The Dark Lord (111 page)

"Hold! Hold!" Alexandros waded into the fray, slashing down with his cavalry
spatha
, splitting open the skull of a desiccated Roman. The creature's hands scrabbled against the blade, trying to wrench the sword from his hands, but the Macedonian kicked out, shoving the corpse away. The dead man was immediately trampled underfoot by a wave of his fellows, oily yellow guts squishing under hobnailed boots. A noisome stench rolled before the
gaatasuun
, choking the air and making living men faint with nausea. "Reserves! Reserves here!"

Bucephalas reared, striking out with flying hooves. Steel sparked on rusted armor, smashing two half-rotted ghouls back. The dead went down, tangling the legs and arms of those behind. Alexandros swung with the horse, slashing the head from another undead Roman. The legionnaire continued to fight, methodically hacking away in front of him, even though no one was there. Grimacing, the Macedonian leaned down and slashed the backs of the thing's mottled gray legs. The corpse toppled, arms still swinging.

Another rush of the dead boiled up the slope and Bucephalas screamed. Spears jabbed at the horse's face and he reared. Alexandros, unprepared, toppled out of the saddle, hitting the ground with a clang of armor and metal. The stallion whirled, kicking with his back feet, shattering the dried, fragile skulls of two more assailants. The dead pressed forward, black ooze spilling down their archaic armor.

Whinnying, Bucephalas bolted back out of the line of battle. With only a moment to spare, Alexandros managed to get to his feet and was immediately beset by two headless spearmen. Their leaf-bladed spears jabbed at him in eerie synchrony and the Macedonian slapped one weapon away, then grunted, the other scoring across his breastplate at an angle.

"Reserves!" he screamed, hacking down with his
spatha
and cleaving the exposed arm in twain. "Hold the line!"

The other spearman lunged and Alexandros twisted, catching the point on his shield. Iron squealed on the laminated wood, then the Macedonian stepped in and smashed his blade down on the thing's exposed collarbone. Ribs splintered, black-and-gray dust spewed from a dozen ancient wounds and the thing collapsed. Alexandros stepped back, drenched with sweat, gasping for breath. His sword arm did not feel exhaustion, but his mind struggled to break free from the melee surging around him.

"Hold the line!" he screamed, falling back a step. Two legionaries with oval shields filled his space, and Alexandros felt a peculiar chill as one passed through him like mist. "Hold..."

We'll hold,
growled a sharp voice in his mind. The ghostly centurion stepped past and a maniple of his men flooded into the gap. As insubstantial as their spears were, they crushed back the crawling dead, bright blades licking down to pierce spines or hew legs from under the walking corpses.

Alexandros staggered back from the line, then flinched away from the sky.

A colossal blast thundered overhead and two burning figures streaked past in the upper air. The Macedonian's head snapped around, trying to follow their flight to the north and he suddenly realized the sky was choked with cloud, vast plumes of steam rising from the bay, the forested lands behind the beach engulfed in a spitting, crackling forest fire. The sun had set, but the land was lit by wavering flame on land and sea. High up, beyond sight, he could hear the roar of some monstrous creature quartering the sky.

Stand fast,
bellowed the centurion and Alexandros was at his side, staring down the slope. A wedge of men—living men—in gleaming armor jogged towards them under waving sunburst banners. The furious attack of the dead had drained away, those few remaining animate wandering aimless or crawling on the ground like enormous snakes. The Macedonian stared in surprise, recognizing the enemy banner, then drew himself up.

"Romans! To me, to me!" His
spatha
swung down, pointing at the advancing men. "Great Persia comes! Let us show him what Roman valor means!"

A bellowing shout answered the Macedonian as he wiped sweat from his eyes and settled his battered shield. He had never expected to face the war flags of Achamaenid Persia or the golden-masked Immortals again—yet here they came at a run, straight up the shallow slope at him. His grip tightened on the sword hilt.

Epirote scum,
echoed the ghostly centurion's voice. The man was almost solid now.
Where are your fucking elephants now?

Maxian swept through smoky air, long, dark hair flying out behind his head. With the Persian sorcerer driven before him in panic, the prince turned his attention aside for an instant, eyeing the fleet scattered across the bay. Many of the ships were afire—some had already burned to the waterline, leaving ghostly hulls half-visible below the choppy water—but more remained. The wind continued to bear unseasonably from the southeast. A few of the surviving Persian merchantmen were tacking away from the shore, wakes bright in the dying, ruddy light. Some of the remaining ships continued to unload, sending more boats filled with men towards the beach.

Alexandros is in trouble,
Maxian thought. A chorus of voices rose in his mind, clamoring spirits eager to gain his favor. Their whispers resolved into a litany of coherent thoughts:
the Roman army is too small and trying to fight in too many places at once.
The prince grimaced, slowing his headlong flight through the air.

The dark shape of the Persian disappeared among the jumble of houses, temples and imposing theatre of Catania itself. There were no fires burning in the town and the fading light cast the streets and avenues into shadow, but Maxian—with a cold smile—thought he'd have no trouble running the sorcerer to ground when he needed to.
He's out of play for the moment... and that is enough.

Frowning at the enemy fleet, the prince turned his attention to the sea and the vast web of forces and powers at work above, on, and below the waters. He could feel—would see, if he cared—the glittering forms of two Persian wizards still active on the beach itself. But their light was dim in comparison to their master and Maxian set his thoughts of them aside.

Their fleet is too numerous.
Columella's dry voice whispered.
You must not give the Persian too much time—he will recover his strength, set fear aside, devise stratagems to defeat you. Let Lord Alexandros deal with these matters.

"No," Maxian said aloud. He drifted in the air, surrounded by potent signs and the ceaseless, shimmering motion of his patterns and wards. Hundreds of feet below, waves swept in long, foaming arcs against the shore and men struggled and died, pierced by iron or steel, over sandy ground. He could feel their spirits flash bright, then vanish as blood spilled and breath fled. "A Persian army ashore, intact and ably led will be more trouble than we can afford."

His eyes lifted to the vast, smooth cone of Aetna and a grim, almost mischievous smile came upon him.

Great Lord, you cannot...
Columella grew silent, feeling a spark of anger flare in the prince's mind.
The citizens...
The old ghost's voice trailed away feebly.

Maxian let sight expand, shedding the immediate pressures of flesh and the wind and smoke biting at his nostrils. A sullen red core slumbered far beneath the mountain, tendrils of glowing crimson slowly rising, percolating through the veins of the earth, finding release from subterranean pressures in gouts of steam and a constant, rumbling
hiss
that threw a column of flattened smoke away from the mountaintop. The prince felt his irritation mount—time
was
pressing and he could feel the Persian's sharp-edged pattern growing stronger—the mountain was quiet, without the vast lode of power Vesuvius once held.
The Oath is not trying to bottle this one,
he realized.

One of the pale lights whirling around him flared, and the prince saw a brief, fear-etched vision of a massive wave roaring up out of the sea, smashing ships to kindling and then raging against a shore studded with ornate houses of stone and brick.

"Well done." Maxian grinned, favoring the mote with a moment of his attention. He could feel the Oath trembling around him; a deep, superbly complex matrix of memories, traditions and the living citizens of the Empire. His intent flashed out, leaping from Aetna's dark, trembling heart along a fissure running out to sea. Swiftly, his will sped, burrowing beneath the earth, finding black fumaroles boiling in the vasty deep, splintered rock grinding against crushed limestone.

Here is some power!
he exulted, a diamond-bright pinpoint lancing down as he commanded, spearing into a tight green-and-blue balance of vast forces. There was slippage, weakness and then drowned mountains ground violently against one another, making the ocean floor heave and pitch. The sea shivered. Thousands of feet above, where the water was falling dark with the flight of the sun, a dimple formed on the surface, then collapsed, sending jets of spray hundreds of feet into the air.

The prince laughed in delight, casting a pitying look upon the ships crowding below him. He turned abruptly, speeding north, the sky rumbling behind him. Fey lights played in his hair and the whirling orbs surrounding him brightened, becoming almost visible in the waking world.

Catania swelled below him, whitewashed buildings passing by, temple roofs red with tile and bright ornaments. The streets were empty, every shutter locked tight. No one could be seen or felt. Maxian drifted past a temple of Poseidon—marble columns glowing pale in the twilight—his sense of unease growing. A dog barked wildly in a yard below. He reached out, captured the fragments of the Oath lingering in the ancient town and felt his battle-shield wax strong. His brow furrowed, feeling the tenuous fabric pervading the Roman city fray.

Something flared in the hidden world—a dark spike of power—and the prince cursed, leaping high into the air. Below him—to the right, hard by the port and the sea—the shape of a grand amphitheater rose, strikingly done in alternating slabs of dark volcanic rock, red brick and pale yellow marble. Three terraces of columns and arches, with boxed seats, surrounded an oval floor. The tiers of seats and the sandy floor were covered with thousands of fallen men, women and children.

They fled here when word of the battle came,
Columella whispered sadly.
Seeking safety. The old city walls were torn down for building materials in the time of Emperor Trajan.

Ebon hues played among the statues lining the top deck of the amphitheater. Maxian slowed to a halt, the roof only inches below his feet. Flat, rust-colored tiles splintered as he drifted across them, the strength concentrated in him distorting the waking world. Ghosts prowled around him, empty eyes vigilant for the enemy. He could smell the acrid stench of death in the air and the queer, trembling vibration in the hidden world when lives were taken to grant power. Maxian shuddered, feeling the urge to consume rise in his throat. His mouth stretched in a feral snarl. Some of those sprawled on the sand still lived... the prince darted down to the theater floor, a black crow with ragged wings stooping over the crumpled body of a young man.

"He's not—" Maxian staggered, the counter-rotating spheres around him lighting with a tremendous flash. The Persian stormed out of a tunnel mouth, a whirlwind of black lightning slashing at the prince's shield. Layers of glittering blue-white shuddered, then cracked, darkness surging against the barrier of drifting glyphs. Ghosts swarmed into the breach, wailing piteously, their frail remnants dissolving in a mad rush. The sorcerer stamped down with a scaled foot and the sandy floor erupted with a
boom!
Maxian flew backwards, crashing into the retaining wall circling the amphitheater floor. His physical body bounced back from the tufa wall, blood flying from his mouth.

Mind distracted, his shields weakened, straining to hold back stabbing bolts of indigo, the prince spat to clear his mouth, forcing himself to his feet. The last of the ghosts congealed before him in a wavering wall of lights, but their numbers dwindled with each attack. The sorcerer clapped his hands together, eyes blazing, and the stone behind Maxian groaned and split, showering him with needle-like shrapnel. Physical pain cut into his focus, but the prince had no time for such trivialities.

Faintly, he could hear a roaring sound rising to swallow the world.

Maxian crouched down, letting the last of his brittle shields fail, the sign of Athena guttering, overwhelmed by darkness and he pressed his hands against the sandy ground. He closed his eyes, ignoring the blood and sweat dripping from a forehead scored by deep cuts. A familiar, debilitating cold flooded around him, leaching his strength, drawing his breath out in trailing white mist. The Persian's laughter rolled and trembled in his ears, as the stone walls of the amphitheater creaked, crumbling to ash and dust.

Shahr-Baraz ran up the dune, his boots dragging in soft, black sand. His breath came in rasping gulps, though his stride did not waver or slack. He was the Boar and his strength of limb and will was without limit. Armored hands grasped the hilt of a heavy, straight blade half-again longer than the longest carried by his guardsmen. Another man would find the sword taxing to lift, much less wield in combat. Shahr-Baraz had sparred with a weapon like this—either a sword or mace or axe—since the first whiskers sprouted on his chin.

The
pushtigbahn
loped alongside their captain, each man laboring through the loose sand, weapons held high, shields riding on brawny arms. They did not waste their breath in shouts of rage or war cries; each was a veteran, selected from the ranks of the great nobles for valor, for courage, for skill in the saddle and afoot surpassing all others. Among them, the dark, cloaked shapes of the Shanzdah strode like hunting dogs, silent and intent. The ground firmed and now there were drifts of shattered bodies, legs hewn from hips, arms cast awry, rotted skulls caved in by axe and spear.

Shahr-Baraz saw the army of the dead had broken upon the Roman lines and the enemy was waiting, shields locked, three—perhaps four—ranks deep, every face set, weapons ready, poised to accept their charge. Shahr-Baraz raised his massive blade abruptly and the trumpeters and drummers slowed to a halt. "Sound," the King of Kings shouted, keen gaze sweeping the line of battle.