The Storm of Heaven (54 page)

I need help!
she wailed. If Odenathus, or even Dwyrin were here, he could have easily overmatched these children! There were vast reservoirs of strength in the long-familiar matrix of her cousin's mind.

Here, here, my child! See the brightness? See the strength it offers you?

The whispering voice returned. Distracted, Zoë rocked back, flung against the wall of the cabin by a hammer blow from the Romans. Desperate, she collapsed the remains of her other shields and curled back into a spiky violet tetrahedron. Brightness swam close at hand, a singing glow waxing and waning with the beat of her heart. More black fire raged around her, the tetrahedron cracking under the attack. Zoë wept, seeing annihilation sweep in upon her.

You've stood in the furnace,
the voice snapped, now quite clear and familiar.
You're just afraid! You'll die if you don't act!

Zoë gurgled, blood seeping from her mouth. The Romans, sensing victory, redoubled their attack; the woolen quilts began to smoke. The Roman mages drew swiftly closer, their efforts strengthening. It was becoming difficult to breathe.

The Roman attack suddenly slackened and Zoë caught a glimpse of arrows zipping through the windows of a cabin much like hers. A young man with flowing blond hair was throwing himself to the floor, shouting in alarm. She snarled, white teeth bared in defiance. There was no more time for quibbling. She reached out to the close white radiance as she had done so many times with Odenathus and Dwyrin. Zoë's pattern mingled with encompassing warmth and the shining power folded around her. Raw strength poured in, rushing like a wadi in a spring flood. For an instant, her concentration frayed, overwhelmed, but the voice was there, hectoring her, and she composed herself. Her control would be crude but far better than nothing!
Mohammed does not have the skill for this,
she realized,
though this splendor flows through him.

Her attention turned, hawk swift, to the enemy and saw they were very close.

The
Khuwaylid
shuddered, oars snapping as the lead Roman galley swerved into its side. In the rowing gallery, men were crushed between the twenty-foot long oars. A dreadful screaming rose up, but Mohammed blotted it out. He had been a grain slow to call for them to ship oars. Bitter anger at his failure welled up, but he pushed it aside. There was no place for hate or anger in this business. He willed himself to be cold, to ignore the dead and the maimed that thrashed in the bloody gallery below his feet.

"Ship oars," he called at last, his clear voice carrying well over the tumult. "Weapons!"

On either side, the Roman galleys were sliding closer, their decks filled with armed men. Arrows soared from both ships, plunging down onto the deck of the
Khuwaylid
. Some of the Arab archers returned fire, but most of the fighting men still on the deck crouched down behind their shields. Below the deck, the remaining rowers stowed their oars, then scrambled to pull on helmets and find their weapons. Like the tribes of the far north, Mohammed's rowers were soldiers first. The Yemenite crew scurried out of the way, gathering on the rear deck with their own arms and armor.

A grinding sound cut through the noise as the port side of the
Khuwaylid
felt the brush of the Roman galley. It had shipped oars as well and iron grapples flew across the shrinking distance between the two
dromons
. Neither Imperial ship was equipped with a
corvus
, but they had plenty of rope and shorter ladders. The two ships ground belly to belly and the first of the Roman marines sprang across the gap, shouting fiercely.

"The Emperor and the City!" shouted the man, just before the Arab fighters on the deck rose up as one. The marine was flung back against the railing by a dozen spears and died, bright red blood flooding from his mouth as his armor was pierced again and again. Then a flood of Roman marines and sailors swarmed over the railing, stabbing swords flashing. The Arabs raised their own cry in return, the rowing benches emptying.
"Allau Akbar!"

Then a din of metal on metal and the cries of the dying and the wounded drowned the sound.

On the rear deck, Mohammed drew the sword of night, eliciting a gasp from the Yemenite sailors around him. Even in the bright sunshine, it gleamed like the dark vault of heaven. The sun reflected in it, a dim and bloated orange disk. In it, Mohammed felt the hopes and dreams of his city and his people. As ever, it quivered in his hand like a live thing. Strength seemed to flow from it and memories of his daughters, his wife, his friends came to him.

Then he staggered, feeling as if the voice had come upon him, but there was only a great roaring sound in his ears. The Yemenites, shouting in dismay, leapt to support him. A gray haze seemed to cloud his vision and he glimpsed the second Roman galley swinging alongside and its crew preparing to leap aboard the
Khuwaylid
.

"At them," he croaked, pointing with his sword at the new enemy. The Yemenite sailors turned, their faces painted with indecision. "At them, by the great and merciful lord!"

The Imperial ship was only a dozen feet away, its crew hanging on the railing, quiet as wolves. The Sahaba fighters on the deck of the Arab ship were fully engaged in a pitched battle with the other crew. Finally, the Yemenites mustered themselves and leapt down the steps to the main deck, howling a warning to their fellows. Mohammed, struggling against this strange weakness, lurched to the opposite rail.

An arrow flashed in the sun, spiraling in towards him. It seemed to be moving so slowly. He could see the fletching turning as the bolt flew towards his chest. Mohammed dragged at the sword of night and it leapt in his hand, vaulting up to slap the arrow aside.

Normal motion resumed with an almost audible
snap
and the broken arrow fell into the sea. Mohammed found himself on the lower deck, running towards the starboard railing. Already some of the Romans from the new ship had leapt aboard and were trading swordstrokes with the Yemenites.

"Allau Akbar!"
His voice boomed like a roll of thunder over the dry desert.

At the same instant, blue-white flame jetted from the windows of the rear cabin on the Imperial
dromon
. The back quarter of the ship shuddered and cracked, lifting skyward. Smoke billowed from the gangway and the oar tholes. Roman sailors, perched on the railing, were pitched violently into the sea. The Yemenites howled in laughter, shaking their spears. Some of the Arab archers took the opportunity to feather those men still clinging to the railing of the enemy ship. The Imperial galley slewed drunkenly, loosing way as its steering oars, burning, fell into the sea. The dry wood and caulking tar of the
liburna
caught alight with wicked speed.

"Mohammed, beware!"

Mohammed spun in surprise at the shout, the slim ebon blade knocking aside a spearpoint. Some of the Roman marines had broken free from the mass of struggling men and ran at him. Mohammed felt old skills, now rarely used, spring to life. He slapped aside the spear, then lunged. The black sword screeched through the marine's armor, then slid into his chest. Mohammed drew back violently, feeling the edge of the blade catch on a rib, then shear through the bone. Two more marines attacked, one from either side, crouching slightly behind their shields. Mohammed plowed into the one on the left, beating aside his blade, then powered the blade sideways through the man's helmet. The poor quality iron, quartered and riveted, sparked as the edge of the blade cut in, parted and then the man's skull took the rest of the blow.

The second marine lunged, stabbing with his
gladius
. Mohammed tried to turn back to block his thrust, but the blade of night snagged in the heavy bone behind the dying marine's brow. He felt a freezing moment of anticipation, waiting for fatal metal to penetrate his side.

Lightning blazed instead, booming across the deck and the Roman was silhouetted for a moment in actinic light. Then his corpse was flung across the planks, smoking and hissing. The metal buckles on his leather armor scattered in molten droplets. Mohammed stood back, the blade of night dripping blood in his hand. He was half-blinded by the violent radiance, but his vision began to clear after a moment. Zoë was standing at the top of the steps from the cabins, her hand raised, her hair fanned behind her in a dark cloud.

"My debt, lady Zoë," he said, raising the sword in salute to her.

"I am still in yours," called the young woman, but there was an odd double echo in her voice.

Mohammed started, sheathing his sword with unusual speed and stepped quickly to Zoë's side. She stared up at him with wide liquid-brown eyes. He made to speak, but saw the edge of fear in her pale face. He realized that he was looming over her, beard bristling. There was no time for this mystery now. The fleets were still locked in battle all around them. He squeezed her hand briefly, sketching a quick bow.

"Seize their ship," he shouted, turning back to the melee that still surged back and forth across the bloody deck. "We've need of swift hulls!"

The Arabs, seeing that their captain was with them, raised a great shout and stormed forward, all eagerness for battle. The Romans, seeing that their fellow ship had foundered and was now afire, fell back. They still fought fiercely, but their hearts were no longer in the struggle. Mohammed waded into the fray, his long blade drinking deep of the enemy. None of the leather and cork armor could blunt its edge or still his overhand stroke. Within moments, the Sahaba were leaping across the gap into the other galley, their war cries shrilling loud in the smoky air.

Zoë felt light, insubstantial. A giddy sensation plagued her focus, but she concentrated, bringing to mind old, familiar sequences of the basic signs and transformations. As she progressed through the sixteen symbologies, her mind calmed and familiar patterns reasserted themselves. The flush of power faded, but she did not relinquish control. There was still need of the blazing flower and its strength.

She cast about for the remaining
quinquereme
and found the ship pulling away under all oars. The golden lattice of wards and glyphs had doubled and trebled since her first glimpse of the enemy. Smiling grimly, she perceived the interlocking maze of signs reaching under the ship as well as above.

They've not liked the taste of us.
She laughed to herself.
We bite!

Then she put forth her will, drawing power both from the shining radiance and from the sea. The defenses shrouding the great ship were angled to block any blow she might strike in the hidden realm. There were other ways... she could tap power that rivaled the ancients'!

The sea groaned, whitecaps flattening, and then a single swell rose up, sliding past the rear ranks of the Roman fleet. It picked up speed, aiming for the
quinquereme
.

Zoë laughed, feeling the will of the Roman thaumaturges suddenly shift in alarm. The golden dome flickered and then dimmed. The wave rushed closer, rising and rising. An Imperial
liburna
rode up on the face of the swell, crew clinging to every stay and mast in horror. Then the wave passed and the single-banked galley slid down the following slope, oars askew, rolling wildly.

There was a flash of power and the front of the rising wave lit up like the sun. Zoë laughed again, a gay, glad sound, for the thaumaturges on the Imperial ship had tried to shatter the interstices of the form driving the wave. But there was none. It was only simple water, relentlessly following an ancient pattern. Zoë had set it in motion miles away. Light stabbed in the deep, glowing blue-green through the wave. The wave towered over the ship, which had been frantically crabbing, starboard oars pulling hard while the port rowers reversed with all their strength.

The Roman
quinquereme
had managed to turn only a quarter of the way to face the wave when the swell crashed down on the deck. Zoë blinked, momentarily blinded by a flare erupting as the golden dome crumpled under thousands of tons of water. A hollow
bang
echoed across the waves from the impact of the wave front on the deck. A grinding sound followed and then the wave was sluicing from the starboard tholes and running in rivers from the deck. For a moment, the
quinquereme
wallowed, spinning back onto its original heading. The four banks of oars were hopelessly tangled, splintered and shattered. The upper decks were empty.

Too, the hold flooded and now the ship listed hard, rolling to port. Zoë wondered if anyone inside could free himself from the tangled wreckage of oars and dying men.
Probably not,
she thought with satisfaction. Memories of the plaza of bones and skulls greeting her homecoming came to mind.
Here is my justice!
echoed in her thoughts.

The
quinquereme
settled in the frothy wake of the swell. One side dipped under the waves, seawater pouring through the oar ports. The galley slid beneath the waves.

"One by fire, one by water." Zoë clenched her fist, feeling wonderfully alive. She grinned in delight, eyes hungry for the next ship she could touch with her power.

Kettledrums boomed in predawn darkness, setting the pace for a line of mourners climbing the mountainside. A thousand steps were hewn from the stone, from the lagoon below to the peak above. Each step gleamed pale white in the starlight. Along the sacred path, statues of winged maidens faced the sea, and bas-reliefs of deer and wild animals emerged from black basalt. Among the carvings, three-faced, six-armed goddesses peered out. The women walked slowly, heads bent, each bearing a lighted torch.

Carried at the head of the procession was a chair of ivory and horn, wrapped with garlands of white lilies. In the chair rode the living body of the girl Krista. Above her floated a canopy held aloft on long poles by unsworn maidens. Torchlight gleamed and flickered on the cloth of gold as if it were a sheet of living flame. The spiritless girl's hands were folded on her lap, holding fresh-cut peonies. A flowing samnite gown draped her limbs; her rich, dark curls were bound up with ribbons of gold and pearl. She stared straight ahead, gaze unwavering.