The Dark Lord

by Thomas Harlan

  A bellowing shout answered the Macedonian as he wiped sweat from his eyes and settled his battered shield. He had never expected to face the war flags of Achamaenid Persia or the golden-masked Immortals again—yet here they came at a run, straight up the shallow slope at him. His grip tightened on the sword hilt.

  Epirote scum, echoed the ghostly centurion's voice. The man was almost solid now. Where are your fucking elephants now?

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

  Under Mount Aetna, Sicilia

  Maxian swept through smoky air, long, dark hair flying out behind his head. With the Persian sorcerer driven before him in panic, the prince turned his attention aside for an instant, eyeing the fleet scattered across the bay. Many of the ships were afire—some had already burned to the waterline, leaving ghostly hulls half-visible below the choppy water—but more remained. The wind continued to bear unseasonably from the southeast. A few of the surviving Persian merchantmen were tacking away from the shore, wakes bright in the dying, ruddy light. Some of the remaining ships continued to unload, sending more boats filled with men towards the beach.

  Alexandros is in trouble, Maxian thought. A chorus of voices rose in his mind, clamoring spirits eager to gain his favor. Their whispers resolved into a litany of coherent thoughts: the Roman army is too small and trying to fight in too many places at once. The prince grimaced, slowing his headlong flight through the air.

  The dark shape of the Persian disappeared among the jumble of houses, temples and imposing theatre of Catania itself. There were no fires burning in the town and the fading light cast the streets and avenues into shadow, but Maxian—with a cold smile—thought he'd have no trouble running the sorcerer to ground when he needed to. He's out of play for the moment... and that is enough.

  Frowning at the enemy fleet, the prince turned his attention to the sea and the vast web of forces and powers at work above, on, and below the waters. He could feel—would see, if he cared—the glittering forms of two Persian wizards still active on the beach itself. But their light was dim in comparison to their master and Maxian set his thoughts of them aside.

  Their fleet is too numerous. Columella's dry voice whispered. You must not give the Persian too much time—he will recover his strength, set fear aside, devise stratagems to defeat you. Let Lord Alexandros deal with these matters.

  "No," Maxian said aloud. He drifted in the air, surrounded by potent signs and the ceaseless, shimmering motion of his patterns and wards. Hundreds of feet below, waves swept in long, foaming arcs against the shore and men struggled and died, pierced by iron or steel, over sandy ground. He could feel their spirits flash bright, then vanish as blood spilled and breath fled. "A Persian army ashore, intact and ably led will be more trouble than we can afford."

  His eyes lifted to the vast, smooth cone of Aetna and a grim, almost mischievous smile came upon him.

  Great Lord, you cannot... Columella grew silent, feeling a spark of anger flare in the prince's mind. The citizens... The old ghost's voice trailed away feebly.

  Maxian let sight expand, shedding the immediate pressures of flesh and the wind and smoke biting at his nostrils. A sullen red core slumbered far beneath the mountain, tendrils of glowing crimson slowly rising, percolating through the veins of the earth, finding release from subterranean pressures in gouts of steam and a constant, rumbling hiss that threw a column of flattened smoke away from the mountaintop. The prince felt his irritation mount—time was pressing and he could feel the Persian's sharp-edged pattern growing stronger—the mountain was quiet, without the vast lode of power Vesuvius once held. The Oath is not trying to bottle this one, he realized.

  One of the pale lights whirling around him flared, and the prince saw a brief, fear-etched vision of a massive wave roaring up out of the sea, smashing ships to kindling and then raging against a shore studded with ornate houses of stone and brick.

  "Well done." Maxian grinned, favoring the mote with a moment of his attention. He could feel the Oath trembling around him; a deep, superbly complex matrix of memories, traditions and the living citizens of the Empire. His intent flashed out, leaping from Aetna's dark, trembling heart along a fissure running out to sea. Swiftly, his will sped, burrowing beneath the earth, finding black fumaroles boiling in the vasty deep, splintered rock grinding against crushed limestone.

  Here is some power! he exulted, a diamond-bright pinpoint lancing down as he commanded, spearing into a tight green-and-blue balance of vast forces. There was slippage, weakness and then drowned mountains ground violently against one another, making the ocean floor heave and pitch. The sea shivered. Thousands of feet above, where the water was falling dark with the flight of the sun, a dimple formed on the surface, then collapsed, sending jets of spray hundreds of feet into the air.

  The prince laughed in delight, casting a pitying look upon the ships crowding below him. He turned abruptly, speeding north, the sky rumbling behind him. Fey lights played in his hair and the whirling orbs surrounding him brightened, becoming almost visible in the waking world.

  Catania swelled below him, whitewashed buildings passing by, temple roofs red with tile and bright ornaments. The streets were empty, every shutter locked tight. No one could be seen or felt. Maxian drifted past a temple of Poseidon—marble columns glowing pale in the twilight—his sense of unease growing. A dog barked wildly in a yard below. He reached out, captured the fragments of the Oath lingering in the ancient town and felt his battle-shield wax strong. His brow furrowed, feeling the tenuous fabric pervading the Roman city fray.

  Something flared in the hidden world—a dark spike of power—and the prince cursed, leaping high into the air. Below him—to the right, hard by the port and the sea—the shape of a grand amphitheater rose, strikingly done in alternating slabs of dark volcanic rock, red brick and pale yellow marble. Three terraces of columns and arches, with boxed seats, surrounded an oval floor. The tiers of seats and the sandy floor were covered with thousands of fallen men, women and children.

  They fled here when word of the battle came, Columella whispered sadly. Seeking safety. The old city walls were torn down for building materials in the time of Emperor Trajan.

  Ebon hues played among the statues lining the top deck of the amphitheater. Maxian slowed to a halt, the roof only inches below his feet. Flat, rust-colored tiles splintered as he drifted across them, the strength concentrated in him distorting the waking world. Ghosts prowled around him, empty eyes vigilant for the enemy. He could smell the acrid stench of death in the air and the queer, trembling vibration in the hidden world when lives were taken to grant power. Maxian shuddered, feeling the urge to consume rise in his throat. His mouth stretched in a feral snarl. Some of those sprawled on the sand still lived... the prince darted down to the theater floor, a black crow with ragged wings stooping over the crumpled body of a young man.

  "He's not—" Maxian staggered, the counter-rotating spheres around him lighting with a tremendous flash. The Persian stormed out of a tunnel mouth, a whirlwind of black lightning slashing at the prince's shield. Layers of glittering blue-white shuddered, then cracked, darkness surging against the barrier of drifting glyphs. Ghosts swarmed into the breach, wailing piteously, their frail remnants dissolving in a mad rush. The sorcerer stamped down with a scaled foot and the sandy floor erupted with a boom! Maxian flew backwards, crashing into the retaining wall circling the amphitheater floor. His physical body bounced back from the tufa wall, blood flying from his mouth.

  Mind distracted, his shields weakened, straining to hold back stabbing bolts of indigo, the prince spat to clear his mouth, forcing himself to his feet. The last of the ghosts congealed before him in a wavering wall of lights, but their numbers dwindled with each attack. The sorcerer clapped his hands together, eyes blazing, and the stone behind Maxian groaned and split, showering him with needle-like shrapnel. Physical pain cut into his focus, but the prince had no time for such trivialities.

  Faintly, he could hear a roaring sound rising to swallow the world
.

  Maxian crouched down, letting the last of his brittle shields fail, the sign of Athena guttering, overwhelmed by darkness and he pressed his hands against the sandy ground. He closed his eyes, ignoring the blood and sweat dripping from a forehead scored by deep cuts. A familiar, debilitating cold flooded around him, leaching his strength, drawing his breath out in trailing white mist. The Persian's laughter rolled and trembled in his ears, as the stone walls of the amphitheater creaked, crumbling to ash and dust.

  —|—

  Shahr-Baraz ran up the dune, his boots dragging in soft, black sand. His breath came in rasping gulps, though his stride did not waver or slack. He was the Boar and his strength of limb and will was without limit. Armored hands grasped the hilt of a heavy, straight blade half-again longer than the longest carried by his guardsmen. Another man would find the sword taxing to lift, much less wield in combat. Shahr-Baraz had sparred with a weapon like this—either a sword or mace or axe—since the first whiskers sprouted on his chin.

  The pushtigbahn loped alongside their captain, each man laboring through the loose sand, weapons held high, shields riding on brawny arms. They did not waste their breath in shouts of rage or war cries; each was a veteran, selected from the ranks of the great nobles for valor, for courage, for skill in the saddle and afoot surpassing all others. Among them, the dark, cloaked shapes of the Shanzdah strode like hunting dogs, silent and intent. The ground firmed and now there were drifts of shattered bodies, legs hewn from hips, arms cast awry, rotted skulls caved in by axe and spear.

  Shahr-Baraz saw the army of the dead had broken upon the Roman lines and the enemy was waiting, shields locked, three—perhaps four—ranks deep, every face set, weapons ready, poised to accept their charge. Shahr-Baraz raised his massive blade abruptly and the trumpeters and drummers slowed to a halt. "Sound," the King of Kings shouted, keen gaze sweeping the line of battle.

  A brassy honking shocked the air, quickly joined by the rattling of drums. Clouds of smoke drifted in from the sea, glowing with the reflection of the burning, wrecked fleet. In the dim, shifting half-light Shahr-Baraz ran forward again and now the pushtigbahn gathered themselves, many men snapping down the golden masks covering their faces.

  The Romans braced, the first rank of men going down on one knee. Javelins and sling-stones pelted the charging Persians. Some went down, struck by a lucky blow, but the Immortal's armor shrugged aside most of the missiles.

  Swinging the huge sword over his head, his mighty voice at last roaring a challenge, the Boar leapt among the enemy. His Immortals howled in on either side, hewing with their long axes, maces, swords. Legionaries stabbed back underhand with their short blades and spears. Shahr-Baraz swept his shield aside, knocking down two spears and a sword thrusting for his vitals. The longsword smashed down, cleaving through a tilted shield, splitting the laminated pine with a stunning crack! Blood spattered as the Roman went down, goggle-eyed, his plated helmet shorn through. The Boar roared in exultation, wading into the Roman ranks, his blade ripping sideways, tearing a man's arm clean off. Crimson spewed, blinding a legionnaire in the second rank. Shahr-Baraz smashed his fist into the man's face, feeling metal bend and break.

  A broad-chested Roman officer stabbed in from the left, slipping the tip of his gladius past the Boar's shield. The sword point slammed into plated iron, skipped across two curved plates and wedged violently against one of the wire joins. Shahr-Baraz bellowed, feeling the tip pinching his side and crashed the shield into the man's chest. The blow lifted the Roman from his feet, sending him careening into another legionnaire struggling hand-to-hand with an Immortal. The collision left both men pinned against the locked shields of the third rank.

  The Boar spared not a grain for the fallen officer, bulling forward into the third and fourth ranks, smashing about him with the long blade, clubbing men with the spiked face of his shield. Two more Romans went down under his rush, and the Immortals crowding in behind him smashed down the struggling men with their maces. Shahr-Baraz waded in blood, his longsword running red.

  He laughed, a huge, booming wild cry, laying about him with maniac strength. The pushtigbahn began to chant his name, a rolling, rising shout, and they pressed harder. Among them, the Shanzdah wreaked terrible havoc, ignoring mortal wounds, their ebon blades reaping a rich harvest. The Boar traded blows with a centurion, barely noticed the man was half-transparent, then plunged the gore-slick sword through a fury-crazed face. The ghostly centurion shattered like a glass bead ground under a sledge.

  Open ground lay before him and Shahr-Baraz whooped with delight.

  —|—

  Drenched, the Queen struggled to rise, arms straining to push aside a section of iron plating pinning her to the beach. Surf rushed past, filling her armor with sand and grit. Hissing fires eddied in the shallows where the iron drake's belly had split open, spilling oily flame across the water. She could see curving ribs rising above her, black silhouettes against a purplish sky streaked with rising columns of smoke.

  "Sahaba, to me!" she shouted, forcing her water-clogged throat to work. The ironwork burned her fingers, the plate glowing red with trapped heat, but she continued to push. For a moment, the massive weight trembled, then moved an inch. Now she could turn her hip and push with her leg as well. Creaking, the etched panel shifted. Zenobia gasped, feeling muscles burn, then the plate fell aside with a wet, smacking sound. She crawled from the wreckage, immediately coming across a fallen, sodden body.

  "One of ours?" Zenobia coughed, forcing herself upright.

  Yes, Zoë answered weakly. The girl had suffered a heavy backlash when the shield of the winds collapsed. Then she'd tried to protect them from the concussive blast of the machine blowing apart on the beach. They lived, which Zenobia accounted a victory. The Queen patted the dead Sahaba's shoulder and limped towards the high-tide line.

  A deep, groaning sound caught Zenobia's attention as she clambered out between two hissing, popping iron ribs. She turned towards the sea, wondering if one of the big grain haulers had caught fire. Her fingers clutched steaming iron in shock, brilliant blue eyes widening in horror.

  The water was still crowded with ships, many burning, but others made headway towards the beach. The serpentine shapes of two of the flying creatures circled in the dark air, jets of flame licking down from gaping jaws to set more ships alight.

  But the sea in the broad, wide bay had grown strangely flat. Wind still gusted over the waters, tangling the Queen's hair and tugging at the linen shirt over her armor, but the whitecaps and breakers were gone. Instead, the sea was running out, hissing across the sand and galleys that had lately been moored in shallow water creaked and groaned as they settled on the exposed bottom.

  "What..." The Queen felt the winds turn, shifting wildly from side to side and then a vast, unimaginably deep groaning sound rose from the waters. The eastern horizon—already plunged into purple twilight—now turned dark in a broad swathe across the mouth of the bay. She felt the ground under her feet shift and settle, little puffs of air jetting from crevices opening in the sand.

  Run! Zoë stormed into her paralyzed consciousness, the girl seizing control of their body. The Wave Lord is coming! The Queen leapt between the smoking iron and sprinted up the beach, legs flashing, sand spurting away from blurring feet. Zoë reached out desperately, forcing her battered will to wing ahead of the body, rippling through the soft sand, making a hard-packed surface. Zenobia fought the urge to look over her shoulder, keeping her concentration focused solely on speed and flight.

  The groaning sound welled up and up and up, shaking the sky. A vast, crashing sound boomed right behind and a grinding, splintering undertone was swiftly consumed by a roar that shook the ground and sent hurricane winds lashing ahead of the angry god's advance.

  Zoë wrenched them free from gravity's cruel bonds and the Queen sprang ahead, soaring over the line of dunes. Below her, startled soldiers turned from their deadly play of iron, then shrieked in horror. The roaring deep rushed up
, swallowing everyone on the beach, driving jumbled wood, canvas, cordage and stone cast up from great depths against the land. Lesser waves surged between the high dunes, boiling up the shallow streambeds and foaming in the river mouth.

  The Queen turned at the top of her leap, heart in her throat, and saw the great fleet crashing to ruin on the shore.

  Many ships had ridden out the sudden wave, but more were shattered wrecks, some still afire—for even Poseidon's wrath could not quench combusting phlogiston—and they glowed and smoked, far beneath the raging surface, shining stars drifting into the abyss.

  Weeping for her sailors—many Palmyrenes served aboard the fine, trim ships—she fluttered out of the sky, an armored harpy, circled by quick winds. Sand crunched under her boots as she landed on a slope strewn with the dead. A sunflower banner leaned drunkenly not far away and the Queen looked down into a vale behind the dune ridge, where men still clashed, raising a great smoky din, blades and spears flashing in the dimming, flame-shot light.

  More of her allies—a motley band of Huns, Sahaba and Persian land knights—climbed past her, their grim-faced captain aiming to join the battle.

  "Fools," she growled, seeing the mighty shape of the King of Kings rampaging among the melee.

  A snapping crack of thunder drew her attention and the Queen turned to the north. Light blazed in the air over a town, even now inundated by the rushing waves. She drew back, feeling enormous forces unleashed, making the sky ripple and shake. Her blue eyes went wide and a great, dreadful chill settled in her heart, making her limbs weak. The stone door is breaking!

  —|—

  The earth bounced under Maxian's hands and he let the shock fling him to his feet. The Persian sorcerer was taken unawares by the violent motion and spun in alarm. A towering black wave crashed against the seaward side of the amphitheatre, foam boiling through the pillared terraces and arched tunnels. Maxian let the full power of the Oath rush into him, opening his heart to sixty million striving lights, his fist dragging through suddenly thickening air. The sorcerer screamed in fear, seeing a wall of surging dark water spill across the amphitheater floor. Dahak sprang into the air, conveyed by a ghostly cloud of winged spirits.