When the Heavens Fall (69 page)

Then Parolla had appeared, and the balance of power had shifted. She'd done no more than raise defensive wards about herself, but the Fangalar had obviously interpreted her actions as a precursor to a strike for he had responded by attacking. The woman's strength was prodigious, fueled as it was by the threads of death-magic in the air, and if she were to combine forces with Ebon the two of them might well overwhelm the Fangalar. Ebon, though, had apparently been driven from the game by the orange-robed rider's earlier assault. Clambering upright, he had managed only a half step forward before being bludgeoned to his knees by the storm. He did not rise again. His capitulation had left Parolla to face the Fangalar alone, and she was now being forced back by the man's sorcery.

Romany cast her eye over the combatants once more, then threw up her hands in disgust. How by the Spider's grace did these fools expect to bring down Mayot Mencada if they spent all their time squabbling among themselves? Didn't they realize Mayot was likely rubbing his hands together as he watched the battle? The old man would be the only winner here, for whichever faction emerged triumphant would probably be so weakened by the conflict that they'd make easy pickings for the undead now converging on the hilltop. And if Mayot was to resurrect the losers, their conquerors' triumph would be short-lived indeed …

A flicker of movement caught Romany's eye. A third Fangalar rider had appeared among the trees behind Ebon. Bending low over his horse's neck, he thundered toward the shaven-headed man's unprotected back, brandishing a sword in one hand.

A shadowy figure sped to intercept him, and suddenly the Fangalar and his mount were tumbling to the ground. The rider turned his fall into a dive, twisting in the air before rolling on one shoulder and coming to his feet in a crouch. A blur of motion before him, and the Fangalar's eyes started streaming crimson tears. He lifted his hands to his face, screaming. A gray-haired, grizzled man wearing chain-mail armor appeared beside him for a moment, a bloody dagger in his right hand.

Romany blinked and he was gone.

Oh my! An Endorian!

Clever of the timeshifter to incapacitate his victim rather than kill him, thereby ensuring he could not be resurrected by Mayot. Clever, if a little … clinical. In any event, with the Vamilians closing in on the hilltop, the stricken man's stay of execution would not last long.

As Romany looked away, she sensed another tremor along the strands of her web. Ordinarily she would have ignored it—the whole city was going to the Abyss, after all—but this disturbance came from one of the entranceways to Mayot's dome. It seemed someone had managed to fight their way through the hordes of undead and was now knocking on the old man's door.

Taking one final look at the combatants, Romany sighed. There was nothing she could do to untangle this particular knot, even if she had known which faction to side with.

Perhaps at the dome she could be more of a thorn in Mayot's side.

*   *   *

Looking round the corner of an alley, Luker studied the dome. The building was no more than two hundred paces away at the end of a street choked with bodies. From an arched entranceway, curls of black sorcery snaked like tendrils of smoke. The air was flush with power. It just needed a spark and the whole damned place would go up.

A spark Luker intended to provide.

First, though, he had to get to the archway, and while nothing stirred in the blackness ahead, he could sense dozens of threads of death-magic converging in the shadows between the buildings. No doubt there were other entrances to the dome, and other roads leading to those entrances, but he suspected they would offer no better prospect of safe passage.

One road to the Abyss was as good as another.

The rain was sheeting down now, and Luker edged closer to the wall on his right. After separating from Jenna he had spent a quarter-bell weaving through the city's streets. Only once had he met trouble, and that was of his own making. He had been seeking a victim on which to try out his newly acquired weapons, and a one-legged Vamilian man crawling along an alley had proved too tempting a target to pass up. The encounter had brought both good news and bad, for while the Vamilian had ultimately died beneath Luker's sorcerous blades, it appeared that simply bringing the weapons into contact with the undead did not sever the threads of death-magic holding them. For that, a mortal wound was required.

A noise sounded in the alley across from Luker, and he shrank back into deeper shadow. There was movement in the darkness opposite—a lone figure picking its way through rubble and corpses. Not one of the Vamilians, since there was no thread of death-magic emanating from the stranger's chest. Jenna, maybe? He couldn't decide how he felt about that, because if the assassin had walked out on him then at least she'd be out of harm's way.

The newcomer halted at the mouth of the alley facing Luker. A man, judging by his height. His features were hidden by a cowl, but his eyes were still visible, shining with yellow light. He was clothed all in black, and in his gloved hands he held oversized, golden-bladed sickles. Death-magic swirled about the weapons.

When the stranger spoke, his voice was soft and sibilant. “Greetings, Luker. My name is Kestor ben Kayma. I've been expecting you.”

Luker said nothing.

Sickle Man looked at the sword in Luker's hand. From the shadows of his cowl came a flash of white teeth. “I see you've met the lovely Lady Carlem. Such a tragic loss.”

The Guardian shifted his grip on the sword's hilt. “I'm not the one with her blood on my hands.”

“If you were, we wouldn't be having this conversation. Shroud sends his greetings and bids me convey to you an offer.”

Luker hawked and spat. “Things going that bad for him, eh?”

“There have been setbacks, yes. Temporary only.”

“So he's decided he wants to add me to the ranks of his lapdogs. How flattering.”

Kestor did not react to his sarcasm. “He'll be pleased you see it that way. My master is aware that you've distanced yourself from the Sacrosanct. That you are now, shall we say, a free agent.”

“The answer is no.”

“You haven't heard my offer yet.”

“I don't like the strings attached, whatever they are.”

Sickle Man examined the blade of one of his weapons. “What if I were to tell you my Lord has information that may be of interest to you? That Mayot Mencada is no more than a pawn in someone else's game, and that the responsibility for Kanon's death ultimately lies with another?”

“The Spider, you mean.”

Kestor's lengthy silence confirmed Luker's shot had hit the mark.

A man's strangled cry ripped through the air from somewhere behind and to Luker's right. It rose in pitch to an agonized shriek, then was cut off.

The Guardian raised an eyebrow. “Friend of yours?”

Sickle Man's eyes flashed a deeper yellow. “Shroud is a generous master—”

Luker's snort interrupted him. Was this joker for real? A leash round his neck was still a leash, irrespective of the hand holding it. And when you signed up with a Lord such as Shroud, you wrote your name in blood. “I am no one's servant. Not now. Not again.”

Kestor's voice held a note of warning. “The friendship of Shroud is not lightly spurned, friend.”

“Your master wants Mayot dead, right?”

“Correct.”

“So do I. Means we're on the same side.”

“Allegiances can change.”

“Aye,” the Guardian said, “and if that's your intent, you're going the right way about it,
friend
.”

There was a long pause. Carried on the wind came the sound of running feet from a few streets away. Sickle Man's gaze, though, held steady on Luker. “As you will,” he said finally. “I assume I don't need to warn you about the perils of treachery.”

“I reckon you just did.”

Kestor showed his teeth again, then looked at the dome. “Mayot resides within. He has assembled a formidable host of guardians.”

“So what are we still doing out here?”

Sickle Man swept out an arm. “After you.”

One of Shroud's lackeys at my back? Does he take me for a fool?
Luker shook his head and returned the gesture. “No, please. I insist.”

Kestor hesitated before stepping out into the street, Luker a pace behind.

Ahead the shadows came to life and rushed toward them.

*   *   *

Floating high above the dais, Romany felt giddy as she looked down on the inside of the dome. In the shadows between the ranks of Vamilian undead she could see scores of spirits, their blurred forms making it appear as if she were seeing double. That double vision, together with her light-headedness, stirred a recollection of an unfortunate night many years ago in Koronos when, posing as a pearl trader at a banquet held by the city's satrap, she'd had her first and only experience of fermented mexin husks …

Feeling nauseated, she pushed the memory away.

The veil separating the world from Shroud's realm had weakened markedly in the time since she'd last spoken to Mayot. Now only the thinnest of barriers remained, and Romany could feel it eroding further with every pulse of dark energy from the Book. How long before it failed completely? A day, maybe? Two at most. And when it was finally gone …

Countless more souls for Mayot to enslave.

She could hear rain hammering on the roof of the dome. In spite of the star-shaped openings overhead, the inside of the building remained dry thanks to whatever sorcery had preserved the structure through the ages. Romany cast an eye over the assembled undead. If anything she had carried out her mission
too
well, for her efforts in thwarting Shroud's minions had allowed Mayot to amass an impressive array of champions. Drawn up like an honor guard round the dais was a cordon of twoscore foreigners, lured here by the power of the Book. Among them Romany saw a woman dressed in the multicolored robes of a Metiscan sorceress. To her left was an enormous four-armed Gorlem spearman, and farther along were the three monks of Hamoun the priestess had encountered previously, their fiery eyes blazing in the gloom. Evidently the Vamilians had failed in their efforts to take the warrior-priests alive.

She felt a flicker of doubt. For all that Mayot's undead army round Estapharriol was on the retreat, the old man had yet to unleash his most powerful servants. And with Romany's web warning her that the fall of the Kinevar gods was imminent, she was starting to suspect there was no one in this wretched city who could take the wind out of the old man's sails.

From one of the passages leading out of the dome, four men and two women strode into view. Their rust-colored skins marked them as Sartorians. The lead figure, a young man with oiled hair, managed to effect a swagger in spite of the multitude of undead facing him. Pausing at the edge of the host, he swung his gaze to Mayot. “I am Garat Hallon,” he shouted, “consel of Sartor, and I claim blood debt!”

The echoes of his voice were quickly drowned by the storm outside. Mayot gave no reply.

A gust of wind set the leaves on the floor swirling round the consel. “Do you hear me, old man? I claim blood debt! You are the leader of this worthless rabble, are you not?” Then, “Answer me, damn you!”

Mayot's eyelid fluttered. Turning to one of the Prime standing beside his throne he said, “Bring them to me. The consel especially—I want him alive.”

Romany glanced at a withered corpse on the floor behind Mayot's throne, then suppressed a shudder.

As the four Prime descended the steps from the dais, the Vamilians between them and the consel parted. Romany's gaze lingered on the coats of golden chain mail worn by the undead champions. Such an uncivilized use of gold, particularly since, as even the priestess knew, the metal was soft and therefore entirely unsuited for use as armor. Such wanton profligacy! Such vulgar exhibitionism! Perhaps when this was over she would find a better use for that gold.

Garat Hallon barked an order, and his soldiers spread out to form a rough semicircle, the consel at its center.

The Prime covered the last steps in a rush.

It was, Romany decided, a somewhat uneven contest. She had never seen the Vamilian champions fight before, and she had to admit they brought a certain grace to the savagery of combat. They seemed to flow over the ground, their blades flashing out, fast as striking snakes. In spite of the advantage of numbers, the Sartorians were hopelessly outclassed. Only the consel himself possessed the skill to match the Prime, and even he could do no more than defend his opponents' attacks.

Within moments the Sartorians had retreated into a tight ring and were battling for their lives. Romany was tempted to intervene, but what was the point? Even
her
skills would be insufficient to turn the tide of this conflict, and besides, if Mayot were to detect her interference it might jeopardize the success of her final move in the game.

A move she would now initiate.

Closing her spirit-eyes, she silently called to the Spider.

Nothing.

Romany paused before trying again, more insistent this time.

Still no answer.

She rolled her eyes. Typical. The goddess seemed to delight in dropping by unannounced, yet when her presence was actually needed …

A scream interrupted her thoughts, and Romany opened her eyes again. The skirmish was nearing its end. The consel was now fighting alone against the four undead warriors, retreating all the while toward the archway through which he had entered. He didn't get far, though. One of the female Prime stepped in and used the flat of her blade to deal him a blow to the back of his skull. He crumpled to the floor.

Most of the Sartorians were merely wounded or unconscious, but one soldier had been killed in the clash. Romany watched with sick fascination as the dead man's wounds closed, and he rose soundlessly to join the ranks of Mayot's undead. Garat Hallon, meanwhile, was being hauled to his feet by the Prime who had struck him. The consel's eyes were bleary, yet still they blazed with defiance.