When the Heavens Fall (23 page)

Romany rubbed her hands together. All was going to plan. Her success, she decided, had never truly been in doubt.

Yet still something niggled her. The improbability of what she had witnessed left her feeling strangely apprehensive. Mayot had tried to betray her. Galling, certainly, but not altogether surprising. More unsettling was the ease with which he had brushed aside Lorigan Teele—one of Shroud's elite—particularly since the mage had only just begun to draw on the Book's reserves. How much further might his power grow? What other abilities lay within his grasp? For an instant the priestess wondered whether she and the Spider had created a weapon they could not control.

She snorted. As if such a thing were possible!

The last echoes of sorcery died away and the sound of lapping waves once again filled the dome.

Then, rising above that suddenly, Romany heard the dry rasp of Mayot's exultant laughter.

 

P
ART
II

S
HADES
OF
B
LACK

 

C
HAPTER
7

S
HELTERING BEHIND
an outcrop of rock, Luker squinted against the grit on the wind. To the north the road that led down from the Shield's foothills disappeared into the cinnamon haze that cloaked the Gollothir Plains, an expanse of scorched earth and rock broken only by isolated stands of rodanda trees. Clouds of red dust hung in the air as if a great host had passed this way recently. And while the plains appeared deserted now, Luker had traveled here often enough to know this land was never as empty as it seemed.

Seven years ago he had stood in this same spot, looking down on the lead elements of the emperor's invading army as it prepared to advance on Arandas. He'd been tasked with scouting ahead of the Ninth, reestablishing contact with the forces guarding food and water drops hidden along the route of the march. Luker shook his head. Sensible military planning, those drops. Straight out of Fuster's manual on logistics. Merin Gray could probably tell him the page number. But you didn't move wagons of supplies through the Gollothir Plains without some tribe or other taking notice, and sure enough when Luker reached the caches he had found them plundered, the soldiers protecting them eviscerated and staked to the ground for the fire ants to feed on.

The revelation had come too late to halt the Ninth's march, for the emperor had never been one to turn back once the die was cast. The tribes of the Gollothir Plains had harried the army day and night as it slogged through the dust and heat. Two weeks later the Ninth had stumbled into the shadow of Arandas's walls, short on rations and bleeding from a thousand cuts. And the fate of the siege was sealed before it had even started.

The dust of the plains was red, Luker had heard the tribesmen say, because of Erin Elalese blood.

Luker liked the place. Sculpted by the sun and the searing wind, the plains were littered with the bones of countless dead civilizations. In his travels he had come across the ruins of cities larger even than Xavel and the other metropolises of the Qaluit Empire to the west; statues of forgotten tyrants each as tall as twenty men; raised circles of sand where bones rose to the surface like bubbles in a lake before sinking out of sight again. The land held secrets, he knew. He could feel it in the charged silences that filled the midnight hours, in the tremors of ancient sorcery that rippled beneath the ground like a heartbeat.

But it wasn't that sense of mystery that drew him to this place. During Luker's mission to find the supply caches he had traveled for days at a time without seeing another soul, and every bell had been a blessed struggle for survival. Blessed because while he was fighting to keep Shroud at bay he couldn't also be thinking about the reasons that had led him to abandon the Guardians that first time nine years ago and go wandering beyond the White Mountains. About how he'd slunk back two years later with nothing more to show for his travels than worn-out boots and the knowledge he was no closer to finding any relief from the sense of restlessness that ever dogged him.

The trail of death-magic from the Book of Lost Souls led north across the plains. To Arandas? Luker was beginning to doubt it. The city was over fifty leagues away, but the source of the power felt more distant still. He rolled his shoulders. After two weeks' travel the Shield was behind him, but Kanon remained out of reach. If there was one consolation, it was that with the Book now activated he could strike out alone if he had to and follow the threads of death-magic to Mayot. He'd wait a while longer, though, before deciding on his next move. There was no guarantee, after all, that when he tracked down Mayot he would find Kanon with him. The tyrin's spies might have information that could help.

Stones clattered behind, and Luker looked round to see Merin climbing the trail, Jenna and Chamery farther down the slope. The tyrin hobbled his horse before scrambling up to join the Guardian. He had refused to let Chamery heal his wounds after Luker's attack at the Gate Inn, and the bruising round his neck was still visible as a yellow cast to his skin. His drawn face and sunken eyes were testament to the punishing pace Luker had set since leaving Arkarbour, but unlike Chamery, Merin had not complained about the hardships of the road. He stared down at the lowlands.

Luker caught his eye. “Time to swallow your pride. We're taking the direct route to Arandas, straight across the plains.”

Merin studied him for a moment. “The flow of survivors from the Seventh has dried up since we entered Cloud Pass. Tells me the Kalanese are out there”—he nodded at the plains—“hunting them down.”

“Just as the Kalanese themselves are being hunted. They won't get any special treatment from the tribes here.”

“You think we can avoid both sides?”

“Going to have to try,” Luker said. “It's five days to Arandas if we take the road, maybe double if we go round. We need those days.”

Merin had the look of a commander considering the advice of a subordinate.
The tyrin's still playing soldiers.
How long before he woke up to the fact the decision wasn't his to make? “You know the land?” Merin asked.

“Well enough.”

“What about water?”

“Well enough, I said!”

“And what happens if we meet any Kalanese out there, or one of the tribes? Odds are we'll be outnumbered.”

“We could run into trouble whichever way we go.”

Chamery's questioning shout sounded from downslope, but Merin ignored him. “Is there any cover if we need it?”

“Some. Ruins, gorges, gullies.”

“Any of which could be used to hide an ambushing force.”

The Guardian bit back a retort. The tyrin wasn't telling him anything he didn't already know. The fact was, Luker stood a better chance of crossing the plains unseen if he traveled alone. If Merin wasn't careful, he was going to talk himself out of an escort. “I can scout ahead if need be—spirit-walk our route…”

His voice trailed off. A flash of light had pierced the haze ahead. The Guardian placed a hand on Merin's arm and gestured.

“I see it,” Merin said. “Sunlight on armor?”

“Bloody careless of them if you're right.”

The flicker came again. Luker turned to scan the ridge of hills behind. In the distance he saw the black turrets and crenellated battlements of Point Keep, hewn from the stone of one of the Shield's peaks. Farther west—

There! An answering flash from a shelf of rock overlooking the exit from Cloud Pass.

Luker cursed. “Signals. We've been spotted.”

Merin peered at the plains. “I can't see a thing through this dust.”

“Whoever they are, they're not ours.”

“Behind us too? From Point Keep?”

“No, to the west.”

“They'll be circling round to cut off our retreat. We have to move now.”

Luker swore again. He hated running, but until they knew what they were up against … He nodded.

“We go back to plan A,” Merin went on. “Skirt the foothills toward the Waste.”

“Once we're down there they won't be able to see us any better than we can see them,” the Guardian said. “Maybe we can slip away in the dust.”

The tyrin's raised brows mirrored his skepticism.

Arandas felt much farther away suddenly.

*   *   *

Ebon shifted on the Iron Throne. The imperial crest emblazoned across the back of the chair dug into his back, and there was nothing to ease the cold discomfort of the seat. Admittedly the cushion had been removed at Ebon's own bidding, for even now his feet barely touched the ground, tall though he was. A reminder, as if one were needed, that this was his father's throne.

He was used to sitting at Isanovir's right hand in the place now occupied by his brother, Rendale, and while his new vantage point offered only a slight change of perspective, it was telling in its import. A few paces in front, steps led down to the chamber's main floor. At the end of the room, a stone's throw away, were double doors of black steel that stretched up to the ceiling. To Ebon's left and right, Pantheon Guardsmen lined the walls. Above them, in the hanging galleries where the lesser domens and other dignitaries were seated, not a chair remained unfilled, and even the stairs between them were crammed with expectant onlookers. Judging by the babble of their conversation they were looking forward to seeing their new king's mettle tested by the Sartorian consel.

The Serrate Crown felt heavy on Ebon's head.

His gaze was drawn, as ever, to the skeleton near the eastern wall of the chamber. In the shadow of one of the galleries, the skull of some vast creature rose from the floor as if the rock had once turned molten before solidifying to imprison the beast. As a boy, Ebon had climbed into the jaws. Each of the beast's teeth was as long as he had been tall. Not even Mottle knew what manner of creature it was, still less what fate had befallen it. The Currents, it seemed, held no answers—the ripples were too faint to be deciphered.

A khalid esgaril.
The name leapt unbidden into Ebon's mind.
Dragon's bane.

The whispering of the spirits grew loud, and the throne room began to darken.
No! Not here, not now.
Ebon tried to fight the visions, pressed his back into the throne's imperial crest until he thought he must have drawn blood, but it was all slipping away. Flickering images overlapped the chamber, as if he were seeing double. A scene was forming: the same room, yet different. Rugs covered the floor, and a collection of skulls of all sizes, human and animal, were affixed to the walls. Looking up, Ebon saw the tops of trees through the windows above the now-empty galleries. Was this a vision, then, of the throne room from centuries past? Had the Forest of Sighs once extended this far east?

A spectral figure hovered at the edges of his sight—a pale-skinned woman in a coat of chain mail that reached down to her knees. Her image was too blurred for him to see her face, yet still he felt he should know her. Her mouth was opening and closing, but Ebon could not make out her words. He wanted to shake his head to clear it but didn't dare, lest he draw the attention of his kinsmen in the “real” throne room.
Get away from me!
he silently commanded the spirit, but from her lack of reaction it seemed she could no more hear him than he could her. Tearing his gaze away, he found himself looking again at the khalid esgaril. The creature's cavernous mouth appeared to be smiling, and there was movement in its eyes …

With a start the king came to, his chest heaving. The images of his second-sight faded to reveal Mottle sitting in one of the skull's eye sockets. He was swinging his legs back and forth. He must have sensed Ebon's regard, for he looked across and winked.

The last vestiges of the king's vision fell away.

To his right a voice was speaking; the chancellor, standing behind the throne, had bent over to whisper in his ear. Ebon concentrated on his words. Tamarin was explaining—slowly and deliberately as if he were talking to a child—that the delegation from Mercerie would not be joining them. It seemed a messenger had been sent ahead to convey the envoy's apologies—something about being struck down by ill health on the road to Majack. The chancellor added, unnecessarily, that he thought this a fabrication. The Merceriens clearly shared Ebon's suspicions as to the reason for the consel's visit and had chosen to stay away for fear of being drawn into a conflict.

As Tamarin's voice droned on, Ebon looked to his left. His mother was perched on the edge of her throne, her hands gripping the chair's armrests. Beside her, General Reynes sat stroking the cinderhound on his lap. Next came Vale, and beyond him a dozen domens, drawn up according to rank. Switching his gaze to his right, Ebon scanned the faces of the Council members on that side, relieved to see Domen Janir had heeded his order to stay away.

There was a booming knock from the end of the chamber, and all conversation died away.

So it begins.

Guardsmen hauled on ropes, and the doors swung open. A score of figures were visible in the gloom beyond, but Ebon resisted the impulse to lean forward for a closer look. The Sartorian party moved through the doors and into the hall. At the front was a man with the rust-colored skin of all Sartorians, who walked with the grace of a swordsman—Consel Garat Hallon, Ebon presumed. Flanking him, two on each side, were four giant warriors, each half as tall again as the consel and covered from head to toe in plate-mail armor. They wore horned helmets and carried double-headed axes in their gauntleted hands. The dull beat of their metallic footsteps kept perfect time as they marched.

From Ebon's left, General Reynes's cinderhound gave a growl. It was followed by a murmur from the galleries as Mottle jumped down from the khalid esgaril and scuttled to intercept the Sartorian party, smoothing his crumpled robe all the while.