A vast blast of fire leapt from the stones, ripping from one end of the plaza to the other, shooting skyward in a flare of greenish white. Tens of thousands of the dead were caught in the explosion. Hundreds of tons of limestone slabs volatilized to an incandescent white-hot cloud in one stunning blast. Corpses and bits of corpses were flung skyward, each wrapped in clinging green fire. Heraclius was thrown back by the blast, into his bodyguards. They skidded backwards in a rattle of iron and wood, a tangle of arms and legs.
The Emperor was stunned, seeing only the shoulder vambrace of one of the guards and a sliver of red sky. At least two strong men were on top of him, crushing the breath from his chest. Cursing, he shoved at them, trying to lift away the mail pressing down on him. It was getting hard to breathe. Slowly, for his arms were far weaker than they once had been, he managed to shove the bodies aside and crawl out onto the stones. The sky was lit for miles in all directions by a hissing flare that consumed the center of the plaza. Everything was as bright as noon, tinged with strange green shadows. The roar of the combusting stone was so loud that Heraclius was deafened.
He managed to get to his knees. The guardsman on top of him seemed to be dead, his armor smoking and his beard alight. Heraclius batted at the smoldering hair with his glove, but it did no good. Acres of dead seemed to surround him, all thrown down by the blast. Many of the buildings fronting the square were now burning, smoke flooding from their windows. The temple of Mithra was a wavering vision, barely visible through the heat haze and smoke. He looked for a weapon, anything, and for any of his men who were still alive.
Something crashed into his back, throwing him down. The Emperor rolled weakly, swinging around. A figure dressed in scaled mail loomed over him, burning with clinging green fire. A spear was clutched in its bony hands, the wooden haft already smoking and charred. Heraclius groped for a sword, then screamed as the spear stabbed at him. There was a sharp grating sound, sparks flying as the spearhead cracked through a joint in his armor, and then a spreading coldness in his chest. The Emperor scrabbled at the spear, trying to pull it out.
The corpse ground the point around in his ribcage, grinning white bone in the ruin of its face. Heraclius struggled, kicking at the thing's leg, then his hands slipped weakly from the smoking wood and his head lolled back, blood spilling from his mouth. With a dry hiss, the corpse wrenched the spear from the man's chest, then crumpled to one side, the green fire eating through its legs and back. Smoke boiled up out of the breastplate, obscuring a stylized emblem of two palms decorating the back of the armor.
– |Dwyrin scuttled forward, his face averted from the wall of intensely hot flame that roared around the circumference of his little cleared circle. Grunting, the young man heaved Rufio onto his shoulder. "You're a heavy bastard," Dwyrin hissed between gritted teeth. The man seemed to be alive, though part of his face was badly burned. "Let's walk now!"
Rufio managed to get his legs under him and Dwyrin turned in the direction he thought Vladimir had run. The Walach had promised to come right back, but the Hibernian could not see him. Stray corpses staggered past, some burning, some not. There was the sound of battle off in the mouth of one of the streets. Dwyrin staggered that way, dragging Rufio. Behind him, the lime fire continued to hiss and burn, greedily feasting on tens of thousands of corpses.
As he ran, the Hibernian suddenly felt a dreadful chill and looked up in surprise. Something swept past, overhead, something winged like an enormous bat, and angry, speeding east towards the heart of the city. Dwyrin nearly tripped on a crawling arm, disturbed by the presence in the sky. He had felt the power once before, long ago. The memory was a scar, glassed over, buried but not healed. He tried to run faster, hoping to find Nicholas and Vladimir somewhere ahead.
– |The Irene slid across the dark, oily harbor waters. The crew were silent, bent over their oars, the grate and rattle of the oarlocks muted. Fire burned all along the ramparts above the military harbor, lighting the sky. Huge clouds of smoke were mounting into the sky over the city, glowing orange and vermilion. There was no wind. Many galleys were splintered and broken on the stone piers, their hulls listing above the slick water. Everywhere that Dahvos looked, he saw close-packed masses of people. They filled the quays and the breakwater from side to side. Even the half-sunken ships were covered with huddled figures. The white faces, pale and silent, stared back at him as the ship sailed past.
"Lord General," the Roman captain whispered, "we're not going to land, are we?" His eyes were wide and filled with fear. The crowds had fallen silent when the first of the Western galleys had entered the harbor, though before that a tumult of prayers, screams and moaning wails had filled the air. "They'll swamp any boat putting ashore."
"I know," Dahvos said in a cold tone. "We are not going to take on any civilians."
"What?" The captain swallowed a curse, staring out at the nearest dock. Women were holding up their children, their eyes pleading. Some younger boys had leapt into the water and were swimming towards the passing ship. On the deck of the Irene, sailors were waiting with bill hooks and spears to drive them off if they tried to climb the railing. "There are thousands of people…"
"I can see." Dahvos faced the man, his face a rigid mask, half in shadow from the ruddy glare. "This city is doomed. The Persians will not sit idly by while the defenders are distracted by earthquake and fire. They are attacking the land walls at this moment. All we can do, with these ships, is take aboard every fighting man we can. Then, perhaps, there will be a chance to recapture the city in the future."
"But… but the people!" The captain gestured wildly at the docks. "They'll all die!"
"No." Dahvos looked up, gauging the progress of the fire, seeing the towers and battlements of the seawall lit with a furious red glow. "The fire cannot burn stone. They will be safe here, if cold and wet. In a day, the fire will have died down and they will return to their homes. The Persians are not monsters-they will let them resume their daily routine."
"My lord, that is monstrous! How-"
"You will do what I command," Dahvos snapped, hand sliding around the hilt of his longsword. "We will put in there." The Khazar pointed ahead, across the water, to a long quay that jutted out into the middle of the harbor. It was thick with people crowding right up to the edge, but there was also the glint of armor and helmets among the crowd. At the end of the dock, the main road from the city descended on a causeway from the ramparts above to the harbor.
At the captain's command, the Irene swung towards the pier, her oars moving in swift unison. The ship crabbed around, then slipped forward in smooth, effortless motion. Dahvos saw, as their destination became clear, a surge in the people packed onto the dock. A wail rose up, pitiful and hopeless, from the other piers and people began to beg and scream. His jaw clenched and his lips thinned to a hard line. The soldiers on the main pier were fighting now, hacking at the mob pressing against them. People were toppling from the sides of the dock, shrieking, and hitting the water with a boil of white water. The Irene slid closer, her foredeck packed with marines, all in cork armor. A young man, still clad only in a nightshirt, swam out, clutching at the oars dipping from the water.
One of the marines, seeing him reach the prow and his hands grasp futilely at the smooth oak, leaned down. A hush fell over the crowd on the dock. The marine stabbed down with a long leaf-bladed spear, catching the boy in the chest. There was a thin scream, then a bubbling sound as the boy was pushed under the water. The ship swept on and the body was pulled under the dark water by the roil of its passage. The people moaned with fear, suddenly knowing that they were doomed.
Dahvos stared ahead, watching the pushing struggle on the dock become a battle. More soldiers were pushing through the crowd, throwing people into the water, striving to reach the end of the dock. The Irene was very close now, only a hundred feet away.
The sky lit suddenly, washed by a virulent white light. Dahvos hissed in surprise, flinching away from the city. The clouds, still boiling and thick, lit like a stained-glass goblet held up to a flame, showing ribbons of color and hidden plumes within glowing white columns of smoke. A sullen, drawn-out boom followed. Something had happened in the center of the city, throwing up a great radiance lighting the sky in all directions.
The Khazar khagan blinked, a trickle of fear in the back of his throat. Great powers were struggling in the city, as they had on the plain. He suddenly wished that he had remained at home, on the open grasslands of Sarai, with his family. O God of Avrahan, watch over us tonight, let us come through this test…
– |The Dark Queen glided to a halt in a pool of shadow. Ahead of her, the street ended in the sweeping circle of the Forum of Constantine. A massive column rose from the center of the plaza, rising up a hundred feet, crowned in gold by a striking marble statue of the first Emperor of the East. The pale face stared west, down the arrow-straight avenue of the Mese. The Forum was surrounded by temples and imposing public buildings. Four centuries of construction had ornamented the center of Constantinople with graceful buildings and blocky monstrosities. Maxian stopped as well. Her lithe speed had taken him by surprise, but then he had remembered what Alais had taught him, letting the night carry him forward.
He made to speak, but then felt the shudder of power in the hidden world. Something white hot, burning furiously, was suddenly unleashed a mile or more away. The sky flashed bright and then the afterimage reverberated in his mind and vision. The tall column threw an immense shadow across the plaza, silhouetting thousands of people milling about in fear. A rumbling crack and thunder followed, then a greenish-white flare leapt up into the sky. Maxian could not see the source, for there were many buildings in the way, but he could feel the intense heat on his face.
His shields rippled as outflung power washed over them, but it was not a directed attack. This was the flux from some massive burst of strength. He wondered what had been the focus, but knew that anything at the center of that maelstrom must be destroyed.
"What is-" Maxian stilled, the Queen having raised a thin hand. She turned, looking over her shoulder, pale eyes glittering against the white radiance flooding the sky. He half sensed her intricate layers of protection growing even stronger.
"Do you feel him?"
Maxian nodded, his skin going cold. Something rushed towards them in the night air, a heavy darkness distorting the hidden world with its very presence. The Oath was very weak here, in the East, but some fragments remained, clinging to the ancient monuments and the mile marker standing at the base of Constantine's pillar. The matrices shuddered at the touch of whirling chaos passing over them. "It is not alone."
"No." The Queen's voice was faint. "It has learned, I fear. Before, we fought many against one. Now it has gathered servants-Stand ready!"
The black point in the air suddenly swelled into a shape, rushing through the sooty air. A figure like a man, but trailing a long obsidian cloak. Something like wings flared back from the body, but they folded away as it lit on the golden ring at the base of Constantine's statue. The servant came, too, sweeping out of the night sky, the firelight of the dying city gleaming on a head of iron. Maxian stiffened, recognizing the likeness of one of the dead gods of Egypt. Fear seemed to emanate as a physical force from the black shape clinging to the summit of the column.
The crowds of people in the plaza fled, wailing, running as fast as they could in all directions. Men trampled women, threw down children and babies. Blood spattered on the cobblestones. Maxian looked away from the grisly sight, but his resolve hardened. He felt weak without the comfortable embrace of the Oath, but he was still strong. Maxian stepped out into the plaza, the pulsing white light in the sky falling upon him. The air was thick with heat, ash and the bitter iron stink of blood and urine. As he did so, the Prince set his will to draw on the strength in the stones beneath his feet, in the air, even in the buildings surrounding him.
His shields and wards flashed a deep brilliant azure, swelling with strength. The thing on the column turned towards him. Maxian felt the gaze like a blow, and a faint wash of darkness lapped around his wards. The margin of his perception heard gibbering cries, smelled a charnel stink, felt the crack of bone and the bubbling gasp of a final breath. The Dark Queen was gone, disappeared into shadow.
Begone! he called across the empty air. Laughter answered him, foul and repellent. You will not take this city. It is under my protection.
There was no answer. Instead, the sky darkened with dizzying speed. An ebon tide spilled across the smoky air, coming from the west, blotting out the clouds, swallowing the greenish-white flare. Maxian felt power fade from the world around him, seeing even the hurried, busy motion of the tiny motes that made up the air slow and fade. A deep chill fell across him and his breath suddenly puffed white.
The iron-headed dog leapt down from the column, landing softly, though his booted feet cracked through newly formed ice on the flagstones. It advanced, a black staff crowned by a snake's head in hand. Maxian drew breath, feeling the chill sear his lungs, and stepped sideways. A whirling vortex of intent flashed to his right hand. The iron dog loped forward, staff cutting down. Maxian braced himself, then staggered back. Darkness licked against his ward, soundless, but the blow was heavy, splintering the outermost pattern into a dizzying spray of smoking fragments.
Maxian slashed his hand in a sharp arc. This time there was sound. A crackling thunderclap ripped across the plaza, trailing a burning, jagged bolt. The lightning washed over the iron dog, outlining its own wards and patterns, snapping and popping fiercely. The creature was thrown back, skidding across the ice. Maxian leapt ahead, rage boiling up, fueling his power. A forefinger stabbed out, lighting the darkness with a crack! of power.
Ultraviolet waves hissed, radiating out in a swift shock. The iron dog's pattern buckled, rippling like a sea in full storm, glyphs and symbols flashing in sudden brilliance, then fading to nothing. Smoke boiled up from the surface of the plaza, the frost exhaling in a white cloud. The thing was forced down to a crouch, iron head bent. Maxian could feel the presence of the dark figure in the dog, making an odd double echo in the thing's pattern. He struck again, lips pulling back in a grimace, and the plaza lit with an azure flash.
The clouds rippled away from the blast, swirling into cone-shaped vortices, and lightning cracked and raged around the figure on the ground. The iron mask began to glow a cherry red and there was an involuntary scream. The figure clawed at the mask, fingers smoking as they touched the hot metal. Maxian felt a fierce exultation, feeling his enemy's pattern suddenly waver and fade. His fist clenched, twisting in the air, pushing away from his body.
The air convulsed between them, twisting around a sizzling blue-white sphere that leapt from Maxian's hand. The flagstones of the plaza rumbled, cracking in line with the sphere, and then the iron dog was engulfed in a raging explosion of lightning, smoke and hissing fire. Struggling at the heart of the maelstrom, the iron dog groped for its fallen staff. Then the last pattern buckled, de-formed by enormous pressure, and there was a rumbling, echoing crack! as power flooded in, pinning the creature to the ground.
Maxian leapt back, soaring into the air, feeling the space around him twist and bend. The dark figure on the column at last entered the fight. Black fire shattered the cobblestones, flinging debris in all directions. At the same time, Maxian felt the ebon cloud converge on him. The temperature continued to drop and he was forced to divert some of his intent to keeping the air around him warm enough to breathe. Darkness lapped around him, sidling out of the sky in patchy sheets. The shadows sizzled against his ward, fragmenting, but draining the outer layers like a tap in a dam. Each whisper-soft blow leached more and more strength from the shield.
Cold laughter echoed from the pinnacle of the column. Maxian was assailed by visions and hideous sounds. Squirming mouths, studded with pinlike teeth, fastened to his flesh, sending jolts of agony through his limbs. Something monstrous swelled in the air, Batrachian wings blocking out the sky, the outline of the pulsating form impossible to define. A forest of black tentacles squirmed over his body, digging at his eyes, sliding gelatinously into his mouth and nose.
Maxian struggled to keep his pattern solid, groped for the power to strike back. He felt himself falling, plummeting towards the cold, icy stone of the plaza, but ignored the sensation, thinking it was a hallucination.
The Prince hit the ground hard, cracking his leg, then feeling his ankle splinter with a pop. True pain coursed through him and he screamed. The shadows in the air had eaten away the pattern that had held him aloft. Tears smoked from his face, freezing in the incredible cold. He lost concentration, fingers digging into the ice, a long scream of pain rending his throat.
Get up, boy, get up now! A furious voice echoed in his mind and he felt his arms push him up from the ground. We're all dead if you don't put that pain aside!
Frightened, Maxian felt himself lurched up, most of his weight on one foot. His other ankle was like a red-hot ember shoved under the flesh, burning at his nerves.
Heal yourself, you bastard! You're a fucking priest of Asklepius!
Shadows crowded around, seeping through the remains of his shield. Maxian tried to breathe, but the air had frozen again. He gasped, choking. One of the shadows spilled through a crack in the pattern, touching his wounded foot. The skin froze, cracking away from the bone in thin, shell-like sheets. Maxian stared down in horror, watching black corruption creep up his leg.
Do it! The voice had a strange accent, and Maxian felt his arms twitch, wrenched from his control. Columella! Show me how to do this! He's lost his fucking mind. A babble of other voices answered, filling Maxian's head with chaos. He trembled, unable to move, his feet frozen to the ground.
Lord Prince, an urgent voice, elderly, Roman, with unmistakable traces of a patrician Latin accent, penetrated. You must open yourself to the healing power. Now!
Maxian responded to the snap of command in the elderly voice, his mind finding the pattern that restored flesh and bone and the vital humors. Health suddenly blossomed in his flesh and the pain stopped, cut off like a joint split by the butcher's cleaver. His mind was clear, even the strange voices fading away. The air warmed within his compressed, almost destroyed shield. Ice melted away from his feet. The crawling skin of shadow cracked, then hissed to vapor. Bone knit in his shattered ankle, flesh regrew at a phenomenal rate, strength returned to arm and leg.
A sharp shout of command focused his mind, and pure white light flooded from his upraised hand. The shadows fled, shrieking, dissolving as the light touched them. Maxian stood, hale, upright, on the blocky flagstones of the plaza, his shields restored, burning blue and white in the darkness.
– |A scene of devastation greeted him. The column of Constantine had been shattered, leaving a concrete stump jutting into the air. The statue itself lay broken in pieces on the far side of the plaza. Most of the buildings surrounding the Forum were burning furiously, their marble facades hissing with blue-white flame as the lime in the stone cooked away. Great smoking pits belched flame, clouding the air.
The Dark Queen was on the attack, her staff spinning in the air, a flicker of standing lightning describing a wheel of power. Her voice was roaring like a storm, calling words of power, breaking the air with staggering bolts of crimson lightning. The dark thing was wreathed in its own brittle shell, horrific images flashing around it, describing a faceted pattern. As Maxian watched, lightning licked down from the sky, shaking the reptilian figure, burning through two, three, four layers of its defense. It howled, touched by the Queen's rage.
Maxian leapt into the air, wind rushing around him. He crossed half of the massive plaza in a single bound, alighting on the ruined stump of the great column. Movement caught his eye, something crawling in the ruins. It was the iron dog, head low, still smoking with heat, but it crawled, bloody fingers dragging the ruined body through the tumbled brick and concrete. Grimacing, the Prince focused his will, feeling the reverberations of the Queen's attack shake the world. He chopped his hand down.
An ultramarine-blue flame leapt from his hand, tracing a sizzling arc through the air. It touched the iron dog, flinging it to the ground in a violent blast. Concrete piers, revealed under the shattered cobblestones, collapsed. A plume of dust and rock flew up, lit from within by flickering lightning. The iron dog gave a wail and vanished, smashed into the earth. Smoke billowed out of the collapsed area. Maxian grinned, his face feral, and turned away.
The thing in darkness had withstood the Queen's attack, shrugging off the hail of blasts and lightning strikes. Now the shadows scattered in the air swarmed around her, shrieking and dying in a blaze of crimson bolts. As fast as she struck them down, more flooded out of the night sky. Burning red motes joined them, hurling themselves against her pattern, destroying themselves in a mad rush to overwhelm her. Maxian saw his enemy clearly, for the first time.
It bore a human guise, tall and lean, with long dark hair falling over bony shoulders. Once the face had been noble and handsome, striking, with a powerful brow and sharp nose. Now a mottled darkness was on the skin, curling around the flat ears and deep-set eyes. Though the skin was pale, there was a rippling shimmer that made it seem dark. Maxian felt an instant and powerful revulsion. Here was a thing that was the enemy of Man. Something primordial in him howled in defiance, urging him to kill.
Maxian's hands blurred in a pattern, making the air around him groan. Power wicked up out of the earth, causing stone, concrete, marble, brick to quiver to dust all around him. There were hidden ways and adits under the city. They shook, roofs collapsing, supports crumbling away. Water poured from broken cisterns, flooding the tunnels before it froze. The nearest building, a four-story temple adorned with friezes of the ancient gods at the harvest and a dozen lithe statues of nymphs, shook and then fell, toppling into the square with a roar.
He struck, everything focused into a shining cyan mote that hissed across the space between the column and the dark man. The figure spun, feeling the world shift. Its thin red eyes widened in surprise, then it soared away, flashing into the sky. Maxian's orb ripped in pursuit, accelerating to enormous speed. The enemy twisted, flashing a clawlike hand in a matching pattern. A black lattice congealed out of the air. The cyan orb plowed into the center of the matrix.
Maxian was thrown down, smashing against the rubble-strewn ground. The sky split, filled with a ravening blue-black flare. All across the city, buildings crumpled, crushed by the blast of superheated air. Maxian rolled away, feeling his shields buckle, compressed down to within a finger's breadth of his skin by the shocking roar and burst of power. The remaining stump of the column shattered, flinging chunks of concrete, marble and brick across him.
Debris rained down, making his shield flare with each blow, but the Prince gritted his teeth and rode it out. An enormous thunderclap followed, blowing a fine rain of grit into his face. Shadows and clouds alike were blown back, leaving a great still space over the heart of the city.
Maxian scrambled to his feet, feeling his skin burning. He wiped a hand the length of his body and the dead, ruined flesh firmed, filling with life. His eyes, half seared away, quivered and vision was restored. The dark thing was gone. The sky empty, save for a distant boil of clouds.
But it is not dead. Maxian could feel the presence at a distance. The power had withdrawn, stymied for the moment. The Prince looked around, suddenly sick. He could feel thousands of people, dead and dying, within his immediate vicinity. They had been hiding in the buildings, cowering in basements or inner rooms. The blast had thrown down every standing building within blocks, leaving only stray single pillars, jagged shells of houses, perhaps a lone wall standing alone, pierced by a window.
The Queen was gone. Maxian climbed across the wreckage, searching for her. He could not feel her anywhere. He hoped that she was not dead. The iron dog was gone, too, the collapsed section of plaza now filled with new rubble. The Prince felt desolate, alone. After a moment, he gave up the search.
It will be a long walk home, he thought, disheartened, if the telecast is closed.
The city seemed dead and Maxian was ashamed. This was no better than a draw. Worse, the enemy would hold these ruins once he was gone. But there was nothing he could do by himself. I should not have come…
A hint of mocking laughter chased him as he jogged east towards the palace.
– |"Look out!" Rufio croaked, looking behind Dwyrin. They had staggered down a sloping avenue from the square of Mithra, stumbling over corpses both fresh and ancient. The Hibernian had lugged the heavy Greek, armor and all, nearly a block before Rufio managed to get on his own feet. Dwyrin thought the guard captain looked pretty bad, his face burned, most of his hair missing, one eye closed and bruised, yellow serum leaking from under the lid. He hoped he didn't look worse.
Dwyrin turned, exhausted. He felt weak. The fire in his heart still pulsed and burned, but everything else was stretched thin. Only the greenish-white flare in the north gave him heart, knowing he had struck a heavy blow against the enemy. The stuttering light helped them too, showing them the way down the avenue.
A yowl cut the air and the Hibernian grabbed Rufio's arm, pushing him away from the sound. A high-pitched yipping followed and then a pack of men rushed out of the shadows. Their long hair was greased into long spikes at the backs of their heads, their faces white with ash. They were lightly armored, with thick leather tunics stiffened by boiling. Most of them didn't even have metal helms, only caps of hide sewn with iron plates. Dwyrin crossed a fist before his body, his will struggling to call the fire.
A spear flicked out of the night and crashed into his shoulder. Gasping, Dwyrin was swung around. He fell back, barely catching himself. The tip had gouged into his shoulder, leaving a smear of blood. A cold sensation wicked down his arm. Struggling to ignore the pain, he turned back towards the enemy. One of the barbarians, whooping, lunged at him, hacking overhand with a long-hafted ax. Dwyrin ducked aside, feeling the blade hiss past, and then grabbed the man's face.
The Slav bit at him, still whooping a war cry, but Dwyrin's fingers dug in and there was a hot rush of flame. The man's shriek of agony was cut abruptly short and steam boiled out of his ears. Dwyrin pushed the corpse away, the head and shoulders wrapped in spitting flame. The rest of the Slavs drew back, sliding to a halt. The Hibernian snarled, flame spilling from his hand. Their eyes caught the glow and they began to back away.
Dwyrin stabbed out a hand, fingers stiff, and one of the Slavs at the end of their bunched line suddenly burst into flame, screaming hoarsely. The man writhed, bright blue tongues of fire rushing from his mouth. Smoking, he fell back. Dwyrin glanced over his shoulder, looking for Rufio. The Greek had found a sword, a heavy, thick-bladed barbarian weapon, and was holding it in both hands, half blinded but ready for battle.
"Run!" the Hibernian shouted, turning back to the enemy. He barely caught sight of a mass of rushing shapes and the fast patter of bare feet on stone. The Slavs had lunged forward, spears stiff in front of them. Dwyrin gargled in pain. Two of the leaf-shaped iron blades sank into his chest. Then a third pierced his neck and he went down.
Fire bloomed in his mind, though a swelling black tide filled his arms and legs with cold. Two of the Slavs incandesced, bursting apart in a brilliant white flare. The rest, blinded, staggered back, their clothes and armor smoking. Dwyrin tried to breathe, but there was only a horrible choking sensation. It was very cold. Very cold. The fire in his heart continued to spin, hissing and sparking, but now there was only darkness all around him.
The shape of an old man, his ancient face graven with dismay and pity, loomed over Dwyrin.
– |Rufio blinked, seeing sparkling motes fly across his vision. The boy had gone down under the rush. Shouting madly, the Greek stormed in, the heavy sword cutting sideways. There was a jolt as the blade bit into the neck of the nearest Slav. Blood jetted out, smearing the sword crimson. Most of the barbarians were still burning, though some of them were rolling on the ground, trying to snuff the flames. Rufio cut on a diagonal, the whole weight of his body behind the blow, and another Slav collapsed, his spine cut.
The boy was pinned on the ground under two bodies. Blood spilled from his mouth and nostrils. Rufio reached down, dragging a body away. The strange fire was still glowing in the Hibernian's eyes, like a distant lantern. He was convulsing, trying to breathe.
Rufio's fingers touched the iron spear point embedded in Dwyrin's throat. He swallowed a curse. There was nothing that could be done. Tears ran down the side of the Greek's nose, cutting a trail in the ash and soot. As he watched, the fire died in the boy's eyes and his body suddenly became still. "Good passage," Rufio whispered.
A shout roused him from his prayer, and the guard captain turned, his face bleak, the heavy sword raised in guard position. The street had filled with more Slavs and the stocky shapes of their Avar masters. High stiff plumes marked the officers. Thirty or forty of the spearmen, their faces painted with ash and woad, loped forward, yelping.
Rufio reached down and snatched up a spear, haft still smoking. He balanced it in his hand, then, as the Slavs sprinted to the attack, he hurled it, left-handed, with all his strength. The shaft transfixed one of the barbarians, throwing him back, blood spitting away in an arc. Then the others were on him, spears thrusting.
The Greek parried the first thrust, blocking it away with the flat of the sword. Then he rushed them, crashing into three of them, his elbow cracking across the nose of one. The others shouted, swirling around him. His blade hewed through another spear, cutting through the arm behind it. Rufio staggered, his armor grating as they stabbed at him from all sides.
"The Emperor! The Emperor!" he shouted, whirling, the long iron blade shearing through a bearded face, bone cracking, droplets of blood flying into the eyes of the next man. The air suddenly hissed with arrows and he staggered. A black-fletched shaft jutted from his arm, the triangular iron head punched straight through an iron ring. Rufio felt weak and knew that blood was seeping down his arm in a bright red stream. Another shaft plunged into his chest with a cold shock. His arm flew up, the blade rising. A Slav knocked it away with the haft of his ax.
They closed around him, eyes bright. The skyline of the city was glowing behind them, the sky a roiling mass of cloud and flame. Rufio coughed, his beard clotting with blood. Another of the barbarians raised an ax, the edge gleaming with red light. The Greek cursed under his breath.
This is going to hurt.
– |Brunhilde wailed, whipping around Nicholas' head. Her mirror-bright edge slashed through a man's back, cleaving metal, gristle, muscle like soft dough. The northerner, half mad with fear, choking in the tight air, shoved the corpse away with his boot. Behind him, Nicholas could hear Vladimir bellowing, his ax thunking into something heavy. The remaining Faithful, still chanting hoarsely, were on either side of them, pushing their way through the crowd.
Tens of thousands were packed onto the harbor docks, weeping, crushed, pressing madly for the sea. Nicholas put his shoulder into the press, pushing past a dead woman, still held on her feet by the mob all around her. Brunhilde keened, blood soaking into her blade, and Nicholas stabbed forward, cutting down another man. He could hardly see, his left eye packed with cloth and a bandage.
Far ahead, across a sea of heads, tossing and crying out, he could see the end of the dock and the masts of an Imperial galley. The last hour had been a gruesome struggle, inching their way forward through the mob, finally reduced to chopping their way through the bodies of the citizens. From the height of the harbor causeway, the fleet had been in plain sight, standing off in the harbor waters, one ship at a time venturing to the end of the main pier, taking on the red-cloaked shapes of soldiers. Now it seemed impossibly far away through a dense thicket of weeping, crying people.
Nicholas felt heartsick, forced to kill fellow citizens, but he wanted to live more than he wanted to die. The sword licked out again, stabbing through the throat of an enormously fat man, his tunic blazoned with the crest of the bakers' guild. Nicholas crawled over his shuddering body, Vladimir and the others right behind him. Suddenly there was an empty space in front of him.
A line of soldiers, their shields overlapping, blocked the way. Grim eyes stared back at Nicholas over the top of the scuta, pilum held at the ready to stab anyone that came too close.
"Nicholas of Roskilde, undercaptain of the Faithful Guard," he gasped. Vladimir and the other Scandians were still pushing up behind him and Nicholas tried to hold them back. A thicket of spears was right in front of him, only inches from his abdomen. "We're Legion! We're Legion!"
The wailing around them changed in pitch. The galley at the end of the pier pulled away from the stone dock, oars flashing as they dug into the black water. The chorus of despair changed, becoming even more hopeless, if that were possible. The centurion in charge of the shield wall shouted something and four of the men stepped back, making a narrow opening. Nicholas darted into it, sheathing Brunhilde as he ran. Vladimir muttered some prayer behind him, holding his ax, still slick with blood, close to his chest.
Slowly, in bunches, the Faithful filed through the opening in the shield wall. Nicholas looked around, utterly exhausted. Groups of other soldiers were standing or lying in the open space. The surface of the dock was wet with a slime of blood and urine and greasy fat. Gathering his remaining strength, Nicholas turned back, catching Vladimir's eyes.
"Form everyone up and count off. I want to know who lives and is with us. I'll report to the commander here and get orders."
The Walach stared back with dead eyes, his face slack. The last two hours seemed to have drained everything from him. Nicholas turned away, shutting the ever-present sound of the mob pleading for life from his mind. He caught sight of the commander, a tall familiar-looking man in unfamiliar armor. Not a Roman, he thought dazedly, walking carefully, winding his way through men lying asleep on the dock, their armor stained and pitted, their hands clutching spears and swords. They did not seem to mind that they lay in blood and offal.
The muted, crackling roar of the burning city continued unabated.
– |In a black humor, Maxian pushed open the door to the musty room deep beneath the palace. The shimmering green light had faded in his absence, though the disks still spun, hissing, in the air. The young priest was waiting, facing the door, his hand raised in a sign. When he saw that it was the Prince, he breathed a sigh of relief and lowered his hand. Maxian slammed the door behind him, then sketched a sign on the wooden panels. The oak shivered, growing out from the edges, filling the doorway from side to side. Leaves sprouted from the ancient surface and roots crawled across the floor, digging into the cracks between the flooring tiles.
"Go through," Maxian snapped, glaring at the priest for no good reason. The library on the other side of the ring of fire seemed crowded. There were Praetorians with drawn swords, the Empress, two more of the Western thaumaturges, even some Eastern officials. Everyone was staring back at him, dismay writ large on their features. "Go!"
The young priest clambered up onto the table, then stepped swiftly through the translucent disk. It shuddered, fracturing his image, and then he was through, stepping down into the hands of the legionaries. Maxian looked around the room, seeing row after row of ancient, moldy books, tattered parchments, rat-eaten scrolls. His anger shifted a little, away from his own recklessness to the poor treatment given these works.
Then he shook his head and sprang up onto the table. He paused, muttering, his head bent towards his chest. His left hand began to glow, shining with a deep reddish color. His fingers opened, revealing a shining glyph that shed a flickering radiance. The Prince bent, placing the sign on the tabletop. The glowing character faded into the stone. Then, without looking back, Maxian stepped through the wavering oval, feeling his hair rise and everything twist for an instant.
– |A dull crump shook the foundations of the temple of Hecate, rattling the statuary lining the roof and the triangular pediment. In the empty courtyard below, wind gusted between the pillars, blowing scraps of parchment across the tinted flagstones. Within the fane of the temple, the sacrificial fires were dead, the offerings covered with frost. The black sky had sapped the heat from everything within the walls.
The Dark Queen ghosted between the columns, her hood framing a pale, drawn face. She was exhausted, barely able to move, groping from shadow to shadow. A bitter taste of burning lime hung in the air, biting at her eyes and tongue. The violence in the ground beneath her feet faded away and she knew-even without casting her thought-that her old friend's library was buried under tons of rubble.
The whelp of a Prince, she thought savagely. What a fool. Like he can cover his tracks now…
The Queen reached a deep well that sheltered under the eaves of the temple. Thin steam rose from the black pit, warm air rising from the tunnels under the city and striking the frozen air. She swung her leg over the edge, then spidered down the sides. When only her head remained above the stone lip, she snarled at the west, thin arms trembling to hold her up. The dark power was still there, gloating outside the city.
Laugh, monster. This is my city. My city! You will never have it.
Then her pale eyes blinked and she was gone, vanished into the bosom of the earth.