When the Heavens Fall (77 page)

Assuming Luker's hunch was correct, of course.

He rolled his shoulders. With or without his aid, the veil would come down soon. Might as well be around to see it when it did.

It was time for the final roll of the dice.

In order to bring the full weight of his Will to bear, Luker needed to block out the world round him using an exercise he had learned many years ago as Kanon's apprentice. First, he shut his eyes. Next, he started to screen off the perceptions of his other senses: the crackle of Mayot's sorcery, the heat of the air on his face, the shouts of the fighters behind—even now a man's death cry sounded above the tumult.
Not my problem.
The tightness of Luker's burned skin, the ache at the back of his throat, the throb of his headache: all began to fade away as if his mind had fled the ravages of his body. Then, as his focus sharpened, awareness of his thoughts diminished too: his doubts concerning his future, his grief and guilt at Kanon's loss, his worries over Jenna's fate. One by one they left him, until all that remained was his Will.

He felt a moment of euphoria, of intoxicating power, as if all things were now possible if he had but the breadth of vision to imagine them. He had experienced the sensation often enough, though, to recognize it for the dangerous illusion it was. While the likes of Chamery and Mayot might succumb to their delusions of omnipotence, Luker had eyes only for the task at hand.

Steeling himself, he hurled his power against the veil.

It happened gradually at first—layers of existence peeling back, a skewing of reality, one world melting away as another took shape. The barrier was already so gossamer-thin that it seemed a mere breath of wind would rip it apart, and once again the Guardian found himself wondering whether Mayot had deliberately tried to tear down the mantle. For if the mage, like Luker now, had
wanted
to fashion a way through to Shroud's realm it meant one of them had made a big misjudgment. Then again, perhaps Mayot had intended to repair the damage at a later time. Perhaps the Book gave him the power to do so.

Pushing such thoughts aside, Luker hammered over and over at the barrier. It started to weaken, but slowly, slowly. Even through his sensory detachment, the Guardian could feel Mayot's wall of death-magic edging closer. It appeared Baldy's resistance was fading, but then if Luker was right the power of the Book, and hence the forces assailing the shaven-headed stranger, would be increasing as the veil weakened.

He readied himself for one final assault.

Even as he did so there was a ripping sound, and the barrier's dissolution took on a momentum of its own. Flinching, Luker pulled back lest he be drawn fully into the realm that was taking shape beyond the rent he had created.

A new wind blew through the dome, cold like the breath of the dead. He heard whispering voices all about, hushed at first, then growing louder. When he opened his eyes he saw the spirits of the underworld were no longer black blurs, but rather people with features as clear and empty as those of the Vamilians among whom they stood. Mayot was still visible at the top of the steps. Beyond him, though, other images were forming: a range of hills silhouetted against a cloudless gray sky; a circle of standing stones ahead and to Luker's left; shadows moving across the landscape, silent and swift.

He had done it. The dome was now as much a part of the underworld as it was the mortal realm.

Luker released his hold on his Will.

Pain lanced his skull, hot and white, and he groaned. Never before had he drawn so intensely on his power. A wave of dizziness swept over him. His stomach spasmed, and acid burned the back of his throat. Raising his hands to his temples, he sank to his knees and retched. When he took a breath, he found the air tasted of ash and smoke, and he vomited again.

He did not know how much time passed before he was able to look up. At some point Mayot's attack had stopped, and the old man now stood at the edge of the dais, clutching the Book to his chest as he gazed about in wonder. The corruption to his left hand must have spread along the full length of his arm, for the skin round the neckline of his robe was black and withered too. He turned to Luker and gave a dry laugh.

“You fool!” he crowed. “Do you know what you've done? An entire world delivered into my hands! Countless more souls to serve me!”

Luker scanned the barren landscape. Nothing stirred, and for a moment he thought he had made a mistake. Then, from the direction of the hills, a darkness came rushing toward the dais.

The Guardian smiled. “You forget, old man. These souls already have a master. And you're now standing on his patch.”

What little color remained in Mayot's cheeks drained away. He made to turn to face the oncoming blackness, but before he could do so a huge claw punched through his chest, emerging in a spray of gore. Wide-eyed, the mage looked down at the claw, disbelieving. Then his back arched and he screamed. Blood fountained from his mouth as he was lifted into the air.

The dais was enveloped by swirling shadows, a great wall of them so dense the light from the fires in the dome could not penetrate them. Black tendrils snaked from the darkness toward Mayot, wrapping themselves round his thrashing body. Where they came to settle, the mage's skin blistered and split with a hissing noise like water tossed in boiling oil. He screamed again. Shadows poured into his mouth, smothering the sound.

A good thing, too. All that screeching wasn't doing anything for Luker's headache.

Mayot hung above the dais, tearing at the claw as if he thought he might pull himself free. Then he was drawn back. As he reached the wall of shadows, the Book of Lost Souls slipped from his fingers. A taloned hand shot out from the gloom, snatched for it, but succeeded only in knocking it farther away.

A growl of frustration set the air quivering. The hand withdrew.

The Book skidded across the dais and slid partway down the steps to the right of the molten river of rock. It came to rest a dozen paces from Luker, its pages open, facing down.

Stillness descended on the dome. Even the wind seemed to have died. Mayot had disappeared into the blackness on the dais, but another figure was beginning to take shape there. Luker's headache burgeoned as the newcomer's power washed over him.

Shroud, for it had to be the god, stepped into view. Standing half again as tall as Luker, his form was as smoky and insubstantial as the darkness that cloaked him. Black tendrils clung to his form as if unwilling to release him to the light. The impression of a face was visible within the gloom, but the shifting shadows made it impossible to discern any features save for the eyes that glittered like twin chips of obsidian.

Wincing, Luker forced himself to his feet.
Wouldn't want the bastard thinking I'm kneeling on his account.

The Lord of the Dead turned his head from side to side, taking in the dome.

Then his gaze settled on the Book.

Luker scowled.

Oh no you don't.

*   *   *

Even after the tiktar had stopped fighting back it was some time before Parolla broke off her attack. The elderling had shrunken to a single flickering flame, tugged this way and that by the wind. Parolla gathered it in her hand. The fire licked at her skin, but she felt no pain. Had this creature really threatened her? It seemed difficult to believe, a lifetime ago. It would be so simple for her to close her fingers and snuff out the flame forever.

She cast the tiktar to the storm.

Looking round, Parolla saw the hilltop had been devastated by her sorcery. Nothing remained standing for a hundred paces on every side. Blackened tree stumps protruded from the ground, none of them more than an armspan tall, while beyond, scores of Vamilians stood statue-still in the rain. Parolla sensed the threads holding the undead were still in place, but the flow of energy along them had ceased. That could mean only one thing: the hand controlling the Vamilians was gone. She frowned. Mayot fallen?
The death stroke should have been mine!

She took a shuddering breath and attempted to let go of her anger, found she could not.

Wiping rain from her eyes, she scanned the undead. They stood in ranks three deep, their gazes staring through her. Those with shattered limbs had stopped trying to rise and now lay unmoving in the mud and standing water. Parolla was not deceived by their sudden lifelessness, though. They were still a threat to her, for doubtless a new hand would take up the Book and assume Mayot's place as puppet master. She should strike now while the undead were defenseless. The darkness flooding her veins demanded release.

Parolla dug her nails once more into her palms, shivering at the pain it brought. Looking down, she saw the blood flowing to her wrists was black.

She could sense the rent within the dome now. So this was it. The way was finally open to her—a gateway to Shroud's realm. The years of searching were over. How had the path been opened? Mayot, perhaps? Had he spent his life in its creation? Parolla shook her head. It mattered not. The Book would soon be hers, and with it the power to bring about her vengeance.

But there was something else, she realized. A new presence was entering the dome through the rent. Parolla's heartbeat quickened as she felt the stranger's power bloom outward—a power that surpassed even her own.

Then her lips curled in a smile.

Better and better.

There was no longer any need for her to run. Her strength was such that she could now ride the strands of death-magic in body as well as in spirit. Gathering her power around her, she closed her eyes.

 

C
HAPTER
23

E
BON'S FIRST
thought was that he must have died and passed through Shroud's Gate, for when the blackness finally cleared from his vision he found himself staring not at Mayot Mencada but at a dread apparition wreathed in shadow. Galea had fled from his mind at its approach, leaving Ebon in no doubt as to the newcomer's identity.

Shroud.

Through his struggles to stave off unconsciousness he had sensed nothing of Mayot's fate, nor of the creation of the rent. He recalled the scarred stranger saying he had an idea. Had he summoned Shroud to this place? Was he one of the god's disciples that he could call on the Lord of the Dead? Or had Shroud intervened of his own accord to crush the pretender to his throne?

The floor round Ebon was blanketed with frost that was beginning to melt in the rain. The Book of Lost Souls lay on the steps to his right, no more than a dozen paces away. Was this victory, then? It did not feel so to Ebon. True, the undead now lacked a master. The attack on Majack—if his city still held—would have halted, but those of his people who had already fallen would remain enslaved by the threads of death-magic. And if a new hand were to take up the Book …

To his left, the scarred stranger rose to his feet. Vale stood a few paces away, dozens of Vamilian bodies piled round him. The Endorian's shoulders were slumped, and his left arm hung limp. In his right hand he clutched a sword dripping blood to the ground.
Blood.
Ebon drew a breath.

The undead did not bleed.

Consel Garat Hallon lay unconscious or dead beneath a Vamilian spearman. The only surviving Sartorian soldier, a woman, was kneeling beside him, her right ear pressed to his chest, listening for a pulse. Evidently the consel was alive, because the soldier tore a sleeve from her shirt and started fashioning a sling. The only other survivor, the veteran who Ebon assumed was a friend of the scarred stranger, was sheathing his sword and tucking his longknife into his belt. When his gaze met Ebon's his expression was appraising, but doubtless the king's own look was no more welcoming. Moments before, the powers assembled here had been allies in their struggle against Mayot, but what were they now with the old man gone? Ebon glanced at the Book of Lost Souls. If the only way to stop someone taking Mayot's place was to claim the Book himself, would he do so?

Still kneeling, he shifted his gaze back to Shroud. The room spun suddenly. He threw out a hand to steady himself, and sparks flickered as his fingers touched the frosty ground. Galea's sorcery still raged through his blood. His arms and legs were numb, and he staggered as he pushed himself upright. He could not feel the floor beneath his feet, nor the stubble on his chin as he passed a hand across it. Was this how it felt to be one of the undead? Trapped in a prison of senseless flesh?

There was a pause. Who would break the silence? Who would make the opening move?

He didn't have to wait long to find out. The black tendrils twisting round Shroud started to snake their way across the dais toward the Book.

Then they shrank back.

Ebon sensed a new presence at his side, and he looked right to see a woman standing there. It took him a heartbeat to recognize the necromancer from the hill. Something about Parolla had changed. Her midnight eyes burned, and her blood-streaked features were darkened by a shadow that had nothing to do with the gloom within the dome. Her gaze was fixed on Shroud.

There was no sign of Mottle.

When Parolla spoke, Ebon assumed he must have misheard.

For what she said to Shroud was, “Hello, Father.”

*   *   *

Parolla watched Shroud retreat a half pace toward the wall of darkness. The shadows about him were too deep for her to make out his face. Shades of black hinted at features, but his expression was shielded from her.
He hides from me now as he always has.
She risked a look round the dome. There was no sign of Mayot Mencada, but the blood dripping from Shroud's fingers told her all she needed to know of the old man's fate. The Book lay a score of paces away on the stairs. All she had to do was take a few steps and reach out her hand …

No.

First she wanted answers.

She looked back at Shroud. The weight of his gaze was crushing, but Parolla forced herself to meet it. “What, nothing to say to me?” she said. “Is the emotion of the moment too much for you?”