The Shadow of Ararat (64 page)

Shaking his head, Dwyrin had climbed among the boulders and slabs of stone until he found an alcove with fire markings on the southern wall. He, Eric, and Odenathus had dragged their gear from the wagons up there and set up camp. The looming rocks, brittle and worn by the caress of winter, made a fine windbreak. The army of the Eastern Emperor was still staggering into the valley and falling asleep wherever they found themselves.

"What do you think will happen when we come to battle?" Dwyrin said, after washing the grit of the bread from his mouth with a draft of sour wine. "It seems like we are two different armies, cast together by mischance."

Zoë snorted, peering at the wild onions and dried apricots she had mixed in with the yellow beans. She looked up, catching his eye, her own reflecting the red gleam of the coals. "If
you
can learn to work with us in the hidden world, barbarian, then the two armies can fight as one."

Eric choked with laughter and Odenathus leaned over to thump him hard on his back. Dwyrin made a face at him and passed the
acetum
over. The Northerner took two long swallows and breathed easier.

"Five-leader, I'm serious!" Dwyrin spread his hand in dismay. "You see how they march—a shambling disaster. Stopping and starting as they please, fouling the water of any river we cross, a mob of disorganized bands and personal retinues."

"They do lack discipline," Odenathus said from the other side of the fire. "But they are here, and they will fight. The Legions of the West are the core, though. If they stand firm, we will have victory."

"Nicely quoted." Zoë sniffed. "I think these beans are done. Give me your bowls."

A glass after dark, Zoë had appeared at the edge of their camp, a sour look on her face. The sky behind her was lit by the fitful glow of the encamped army. She still had her bow, but no game, only some gathered herbs and onions. She had been pleased that Dwyrin had found kindling, for they had not had a chance to gather wood on the lower slopes. Her quiet word of thanks had lifted his spirits tremendously, though it was no stretch for him to ferret out the hidden stockpile left by whomever had been using the alcove as a camp. Any shepherd at home would have done the same.

The beans were sour and tough, but to Dwyrin they tasted divine after a long day of trudging up the steep road. Salt pork and mutton also paled after weeks on the march. He crushed an onion and felt its sting on his tongue. It felt good to be here, with his companions, around the fire under the dark sky with weary feet.

"The first battle will be the test," Zoë said, cleaning out her bowl with a long finger. "If someone panics and runs, or we lose the barbarians to a stratagem, that will put paid to us. But if we can win one with this circus, we'll be invincible."

Eric rattled the pot, looking for more scraps. It was empty. He frowned and put it down. "What will we do? I mean—we're the weakest five in the
Ars Magica
—will they have us do anything? I don't want to hold horses again..."

"No," Zoë said, "we'll be in front. Colonna tipped me off yesterday. The tribune has decided to put us up with the skirmishers. We run forward with the slingers and archers and harass the enemy lines while they deploy. He thinks that we can spook the enemy while they're still getting their thumbs out. Oh, we look for elephants too." Dwyrin stole a glance at Odenathus, who had turned quite grim at this news. Zoë did not seem happy either, staring moodily into the fire. Ramifications tumbled around in Dwyrin's thoughts until some of them slid queasily together. "Ah," he said tentatively, "that would mean that we'd draw the attention of the other side's heavy hitters first, wouldn't it?"

"Yes," Zoë said, her full lips twisted into a grimace something like a smile. "We're bait for the big fish. As a condolence, if they slam us down, the tribune promises to make them pay a heavy man-price for us."

Shahr-Baraz shouted aloud in joy, though his words were instantly torn away by shrieking wind. He strained against the heavy leather straps that bound him to the back of the
byakhee
, leaning forward into the wall of wind that howled around him. Ahead of him, also strapped into a web of leather and metal clasps, Lord Dahak grimaced at the foolishness of men. The sorcerer leaned to the left and blue-black light flickered around his hands, driving the vast creature to wing over and sweep at tremendous speed across the face of the world.

Baraz looked down as the creature tilted, its bifurcated wings a blur under the light of the moon. Vast expanses of empty desert rushed past below them, though he could see, to the north, a dim cluster of lights that must be the cities of men. The land far below was marked by long sinuous silver trails, like the backs of thousands of snakes. They passed over a wide expanse of mottled black hills, then a scattering of tiny lights.

We land soon,
echoed the bone-brittle voice of the sorcerer in his mind.
The valley of the Orontes lies just ahead.

Baraz peered forward, leaning close over the shoulders of Lord Dahak. Suddenly they passed over a city—no more than a crowd of moth-lights under the moon and the glint of a lake lay off to the southwest. Baraz scanned the rushing countryside under them, looking for any sign...

There!
He exulted at the sight—a great camp of men, lit by hundreds of fires. Tents glowed from lanterns and long lines of torches marked the streets of the encampment. Then the creature rushed on and the camp fell away behind them and they passed over another range of hills, dark and brooding in the night. Baraz stared back, over the long snakelike tail and maneuvering wings.

What? Shouldn't we have landed?

He turned to look forward again and the creature spread its great wings and slewed into a corkscrew dive. The barren top of a tall hill lay below them. There was a blast of air that scattered leaves and dust in a wide pall, and it landed delicately on long thin feet. The vast creature danced a little to the side, folding mountainous wings back against its rugose, tentacular body.

Lord Dahak relaxed a little in the harness and looked back over his shoulder at his companion. Baraz was already unfastening the buckles that held him into the framework. The big man threw a heavy bag over his shoulder and tossed down two more wicker baskets that had been secured behind him. The sorcerer followed suit, though with less eagerness, his hands shaking a little with exhaustion. The big man slid down the hairy flank and thumped heavily to the ground. Then he reached up and dragged down a bundle of weapons that he had been sitting on. Baraz paused.

"Lord Dahak, why are you unbelting yourself?" His voice was puzzled.

Lord Dahak sighed and rose up to stand on the enormous shoulder of the beast. Under him, it quivered slightly, feeling the lessening of his control. He was weary from the effort of maintaining his mastery over the promethean thing and resigned himself to climbing down to the ground, even as Baraz had done.

"Get back," he snapped at the Persian. "It will make a great wind when it goes."

The mammoth wings unfurled and blotted out the stars and the moon. A wind rose, like a gale, and lashed the two men with small stones and twigs from the trees that surrounded the top of the hill. The thing gave a mournful call, like an unguessably vast hound, and vaulted into the air. The hilltop shook with the pressure of its flight, and then it was gone, swallowed by the darkness between the stars. Baraz picked himself up off the ground and spat out a mouthful of sand.

"Lord Dahak, don't take this amiss, but why are you staying with me?"

Dahak's face was unreadable in the darkness, but he said, "The King of Kings commands, and I obey. He commands that I assist you in this campaign."

Baraz stared at the sorcerer. But then he caught the grim expression of Lord Dahak, and instead he turned his mind to plan and action and thought.
A wizard to help me, every advantage to my hand! The Romans will suffer greatly with this turn of events.

Dahak wrapped his robe around him, and drew the hood up over his lean head.

"The camp of the Great Prince Shahin," he said, "is beyond these hills." He walked off into the trees to the north. Baraz looked up at the moon and then back to the south, whence they had come. He tugged thoughtfully at the bristly mustaches that gave him his popular sobriquet, and then he trotted off into the trees after the sorcerer.

The Boar, now dressed in a heavy cloak over his armor of plate cuirass and mail of iron scales, strode up to the doors of the massive tent that lay at the center of the Persian camp. Around him acres of tents glowed with the light of lanterns and torches. His head was bare, and he had combed his lush curls out to lie on his shoulders like a carpet. His beard was groomed as well, though it had been difficult to do in the dim night beyond the sentries of the camp. With some coaxing, Dahak had conjured a pale-white light so that Baraz could see himself in the lead-glass mirror that he carried. The massive sword that he favored jutted over one shoulder in a sheath of wood wrapped with leather. Lord Dahak limped behind him, his mood bitter. The sorcerer had turned his ankle as they had negotiated the slope of the hill in the darkness. Luckily, he leaned on a tall staff of rowan wood. Still, those men awake in the camp looked upon the two of them and quickly returned to their duties or tents.

Baraz ignored the two guardsmen in light chain mail and russet robes at the entrance to the tent, striding past them with his head held high. The two men controlled themselves, for they recognized the one-time commander of the army. They did not meet the flickering pale eyes of Dahak as he passed, limping. Within the tent, which was divided up into many chambers, a sudden hush fell upon the main room.

"Lord Shahin." The general's voice was blunt, like a heavy axe striking meat.

At the center of the chamber Shahin rose, a stoutly built man with a long face and curly beard. The Great Prince, the cousin of the King of Kings, was richly attired in green robes of linen and silk. He wore a small circlet of gold around his head and many rings on his fingers. He carefully put down a crystal goblet filled with wine and bowed in greeting.

"General Shahr-Baraz, welcome to my tent. May I introduce my companions?"

Baraz snorted, sounding very like his namesake. Shahin's eyes, artfully outlined with kohl, narrowed. The Great Prince was accustomed to being treated politely, even by rivals, and here—surrounded by his supporters and his own army—he was not disposed to be slighted. "There is no time for pleasantries, Great Prince. Summon your commanders and allied princes, there is much to be done before the night is out."

The courtiers, who had remained sitting until it was clear who held the social superiority, tittered a little, laughing behind their hands. Baraz spared them a glance and saw, to his disgust, that the tent was filled with gorgeously attired men in perfumed silks and rich clothing. His heavy brows beetled over his eyes; the number of pleasure slaves who languidly ornamented the arms of the nobles present told him a tale of a leisurely advance into enemy lands. The general turned back to Shahin, who was gazing at him with a tilted head, much like a swamp crane viewing a tasty frog.

"Your presence is most welcome, Baraz," the Great Prince said in a smooth and cultured voice, "but it is late, and I was about to retire. Do you bring some news that needs to be relayed before the sun rises?"

"Aye," Baraz said gruffly, "but first a simple question—do you know where the army of the desert tribes is this night?"

Shahin was taken aback by the odd question.

"Sadly, no," he replied, smoothing the lay of one of his sleeves. "We have made good progress advancing into enemy lands but have yet to see more of the Romans and their rabble than a few tracks upon the road."

The Great Prince returned to the divan that he had been reclining upon. Two of his slaves, clad only in the barest silk, attended to him. Apparently he had been interrupted in the middle of a manicure. The one on the right, with her lush red hair piled up on her head like a stormcloud, eyed Baraz fearfully but bent over the Great Prince's outstretched hand with her tiny file.

Baraz growled in anger, then spun on his heel and stalked to the entranceway. He noted, in passing, that Dahak had entered the chamber behind him and was now sitting in the corner, unnoticed by the assembly, save for one slave who had brought him a bowl of crushed ice. Outside the tent the general rapped the sentries sharply on their helmets. They spun, outraged, but stopped when they saw the looming shape of the Boar.

"Quick about it, lads, find me the commanders of the cavalry, the light horse, the infantry and anyone else with a plume and half a wit about them. Double-time!"

The two sentries saluted and trotted off into the darkness. Baraz watched them go and grunted to himself.
Well,
he thought,
between Dahak and I, we might yet win...

When he returned to the tent, the courtiers and the Prince had resumed their conversation as if he had never interrupted. A quartet of musicians had taken up a tune in the corner, and the flute player was trilling a light air that sounded like birds in flight. Baraz reddened and strode across the room to the drum player. The man looked up in time to scuttle aside as the general snatched up his heavy instrument and laid into the surface with a heavy hand.

"All right, everyone out! Out! Out! Out!" Baraz punctuated his bellowing with a mighty thump on the drum. He shoved his way through the courtiers, who had leapt to their feet in fear.

"Out! Everyone out!" The Boar punctuated his shouts with his boot. Tables overturned and the musicians fled. Baraz threw the drum out the front door of the tent, braining one of the poets who had run out into the camp street.

The man dropped like a pole-axed cow and lay still in the dirt. The Great Prince had leapt to his feet as well and was shouting at Baraz at the top of his voice. The other nobles and slaves scattered. Baraz sent the last drunken man on his way with a boot to the fundament that sent him sprawling into the sand. The general turned and a fist ornamented with heavy rings flashed at his face.