The Storm of Heaven (116 page)

The Prince stood, shaking his head and popping his ears. "Empress?"

Martina was on the floor, body curled around her son, who was peering up at Maxian with wide eyes. A little kitten was clutched tight in the boy's hands, mewing angrily. The Empress was shaking, but Maxian couldn't tell if it was from fear or shock. He reached down and lifted her up.

"Empress, everything is fine. Look at me."

The woman's eyes, screwed shut, slowly opened and she gulped. She seemed astonished that the Prince was actually before her, holding her up. "
Caesar
Maxian... you're real!"

Maxian laughed, then lifted her, her son and the cat up onto the table. "Quickly now, while the disk is perfectly clear, step through." He pointed into the library in distant Rome, where Gaius Julius was waiting, arms raised to catch her. Helena was standing right behind the old man, a thin hand raised to her lips, staring in astonishment. "Go on, just step through. There's only a momentary dizziness."

"I... I can't!" Martina wailed. "This is impossible!"

Maxian shook his head, irritated by the delay, and pushed the woman hard in the back, throwing her through the wheel of fire, which still hissed and spun and smoked, and flames licked away from the whirring edge, lighting the room with a sullen green glow. Martina squeaked, then fell through the clear air, her image distorting for a moment as she passed across the disk. Then she was on the other side, gasping, her child screaming, the little cat squirming free from its chubby hands. Maxian turned away, the woman forgotten.

A pale-faced young man, dressed in priestly robes, was staring at him in wonder.

"Do you know how to keep the device attuned?" Maxian's voice was sharp.

"Yes!" stammered the priest. "I do."

"Good, then keep it focused on Rome, on the library. A great power is attacking your city—I do not think that I can stop it, not here, not so far from Rome, but I will try. I will send anyone I meet to you. Pass them through the disk, but only while the air is clear within the circle!"

"I understand," the young priest said, his whole demeanor changing, becoming confident, his face grim. He caught Maxian's shoulder as the Prince strode towards the doorway. "I'll wait for you to come back."

Maxian glanced at him, saw the determination on the boy's face, then nodded. "Don't wait too long. You must not let the
telecast
remain open if the dark power comes upon you. If you fail, Rome will die as well."

Maxian bounded up the steps at the end of the corridor, taking them three and four at a time. The old marble was slippery, but his bare feet found good purchase on the stone. At the top of the steps, there was a crumbling, damp arch and corridors leading off to the left and right. A farther stair, narrower, led upwards. The Prince paused, staring around, and realized that he had no idea where to go. He had never been in the palace of the Eastern Emperor before, if that was where he was. The short time he had spent in Constantinople had been restricted to the racing district and the harbor.

"You must go outside to look upon the enemy, but those stairs only lead to a warren of tiny rooms, all alike." The voice was melodious but dry, like the autumn wind in trees almost bare of leaves. Maxian turned, feeling a familiar chill. There was a woman, stepping forth from the shadows, her face pale against the black stone. The Prince knew her, and felt a trickle of fear pass through him.

"Did you receive my token?" he said, sliding one foot back, turning to face her. In his mind, a pattern was already forming, expanding from a single bright point into a glittering sphere of pale blue. He had not expected the struggle to begin so quickly. Defenses began to rise, though the air seemed weak and lacking in strength, as if the brick and stone and water far beneath his feet were already drained of power.

"I did," she said, gliding forward, long dark red hair plaited back behind her head. In this poor light, her pale flesh seemed to glow and her eyes burn like stars on a moonless night. As before, she bore a tall staff of bone in one slim hand. The physical shock of her presence was muted but still present. "Nineteen of my children went away with you, but only two returned, wounded and limping. I looked upon your bauble but cast it away. My children will not be your slaves, Prince, nor will I."

"I did not offer slavery," Maxian snapped, angered by the implication. "That formula would free you and your kind from the pain which cripples you and binds you to the cities of men. You have skill—I can feel it. You could make the serum. You would be free."

"We would be slaves to a drug." The Dark Queen grinned mirthlessly, her fine white teeth gleaming in the darkness. "I have seen these things before. The body changes, adapts; soon the pain returns, worse than before. My children are as they are—in the way of the world, strength is balanced by weakness. They can run in the beautiful night, hunting, they are strong, fearless and quick. Against these things, your 'serum' is of little use. They do not want to be daywalker, they are
K'shapâcara
! They are the first people!"

"Are they?" The Prince was suddenly curious. "Why are you here? Are you in league with the thing that cracks the walls to gravel? That feasts upon the dead of the city?"

"No." The Queen drifted closer, her pale hand brushing his cheek. He could smell her now, a heady, rich odor like newly turned earth and the first green buds of spring pushing through the snow. The girl Alais had smelled a little like this, but had been only a pale imitation of her mistress. He shivered, feeling his body respond.

"The thing crouched outside the city, hiding from the sun and moon alike, is an old enemy. I have faced it before, long ago." The Queen smiled, leaning close, her lips parted. "You have grown strong, Prince. Very strong. I can smell your servants, hear them, all around us. It has been a long time since a daywalker child attained such strength." Her voice softened, caressing, and Maxian caught her hand, forcing the hot touch away from his neck.

"Can it be defeated?" His gaze was fierce and direct. "How do I fight this thing?"

"We fight it, Prince. Together. It is strong, but not invincible. Not yet." The Queen drew away, her hand lingering on his muscular arm. She seemed to condense, or focus, becoming diamond hard, even the air around her shrinking away. The bone staff moved, pointing down the left-most corridor. "This way leads outside. The enemy is close; are you ready?"

"I am." Maxian felt the last of his shields, pearlescent and gray, slide into place. For the moment, they were still invisible to the mundane eye, but the air trembled around him, subtly distorting his features. He could feel the dark woman summoning her own patterns into place as well, and he marveled at their intricacy and ancient strength. Here was a creature who far surpassed him in skill.
But I am the stronger,
he thought, feeling confidence flow into him.
Rome is with me, and the Empire.

The Queen loped away down the corridor, a swift black shape against the dim walls. Maxian ran after her, his bare feet slapping on the marble tiles.

The
Empress Irene
pitched up, her curved prow breaking free of the waves, sending white spray flying away into the night. At her rear, on the steering deck, Dahvos held tight to one of the mast lines, feeling the deck yaw away from his feet. In the darkness, their way lit only by a red glow from the city, he couldn't see the waters of the Propontis, but he knew they must be heaving like a blown horse. The wave slid past and the
Irene
wallowed down into the trough. Black water surged up, spilling over the prow. Steam boiled from the sea, rising up in transparent clouds. The Roman captain was screaming at his men, the rowers and the steersmen both, and the galley began to swing into line. Dahvos squinted at the dark, seeing the crest of another huge roller coming at them, picked out by the light of the burning city.

Dahvos had set out from Perinthus in the morning, his fleet pulling hard to make time up the Propontis against the prevailing cold wind out of the northeast. Several chaotic, endless days had followed his arrival in the port city. The rebellious Eighth Legion refused him admittance at first, then relented after the centurions from the Third challenged their honor. The Western recruits and their officers were shamefaced, lining the streets as the battered remnants of the Third and the Khazars entered the city. Dahvos had treated the officers of the Eighth politely, but they no longer held any kind of command. The legionaries had been folded into the Third, returning it to full strength.

The banners and standards of the Eighth had been taken away and put into storage on one of the Western supply ships. Dahvos pretended not to notice, but the legate of the Eighth had been found dead, embracing his own sword, a day later. The Khazar Prince prayed each night, thanking the good Lord that the mutinous Romans had not decided to hold the city against him. The men of the Third had pressed him to decimate the Eighth, but there was no time for the traditional punishment. What could he do? He needed the men.

The fleet captains, on the other hand, were eager to test themselves against the Arabs and Persians. Thus this sortie, to try the mettle of the blockade before Constantinople and see how these massive wooden horses performed on the water. Dahvos had never commanded at sea, but he trusted his captains and their crews. He hoped to get a feel for combat on the water. Salvaging this war seemed to hinge on victory over the enemy fleet.

Now, watching the walls of the city grow closer with each sweep of the oars, he wondered if there was any reason to dare battle. The sea was angry, filled with strange currents and these huge, almost invisible swells. The western half of Constantinople seemed to be aflame, with a muted crackling roar carrying across the water. As he watched, dread growing in him, he saw columns of fire leaping above the walls lining the harbor and the shore. The Arab fleet was nowhere to be seen. Had they fled the earthquake?

"Captain! Signal your ships—half of us will enter the harbor, slowly, the other half must stand to sea, watching for the enemy."

The Roman captain paused in his harangue and nodded. Then he started shouting again, even more loudly than before. Sailors scurried to either side of the ship, lanterns raised in their hands. Dahvos could feel the
Irene
shift as the steersmen bent their tall oars into the water. The galley swung to the left, heading for the breakwater protecting the military harbor.

The Prince of the Khazars leaned forward, hand still wrapped carefully around the rope, watching for the opening in the breakwater. There should be lights in the towers flanking the entrance, but against the fire in the sky, it was hard to see.

"There!" he shouted, pointing at a triangular sail catching the glare, and the steersmen changed their course again. The ship, a merchantman, was wallowing out of the harbor. The
Irene
surged forward, the flautists on the lower decks calling for a faster stroke. The Roman captain came to the rail, staring out over the dark and troubled sea.

"They are too low in the water," the captain said, pursing his lips. "Yes! There, do you see them? A heavy cargo."

Dahvos counted his eyesight keen, good enough to spot a ptarmigan in a willow break, but this lurid, shifting light reflecting from the sea confused the eye. The merchantman grew closer, its round hull rolling in the heavy waves. He hissed in surprise, but one look at the skyline of the city, all engulfed in flames, and he understood. The merchantman was crowded from railing to railing with people, packed as tight as salt herrings in a barrel. They made no sound, all white faces, though they stared across the water at the passing ship. Dahvos felt the hair on the back of his arms rise up, seeing the waves slap against the side of the ship, only inches from the gunnel. A thin red stream was spilling from the wash ports.

The Roman fleet parted, letting the merchantman pass through, and Dahvos turned back to the city, his face grim. "All hands to arms," he barked at the captain, startling the Roman from a dreadful reverie. "If you have spears, pass them out. Signal the other ships."

Nodding, the captain shouted for his officers to join him on the rear deck. The Khazar turned back to the ghastly scene. Now he could make out the breakwater, which was thick with men and women and children, some clinging to the rocks, the sea surging up around them. A wailing cry rose above the roar and crack of the burning city. The harbor would be madness, filled with thousands of desperate people. Dahvos swallowed, realizing that he was going to make a terrible decision. The night seemed to grow even darker.

The Faithful Guard marched into the square around the temple of Mithra Askendant in a line fifty men across and ten deep. The arches of the Valentinian aqueduct vaulted overhead, glowing with the ruddy light of the burning districts. The temple itself rose in the middle of the square, a great merlot and cream confection of towering pillars, massive statues and three gilded domes. Before them, the square was filled with terrified people, all running from the west. At a barked command, the Faithful extended their line, covering almost half of the square. Men and women in their sleeping clothes, some carrying ragged bundles of belongings, others empty-handed, stopped, seeing the formidable wall of iron, steel and great oval shields. The citizens wept, then fled past on either side, rushing like a stream around a jutting boulder.

The sky above, beyond the black arches of the aqueduct, was glowing red and deep orange. The strange inky darkness that had passed over the city was now replaced by a surge of sooty clouds. Smoke billowed up from the burning city, filling the sky. It glowed and throbbed with sullen light and reflected fire. In the square, as the Faithful began a measured advance, axes and great swords at the ready, the glow cast long shadows on the ground and painted the shields red.

Dwyrin, now kitted out with a pair of borrowed
caligulae
, trotted along, flanked by Nicholas on one side and Vladimir on the other. Rufio was not far away, pacing the Emperor, who moved surrounded by a double row of the Faithful. Heraclius was wearing battered old armor, with only high red boots to mark him as Emperor.