The Dark Lord (112 page)

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.

Maxian snarled, lean face splitting with a furious grimace and leapt up himself. His blow cracked into the Persian's shields, splintering wards visible and invisible alike. Wreathed in lightning, his fist smashed across the serpent's temple. Stunned, the sorcerer flew into the first rank of seats, smashing through marble and brick and lava stone. His shields flickered and the prince bounded into the ruin. Lightning roared up from the earth, catching the Persian as he staggered to his feet.

Howling, the creature writhed in torment. Maxian stabbed in, fingers stiff in a sharp, cutting sign. The Persian's chest dimpled with crushing, irresistible force. Another shriek of agony pealed from an inhuman throat. Ghosts blew away in a sparkling cloud, unable to resist the prince's advance. Haloed in whirling, incandescent fire, Maxian forced a burning hand towards the sorcerer's scaled neck.

Squirming away, the Persian clawed at the prince's face with razor-sharp talons. Black fingernails bit into Maxian's neck, but the skin healed as fast as they tore, stiffening into dark hide-like armor. Maxian slammed his fist down, crushing the serpent's shoulder. Bones and scales popped, blood spattered on the marble seats and the Persian gasped, unable to breath, collarbone cracking.

Floodwaters broke on the lower seats, fountaining back from the retaining wall. Across the oval, pillars tore loose from their moorings, vanishing in the foaming sea. Statues of the gods and heroes toppled from the upper deck and the entire edifice shivered, bricks splintering. The sea rushed back, cresting, and the eastern wall of the theater collapsed with a grumbling, sharp roar. Bricks, stone, timbers, marble, blocks of tufa larger than a wagon—everything was swallowed by the sea.

Maxian's eyes blazed bright, the power of an entire Empire shining from his mouth, his skin, every pore. The Persian tried to turn away, seeing his destruction in the terrible brilliance. The prince pinned him, one knee cracking a weak arm against the stone floor. His fist opened, flames lashing the sorcerer's broken face and Maxian forced his fingers—spread wide—onto the Persian's forehead.

"You," Maxian growled, savaged throat barely able to form the words, "will never threaten my city again!"

Dahak screamed, a long, wailing, unending cry of torment, his body thrashing violently, every limb loose in abandoned, unhinged motion.

"Rome! Rome and victory!" Alexandros lunged forward, fighting his way through struggling men. The line of legionaries and Goths had broken open, letting the Persian Immortals pour into the gap. A giant of a man was in their midst, howling like a titan, laying about him with an impossibly huge sword. Even the ghostly centurions fell back before him and the Macedonian saw the heavily armored
pushtigbahn
widening the gap with brutal efficiency. "With me, men of Rome!"

Alexandros loosened his grip on the shield in his left hand. Shouting wildly, he sprang in front of the giant, throwing a high cut at the man's head. The giant spun—so nimble for his great size!—and blocked effortlessly. The Macedonian tried to slip the blow, letting his sword bind on the longer, larger weapon, but so great was the other's strength the
spatha
was nearly torn from his hand. Alexandros scrambled back to avoid losing his head. The shield was held only by a single strap in his fingers.

The Persian champion rushed in, his blade flickering in tight, controlled slashes. Alexandros blocked hard, swiping sideways to catch the blurring tip and felt his arm rock with the blow. He threw the shield at the man's feet, all of his strength in the motion. The giant hacked down, catching the Macedonian's sword and driving the blade into the sand. Alexandros rolled away, suddenly weaponless, and the man shouted in pain. The flung shield had smashed into his trailing foot and he toppled, going down to his knees.

Heedless, Alexandros plowed into the Persian, slamming his armored hip into the man's face. The golden mask crunched, skewing to one side. The Macedonian followed with a kick to the giant's throat, then gasped, his own foot snatched from the air by a blurring hand. He slammed down on the sand, breath punched from his breast. Alexandros rolled, sand spraying, and a massive fist smacked into the ground. The Macedonian twisted, cracking his vambrace-encased arm across the dented mask. The giant grunted, his tree-like neck barely moving with the blow.

Alexandros scrambled to his feet, sliding back. One of the Roman centurions pitched him another sword and the Macedonian caught the spinning blade from the air. In a single motion he grasped the hilt, flipped the scabbard away and fell into a guard stance.

The giant rose as well, wrenching the golden mask and helmet from his head. Enormous mustaches, dripping with sweat, jutted into the air, and keen, bright eyes looked down upon Alexandros. A huge grin split the man's face.

"A worthy foe, by Ormazd!" he shouted in a basso roar. "The very likeness of the Greek devil Iskender!"

"I am the very
Macedonian
devil," Alexandros snarled, feeling his muscles waking to the task. "And you the greatest of the Persians, I wager?"

"I am," Shahr-Baraz growled. One of his men threw him a spear, which smacked into his meaty palm. He spun the shaft end for end, settling the weapon's balance to his satisfaction. "Then let the gods judge!"

Maxian's fingers dug into the sorcerer's neck, crushing muscles, tendons and veins. His other hand burned white-hot on the creature's forehead and Dahak struggled anew. Blood sprayed across the seats, dripping smoking hot from the prince's face.