When the Heavens Fall (36 page)

Parolla covered a smile. “No wonder you were so keen to investigate.”

“My Lady! I would not—”

“Of course not,
sirrah
. Yet I notice you did not return to the grove to watch over me, as you said you would.”

The Gorlem bobbed his head. “A thousand apologies. I have been in conversation with the earth-spirits of this land, a more arduous endeavor than thou might'st suppose. They are—how may I put it?—somewhat lacking in education. I had hoped to negotiate safe passage for thee across the plains, but it appears the spirits have not the intelligence to see reason.”

Parolla looked down the slope at the fleeing riders. “Perhaps not the spirits, but I think the tribesmen may be more accommodating.”

“They fear thee, my Lady?”

She did not respond.

The dust cloud was at last settling, and Parolla stared out over the plains below. The land appeared to be in the grip of a drought, for the ground was blanketed in a sickly haze, and the tall swaying grasses were scorched brown. To the south and east a great host was emerging from the fog. First came a line of perhaps fifty wagons flanked by horsemen. Behind was a herd of lederel patrolled by yet more riders and, in the ground beneath, earth-spirits. Dogs ran yapping up and down the column.
An entire tribe.
Were they fleeing from the source of the death-magic she was traveling toward?

The horsemen who had confronted her were riding to join their kinsmen. Parolla would have welcomed the chance to trade for a horse, but she suspected a clan on the move would have none to spare.
If they even let me come close enough to ask.
In front of the host was a broad pillar of rock supporting a horizontal stone slab. A territorial marker. The fugitives, it seemed, were about to enter another tribe's domain, but Parolla doubted their neighbors would open their arms in welcome. The clansmen of the steppes had a reputation for being more hostile to rival tribes than they were even to strangers. Overhead redbeaks were circling.
Even the carrion birds know it.

Removing the stopper from her water bottle, she took a swig. Tumbal moved alongside her, his outline a blur at the edge of her vision. When she glanced across, the Gorlem was crouching beside a pile of rocks, one of his spectral hands opening and closing round a stone.

“What are you doing,
sirrah
?”

Tumbal did not look up. “I once met a man who had lost an arm to a sword stroke. He told me that, on occasion, he could still feel the missing limb. It is the same for me. When my fingers close round this rock, some part of me refuses to accept that I cannot grasp it.”

“A memory of the flesh. It will fade in time.”

Tumbal straightened. “It is the same with victuals. At mealtimes I feel cramps from a stomach I no longer possess. Curious.”

The Gorlem's look was one of such solemn deliberation that Parolla could not help but smile, and she felt a pang that she had not arrived at the second demon rent in time to save him from the Jekdal. Then the moment passed, and her face twisted.
Don't be a fool. You wouldn't have lifted a hand to help him.
“It seems you have much to learn about being a spirit.”

“Just so,” Tumbal said, nodding. “Alas, there is one aspect of my condition to which I believe I will never grow accustomed.” He settled the palms of all four hands across his ample girth. “If I'd known that I would spend eternity in such poor trim…”

“I think it suits you.”

“I had not thought of myself as being so … expansive.”

“Are you sure of that? Your spirit doesn't have a physical form, after all. The image I see before me is no more, I suspect, than a projection of how you see yourself.”

“Thou art suggesting I can make myself appear any way I choose?” Tumbal considered her words. “An intriguing proposition. I must needs think on this further.”

Parolla returned the stopper to her flask. Her gaze took in the muscles of the Gorlem's forearms. “Tell me of yourself. You are a warrior?”

“No, my Lady. I am a scholar—an engineer by trade.”

“What did you build?”

“Cities. Well, dwellings, if truth be told. And only for a time, at that.” Tumbal looked at his feet. “Few of my constructions stood the test of time. When demand for my services diminished, I decided to become an inventor.”

“And what did you discover,
sirrah
?”

“Only that I was less than accomplished in that calling also.”

Parolla's mouth twitched. “I always thought your people were a myth. I've seen mention of your civilization in only a handful of texts, and even those claim you died out centuries ago.”

“My civilization, yes, but some of my kinsmen remain, scattered across the world. I fear, my Lady, that I am … was … among the last of my kind. It is scores of years since I last saw one of my people.”

“You have traveled alone all that time?”

“I have.”

A cloud passed in front of the sun, and Parolla shivered. “How do you cope? With the solitude, I mean?”

Tumbal crouched to try his luck with a smaller stone. “My kinsmen are, in many respects, a private people, and over time I have grown used to my own company.” He paused. “I have also learned to accept those things in my life I cannot change.”

Parolla looked back at the column of clansmen. A handful of lederel had broken away from the main herd and were being rounded up by whooping riders. “I wish it were that easy.”

“My Lady?” Then, when she did not reply, he continued, “Thou art not a stranger to solitude thyself?”

Parolla should not speak of this to Tumbal, she knew, but the words were suddenly spilling out. “Can you sense what is happening to the steppes,
sirrah
? The effect of the threads of death-magic? The land is becoming barren, the air poisonous. Soon everything will die. It is the same with me.”

“I do not understand.”

The lead elements of the migrating tribe had reached the territorial marker, and a group of horsemen was gathering about the stones to spit at them and strike them with their spears.

Parolla said, “No living soul can survive in my presence for long. Over time, they fall ill. The skin swells and blisters, the blood runs black, the limbs turn gangrenous. The process can be a slow one, and it took me years to realize I was responsible for the sickness of those round me.”

Tumbal edged closer. “Is there no controlling this taint?”

“Don't you think I've tried? A while ago, I met someone I … came to care about. In my selfishness I allowed myself to stay with him for a time. Then one day he was taken ill. I fled. I haven't had the courage to return. To see whether he survived. To explain why I left.”

“But thou art a necromancer, art thou not? Life and death are but two sides of the same coin. Can thy power not be used to heal as well as harm?”

At the territorial marker one of the clansmen had looped a coil of rope round the supporting pillar of rock and was now pulling on the rope in an attempt to topple the stones. A dozen of his kinsmen dismounted to join him.

“It can,” Parolla said in response to Tumbal's question. “Wounds, diseases, I can cure. I can even regenerate lost flesh and bone. But whether I can undo the … corruption … that I myself cause … I doubt that.”

“But thou dost not know for certain.”

Parolla met the Gorlem's gaze finally. “You would have me find out? And what if I fail? How many more must die before I discover the answer? No, it is better this way. Alone.”

Tumbal's shoulders straightened. “Alone no longer, my Lady. Tumbal will abide.”

Parolla studied him for a while, then nodded. “The dead, at least, I cannot harm.”

The sound of distant hoofbeats came from the west, and Parolla looked across. Two horsemen emerged from the haze that shrouded the steppes, whipping their mounts with their reins. A heartbeat later scores more riders appeared behind them, less than a quarter of a league away. Earth-spirits thronged the ground beneath them.

They were heading toward Parolla.

Muttering an oath, she gathered her power about her again. For a moment she thought to duck behind a boulder, but the horsemen would already have seen her. Apparently the retreat of the shaman and his men had not been a retreat in truth. Apparently they'd simply withdrawn to wait for reinforcements. She should have taken the chance to flee when she had it.

Then she noticed the approaching riders, unlike the fugitive tribesmen, wore metal skullcaps and capes made from lederel hides.

They veered their mounts toward the rival clansmen to the south.

Looking down the slope, Parolla saw the fugitives preparing for battle. To the sound of shouting and yapping dogs, they began to maneuver their wagons to form a circle into which the lederel were driven. While some of the clansmen took up positions between the wagons, others unleashed a volley of arrows at the incoming riders. As the rain of death fell about the horsemen, a loud rumble signaled the clash of the two groups of earth-spirits that accompanied the tribes.

Parolla turned away. “Let's get out of here,
sirrah
.”

*   *   *

Luker crossed the entrance room of the temple, keeping close to the wall in spite of the aching cold radiating from the stone. What remained of the floor seemed sturdy in spite of the yawning hole at its center, but Luker was taking no chances, testing each tile before trusting his weight to it. Ahead was a jagged crack in the ground, more than a handspan wide. The tiles were crumbling along its edges, while below …

Light blossomed at his back, and he started. When he looked round he saw Chamery a pace behind, the tip of his staff glowing. Too damned close by half. A nudge at the wrong time would send Luker plummeting into darkness.

“You trying to climb into my pocket?”

Chamery gave a mocking salute and shuffled back.

The Guardian risked a look into the fissure. A score of armspans below lay the corpse of a pentarrion. Its black, chitinous carapace was encrusted with ice, and rivulets of water trickled down its flanks. Of the subterranean chamber itself, nothing could be made out except row upon row of amphorae—some whole, but most shattered—stretching into darkness. The floor round the pentarrion shifted like ripples on a lake, and Luker heard the hissing of wither snakes.

Another hiss sounded, closer this time, and he looked down to see a serpent slithering between his feet. Instinctively he drew back only for his left elbow to brush the wall. A stab of cold passed through his arm, and he jerked away, leaving shirt and skin behind. Cursing, he kicked out and sent the snake twitching into the air. It disappeared into the hole in the floor. Chamery chuckled.

Just as well the mage was behind Luker at that moment, else he'd have been getting a shove himself.

Stepping over the fissure, the Guardian advanced to the doorway at the end of the room. Beyond was a colonnade of pillars and a courtyard ending at a towering sandstone wall covered with carvings, and set farther back at the top than at the base. The ground was covered with a layer of frost, and there were footsteps in the glittering white, leading
from
the yard, not into it. Clearly the titan had disturbed the pentarrion on its way out of the temple, but how had it got
into
the building if not through this chamber?

Luker edged between the pillars and paused at the edge of the colonnade. At the center of the wall opposite was a rectangular opening, beyond which a ramp led down into darkness. Farther to the left was a smaller doorway, while in the shadow of the pillars to his right was the well he sought.

“The titan's trail leads this way,” Chamery said. Ice cracked beneath his sandals as he strode toward the smaller door.

Luker ignored him and made for the well. A wooden bucket lay to one side, its handle still tied to a length of rope. The stone blocks that made up the well were crusted with ice, and the Guardian grinned as he pictured savoring his first cool drink this side of the Shield. Then he caught the stench of rot, noticed the cloud of flies hovering above the shaft. Snarling his disgust, he spun round and went to join Merin and Chamery in front of the wall.

What Luker had taken to be a small doorway was in fact no more than an irregular hole before which were scattered frost-rimed blocks of sandstone.
The titan … It just punched its way through.
In the darkness beyond the wall was a Merigan portal, and Luker gave a low whistle. He had come across such gateways before, of course, but always at a distance, for the empires in which they were located tended to guard them closely for fear of unannounced visitors. Carved into the portal's architrave were hundreds of runes, one of which was glowing blue. The blackness within the frame sparkled as if Luker were gazing at a starry night sky.

“Whose temple is this?” Merin asked.

Luker cast an eye over the carvings on the wall. Above him a masked and horned figure was firing an arrow at an unseen assailant, while to his right a hooded character, winged this time, sat on a throne before a cowering, animal-headed crowd. He had seen images like these before at a shrine in Balshazar. “The Lord of Hidden Faces.”

Chamery spoke. “Hah! A conceit! The god is no more than a veil behind which some other power lurks.”

“Unless that's what the Lord wants you to think.”

The mage paid him no mind. Raising his glowing staff closer to the portal's architrave he said, “Fascinating, wouldn't you agree? These symbols … a variant on Fangalar script, I believe.”

Merin squinted. “You can interpret the marks?”

“Ah, yes! The emperor's singular obsession.” Chamery's gaze flickered from Merin to Luker, then back again. “But why should Avallon need
my
aid to unlock the mysteries of the gateways when he already has the Guardians to help him.”