The Dark Lord (33 page)

The creature blinked in surprise. Triangular ears canted towards the unexpected sound.

The Walach bolted forward, smooth, controlled. This was no wild leap, but a calculating lunge. The little creature bleated in surprise, faded to nothing and Vladimir's hand flashed out to the right, closing with a
snap
on squirming, wriggling fur. Snarling aloud, the Walach clutched the forest spirit in both hands, then stuffed it violently into a leather bag. The bag thrashed about for a bit, as Vladimir held his captive high in the air, then the creature quieted down. Panting, he tied the sack closed.

Quite pleased with himself, the Walach padded off through the oak and scrub forest. Behind him, walnuts and a ripped cloth bag lay on the ground among dry grass and faded summer flowers.

Vladimir jogged down a faint path past huge, wrinkled oaks. The forest giants arched overhead, crowns glowing with the last touch of sunlight. Below, night filled the green tunnel made by their trunks and spreading branches. Despite the gloom, he passed swiftly over round stones and broken paving. The way opened into a shallow dell atop the hill. Vladimir paused, crouching against a moss-covered plinth. Another tall stone stood on the opposite side of the path.

The Walach tasted the air, and grinned in the gathering darkness. Still clutching the bag to his chest, the quivering warm shape inside pressed against the soft nap of his fur, Vladimir slipped behind the menhir, then up through a hedge lining the edge of the clearing.

Nicholas sat in darkness, his back to the bole of an enormous, ancient oak. The Walach crept up beside him, then squatted with the leather bag in both hands. He could smell the human female—crushed rose, pressed oil, hyacinth and lavender layered over sweat and the peppery smell daywalker women wore like a wreath. His toes dug into the earth, feeling roots and dampness.

Vladimir's tongue pressed against the backs of his incisors. He was very happy to be outside.

Lights drifted in the hollow, dancing over lines of age-worn stones. They shone cold on short grass and gleamed from the woman's diadem. Empress Martina sat on a huge, toppled slab at the center of the dell, legs drawn up sideways beneath her. Silver bracelets circled both arms and her dark gown made a sable firmament for chains of jewels and gold hanging around her neck. Dragonflies blurred past and glowing motes danced and spun, rising and falling around her in gossamer veils.

Vladimir could hear the earth singing and he pressed himself against the ground, burying his head in the loam. Martina laughed, voice soft, raising her hands to catch the fireflies winking, shimmering, darting in the air. Full night came striding over the hills and the forest quieted.

The Walach rolled on his back, looking up. The stars burned—keen as a sword blade—between the branches of the oaks. The stiff leaves were shining, taking on their own glow from the faint light spilling down from the heavens.

Nicholas raised a finger minutely. Vladimir rolled over, soundless on the loamy ground.

A greater light entered the hollow, spinning down on starlight. Sharp-edged shadows drifted across ancient stone. Martina turned her head, alabaster neck shining, pale, psymithion-painted face radiant in the golden light. She seemed frozen, unable to move, though the Walach saw her lips part as if she spoke in greeting. Her brown hair, carefully curled and coifed, spilled back over her shoulders. Her round face, in this glamour, was suffused with beauty.

The light drifted closer, spinning and darting. The Walach squinted and then let out his breath in a soft hiss. A tiny woman, only a hand tall, swept past the Empress, jeweled wings blurring in flight. The sprite was naked, clean limbs in perfect proportion, flowing hair like gold, blazing green eyes wide in interest. Martina's eyes sparkled as she turned, following the arcing flight of the fae. Flower petals were strewn around the Empress and a wreath of holly crowned her head. The sprite darted down, finding clear water shining in hollow leaves. Keeping a safe distance from Martina, the sprite knelt to drink.

Vladimir blinked. Shadow rose behind the tiny creature, looming up out of the darkness behind the slab. A hand appeared, corpse-pale in shimmering golden light, and caught the sprite gently as she toppled over in sleep. The water on the leaf trembled, beading into rainbow pearls. Maxian—his thin face thrown in high relief by the sprite's radiance—cast the night aside like a cloak. Brilliant white refulgence spilled out, making Vladimir blink tears, and Nicholas turn away. The prince caught a sphere of perfect crystal drifting in the air with a fingertip. The glass surface swirled open under his hand. Gently, Maxian slid the sleeping sprite into the globe. Then the crystal, singing with a high, tremulous note, flowed closed again.

Martina laughed softly as she rose. Rose petals, lilies, honeysuckle fluttered to the loamy soil. The prince clasped Martina's waist, then swung her to the ground. From his vantage atop the hollow, Vladimir could see the woman blush, see the heat rise in her skin. Her fingers trailed on the prince's arm.

"I think we are done here." Nicholas rose, unfolding his lean frame from the ground. "Six iron skeletons rise in the city and now there are six shining hearts, one for each."

Vladimir growled softly, but he also stood, the bag—now quiet and still—still clutched to his chest. Together, the two men picked their way down the slope, to join the royal pair sitting on the edge of the slab.

"Good hunting?" Maxian pointed at Vladimir's bag. The prince looked a little tired, though in such brilliant, unwavering light everyone looked drawn and sallow.

"Something quick and quiet," the Walach said, feeling shy. "Not so beautiful as the starlight."

"Let me see," Maxian said, curious. He held out a hand for the sack.

Vladimir was suddenly sorry he'd spent the day hunting on the slope. He didn't like the prince capturing the moon maids. It felt wrong—the prince wasn't even going to eat them! He drew back, hiding the bag behind his back.

"Vlad." Nicholas' eyes were in shadow, the cowl of his cloak drawn up to keep him from being blinded. "Show the prince what you caught."

The Walach swallowed, hearing a strange distance in his friend's voice. "Here."

"Don't worry," Maxian said, laughing. "I won't hurt it."

The prince slid his hand into the bag, inciting a squirming bulge. He bit his lip in concentration, then slowly drew the creature out, held tightly by the ears. Maxian considered the creature, face lighting with a slow smile. It stared back with huge, frightened eyes. "An oak gardener! It's good you didn't hurt him, Vlad. They're good luck. They take care of the forest."

The Walach's eyes slid sideways to the crystalline spheres lined up beside the slab. Weighted nets held each one to the ground, else they would drift away through the trees. The moon maids were still sleeping, each one curled up at the bottom of her clear prison.

"Quiet, little one, quiet..." Maxian knelt, setting the furry creature on the ground. "We're sorry we bothered you. Martina, stroke his fur."

The Empress knelt too, brushing long tresses behind her ears. The gardener squirmed fearfully in Maxian's hands, but he whistled softly and the creature became still. Round, white eyes drooped half closed. Martina's round fingers brushed over the gray-and-white fur and she beamed in delight. "It's so soft! Softer than ermine or sable..."

"Yes," Maxian said, opening his hands. The gardener's eyes snapped open and it trembled for a moment, frozen. "Go on now."

The creature flashed away across the hollow, vanishing in the space of a breath. The prince stood, brushing clods of dirt from his tunic. Martina rose too, clutching Maxian's hand for support. Vladimir stared off into the forest, feeling queasy.

"A fruitful afternoon," Maxian said, "and the moon's not even up yet. Well, we should get back." He let go of Martina's hand, turning to his prizes laid out on the ground. "Nick, get the horses, will you?"

"Yes, sir." The Latin turned away from the brilliant light, catching Vladimir's elbow. His face was still in darkness. "Come on, Vlad, let's get packed up."

They crossed the Arno on a new military bridge. The triple arches carried a double-wide road paved with bricks. Vladimir trailed the others, loping along behind where the horses couldn't smell him. The nets were strapped to a packhorse, each sphere now padded with quilted wool and wrapped in soft hides. Care had been taken to hide the brilliant treasure. The horse did not mind; the spheres pressed up against the nets, making the load light as air.

"Are you sure my son will be safe?" Martina was riding alongside the prince, chewing on a tendril of hair curled around her forefinger. "I don't like the Empress... she's like a snake. Cold, with a quick, sharp tongue... she looks at me as if I were a fat mouse!"

"Helena?" Maxian mused, his attention on the city spreading out before them. He was smiling as well, but not at her words. The hot glow of distant fires warmed his face. "She's perfectly safe, just a little testy and sharp-tongued. She'll mellow toward you with time. Heracleonas and little Theodosius are the best-kept, safest children in the world. You'll see; they'll be both spoilt rotten by the time we get back."

"Oh, I didn't mean that," Martina said, waving her hand dismissively. "His nurses took care of him before—he'll be fine in the Palace. He likes treats! It's
her
. I don't think she likes me."

Vladimir nostril's flattened closed as they passed through the gates of the city. High in the hills, with the wind out of the east, he couldn't smell the vast cesspool of humanity; hot metal and burning wood filling the valley. Now, as they rode through a vaulted tunnel thirty feet high, into the sprawling bustle of the city itself, the smell crushed in on him from all around.

Florentia had grown like a weed, sprawling across the vineyards and fields of the original
colonia
, pressing against the river, now lined with miles of stone and terra-cotta. Chimneys towered above red-tiled roofs, belching smoke and fumes. The street trembled with the echo of trip-hammers, forges, mill wheels, the racket of huge looms. Deep in the evening, the city was still bright—lit by hundreds of lamps, each giving forth its own hiss, its own sweet smell of oil. Men and women, faces streaked with soot, sweat, and fatigue hurried past on unknown errands. The river itself was barely a trickle, a muddy strip between high banks faced with brick, its strength stolen by a new dam in the hills.

They passed under a massive, four-tiered aqueduct. Two more waterways entered the city from the north and east, while the old two-tiered western aqueduct was covered with scaffolding and workers, even at night. Men labored by torchlight, reinforcing the pilings in preparation for another course and channel to run above the structure laid down at the founding of the city. Vladimir loped gingerly across a metal grating set at the crossroads of two streets. The sound of water gurgling was everywhere, both above and below. The prince and his party turned north, to the right. Steam billowed from a long brick building beside the avenue and the roar of crucibles reverberated in the heavy air.

Vladimir forced himself to continue, though the noise hurt his ears. At the prince's approach, a pair of huge doors swung open. Guardsmen appeared out of the darkness and a centurion with a plumed helmet raised a hand, squinting in lamplight. Nicholas leaned over, talking to the man. Then the guards parted and the gates rumbled back, big iron wheels squealing in greased metal tracks. The prince entered, head raised. Vladimir knew the young man was grinning in delight, pleased by the fruits of his labors.

Martina covered her ears and guardsmen ran to take her reins and help the Empress down. Nicholas dismounted, handing off his horse to a groom, quick brown eyes scanning the chaos in the foundry. Vladimir entered slowly—he hated the stifling heat and noise—and the massive doors rolled shut behind him. Dozens of sooty-faced men in leather aprons and metal-reinforced boots rammed the portal closed with a deep
thud
, then flooded past, returning to their tasks on the foundry floor.

The prince shouted above the din of hammers and the ringing sound of metal being shaped. Foremen hurried towards Maxian, appearing out of billowing smoke and steam, faces glistening with sweat. They carried padded wicker cages, fitted with long handles.

"Here are fresh hearts, newly caught!" Maxian called out, gesturing to the horse with the weighted nets. "Careful now! They're slippery and swift to fly!" Laughing, the prince peeled back the woolen quilts, letting light flood forth. Vladimir grimaced, holding up a hand to shade his eyes from the glare.

In the bright radiance, monstrous shapes appeared from close, smoky darkness in the long foundry hall. Massive, reptilian heads hung against the ceiling, suspended by linked chains. Empty eyes stared down, gaping in elongated wagon-sized skulls. Vladimir snarled up at the iron skeletons. His skin crawled, atavistic fear burning in his stomach. The wings were still bare of flesh, only arcing, skeletal struts of iron and copper. But even now men were laboring, sweat streaming from their bodies, muscles gleaming in the firelight, to fit sheets of iron scale to cavernous bodies. Cages of wood and iron that would, soon enough, hold the moon maids captive, carbuncle hearts bound in steel sinew.

"Come," Maxian shouted, gathering up Martina and Nicholas. He grinned at Vladimir. "Let's go inside, where we can think, hear and eat!"

"My lord," the Empress said, her face still flushed from the heat of the forges, "why do everything in such a remote location? It must be very expensive, building all this so far from the sea."

Vladimir pulled the heavy, padded door closed behind her. The roaring sound of molten iron spilling from the crucible shuttered down to a constant trembling in the floor. Martina sighed in relief, removing her cloak and tossing the heavy woolen garment on a low couch crowded with papyrus rolls, scraps of parchment and wooden-bound booklets. Carelessly, she cast aside her stole and sprawled in a canvas camp chair. Tables covered with more parchment, more papyrus, pots of ink, scattered goose quills and waxed tablets filled the room. For the past two weeks, the prince's entire attention had been devoted to the iron skeletons rising on the shop floor, while Martina immersed herself in every kind of ancient tome, searching relentlessly for any scrap of information that might identify their Persian enemy.