When the Heavens Fall (48 page)

“Nevertheless, he was defeated.”

“And when his wounds heal?”

Romany sniffed. “I would have thought you had more immediate concerns, my Lord. Three of Shroud's disciples are dead, yes, but many more wander freely through the forest.”

“My Vamilians will destroy them.”

“Their success thus far has been somewhat limited, even you must agree.”

Mayot continued as if he had not heard her. “And if
they
do not, I will unleash my champions.” He inclined his head toward the line of undead at the foot of the dais.

The gazes of the foreigners bored into Romany. “It will not be enough.”

The old man spoke through gritted teeth. “Oh, but it will. Every day my undead army grows stronger. And you seem to forget, if anyone should somehow reach this place they will still have
me
to deal with.”

Romany introduced a note of scorn to her voice. “And when Shroud himself enters the game, as surely he must? Are you ready, my Lord, to withstand the full weight of his fury?”

Mayot's composure cracked for a heartbeat. “If you are so concerned for my well-being, why do you not surrender to me the remaining secrets of the Book?”

Romany smiled sweetly. So good of the old man to remind
himself
of her value to him, thus saving her the need to do so. “Perhaps I will, my Lord. Perhaps I will.”

With that, she spun round and started weaving her way through the undead toward the exit. As she walked, her smile faded. Enjoyable though it was to tweak the old man's beard, her thoughts had already turned to masterminding the downfall of her next victim. So many pieces now on the game board, so much careful planning to do. Shroud had evidently banged some heads together, for his disciples were finally banding together in their struggle against the Vamilians. It had been a simple matter, though, for Romany to direct Mayot's servants to any hotspots, thus preventing the enemy from uniting to form a sizable host. Yes, Mayot was losing scores, even hundreds, of Vamilians for every one of the Lord of the Dead's minions that fell, but numbers were hardly a concern to an army that comprised an entire civilization. And thus far no one else in the enemy's ranks had shown the Widowmaker's ability to sever the undead's threads through their presence alone.

Of course, there were still a few of Shroud's disciples either powerful or arrogant enough to plough a lone furrow, and it was on these unfortunate souls that Romany was concentrating her own efforts. Whenever she moved to neutralize one opposing player, though, another would come to the fore. For the time being the Lord of the Dead's threat remained a distant one, but, with the god's followers steadily converging on the dome, the pressure on Mayot's forces would soon become overwhelming. It would take keen judgment, Romany knew, to pinpoint the precise instant when the tide turned irretrievably against the old man. Quit the game too early and she might squander Shroud's moment of weakness; too late and she risked sharing Mayot's fate. If all went as expected—and how could it not?—her plans would reach fruition just as the mage began his inexorable slide into ruin.

When the end came, Mayot would face it alone.

*   *   *

Luker paused at the edge of the square. He drew both swords, transferred them to his left hand, then unsheathed a throwing knife with his right. Looking back the way he had come, he saw Jenna waiting beneath one of the stone house's windows. Moments earlier she had found the place where the soulcaster's snores were loudest and expertly prized the shutters open by sliding a razor-thin metal tool through the wooden bars to lift the crosspiece inside. Now she stood watching Luker, a loaded crossbow in one hand, Merin's glass globe between thumb and forefinger of the other.

The Guardian nodded to signal he was ready. In response, Jenna grinned. The window above her was set high in the wall, forcing her to jump in order to throw the glass globe through.

She hit the ground running.

A heartbeat later the other shutters along the wall exploded outward with a roar. The ground bucked, and Luker was thrown across the alley, smashing into the wall of the mud-brick building opposite. Even as his world spun he saw the running figure of Jenna lifted from her feet and hurled through the air, her arms whirling.

Shroud's mercy.

Roof tiles came crashing down into the alley. The wall of the stone house toppled toward Luker with a groan. He scrambled upright and launched himself into a roll that carried him into the marketplace. He came to his feet, ears ringing, amid a cloud of dust. Chunks of rock and wood rained down, and he fashioned his Will into a shield over his head as he surveyed the carnage. The roof of the stone house had collapsed inward, the four walls outward, spilling rock and earth into the square and the streets alongside it.

No way the soulcaster was walking away from that.

Movement to his left caught his eye. A woman emerged from the door of one of the mud-brick hovels next to the stone building. Luker's thrown knife took her in the throat, and she stumbled backward into darkness, clutching at the weapon's hilt. Transferring one of his swords to his right hand, the Guardian plunged after her.

Inside, all was confusion. Shadowy figures shouted and reached for weapons. Luker tore through them, his swords flashing, and three Kalanese went down. The final soldier, a potbellied man wearing only a loincloth, jabbed at him with a spear. Luker caught the point on his left sword and ran his assailant through with his right. The spearman fell with a gurgling cry.

Five down, six to go.

The Guardian padded back to the doorway before halting to listen.

Silence.

Some silences just don't smell right, though. Luker launched himself into another roll, felt the air part above his head as he cleared the building. He regained his feet and spun to face the house. A Kalanese spearman stood to either side of the doorway, and there were three more gray-robed figures to his left, the rearmost holding a crossbow. Five in all, then, but he'd reckoned on six still alive. That left one enemy unaccounted for.

The Kalanese spread out to form a half circle, looking round all the while as if they expected attack from another quarter. The pause suited Luker just fine. More time for Jenna to get back on her feet, assuming she wasn't buried under a mountain of rubble. The five here weren't all dewy-eyed and half-dressed like the ones he'd cut down in the house. A couple even wore hide armor. Luker rolled his shoulders. The fools actually looked confident. A tough guy was mouthing off at the Guardian, but the effect was somewhat spoiled by the fact Luker didn't know what he was saying.

They came at him in a rush. Luker parried a spear thrust for his chest even as he swayed out of the way of a crossbow bolt. Continuing the motion, he blocked an attack from another assailant, turning as he did so to avoid a jab that passed within inches of his face.

He launched himself at the Kalanese soldier farthest to his left—a heavily muscled woman carrying a spear and a wicker shield. Luker blocked her first stab and counterattacked with a backhand cut. She brought her shield up to block, but he used his Will to add force to his blow. The shield splintered under the impact, and Luker heard the snap of bones, a cry of pain. He was already spinning beyond the wounded soldier, pushing her into the path of a lunge from one of her male companions. The man's spear point sunk into his kinswoman's stomach and she fell, snaring the weapon.

The three remaining Kalanese warriors—two shaven-headed men and a woman whose features were hidden by a headscarf—hesitated, each waiting for the others to make the first move. Not so confident now. Behind them the soldier holding the crossbow was struggling to reload his weapon.

Luker attacked. A flick of his Will sent the man in the center—the now-weaponless spearman—staggering backward. A sidestep took the Guardian out of range of a thrust from the attacker on his left and toward the woman on the right. She raised her shield to intercept a head cut, but it was only a feint, Luker dropping to one knee to swing beneath her block. His sword bit into the woman's hip, snagging there. He stepped past her, surrendering his trapped blade even as his remaining sword sent her head tumbling to the dust.

The weaponless soldier had retrieved his spear from the body of Luker's first victim and now advanced. To the Guardian's right the other Kalanese dropped into a fighting crouch. A burning tree was emblazoned on the man's robe, above the heart. An officer, then. A strangled cry brought both spearmen up short. Behind them, the crossbowman slumped to the ground, a quarrel sprouting from his left temple.

Jenna.

The Guardian launched himself forward. He deflected a spear thrust from one Kalanese, his free hand snapping up to catch the point of the other man's weapon. A tug pulled the soldier off balance, and Luker's sword flashed for his enemy's throat. The Kalanese brought the butt of his spear up in a desperate attempt to block.

Too late.

The man spun in a crimson spray, legs buckling.

The remaining spearman—the officer—lunged again. Give him his due, he wasn't running. Luker caught the blow on his sword, angling the point down into the earth. A kick with his heel snapped the weapon's shaft. Snarling, the Kalanese soldier jabbed the splintered remains at Luker's face, almost catching him by surprise.

Almost.

Swaying aside at the last moment, he ran his opponent through.

All too easy.

The officer slid off the Guardian's blade and crumpled to the ground.

Jenna appeared from one of the alleys beside the collapsed stone building, scrambling over the rubble. She was covered in dust and had a gash across her forehead just below the hairline.

“We're missing one,” Luker called.

The assassin shook her head. “Dead. I caught him making a break for the horses.” She approached the crossbowman she'd killed, then placed a boot to the side of his face and pulled her quarrel free.

“And the soulcaster? You saw his body?”

Jenna looked at the ruins of the stone building. “You want to dig him out? Be my guest.”

She had a point. Luker retrieved his sword from the body of the female Kalanese soldier and cleaned the weapon before resheathing it. A pool of blood was spreading beneath the woman's corpse and just as quickly being soaked up by the dusty ground. Looking up, Luker saw Jenna rifling through the clothing of another Kalanese. “Lost something?”

Ignoring the question, the assassin rose and entered the mud-brick building where Luker had started his slaughter. Gone to admire his handiwork, perhaps. He moved into the shade cast by the eaves of the house and sat with his back to a wall. The mud bricks gave off so much heat they might have just been fired in the kiln. The Guardian braced himself for the headache to come. True, he had only used the Will a couple of times in his clash with the Kalanese, but heat and dehydration always made the pain worse.

Jenna reappeared holding an opened flask.

“If it's water you're after—” Luker began.

“It's not that kind of thirst,” Jenna cut in. She took a swig. An instant later her eyes widened, and she flung the gourd away and bent over, coughing.

Luker caught a whiff of liquor. “Ganja fire?”

“If you say so.” The assassin rubbed a hand across her watering eyes. “Shroud's mercy, I thought my throat was burning before.”

“Fermented lederel's piss. It's an acquired taste, I hear.”

Jenna stared at him like she didn't know whether he was joking.

Luker heard flapping wings and looked up to spy redbeaks circling. The birds were never far off when he went about his business. Seeing all the Kalanese bodies in front of him, maybe he should have felt regret or relief, but the truth was he didn't feel anything, and he suspected he was better off that way. A few years as a Guardian tended to weed out the ones who got squeamish at the sight of a little blood. He massaged his scalp. “We'll take whatever food and water they've got. A couple of horses too—we'll move quicker with spares.”

“Kalanese mounts will stand out.”

“Just till we're within sight of that town Merin mentioned. Then we'll cut them loose.” Riding into Hamis on Kalanese mounts as the Kalanese marched on Arandas wasn't going to win them any friends.

Jenna cast a final look at the discarded flask before crossing to join him. She grimaced as she sat down.

Luker glanced at the cut to her forehead. “You hurting anywhere apart from that scratch?”

“Still got a hangover from Arkarbour. That Remnerol witch … her sorcery still pains me—like a quart of juripa spirits in my gut.”

“Not surprised. Night of the Betrayal, the Black Tower threw the whole spell book at me. Took me years to get over it.”

“Is that supposed to make me feel better?”

“You'll have taken a smaller dosing than I did. Effects should wear off soon.” He uncapped his water bottle and took a sip. “Anyhow, there's an upside. With each knock, you build up resistance. Next time, the hit shouldn't be as bad.”

“Can't wait.”

A redbeak had touched down beside one of the Kalanese corpses. The bird stared at Luker for a while, then pecked at a dead woman's face.

Jenna pulled off her gloves and tossed them on the ground. “What will you do now? Once you've spoken to Merin's agent, I mean. If Kanon's followed the Book, will you go on alone?”

“No.”

“No? Are you starting to warm to our beloved traveling companions?”

“Just keeping my options open, is all. The tyrin and the boy are both holding stuff back. They may still have their uses.”

Jenna picked up a stone and threw it at the feeding redbeak, hitting it on the head. The bird took flight, squawking. The assassin reached for another stone. Blood was dripping into her eyes from her head wound.

“That scratch must be deeper than it looks,” Luker said. “It'll need stitching.”