When the Heavens Fall (44 page)

Whoever the newcomers were, they couldn't be undead, for Ebon doubted the Vamilians would be shy about attacking. Then the breeze picked up and he caught a familiar whiff of decay.

Kinevar.

Bettle had shaken Ellea awake, and the corporal was now crouching beside her pack, hands moving smoothly as she locked the crank of her crossbow and slid a bolt into its slot. Bettle stood over her, unlimbering his mace. Ebon held up a hand to signal them to hold. Vale stood with his back to a tree, gesturing to the river.
Retreat?
To what end? There was no boat to carry them away, no bridge they could cross, and any dash for the horses might spook the Kinevar into attacking. Best to remain still and wait the creatures out.

In any case, with his chest as it was, it wasn't as if he'd get far.

He squinted into the gloom, tilted his head to listen. Guttural voices reached him. Then a creak of wood sounded like someone stepping on a loose floorboard, followed by a whistle of something cutting through the air.

A white-feathered arrow thumped into a tree an armspan away.

The king flinched, but held his ground. Strangely enough, the arrow settled his nerves. The archer could just as easily have put it in Ebon's eye if he'd wanted to.

All at once the shadows began to move, darting between the trees. Not toward Ebon, but to the east, circling round the campsite. Cutting off their escape route? Unlikely, for if the Kinevar had wanted to surround the king's party they would have left numbers on this side too. Ebon turned slowly, keeping the creatures in view. Looking for the next arrow. If he'd closed his eyes he wouldn't have known they were there, so silently did they move. Once the camp was behind them, they dispersed into the shadows, taking the smell of rot with them.

As quickly as they had arrived, they were gone.

Ebon released his breath.

Bettle approached. “What in the Nine Hells just happened?”

Ebon looked at the arrow. The white fletching was spattered with black flecks. Insects were pouring from the trunk of the tree the missile had struck. “I believe we have just been given a warning. In case it crossed our minds to follow.”

“But if they knew we was here—”

“We're more dangerous to the Kinevar dead than alive.”

Vale sheathed his sword. “How many would you say? Fivescore? More?”

“A whole tribe, I would guess,” Ebon said. “Fleeing north.”

“For once the creatures have the right of it,” Bettle muttered.

The king glanced at him sharply. “Something you want to say, soldier?”

The Pantheon Guardsman held his gaze for a moment before looking away. He reached up to grab the arrow.

“Hold!” Vale snapped.

Bettle froze.

“Those black specks on the feathers … that's the blood of a Kinevar mage.”

“So?”

“So it means the arrow's pumped full of earth-magic. The smallest splinter and you'll be eaten from the inside out by insects, just like that tree.”

The Guardsman snatched his hand back, then let out a string of curses.

Ebon said, “When you are finished, soldier, go and make sure the Kinevar have indeed moved on. And the next time someone creeps on us, perhaps you could warn me they are coming before I can see them myself.”

With a last look at the arrow, Bettle started out north in pursuit of the shadows.

As his footfalls faded, another noise came to Ebon. Frowning, he turned back to the campsite. Partly buried beneath fallen leaves was the recumbent form of Mottle, his chest rising and falling, his arms and legs flung out at all angles like a rag doll tossed on the ground. He was snoring.

*   *   *

It was less than a bell after dawn, yet the desert sun was already fierce as a naked flame against Luker's skin. Ahead the raised road vanished north into the Waste, its flagstones half-hidden beneath a swirling carpet of windswept dust. To either side waves of sand rippled in the searing gusts.

Luker licked his cracked lips. Time to find some shelter. If his memory served him right the remains of a Talui watchtower were a league along the road … Or was that farther north? It was impossible to say with certainty, because the desert, in its relentless march west, had swallowed many of the landmarks in this wilderness. Old trader tracks, karmight mines, Talui barrows: all had been devoured by the sands. The abandoned village Luker had ridden through a quarter-bell ago had been sinking into the desert, all but a few of the crude wooden shacks collapsed and scattered like driftwood.

Riding at the back of the group, the Guardian spat past his bloated tongue. Shroud-cursed deserts. It seemed he'd spent half his life slogging across them, but that hadn't made his time in this one any prettier. His thirst was a fire at the back of his throat, and a headache throbbed behind his eyes. In front, Chamery rode slumped over his horse's neck like he was whispering in its ear. Surprise, surprise, it had been the mage who'd been broken first by the desert, and before the party set off last night Merin had strapped the boy into his saddle to ensure he didn't fall on the ride. To be fair, the tyrin and Jenna weren't faring much better. It was two days now since they'd found fresh water, and what little they had left to drink would have to be saved for the horses.

Luker's mare stumbled, then righted itself. They were pushing the animals too hard, he knew, but a lengthy rest was a luxury their pursuers would not allow them. Each day, Luker spirit-walked to keep track of their hunters. The remnants of the second group of Kalanese—the one that had attacked them at the edge of the desert—had brought a rare smile to the Guardian's lips when they'd followed them into the Waste. How the fools had thought to track their quarry across the sands, he couldn't imagine, and after three days of wandering lost they were now feeding the sandclaws in a dry streambed.

The first group of Kalanese, though—the soulcaster's—had kept to the plains, skirting the edge of the desert as they took a course roughly parallel to that of Luker's party. An ambush by tribesmen had killed three of their number—not the soulcaster, alas—and lost them time, but after giving the Erin Elalese a head start of almost half a day they were now just a few leagues south and west. If they were able to overtake Luker and block his exit from the desert …

Suddenly the Guardian's mare stumbled again, its hooves sliding on the sandy flagstones. He shouted a warning to his companions, then pulled on the reins. The animal came to a stuttering halt. Luker swung down from the saddle. He didn't need to search for the problem. At dusk yesterday a sandclaw had attacked the mare as Luker was mounting up, scoring a hit to the horse's front right leg before the Guardian could drive the sandclaw off. That leg was now bandaged above the knee, and foul-smelling fluids were soaking through the dressings. The mare shied as Luker peeled them away. The flesh round the cut was tinged blue by the poultice he had applied, but judging by the swelling to the knee joint the ointment had failed to slow the spread of the sandclaw's venom.

Chamery was watching him through narrowed eyes.

“Get over here,” Luker said to him.

The mage's voice was a croak. “There's nothing I can do.”

“Like Shroud there isn't. You're a damned corpse-hugger, aren't you? Or are you telling me your powers don't work on horses?”

“My
powers
flow from the energies released in death. This hellhole you've led us into is dead already. I have nothing more than a trickle.”

“Then use it.”

“Better save it for one of us.”

For you, more like.
“If the horses die, so do we. Now get over here before I decide to swap your ride for mine.”

Grumbling, Chamery loosened the ties keeping him in the saddle and slid to the ground. He staggered over to join Luker. “You owe me, Guardian,” he said.

Luker snorted.

Falling to his knees, the mage closed his hands round the horse's wounded leg, one above the knee joint, one below. Luker felt the release of his power.
A trickle is right.
Not enough to burn away the sandclaw's venom, so a temporary respite at best.
Unless the mage is holding something back.

Jenna steered her horse alongside. “What is that?” she said, pointing in the direction of the rising sun.

Luker looked across. A few hundred paces away the desert sands were churning like water on the boil. A black tentacle burst from the dunes, twisting this way and that as if testing the air. “Roths,” the Guardian said. “Sharks of the desert, the Taluins call them. Never seen why myself—roths grow much bigger.”

The assassin shot him a look, but he returned her gaze evenly, and after a moment she glanced back at the roths. “They're coming this way,” she said. More tentacles were rising, and a wave of sand rolled toward Luker's party.

“We're safe for now,” the Guardian said. “Roths won't leave the deeper sands.” He gestured about him. “Lands round here used to be mexin fields. This road was raised above the level of the drainage ditches.”

“For how much farther?”

Luker shrugged. “If my bearings are right, though, we're about to reach the site of the old Drifter's Boneyard. Roths tend to steer clear of the area.”

“Because the sands are too shallow?”

“No. Because of all the sandclaws.”

Jenna gave him the evil eye again.

“What?”

Merin spoke. “Guardian, that reddish tint on the horizon … Are we nearly clear of the desert?”

Luker shook his head. “Another day, I reckon. Maybe more at the pace we're going.”

“This road leads to Bethin, correct?”

“Aye.”

“Farther north and east than I would have liked.”

Luker hawked and spat. “You think I wanted this? Direct route to Arandas will take us right into the spears of the Kalanese. Once we're clear of the Waste we can swing north and west, make for the Sun Road. Another three days from there to Arandas, less if we can trade for fresh horses.”

“How far to the next water?”

Luker hesitated. “There's a waterhole to the north, half a day's ride away.”

“But?”

“It's not by the road—maybe quarter of a league across open sands.”
If it's still there at all.

Merin looked at the roths. The tentacles had begun to slip back beneath the dunes, and moments later the desert was still again. “Do we have a choice?”

“Aye, there's a spring once we're clear of the desert. Stop for water now, and the soulcaster will likely overtake us before we reach the plains.”

Silence greeted his words.

After a dozen heartbeats, Chamery rose and lurched away. When Luker knelt to inspect the mare's wound he saw the swelling had diminished. All that remained of the sandclaw's talon marks were puckered scars.

Merin's voice intruded on his thoughts. “Another storm's brewing,” he said, nodding at the southern skyline.

Luker turned and stared, gauging the wind's course.
Isn't it just.

*   *   *

Romany had never seen a titan before, but there was no mistaking the figure that strode through the forest far to the south of Estapharriol. The immortal stood half again as tall as a man and had skin the color of ivory. His face was framed by tufts of black hair that extended down the back of his neck like a mane. Bloodred, bestial eyes peered out from beneath a heavy brow. Slung about his shoulders was the scaly gray skin of some demon, and a warhammer hung from a strap across his back.

Yesterday when Romany told Mayot about the titan, he hadn't believed her at first. Then, when the truth sank in, his eyelid had begun to flutter so rapidly he'd been forced to close his eyes. The smell of urine about the man was never less than overpowering, but a sudden worsening of the stench made Romany wonder whether her news had unmanned him completely. Strictly speaking there had been no need for her to inform him about the immortal, because there was nothing he could do to help her defeat the brute. The only reason she'd told him was to see his mask of pomposity slip, and—in that respect at least—his reaction had not disappointed her.

Romany returned her attention to the titan. There was an arrogance to the immortal's gait that grated on her. Looking neither left nor right, he strolled between the trees as if he wandered the shady paths of some pleasure garden. True, he had swatted aside with effortless disdain those of Mayot's minions he had encountered thus far, but did he really think the Vamilians were his only opposition in this forest? That he would be able to vanquish all of his foes so easily?

Fortunately Romany was well practiced in using her enemies' arrogance against them. It had proved no harder to lead the titan astray than it had the Widowmaker before him. For a day and a night she had steered him west, across the White Road and away from Estapharriol …

Until now, finally, he stepped onto the ruined road the Widowmaker was following through the forest. A score of paces behind, Shroud's disciple drew up.

The titan paused in midstride, his shaggy head swinging round.

For a dozen heartbeats neither figure moved.

Romany rubbed her hands together and retreated along the threads of her web to a safer distance. Time to sit back and enjoy the spectacle. For while it was unlikely any history existed between the titan and the Widowmaker, they would surely both realize that chance alone had not brought the other to the forest. And since there was only one Book of Lost Souls … Romany found herself holding her breath. Would the Widowmaker flee this clash? Without doubt she was powerful, but even the Spider would think twice before tangling with a titan. And yet to back down now would most likely just postpone the inevitable confrontation and earn her Shroud's wrath into the bargain.

A midnight flash ignited the air as death-magic shot from the Widowmaker's staff toward the titan. Romany had time only to register the immortal's roar of pain … before the power ricocheted off his wards toward her. It took a moment for her mind to click into gear. She made to flee.