The Storm of Heaven (106 page)

Sound and motion returned, washing over the Persian in a huge billowing roar. He blinked, then shouted in alarm, seeing three Romans spurring towards him.

"Balkh! Balkh and Purandokht!" he screamed, hastily stowing the bow in its fleece-lined case. His hand closed around the haft of a mace and Piruz turned his horse, shield rising between him and the first attacker. His household troops rushed towards him like hawks, coming at his call. "The Empress! The Empress!"

The air trembled, slow-rising pillars of dust twisting in the wind off the Propontis. Mohammed rode under a green banner, held high at his shoulder by that young scamp Khalid. Under the hooves of his flea-bitten mare, high grass bent and swayed in the wind. The
qalb
of the Sahaba rode on all sides, trotting down the long grassy slope of the hill. A gently waving forest of lances and helmets was opening out into a great wedge as they moved.

In his heart, Mohammed felt a great relief. Khalid's scouts had passed on word that the Emperor had come forth, battling alongside his Legions.
My journey is almost complete,
he thought. The Quraysh clucked at the horse and she pricked her ears up, then began to canter, moving faster and faster as they swept down the hill. The drumming of hooves rumbling all around him, the
qalb
began to pick up speed.

Khalid shouted in joy, raising the green banner, letting it stream in the wind of their passage. Mohammed grinned back, feeling a great and encompassing sense of camaraderie with the young captain, for the Sahaba who flowed so swiftly over the ground, for all of the men who had chosen to follow him. Heavily armored guardsmen rode around him in a constantly moving circle. Mohammed knew they were Khalid's men, carefully chosen to protect him in this brazen charge. For a moment, the Quraysh regretted that his own Tanukh had become scattered through the army, serving as captains, as banner leaders, even generals.

Where is Shadin now?
he wondered.
Has he seen the green banks of the Nile?

A great rolling shout suddenly erupted from the throats of the Sahaba, thundering across the fields. Ahead of them, across a wide swale of stumps and broken walls, the massed ranks of the Legion grew larger with each stride of the horses. Mohammed reached down and half drew the blade of night, letting the sun gleam in its inky depths, feeling a fierce joy rush up in him.

"Allau Akbar!"
roared his men, spreading out, galloping forward, their lances dipping down, shining in the sun, the wind whipping their banners and plumes back.
"Allau Akbar!"

Mohammed rose up in his stirrups, the black saber singing over his head, and his own voice joined the rolling, enormous shout. Madness filled the men, he could hear it hissing in his own blood, a reckless passion for battle.
"Allau Akbar!"

Ahead of them, the Roman legionaries were grounding their shields, shifting into a tortoiselike formation, their golden and red standards waving at the center of each line. The rear ranks would be readying their javelins, waiting for their centurions' basso shout, waiting, waiting, watching the enemy hurtle closer.

Mohammed slashed down with the blade, feeling an electric shock run up his arm. The saber trembled in his hand like a live thing, eager for battle, straining to leap into the throats of his enemies. Everything was narrowing down to a hazy gray tunnel, focused solely on the faces of the Romans, sweating and pale, who stood before him.

"Allau Akbar!"

The Arab charge swept down into the shallow stream, water leaping up in white plumes from the hooves of the horses. In an instant they were past the barrier, surging up in an unending stream of leather and steel and screaming men, and crashed into the Roman ranks.
Kontos
, leveled in the charge, speared into the Roman shields, the horses, mad, shouldering into the mass of legionaries. Twelve-foot lances punched through armor and laminated wood alike, crushing the first rank of swordsmen with a rippling, unending
crash
.

"Allau Akbar!"

Mohammed slashed down, the edge of the black saber cleaving through the Roman soldier's shield, his arm and the leather straps that held the wooden
scuta
to his bicep. The young man shrieked in agony, feeling his arm tear away. The Quraysh was already past the beardless boy, his blade whipping around, splintering through the helmet of another Roman. Gray and red spurted from the side of the man's head and he too was down.

The Quraysh surged forward, slashing his way through two and then three ranks of Romans. The legionaries seemed stunned and filled with fear. The Arab charge, heedless and unstoppable, tore through their ranks. Legionaries fell on all sides, hewn down by the ferocity of the Arabs. A brief flurry of javelins arched up, falling into the ranks of the Sahaba. Horses screamed, their flanks pierced, but the faithful, gripped by blood fury, did not pause. Did not the faithful ascend to Paradise upon death, to sit at the right hand of the Lord of the World? Against such a reward, a brave death was little payment.

"Allau Akbar!"

Mohammed whirled the mare around in a half-circle, his powerful arm slashing the black saber down again and again. At his side, the massive guardsman that followed Khalid was also laying to with a will, a mace in either hand. The Romans began to break, faltering, some running, a few—older men, centurions—standing fast, stabbing at the horsemen around them with remorseless efficiency. Mohammed rushed one of them, a gray-bearded veteran crouching behind the square shelter of his shield. The fierce madness that howled in the Sahaba filled his sword arm with irresistible strength.

The Roman's
gladius
slashed at the red mare's face, but she danced aside, her hooves light on the ground. Mohammed let her take the lead, then leaned over, his right arm whipping down. The point of the black saber cracked through the shield like a lightning bolt, shattering wood and linen and hide. The centurion cried out in fear, then the sound was cut short by a harsh gargling. Mohammed wrenched the blade free, seeing it slide out of the shield slick with blood.

"Sahaba! Sahaba to me! On! On!"

A bellow answered him, the faithful swarming up on all sides, their armor streaked with blood, their horses' fetlocks red with gore. The Romans were running, some casting their swords and shields away, others wandering, stunned, on the field.

"Allau Akbar!"

Dwyrin gasped, his heart splintered by a blazing green dagger plunged into his chest. Above him, wreathed in smoke, silhouetted by the abyssal vastness of a black sky, Odenathus towered like a giant. The Palmyrene's face was contorted with rage and hate, his hands twisting the spirit weapon in the Hibernian's heart. Dwyrin felt the edges of his self shudder and dissolve, his essential being flaking away from the raging viridian fire.

Only the whirling interlocking spheres at his heart remained steadfast. Dwyrin gasped, his mind nearly paralyzed by agony. He knew that his physical body was contorted, thrashing on the cold ground, fingernails digging into the loamy earth. Dissolution beckoned, offering release from the waves of searing pain that swept through him, tearing at his concentration.

There is the spear of fire, which cannot be quenched by man, or undone, but lights the world.

A voice called to him from a great distance, speaking in an unknown tongue. Dwyrin heard it, blood leaking from his mouth, and resolve flooded into him, steeling his will. All these things—the fire, the burning dagger, pain—were illusion. On the bleak ground, his fist clenched and his eyes opened; he was free of pain.

Odenathus met his gaze, furious, then the rage and hatred cleared and Dwyrin saw his friend looking back at him. Tears were leaking from the corners of the Palmyrene's eyes.

They were sitting in the darkness, listening to men singing in the night, sharing an amphora of wine. They were tired from a long day of effort, moving the Legion
carruca
across a wooden bridge and into the great camp. Dwyrin had never felt such a weary, comfortable peace before. His heart was content, smelling the smoke of the cookfires, feeling the cool air of night on his face.

Dwyrin slashed his hand up, letting the power curling and smoking in his heart burst free. There was agonizing pain again, ripping through his brutalized, overextended body, but the blow shattered Odenathus' spirit form. A high-pitched wail grated against Dwyrin's nerves, but the Palmyrene youth's looming figure was suddenly and violently gone. The Hibernian surged up, the hissing point of light flooding his will and intellect with strength. He looked upon the distant hillside, covered with short brown grass, and saw his old companions slumped astride their horses. Zoë's spirit was dancing, weaving a pattern in the air, her fingers blurring in frantic motion.

Dwyrin leapt forward, his fists burning with power. With a swift motion, he drew a fist to his heart, then flashed it out, palm forward. A burning black mote snapped out from his hand, shrieking through the air. Millions of tiny burning sparks—the air itself in all its ceaseless motion—corkscrewed around the track of the black mote, which swelled enormously as it rushed forward.

Zoë's eyes widened and Dwyrin could feel her fear rush up like a whale breaching in the slate-gray sea off some Hibernian shore. Then the mote—swollen to an enormous black disk—struck her azure lattice and shattered it, a hammer plowing through a glass cup. Zoë screamed, a hopeless wail, and her spirit form dissolved. The mote exploded, blasting away the lattice and the scattered patterns still drifting around the crown of the hill.

Dwyrin sagged to his knees, the hill growing distant, shrouded by the haze of battle. Weariness washed up again, stronger than before, and he could barely concentrate. His will slipped, evaporating, and he was in his body again, drenched with sweat, still lying on the parapet of the old Arab fortification. The golden glow that had emanated from the Emperor's portrait was gone, leaving only clouds of dust drifting over Dwyrin's body. All around him, the roar of battle continued unabated. Vladimir had disappeared, leaving him alone.

The boy wept with exhaustion and grief, his face turned to the dusty white sky.

A rattle of drums echoed back from the towering walls of Constantinople. Rufio, leaning on his sword, exhausted, his face bleeding from a bad cut, raised his head. The Avars were falling back, their fourth attack on the battle line of the Faithful a corpse-laden failure. Fewer than five hundred of the original two thousand Scandians were still able to fight. Mismatched cohorts from the Sixth Ferrata and the Fourth Parthica formed most of the line. Their ranks were very thin. A wide swath of Avar and Slav bodies carpeted the ground in front of the shield wall. Flies were beginning to gather, drifting in huge clouds over the dead.

"Hold your positions!" Rufio barked, stilling a movement by the Faithful to advance. "Find your centurions and maniples, regroup!"

The Scandians milled about, their faces red and slick with sweat. Their shields were nicked and splintered. Some men had been fighting wounded and now they were culled from the front ranks by their centurions. Rufio climbed the side of the Arab rampart, Olaf and some of his kinsmen at his back. The golden glow from the Emperor's standard had died out. The captain of the Faithful was concerned. The effort of holding the Avar attack had consumed all of his attention, and it had left him on the city side of the Arab fortifications. A whole other battle was still raging out on the open plain.

When he reached the top of the wall, he cursed, seeing that the cohort of Faithful protecting the icon of the Emperor had been forced back through the double rampart and ditch and were engaged in a sharp melee with a group of Persian
diquans
. Rufio spun, then shouted down at the men on the city side of the rampart.

"Reserves, up here on the double! Fourth Parthica, forward!"

The
cataphracts
of the Fourth wheeled their horses around as soon as they heard his call and galloped up the road that cut through the ramparts. Rufio waved them on, then slid down the bank of loose earth himself. Nearly a hundred of the Faithful sprinted after him, a bellow of rage on their lips. No Scandian would fight alone today! Legionaries from the Sixth also scrambled up the rampart and began sliding down the inner slope.

Rufio ran forward, the soft ground yielding under his boots. Faced with Roman reinforcements, the Persians were beginning to fall back. Half of their number began shooting from horseback, black-feathered arrows winging over Rufio's head. He turned his shield and angled it towards them. The Emperor's icon was smoking from fire arrows that had been shot into it. Luckily, the heavy glass and gold was not flammable. Horns blew, summoning the Persian horsemen back beyond the outer rampart.

Reaching the side of the men holding up the icon, Rufio gasped for breath. "What has happened? Why did you fall back?"

The nearest of the men, his face running with blood, the stump of an arrow jutting from his shoulder, turned towards him. "Captain, the iron men broke, driven back onto the road. We barely escaped through the wall. Some men were shouting that Prince Theodore is dead."

"Dead?" Rufio's face split with a snarl. "The worthless bastard!"

A mounted
cataphract
of the Fourth rode up, his helmet plumes indicating that he was a cohort commander, or
ekatontarch
. He leaned down. "Captain, the Persians have fallen back, but I see fighting on the road ahead. What do we do?"

"Attack up the highway immediately," Rufio snapped, wishing he had a horse. He couldn't see very far from down on the ground. "We must not let the Persians break through. I will send the rest of the Parthica up to support you, and as many of the Sixth Ferrata as we can spare."

The
ekatontarch
sketched a salute, then galloped off. A column of his men hurried after, blowing their signal horns. Rufio turned back to the standard bearers. "You men," he shouted, pointing at the Faithful who had followed him over the wall, "take this icon. All these men are wounded, they must go back to the city immediately."