When the Heavens Fall (70 page)

“Such poor entertainment, Consel,” Mayot said. “I expected better of you.”

“You think this is over?” Garat hissed. “It is just beginning. I'll be waiting for you on the other side of Shroud's Gate.”

The corners of Mayot's mouth turned up. “Somehow I doubt your soul will make it that far. You were a fool to venture here in such feeble company. A hundred of your pathetic soldiers would not have been a match for my Prime…”

The old man's voice trailed off, and he turned toward one of the dome's archways.

Startled, Romany looked across to see two more strangers enter the building. She recognized the first as one of Shroud's disciples. Dressed in voluminous black robes, his face was hidden by a cowl and he clutched a golden-bladed sickle in each hand. His companion was a giant of a man with a scar running down the right side of his face. His mud-spattered clothes were devoid of adornment, and he was armed with a sword and a longknife. The weapons were invested with death-magic—a surprising detail since their owner was clearly no servant of the Lord of the Dead.

It was this second stranger who spoke in response to Mayot's words.

“Try me instead.”

 

C
HAPTER
21

L
UKER WATCHED
the shrunken, white-haired old man—Mayot Mencada, he presumed—lean forward in his throne. The mage's matted beard grew wild to his waist. He clutched a leather-bound book to his chest with skeletal hands. His gaze when it settled on Luker was dismissive.

Surrounding the dais was a throng of undead, perhaps twentyscore in all, though it was difficult to judge numbers with so many faceless black spirits drifting through the gloom. Luker could sense the veil to the underworld dissolving before the waves of death-magic emanating from the Book. Soon the dome would become as much a part of Shroud's domain as it was the mortal realm. Luker scratched his scar. Did Mayot even realize what was happening here? Was he stupid enough to think he could control the power he had unleashed?

When the mage finally spoke his voice was barely audible above the rumble of the storm and, bizarrely, the crashing of waves. “Well, well. It seems the day's entertainment is not yet done.”

Sickle Man stepped forward. “I am Kestor ben Kayma, emissary of Shroud. You should have groveled before my Lord when you had the chance. An eternity of torment—”

“Yes, yes,” Mayot cut in. “I've heard the empty threats before. Tell me, does your master now regret not striking a bargain when it was offered?”

“Shroud does not deal with mortals.”

“Even now, with the powers at my command?”

Kestor's voice purred. “I hear the yearning in your voice. You seek an escape from the grave you have dug for yourself, yes? Would you surrender the Book to me now? Would you throw yourself on my Lord's
mercy
?”

Mayot scowled. “You misunderstand. I have no intention—”

“It matters not,” Sickle Man interrupted. “The truth is, you were lost the moment you set foot on this road. There is no going back.”

The silence stretched so long that Luker wondered if Mayot had dozed off. Finally the old man said, “You think I fear Shroud? Why? What has he done since I destroyed the first fool he sent here? Nothing, save send more fools for my servants to blunt their swords on. And now”—he gestured to the undead surrounding the dais—“I have an empire to protect me.”

“Yet here I am,” Kestor said.

Mayot stroked the Book of Lost Souls. “You think the hard work is done now that you've reached this place? My strength has grown tenfold since I first opened the Book. Each day more of its secrets fall into my hands. Soon I will have the power to overthrow your Lord.”

“You would challenge him in his own realm?”

“Would he challenge me in mine? No. Instead he sends his pitiful minions against me. Why? Because he dares not set foot in the mortal world. He is afraid—”

Luker snorted his contempt.

Mayot's cold gaze fixed on him. “Ah, the Guardian. Luker Essendar, I believe. I remember you from the night of the Betrayal—our attack on the Black Tower.”

“I don't remember you.”

The old man's left eyelid started fluttering. “You seem to have misplaced your companions. I was so looking forward to renewing my acquaintance with that arrogant pup, Chamery.”

For once Luker agreed with him. He'd have liked to see the two corpse-huggers square off too, though he doubted there was room enough in the dome for both their egos. “Shame he won't be joining us, then. Like all mages, he got ahead of himself. A little power and suddenly he thought he shit gold. He was put in his place, just like you will be.”

There was another pause. One of the unconscious Sartorian soldiers had come to and was retching noisily.

“You are unwise to mock me,” Mayot said. “No doubt you bring some feeble offer from Avallon. A pity your journey was wasted.”

“I'm not here for the emperor.”

The old man's lips quirked. “Of course. Your master, Kanon. I confess I am surprised you managed to defeat him.”

“I had help—from Kanon himself. Maybe your grip on your servants isn't as strong as you think.”

“Impossible!” Mayot snapped.

Luker said nothing.

The mage leaned back in his chair. “I will have the truth soon enough, Guardian. You do know that whatever … damage … you inflicted on your master can be repaired? In time you will both serve me.”

“I'm done talking.”

“As am I.” Mayot waved a hand at the four golden-armored Vamilians. The woman holding the dazed consel released him, and he fell to the ground. The warriors then advanced, their footsteps rustling the leaves on the floor. “Let's see if you fare any better against my Prime than Kanon did.”

Luker's eyes narrowed.
So these are the ones.
He had seen the final moments of their fight with the Sartorians. The bastards were quick, sure … but there were only four of them.
Four against two. I like those odds.

Rolling his shoulders, he moved to his left to put some distance between himself and Sickle Man.

*   *   *

On his knees, Ebon watched as the female stranger was forced back a step by the waves of white light surging from the Fangalar leader's hands. The woman's form was cloaked in shadow, a darkness so deep even the sorcery assailing her could not pierce it. Ebon sensed her drawing energy from the death-magic in the air. A necromancer, then. Was she one of the undead? He could detect no thread protruding from her chest, but then there was little he
could
make out through the storm of powers.

The king switched his gaze to the two Fangalar. The yellow-robed sorceress had steered her horse between Ebon and her leader. Bathed in the light of the man's magic, she sat watching Ebon, her expression disdainful. But she didn't attack.

Galea was a swirl of ice in his mind. “What are you waiting for? The stranger is being driven back.”

“Who is she?”

“Would I call her a stranger if I knew?”

“Then why has she intervened?”

The lines around the goddess's eyes tightened. “Why don't you ask her?”

A sorcerous concussion shook the hilltop, and Ebon swayed on his knees. In the air between the female stranger and the Fangalar leader, light warred with shadow in a shower of sparks. The brightness had advanced an armspan toward the woman, creating fissures in the wall of blackness surrounding her. Ebon raised a hand to shield his eyes.

“Is she the one controlling the undead?” he asked the goddess.

“No.”

“But she is a necromancer.”

Galea hissed with frustration. “The Book draws on the power of Shroud's realm, you fool! Of course it has drawn necromancers here.”

“Meaning she wants the Book for herself.”

“Then kill her next, mortal, when you are done with the Fangalar. Cut her down for sparing your miserable life.”

Ebon frowned. Did Galea expect him to believe she cared anything for the stranger's fate? Once again the goddess was trying to manipulate him. And yet, she was right about the woman saving him. To stand aside and simply watch her die after she had come to his aid …

He hesitated an instant longer, then nodded.

Galea's power flooded into his veins, and he winced. “You must strike now,” she said, “while the leader is distracted. The Fangalar sorceress would have attacked you if she dared. She is no match for you.”

Ebon was not so sure. He still had no feeling in his hands and feet, and he twitched in the grip of the goddess's magic like a puppet on a madman's strings. “When I'm ready.”

“When you're ready?” Galea sneered. “Tell me, is it my sorcery that makes you tremble so, or your fear?”

This from a goddess who cowers behind a human shield.
Ebon sensed Galea stiffen at that, but he did not give her a chance to respond. “When I'm ready,” he said again, breaking the contact.

The shadows round the female stranger were burning away under the Fangalar leader's onslaught. The trees to either side of her had warped and withered, and one toppled over, crumbling to dust as it fell into the path of the sorceries.

Overhead the whirlwind had ripped apart the dome of death-magic, the edges of the breach flapping like rent sails. Gray clouds poured through the opening, making it appear as if the sky were caving in. Dark forms moved in the murk, and Ebon heard a stormwraith screech. There was no sign of Mottle, but the old man would be up there somewhere.

He pushed himself upright. A gust of wind hit him, and he lurched to his left. The clash of powers had thrown up earth and leaves that swirled about the hilltop in dense, speckled waves. He fixed his gaze on the yellow-robed Fangalar sorceress. She had steered her horse away from her leader and now tensed as a burst of magic shattered the air above her.

“In your own time, Mottle,” Ebon whispered.

Right on cue a shaft of lightning lit up the gloom, spearing down from the clouds to strike the Fangalar sorceress's wards. Blue fire crackled across them. She flinched, but did not counter.

Ebon raised his hands to add his own power to Mottle's. Waves of energy burst from his fingertips to leave ripples of frozen air in their wake. They hit the sorceress's defenses with a sound like splintering ice, and spidery cracks spread across her shields.

“Again, Mottle!” Ebon called, and the mage responded. Thus far the old man's attacks had been intermittent, but now the spears of lightning came down one after another, four, five, six bolts striking the Fangalar's wards in as many heartbeats. Her shields disintegrated in a flash of searing blue. The woman screamed.

Sorcery rushed over her, drowning her cry.

Ebon shifted his attack to the orange-robed Fangalar. As his power struck the man's defenses, the leader's head turned toward him. The sorcerer's look was one of irritation not fear, and Ebon sensed Galea's hatred burn with renewed ardor. The king's arms were now heavy with cold, and his body felt so brittle he thought it might shatter if he fell. Perhaps he was becoming more accustomed to the demands of the goddess's sorcery, though, for when she channeled more power into him he found himself able to withstand it. The Fangalar's wards retreated a handspan, and the light flowing from the man's fingers dimmed. Scowling, he threw out a hand toward Ebon, stopped the king's attack dead in his tracks.

In doing so, though, he had weakened his defense against the female stranger's assault, and the black tide of her death-magic surged to join with Ebon's sorcery. The Fangalar's wards started dissolving like walls of sand before the incoming tide.

Just as another shaft of Mottle's lightning flashed down from the storm and slammed into them.

They buckled, then collapsed.

The three powers—Ebon's, Mottle's, and the dark-haired woman's—hit the orange-robed figure together, colliding with a blast that sent magic roaring into the sky like a geyser. Within the conflagration Ebon saw the Fangalar raise his hands to his face. The man was chanting, but his voice faltered as the sorcery continued to rage about him. For a dozen heartbeats he and his horse burned with black flames.

Then their forms dissipated like smoke to leave nothing behind but a patch of blasted mud.

Darkness swept in from all sides.

*   *   *

Parolla's hood had come down during her sorcerous duel, and she raised it once more against the rain. Her hands shook in the wake of the magic she had unleashed. She'd almost lost control against the Fangalar, fighting to hold back part of herself even as she struggled to resist the sorcery thrown at her. If the shaven-headed
magus
hadn't come to her aid when he had …

She watched the man rise and walk toward her. The vortex above the hilltop was dispersing, yet the
magus
still staggered as if the wind might knock him from his feet at any moment. His gaze when it fixed on hers had an unsettling, almost ascetic, intensity. He wore richly tailored clothes and a mud-spattered cloak that must once have been fit for a king. There was a blue tint to his lips, and his eyebrows were crusted with ice—ice that was now melting as the rain fell about him. Each step brought a grimace to his face, but there was no sign of any injury upon his body. This man's wounds, Parolla suspected, were all on the inside.

The
magus
had lowered his magical wards, a gesture no doubt intended to reassure her that he meant no harm. Parolla, though, felt a growing sense of unease. The stranger's sorcery had the same signature as that of the Vamilian
magi,
yet he was not one of the undead. She pursed her lips. It appeared there was more to this man than met the eye.

He halted in front of her. “My Lady, are you hurt?” he asked in the common tongue.