The Storm of Heaven (115 page)

"I can feel it." Dwyrin ran after the Walach, who had not waited for him to answer. He could feel something, a terrible heavy pressure in the air. There was something moving in the hidden world, something monstrous. Dwyrin's mouth felt dry and his limbs seemed to weaken, even as he ran, feeling the enormous power that had shaken the earth. Vlad led him out of the wing of the Bucoleon that housed the Guard and up a flight of stairs. The stairs were narrow and old, a tight spiral leading into a tower standing at the end of the palace wall.

Nicholas was waiting, his face drawn and grim, looking to the west. He did not turn when Vladimir, huffing and puffing, reached the platform. Dwyrin climbed up, breathing hard, and leaned with relief on the balustrade. "What is it?"

"There, you can see for yourself." Nicholas had
Brunhilde
bare in his arms, his fist wrapped around her hilt, the flat of the blade pressed against his shoulder. Faint lights gleamed in her steel body. Dwyrin turned, staring out over the gloomy roofs of the city. Lights burned in many windows, but the city huddled in darkness under a sky filled with racing clouds. Far in the distance, up the long slope of the city, past the towering pillar of Constantine in his great forum, past the looming inner walls, he could see a line of fire running from horizon to horizon, all along the massive bulk of the outer, Theodosian walls.

Dwyrin began to chant under his breath, summoning the focus to enter the hidden world. Then he stopped, for his mortal vision saw something impossible. The sky in the west darkened as if ink spilt into the air. A wave of ebon swept across the sky, racing past the clouds, covering the moon. A great shadow fell over the city, swallowing up the towers, the houses, then the column of Constantine, then lapping over the walls of the Hippodrome.

Vladimir snarled, growling at the sky, but then the blackness engulfed their vantage and the palace below. The air began to grow cold, and Dwyrin could feel the black tide draining strength from the air. Nicholas cursed, then held out
Brunhilde
at an angle from his body. The faint lights in the steel brightened until a dim bluish glow illuminated their boots and the stone floor of the platform. Dwyrin did not notice, for his attention was fixed, stunned, on the western horizon.

Something was moving there, in the darkness, something enormous. With a trembling hand he made the seeing square, and distant towers leapt into view. Flames roared up around them, violent and red, silhouetting the gates against a wall of fire. The whole wall of the city was lit by the blaze. Then, even as Dwyrin gasped in horror, a black forest of monstrous tentacles rose above the stone battlements. Glistening in the firelight, writhing with impossible life, they curled around the massive towers. Stone buckled and cracked under the pressure. Thousands more tentacles surged up, clawing at the merlons, crushing the tiled roofs, squirming into arrow slits.

Boom!
Even at this distance, Dwyrin could hear the collapse of the towers athwart the Charisian Gates. The air trembled with the noise. Vladimir and Nicholas stared out into the darkness, but they could not see what he saw. Dwyrin looked away, his mind reeling. "We have to go."

"Where?" Nicholas bent down, eyes flint hard and intent on the boy. "Where do we go?"

"To the sound of battle," the Hibernian snapped. The thing attacking the wall had shaken the earth with its footsteps. A nightmare out of some hidden pit, long thought lost and dead. Such power... Dwyrin quailed at the thought of facing such a thing in the hidden world, of seeing its true shape writhing in chaos.
I must fight this thing,
he resolved, remembering an old man in a ruined temple, crouched over a bundle of wet twigs.
There is a fire that lights the world. It cannot be extinguished!

Without another word, the young man turned from his friends and raced down the stairway, his feet leaping from step to step, his hands sliding along the ancient walls, holding him up. Nicholas sheathed
Brunhilde
with a muttered curse, then followed as fast as he dared. Behind them, Vladimir snarled at the sky again, then stopped, smelling a loathsome taint in the night air. Whimpering, he descended, the fur on the back of his neck and his hands bristling.

"Wait for me!" he called out plaintively. Ancient things were loose in the night.

A queer, groaning sound filled the musty air, rolling slowly along the length of the corridor. Stone ground against stone. The Dark Queen sneezed, then hissed at the stone roof over her head. Dust was spilling down out of the cracks between the huge slabs. Irritably, she flipped her long hair, trying to get clinging gray powder out of the thick tresses. At her feet, the little black cat meowed imperiously, darting ahead, then turning to see if she was following.

The Queen suddenly paused, turning to the west. She could feel something moving in the earth, shaking the land. She tensed, perceiving the writhing chaos of darkness that was pressing against the ancient walls of the city. "Child, this is very bad. Our old enemy has grown reckless. He must think himself a great power to lure one of Shudde-M'ell's children here."

The Queen ran forward in silence, her feet light on the cracked stone floor, though she did not leave any tracks in the dust. There were plenty of other smudges and footprints to lead her. The little black cat's nose was keen, too, and it darted ahead, a shadow amongst deeper shadows. The Queen could smell a daywalker infant in the air, her elegant nose wrinkling at the pungent odor. Ahead of them, a strange humming roar could be heard.

A bar of green light cut across the corridor. The Queen slipped up to the portal, then eased the heavy oaken door open a finger's breadth. At her feet, the little cat wormed through the opening, padding boldly forward on soft feet. A huge whirling disk of viridian fire lit the room. The hum, even louder now, came from a set of bronze disks that spun in the air, forming a matrix for the strange vision that confronted her.

"I remember this place..." The Queen whispered to herself, sliding through the opening into the room. She looked around, her face filled with sorrow. Once, long ago, she had spent many hours in this room—then it was new and filled with light and knowledge—with a dear friend. The memories brought a sharp pang with them.
But mortals pass, leaving only pain behind.

The Queen found a patch of shadow on one wall where a wooden scroll case jutted out. The green refulgence made everything look strange, but she stepped into the alcove and all sight of her vanished, save for a pair of pale, white eyes. The two people in the room had not even noticed her. They were cowering away from the whirling, humming disk, watching the image of a man speaking sharply on the other side. The Queen's rich, dark lips quirked, seeing the face of the young man in the burning sphere.
Another circle closes...

Ignoring her mistress' wishes, the little black cat crept across the floor, haunches in the air, green eyes reflecting the powerful glow of the disk. The woman was trembling, almost weeping, with a little boy clinging to her shoulder. The child was bawling, frightened by the strange lights and sounds. The little cat hopped up onto the table behind the woman and batted at the little boy's face with a soft paw.

The boy looked up, round red face streaked with tears, and caught sight of the fuzzy black creature. Blue eyes widened and it groped for the cat with both chubby hands. The little cat smiled, showing tiny white fangs, and let herself be picked up. Drool streaked her short-napped fur, but the cat did not seem to mind.

Dwyrin hobbled into the temple of Zeus Pankrator, right foot hurting from a stone he had stepped on in the courtyard. The vast domed room was filled with gathering men, most of them the Faithful Guard, but also legionaries barracked in the palace. Great chains hung down from the ceiling, holding iron wheels suspended in the air above everyone's heads. Cuplike receptacles holding candles in glass flutes ringed each wheel. Every candle was lit, shedding a warm white light on the faces of the soldiers. Far above, the dome gleamed and shimmered with a massive painting of Zeus himself, seated among the storm clouds, with gray-eyed Athena on one side and victorious Mars on the other. The images seemed to float in a shining sky, even in this dark night. Dwyrin grimaced, hopping along on one foot.

"Here, let me..." Chuckling, Vladimir scooped up Dwyrin and set the young man on his powerful shoulders.

"Vlad! I can walk, you know." Dwyrin felt absurd, perched above the crowd of men in plumed helmets and burnished, gleaming armor. The Scandians were gathering at the center of the room around an elevated block of stone. Nicholas was pushing through the ranks of legionaries. Vladimir followed, plowing through the sea of shorter men like a galley.

The block of stone, Dwyrin saw, was an altar. A corpse was lying on it, wrapped in grave cloth. A tall, golden-haired man was standing on the steps, speaking quickly to officers gathered below him. Rufio stood at the man's side, a bared
gladius
in his hand. More of the Faithful were also standing close by, helmets hiding their faces. Everyone was very grim. Dwyrin could feel an electric tension in the air.

"Runners have come," said the golden-haired man in a powerful voice. "The gate of Charisus and the Great Gate have both fallen. The earthquake toppled the gate and then something that cannot be described forced its way though. Our only hope is to hold the old walls of Constantine, halfway across the city. I will take the Guard and my household troops up the avenue of the Mese to hold the North Road gate. Gregorious, you will take the rest of the men, and anyone you can find in the city, to hold the entrance of the West Road."

Some of the officers shouted their understanding, then pushed away through the crowd. Vladimir worked his way around to the side of the altar, finding Nicholas in close conversation with Rufio. Dwyrin still felt very strange, seeing everything from above, but the Walach did not seem to notice the extra weight. The Hibernian ran his hands through his long red hair, quickly braiding it back behind his head.

"You're the firecaster?" Dwyrin looked down into the pale, haggard face of the golden-haired man. He was broad in the shoulder, though his skin seemed to sag on the bone. The blue eyes were haunted and shadowed. Despite the frailty of his body, the man was filled with nervous energy and he seemed to carry the heavy iron armor without complaint. A thin circlet of gold crowned him, holding back his stringy hair. "The witch-boy, Dwyrin?"

"Yes, lord. I am." Dwyrin bobbed his head, unable to make the proper
proskinesis
. "I mean no disrespect, but I hurt my foot."

"None taken." The Emperor smiled, showing uneven yellow teeth. "This is not a day for ritual. Rufio says you are very strong, as strong as any wizard he's ever seen. Can you stop this monstrous power that comes against us?"

"I don't know." Dwyrin shook his head, feeling queasy at the thought. "I will try."

"That will have to be enough, then." Heraclius reached up and clasped hands with the young sorcerer. A grim smile lighted on his lips, then disappeared. "I will do the same."

Dwyrin nodded again, feeling some spark of strength pass between them. The Emperor's eyes were bright and strong, even though his face was that of an ancient, sagging and wrinkled. There seemed to be no fear in him, even though the enemy had breached a wall that had never been overthrown in three hundred years. Heraclius turned away, raising his voice in a strong shout of command. "On the march, my friends! We go to battle!"

The Faithful were already tramping out of the huge room, their voices raised in a deep-throated chant. Dwyrin looked down at Rufio and Nicholas.

"We go with the Emperor," said the captain of the Faithful, squinting up at Dwyrin, his black eyes fathomless in this poor light. "Save your strength, boy, you look as poorly as he does!"

Heraclius climbed the altar steps wearily. Even that much effort began to tire him. He could not afford the luxury of a chair and bearers today! On the marble slab, laid out, arms tucked in at his sides, was Theodore's corpse. The face was covered with a golden cloth, hiding the ruined eye and savaged throat. The Boatman, Heraclius supposed, knew each man's face, as he was supposed to know the names of all the dead. The Emperor was still unsettled by the injuries. A dull feeling of dread pressed on him, filling the air. Some sorcery was at work, overwhelming the ancient wards and patterns that had defended Constantinople for the last four centuries. Looking down at the cold pale body of his brother, Heraclius was filled with confused outrage.

"You are the younger man," he whispered to himself, brow furrowed in despair. "You should be alive. I was the one dying and crippled. You were strong... Fool, fool of a boy. Riding out in armor of gold, like it was a parade! Reckless child!"

Heraclius put his hand over his brother's, feeling the cold clammy flesh. There was no life left here, only a cast aside husk. "In the songs, they will praise you, brother. I will keep the memory of your failures, your stupidity, your misguided chauvinistic loyalty, to myself. History will only remember that you died in battle, a hero, leading a doomed army bravely in a doomed cause. Maidens, I think, will swoon at your legend, leaving roses and love-notes on your tomb."

At the same time that he bent down, kissing the cloth of gold and his brother's forehead, Heraclius felt a curious relief. The tension that had marred his relationship with Martina would fade, now, and the hatred between the niece and the uncle would be a thing of the past. Even his estranged son Constantius would return to him, freed of the envy and malice that Theodore had inculcated in him.

"All we must do," Heraclius said, stepping back from the altar, saluting the dead, "is win."

BOOM!

Green flame jetted away from the edge of the spinning disk, licking across rows and rows of bundled scrolls and leather-bound chapbooks. For a wonder, the ancient parchment and papyrus did not burst into flame. Maxian landed heavily on the floor, his knees bending, and he had to catch himself with his hands. Steam hissed from his body, curling up into the air. The center of the wheel of fire quivered, distorting the vision of the library on the Palatine, then steadied again.