When the Heavens Fall (52 page)

“But not by my command!” she said, spinning to face him. “If I had the power to resurrect my subjects would I have waited all these millennia to do so? Would I save them from one torment only to deliver them into another?” She stabbed a finger at him. “We share an enemy, mortal. You wish to save your kinsmen, I wish to free my people from the power that enslaves them.”

“You want to ally with me?” When Ebon laughed it felt like someone was running a saw through his chest. “In case you had not noticed—”

“I will heal your wounds.”

“Even so, a goddess asking for a mortal's assistance? Why?”

“For me to intervene directly in this affair would create … complications.”

“Meaning you fear to surrender the safety of sanctified ground.”

“Meaning I cannot risk drawing the attention of other powers. Powers that might take an interest in what goes on here were they to discover my involvement.”

Ebon's sight blurred as a spirit-dream tried to claim him. He forced the vision down. “Who controls the undead, my Lady?”

“A mortal.”

“Just a mortal.”

“A mage. He possesses an artifact of great power. The Book of Lost Souls.”

“This mage, what is he called?”

“Mayot Mencada.”

“I do not know the name.”

“I see no reason why you should. He comes from Erin Elal—a kingdom to the south.”

Ebon had heard of it. “Then why has he attacked Majack?”

The goddess shrugged. “Because he can. Because he seeks more servants for battles to come. Because your city is located on the borders of the forest.”

Feeling bone weary, Ebon rubbed a hand across his eyes.
Is that all this is, then? Are we no more than victims of circumstance?
He was struck by the absurdity of the thought. If the attackers were Sartorians, or the soldiers of some other conquering empire, would the fate of his kinsmen be easier to bear? Would that have given their deaths meaning? Why should this Mayot Mencada's motives, or his lack of them, matter? But somehow it
did
matter. Somehow it made Ebon feel like he had a score of maggots crawling in his gut. “What do you require of me?”

“Only that you accept my aid when it is offered. As you did against the Fangalar sorceress.”

“You want to use me to channel your sorcery?”

“Channel, yes.”

Ebon considered this. “When you intervened before, you did so without my agreement. Why do you need it now?”

“Because in the days ahead you will face more formidable challenges. To overcome them you must … surrender … yourself to me.”

“As easy as that?”

Galea pursed her lips. “There are risks, I will not deny it. Your body is not attuned to the ravages of sorcery.”

Then why do you not seek out a magicker such as Mottle or Ambolina?
Ebon did not voice the thought, however—the answer seemed obvious enough.
Because I am the only one desperate enough to consider striking a deal with an immortal.
“What you're saying is, my mind could be blasted away.”

“Does the sacrifice concern you? Would the suffering be any worse than what you are experiencing now?”

“What do you offer in return?”

“I have already told you. I will banish the spirits from your mind, heal your wounds.”

“Not good enough.”

Galea's eyes flashed. “You are in no position to bargain, mortal. Your life hangs by a thread.”

Ebon's laugh turned into a fit of coughing. “Do you think I care about my own life? Do you think that is why I am here? My city—”

“You are not listening,” the goddess cut in. “I cannot interfere.”

“No, Lady, I
am
listening. You said to do so would create complications. That is your concern, not mine. If you wish to ally with me you must help my people, just as I help yours.”

Galea was silent for a time. Ebon looked at the floor. He could feel the weight of her gaze on him. The voices of the spirits had grown louder throughout his exchange with the goddess, their tone indignant. Above them the king could hear Vale calling to him from outside the temple, but he did not respond.

“Very well,” Galea said at last. “I will do what I can.”

Ebon forced himself to look into her cold green eyes. “Do my people … Does the palace in Majack still hold?”

“It does.”

Ebon's sense of relief almost made his legs buckle. He was a fool, he knew, to trust the word of an immortal. Most likely there was much she had not told him of the power behind the undead, of the risks he faced, even of her motives in choosing to help him. And, of course, there would be no way for him to know henceforth whether the goddess was keeping her side of the bargain.
If she will not step in directly to aid her own people, why should she do so for mine?

Ebon pushed his suspicions aside. This was not the time for doubts. Galea was offering him a glimmer of hope where before there had been none.

A fact she knows as well as I.

He paused, then nodded. “We are agreed.”

*   *   *

Parolla reached out with her senses toward the tendril of death-magic that held the Kinevar girl. Mayot's sorcery was unlike anything she had encountered before, the thread made up of scores of smaller strands of energy, interwoven like knotted steel. Elegance allied with strength, breathtaking in its mastery. The craftsmanship was far beyond anything Parolla could accomplish, but her task here was not to create, but to destroy. Something she'd had lots of practice at over the years. Releasing her power in a trickle, she fashioned it into a cutting edge and brought it scything down.

The thread did not so much as quiver. Parolla, though, was sent staggering backward by shock waves from the clash of sorceries. She had not thought to raise wards about herself, and ripples of death-magic crackled round her, singeing her skin. As quickly as the burns formed, however, they were healed by the dark energy coursing through her. The strand of sorcery remained undamaged. Parolla probed it once more, searching for a weakness, the slightest flaw she could target for her next strike.

Nothing.

Weaving shields about herself, she gathered her strength and struck out again at the thread. It held firm. But this time when the backlash came she was ready for it, and the wave of magic broke harmlessly against her defenses. The energy surging along the strand had increased at the place where Parolla's attack fell, as if some conscious will were directing power to where it was most needed. Was Mayot aware of her efforts? Was he setting his will in opposition to hers? She shifted the focus of her assault to a point closer to where the strand entered the Kinevar's chest. If she could not sever the tendril she might at least interrupt the flow of sorcery along it long enough to break Mayot's control over the girl.

Still the thread resisted her.

As Parolla poured more and more of herself into the effort, she felt the darkness within her build. Her expression tightened.
The darkness …
After all these years, she still clung to the pretense that it was something distinct from her—some malign presence for whose actions she was not accountable. The reality was, the taint was a part of her. The part she had tried to suppress for so long. The part that was growing stronger every day.
The part I will need if I am going to defeat Shroud.

At the point on the strand where she'd concentrated her power, a cloud of death-magic was forming as the warring sorceries bled into the air. The cloud spread outward to envelop the Kinevar girl and the branch holding her. Parolla could sense the earth-magic in the branch waning. That gave her a problem. If the sorcery failed completely the tree would release the girl. And with the thread of death-magic still intact the Kinevar would surely attack Parolla …

She had to stop.

All at once the strand of sorcery controlling the girl started to weaken, its edges becoming frayed.

As if scenting victory, Parolla's tainted blood rose in a torrent, pushing against the barrier she had fashioned to contain it. A shadow settled on her vision. For a heartbeat she battled to hold back the flood. Then she stopped herself. What was she doing? She had Shroud's blood in her veins, and she couldn't even cut one of Mayot's strands? Why was she fighting herself when she should be fighting the old man? Embrace her power, and she could tear up any number of these Shroud-cursed threads like they were blades of grass.

She dug her nails into her palms.
No!
Even if she cut the strands of the undead about her, Mayot still had countless other servants to do his bidding. What was she going to do, sever all their threads? Was that why she had come to the forest—to release his undead army? She shook her head. There was no victory to be won here, so far from the dome. All she stood to achieve was to reveal to Mayot a sense of her power, as she had to the Jekdal before. She could not afford these distractions. It was time to pull back.

When she tried to do so, though, the sorcery roaring from her hands only intensified. She'd left it too late! The darkness was growing as it fed off the necromantic energies in the air. The defenses she'd raised against it stretched, then bulged …

Crying out, she dropped to her knees and thrust her fingers into the mud, directing her power into the ground. As the magic spurted from her hands, the earth groaned and bucked and heaved, and the air quavered to the sound of grinding stone, cracking roots. Smoke rose from the ground. The tree that imprisoned the Kinevar girl came crashing down, throwing up clouds of leaves and hot ash, and sending broken branches and slivers of wood flying in all directions. Echoes of power rolled between the remaining trees, the death-magic spreading like fire through the hanging undead. For a few heartbeats it flickered over their bodies, devouring them with a palpable hunger.

Enough!

Parolla's sorcery guttered and died.

A moment to gather her breath, then she scanned the ground, looking for the Kinevar girl. All that remained of her body was a twitching mound of charred meat, pierced by splinters of wood. Sorcery clung to her like burning oil, and within an eyeblink her flesh had melted away to leave nothing but a skeleton. Then the bones crumbled to ash. As the dust blew away on the wind, the thread of death-magic controlling the girl withered.
Well, well,
Parolla thought. Maybe she hadn't succeeded in severing the strand, but she'd found a way to break Mayot's hold on his servants all the same—destroy the flesh and free the spirit to wander as Tumbal's did.

And yet, wouldn't Mayot be able to bring the girl back with just a speck of her remains?

A blizzard of ash and leaves fell about. Parolla tasted dust in her mouth, and she coughed and spat to clear it. Pushing herself to her feet, she brushed down her clothes. The shadows staining her sight began to fade.

Tumbal appeared beside her, one pair of hands on his hips, the other crossed in front of him. “A place of horror, my Lady,” he said. “I am sorry thou had'st to witness this.”

I have seen far worse,
sirrah
, and by my own hand besides.
“I've come as far as I can. What lies ahead?”

“A final stand, methinks.”

“The Kinevar?”

“Not just the Kinevar. The forest gods themselves have come to do battle.”

Parolla stared at him. “And they are being pushed back?”

Tumbal bobbed his head. “The forces arrayed against them are formidable. I have seen demons and Fangalar, Everlords and frost giants, stormwraiths and alakels, and many others besides.”

“Centuries of blood sacrifice have made this a fertile ground for Mayot's sorceries. Those that died here under a Kinevar knife now have the chance for revenge. There is a certain justice in that, wouldn't you say?”

The Gorlem frowned. “The controlling hand is Mayot's.”

“Even so.”

“And what of the Kinevar themselves? Slaughtered in their thousands, forced to fight their kinsmen, their own gods even.”

Parolla shrugged. “Why does Mayot attack here in such strength? What threat do the Kinevar pose him?”

“I suspect the mage is concerned less with the threat they pose than with the opportunity they represent. With the Kinevar gods themselves under his sway—”

“Don't be a fool,” Parolla cut in. “The gods will flee long before they are truly threatened.”

“They have stayed this long. Mayhap they are unwilling to surrender their ancestral domain, to abandon their people.”

“The gods care nothing for the fate of mortals.”

Tumbal's frown deepened. “Not all of the immortals are as heartless as thou would'st brand them, my Lady. And if thou wilt not intercede on behalf of the Kinevar gods, what of the Kinevar themselves?”

“This isn't my fight.”

“Is it not?” Tumbal's gesture took in the swinging bodies round him. “Think of the multitudes Mayot already has at his command. The forces he will control if the Kinevar gods should fall.”

“My business with the
magus
will be finished long before that happens.”

“And if thou art wrong?”

A root was snaking across the ground toward Parolla, and she kicked it away. “Even if I chose to intervene, you forget, this is sanctified ground. I am an intruder here as much as the undead. The earth-magic of the forest will not distinguish friend from foe.”

“Thou need'st not advance any farther into the heart of the conflict, surely. The threads holding the undead—”

“Cannot be broken.”

The Gorlem's spectral face grew paler. “Not even by thee?”

“I have tried to do so once. I dare not risk another attempt.”

“I do not understand.”

Parolla's voice was toneless. “Before Shroud … came to … my mother, she was an initiate of the Lord of the Hunt. When she died, the Antlered God's priests sought to take my power for their own. I was forced to fight my way free of the temple where I lived.” She saw again the shrine's wards sparkling as she hurled volley after volley of death-magic against them; part of the temple toppling into ruin amid black flames, smoke and screams.
Always screams.
The massacre had marked the start of Parolla's
bakatta
with the Antlered God, and she had been dodging his servants ever since. She closed her eyes. “Once unleashed, my magic is … unpredictable. Many died before I escaped. Some of them were friends. Innocents.”