The Dark Lord

wish to go to a new land and begin a new life, far from Rome and Achaea and everything here.'

Jusuf nodded slowly, searching the man's face. It was weathered and old, graven by many misfortunes and mischance. How old is this man? The black eyes seemed fathomless, barely reflecting the dappled sunlight. A sense of enormous, long-held grief radiated from him. Grief and terrible loss. There was something familiar about him too... The Khazar felt a chill raise the hackles on his arms and neck but then the moment passed. Just another elderly Greek soldier with too many memories.

'You've sworn fealty to the kagan, then? Accepted his bread, placed your hand on his stirrup?'

'Yes,' the Greek said, placing a broad palm over his heart.

'Then,' Jusuf said, striking upon a thought and finding it pleasing. 'You will ride with me, and my guardsmen—your Turkic is not so good, I'd imagine?'

'No,' laughed the Greek, 'but I find languages easy.'

'Good. Ride with me, then, and I will teach you the ways of our people, Hippolytus.'

'Very well.' The Greek turned to Bulan, who had ridden up to see what transpired. 'Captain—this man wishes me to go with him—is this meet?'

'Thief of a prince,' Bulan growled at Jusuf, making the tarkhan smile. 'Recruiting your own war band, are you? I'll trade him to you, my lord, for a brace of your Thessalian mares.'

Jusuf raised an eyebrow at Bulan's bold words. 'You've grown avaricious down among these Greeks! I'll gift you a wagon instead, with sprung wheels and a tarp.'

'Done.' The beki jegun grinned as well, showing gappy yellow teeth. The Khazar spat on the ground, then clasped wrists with Jusuf. 'And done.'

'Come then.' Jusuf waved the Greek towards his guardsmen, who had taken the opportunity to lie down in the grass under the trees. Two men remained on watch, while the others napped. 'We've a hard ride, before night falls. The kagan wishes to be gone from Roman lands with all haste.'

Hippolytus nodded in agreement, swinging up onto his horse. For a moment, he looked back, across the broad, sparkling waters of the Propontis, at the domes and towers of the city shining in the afternoon sun. A bleak look crossed his face, but then he turned away, idly scratching at a still-healing scar on his breast. The wound was itching under the breastplate, but he knew the angry, reddish flesh would knit soon, leaving only one scar among many.

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

The Western Desert

Vladimir crouched in a thicket of low-lying shrubs, thick, waxy leaves tickling his face. The gray plants, mixed with stands of ragweed and nightshade, covered a low hill south of the promontory holding the temple of Amun-Ra. From the rise, Vlad could peer down through drooping palms at the road descending into the village. Behind him, the vast expanse of a shallow lake gleaming silver in the moonlight stretched out into the desert. The red moon was nearly touching the western horizon and the Walach could smell dawn coming.

He was panting, exhausted from carrying the heavy bronze disc out through the long, narrow tunnel. At the end of the passage, a ladder leading up into the floor of a house on the outskirts of the abandoned town had nearly stymied him. The muscles in his back and legs cramped painfully, reminding him of the enormous effort required to hoist the metal contraption up through the trap-door.

Smoke billowed silently into the night sky, obscuring the forest of pillars and single round tower crowning the hill. Intermittently, flashes of reddish and orange light washed over the walls of the ancient buildings. Vladimir felt his throat tighten each time. Nicholas and Thyatis were inside, somewhere. They are probably dead, he thought mournfully. And I can't find Betia!

The little blond girl's trail had vanished in the town, lost among the stink of human habitation and rotting flesh. The exit house of the tunnel had been filled with corpses. The dead were well preserved in this dry, salt- tinged air, but the slow business of corruption was taking its inevitable hold. Vladimir grinned cheerlessly in the dark. I know why the stone houses are so silent. Soon the ants and beetles would find the drying flesh and reduce the corpses to a carpet of white hone.

Motion on the road caught his eye and he stiffened, wide dark eyes drinking in the faint moonlight. Three figures descended the sloping ramp in haste, flitting between the obelisks and sphinxes. A deep, angry growl rumbled in his throat. Persians. Even at this distance, the Walach recognized the striding gait of the curl-bearded horse rider. The other two shapes, dark on dark, sent a shiver down his spine and triangular nails dug sharply into the ground. Curse it! The corpse walkers survived.

Vladimir swallowed, distraught. These Persian creatures were not the surapa of his homeland—they did not go abroad in the guise of living men—they were something worse, something made, cobbled together from corpses and venom and old, dry-smelling evil. He had felt their tremendous strength, traded blows with their tireless arms, seen the snake-quickness of their movements. There was no way he could face all three of them and win—not this young, still green Walach! One of the old ones... they might know a chant to strike down this enemy, but he did not.

Despite a trembling urge to flee, to lope away across the desert, to run until he was in green forest and meadowed glade again, Vladimir remained crouched on the hill, watching, while the three Persians disappeared among the crumbling walls of the town. Some time later, while he watched and waited, he saw them emerge from the date palm orchards beside the lake. Then he flashed a white grin in the darkness, for they stooped over a trail he had laid himself. A little later, he saw them again, spread out to cover more ground, entering the desert east of the oasis.

'Now,' he growled to himself, rising up, shaking sand and prickly leaves from his back and thighs. 'There's a little time.' Patting the telecast lying half-buried in the sand beside him, he crept down the hill, then ran swiftly through the streets of the town and began to climb the long ramp to the temple.

—|—

Hoarse coughing, like a bellows rasping at a forge, lent speed to Vladimir's sore legs and he jogged into the little courtyard at the top of the hill. Ahead, the great doorway into the sanctuary was limned with leaping flame. Dirty white smoke poured out of the temple from windows and doors, twisting away into the night. A hammerhead cloud of smoke and vapor built in the otherwise clear sky, lit from below by a sullen orange glare. Vladimir tore off his tunic, wrapping the grimy linen around his face, then—squinting—he plunged into the smoke, keeping low to the floor.

The great statue loomed ominously, red flame beating at sandstone legs, stern face staring down through coiling fumes. The pit at the god's feet hissed and roared, jetting fire. Vladimir crawled to the edge of the stone shaft, ears flat back against his head. Something moved on the stairs—a huddled shape, wracked with terrible, hollow coughing—wrapped desperately in a blood-stained cloak.

'Nicholas!' the Walach shouted, cry muffled by the cloth over his mouth. A stiff wind gusted out of the pit, feeding the fire roaring in the tunnel mouth. Heedless of the heat, Vladimir plunged down the stair. Nicholas grasped feebly at the step above him. The Walach snatched him up, batting at tiny flames leaping on the man's clothes, then staggered back up the steps.

The effort of dragging the telecast out into the desert came back, his calves and thighs trembling with the effort of each step. Barely able to breathe, Vladimir went down on both hands, Nicholas clinging to his back like a cub and scuttled for the door. Moments later, the Walach rolled on his back, gasping, sucking clean, cold air into his lungs. His eyes streamed with tears and the choking, bitter smell of smoke clogged his nostrils.

Beside him, Nicholas heaved weakly, barely able to move. His cloak and tunic smoldered, littered with glowing embers.

—|—

'There. They got out.' Thyatis breathed a sigh of relief. She rose, biceps and back aching with fatigue. She could still feel the impact of the corpse-thing's blows vibrating in her forearms. Keeping her head low, Thyatis slid down the dune to where the others were waiting. Three of the women, shrouded from head to foot in long robes and heavy veils, turned away as they clucked at the pack camels. One of the beasts groaned in protest and drew a slap across the snout for his trouble. A bulky package was strapped to the creature's back, tied down with cords and wrapped in woolen blankets.

A smaller shape—Betia—watched Thyatis for a moment, a dim outline against the predawn sky, then she too turned away to slog down the long reverse face of the dune, sand slipping and sliding under her feet. The Roman woman swayed a little, feeling exhaustion cramping her legs, stealing their strength. The last figure,