The Dark Lord

by Thomas Harlan

  Two bodies lay within the blackened circle. The jackal-headed man was curled up in the base of the hollow, while Odenathus—his face streaked with blood and soot—was crumpled only a few feet away. Suppressing a cry of despair, Khalid crawled down to his friend. His outstretched hand touched cold, clammy flesh and the young Arab felt his heart race. Odenathus' head rolled back, mouth slack, eyes sightless. Khalid crouched in the crater, ear pressed to his friend's chest. A faint flutter of breath rewarded him.

  "You're alive, at least..." Khalid whispered to the unconscious Palmyrene. Still keeping his head low, the Arab slid down into the hollow, boots cracking through a brittle, glassy crust. Fresh steam rushed out, scalding his leg. Gasping with pain, Khalid rolled away from the sizzling vent. Biting his lip to keep from crying out, the Arab wrapped his cloak around both hands, then crawled up the far side of the crater. Zoë's leg lay within the ashy circle, but her body was exposed on the slope.

  A sudden burst of shouts and the clatter of iron made Khalid turn. A javelin whipped past, thudding into the dirt beside Zoë's foot. The Arab yelped in surprise, then scrambled up out of the crater and threw himself onto the girl. Another javelin whipped past. Some Arab archers in the canal yelled, pointing. Khalid gave Zoë's body a heavy push with his boot—the girl slid down the slope, arms flopping. The archers began climbing up, eager to reach her. One of them rose up too far—another Roman javelin plunged down out of the sky and crunched into his chest. Surprised, the man toppled back, bow flying from his hand.

  A deep roar echoed from the top of the rampart. Khalid spared a glance and saw a huge mob of pushtigbahn clatter up the slope and into the melee. The Romans staggered back, the diquans wading in among them, heavy maces flashing, longswords glittering crimson. Then a brawny, red-bearded legionary stormed into their midst, smashing his shield into the face of a Persian knight, knocking the man back down the slope. The diquan smashed into two of his fellows—still toiling up the incline—and all three fell in a huge bang of metal. Khalid wrenched his attention away, scuttling around the rim of the smoking crater. Odenathus' body felt light—he was wearing only a padded mail shirt under his tunic—and Khalid grunted, taking the man's weight across his shoulders.

  Staggering, his boots cracking through shattered glass, Khalid weaved back to the edge of the canal. Zoë's body had slid down to the archers. Eager hands seized her armor and cloak, dragging her into a cluster of Sahaba.

  "Run!" Khalid shouted, gesturing wildly. "Take her across!"

  The archers looked up, surprised. Khalid bent, spilling Odenathus down the gravelly slope. The Palmyrene slid, picking up speed, rolling over and over. Two of the archers threw themselves under him, catching the wizard. Khalid swung over the lip of the crater, shoulder blades itching in warning. A sharp rattling sound split the air. Khalid ducked, pressing himself into the hot earth. A scream echoed back. One of the archers had taken a sling stone in the face. Blood spurted, the man clawing at a ruined eye.

  The Arab pushed himself down the slope, dirt spilling away under him.

  "The jackal!" a hoarse, sharp voice shouted. Khalid looked up as his feet hit the bottom of the rampart, sinking into thick mud. Zoë was struggling weakly among the men carrying her. Her white face was very plain against the dark earth, the soot-stained faces of the archers, the sky filled with smoke and dust. "Get the jackal!" A mail-clad finger stabbed back at the crater.

  Khalid cursed vilely. Arrows fluttered out of the sky, falling like rain. One of the Sahaba, only yards away, rose up, loosed his own shaft at the Romans high above, then ducked down again. The Eagle pulled one boot free from the mire. He wiped his mouth, smearing blood across his cheek. Zoë was still struggling, though the men holding her were far stronger. "Get the jackal!" she wailed.

  "Are you mad?" Khalid pressed himself close to the rampart, trying to hide from the missiles plunging down from above. He stared back at the girl, still struggling, then fearfully at the melee on the slope above. Can't leave wizards just lying about! He might even be alive...

  The young Arab clawed at the earth, pulling himself back up the wall. Cautiously, he peered over the edge. The Persian attack had broken. The Immortals lay dead in drifts along the rampart, while the Sahaba were falling back in disarray. A huge crowd of legionaries formed up on the crest of the wall, faces exhausted, but obviously game for a second go. Khalid scrambled across the crater, pulse hammering in his ears. He grabbed the jackal's bare foot, fingers slipping from a layer of sweat. Khalid tugged violently, dragging the man towards him.

  Someone shouted sharply in Latin. Khalid grabbed the ankle with both hands, digging his feet in and hauled for all he was worth. The jackal slid across the crater floor towards him, shoulders crunching through glass. A sling stone slapped into the mud, splashing Khalid's face. Biceps burning, he gave another huge heave. The jackal slipped free of the mire and fell into his arms.

  An arrow leapt down out of the sky, slamming into the jackal's chest. Khalid grunted, stunned by the blow. The iron arrowhead pierced the body and grated against the iron links of his mail shirt. Sick with fear, Khalid rolled backwards, slipping over the lip of the crater. A roar of Roman laughter followed him, then jeering cries.

  Unable to catch himself, Khalid fell heavily into the canal, then the jackal crashed down on top of him. The iron mask cracked sharply against his forehead and the young Arab cried out. Everything was spinning, the earth shaking, a growing roar rushing towards him. Dazed, Khalid struggled under the body, heavy black mud sliding up around his arms and legs, oozing into his armor.

  —|—

  "Release me!" Zoë punched one of the archers in the face, feeling his nose break under the iron rings of her glove. The man gasped, falling back, and she shrugged free of the others. She felt terribly weak—her sight in the hidden world came and went in disorienting flashes—but the crumpled shape of the jackal filled her vision. "We have to get him back," she hissed at the archers.

  Without waiting for their response, she staggered forward, mud sucking at her boots. The Sahaba fell back from her in confusion as someone began shouting in alarm. Zoë ignored the noise, slogging through deeper mud to seize the jackal-headed man's belt. The leather was soft and slippery but she managed to get her fingers around the band. Grunting, she leaned away, levering the corpse against her thigh. With a greasy sound, the body slid away from Khalid. The young Arab thrashed weakly as he tried to stand up. Zoë heaved again, a hiss of breath escaping gritted teeth, and turned the jackal over. The corpse was heavy and cold, the eyes of the mask dark pits, exposed flesh puckered with small stones and a dark gash where an arrow pierced the chest.

  "Wake up!" Zoë kicked the dead man viciously in the side. "Get up!"

  A Roman slingstone snapped past, splashing into the mud. Khalid rose up, black with mud from head to toe. "Get down yourself!" he hissed at Zoë as he crouched, eyes flickering back and forth, watching for the next missile.

  Zoë knelt and rapped her hand sharply on the jackal mask. It boomed hollow, red paint flaking away among carbonized metal and soot. "Make these limbs move," she shouted into a tall, blunt-pointed ear. "We have to get out of here!"

  "Captain! Captain!" One of the archers splashed towards them, pointing upstream. "Look!"

  Zoë turned, dark brown eyes narrowed in anger at the interruption. She froze, eyebrow rising in surprise. A rushing hiss reached her ears, and she could see a glistening brown wall rushing down the canal towards her. "Khalid," she said calmly. "Grab hold of the other arm."

  "What?" Another slingstone snapped past his ear, making the Arab duck violently. "We've no time to—urk!"

  Zoë twisted his head around, sharp fingernails digging into his ear. Khalid yelped, then shouted in alarm when he saw the onrushing water. "A flood!"

  "You men—" Zoë cursed, seeing the backs of the archers climbing the far bank of the canal. Heedless of the water rumbling towards her in a slick green-brown wave, Zoë crouched, digging her arm into the muck, under the jack
al's body. The corpse was sinking deeper. "Khalid, help me!"

  The young Arab wrenched his attention away from the slowly building wave. He was green himself, but shook free of his paralysis and grabbed hold of an arm and a leg. Together, they tugged at the body. It came free with agonizing slowness, black mud oozing away from pallid limbs. Without waiting for the legs to come completely free, they staggered together toward the eastern wall of the canal.

  Distant laughter hooted in the air. The slingstones stopped falling. Zoë, forcing herself forward, foot by foot, mud sucking at her boots, had a wild, brief image of legionaries crouched on the rampart, calling bets on her, on Khalid, even on the corpse. The rushing water was close now, the hiss rising sharply to a roar. Zoë splashed on, boots filling with water. Khalid stumbled, dragging the corpse down as he fell. Zoë felt the slick, gelid dead arm slide over her shoulder. Desperately, she clutched at sinewy brown fingers. Her right foot sank deep into the mud. Khalid went down, the corpse slumping over on top of him. The oncoming water roared, drowning out all other sound.

  A chill washed over Zoë, despite the close, humid air and sweat running from her temples and shoulders. Sick with fear, she dragged her left foot free, losing the boot. Khalid's arms clawed desperately at the mud, trying to keep his head above the muddy slurry rising in the canal. Zoë lunged forward, grabbed his hand, then set her legs, hauling back with all her strength. The jackal slipped sideways, falling into swiftly rising brown water. Khalid floundered up, splashing. Zoë spun him around, pushing towards the sloping wall of the canal. Brown water, thick with twigs and leaves, washed around her waist.

  Tugged by rushing water, the jackal's corpse drifted sideways, head dragged down by the weight of the mask.

  Zoë groped to catch the dead man, but the current snatched him away. Cursing again, she surged forward, splashing through chest-high water. The wave swept over her and the Palmyrene felt herself lifted up by rushing water. Biting her lip, she made one last grab for the jackal—caught his leg—then the wave slammed her into the side of the canal. Muddy water flooded into her mouth. Zoë choked, gasping, fingers digging into the cold flesh of the jackal's leg.

  "Help!" she choked out. Hands reached down for her, filling her vision with writhing tan worms. Someone caught her hair, then her flailing arm. She slammed into the side of the canal again, breath punched from her chest. Still, she clung to the jackal with a death grip. A lasso settled around her shoulders, then the water began to fall and she was dragged free of the muddy roil by a dozen hands.

  Khalid's face appeared, blocking out a blazing sun, and his teeth were very white in the dark silhouette of his face. "She looks angry," Zoë heard him say from a great distance. "She'll live!"

  Zoë choked, coughed, spit nut-brown water and bits of leaves out on the ground. Gagging, she heaved, managing a thin stream of yellow bile. Her mouth was filled with fine grit, making her cough again. "Water..." she managed to say. The mouthpiece of a water skin banged her in the eye, then she managed to take a drink, spat, drank again, clearing her mouth. "Where is the jackal?"

  "Here, my lady." Two of the Sahaba, tan-and-white robes stained brown to the chest, dragged the still-cold and unmoving shape of the man, Arad, to her. They dumped him on the ground, metal mask clanging dully on the logs of the rampart road.

  Zoë crawled to the corpse, raising herself up on one arm. Brown water leaked from the mask, puddling under the man's head. Fingers trembling, Zoë touched his neck and throat. The flesh was cold and greasy. "Wake up," she growled. She coughed again, spitting up silt. "Wake up!"

  There was a shuffling around her as the Sahaba drew away, muttering. Zoë's face contorted, a blue spark flaring in her eyes. Her hand, stiff with anger, slapped hard against the cold iron. The mask rang like a bell, ringing with tinny echoes. The girl's hand blazed blue-white for an instant and the iron mask split open. Grunting, Zoë wrenched aside the metal fragments, revealing a battered face, still and pale, without even the faintest motion of life.

  "Oh, no..." The Queen's voice faltered, falling into a faint whisper.

  "What is it?" Odenathus appeared, kneeling beside her. Half of his face was burned red, his cloak in tatters, tunic and armor charred. Khalid crouched at his side, noble young face stiff with worry. The Queen looked up, eyes bright with tears.

  "I think he is dead," she managed, then covered her mouth with a mud-caked hand.

  Odenathus leaned over the body, lips a thin, tight line. Gently, he removed the remaining pieces of the mask. The man on the ground was thin, cadaverous—a once-handsome face badly scarred by old wounds. The lips were black and stretched tight against jaw and teeth. The young Palmyrene pressed his hand against a hollow cheek, leaning close, listening.

  "Nothing..." he started to say.

  Black lips opened with a wet, rattling gasp. Odenathus jumped back in surprise, eyes wide in fear. The body twitched, fingers scrabbling on the muddy logs. Then the head rose, and sunken eyes blazed with sullen green flame. "There is still an edge on this knife," echoed a dreadful voice from a dead throat.

  Khalid drew back, the blade of night halfway free from its sheath. Odenathus stared in horror, watching slow life rise in the corpse limbs, muscles swelling with strength, the skin flushing with warm color. The Queen stiffened, her face growing tight. A tic began at the corner of her jaw, then she turned away, covering her face with the charred corner of her cloak.

  The dead man rose, joints creaking. The head swiveled, looking to the west, mouth stretching into a cruel grin. "Where are the busy bees now?" it coughed wetly. "Dead, dead in the hive..."

  —|—

  "Heave!" shouted a diquan, helmet slung on a strap over his shoulder, tightly curled beard shining with sweat. "Heave!"

  Two hundred men, stripped to the waist, muscled backs gleaming with sweat, moved as one. A thunderous shout of "ho!" boomed out. Cables drew taut and then a plank roadbed rumbled forward. Palm logs splintered, rolling under the weight of the bridge section as the wooden truss edged over the lip of the canal. Persian soldiers splashed away from falling logs, then the section slid out, cables stiff, and ground into place atop the first wooden pier.

  Shahr-Baraz stood atop the Roman wall, looking down on the outer canal. He smiled, a broad, feral grin shining through the sweep of his mustache. Delighted, he slapped his thigh with a gloved hand, turning to the men standing beside him. "Well done, captains! At this rate we'll have four bridges across the outer canal by nightfall."

  "And then what?" Khalid squatted on the wooden platform, face lined with exhaustion. He pointed with his chin. "The Romans have cut down every man who managed to get across the ditch. The gaps in their wall are already repaired... their bastions on this wall by the sea still hold out. You expect us to attack across a flooded canal, up that spike-strewn slope and into the teeth of their javelins, spears, swords?"

  The Boar nodded absently, pacing across the decking. The burned remains of a Legion mangonel listed to one side, half pushed from its base. The sun, swollen to an enormous orange disk by the smoke-heavy air, almost touched the western horizon. He paused at the edge of the platform, boot braced against the wooden sill, lean face painted with dying golden light. Already the canal was deep in gloom—dark purple water rolled slowly past—and beyond, the Roman wall was studded with lamps and torches. Two of his Immortals moved up, as quietly as their iron-shod boots allowed, big oval shields in hand and placed themselves between the king and his enemies.

  "This is a narrow place," he said, rumbling voice quiet in rumination. "The barrier of the flooded canal is not so great—the water is shallow, the width only fifty feet. They cannot surprise us again with a flood. They have no bridges of their own—or none they will risk to our fire arrows. Tonight I will send fresh men forward and we will root the Romans from their nests on the first wall. They will not expect a night attack. Tomorrow, if we clear the forts at the canal mouth, we will strike again." A broad hand stabbed from north to south. "We will attack along the
length of the wall, all at once. The Immortals will form a reserve, ready to leap into any breach."

  The Persian captains shifted uneasily, but no one spoke out against the king. Shahr-Baraz turned, eyes gleaming under a golden circlet as he took their measure. Only Khalid showed his disapproval openly, with a black scowl. "We are not without means," the Boar said. "The power that threw down the Roman sorcerers today is still with us—unharmed! Our bridges will soon ford the first canal. There are light boats to be brought forward... our men will not struggle in the water."

  Shahr-Baraz fought to suppress a grin of triumph as he spoke, but enthusiasm and confidence welled up in him, spilling out in vigorous gestures and a steadily rising voice. Slowly, the Persian captains began to nod, to agree. Some, like the prince of Balkh, Piruz, were desperately eager to attack. Despite the losses suffered in their foray across the second canal, the Immortals were set on proving themselves. The loss of nearly eight hundred of their number—trapped on the further rampart, pinned between the Legions and the flooded canal—had not dampened their appetite for glory.

  Only the Arab, Khalid, remained unconvinced. The Boar watched the young man out of the corner of his eye. He's thinking about today, Shahr-Baraz realized. He reckons the number of his dead—and does not like the tally! I will have to hold back his men from battle tomorrow... The King of Kings suppressed a frown. The valor of the Arabs would be sorely missed. His Greeks and Persians were skilled soldiers, true, but they lacked the heedless bravery of the Arabs—the men from the south did not fear death, embracing a chance to join their Teacher in death's paradise. Their attack was like a thunderbolt... perfect to break open the orderly Roman line.