The Dark Lord (107 page)

"Are yours! Your faces—your smell—everything..." Vladimir twisted, trying to see if anyone had come into the house. "I'll send for a healer, mistress, it'll only be a moment!"

"Vladimir," Anastasia's voice was barely audible and the Walach could feel a chill mounting in her chest like rising water. Already her legs were heavy with death. "You must take care of Betia," she said, face turning pale. Her hand closed tightly over his. "This is only misfortune..."

She started to choke again and Vladimir tried to roll her over, but she shuddered in his arms and grew entirely still. The Walach started to weep and his tears mixed with the blood fouled in her garments, leaving thin silver trails on the side of her neck and face. Gently, he laid Anastasia down upon the steps and straightened her gown and stole, crossing pale arms across her chest.

For the first time, the smell of so much fresh blood did not spark hunger in his breast.

Thyatis ran lightly along the roof ridge, her weight making the curved tiles creak and splinter. The sun had set at last; leaving the city sprawled below her dark save for the slow appearance of glowing windows and bonfires in the public squares. Low clouds drifted across the sky, shining with a reflected orange glow, letting her see just a little. On her back, the Empress wheezed in pain with each jarring step.

Thyatis reached the wall at the end of the roof and raised her head. On the floor above in an adjoining building, Shirin's tense face stared down between sections of crosshatched wooden lattice. Upon entering the Duchess' safe house, they had taken one of the lattice sections out. Thyatis waved, then halted, gauging the distance. Coming down had been easy—a light drop after hanging on the lip of the upper balcony—but getting up was going to be difficult.

"Hand her up," Shirin hissed, reaching down with both hands. "I'll lift—" The Khazar woman's head jerked up and her eyes went wide in alarm. She scuttled backwards out of sight. Thyatis spun, feet sliding on the tiled roof, her
spatha
flickering into guard position.

Nicholas advanced towards her, his heavy boots cracking tile, sending slivers of red pottery bouncing down the sloping roof. The Empress' hands tightened on Thyatis' armor and her legs scissored tight around the younger woman's waist. Thyatis felt a great calm come over her—her peripheral vision fading to gray, shutting out the sight of the garden below her on the right, now filling with armed men; and the two-story drop to the street on her left. She took the
spatha
hand and hand, remembering the power in Nicholas' shoulders and arms.

The Latin advanced, footing unsteady, his boots finding purchase difficult on the rows of terra-cotta, but the blade in his hands was steady, flickering with a sullen, half-hidden light. He said nothing, but Thyatis could feel his fury radiating like the glow of a banked oven.

"Cut me loose," Helena whispered in her ear. Thyatis shook her head. She shifted her footing on the tiled roof, the pressure of the Empress' weight vanishing as bloodfire kicked through her veins. With slow grace, she turned in line with Nicholas, blade swinging back and up. He matched her motion, but again, his footing was precarious.

For a moment, they froze, each in balance, watching and waiting. The legionaries in the courtyard fell silent as well, their rude cries dying down. Tense expectation settled on the rooftop; the warm, humid night drawing close around them. Thyatis realized with faint regret she would have to kill every man in the house if she were to escape.

Nicholas attacked, the gleaming blade flashing at Thyatis' face. She blocked the blow away and down, steel ringing high and clear, then there was a blur of cut and counter-cut. He gave a step, then two, back foot sliding on the tile and she reversed, whipping the
spatha
at his exposed knee. Grunting, face streaming with sweat, Nicholas parried, catching her blow inches from his leg. Thyatis bore down, forcing the shimmering blade into the tile with a squeal of metal.

The Latin struggled to rise, failed, then wrenched his sword away. The
spatha
sprang back with a ringing sound and Nicholas rolled away. Almost immediately he slid, clattering down the rooftop, fingers clawing at the tile, terra-cotta shattering under the impact. His foot fetched up against a drainpipe along the edge of the roof and he slammed to a halt. Nerves singing, Thyatis darted towards the balcony. Legionaries began to shout and there was a commotion as the men in the courtyard scrambled into the house to cut her off.

Only a single figure remained in the courtyard, a silver-haired old man in patrician's robes, his face turned to the skyline. Thyatis skidded to the end of the roof, then slid sideways, one hand catching an overhanging eave to stop her. She bent down, preparing to swing onto the landing.

Vladimir was waiting, axe poised, his pale face framed by unruly waves of hair. He looked dreadful, face mottled and streaked, but his hands were firm on the haft of the war axe. Thyatis saw him and stopped, searching his face. The Walach advanced a step, teeth gritted, eyes enormous and filled with anguish.

"Don't..." he managed to choke out, licking his lips. Thyatis was very still. Boots clattered on the stairs, mixed with sound of shouting. Torches flared in the passage.

The Roman woman smiled, catching the Walach's eye with her own. "Be well, Vlad," she said and scrambled back up onto the spine of the roof. She came up, one hand out of balance, the
spatha
drifting out of guard. Nicholas rushed forward, his blade glittering with pale color and she grunted with the effort of swinging the cavalry sword into the path of his blow. The impact knocked her back, one leg twisting under her and the
spatha
shrilled, metal screeching as Nicholas caught her blade square on edge. The
spatha
rang like a bell, iron cracking end to end and the sword splintered. Iron fragments zipped past her face, one scoring her cheek. Thyatis' arm shuddered, stunned, and she could barely make nerveless fingers fling the useless hilt aside.

Nicholas windmilled a second cut, his blade cleaving the air where her head had been. The Empress screamed, crushed under Thyatis' armored weight as she fell. A wild hand groped at the side of the younger woman's face. Thyatis rolled aside, trying to spare Helena, feeling tile shatter and crack as her feet groped for purchase. Broken tile cascaded toward the street. Nicholas crabbed down the incline, the tip of his sword punching the air. Thyatis scrambled aside and the blade sheared through three layers of terra-cotta with a
crack!
Nicholas started to slip himself, staggering, trying to catch his balance.

Thyatis scrambled back to the roof ridge, one hand steadying her, the other drawing a dagger from her belt. She glanced sideways and saw Vladimir crawling out from the balcony, his feet bare, the axe clutched in one hand. The lone man was still standing in the garden below and she risked a look over her shoulder at the adjoining building. The Empress' breath was harsh in her ear.

No one peered down from the trellised balcony and the section of cross-hatched wood had been replaced. Thyatis hissed in dismay, though her heart leapt with the hope her friends had escaped. The sound of creaking tile snapped her head around and she scuttled back, the dagger feeling painfully small in her left hand.

Nicholas did not delay, rushing in, his face contorted with a cold, determined rage. Thyatis lunged forward, the dagger slashing left to catch the glittering sword, her right fist swinging at the man's nose. The two blades met and the lighter dagger twisted away. Gasping, Thyatis felt her arm wrenched aside by the blow, the longsword thrusting past as her fist crunched into the side of Nicholas' face. His head snapped to one side, but he did not go down. Time seemed to slide to a halt, Thyatis tottering back, sandals slipping on the loose tile, Nicholas recovering. His blade ripped back in a savage sideways cut and Thyatis felt the blow as a massive concussion to her side. Breath rushed from her mouth, metal squealed, mailed links shattering as the dwarf-steel sword clove through Helena's outflung arm and into Thyatis' ribs.

She crashed backwards, the Empress crying out, and slid sickeningly down the roof, tile shattering and splintering. Both women hit the edge of the roof, the gutter—poorly fired pottery—disintegrating and they fell, limbs cartwheeling. Thyatis tried to twist into the fall, but hit the top of a vine trellis with her chest, crushing the last breath from her and everything went black in a roar of shattering wood, falling tile and then a dull, wet
crunch!

One last tile slithered from the roof and spun through the air, shattering on the paving below. Gaius Julius blinked but did not flinch away from the sound. With a sigh, he returned his
gladius
to the leather sheath with a soft
click
. The sounds of men running echoed from the house, but for the moment the old Roman was alone in the courtyard. Repressing an urge to vomit, Gaius picked his way through the ruins of the vine trellis. Bending down, he lifted shattered, twisted wood and foliage away from the two twisted bodies in the garden plot. Helena's pale face stared up, eyes sightless, framed by crushed roses and lilies. Her body was hidden under the bulkier, broader shape of her protector.

The old Roman surprised himself with the strength in his arms, straining to move the heavy, armored body aside. Beneath her, the Empress lay contorted, one arm ending abruptly in a severed forearm. A sluggish flow of wine-colored fluid spilled from the mangled limb and Gaius Julius felt his stomach roil as he sagged into the mushy, blood-soaked soil. Trying to keep his fingers from trembling, Gaius touched her pale, unmarked neck. The skin was growing cold.
Oh, no,
he thought mournfully. His thumb peeled back an eyelid, revealing the sightless stare of the dead.
Dead already from the loss of so much blood...

The old Roman pressed a hand to his mouth, taking a breath, and then another.
Why have things ended this way?
he wondered, feeling all of his plans and intrigues turning sour. There was no joy in this—he had never intended for anyone
important
to die. Some of the lesser lights could be snuffed, to show he meant business, but Galen and Helena? They had entertained him at dinner, listened to his stories, even laughed at his jests...

"Well?" a thin, strained voice echoed down from above. Gaius Julius looked up, seeing Nicholas silhouetted against the softly glowing clouds. The old Roman tried to speak, but had to cough, clearing his throat before he could respond.

"She is dead," he said, feeling anew the pain of such bald words.

"And the other?" Nicholas' sword shifted, pointing, a pale brand against the darkness.

Gaius Julius managed to turn the armored body. The face was revealed, matted with mud, scratches tearing one eyelid, a cloak and mailed armor shattered and wadded around the woman's chest. The old Roman felt another shock, a cold, icy blow stunning his troubled mind to stillness.
Diana? My Diana? No... Thyatis. Her name was Thyatis.

He wiped mud and flower petals away from high cheekbones, bloody fingers leaving a smear. Her skin was clammy. Gaius Julius bent his head for a moment, remembering the fire in her brilliant gray eyes as she wrenched her hand from his grasp in the garden of Gregorius Auricus. A brief vision of her dueling on the white-hot sand of the arena tormented him, slowly replaced by her slack, pale visage in this ruin and mud.

"Dear Amazon," he whispered, "how could this happen to you? Aren't you invincible?"

Gaius felt his knees and supporting hand sink into the garden mud, finding himself beyond caring for his ruined garments. He struggled against hot tears, shocked to feel such grief for an opponent.
Why is my heart so stricken?
Gaius struggled to think, though his thoughts seemed to crawl where once they had sped.
Are these dear enemies so precious?

Then he felt a fluttering breath against his hand. Gaius Julius froze, staring at her bloody face. Thyatis' lips seemed to move slightly and her eyelids twitched.
She lives?

The old Roman pressed long fingers to the side of her neck and there—faint, but unmistakable—was a thready, uneven pulse.
She does, but not for long, if my young friend's anger is let loose upon her.
A cloud of wild thoughts distracted him for an instant, though his heart had already decided what must be done. Gaius Julius looked up. Nicholas was still crouched at the edge of the rooftop, staring down with a hard-set grimace.

"She is dead," the old Roman said, rising to his feet. "What about the boy?"

"Gone," Nicholas answered. Vladimir stood behind him, shaggy mane stirred by the night wind, a black outline against the dim sky.

"Find him," Gaius replied, despair curdling to anger in his breast. "Search the neighboring buildings, cellars, closets, everywhere! Find the boy and bring him back to me alive!"

The Latin nodded as he turned away, one hand on Vladimir's shoulder. The Walach stared into the courtyard for a moment, then followed. Gaius Julius looked back down at the bodies at his feet.

"Sir? What should we do with them?" The centurion in charge of the cohort loitering at the edge of the garden stared at him, face drawn and pasty white behind the slash of his chin strap.

"Take... the Empress to the Palatine and set her beside her husband." Gaius Julius' voice grew colder with each syllable. "Treat her gently, Claudius. Make a bier from your spears and quilts taken from the house. One cohort shall march before and one behind. Let no man speak until you have laid her to rest."

The centurion nodded jerkily. The old Roman's eyes dragged towards the other corpse.

"She..." Gaius Julius felt his loss as a physical pain, a pressure in his chest. He turned away with obvious effort.
Perhaps your goddess will watch over you, protect you, if you've even the least chance at life...
"Put her in the wagons with the other traitors. Let them burn her, in the abattoir beyond the city walls."

Vladimir searched along a kitchen wall, the axe tight in his hands, heart thudding wildly in his chest. Nicholas stalked behind him, the dwarf blade in his hand humming with excitement. The Walach tried to block out the wild voice ringing from the steel, begging for slaughter.
I've had enough death today...
The smell of so much fresh blood had set his mind reeling and he could only move in a crouch. With a fierce effort, he kept himself from running on all fours, but his sense of smell unfolded, showing him ancient trails of mice, the passages of men and women through the kitchens and bedrooms of this apartment. The flood of sensation was overpowering.