When the Heavens Fall (38 page)

A blast of wind struck Ebon from behind, pinning him to the battlements. From along the wall came cries of alarm, and to the king's right a Pantheon Guardsman stumbled between the merlons. A despairing cry, and the soldier was falling. The woman next to him thrust out a hand in an effort to grab him.

Missed.

The Guardsman tumbled from view.

Clouds were reversing their course in the sky, gathering to form a thunderhead. The light started to fade, and the air about Ebon grew colder even as a tremor shook the ground. The stranger was drawing in power, he realized. Earth, air, and fire, all at once.
Gods below, is that even possible?
Most mages were able only to soak up the energies of their particular element, and even archmages could only absorb two.

Abruptly the air became still again, and Ebon looked left to see Mottle standing beside him. The mage's gaze was fixed on the sky overhead.
He's battling for control of the air.
The old man was winning the struggle too, for the clouds were already breaking up to let in chinks of light.

But who was going to contest the other elements?

A wall of fire was forming in front of the sorceress. Within the flames, Ebon could make out molten rock and burning roots, all wreathed in smoke. An arrow arced out from the battlements, landing well short of the woman.

Reynes's voice rang out. “Hold your fire!”

Ebon silently swore. The general was right not to waste ammunition, but it still rankled that they could do nothing to disrupt the sorceress's preparations. It was too late to sally forth and attack her even if they'd stood a chance of cutting a path through the undead.

Fissures opened in the earth round the woman like the spokes of a wheel. Most of the rifts were no more than a handspan across, but one, extending west toward the forest, was wide enough to swallow the undead in its path. The battlements beneath Ebon began to shake, and a crack appeared in the merlon by his right hand. All the while, the wall of fire before the sorceress continued to grow. The chill had now gone, and waves of heat washed over Ebon. The armor of the Vamilians closest to the sorcery started to glow red, then their hair and clothing burst into flames. The fires spread along the ranks of besiegers until scores were ablaze. The hapless undead stood silent and unmoving as their skin blackened.

Mottle spoke from beside Ebon. “Flee, my boy. Save yourself.”

Before Ebon could reply, Rendale was prying his hands from the wall and dragging him along the battlements.

“Wait,” the king gasped, but his brother ignored him. Looking back, he saw Mottle and his two Adepts now standing alone above the gates.

The wall of fire and earth rolled toward the guardhouse, throwing up dirt behind it like a great plough. The undead immediately to either side were engulfed by the fiery darkness, and their bodies seemed to feed the sorcery, for the wall swelled and gained momentum.

A dozen heartbeats later it struck the guardhouse.

Ebon was driven to his knees by the impact. The top of the flaming wall flowed over the battlements, swallowing up Mottle and his Adepts. A shriek sounded as the nearest of the three white-robed figures was enveloped in flames. There was a spitting hiss of conflicting magics as earth and fire collided with Mottle's wards of air over the gates, then a stillness like an indrawn breath.

With an ear-shattering concussion, the guardhouse was ripped apart.

The explosion knocked Ebon onto his back, and for a moment he lay stunned, staring up at the spinning sky as chunks of rock looped into the air. Some fell on the plains, while others landed in the city to the sound of screams and collapsing masonry. A block of stone came crashing down onto the battlements where Ebon had stood just heartbeats before, shattering the parapet.

Then a cloud of dust billowed up around him.

Mottle.

Ebon's ears were ringing, and he could taste powder in his mouth. As he levered himself to his feet, the wall shifted beneath him. The guardhouse, or what remained of it, was invisible in the murk. From beyond the wall came the thump of feet, and when Ebon looked over the battlements he saw the undead army moving toward where the gates had been. No order to the advance, just a formless scrum made spectral by the dust. They swept through the newly created breach.

Rendale was beside him again. He seized Ebon's right arm and threw it across his shoulders. Together they staggered along the wall to the nearest tower where they joined a press of soldiers waiting to descend. Cries sounded all around, a turbulent babble to match the clamor of the spirits in Ebon's head. From somewhere below, Reynes's voice bellowed out, but the words were lost in the tumult. There was no sign of Domen Janir or the chancellor. Had they followed Ebon up onto the wall or remained in the guardroom?

Entering the tower's stairwell, the king took the steps on shaky legs and emerged into chaos. Soldiers and townsfolk dashed every way. A man hurtled round a corner into the path of a woman coming the other way, and they came together in a crack of skulls that Ebon heard even above the hubbub. From his right—the direction of the ruined guardhouse—came the crash of battle. Drawing his saber, he set off toward the noise, half swept along by those round him, half battling the tide coming the other way. When he reached the marketplace, his steps faltered. The guardhouse and a section of wall twoscore paces wide had disappeared to leave only a few broken stones protruding from the ground. The Vamilians were pouring through the breach. Some were still ablaze; all were covered in dust.

Pantheon Guardsmen were arriving in scattered squads along the roads leading off the square.

A voice rang out. “Get them into line! Form ranks, damn you!”

Reynes.
The general stood a short distance away beneath the awning of a shop. His cinderhound was gone, but around him was a group of messengers and officers that included Captain Hitch and Sergeant Grimes.

Ebon swung his gaze back to the marketplace. Guardsmen were trying to form a shield wall, but there were too few soldiers to span the width of the square, and the defenders fell back toward West Gate Road before they were outflanked. Among the undead pursuing them was a four-armed warrior wielding a spear in each hand. He stabbed a bearded soldier in the neck, and the man fell clutching at the wound, only to rise moments later and attack the Guardsman at his side.

Watcher's tears. Soon we won't be able to tell friend from foe.

Ebon made for Reynes. “General,” he called. “We must fall back.”

“We've got men arriving from the other walls. If we can push the stiffs back through the breach—”

“It is too late for that. The city is lost.”

“Aye, it is,” Reynes grated. “If we yield the walls.”

Ebon frowned at his tone. “Do the other gates still hold?”

“For now.”

“Then retreat to the river and make your defense there. Fall back street by street—you know the drill. Use the time we have left to tear down as many bridges as you can.”

Reynes glanced at the fighting. The four-armed warrior had a broken spear protruding from its chest, but still it came on. The carts across Koron Street had been set alight by one of the flaming undead, and the Guardsmen beyond the barricade were being forced back by the blaze. Vamilians swept over the wagons, heedless of the fire. The general bared his teeth, then turned to Captain Hitch. “You heard the man! Find some Adepts and get started on those bridges. Andresal! I want a shield wall at every junction…”

Ebon felt Grimes's gaze on him. The sergeant spoke for the king's ears only. “The river won't hold long, your Majesty. Too many crossing points.”

“I know that, Sergeant. So does Reynes. If he can weather the tide for just a bell or two he will give people a chance to get to the palace.”

Grimes's frown betrayed his doubt. “Can the fortress hold any better against that witch's fireworks…” His voice trailed off. He was staring at something over Ebon's shoulder. “Watcher's beating heart!”

Ebon spun round to see a figure floating down through the clouds of dust above them.

Mottle.

The old man's grubby robe was scorched, and a bruise colored the left side of his face. He touched down a few paces away, scratching at his groin.

Ebon gave a half smile. “For once your arrival is timely, mage. I presume you heard the sergeant's question. Can the sorceries invested in the palace's walls withstand an attack by the sorceress?”

“For a time.”

“How long?”

Mottle spread his hands. “So difficult to judge without knowing the full measure of the witch's strength, yes? Mottle's best estimation? A day, perhaps.”

“Then we ride out now. Cut her down before she enters the city.”

The old man nodded. “Assuredly, my boy. Assuredly. Mottle will join you, of course. The slaying of his Adepts demands a response in kind.”

“Can you match her?” Grimes said. “Seems to me she's one up on you.”

“The gates? Pah! A lucky strike! A low blow when Mottle's guard was down!”

“Who is she, mage?” Ebon asked. “
What
is she?”

“A Fangalar. One of the elder races, responsible, it is said, for the extermination of the Vamilian civilization. My studies suggest—”

“Is she the power behind the undead?” Ebon interrupted. “Can we end this now if we kill her?”

“Alas, no. Can you not sense the thread of death-magic holding her? The woman is just another pawn in this game. If the puppets' strings cannot be cut, you must instead sever the hand plucking them.”

“One thing at a time, mage. First we deal with the sorceress.” Ebon turned to Grimes. “How about it, Sergeant?”

Grimes scowled. “You're asking me?”

“Unless you have other plans.”

“There is that. Tarqeen barracks, then. I'll muster the troop there.”

Ebon nodded. “A quarter-bell, no more.” He watched the sergeant dart away.

Rendale spoke at his shoulder. “I'm coming too.”

Ebon had forgotten his brother. Rendale's face was smeared with dust, and a trickle of blood ran down from one nostril. Ebon gripped him by the shoulders and pulled him close. “No. I need you to do something for me. Find Lamella. Get her to safety.”

Rendale screwed up his face. “You don't have to protect me. Any one of the Guardsmen—”

“Please,” Ebon cut in. “I need someone I can trust. She will be alone … Her house in the Marobi Quarter—you know it? Get her out by the river if you can. If not, take her to the palace.”

Rendale stared at him for a while, his expression appraising. Then a flicker of a smile crossed his face. “Spiriting away the maiden in distress? At last a task suited to my skills.”

They shared a quick embrace, then Rendale turned and hurried away along the street, pushing against the flow of soldiers coming the other way. Within moments he was lost from sight.

A strangled cry sounded to Ebon's right, and he spun to see a Pantheon Guardsman impaled by a spear wielded by the four-armed warrior. The soldier was lifted into the air and thrown back into the ranks of his companions. An arrow sprouted between the eyes of the undead fighter, but he did not slow. The enemy had now overrun the marketplace, and red-cloaked Guardsmen were retreating down the streets leading off it. With every heartbeat more Vamilians came streaming through the breach in the city walls.

“Come, Mottle,” Ebon said. “We have tarried here too long.”

 

C
HAPTER
12

L
UKER SAT
with his back to a needle of rock, looking down into the depression. At its center was a pool of silty water a score of paces across. Beside it, Merin knelt on the cracked mud and withered mosses, sieving water into his flask through an old shirt that must once have been white but was now the same hue as the muck. As if that was going to make the water any cleaner. Chamery was at the opposite end of the pool, stripped to the waist as he scrubbed his upper body. The pasty skin of his hairless chest contrasted starkly with the flush of his face and neck.

Jenna spoke from behind Luker, startling him. “What a charming sight. I can almost smell the roasting flesh.”

The Guardian frowned. The assassin had an unnerving ability to creep up on him unheard. But then that was her thing, wasn't it? As she moved alongside, a gust of wind seized her hood and tugged it back. Luker's gaze lingered on her face. While Chamery's healing had repaired the worst of the damage from the attack at the inn, pale crisscrossing scars remained. Like as not, those scars would never fully fade, and they gave her a look of fragility. Of something broken and inexpertly fixed.

Looking back at Chamery, he said, “Enjoy the show while you can. The boy heals himself every half day or so.”

“With sorcery? But won't that draw the soulcaster—”

“Aye. Like a fly to shit.”

“Then why haven't you put a stop to it?”

Luker shrugged. “What's the point? With or without the boy's help, the soulcaster can track us the same way I track him.”

Jenna fanned herself with one hand. It was early morning, but the temperature had already risen to skin-prickling intensity. “Is there no escape from this damned heat?”

“You could try wearing something other than black.”

“Unfortunately my wardrobe is a little limited on that score. One of the hazards of my profession.”

“Then be grateful the worst of the summer is behind us. Couple of weeks back this pool would've been nothing more than a puddle.”

Jenna's expression was thoughtful. “How far to the next water?”

“Day and a half, maybe.”

“So if the Kalanese couldn't drink here…”

Luker didn't like the glint in her eye. “What are you thinking?”

Jenna inclined her head in the direction of her pack. “I've brought a few surprises that could slow our pursuers down. Just a couple of drops of something subtle … With luck they might all wet their lips before they detect the poison.”