The Dark Lord (108 page)

He stopped abruptly, drawing an alarmed hiss from Nicholas. Vladimir sidled up to a wall, sharp talons scratching across a wooden door. Stagnant air moved beyond the panel, carrying a ferocious stench. "Here," he said, tasting Betia's sweat and a young human needing to empty his weak bladder.

Nicholas waved him aside, then smashed in the cabinet door with his iron-shod boot. A gaping, dark opening was revealed and a noisome, thick odor rolled out. The Latin peered down the stone-lined shaft.

"Bring a light!" he barked and one of the legionaries following along behind passed up a watchman's candle lantern. Holding the light out over the shaft, Nicholas stared down. "A rubbish tip, into a sewer," he said, voice muffled. "But there is a ladder, which has been recently used."

Without waiting for a response, Nicholas passed the lantern back before swinging into the opening and descending the ladder with reckless speed. Vladimir followed, though the foul miasma clogged his noise and made his head hurt.

At the bottom of the pit, they stood ankle-deep in slowly moving water. The walls dripped with humidity and thick green slime. Vladimir coughed, trying to breath. Nicholas seemed unaffected by the stench.

"Which way?" the Latin growled, jabbing to the right with his sword. As before, in the absence of any greater light, the blade began to gleam a soft blue-white. The Walach stared around in disgust, but saw nothing like a track or sign.

"Betia knew I would follow." Vladimir coughed, feeling his throat clogging with the awful smell. "I can't make out anything down here. We'll just have to pick a direction..."

"You go to the left," Nicholas replied with a curse, his jaw clenched tight. He splashed away to the right, leaving Vladimir in steadily growing darkness. Above, the legionaries stared down the shaft, their lantern casting a fitful dim glow on the ladder. Vladimir stared after his friend, shaking his head slowly. The Walach was no stranger to death—he had taken innocent lives when he could no longer control the pain in his bones—but Nicholas seemed transformed, all pity leached away, his heart wounded by Thyatis' betrayal.
Cruel fate digs her claws deep,
Vladimir thought mournfully.
He is blind and sinking deeper into such a hell...
Standing in the sewer tunnel, half bent under the low ceiling, the Walach resolved never to tell his friend—
he is still my brother in blood and arms!
—who he'd so carelessly murdered in the hallway.
I will spare him the stain of kin slayer, at least.

Mind still wild with bloody deeds, Vladimir slung the axe over his back and scuttled off down the tunnel, finding surcease in going on hands and feet, as generations of his forefathers had done. After a hundred feet, the way split, one arched passage tending down the hill, the other rising. Brow wrinkled in debate, Vladimir turned towards the descending passage, then stopped shock still. The hackles on his neck stiffened and he growled in alarm.

The K'shapâcara Queen!
his mind gibbered, filled with atavistic fears.
How can the Dark Lady be here?

He tried to press on, but the rank smell brought harsh memories to mind and after a moment of dithering, Vladimir backed away and began climbing the rising tunnel. He glanced behind him often, nerves still taut with fear, but he saw nothing.

"He is gone," Koré said softly, yellow-green eyes glittering in the darkness. Shirin relaxed a little, though her flesh crawled with the clinging taint of the sewer and the sharp fear of pursuit. The little girl moved past, one hand tucked around little Theodosius, the other tapping along the curving wall. "If we go this way," Koré hissed, "we'll reach the river. Perhaps there will be a boat."

Filled with disquiet, Shirin followed, keeping close to the girl. They had descended through two joining chambers—where other pipes fed into the main sewer—before she realized Betia was no longer with them.

"What other body?" Gaius Julius looked up in the darkness of the main hall, sluggish thoughts stirring to slow motion. An earnest-looking young legionary stood atop a short flight of steps, in an opening filled with the splintered remains of a door frame. "No, I'll see for myself."

The old Roman stepped onto the staircase and looked down. The sight of more blood failed to move him—he felt numbed—but the sight of this face and body sprawled in unkind death forced a groan of dismay from his lips. The legionnaire drew back, Gaius Julius waving for him to leave.

"This is a cruel winter," he muttered, kneeling beside Anastasia's body. There were welts on her white neck where a necklace had been torn away by greedy hands and her left wrist was scored with deep cuts. Her rings and bracelets were gone. Gaius' fingers drifted over the signs of looting, then to the serene, quiet face. Even in death, with her lips parted and a thick trail of congealing blood puddling on the steps under her mouth, he could see her beauty linger. "So many blossoms withered, so many buds cut down by sudden frost."

He turned the corner of her stole over the face and composed her hands and feet as best he could in the cramped confines of the stair. All light seemed to have fled, leaving him entirely in darkness, accompanied only by the pale corpse, her raiment gleaming in the night. Gaius Julius sat on the step, chin on his folded hands.
What a bleak world,
he thought, overcome by terrifying emptiness.
Where every fair enemy is struck down and nothing bright remains.
He had felt something like this before, when he had achieved victory over Pompey the Great at last and the world lay in the cup of his hands. An end of challenge, the cessation of everything that fired his blood to life and moved his agile mind to delight.

"No one can deny," he said at last in a choked voice, harsh sound echoing in the empty hall. The legionaries had carried the bodies away, leaving him entirely alone... "that during the civil war, and after, Caesar behaved with wonderful restraint and clemency. Whereas his opponents declared all those not with them enemies of the state; Caesar accounted every man not against him, his ally. He forgave all crimes, pardoned all prisoners, returned their properties, sponsored their children, made good their debts..."

Overcome, Gaius Julius covered his face with his cloak, unable to speak, wrinkled old face streaming with tears, his thin shoulders shaking.

Vladimir heaved himself up into a brick chamber, his long fingers scraping through a thick, gray slime clinging to the lip of the pipe. The cavity was very dark and he groped across the floor, fearing another pit yawned before him. His outstretched fingers touched something warm and he became very still. The sensitive pads on his fingertips traced the outline of a toe, then another, then a slim foot.

"Who is there?" he breathed, barely able to raise his voice. A familiar smell tried to separate itself from the foul miasma in the tunnel.

"Hello, Vladimir." Betia drew back a heavy cloak from her face and his sharp eyes found her outline—a faint reddish smear against the cold walls. "You've caught me."

"No!" The Walach's exclamation was abrupt and unplanned. "Betia, you should flee..."

Her fingers pressed against his lips, then her gentle hand caressed his short beard, the side of his face, his powerful neck. "I am tired of running away," she said, crawling to him. "Take me to my mistress, she'll need me in captivity."

A groan escaped the Walach, his free arm crushing the girl to his chest. He buried his face in her hair, breath hot on her neck. "No... you must fly away from here, far away."

"What happened?" Betia's voice changed, catching his anguish and her small hands framed his face, her lips brushing against his. "Where is the Duchess?"

"Dead," Vladimir managed in a choked voice. "An accident..."

The girl stiffened, her forehead pressing against his. "Truly?" Voice was very faint, but then she shook her head. "You must come away with me," she said. "I know where a ship is waiting..."

Vladimir shook his head slowly, though his heart leapt to say
Yes!
"I've sworn an oath..." His fingers pressed against his chest, feeling the prince's amulet. The metal was a little warm, comforting against his hand. Like her body conforming to his, her arms around his neck. "I... I cannot go with you."

Betia's body slumped against his and she sighed in exhaustion. "Take me with you, then."

"With me? But..."

"No one will notice a servant," she said, head buried against his chest. "No one at all."

"Where are we?" Alexandros shouted, his strong voice carrying in the humid afternoon air. He rode at the head of a column of his Companions—the Gothic knights astride heavy warhorses, armored from head to foot in the Eastern style, great bows jutting from sheaths on their saddles. Two of his scouts emerged from a thicket of dusky gray brush on the meandering farm track ahead. The Macedonian spurred Bucephalas the Black forward, the stallion catching his master's tense mood. "Where is the sea?"

The scouts stared back at him in alarm, their faces red with the sun and scratched by low-hanging branches. One of them—with the shoulder flash of a file leader—swallowed nervously and jogged up to Alexandros' stirrup. "My lord! We thought
this
was the way to the beach!"

"Who is behind you, then?" The Macedonian's voice came in a harsh snap.

"The whole of the sixth syntagma, my lord," the man answered in a rush. "The syntagmarch said march away from the sun, great lord, but we've gotten turned around in these lanes..."

Alexandros stopped the man with a raised hand. His eyes glittered in fury. "Climb a tree, now!"

Moments later, the younger—lighter—scout was swaying in the branches of a tall poplar, shading his eyes against the last gleam of the day. He stiffened, one hand clutching the thin trunk. His free hand stabbed out, pointing left of the farm track. "There," he shouted, "a fleet! A whole fleet! Hundreds of sails!"

"How far?" Alexandros bellowed, while the cavalrymen behind him stared nervously into a dense boscage of vines, creepers, silver-barked trees and thorn between them and the presumed enemy.

"Less than a mile, my lord," the scout replied. "This track turns and swings towards open ground and grassy bluffs."

"Double-time," the Macedonian roared to his signalmen and file captains. Without waiting for the scout to clamber down from the tree, he urged Bucephalas on and the horse thundered down the lane, Alexandros leaning close to the stallion's neck, branches whipping at his shoulders. The earth trembled as the rest of the column kicked to a trot. Dust boiled up from the dry road, coating the horses' chests and making men blink.

The lead scout jumped out of the way, crushing himself against a stand of holly to avoid being trampled. His own column was only moments from marching onto the road, pikes and axes swinging and there would be a Fury's own mess if the two groups collided. Ignoring his junior, who was swinging precariously in the treetop, the lead scout crashed off through the tangled undergrowth, bawling "column halt!" at the top of his lungs.

Attend me, beloved Arad!
The Lord of the Ten Serpents turned his attention from the land, where C'hu-lo and his Huns were gathering in a lean, dark circle around the copse of trees where Dahak had made his temporary command post. T'u-chüeh archers laughed in the shade of intertwined trees, unpacking long curved bows they had carried ashore wrapped in leather and waxed cloth. The sorcerer felt much at ease, knowing he would not be taken unawares. He squatted at the base of a tree, his banner flapping smartly in the wind only paces away.
Have you come ashore?

The mental query was met by unexpected silence—more than the attenuation of distance or the interference of the sea—but an emptiness, a void from which Dahak's tendril of thought did not return.
Arad?
The sorcerer's lean head stiffened, turning to face the glittering water. Triply-lidded eyes flickered, focusing on the rakish shape of the Palmyrene flagship. The
Asura
rode easily at anchor, her sails furling as sailors scrambled in the yards, dragging in canvas.
Where are you?

Dahak realized he had not felt the mournful wail and lament of the Egyptian priest's mind for some time. He concentrated, feeling a sickly, cold fear welling up at the back of his own thoughts.
The Queen, the Boar, the Eagle, the Sixteen...
he could feel all his servants, even the least, the
gaatasuun
and their harsh, singular thoughts of blood and sharp teeth crunching through flesh. But not the first tool he had made with his own hands.

Arad? Faithful servant?
Dahak wailed, reaching out into the emptiness.
Gone? Gone? How could you escape these bindings? These chains?
Rage flared in the sorcerer's heart and he leapt to his feet, the air around him darkening with malefic power.
Return to me!

There was no answer, though the tall poplar at his back shriveled and cracked, suddenly dead leaves falling in a drifting rain around him. "Arad!"

Shahr-Baraz splashed ashore, hairy feet bare on clinging black sand, low waves rushing past with a
hiss
of spray and foam. Riding boots hung around his neck on a leather thong—a cumbersome, heavy weight of leather reinforced with strips of iron—but worse still if they were wet. The soldier Patik was only a pace behind, followed by a crowd of Immortals, bannermen, trumpeters, runners and aides. The Boar found his footing on drier sand and picked up the pace, massive thighs propelling him up the beach without pause.

The shoreline itself ran in shallow, then rose up at a line of hard-packed dark sand mixed with debris from passing ships and storms. Beyond the tide line, a hundred feet—or less—of rumpled sand dunes slanted up in a gentle shelf and then the shore proper began, with scattered grass-covered dunes, stands of cork trees and the lower, marshier outlets of streams.

Shahr-Baraz found the banners of two regiments of Persian footmen standing above the tide line, surrounded by a mixed crowd of soldiers. Thousands of
gaatasuun
were crawling from the sea in complete disorder, wandering aimlessly in packs, forcing the living men to form a barrier of steel and wooden shields around the banners to protect themselves. Officers were shouting, trying to make themselves heard above the rush of the sea. The following wind, which had driven the fleet from Alexandria with such speed, snapped the banners taut, throwing sea spray and sand against their backs. The Boar growled, drawing the attention of those nearest to him and stormed into a cluster of men in peaked helmets and sunflower insignia.