When the Heavens Fall (71 page)

Parolla looked at her hands and saw they were crusted with dried blood.
Of course—the attack in the forest.
She raised tentative fingers to her face. While the burns inflicted earlier by the Fangalar's sorcery had mostly healed, a few blisters remained. In response to the man's question she said, “The blood is not mine,
sirrah
.” A lie, yes, but fewer questions that way.

The
magus
considered this, then bowed. “Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Ebon Calidar.” He looked round. “The old man touching down to your right is Mottle, and my other companion, wherever he is, is Vale Gorven.” He paused, apparently expecting her to say something in reply. When she did not, he added, “I am grateful that you came to our aid.”

Then why did you take so long to come to mine?
Parolla wanted nothing more than to leave this place, but she felt obliged to say something. “You were attacked by the Fangalar?”

“In a manner, yes. You did not tell me your name.”

She could think of no reason to withhold it. “Parolla.”

“Well, Parolla, forgive me for speaking bluntly, but are our paths likely to cross again when we leave this place?”

“You mean, are we enemies?”

“If you prefer.”

Parolla glanced at the dome on her right, partly visible through a break in the trees. She saw Ebon's companion, Mottle, eyeing her with a troubled expression as if he were trying to place her face, yet she could not recall ever meeting him before. She turned to Ebon. “That depends. I seek the death of the man controlling the undead.”

“To what end?”

Parolla shook her head. “You first,
sirrah
.”

“My city is besieged by an undead army,” he said. “The attackers' strings must be cut. So, I ask you again: Are we enemies?”

“No, we are not.”

“And the Book of Lost Souls?”

That last was said casually, yet Ebon was watching her intently.
The Book of Lost Souls?
So that's what it was called. She'd heard the name before, she felt sure, but where? It came to her suddenly.
My conversation with Olakim in Shroud's temple in Xavel.

She was spared having to respond by the arrival of a gray-haired man—Vale, she presumed—who came splashing through puddles between the trees. He carried a sword in one hand, a bloody dagger in the other, and he wore a coat of chain mail that rustled as he walked. He gave Parolla a cursory look, then spoke to Ebon. “No sign of the horses. And that fourth Fangalar has disappeared. Must have done a runner.”

“Let him go,” the
magus
said. “We don't have time to hunt him down.”

“And if he's gone to find help?”

Ebon's face twisted.

Parolla's mouth twitched.
Yes, he sees it now. He's let slip through his fingers a witness to all that has taken place here.
And if the missing Fangalar were to return to his kin … Well, Ebon need only look round him at the Vamilian city to see what the enmity of the Fangalar would bring.

“It changes nothing,” Ebon said. “The man was not a sorcerer. What chance does he have of escaping here—”

“Watcher's tears,” Vale cut in. “What is
that
?”

Parolla turned to look where the gray-haired man was pointing and saw a ball of fire rolling through the streets near the outskirts of the city. The trees and the Vamilians that it passed burst into flames, leaving a blazing trail behind. It was heading this way, and Parolla found herself struggling against the urge to laugh. How long had it been since she'd left Andara Kell battling the tiktar by the lake? Less than a bell, she judged.
Oh, Andara, was that the best you could do?
In answer to Vale's question she said, “One of the undead,
sirrah
. A tiktar.”

Ebon frowned at the smile in her voice. “You have encountered it before?”

Parolla nodded, remembering the look the elderling had given her before attacking Andara. “It is coming for me.”

“Then we will stand beside you.”

“Why?”

The question seemed to puzzle him. “You helped us, my Lady. It is only proper—”

“Had the choice been mine,” Parolla interrupted, “I would have left you to your fate. The Fangalar attacked me, just as they did you.”

“Even so, we share a common goal. One we'll stand a better chance of achieving if we work together.”

Parolla studied him. Was he really such a fool as to think they could trust each other? True, she had no interest in the enslavement of his city, but she suspected Ebon would never allow the Book to fall into her hands.
He wants it for himself. They all do.
Ebon's eyes lost focus suddenly, and he cocked his head as if trying to catch a sound. He stared straight through her. There was something there … A whisper in Parolla's mind. Voices? When she tried to concentrate on them, the noises died away.

The
magus
's face darkened as the aura of power around him faded. Parolla's eyebrows lifted. It seemed Ebon had a hidden benefactor. One that had just withdrawn its support.
Clearly his offer of assistance was not his to make.

Ebon came to with a start, his gaze fixing on her once more. His hands were clenched into fists, but his anger did not appear to be directed at Parolla. She looked across and saw that the tiktar was now approaching the foot of the hill. There was little chance, she knew, of her reaching the dome before it caught up to her. She had no choice but to stand here and fight. Mayot would have to wait.

“We don't have time for this,” Vale said. “That thing will be on us long before you two have finished staring into each other's eyes.”

Mottle cleared his throat. “Mottle, as ever, has a suggestion. A most elegant solution to the troublesome problem that presents itself. A perfect expression of his creative genius, inspired in its—”

“We're listening,” Vale growled.

The old man spread his hands. “Mottle's idea is simply this: Your humble servant will stay here to assist the mysterious lady in her travails. Our destination is the dome, yes? Mottle's punch is far more potent on this hilltop, where he can draw on the storm's power unfettered by walls of stone.”

Vale looked at Ebon. “I don't like it. We may need him.”

Ebon was looking down the hill. The tiktar had begun climbing the slope. “He can join us when he is finished here.”

“Shroud's mercy. Did I just dream that stuff you said about sticking together?”

Ebon turned on him. “Enough! My mind is made up. Mottle, you know where to find us.” He gave Parolla a stiff bow. “Until we next meet, my Lady.” Then, with a gesture to Vale, he spun on his heel.

The gray-haired warrior gave Parolla a long look before turning to follow. Together the two men moved off in the direction of the dome, leaving Parolla alone on the hilltop with Mottle.

When she glanced at her new ally she found him scratching furiously at an armpit.

*   *   *

Luker had to admit they were good.

By separating from Sickle Man he had forced Mayot's bodyguards to split into two pairs, a man and a woman in each. The man facing Luker had a boxer's nose and a harelip. Broad-shouldered and thick-necked, he wielded a sword that made a high-pitched whine as it cut through the air. A bit like Chamery's voice had sounded. The woman fought with two longknives, blackened on one side. Half a head shorter than her companion, she might have been attractive were it not for the pox scars that covered her cheeks.

It had taken Luker only moments to size up their strengths and weaknesses. Poxface was the more accomplished fighter, but while her reactions were lightning-fast, her reach was poor and she parried with both blades when she defended. Harelip had more weight behind his blows, but his low guard was suspect and he had a tendency to overbalance on the backhand cut. More interestingly, both Vamilians seemed intent on blocking Luker's route to Mayot at all times. Not once had they divided in an effort to attack from opposite flanks.

Now all the Guardian had to do was think of a way to exploit their vulnerabilities.

Against either of the Prime singly he would have wrapped this up long ago. Together, though, the Vamilians fought seamlessly—Poxface on Luker's right, Harelip on his left—alternating their strikes when they attacked, moving to the other's defense on the rare occasions Luker managed to work an opening. Thus far he had scored a few cuts to Harelip's body, but nothing significant.

The dome was quiet. Eerily so, considering the atmosphere in which most of Luker's duels were fought in. Ten years ago, in the early days of the Confederacy, he had battled in the gladiatorial pits in Bethin when his opponent, the then champion, made the mistake of speaking out against Erin Elal. The chants, the roars of bloodlust, the screams of the crowd had been an almost physical force. Until Luker had carved their favorite into slices. Here in the dome the only sounds were the clang of blade on blade, the rustle of leaves underfoot, the scuff of boots on stone.

Then a grunt and a whispered curse from Luker's right.

He risked a look at Sickle Man. Shroud's disciple was on the retreat, twisting and turning in a whirlwind of motion, his sickles two smudges of golden light. He ducked under a decapitating cut from one of his opponents, then spun away to resume the dance. Luker frowned. He was going to have to think of something quickly, since he had no intention of waiting on the outcome of Kestor's contest. If Sickle Man were to fall, dealing with four Prime alone could be … tricky.

An idea occurred to him, but for it to work he would need to maneuver his opponents around. A head-high cut from Harelip gave him his chance. A nudge of the Will to obstruct the man's sword arm, then Luker dived under his blade and rolled to the undead warrior's right before rising to his feet again. Poxface rushed round to block off his route to Mayot, but Luker's move had nothing to do with opening a path to the mage. When the Prime attacked again, Poxface was now on his left, Harelip on his right.

Another exchange of blows, feint, parry, disengage. Block Poxface's thrust, sway aside from Harelip's slash. Now when Harelip's backhand cut slid off Luker's sword and the warrior overbalanced, his momentum carried him toward Poxface.

The Guardian stepped to his right to take him beyond the range of Poxface's flashing longknives. An overhand strike forced Harelip to block high, leaving his body exposed as Luker dropped to one knee and lunged with his other blade.

The exchange had taken no more than a few heartbeats.

It might even have worked, had Poxface—unable to reach Luker—not acted quickly to defend her companion. Luker's thrust slid off one of her knives and delivered no more than a glancing blow to Harelip's hip.

Now the Guardian was the one exposed. He parried Harelip's counterattack, then lashed out with his Will to knock Poxface back a step. Another roll and he was back on his feet in time to block a flurry of attacks from Harelip.

Luker kicked up some leaves to distract his assailants. Like that was going to hold them up for long.

He would have to try something else.

*   *   *

Romany watched the duels drag on. The scarred stranger—Luker Essendar—fought with stunning skill, his swords a blur. He was using some form of sorcery, parrying the Prime's attacks or supplementing his own with a deftness of touch that the priestess could not help but admire. His companion, Shroud's disciple, fought with no less ability, catching an assailant's sword on one of his sickles before turning his wrist to trap the blade and countering with his other weapon. It had taken some time for the two Vamilians facing him to adjust to his style of fighting, but adjust they had, and they were now forcing him back. And while the Prime had yet to score a decisive strike, there could be no question that Shroud's disciple—like Luker—was the one doing most of the defending.

The end, Romany decided, was near. In any event Mayot was simply toying with the two strangers. With rank upon rank of undead waiting on his order, the mage could end this spectacle whenever he wanted, and doubtless he would do just that if either of his enemies were to gain the upper hand against the Prime. Romany studied the old man. He sat slouched in his throne, watching the contests with a smile. As ever the mage's pride was his greatest weakness, for he was risking his champions for nothing. He was too blinkered in his arrogance, too comfortable in his perceived invincibility.

Then again, was there anyone in this godforsaken place who could take advantage? Which of his hapless enemies had both the wit and the power to exploit his failings?

Spider's blessing, must I do everything myself?

Questing inward, Romany called once again to the goddess. Still there was no reply. Could the death-magic that filled the dome be preventing her message from getting through? She doubted it, for the Spider often boasted that the strands of her web could infiltrate the Abyss itself. Most likely the goddess was simply ignoring her, maybe even reveling in her discomfort. A picture came to Romany of the Spider making herself comfortable in Romany's quarters at the temple, her feet up on the desk, a bottle of Koronos white wine open before her …

Tutting her disgust, the priestess returned her attention to the floor of the dome. Consel Garat Hallon had roused himself sufficiently to crawl a short distance away from the steps to the dais. Reaching the nearest of his unconscious soldiers, a woman with a bruise across her left temple, he shook her insistently.

A score of paces away Shroud's sickle-wielding disciple was fighting with increasing desperation to stay out of range of his assailants' attacks. From the sluggishness of his parries Romany judged he was tiring quickly. Yet on the few occasions the Prime were able to pierce his guard, their blades seemed to meet no resistance when they passed through his robes, as if he were no more than a wraith. There was some trickery at play here, but one learned to expect as much from Shroud's followers. Romany felt an itch in her fingers, an almost instinctive urge to begin weaving her threads about the man.