The Dark Lord

wall.

A brilliant flare of light cracked overhead and men screamed in fear. Aurelian's head whipped around and he saw a section of the nearer tower burning furiously. Some kind of clinging flame dripped down battered, scored stone, heavy black smoke rolling up in oily waves. A siege catapult atop the tower burned as well. A man, wrapped in flame, plunged from the height, mouth open in a soundless, flame-encompassed scream. The prince blanched, eyes swinging to the sky, but then he realized the catapult itself had broken a torsion arm, spilling naphtha across the stone platform.

Bless the gods, the prince thought wildly, it was only a fire arrow!

A frail shield protected the legionaries fighting on the battlements and towers. A thin, gossamer veil standing in the hidden world between mortal men and the full might of the Persian sorcerers. Those few remaining Roman thaumaturges were cloistered back in the heart of the city, sweating with effort to sustain the pattern of wards and defenses lining the rampart. By sheer luck, Aurelian had made two critical, seemingly unrelated decisions regarding the defense of the city.

First, he had ordered his new fortifications built atop the foundation of an ancient wall. Unbeknownst to him, the intricate patterns of defense laid down during the time of Ptolemy the Savior, the first Macedonian king of Egypt, remained intact, though weakened by the theft of the wall stones themselves. Still, like begat like, and the new Roman wall inherited a measure of the ancient strength.

Second, the disaster at Pelusium had laid low so many thaumaturges and priests, Aurelian had shipped them all back to convalesce in Alexandria. The horrendous retreat across the delta, despite the horrific casualties suffered by his legionaries, had not cost him a single thaumaturge. Stunned by the strength of their enemy at Pelusium, the priests had labored furiously to strengthen the ancient ward line ringing the city.

Still holding, Aurelian prayed, watching the queer distortion in the sky.

A basso roar of anticipation boomed beyond the wall as the Persians reacted. Aurelian popped his head up, face grim. The old highway was littered with wreckage. Two siege towers had come within a dozen paces of the walls and both were still burning furiously. Thousands of Persians swarmed below, sending up flight after flight of arrows. As Aurelian watched, one of the burning towers toppled away from the road, pushed by a forest of hands. In its place, a heavy ram rolled forward on a wooden frame, pushed by lines of men in full armor, silver battle masks down.

The sharp twang of a ballista bolt cut through the din, firing from the remaining tower. A Persian pushing the ram toppled, struck through. Stones and burning pitch rained down in sheets of flame. The dead carpeted the ground and the wounded crawled among corpses, desperate to escape the rain of destruction. Persian orderlies dragged away those who might live, or cut the throats of men wounded beyond succor.

Aurelian ducked back down, then slid from the fighting step. 'They've a ram,' he barked to his guardsmen. He waved sharply for his aide. 'Phranes, get down from here and find the tribune commanding those two cohorts of the First on reserve in this sector. Get him up and into the gatehouse immediately. You lot, with me!'

Ignoring the anxious expressions of his guardsmen, Aurelian jogged along the rampart, heading for the rising iron-kettle din of battle around the smoke-shrouded towers. As he ran, the prince loosened the spatha bouncing at his waist and settled the grip on his shield. It was clear to him the Persians were throwing their full weight at the gate and by the gods, he intended to stand with his men, not hide in some tomb down in the city. Left behind, Phranes cursed wearily, long face twisted into a grimace and then ran off down the ramp past a constant stream of wounded descending towards the hospital.

The sky groaned, tormented by hidden forces, rising columns of smoke splintering into mirror fragments.

—|—

The Paris pitched up a long, rolling swell, sails taut with a quartering wind. The courier ship scudded northwest from the merchant harbor of Alexandria, the long low island of the Pharos falling away to starboard. Thin sheets of smoke hung over the water, fragments of an enormous black cloud building over the port. On the foredeck, Thyatis leaned against a guyline, hip pressed against the railing, staring back at the embattled city.

Night was falling, a warm orange glow lingering in the western sky and only the distant light of burning buildings illuminated her face. Footsteps padded on the deck, soft and faint, but Thyatis heard and turned. Shirin approached, her oval face framed by a dark cloak, smudges of fatigue darkening her glorious eyes.

'There's food,' Shirin said, sitting on the deck. Her legs dangled over the lip of the rowing gallery. Below her, the off-watch crew was already asleep, curled up among the benches in an untidy mass of blankets and pillow rolls. The Khazar woman unwrapped a loaf—fresh this morning from a bakery near the port—and broke it in half. Thyatis settled in next to her, the meal between them on the deck. Shirin moved her leg, sliding her bare foot over Thyatis' toes.

'Thank you.' Thyatis cut a hunk of bread from the heavy oval. She smeared oil and garlic paste and soft cheese across the spongy surface.

They ate in silence for a few grains, listening to the creak of the rigging and water hissing past under the bow, watching the southern horizon flicker and blaze with fire. Occasionally, bright sparks lofted above the city, then guttered out. Thunder rolled continuously, though the sound grew faint as they drew steadily away. Thyatis felt grainy, drained, her thoughts—if not harshly driven back on course—turning always to the city and the Legions fighting there. A tiny voice muttered in the back of her mind, urging her to return, to take up sword, spear, bow and climb the walls to fight beside her brothers.

'I want to ask you a question,' Shirin said in a low voice. Thyatis looked over. The Khazar woman was methodically paring slivers of cheese from the round with her knife. They made a little pile on the deck. 'Once you promised to stand beside me, to share my life. Do you still?'

'I do.' Thyatis moved to take Shirin's hand, but stopped, the gesture quelled by a fierce expression on the Khazar woman's face.

'Do not take me lightly, Roman,' Shirin warned sharply. 'I am of the house of Asena, and my fathers ruled from distant Chin to the Roman border, from the ice to the mountains of Persia. Our numbers are like the grass, limitless, and our hearts stronger than your steel.' She paused, full lips drawn in a tight line. 'You say this Prince Maxian caused the eruption that destroyed Baiae? Which laid waste to so many towns and villages? Which strangled my children while they slept, burning the flesh from their bones, wrapping their skeletons in ash?'

Thyatis nodded grimly, understanding the venom in Shirin's voice all too well.

'Then I give you leave to separate yourself from our hand-fasting.' The Khazar dug a hand into her gown and drew out a thumb-sized jewel on a heavy chain. The cabochon blazed as it emerged from hiding, catching the last gleam of the fires raging around Alexandria. Thyatis' lips pursed in surprise and she shook her head automatically.

'Shi—the Eye of Ormazd is yours. Given freely, not a token of binding.'

Shirin pressed the jewel firmly into Thyatis' palm. 'You gave this to me when we parted on Thira, against our time of meeting again. That day has come and I wish you to choose again, without doubt. I know where I am going, but you do not have to ride beside me.'

'What do you mean?' Thyatis understood, even as the words flew from her mouth.

'I laid my children in the ground without grave gifts,' Shirin said. 'I believed accident took them, sky-father gathering them up with gentle hands, as he does those who die before their naming. But if this prince is the cause, if he sacrificed them so he might live, if he murdered them, then they do not rest easy. They do not run in green fields, golden flowers in their hair, rejoicing in the light of the sun through the trees.' The Khazar woman lifted her knife, turning the mirror-bright blade to catch the last feeble gleam of the southern horizon. Deep and abiding anger flared in her harsh voice. 'They are lost in darkness, shades without sustenance, helpless without weapons, forced to walk without mount or bridle, lacking even the grave gifts to buy entrance into the house of the dead.'

'No,' Thyatis said firmly, mustering her thoughts. 'Not so. Not so. This much I have done, Shirin, I have laved the earth with blood to feed the uneasy dead, to lighten their burden in the sightless world. Thirty warriors I've sent to join them, an honorable guard to bear their cups, to carry their burdens. A dozen ferocious beasts I've