When the Heavens Fall (39 page)

Luker hesitated. “I'll think on it.”

The assassin smiled her crooked smile. “Worried some innocent might get caught out too? Why Luker, I hope you're not going soft on me.”

Muttering, he rose. “Need to stretch my legs. Join me?”

“Why not.”

The Guardian led the way up a rocky bank and paused at the top to look out over the plains. Over the Waste to the east another storm was brewing, while to the south the flatlands stretched into the distance, broken only by the huge cairns of dead tribal leaders that rose through the ocher haze. Who knows, maybe Luker had put one or two of them in the ground himself.

Jenna had gone on ahead. At the foot of the slope she crouched to examine something half-buried in the sand, and when Luker joined her he saw bones—the curved ribs of a mule, perhaps, now riddled with teeth marks. Farther on was a human skull, both eye sockets cracked. Beside it lay a coil of tarnished silver inset with yellow jewels. The armlet of a Talenese elder.

Jenna gestured to the skull. “Just a few paces away from the waterhole. Do you think he knew how close he got?”

“Won't have been thirst that did for him. Banewolves, most likely. Knew the pool would draw their prey. Cunning bastards—won't hesitate to attack a tribesman on his own.”

“Lucky for you that I came along as escort, then.” The assassin picked up the armlet and made to slide it over her wrist.

“Don't!” Luker snapped, seizing her arm. Her eyes flashed, but he did not release his hold. “That thing knows who its master is. Put it on, and the coils will constrict till they touch bone. Tribal magic. Saw it happen to some merchant guard in a trader camp near Karalat. Fool ended up losing the arm.”

Scowling, Jenna pulled free of his grasp, then dropped the band and crushed it under a heel. “And for a moment there I thought I couldn't hate this place any more.”

“You knew what was coming. Or would you rather have stayed in Arkarbour?”

“I don't like these open spaces. Too exposed. The only shadows out here are ours. And I can hardly hide in those, can I?”

“Get used to it. Three days till we hit the Sun Road. Another three before we reach Arandas. Assuming we don't run into trouble in the meantime.” Or should that be more trouble?

“How far behind is the soulcaster?”

“When I last checked, same as before—three bells.”

Jenna must have heard the uncertainty in his voice. “Would you rather it was two?”

Luker pursed his lips. “Kalanese horses are more used to this terrain. They should outrun ours easy enough.”

A wave of sand swept over them, and the assassin lifted a hand to shield her eyes. “You said their leader sensed you. Maybe he wants to keep his distance. Maybe he doesn't like you any more than the rest of us do.”

Luker looked at her askance. What, people didn't like him? And he'd always tried so hard to be nice to everyone. “Then why bother trailing us at all? No, the soulcaster's up to something.”

“Is it personal?”

“You mean, does he know me?” Luker shook his head. “Doubt it. But he'll recognize a Guardian when one crosses his path. We've always been at the sharp end of Avallon's dealings with Kal Mecath.”

Jenna kicked at the sand round the skull in case it hid any more of the dead man's possessions. “What is he, this soulcaster?”

“Spirit-mage. Like a necromancer, except where a corpse-hugger feeds off death, soulcaster drains the souls of the living. Uses his enemies' life forces against them. Unless they're strong enough to resist, in which case he takes from his own troops.”

The assassin's eyebrows lifted. “And they just let him, I suppose?”

“Aye. Fanatics, the lot of them. Soulcaster sucks them dry. Their souls never make it through Shroud's Gate.”

Jenna had found a dagger with a broken tip. As she examined its jeweled pommel her look became distant. “I can see why that might have its attractions.”

Luker searched her eyes, but did not recognize what he saw in them. “If you wanted oblivion the Breakers would've been happy to give it to you.”

“Perhaps I'm just too stubborn to make it easy for them.”

“Stubborn, aye, I'll not argue that.”

Before Jenna could respond, a noise came to them on the wind. Luker tilted his head. At first all he could hear was the whisper of dust. Then, faintly …
Hoofbeats.
He exchanged a look with Jenna, then turned and scrambled back up the slope. Stones skittered under his feet. Reaching the top, he scanned the plains once more. There was a disturbance on the horizon, a blur amid the swirling clouds of sand.
Riders.
Drawn up in an arrowhead formation, too.
More Kalanese?
He was sure of it.
The soulcaster's been driving us toward them all this time.

With Jenna at his heels, he ran back to the waterhole.

Merin looked up from where he was rooting through his saddlebags.

“Riders,” Luker called. “Less than half a league away.”

The tyrin's face darkened. “Gods, man, you said three bells.”

“Not the soulcaster. Another group, coming from the west.”

“Kalanese?”

“You want to hang around to find out?”

Merin packed the last of his water bottles and closed the saddlebag. “How many of them?”

“Enough,” Luker said, seizing his horse's bridle.

Chamery pulled on his robes as he stumbled from the pool. “Our horses are spent. We won't get far.”

“Aye. We ride east for that sandstorm.”

“Into the Waste.”

“For now. After we lose them in the storm we can head north, skirting the edge of the plains.”

“And if the Kalanese follow us in?”

Luker swung into his saddle. “Pray that they do, mage. Pray that they do.”

*   *   *

Ebon slowed as he passed through the gates of the Tarqeen Barracks. The barracks yard was littered with shattered roof tiles, discarded weapons, and riding tack. The mess hall beyond must have been hit by falling masonry, for there was a hole in its roof, and its flagpole, broken halfway up, had toppled into the yard. The crimson Pantheon colors lay stamped into the dirt at Ebon's feet. Piled unceremoniously inside one of the empty horse stalls were a dozen twitching bodies—townsfolk, judging by their lack of uniforms.
And now undead.
The wrists and ankles of each captive had been bound. Smears of blood across the yard indicated where they had been dragged.

To Ebon's left thirty soldiers from Sergeant Grimes's troop were saddling horses. Behind them was another group of riders, and the king blinked when he recognized the consel. With Garat were his sorceress, first adviser, and more than a score of his guard. The four armored demons stood to one side, leaning on their axes. There was no sign of the consel's brother.

Grimes approached Ebon, his helmet tucked under one arm. “Your Majesty.”

Ebon glanced at the bodies in the stall. “What happened here, Sergeant?”

“Crowd of civvies stormed the barracks. Must've been after the horses. Wouldn't take no for an answer, neither. We had to bloody a few before the others got the message.”

“And the consel?”

“Arrived just before you did and started helping himself. Should I have stopped him?”

Ebon gave a half smile. “Give me a moment,” he said, then strode toward the Sartorian company.

Garat scowled when he saw him.

“What's this, Consel?” Ebon said. “You're leaving us already?”

Garat gave a tight smile. “I'm afraid so, your Majesty. I have found the hospitality of your city to be somewhat lacking since my arrival.”

“I see your brother is not with you.”

A look of disgust crossed the consel's face. “The thread of sorcery holding him is unbreakable, or so my sorceress would have me believe.”

“The efforts of my mages have proved similarly unsuccessful.”

“Then it seems my brother is beyond saving. Only vengeance is left to me now.”

“Perhaps we should combine our efforts. We ride to destroy the Fangalar—”

“The witch is of no interest to me,” Garat cut in. “Just one more puppet dancing on another man's strings.”

“A man, you say?”

“Or woman. It matters not. The insult to me, to my nation, must be answered.”

Ebon eyed him skeptically. The consel appeared less concerned about Falin's death than he did about the loss of face he would suffer if his brother's death went unavenged. “You're going after the puppet master, then? The Forest of Sighs is a big place.”

“The threads of sorcery will show us the way. Now, if you don't mind, we have preparations to complete.”

Ebon held his gaze for a few heartbeats, wondering what the consel was holding back. “We will escort you to the gates.”

“As you will.”

Ebon turned away. As he crossed the yard to join Grimes's troop he saw Mottle being helped by a soldier into the saddle of a gray. The mage almost overbalanced, and he threw his arms around the animal's neck to halt his slide. The horse tossed its head, snorting. Ebon's spirits rose to see Vale standing to one side, lifting a saddle onto the back of a chestnut stallion. Approaching him, the king said, “Well met, my friend.”

Vale grunted.

“How did you find us?”

“Saw the sorceress's fireworks from across the river. Guessed you'd try and pull a stunt like this.” The Endorian's gaze shifted to the Sartorians. “We got ourselves some help?”

“Only as far as the gates. The consel has his sights set on the forest.”

“Good,” Vale said, but as to why that was so, he did not explain.

A Guardsman approached leading a destrier by the reins. Ebon took them from him and stepped into the saddle. The soldier then passed him a spear, a shield, and a helmet. From the west came far-off shouts, the only noise from a city gone eerily silent beyond the barracks wall. Ebon turned to Mottle. “Mage, can you sense the Fangalar sorceress?”

Mottle's horse was turning in a circle, pitching the old man from side to side. “Of course, my boy. She remains where she was, outside the city.”

“Is she guarded?”

“A handful of sentinels only. The witch's sorcerous wards are her most formidable defense, but fear not, Mottle will deal with those.” The mage tugged on the reins, pulling his mount's head up. The gray rolled its eyes before turning to snap at the old man.

Ebon strapped his shield to his left arm. “Perhaps a change of horse is in order.”

“What?” the mage spluttered, seizing a handful of the animal's mane. “Just as Mottle is bringing the querulous beast to heel?”

A clatter of hooves signaled Garat's approach. “It is past time we were leaving,” he said. “Which road do we take?”

“We head for the West Gate,” Ebon replied.

The consel barked a laugh. “The ruined guardhouse? You would have us ride into the teeth of the enemy?”

“We have no choice. I will not risk opening another gate.”

“The city is already lost.”

“And I will do nothing to hasten its fall. My people need time to fall back to the palace.”

“Fool!” Garat said. “You won't even make it as far—”

“Nevertheless,” Ebon interrupted. “My mind is made up on this.”

The consel bit back a retort, then wheeled his horse. “So be it. We will cut a way through the rabble. Follow, if you can.”

The four armored demons unlimbered their axes and led the company onto Rook Way. Sartorian horsemen drew up behind them, riding eight abreast. Ebon saw Ambolina watching him dispassionately from the second rank. She sat straight-backed in her saddle, hands folded in her lap as if she were about to take a ride in the country. Ebon led Grimes's troop to join the rear of the group, Vale on his left, Mottle on his right.

The streets were deserted. From along Rook Way came distant muted cries, the tread of feet, the jangle of armor. For the most part, though, the sounds of fighting were from the north.
The river.
Had the retreat become a rout already, then? And what of Rendale? Had Ebon's brother managed to reach the bridges before the undead?

From a side street, a woman carrying a baby ran out in front of the consel's demons. On seeing them she skidded to a halt only to slip and sprawl to the cobbles, turning as she fell to protect the infant in her arms. Within a heartbeat she was up again and hobbling back into the alley. As Ebon watched her disappear, his thoughts strayed to Lamella. Was she listening even now to the conflict surging closer, waiting for him to come for her?
No, she knows where my first responsibility lies.
Duty first, always.
Forgive me.

The company rode in silence. This district of the city had been hit hard by the Red Tide nine days ago, and the shriveled bodies of scores of scorpions lay amid the dust beside the road. One of the houses to Ebon's left had been reduced to rubble by falling debris from the guardhouse; another had lost half its roof to leave shattered beams sticking out like broken ribs. From a first-floor window, an old man stared at Ebon. He flinched as their gazes met, then reached out to close his shutters.

The king looked at Grimes to find the sergeant watching him in turn. A nod from Ebon, and the soldier began shouting orders. Four Pantheon Guardsmen dropped back from the troop, dismounted, and started pounding on doors. Against any other attacking force, the townsfolk's best chance of survival might have been to lie low and wait for the dust to settle. Against an undead army, though, their only hope was to make it to the palace before the bridges fell.

Ebon lowered his helmet into place, his vision contracting to the rims of the eyepieces. The padding deadened the noise of distant fighting, and the spirits were no more than a murmur in his mind. He wiped his right palm on his shirt, then gripped his spear again. Ahead the way remained empty, but that couldn't last long. Even as the thought came to Ebon, three red-cloaked soldiers appeared round a bend, a handful of paces in front of a disordered mass of undead.