Constantinople
A ceramic cup danced on the edge of a low wooden table. Dwyrin struggled awake, his mind dulled by exhaustion. It took him an endless moment to realize that the cup should not be spinning and bouncing from side to side. Then the table itself jumped up with a bang and the cup toppled over, crashing to the floor. The Hibernian, eyes wide, clung to his cot, feeling the entire building dance on its foundations. A long, slow, rumbling crack-crack-crack echoed out of the floor. Then there was silence. Dwyrin blinked. Dust was drifting down from the ceiling. He stared at the vaulted roof, watching in horror as cracks rippled across the plaster. There was a grinding sound.
He rolled out of bed, then jumped to the wall. Plaster cascaded down in a loud boom and threw up a huge cloud of choking white smoke. Coughing, Dwyrin scrambled to find his woolen trousers, pulled them on, grabbed a tunic and then bolted out of the room.
The hallway was filled with confused, frightened men. The Faithful Guard had taken a severe beating in the battle among the tombs, losing nearly half of their number. The survivors were a little jumpy. Dwyrin struggled to pull the tunic over his head, standing in the doorway of the room he shared with Nicholas and Vladimir. The Scandians were shouting, their voices hoarse as bears'. The air was filled with dust, making it difficult to see. Some of the lanterns had been knocked down by the shock. Luckily, they had guttered out on the tiled floor.
"Dwyrin!" Vladimir appeared out of the murk. His sweeping mane of dark hair was white with plaster dust and he had a cut alongside his nose. "Something is happening. You must come quickly."
"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.
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'shapacara! 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.
"Hoi nekroi! Hoi nekroi erchesthe!" shouted a man as he stumbled past, his face mad with fear.
Dwyrin stared after him as he pushed his way through the line of soldiers, fell onto the stones, and then crawled away, weeping. The plaza was emptying, leaving only scattered bodies of those knocked down in the mad flight. A measured drumming paced the legionaries, the sound of their boots echoing back from the empty buildings surrounding the temple square.
"What was he saying?" Dwyrin whispered, looking over at Nicholas. The northerner shook his head; he hadn't understood the words either. Brunhilde trembled in his hand, quivering like a hunting hound. With each step, Nicholas' thin face grew grimmer. Strange winds were at play in the vast open space of the square, sending dust and grit into the faces of the Faithful.
"I don't know," Nicholas said, holding up a hand. "Something about the dead, I think. Captain Rufio!"
The black-eyed Greek looked over, seeing that Nicholas and the left wing had stopped. "What is it?"
"I see something, there beyond the temple. We should wait here, I think, where our flanks are protected by the buildings and the aqueduct footing."
Rufio was about to answer, but a stern voice cut him off. "No. We advance. I want to see the face of the enemy."
Dwyrin saw Nicholas start to protest, but the other speaker was the Emperor, glaring between the stoic faces of the Scandians. Nicholas backed down, saluting, his arm stiff. "All maniples, arms ready, advance at a walk!"
The Hibernian let his mind settle, trying to put the distant roar of flames, the tramp of hobnailed boots, the rattle of iron and leather, the harsh breathing of the men around him out of his mind. Tonight, under this dreadful sky, thinking of the vast crawling thing that he had seen, it was very easy. The fire leapt to his will, an eager lover, already pleading for release from the prison of flesh. He looked across the square, his mage-sight casting aside the darkness, the gloom, the odd gray fog that slowly oozed from the stones.
Dwyrin cursed, a lurid, harsh word he had learned from his thaumaturgic instructor. At the same time, a strange wild howling filled the air and the plaza reverberated with the vibration of thousands of running feet. The Hibernian lunged forward, pushing his way through the stolid ranks of the Faithful. Vladimir and Nicholas shouted after him, then Vladimir was close behind, shoving men out of his way. There were shouts from along the line of shields, some of alarm. Other men had caught sight of the enemy.
Dwyrin ducked under the shield of the man in front of him, then stood up, tense. The entire square was suddenly filled with a surging, running, howling mob. Tens of thousands of figures lurched towards the shield wall, shrieking and screaming. Their numbers seemed limitless, filling the whole plaza from side to side. The red glare of the sky illuminated them fitfully, showing patches of white and black, empty eyes, missing limbs.
"The dead," Dwyrin hissed, raising his hand in a sharp, angry motion. "Stand back!"
Vladimir reached his side, saw the seething horde of corpses rushing towards them and blanched with fear. "The Draculis! The Draculis have come against us!"
Dwyrin snarled, his will intent, and fire blossomed in his heart and spoke from his hand. A hissing white bolt of flame leapt out and scythed across the shambling mob that was now only a hundred feet away. The creatures screeched, engulfed, thrashing wildly as white-hot fire burned into their eye sockets and burrowed into their withered chests. A hundred went down, incinerated, and a thousand poured into the gap, clawing their way forward, dead eyes fixed hungrily on the line of the Faithful.
"Stand! Stand!" Nicholas shouted, his voice a basso roar over the tumult. The dead stormed forward, some in rusted armor, some naked, some newly dead with their flesh still pink with the residue of life. Flame licked out from Dwyrin once and then twice, setting huge swaths of the mob alight. Even burning, wreathed in blue flame, they kept coming. "The Emperor! The Emperor!"
The dead slammed into the shield wall, mouths gaping black in the horrid red light, rotting hands clawing at the faces of the Scandians. The Faithful took the charge with a grunt, then fell back a step. Their axes slashed down, hewing heads from gangrenous necks, arms from pasty, white torsos fat with worms. The endless hollow shrieking of the dead rose and rose, rending the air, drowning out the bull roar of the centurions, hiding even the cries of the Faithful who fell, borne down by the pressing, irresistible weight of the living corpses. Even hewn to bits, lacking heads, legs, arms, the dead bit and humped forward, sliming the ground with black, rotting entrails. A vast, suffocating stench rolled before them.
Dwyrin was surrounded by an arc of desolation, clouded by a choking, bitter smoke of incinerated bone and charred flesh. Vladimir was at his back, hacking wildly at anything that lurched too close with his great ax. The blade was slick with noisome gray-green fluid that seeped from the wounds of the dead, or burst from their abdomens as they were cut down. The Hibernian's face was a tight mask of control, but fire lashed out again, ripping long burning avenues of destruction through the pressing tide. Despite this, the Faithful were forced back a yard, then another.
Nicholas, fighting in what was suddenly the front rank, stabbed Brunhilde into the chest of a corpse coming at him with a Legion pilum. The creature staggered, then clawed its way up the length of bright steel. Grunting, Nicholas slammed the thing's face, feeling bone crack under the impact of his armored elbow, then wrenched the long sword free. Undaunted, the creature clawed at his head, bony hands scraping across the cheek guard of his helmet. A fingertip, still sheathed in flesh, caught in his eye slit. Nicholas gasped at the stench, then slashed Brunhilde down, cleaving the arm from the body. The finger wiggled into his helmet, a sharp nail jabbing at his eyelid.
Nicholas staggered back, out of the line of battle, shouting with fear and grasping at his own helmet. Too late. The finger was already inside the close-fitting iron, squirming against his cheek. Frenzied, Nicholas tore at the strap under his chin, feeling the nail bite at the soft surface of his eye. There was a sudden, blinding pain and then he felt the helmet give way. Screaming in fury, Nicholas grasped the wiggling bony worm in both hands and it popped free with a wet sound. Blood slicked his face, spilling down his cheek. The vile thing squirmed in his gloves, still trying to kill. He threw it away, out over the heads of the corpses shambling towards him.
Nicholas blinked, half blinded, then wiped blood from his face. He gingerly touched his left eye and found a loose flap of skin over something squishy and moist. He felt faint, then he was on the ground, staring up at a burning sky. In his hand, Brunhilde was keening, a sharp, piercing note of dismay. "Vlad! Vlad! Help me!"
– |Dwyrin heard Nicholas cry out, then knelt swiftly, his mind speeding through ancient, half-heard chants and patterns. Everything was coming to him with dizzying speed, power wicking up out of the ground, flying down from the sky. He had wreaked enormous destruction on the surging mob of the dead, but there were still thousands coming on. Dwyrin knew, in some calm and observant corner of his mind, that these were not just the dead of the battle, so strangely left to lie on the field in the rain and mud, but the ancient dead of the city tombs and graveyards. Their numbers might be limitless.
The limestone flags of the plaza were ancient, long separated from their native hills and mountains. The fire in them was buried deep, hidden, barely an ember. Dwyrin touched it, feeling the quivering spark come to life in his presence. Wake! he called to the stones, moving his hand in a sharp arc that included the whole plaza. Wake!
– |"Fall back! Re-form shield wall!"
Rufio skipped aside, letting one of the living dead lunge past him. The captain's face was a grim mask under his helm, and he slashed down with his gladius, neatly severing the hamstrings on the back of the thing's legs. It toppled over, momentarily crippled. Despite their horrific, unnatural life, the corpses still had to use bone and muscle to move. The Faithful fell back, their axes and spears making a glittering hedge before them. Rufio was sweating heavily and his mouth was fouled with this stench that hung in the air like black fog.
He glanced to his left, looking for Nicholas, and saw to his horror the left wing had swept away from him. Hundreds of the things pushed into a gap in the shield wall, cutting the line of battle in twain. Rufio backed up hurriedly, seeing the gleaming iron helms of the left falling back towards one of the streets opening onto the square from the south. He reached his own line and looked sharply for the Emperor.
Heraclius was not far away, his armor dented and slick with gray-green ichor. The Emperor had a barbarian-style longsword in both hands. It was nicked and almost black with age. Only five or six of the Faithful were still with him, clustered at his back, watching in all directions. Their eyes met and Heraclius smiled, a half-grin. "Rufio! Where is the boy? The firecaster?"
The captain looked about, then he saw him, a hundred feet away, surrounded by a milling circle of the dead. Strangely, they were not attacking recklessly, but slowly edging their way forward. Heaps of burned, ashy corpses were strewn around the barbarian. The boy was kneeling on the ground, his face screwed up in concentration, his palms flat on the ground.
"I'll get him!" Rufio rushed forward, his sword licking out and cleaving the head from the nearest of the walking corpses. He smashed through the next two and was into the circle. Dwyrin looked up and Rufio skidded to a halt, ash puffing up around him in a cloud, his heart stricken with dread. The barbarian's eyes were burning, filled with leaping flame.
"Rufio!" Heraclius cursed, then dropped his hand. He turned, gesturing with the longsword he had torn from the rotting grip of the dead. "Come on, lads, we've got to-"