The Dark Lord

grabbed hold of the rock and pushed, muscles bunching under his armor. A grinding sound issued from the walls and he felt the stone give slowly.

Outside, the light flared brighter. There was more shouting.

Vladimir snarled, long teeth white in the hurrying flare of torchlight. The stone scraped and ground and suddenly sank flush with the tunnel wall. A slab of stone faced with brick rolled out of a recess, powered by hidden counterweights, and slammed closed. The Walach caught a glimpse of armored men in the opening before he was plunged into darkness.

'Forward,' he hissed, scooping up Nicholas from the ground. Brunhilde's gleam had faded to a dull watery blue, but there was still enough radiance in the passage for the Walach to find their way down, deeper into the earth. After a moment, the Latin managed to get his legs under him and they ran as fast as they could, leaping from step to step.

A heavy boom echoed in the passage behind him, then another. Dust sifted from the ceiling. An indistinct voice shouted words of power and the floor trembled violently. Vladimir stumbled, picked himself up and ran on.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

The Gates of Iblis

Mohammed stood at the gates of the city, a newly carved staff of fig wood resting against his shoulder. Sounds and smells washed over him—the clash of cymbals, voices raised in raucous song, lamb covered with ground spices and pepper and salt roasting on a spit; the stamp of dancing feet; the skirling sound of pipes and the hoarse twang of a zither; water falling; children laughing; the beat of hammers on molten iron; wind sighing in the rigging of a ship under sail; the call of an imam as the sun rises, summoning the faithful to prayer; the racketing of looms, the clack-clack of a shuttle; dust and wind rushing before a summer storm out upon the desert; breathy poems hurried under a moonlit sky—and he felt all his certainty fail.

Within the gates of the city, on the narrow street, ablaze with color and light, he saw Zoe on a balcony, looking down into the avenue, her hair a dark cloud shot with shining pearls. Khadijah was standing beside her. They were laughing, standing hand in hand. Below them, among the throng, a wizened old monkey with scarred hands was dancing in a circle of light, while drums pounded and men clapped a heady beat.

Both women turned towards him in welcome, one old, one young. Their glance was a blow, driving him to his knees. Seamed knuckles whitened on the staff and Mohammed felt his heart race, hammering in his chest. He could hear them calling, their voices all but drowned out by the cacophony of the city.

'This gate,' he gasped, driving all thoughts of the flesh from his mind, forcing himself to his feet, 'is closed.'

Again, he stood erect, the staff grinding into the earth, before the gate.

'This gate is closed,' he declaimed, voice growing stronger. His vision of the city wavered, distorting in a heat haze. The glad sounds died, growing faint and tinny, then ceasing altogether. 'This gate,' he repeated, 'is closed!'

He raised the staff, striking the air. 'Let the gate open!'

The clear air rippled away from his blow, walls and towers and houses contorting, growing large, then small in turns. Beyond the minarets, the sky darkened, a storm boiling out from the horizon. Lightning stabbed among seething gray-green clouds. Winds howled, rushing over the city. The ripples faded, clarity restored. Mohammed saw every face turn towards him, even the tiny old monkey. There was nothing in those eyes, not even the grief of the dead.

'Let the gate open!' he commanded, striking again with the staff.

Clear air splintered like a fractured plate. Mohammed heard a great sigh rise up from the forest behind him, the exhalation of countless voices. Wind tugged at his robe with ghostly fingers. He struck downward with the staff. Hanging fragments of sight and sound rushed away, scattered, driven by the winds howling around the Quraysh. Thunderheads rushed across the sky, flashing with lightning glare, plunging the plain into darkness.

Out of the corner of his eye, Mohammed saw shapes fly past, rushing forward in multitudes. The glassy air fell away into an infinite distance. Every fragment of the city receded with tremendous speed, then vanished. Only darkness remained, intermittently broken by flaring, jagged lightning. Beneath his feet, the grass shriveled and died, becoming crushed, black, glassy stone. Irregular pillars and monoliths were revealed in the howling wind and cloud. Harsh, metallic air bit at his lungs. Smoking hail pelted down from the sky, shattering on the towering rocks.

Mohammed stood at the edge of desolation, trembling with cold. He turned slowly, keen eyes tracing the horizon. His heart raced.

The massed dead were gone. So too were the white-barked trees, the hill, even the remains of the young fig that had sheltered him. There was no sign of the creature Moha. All was illusion, he thought, starting to wrap a length of cloth across his mouth and nose. Then he stopped. Is this any different?

'Be still,' he commanded, refusing to raise his voice above the raging storm. 'Be still.'

Wind whipped his robe back and forth, shrieking among the tumbled glassy stones. Mohammed felt his skin abrade, flayed by flying sand. His breath grew short, stolen by the poisonous air.

'I am still,' he said to himself, closing his eyes. He shut out the sound of roaring wind, concentrating on the beat of his heart. It began to slow. He counted heartbeats, settling his breathing. 'I am still.'

The wind whimpered down to nothing, a bare gust eddying around his feet. Then it stopped. Everything became very quiet. Mohammed continued to count, stretching out the interval between breaths, between the trip- hammer blow of his heart. At last, it beat normally, his breathing steady and even. 'I am still.'

He opened his eyes. The storm was gone.

A flat black sky shimmered overhead, perfect as a starless night. There was no sun. He whistled softly in dismay and turned, surveying the plain. Crumbling, ruined boulders littered the earth. Splintered green-and-black glass covered the ground, twisted into fantastic shapes. A queer directionless light filled the air. Broken, cone- shaped spires delimiting the horizon cast no shadows.

In the silence, the sound of someone gasping for breath was very loud.

Mohammed turned towards the noise, seeing nothing but tumbled debris. The sound came again, a whimpering cry followed by unintelligible words. Raising an eyebrow—the sound, for no reason he could name, sounded real—he began climbing across the flinty slope, using the staff for support. There was no trail or path, but he managed to pick his way past the shattered translucent cones and across fields of splintered, gleaming obsidian.

He ducked through a wildly twisted curlicue of half-melted metal, pierced with dozens of shattered bubbles, and found himself looking down upon a hollow in the earth. A man lay on the ground, back to an eroded, pockmarked slab of rust-streaked basalt. He was gasping for breath; a long, lean body savaged with scars and open wounds, his face seared with glassy burns. Crippled hands spasmed into fists. Mohammed stood at the edge of the hollow for a long time, watching the naked man shuddering on the black sand, crying out to himself in hideous pain.

At last, face graven with compassion, the Quraysh slid down into the pit and put his hand upon one withered shoulder. The man's eyes snapped open, staring wildly up at the sky. Slowly, as if he came back into himself from a vast distance, the man focused upon Mohammed's face. He blinked, trying to see, then stared in incomprehension.

'Hello, Ahmet,' Mohammed said, leaning over his friend. 'Do you remember me?'

The dead man blinked, then slow recognition bloomed in his broken face.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

Beneath the Temple of Amon-Ra, At Siwa in the Western Desert

Groaning, Thyatis jerked awake, a hand flinching across her eyes. A pulsing hum filled her chest. Woozily, she stared around, expecting to find a courtyard flooded with unendurable brilliance. Instead, the soft light of oil lanterns bathed her face, illuminating bits and pieces of a huge, vaulted chamber. The Roman woman worked her jaw, fingers coming away damp with blood from her nose. Blinking tears away, she rose to her knees. The amulet between her breasts trembled with constant vibration.

Twenty feet away, three women in desert robes were straining atop a sandstone platform, iron pry bars in their hands. The little blond Gaul, Betia, bent her shoulder among them, teeth gritted in effort. Iron wedges