The Dark Lord (106 page)

Let me see him!
Zoë surged forward, swelling in Zenobia's suddenly crippled thoughts.

The girl forced white hands to touch the cold, mottled iron of the mask, then press against a broad, muscular chest. The scars and puckered wounds under her fingers yielded nothing, neither life nor the dreadful semblance imparted by the sorcerer's will.

He is gone,
Zoë said, voice sighing in wonder.
He has escaped!

No!
Wailed Zenobia, cringing away from fate and the dead, now truly-lifeless corpse of her lover.
No! He cannot leave me alone! I waited for him, I waited...

Drums boomed across the water, interrupting the Queen's despair. Both minds turned, the body's eyes mixing blue and brown as they both struggled to see. On the shore, men poured forth from longboats and skiffs, galleys grinding to a halt in the shallows. The dead were waking, crowding the decks of every ship, sightless eyes turned to the beach. A long arc of the beach was dotted with companies and regiments gathering, the banners of Persia and Nabatea and the Decapolis snapping in the stiff, offshore wind.

Zoë made their body rise, hand rising to shade brown eyes.
There will be fighting! The Romans are here!

Already? How can...
Zenobia stirred, quick mind canvassing the fleet—still so many ships waiting to land, more than half—and then the wooded fields. The last ruddy rays of the sun gleamed on metal—helmets, spears, marching shields—and instinct and long-held command carried her to the fore.

"We must disembark," the Queen cried, striding forth from her throne. The guardsmen turned, faces brightening with the thought of battle. Khalid was first among them, and he too had spied the Huns running towards the trees, bows already lofting arrows into the ranks of the enemy. "Launch every barge and boat! Let the dead walk or swim ashore—they've no need to breathe—battle is swift upon us!"

Is the Roman prince here?
Zenobia demanded of Zoë, though the girl was still focusing the bright core of her perception, preparing to enter the hidden world.
Can you feel him?

No, Auntie,
Zoë snapped,
I've only just started!

The Queen restrained a curse, struggling for patience.

"There she is," Vladimir whispered, curly dark hair bound back behind his head, heavy iron scales wrapping his powerful shoulders and back. "The house with the high gate and a moon carved in stone above the lintel."

Nicholas eased his head around the corner, eyes narrowed in falling twilight. He saw nothing, only an empty alley, untenanted even by cats or wild dogs. "I don't see anything," he growled, though softly. Their informer had only given them a vague location, based on a half-heard whisper in the bustling port of Ostia. The Latin was trusting the Walach's uncanny nose for the rest.

Vladimir's long face twitched with a smile. "No, she's a flighty doe, that one, with a soft tread and quiet ways." Something turned in his gruff voice, steeped in grief. "But she loves the smell of pine and juniper and sweet flowers. I can smell her, even from here."

"Good," Nicholas looked away from his friend, avoiding the Walach's wounded expression. "Centurion—post a cohort at each end of this alley, then take your men
quietly
round to the front and break down the door. Bring the other ram up here. We've run this ship aground, but there are captives aboard our master needs alive."

Vladimir continued to watch the gate while Nicholas dispersed his men. The Walach felt cold, though the dusk was very warm and a vision of Betia leaning against the railing of a trim ship, the blue-green sea framing her tanned face and fine blond hair filled his thoughts.

"Quit mooning about," Nicholas said, thumping his shoulder with a mailed gauntlet. The Latin's scent had changed, spiky with anger and frustration. Vladimir looked up, seeing a tense, bitter expression on his friend's face. "They're inside and I want to finish this. We'll wait just a bit, until the others are at the front door."

"Empress... time to leave." Thyatis knelt beside the cot, scarred fingers brushing short brown hair out of Helena's face. The older woman's eyes flickered open at the touch. Thyatis allowed herself only the briefest frown at the dull expression. The Empress' eyes slid away from hers. "Very well." Thyatis stood, then bent down and scooped Helena up, the thin body almost weightless in her arms.

"No," the Empress protested, though her voice was even fainter than before. "Take my son..."

"We're all going," Thyatis muttered, hoisting the woman onto her back, arms loose around her neck. "Let's go," she called to the others in the cellar.

Shirin was right at Thyatis' side, flashing a warm smile at the Empress and a frown at her friend. "You're very inconspicuous this way..." The Khazar woman's nimble fingers rearranged Helena's grip on Thyatis' chest and tied the two together with strips of cloth. "...but we can say your mother is sick, if we have to."

Thyatis caught Shirin's hand and drew her close. The Khazar woman fell silent, lifting her face and Thyatis kissed her soundly, crushing Shirin's slimmer frame to her with one free arm. After a moment, they broke apart and Thyatis managed a rueful smile.

"We're all going together," the Roman said, leaning close to her lover. "But if anything happens, you take the boy yourself and get away." Thyatis' voice settled to a flat, hard tone like iron pig. "Go home, if you can. If we're separated, I will make my way to Itil."

Shirin's luminous eyes widened and she snuck a look over her shoulder at Betia and Koré and the Duchess, who were waiting by the foot of the stairs. "What about..."

Thyatis pressed Shirin's hand to her face, turning her cheek into the warm palm. With a quiet sigh, she said, "he has to get out of the Empire and
no one
knows you're here. They'll be watching all the Duchess' ships and agents and the sea road west." Shirin grimaced, but nodded very slightly.

"Let's go," Thyatis said in a louder voice, holding onto the Empress with one hand and picking up her scabbarded
spatha
with the other. Betia led, darting up the stairs with Shirin on her heels. Koré scuttled along next, little Theodosius cocooned against her chest with braided cloth. Thyatis shifted in her boots, then took the steps one at a time, letting the Empress' weight settle against her. Helena groaned a little—she was sore from head to toe, though she'd barely moved for a day—then her thin hands clutched at Thyatis' tunic, fingernails catching on the mailed shirt beneath. "Come on, Anastasia."

The Duchess looked around the cellar for the last time, then snuffed out the wick of the single remaining candle and hurried to follow.

Thyatis loped out into the main atrium of the house and turned to the right, heading for a flight of stairs rising to the second floor. Almost immediately, she saw the others had not gone the same way. She skidded to a halt. Anastasia slowed up, looking around in alarm. "Where..."

"They went outside," Thyatis snapped. "Go get them—we daren't leave this house on the ground! There are informers and patrols everywhere on the streets."

The Duchess nodded and ran off through the columned hall toward the garden. Thyatis snarled to herself, then bounded up the steps, past an internal door, to the top of the staircase. A short balcony opened from the landing, leading to two bedrooms. One side of the passage was open on the garden court at the center of the house and Thyatis leaned out, seeing three figures near the ornamental pool.

"This way," Thyatis called down, as softly as she could. Shirin looked up, her face a pale oval in falling twilight. Clouds had started to gather over the city as the sun set, and the light of myriad fires and lanterns below cast a dim yellow radiance on their white backdrop. Anastasia appeared in the courtyard and everyone ran back inside.

A dull
boom
echoed from below and Thyatis fell her heart skip, flutter and then beat strongly again.

"What was that?" Helena whispered in her ear.

"A ram," Thyatis said grimly, taking two long steps back to the top of the stairs. Koré bolted up the steps two and three at a time, her glossy black hair framing a determined, fierce expression. Thyatis stood aside, letting the little girl dart past. "The end of the landing," Thyatis called after her, "crawl out onto the roof, then to the north wall, just the way we came in!"

Without looking to see if the maid understood, Thyatis stepped down the stairs, her
spatha
rasping from its sheath. Shirin and Betia scrambled up past her and Thyatis growled. "What were you doing?"

"The garden gate leads into an alley..." Betia hissed, short of breath. "There's no one..."

Thyatis turned, fury building in her face. "Did you come back from your errand that way?"

"Yes—" Betia fell silent, seeing Thyatis' lips twitch into a flat, hard line. A heavy crash boomed up from below, followed by the sound of splintering wood. Distantly, men shouted.

"Go!" Thyatis jerked her head. Betia, flushing, was gone. Shirin tarried, her hands on the long knife she carried in her girdle. Thyatis fixed her with a piercing glare. "Take care of the boy."

The Khazar woman nodded, face dark against the fitful light outside. Her hand brushed Thyatis' cheek, leaving a tingling warmth and she ran the length of the landing and swung easily over the little wall. Terra-cotta tile creaked under her hands and feet as she scrambled across the roof.

"Anastasia!" Thyatis took another step down the stairs. The Duchess appeared in the doorway, hair coming loose, her long gown tangled. Face grim, the older woman swung the panel closed with a bang, then groped for a locking bar set against the wall. "Leave it!" Thyatis shouted.

Wood shattered, sounding close, and the baying of a dozen throats hot on the hunt rang and echoed in the main hall. Anastasia grunted, shoving the bar down against the retaining slats. One end stuck and she struggled to fit the bar properly into the groove.

Thyatis cursed, but the Duchess whirled as she prepared to leap down to help her. "Get out!" Anastasia's face was a blur in the dim light, but the snap of command in her voice was unmistakable. Thyatis felt her heart wrench, then turned and sprinted back up the stairs.

Nicholas loped across the main hall—ears pricked for the sound of running feet on tile—and heard a clank of wood against wood off to his left. He turned swiftly, Brunhilde bare in his hand, her eager voice keening in his ears and the flicker of blue-white along her edge showed him a short flight of ornamented marble steps leading up to a door. "Vlad, the door!"

The Walach burled past, powerful shoulders swinging, the long-bladed axe in his hands whipping around in a tight arc. The blade crashed into the door, shattering gold-painted panels and knocking a big section out of the frame. Someone shouted in alarm on the other side—a female voice—and the Walach slammed an armored shoulder into the wood. A splintering crash followed and the entire door frame tore away from the wall. Vladimir stumbled inside—he hadn't expected such flimsy construction—and Nicholas caught a glimpse of a woman in a formal
stola
and gown, her left arm stiff and swinging up at him, thumb twisting.

Blind instinct threw him to one side as he rushed into the doorway. Vladimir was down, sprawled on the floor in a ruin of broken panels and splintered wood. There was a sharp
twang
and something snapped past the Latin's head. Snarling, Nicholas lunged, the tip of dwarf-steel blade catching the woman under her raised arm. Steel sank into soft flesh and the woman grunted, thrown back against the wall. Without thinking, Nicholas wrenched the blade free with a half-twist and smashed her down with the armored point of his elbow.

Behind him, there was commotion as the legionaries poured into the house and torchlight flared on the walls of the stairwell. Nicholas saw on opening at the top and leapt in pursuit of the enemy, blood slicking away from Brunhilde's blade.

Vladimir tore his shoulder free from the remains of the door and rose to his hands and feet. Nicholas had disappeared up the staircase. Directly in front of the Walach, a woman was sprawled on the steps, her mane of curly dark hair matted and tangled, one hand pressed against a deep wound in her side. Blood spilled between white fingers, slicking the curve of her breast.

"Ahhh, it's cold," she gasped, barely able to breath. Vladimir crawled forward, wondering if this were the Empress they sought. He saw she had been blessed with a nearly perfect oval face, hawk-wing brows and plush, rich lips.
The Empress has shorter hair,
the Walach remembered. He hissed, seeing the depth of her wound.

"Who—" The woman opened her eyes and Vladimir felt cold, stunned shock burn through him. They were a glorious pale violet and his nostrils twitched, taking in a heady smell of blood, sweat, myrrh and honey.
She smells like...
His hand—moving with its own purpose—brushed back the tangle of dark curls around her face.
She is beautiful. This must be Betia's mistress, the Duchess Anastasia.
The too-familiar smell registered and he slumped back, stunned beyond measure.

"Vladimir," he said, barely able to speak. "I'm Vladimir. My lady... I'm sorry."

The woman tried to smile, but blood welled from her mouth and she stared to choke. Gently, Vladimir turned her head, letting the fluid pour from her mouth. Her skin was very warm under his fingers. Desperately, he pressed hard on her wound, trying to stop the flow of blood. "Thank you, Vladimir," she managed to say and a genuine smile lit her features, shining through sweat and blood. "Betia...
cough...
said you had a kind heart."

The Walach felt his guts twist. "Nicholas didn't mean... he wouldn't have..." Vladimir stuttered to a halt, unable to express the enormous, overwhelming feeling of grief crushing his chest. "He didn't know you were his sister!"

The Duchess' brows drew together and for a moment the agony seemed to fade, leaving only a puzzled, beautiful woman. "I've no bro... oh—oh, I remember—the collar hurt his neck and made him cry... his eyes..."