When the Heavens Fall (30 page)

Ebon strode along the battlements toward Reynes, the Pantheon Guardsmen in his way parting to let him through. The general's crumpled jacket was unbuttoned, and his short-cropped gray hair was standing up at all angles.

“Reynes,” Ebon said.

“Your Majesty.”

“What do we know?”

“The show's been going on for a quarter-bell. First warning of trouble we had was when one of those blasts of magic rattled the sky.”

“I trust you were not planning on just watching the whole time.”

Reynes shook his head. “A troop's on its way down from the Tarqeen Barracks. Grimes has the command.”

“Not anymore.”

The general's eyebrows lifted. “You're going out there?”

Vale was suddenly at Ebon's shoulder. “A word, your Majesty.”

“Later,” Ebon said. Then, to Reynes, “Has anyone from the consel's camp tried to reach the city?”

“If they have, they didn't make it far.”

No surprises there. Ebon suspected Garat Hallon was not one to retreat readily.

“Been thinking,” Reynes went on. “Whoever's out there might be doing us a favor. Maybe we leave it a bit longer before going to lend a hand.”

Ebon shot him a look. The general should know better than to voice such thoughts away from the Council chambers. “And if the consel dies? Do you think anyone in Sartor would believe we were not behind the attack?”

Reynes grunted.

Another sorcerous explosion split the air. From the street behind, Ebon heard a house's shutters being thrown open, someone shouting up a question. Ignoring the caller, he looked toward the Tarqeen Barracks. A column of lights was winding its way past the colosseum and over the Amber Bridge. He turned for the staircase. “Vale, with me.”

Reynes's voice rang out. “Wait!” Then, “Listen!”

Ebon drew up. He could still make out the sounds of fighting from the consel's camp—a woman's strangled cry, the clang of steel striking armor—but there was another noise too, growing louder with each moment. It came from the west.
Like drums beating.
Ebon's breath came quickly.
No, not drums. Footfalls.
Like an army on the march. He met Reynes's gaze, saw his fears reflected there.
This is no mere raid.

He looked back at the camp. Two of the Sartorian tents had now been set on fire, the flames fluttering in the wind like ragged banners, but the light given off was not bright enough to reveal whatever approached from the woods.

Reynes barked orders to the soldiers round him. “Andresal, get those Shroud-cursed watchtowers lit. Mertil, find me Captain Hitch. Other officers to assemble in the guardroom in one bell.” Two of the Pantheon Guardsmen dashed off. “Jamer, find me that grub, Mottle. I want an Adept at every tower—”

“General!” one of the remaining soldiers cut in. He was pointing over the merlon. “We got company.”

Ebon had already seen them. From the direction of the Sartorian camp, figures streamed toward the city. Among them was a horseman surrounded by a knot of defenders. The rider was wrestling with the reins of his panicked mount, trying to turn the animal back to the camp. Then a wave of attackers rolled over him.

Ebon had seen enough. “Vale,” he said. As he crossed to the stairwell he tightened one of the straps of his leather armor.

“What in the Watcher's name are you playing at?” the Endorian said in a low voice. “How's Grimes supposed to do his job if he's busy trying to keep you alive?”

“That's what you are here for.”

“One stray arrow—”

“Enough! My mind is made up.” A commander didn't ask his men to take risks he wasn't prepared to run himself.

As he entered the guardroom, the first peal of bells started up from along the wall. In the time it took him to cross the chamber, the call had been taken up by other watchtowers and rang out across the city. He left the guardhouse and entered the marketplace. Sergeant Grimes's troop had drawn up facing the gates, and the soldiers were making their final preparations with reassuring aplomb. In addition to their lances, a dozen of the horsemen carried torches.

Ebon made for Grimes. The sergeant was settling his full-face helmet into position. The figure of a boar was etched into the left cheek-piece.

“Sergeant,” Ebon said. “I need two horses.”

The soldier held his gaze for a moment before looking at Vale.

“Save your breath,” the Endorian said. “I've already tried.”

When Grimes spoke, his voice was deadened by his faceplate. “He's your baby, timeshifter.”

“Ain't he always.”

Ebon crossed his arms. “Are we finished, gentlemen?”

Grimes looked over his shoulder. “Skip. Turtle. You're on shoveling duty. Give the men your rides.”

The king strode to one of the soldiers who dismounted, then accepted the man's offered lance and swung up into the saddle. The destrier snorted and shifted as the Guardsman adjusted the stirrups.

Grimes said, “What're we dealing with, your Majesty? Reynes's runner ain't told us shit.”

“The consel is under attack. Maybe the Kinevar, maybe not. The Sartorians have abandoned their camp and are heading this way.”

“You want us to cover their retreat?” Grimes's tone held a note of amusement.

Ebon nodded, then raised his voice to carry to the soldiers. “Pick your targets carefully. I want no mistakes out there.”

“Aye,” someone at the back of the troop said. “Shroud's own luck if we end up spitting the consel.”

The soldiers round Ebon chuckled.

“I will pretend I did not hear that,” he muttered. Then he shouted, “Open the gates!”

The wooden doors swung wide, and the king spurred his horse forward, lowering his lance as he passed through the guardhouse before raising it again when he was clear. Ahead a cart had been abandoned on the road, one end of its front axle resting on the flagstones beside a broken wheel. Ebon rode past it, then steered his destrier west in the direction of the camp. The clip-clatter of the horse's hooves turned to muffled thuds as the animal left the road.

As the light from the guardhouse faded behind, Ebon kicked his mount to a canter. Shadowy figures moved in the darkness ahead, and for an instant he wondered whether he was riding into a trap. Could Garat Hallon have staged the attack on the camp in order to lure him out of the city? Would a stray arrow strike him down, as it had Janir's wife so many years ago, before the attackers melted away into the forest?
No,
Ebon assured himself. The consel would not risk such an act of treachery so deep into Galitian territory.

A third Sartorian tent had now been set on fire, and scores of combatants fought silhouetted against the flames. Ahead three Sartorians emerged from the blackness, their rust-colored skins unmistakable in the light of the torches held by the Guardsmen behind Ebon. Two women were struggling to support a man between them, his bearded chin resting on his chest. They stumbled to a halt as the Galitians bore down on them.

“Let them pass between us!” Ebon shouted, not knowing if the troop would hear him over the thunder of hooves.

As he drew level with the women, he saw a bare-chested Sartorian horseman in front, hacking down with an ax at three assailants on foot. The enemy wore coats of chain mail to their knees, and wielded curved swords. Ebon blinked. Not Janir's men, but not Kinevar either. Yet they came from the forest …
We have our answer to the Kinevar exodus, I think.
Ebon recognized the attackers, he realized suddenly, but from where?

With a growing sense of apprehension, he lowered his lance.

Abruptly, the voices in his mind rose in an angry crescendo, and he found himself battling an impulse to pull the weapon away.
What in the Nine Hells?
The tip veered to Ebon's right, and his arm shook as he fought to bring the lance back into position. He selected his target and aimed for the enemy's chest. The point of the weapon took the man just above the heart, and he was lifted from his feet and thrown several armspans through the dust.

Ebon felt a surge of rage from the spirits, and a stabbing pain shot through his head. Stifling a groan, he dropped his splintered lance and raised his hands to his head. Images flashed before his eyes: a forest ablaze; trees burning to ash in white heat; scarlet flames leaping into a night sky filled with screams. Then the spirits came shrieking up from the dark recesses of his mind, snarling and snapping and grasping as they tried to drag him down into blackness. But this was no dream like the one Ebon had endured at Lamella's home earlier. Here, in the waking world, he was in control, and he emptied his mind, seeking the same focus that had enabled him to resist the spirits' previous attempts at possession. Slowly their screams receded, their grip on him weakening. The images of fire faded.

When his vision finally cleared, he found his destrier had halted fifty paces from the consel's encampment. His troop's charge had driven the attackers back to the camp's perimeter, but now faltered. Ebon could make out knots of Sartorians among the combatants, some still in their night attire, but there was no sign of Garat Hallon. The consel's four armored warriors fought together in the thick of the battle, dealing out carnage with their axes. But they were being forced back a step at a time by sheer weight of numbers, and yet more of the enemy were pouring out of the darkness in a silent tide.

Silent …
It struck Ebon then that the attackers fought and fell without a sound. No cries of pain or fear, no pleas for help or mercy.

A crash of sorcery to Ebon's left set his ears ringing, momentarily drowning out the murmur of the spirits. He drew his saber. The spirits clearly didn't want him joining this fight, but that only steeled his resolve to do so. To his right, Vale was hacking and slashing at a cluster of assailants surrounding him, and Ebon urged his horse to advance. A woman moved to block his path, her sword stabbing for his stomach. He turned the thrust aside with his saber, then hauled on his reins. His horse reared. One of its flailing hooves dealt the woman a crack to the side of the head that spun her from her feet. As she fell, Ebon caught a glimpse of her face: high forehead, deep-set eyes, bloodless skin.

His mouth was dry as he remembered where he had seen the enemy before.
The spirits of my dreams …

No, it cannot be.

Two more swordsmen rushed from the darkness to his left. The first man was missing half his face; the second had the stub of a broken lance protruding from his chest. There was no pain in their expressions, no hesitation in their movements.
And no blood.
No time to make sense of it now. Ebon blocked a sword thrust from the first assailant and twisted his weapon to hack down at the man's neck. As his blade buried into flesh he felt a stab through his head from the spirits that tore a gasp from his lips. He didn't see the weapon that grazed the armor at his right side, nor the hands that reached up to try to pull him from the saddle. “To the king! Protect the king!” someone was shouting, but Ebon wasn't going to wait for help to come. Using his knees, he set his destrier spinning in a circle. The animal cannoned into an unseen attacker, and the grasping hands fell away.

Ebon looked round and saw a Pantheon Guardsman take a sword in the gut and topple backward out of his saddle. There was no sign of Vale. Then, from the corner of his eye, he noticed one of his attackers—the man missing half his face—rise to his feet again.

Time to get out of here. “To the city!” Ebon yelled, whirling his saber in the air. “The city!”

The cry was taken up by other voices.

Ebon steered his horse toward a Sartorian woman fighting a one-eyed swordsman. The destrier smashed into him, and Ebon offered his free hand to the Sartorian. Seizing it, she swung up behind him, arms locking round his chest. He spurred his mount for the guardhouse.

Ahead dozens of Sartorians were fleeing for the city on foot flanked by riders from Grimes's troop. Ebon could not see Vale among them, but the consel was there, riding back and forth through his kinsmen and calling out something Ebon could not hear. He switched his gaze to the city. A beacon had been lit in the highest turret of the guardhouse, bathing the walls in light. As the king drew closer he saw the battlements to either side were lined with archers fitting arrows to bows.

Moments later he reined up his slavering horse beside the abandoned cart in front of the gates. Two red-cloaked Guardsmen rushed to catch the Sartorian woman as she slid from the horse's rump. Another soldier reached for the destrier's reins, but Ebon waved him away and spun his mount to face the consel's camp.

Grimes rode by, calling for Ebon to follow him into the city. The sergeant had lost his helmet and his left ear was streaming blood. Still there was no sign of Vale. A group of Sartorians stumbled past, followed by a scattering of Pantheon Guardsmen. Next came more Sartorians, then the consel's sorceress, Ambolina, and the giant armored warriors, all seemingly unharmed. As they trotted by, Ebon's destrier shied away.

Garat Hallon emerged from the gloom, still mounted on his horse and looking back all the while. A lone Sartorian man was limping behind him, no more than half a score of paces ahead of a ragged line of the enemy.

“Archers!” Ebon shouted.

A volley of arrows whipped through the air and found their targets.

The lead ranks of attackers, studded now like pincushions, barely broke stride. In front of them, the hobbling Sartorian lost his footing, and the enemy swept over him.

Watcher's tears.

Garat drew his horse up beside Ebon's, staring grimly at the camp. His cloak and doublet were torn at the left shoulder, the blue silk marred by a black stain. His sword was covered with tangled hair and fragments of bone.

Another volley of arrows thudded uselessly into the approaching host. The forerunners were now less than sixty paces away. Ebon's gaze was drawn to a woman at the front. Her robes and hair were aflame, yet still she managed to keep pace with her companions.