When the Heavens Fall (45 page)

The wave rolled over her.

She screamed as the world about her darkened. The touch of the death-magic was like acid on her skin. In corporeal form she might have tried to channel the power away from her, but in spiritual form she had no such defense. Instead, she curled herself tightly round the core of her awareness and allowed herself to be swept along by the wave. Nothing to be gained by attempting to stand against it. She needed to ride the crest and stay ahead of the surge, whatever it cost her, for the death-magic was consuming those parts of her web it came into contact with, and if her soul's link with her body were destroyed she would find herself cast adrift as the Vamilian spirits had been.

Until Mayot resurrected her, that is.

Through watering eyes she saw trees flash past to either side, while ahead the trunks withered and rotted as the sorcery flickered over them. A Vamilian patrol caught in its path collapsed into dust. Magic fizzed and popped in Romany's ears. Her spirit was starting to fray round the edges, but if she could just hold on a little longer … Already the swell of power was losing momentum like a wave climbing a beach. A score of heartbeats later it broke against a heavily forested rise, depositing Romany at the top.

She groaned.
Oh, the indignity.
For a time she could do nothing except listen to the sound of her ragged breathing. Her senses were spinning as if she'd just come round from a blow to the skull. The ordeal had also left her with a headache the size of Mayot's ego, but if there was one consolation it was that her spirit remained bound to one of the strands of her web. Even now, though, that thread was unraveling, and the priestess fled along it to a place where her web was more sound.

She drew up, breathless. Sorcery raged in the distance, indicating the battle between the titan and the Widowmaker was still ongoing. The shock waves from the conflict sent ripples of pain thrumming through Romany's head, and she massaged her temples with her fingers. What now? Return to Estapharriol? It was tempting to think her work here was done, but she couldn't deny a certain curiosity as to the outcome of the duel between these two behemoths. In any case, her next move in the game would be determined by which of the combatants emerged triumphant.

Her much-deserved rest would have to wait a while longer.

The sections of Romany's web between her and the fighters had been destroyed by the wave of death-magic, but there were other threads she could use to return by another way. In a matter of moments she arrived at the edge of a clearing—a smoldering wasteland a hundred paces wide, dotted with tree stumps. The ground was covered with frost, and clouds of freezing mist hung in the air making Romany's spiritual teeth chatter. At the center of the clearing the Widowmaker and the titan battled amid a storm of incandescent energies. The titan's hair and clothing were aflame, and his hands were blistered red. He wielded his power like a scythe, but not a single blow seemed to land squarely on the Widowmaker, instead glancing off her wards to wreak yet further devastation on the forest. The woman was drawing in the energies released by the dying trees, and her ebony staff bucked in her hands as she hurled a wave of black sorcery at the titan. The air trembled as her power collided with the immortal's.

The Widowmaker was driven back a step.

A stray bolt of magic came hurtling toward Romany, but this time she was able to move out of the way. The two combatants were more evenly matched than she had expected, though doubtless it was just a matter of time before the titan prevailed. Or, at least, that was what the priestess hoped, for her plans for him didn't stop with the Widowmaker's defeat. Oh no! When the brute was finished here, Romany intended to steer him to the next of Shroud's disciples on her hit list, then the next, and the next. In time, suspicion would worm its way into that thick skull of his, but not, she suspected, before she'd had a chance to exploit his presence to the full.

Unless …
Unless the priestess simply stood back and let the titan march unopposed to the heart of Mayot's squalid little empire. The old man was no match for the immortal, of course, and with the Book in the brute's grasp Shroud truly would have a fight on his hands to keep his throne.

Romany winced as another thunderous concussion rent the air. Then frowned as a thought came to her. What happened after the Widowmaker fell? Would Mayot be able to resurrect her as he had resurrected the Vamilians? He hadn't managed to bring back Lorigan Teele, but then the knight's body had been burned away completely during their clash in the dome. Romany didn't know how she felt about the prospect of Mayot adding the Widowmaker to his collection of servants, but surely Shroud would not permit one of his servants to be raised and used against him in such a manner.

A burst of sorcery from the titan sent the Widowmaker cartwheeling through the air to land heavily among the trees stumps. The immortal moved in for the kill, unlimbering his warhammer. The Widowmaker wasn't finished yet, though, for she rose to her feet, snarling, and bounded across the frosty ground toward her opponent. The titan swung his warhammer to meet the attack, but the woman was too swift. Ducking beneath the strike, she hurled herself at her foe, her finger-length claws plunging into his torso. Death-magic poured from her hands, and the flesh about the titan's wounds started to suppurate and blister. Bellowing in pain, he dropped his warhammer and closed his hands round his tormentor's neck.

The muscles of his forearms bulged.

For a few heartbeats his exertions had no effect, his fingers held back from the Widowmaker's throat by her wards.

Then the woman's defenses collapsed beneath his inhuman strength, and to the sound of cracking vertebrae, the titan tore off her head. Black blood fountained from her neck. Romany drew in air through her teeth. That had to hurt. Instead of falling to the ground, the Widowmaker's body sagged against her killer, held in place by the claws sunk into his chest. Groaning, he wrenched the talons loose and flung the corpse away. Then his legs buckled and he sat down with a bump. Blood seeped from his chest wounds. The death-magic in the air would soon enter the punctures and putrefy the flesh, Romany knew. Already a black stain was spreading beneath his ivory skin.

She frowned. That made things more complicated. In her mind's eye she pictured the Widowmaker strolling through the forest yesterday, the Vamilians falling dead at her feet when they came close. If the woman had won the duel here, Mayot would have been unable to resurrect the titan because any strand of death-magic would shrivel away the moment he was raised. With the Widowmaker gone, though, the immortal would, if he now perished, fall under the old man's control. And that was something Romany could not allow to happen. Yes, the titan would make a powerful weapon in the struggle against Shroud's servants, but a weapon in
Mayot's
hands, not hers. She would lose control of the game.
The old fool might decide he no longer needs me.

What to do about it, though? The priestess looked at the Widowmaker's body—or where the body should have been. All that remained of the woman was her black robe, snagged on a tree stump. Romany's heart skipped a beat. Evidently Shroud had moved quickly to claim his disciple's corpse, but then why hadn't the priestess detected his intervention? More importantly, was the god still nearby…?

Movement at the edge of the clearing made her freeze. Then a man stepped into sight and she let out a shuddering breath.
Just a Vamilian.
Mayot's redbeaks were already circling. The titan had seen him too. Heaving himself to his feet, he crossed to retrieve his warhammer. For an instant Romany thought he intended to fight, but instead he swung south and stumbled to the edge of the clearing, leaving a trail of blood behind him. If the immortal was to escape the corrupting effect of the Book's death-magic he would have to flee the forest. His part in the game, Romany suspected, was at an end, for by the time his wounds healed—if indeed they ever did—Mayot's fate would already have been decided.

The priestess's immediate concern, though, was to ensure the brute made it safely to the edge of the forest and out of the mage's clutches. She sighed.

A woman's work is never done.

*   *   *

“The spring should be here,” Luker said.

Merin grunted. “Should be.”

The Guardian knew what he was thinking.
Aye, can't drink “should be.”

Raising a hand to his sweat-sheened forehead, he squinted down into the depression. Where two years ago there had been a pool of water, now there was only cracked red-brown earth and stunted rodanda trees. Scattered about the basin were the carcasses of alamandra. Bloated redbeaks waddled among them, squabbling over the grisly remains. Was it just a trick of the light, or was the soil at the center of the depression darker than at the sides? Dismounting, Luker led his mare down the slope. The carrion birds took flight as he drew near, screeching their displeasure, and the shadow of their wings briefly shaded him from the scalding glare of the midmorning sun. At the bottom of the basin he released the horse's reins and dropped to his knees. He laid his right palm flat against the earth.

It was damp.

His heart beating rapidly, Luker drew a dagger and used it to break up the mud. A finger's width down the soil became softer. Tossing his dagger aside, the Guardian scooped out the dirt with his hands. When he had dug a small hole he stopped and sat back to wait. Merin barked a question, but Luker ignored him. Muddy liquid was pooling in the hole. He lowered his face to the water and sniffed.

No hint of corruption.

Gods below, we made it.

He set to work increasing the size of the hole. Jenna was suddenly kneeling beside him, adding her efforts to his. Looking across at the assassin, Luker saw hope kindle in her bleary eyes. They paused when the hole was an armspan wide.

“We'll have to strain the water,” Luker said. “No more than a few sips at a time.”

Jenna nodded.

Rising on trembling legs, the Guardian turned to see Merin release the straps holding Chamery in his saddle and support him to the ground. Chamery's straw-colored hair was plastered to his sunburned forehead, and he was mumbling something unintelligible. Merin took a spare shirt from one of his saddlebags before crossing to the seep and pressing the cloth into the water. He folded the sides in to form a makeshift carrier, then lifted it out and carried it to Chamery. As the tyrin knelt, water trickled through the shirt onto the mage's face. Chamery gulped greedily at the liquid, his swollen tongue seeking the drops that splashed to his lips.

Like nursing a Shroud-cursed baby.

Luker waited until the others had eased their thirst before leading the horses down one at a time to the seep. Only then did he accept a flask from Jenna and take a drink of the warm water—just a sip at first, yet it was enough to make his stomach clench. The liquid had a metallic flavor to it.

The tyrin dragged Chamery into the shade of the rodanda trees, then joined Luker and Jenna at the seep. Pushing his spare shirt back into the water, he uncapped an empty flask and began straining the liquid into it.

“What news of the soulcaster?” he asked.

Luker retrieved his discarded dagger and cleaned the mud from it. “Gone to ground. Sheltering in that abandoned village we passed a bell ago.”

“Sheltering?”

“Waiting out the worst of the day's heat, is my bet. Bastard knows we won't get far in this state. Even if he leaves it till dusk before setting out, he'll still catch up to us by nightfall.”

“So we take a rest and press on.”

“A rest of twenty-four bells, you mean? We can't outrun the Kalanese. My ride is lame, the others are dead on their feet. And with the boy like he is…”

“Maybe when he's had some more water—”

“You don't believe that any more than I do.”

Merin sealed the first water bottle and picked up another. “Are there any settlements near here? Somewhere we can trade for new horses?”

“Not that we can reach in time,” Luker said. “There's another option, though.” He nodded at Chamery. “Boy needs a death to get his power back—someone strong. I can give him that.”

Merin glanced at the dagger in the Guardian's hand. “What do you mean?”

He thinks I'm going to do for him.
Another time Luker might have paused to let the tyrin's doubts fester. Instead he gestured south. “I'm going after them.”

The tyrin stared at him. “The Kalanese?”

“Unless you know of someone else out here hunting us.”

“You're serious? Shroud's mercy, there are, what, a score of them? To say nothing of the soulcaster.”

“I've faced worse odds in my time.”

“With the state you're in, I doubt it. You should see yourself from where I'm sitting. You've got one foot through Shroud's Gate already. We all have.”

“And now the Kalanese will get to feel what that's like. They made a mistake easing off when they could've ridden us down. Means they're cocky. Means they won't be expecting me when I drop by.”

“The soulcaster will see you coming.”

“Only if he's looking. If he isn't, he won't sense me till I use the Will.”
By which time it'll be too late for him.

“And if you're wrong?”

Luker shrugged. “His death or mine. Either way Chamery gets the power he needs. You get to live. Be grateful.”

Merin considered this as he sealed the second water bottle, then nodded. “When you're finished, make for the town of Hamis, east of Arandas. We'll wait a day for you, no more.”

Luker grunted. So that was what gratitude smelled like, was it? Explained the warm glow he was feeling. “I'll take Chamery's horse. The boy can heal mine when he wakes.”

Merin reached into his belt pouch and drew out two glass globes. He passed one to Luker. “Take this. You might need it.”