When the Heavens Fall (76 page)

A timeshifter.

Luker's gaze swung to the sword he'd been about to throw at Mayot. He grinned. “Endorian!” he bellowed, flinging the blade high into the air behind him.

Knowing that by the time it came down again, the man would be there to catch it. With the invested sword in the timeshifter's hands, the tables would turn on the undead host.

Leaving just Mayot himself to deal with.

Luker bared his teeth.

Time to see what Baldy here is made of.

*   *   *

Having spun himself dizzy trying to follow the tiktar's ascent into the vortex, Mottle sat down heavily in the mud. Parolla strode to join him, her gaze moving constantly over the surging walls of cloud. The elderling would still be out there somewhere, she knew, for if a storm's worth of rain couldn't destroy the thing, it seemed unlikely a bit of wind would do the job. All Mottle had done was to buy them some time.

“
Sirrah!
” she shouted. “The storm! Push it back! We need to see…”

The old man ignored her. Giggling, he struggled to his feet and stretched out his arms. A lazy flap lifted him into the air. Then, when he began to sink, another flap kept him hovering above the ground. Parolla seized his sleeve and tugged him back down.

“
Sirrah!
”

The gale had caught one of the trees felled in the battle with the tiktar. First its upper branches and then its trunk were hauled from the ground as the tree was snatched up into the gloom. Mottle whooped as it disappeared from view.

A flash of light to Parolla's right.

Releasing the old man's sleeve, she had time only to half turn before the fireball was upon them. With a cry she raised her wards, braced herself for the tiktar's impact …

But this time she was not the elderling's target.

From the corner of her eye she saw Mottle flap his arms again, frantic this time as he sought to lift himself out of the tiktar's reach.

Too late.

As the elderling struck, Mottle was knocked backward to within a few armspans of the swirling vortex. He beat helplessly at the flames that engulfed him, his screams terrible to hear.

No!

Driven back by the heat, Parolla could only watch as the tiktar wrapped its arms round the struggling old man. She started to gather her power, but a volley of death-magic would simply hasten Mottle's passing. “To me!” she screamed at the elderling, but it paid her no mind. Lowering its head, it sank its teeth into the
archmagus
's neck.

Mottle's screams continued as he clawed at the creature's face.

Then he gestured.

And the whirlwind came roaring in.

*   *   *

Ebon shivered at the touch of Galea's sorcery. He had lost sensation in his arms and feet again, and the numbness was beginning to travel along his limbs. The goddess's pinpoint strike cleaved through Mayot's power like the tip of a spear through flesh, dissolving the shadows about the dais until the blackness contracted to a dark core round Mayot. Her assault faltered, though, as it reached the old man's innermost shields, the Book's death-magic devouring the sorcery that assailed it, stealing its momentum.

The tide started to turn.

Then the scarred stranger standing next to Ebon reentered the fray. His attack on Mayot landed like a drum beat, throwing the old man from his feet and sending him skidding across the dais toward his toppled throne. His head cracked against an armrest, and he grunted. Somehow, though, he managed to retain his grip on the Book. And while the combined powers of Ebon and the stranger continued to rage about him, his defenses held.

Mayot pushed himself to his feet.

Ebon could now see the old man clearly through the shadows that surrounded him. His wispy white hair and unkempt beard were flecked with blood, and more blood trickled from one side of his mouth. Tilting his head, he spat red phlegm onto the floor. When he counterattacked, the warring sorceries of the two sides momentarily canceled each other out.

Then Ebon felt the mage draw further on his reserves. The flesh of Mayot's hand where it clutched the Book started to blister, and sores formed on his skin, darkening through purple to black. The old man's agonized shriek rode the burgeoning waves of death-magic.

As the balance of power tipped in the mage's favor, Galea tried to increase the sorcery flowing through Ebon, but he had nothing more to give. She shifted her attack, searching for some point of weakness in Mayot's onslaught.

Without success.

For while there was no more focus to the old man's assault now than there had been before, the sheer weight of his magic was irresistible.

Ebon was driven back a step.

*   *   *

Luker muttered an oath. He'd nearly had the bastard!

Baldy's power had driven a fissure through Mayot's wall of death-magic, and Luker had released his Will all at once against the old man's inner defenses, expecting to see them come crashing down. Instead Mayot's wards had held, and the chance had passed. To make matters worse the mage evidently possessed powers he hadn't yet called on, for the waves of death-magic surging from him had increased in intensity, annihilating the sorcery that opposed them.

Mayot's rally, though, came at a price. The mage was aging before Luker's eyes, the flesh of his face becoming sallow, the gray in his beard fading to white. The blackness claiming his left hand had reached his wrist and was now spreading up his arm where it disappeared beneath the cuff of his robe. Another quarter-bell, Luker judged, and the mage would likely be on the other end of one of those threads of death-magic.

A quarter of a bell, though, was time the Guardian did not have. Handspan by handspan Mayot's sorcery drew closer. The magic was weakening still further the barrier separating the world from Shroud's realm, for the shadowy spirits residing there now burst into flames where they came into contact with the old man's power. The stone floor in front of Luker had melted, and a section of the steps leading up to the dais had become a stream of molten rock. He blinked sweat from his eyes. The effort of keeping Mayot at bay was taking its toll. His head felt as if a score of demons were trying to claw their way out, and his concentration was slipping away. In an effort to rediscover his focus he tried recalling the moments leading up to Kanon's death, but the pain was beginning to eclipse all else.

It was clear to Luker that, even with Baldy's help, he could not match Mayot. Nor could he hope to retreat with so many undead assembled behind him—the frenzied clash of swords still rang loud in his ears. And with Shroud's blade now in the Endorian's hands, that just left …

His eyes widened.

Luker turned to Baldy. The stranger's eyebrows were crusted with ice, and his labored breaths misted the air in front of him. Luker leaned close. “Hold him,” he shouted. “I've got an idea.”

Without waiting for a response, he withdrew his power from the sorcerous shield holding back Mayot's assault. Baldy stood firm for an instant, then sank to his knees.

A few moments. Just give me a few Shroud-cursed moments.

Luker prepared to hurl his Will at an altogether different target.

*   *   *

Hold him.

Ebon barely had time to register the scarred stranger's words, never mind protest, before the full crushing force of Mayot's sorcery settled on him.

Galea's response was to channel yet more power into him, until Ebon thought his blood would freeze. He struggled against the flood for a heartbeat, then stopped himself. What was the point in resisting? What was he saving himself for? The goddess's words from their first meeting came back to him. “You must surrender yourself to me,” she had said. Was that the answer? Let go, and allow Galea to use him as she would?

Ebon felt his heart lurch. The numbness was spreading beyond his arms and legs, and he was battling against a rising tide of blackness. His awareness of the goddess's contest with Mayot receded. Instead his thoughts turned inward, and he saw again Lamella's face in the moments before they had parted for the final time; the hordes of Vamilians sweeping through the breach in Majack's walls; Grimes's swaying back as he rode into the haze that shrouded the plains outside the city. As Ebon's breathing became more ragged, he clung to the memories, painful though they were.
All the better for that.
Because the pain meant he was still alive, still fighting.

Then, as waves of darkness started to break over him, he ground his teeth together and struggled to hold on for a few moments more. One faltering breath at a time. Not because he expected it to make a difference, but because there was nothing else he could do.

His chin struck his chest.

Oblivion reached for him.

*   *   *

Parolla stood alone at the eye of the storm, staring up into the gloom. There was no sign of the tiktar or the
archmagus
. Could the old man still be alive? It was no accident, surely, that the vortex had come rolling in moments earlier. Mottle had
wanted
the whirlwind to claim him, and the gale would have carried him up into the center of the maelstrom, the very heart of his power. Could the storm sustain him? Restore him, even?

Parolla snorted. Who was she kidding? Another companion lost to her. And, as with Tumbal, she had done nothing to help. When the tiktar had sped toward them she'd thought only of protecting herself. It was no excuse that the elderling had ignored the
archmagus
until that point. Twice already Mottle's interventions had saved Parolla, so of course the tiktar was going to turn on him eventually. Why did enlightenment always come to her too late? Why was Parolla always the one to survive while those around her fell?
Because my blood is cursed. Because death is drawn to me like a lodestone.

The wind was dying away now, the walls of cloud thinning until Parolla could once again see the shadows of trees beyond. Mottle's power was fading, she realized—a clear sign the old man was dead. Dark shapes fell from the sky as if spat out by the storm. With a crunch the body of a horse hit the ground. Beside it, a Vamilian woman was using a spear as a crutch as she struggled to rise on broken legs. She managed a single step before collapsing again. Not all of the undead were similarly incapacitated, though. Parolla could see ghostly figures gathering beyond the vortex. When the breeze dropped further, they would come for her.

As for the tiktar …

Parolla turned slowly round, wondering from which direction the elderling would attack. Last time she had not seen it until it was almost upon her. Would she have a chance to react before it struck? Parolla barked a laugh. What did it matter? Even with Mottle beside her she had been no match for the elderling. Now she would have the Vamilians to contend with, too. There would be no holding back their combined threat.

It ends here.

Parolla felt a surge of bitterness, and the darkness in her blood came boiling up in response. She had the strength to defeat the tiktar if she would just embrace it. What did it matter if she had to draw on powers she'd never dared to wield before? Both Tumbal and Mottle would be safe now if she'd had the courage to take the charge upon herself sooner.

But at what cost?

A memory came to Parolla of the time she had fled the Lord of the Hunt's temple after her mother passed away. Dozens of innocents had died in her confrontation with the temple's keepers, for even after the priests were dead she'd gone on killing anyone unfortunate enough to step into her path. When the slaughter was done it had taken her weeks to … rediscover … herself. And she was more powerful now than she had been then. What if this time there was no coming back?

Parolla's fingernails bit into her palms.
What choice do I have?
The chance she had been seeking for years was within her grasp. With the Book of Lost Souls in her hands she could strike at Shroud himself. Make him pay for the pain he had caused her. Had she come all this way for no reason? Would she simply surrender herself to Mayot and the Book's control?

Would she do nothing?

A burst of flames from the corner of her eye. She spun to her left, death-magic erupting from her hands.

A wave of blackness hit the tiktar as it flashed across the hilltop. The elderling held its form for several heartbeats before melting away, flames leaping to the trunk of a fallen tree.

Parolla crossed to stand over it, sorcery pouring from her fingers. Death-magic incinerated the trunk to ash that was then seized by the wind and carried away. The tiktar, though, remained caught in the grip of Parolla's power, thrashing helplessly as the sorcery devoured it. Parolla laughed. Blood pounded in her temples, filling her ears with its roar. As the elderling howled its torment, a part of her looked on in horror at what she had unleashed.

Then that horror, too, was burned away by the darkness.

*   *   *

Luker had no real understanding of what made up the veil that separated this world from Shroud's realm, nor why Mayot's death-magic was eating away at it. Was the Book's sorcery somehow weakening the reality of this world or strengthening that of the next? Did the distinction matter, and if so, how did that help him? In order to concentrate his Will, after all, he needed to know what he was trying to accomplish.

Whatever he was going to do, he would have to do it quickly, for he could hear the clash of blades close behind, see the raging storm of Mayot's sorcery creeping ever nearer. Reaching out with his senses, he focused on the maelstrom of death-magic pounding against Baldy's defenses. The power at the heart of the conflagration was too intense for Luker to make out what effect the sorceries were having, but around the edges …

His eyes narrowed.
Aye, I see it now.
The energies feeding the Book came from the dying forest, but the act of shaping those energies drew on the forces of Shroud's realm. It appeared the sorcery required to animate Mayot's undead army had forged an enduring link between the two worlds, bringing them closer together. To weaken the barrier still further would, the Guardian suspected, increase the power of the Book. Much good that would do Mayot, though. The old man wouldn't be getting a chance to use it.