, then yellow, then deepening through orange to red. Flames? In the middle of a lake? No, that couldn’t be right. And yet suddenly the water was boiling and bulging like a hot spring as something ascended from the depths. Vapor rose in hissing clouds as a fiery shape broke the surface, and within the flames Parolla saw twin pits of blackness that might have been eyes, long arms ending in blazing swords, wings tucked tight to narrow shoulders.