When the Heavens Fall (79 page)

“Don't speak to me of duty.”

“Is he your ally, then, that you value his life above theirs? You know nothing of his true purpose here!”

“I might, if you were quiet long enough for me to hear him speak.”

“He wants to destroy the Book. What more do you need to know?”

Ebon looked at Shroud to find the god watching him in turn. He swallowed. To take the Book would be to earn the enmity of the Lord of the Dead.

“And what of me?” Galea said. “Would you wish
me
for an enemy?”

“He senses you. He knows.”

“Then strike! Now, before the moment is lost!”

Ebon's sword was suddenly in his hand. The hilt slipped for an instant in his numb fingers, then he grasped it tight.

He lunged forward.

*   *   *

Luker could only watch as Baldy's sword stabbed out.

To block a cut from Merin that had been aimed at Luker's chest. The impact jarred the weapon from Baldy's hand, but he had done enough to parry the tyrin's blow. Merin, though, had a second blade—the longknife Luker had given him—and it now flashed for Luker's neck.

At that moment a crossbow bolt sprouted from the tyrin's arm, just below the wrist. His longknife flew from his hand and went skittering across the floor. He jerked his injured arm to his chest, his face screwed up in pain.

Luker's Will crashed into him, catapulting him through the air. He sailed fully two dozen paces before landing somewhere out of sight behind the nearest ranks of undead.

Looking across, Luker saw Jenna's familiar outline among the undead to his left, her arm outstretched, a crossbow in her hand. The Guardian nodded to her, then turned to Baldy and repeated the gesture. The man looked more dead than alive, his gaze bleary, his forehead beaded with sweat. A trail of blood ran down from one nostril.

An unexpected source of help that, but welcome all the same.

Luker faced Shroud again.

“Where were we?”

*   *   *

Parolla remembered the scarred man, Luker, from his duel with the undead warrior in the forest. The intervening bells had not been kind to him, for his hair was singed at the temples, and he was bleeding from cuts on his face and arms. Since seizing the Book he had raised wards about himself, but Parolla could see what it cost him to maintain them. His left eye was half-closed, and every turn of his head was accompanied by a wince. There was no give in him, though, for he hadn't backed down in the face of Shroud's threats, not a single step. Parolla wished she had his strength.

A shame, then, that he had to die. When she tore down his shields, Shroud would retaliate against her, and without the Book she was in no doubt as to how that battle of wills would end. But what choice did she have? After years spent seeking out the god, he had given her nothing … except perhaps an end to the childish hopes she had clung to since Aliana's death. There was a gift in that, she supposed. It made it easier for her to do now what had to be done, for she could not just stand back and allow the Book to be destroyed.

One way or another, it had to end here.

When the attack on Luker came, Parolla knew this was her moment. There had been no need for Ebon to parry Merin's first sword thrust, for Luker's defenses were strong enough to withstand the blow. Merin's second lunge, though, was with an invested weapon—death-magic, no less—and would have pierced Luker's wards like a needle through cloth. The crossbow bolt fired by the unknown woman had disarmed Merin before he could bring that blade to bear, but his attack had already broken Luker's concentration. His shields wavered.

There was a risk, of course, that the Book would be damaged when Parolla struck, but that could not be helped. There was no time for second thoughts.

She raised her hands.

And froze.

A sword had been leveled across her throat. Looking over her shoulder, Parolla saw a man wearing chain mail behind her and recognized him as Ebon's companion from the hilltop. A heartbeat ago he had been standing a score of paces away. How in the hells had he moved so quickly? Parolla struggled to remember his name, then stopped herself. What did it matter? What did anything matter?

The man's free hand settled on her left arm. There was a flash of black fire as death-magic sparked across the contact, and the stranger flinched. The sword in his other hand, though, remained steady. He said nothing to Parolla, just scowled and shook his head.

Fool!
He should have killed her while he had the chance. The darkness inside Parolla would not be denied. So easy for her to snuff out the man's life force. Fast though he was, he would have no time to use his sword before she reached out and seized his wrist. He would be dead before he hit the ground.

Parolla tensed to strike.

*   *   *

Ebon saw death in Parolla's eyes.

“Vale!” he shouted. “Back off!”

But it was too late. If anything, his words just distracted the Endorian, allowing Parolla to grab his arm. Vale's sword slipped from his twitching fingers to clatter on the floor, and his back arched. Then shadows swept up all about him. He remained on his feet, though—alive, for now at least.

Ebon sought out Parolla's gaze and held it.

Watcher's tears, Lady, wait!

But wait for what? What could he offer her that might stay her hand? Not the Book of Lost Souls, plainly, for neither Luker nor Shroud would let her have it. And even if there were some other prize she might accept, what chance did he have of delivering it? For when he had stepped in to save Luker, Galea had disappeared from his mind again, and this time, he suspected, she would not come back. He was on his own now. And as his brother Rendale was wont to say, that left him haggling for a maiden's virtue with a handful of coppers.

Not that Shroud needed to know that.

Ebon took a breath and let it out slowly. If Parolla went down in flames she would take the rest of them with her, starting with Vale.
Leaving Shroud to pick up the pieces.
Was that so terrible a prospect, though? Surely the god would want the souls of the dead, including those of Ebon's kinsmen, to be freed from the Book's chains so they could pass through to the underworld.
But is that even true?
The spirits of the Vamilians, after all, had been abandoned in the mortal world for millennia.

An idea took shape in Ebon's mind. He looked at Luker. The scarred stranger had broken off his conversation with Shroud and was now staring back at the king, his expression unreadable. Would he hold off long enough to allow Ebon to play this out?

I've earned that much, surely.

Ebon stepped forward. “Greetings, Lord Shroud,” he said, bowing to the god. “I am Ebon Calidar, king of Galitia. And I have a proposal for you.”

The rumble of Shroud's voice made his ears hum. “Of course you do. Is there no end to the insolence of mortals?”

Ebon wet his lips with his tongue. The Lord of the Dead had sensed the presence of Galea earlier. For Ebon's ruse to work he would need to convince the god that she remained with him, and so he said, “Mortals, my Lord?”

Shroud watched him for a moment before turning to Mayot's fallen throne and righting it. There was a groan of metal as the god settled himself on the seat. The blood on the armrests bubbled and hissed. “Your … patron … is taking a grave risk by interfering in matters that do not concern her.”

“Not concern her, Lord? The Vamilians—”

“Oh, come now,” Shroud cut in. “Do you take me for a fool? If she cared anything for the fate of her people she would have sought me out long before now. She wants the Book for herself.”

Ebon added a note of steel to his tone. “And perhaps she will yet have it. The question of her support has still to be decided.”

“You speak for her in this?”

“I do.”

“Strange. I do not sense her presence in you now.”

Ebon's voice held steady. “With respect, Lord, you sense only what I—we—wish you to.”

Another lengthy silence followed, but Ebon was not about to break it—let the god's imagination fill in the gaps the king left. The tendrils of darkness behind the throne were swaying hypnotically. Finally Shroud said, “You are unwise to place your trust in her, mortal.”

Ebon held back a smile. “We have reached an understanding, my Lord.”

“Indeed,” the god replied, steepling his hands. “What is it that you offer me, then?”

“My—our—noninterference in this matter. Simply that.”

“And I am supposed to believe that has value?”

“Can you afford to assume otherwise?”

“That rather depends,” Shroud said, “on what you expect in return.”

“The Book must be destroyed. The spirits of my people and the Vamilians shall be allowed to pass through to your realm.”

“That is all?”

“Not quite.” Ebon felt sweat trickle down his back. “I require the release of a soul.”

Another pause. “One in my keeping?”

“Yes.”

The Lord of the Dead leaned forward. “Who?”

*   *   *

Luker saw where this was heading a heartbeat before Shroud's breath hissed out.

“Out of the question,” the god said.

Baldy—Ebon, he had called himself—crossed his arms. “Why?”

Shroud did not respond. Instead he turned to Luker, and the meaning in his look was clear.
He wants me to choose sides.
More precisely, he wanted Luker to choose
his
side—to bring this wrangling to an end by delivering the Book of Lost Souls into his hands.

The problem was, Shroud hadn't agreed to any of Luker's demands yet: not the destruction of the Book, not even the release of Kanon's spirit. With the Book in the god's possession, the balance of power would shift irreversibly, and the Guardian wasn't such an idiot as to think Shroud would play fair when it did. The bastard was probably still sulking about Luker refusing to bend the knee. Most likely any deal would include a demand that the Guardian pledge his allegiance to the god.

He tightened his grip on the Book. His head hurt like someone had it in a vice, and as he glanced up at the dais a fresh burst of agony made his vision swim. Shroud was looking too damned comfortable for Luker's liking, perched on the throne like a king holding court. The Lord of the Dead might not yet have the Book in his grasp, but it still felt to the Guardian as if everyone was marching to the god's beat. Perhaps Shroud had been working from the start to engineer a standoff among those facing him. All he needed to do was sow the seeds of discord and wait for the fragile alliances to tear themselves apart.

Luker looked at Parolla.
And his little princess is playing right into his hands.
He had sensed the woman gathering her power to attack before the timeshifter stepped in. Now, once again, she seemed ready to cut loose, for evidently Shroud's threat of eternal damnation wasn't enough to stop her doing something stupid. He understood what Ebon was trying to do: keep the woman sweet by prying her mother's soul from Shroud's grip. Would it work?

It had to.

For Luker was under no illusions. If he was going to destroy the Book and keep his life his own, he needed Parolla in his corner.
Okay, Shroud, I'll choose a side if that's what you want. But it won't be the one you're expecting.
He exchanged a look with Ebon. Then, to the expectant god, he said, “The man asked you a question.”

The black tendrils behind Shroud flared up, writhing and hissing. When the god spoke there was fury in his voice. “I
gather
souls, I do not
release
those that are mine.”

“So you make an exception this time.”

“Indeed?” Shroud jabbed a finger at Ebon. “The one he is referring to … she is not like those here.” A shadowy arm swept out to encompass the ranks of Vamilians. “Her soul has already passed through the Gate. There is no coming back.”

“You expect us to believe it's not in your power? Is there some other Lord of the Dead we should be speaking to?”

Shroud's hands clenched into fists. “Do you have any idea what you're asking me to do? A soul needs a home. Would you clothe it in dead flesh, as the Vamilians here? Or are you intending to steal another's body to house it?”

Luker mastered his irritation with an effort. “You're a bloody god, aren't you? Think of something.”

“You would have me father another child, perhaps?”

“Cut the bullshit! If there isn't a spare body going, make one.”

“You believe me capable of that? As you were so keen to remind me, I am Lord of the
Dead
.”

Luker shrugged. “If you can't do it, find someone who can. Must be one of your cronies who owes you a favor. The White Lady, perhaps. If not, you'll have to accept a debt.”

Shroud said nothing for a time, drumming his fingers on the armrests of the throne. Through the holes in the roof, a flash of lightning lit up the dome, but it did not penetrate the shadows that clung to the god. “If I agree to this,” he said finally, “her memories would have to be taken from her. There are secrets of my realm that must remain hidden.”

Ebon cleared his throat. “I agree, my Lord.” He turned to Parolla as he spoke, and Luker realized he was directing his words as much to her as to the god. “This will be a new beginning—a chance to start over. To right the wrong that was done to her.”

Parolla had remained quiet throughout the exchange. Now Luker studied her for any reaction to what they were proposing. Her face seemed expressionless, though it was difficult to know for certain with so many false shadows and overlapping images inside the dome. All he could see clearly were those dead black eyes staring back at him.

The silence dragged out.

A gust of wind brushed Luker's fire-touched skin. He shivered, then scowled as the movement sent another sharp pain through his skull.
We're wasting our time here.
Hells, how did they know all that mummy talk wasn't just a smoke screen? Maybe Shroud was right. Maybe all the woman wanted was to try out his throne for size.