The Dark Lord

nothing,' he groaned hopelessly. 'I have passed beyond death—my body died on the steps of the palace, exhausted in the last effort of defeating the dhole—and there was nothing, only an eternity of darkness, before he summoned me back from oblivion.' The Egyptian's voice faded to an almost unintelligible whisper. 'Even this half-life is better...'

Mohammed's fierce expression faded, replaced by gentle understanding. He looked around the little cave. 'You are not dead,' he said in a matter-of-fact voice. 'Nor were you before. Your body may have perished, destroyed by the forces unleashed in defense of Palmyra, but your spirit has not completed its last journey.' The Quraysh looked down and found Ahmet watching him with a peculiar, fixed intensity. 'You are trapped in the borderland, in the margin between death and life. Our enemy has great strength and a cunning mind. He has—he had—blocked the gate through which the dead must pass.'

The Egyptian tried to speak, but could find no words.

'This place is illusion,' Mohammed said abruptly, rising to his feet. His visage became stern and he raised the fig-wood staff with an abrupt, defiant motion. The wooden stave broke through the stone ceiling and light flooded into the cavity. Stones and shards of obsidian crumpled away, falling up into the sky, driven by the power of the blow. A faint rumbling sound trembled in the air. 'Another trap, laid by a master of snares.'

The ground did not heave or split, but shivered, and Ahmet gaped to see entire spires and boulders begin to fragment, splitting apart. Each shard, released from some strange gravity, tumbled up, filling the sky with a black, spiralling cloud. Mohammed ignored the fantastic scene, holding out his hand to Ahmet.

'You weld your own chain,' the Quraysh said, lifting his friend to his feet. 'You bind only yourself and you may free yourself.'

Ahmet, hunched, unable to stand straight, stared fearfully at Mohammed, who now seemed to loom enormous against the rippling, unstable sky. The broken stones, monoliths, spires, boulders—they plunged into the perfect darkness arching overhead—and as they fell, spit fire and meteors, shedding a terrible orange-red glow. Ahmet's eyes burned in reflection. 'No! I will never see Zenobia again, never taste life again... I will cease!' The Egyptian was crying, though he had only dust for tears.

'While you cling to this half-life,' Mohammed said, 'you bind her as well. She has fallen into the same trap, bound by love and desire and—most of all—fear. While you live, you do countless harm, trampling the weak, throwing down the strong, spreading evil with either hand.' His voice rose to a sharp snap. 'And there is evil in the world and good too. You know the difference, in your heart.'

'Yes,' Ahmet gasped, clubbed by the harsh words. 'But... but... have you seen what lies beyond the gate? Can you tell me what will happen? Truly?'

Mohammed shook his head, meteors streaking in his flashing eyes. 'No. I have not made that journey. But I have faith and trust to the lord of the world, who made all things, all powers great and small, and whose provenance none can deny, not serpents or dead gods, or even the great ones who prowl the abyss among the dead suns.'

Ahmet stood at last and looked into his friend's face and saw an incomparable strength shining there. 'You have changed,' he said. 'You are not the man I knew—lost in his heart, confused, searching always for some answer beyond the next city, town, hill—what happened?'

'I grew still,' Mohammed said, leaning on his staff, 'and I listened.'

Ahmet's face changed, growing pensive. 'What did you hear?'

'Wind rattling the leaves. Stone groaning in the heat of the day. The voice of the world.'

Ahmet let his hands fall to his side and closed his eyes. 'What did the voice tell you?'

Mohammed smiled slightly. 'The truth.'

With a sigh, the Egyptian collapsed backwards, falling a little to the side. His body struck the ground in silence and the wasteland of shattered stone was gone. Only the black, perfect sky remained, now conjoined to an endless, glassy obsidian plain. Mohammed looked around, a bemused look on his face. 'Good-bye,' he said to the empty air. 'My friends.'

A look of determination and purpose came over him and the Quraysh reached up with one hand, grasping the sky and—with a powerful motion of his arm—tore open the firmament with an impossibly loud ripping sound. A blaze of light flooded down on his face, coupled with the roar of the sea and men shouting and the cry of gulls wheeling against an azure sky.

CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

Messina, Sicilia

Alexandros stepped up out of the street and into a doorway. A wagon heavy with meal bags and pottery jars rumbled past, axels squealing, wooden wheels rattling on stone paving. A column of Gothic pikemen followed, helmets slung at their shoulders, backs bent under round shields and netted bags of clothing, food, personal effects.

The men marched past in silence, faces sharp with weariness, shining with sweat, the tramp- tramp-tramp of their boots barely audible over the din of the wagons. Most sported bile-yellow streaks on their scaled breastplates. Alexandros' doubted few of his men had been to sea before, and the ferry passage from Dyrrachium had been rough, with a harsh, gusty wind quartering out of the southeast. The Macedonian nodded a greeting to the column syntagmarch as he marched past, then stepped down and made his way into the forum. The squad of peltasts Clothar Shortbeard had sent to find him dogged along behind, bearded faces slack with exhaustion.

The plaza was crowded with marching soldiers, supplies, wagons, lines of unsteady horses. Late-morning sun picked out shining details, though heavy clouds covered most of the sky. Alexandros was glad of the shade, for the day only promised to get hotter and wetter. He hoped the rain stayed away long enough for his men to disembark. Masts crowded above the rooftops to the east, where the harbor was crowded with every barge, trireme, grain ship and coaster Alexandros could beg, borrow or steal. A constant din of shouting beat at his ears, but he was used to the racket of armies on the march. Without pausing, he climbed the steps into the city temple devoted to the Capitoline Triad, weaving his way through a maniple of archers sleeping in the shade.

Within, long tables crowded the nave and the Legion battle banners made a red, gold and iron thicket beneath a frowning, marble Jupiter. His officers were busy stuffing their faces with roasted fish, garlic, lentil soup—anything the commissary could confiscate—and Alexandros forced himself to nod in greeting to those men who looked up at his approach. Clothar was snoring—he'd heard that a block away—his tousled head resting on Jupiter's feet.

'Any news?' An irritated snap in the Macedonian's voice woke some of the younger men, but they fell back asleep—heads on their bedrolls or helmets—after a bleary glance in his direction. Alexandros' temper was near frayed to the breaking by the confusion, chaos and delay outside.

'Here, sir!' One of the Eastern tribunes beckoned from the rear of the temple. The man had a queer, frightened look on his face. Alexandros started to snarl a curse as he paced between the fluted columns, but he controlled himself. He knew the look. Something out of the ordinary had happened and the man was half-pissed with fear of his general's reaction.

'Another batch of letters from Rome? If I see one more Hades-cursed Imperial Order, I'm going to—'

Alexandros stopped dead, his eyes adjusting to the dimness. The rear half of the temple had been partitioned to provide for storage. Juno and Ares watched silently over on the Legion's pay, stacked in heavy iron- bound chests. Standing below the shadow-dappled statues was a lean, dark-haired man. The Macedonian blinked. 'Lord Prince?'

Maxian turned to look at Alexandros and the Macedonian was stunned to see the young Roman's face grown old and wan. At the same time, there was an unexpected, compelling weight to his presence, as if Alexandros had stepped into the presence of one of the ancient heroes. 'What has happened?'

'My brothers are dead,' Maxian replied, his voice ringing with barely concealed power. The Macedonian staggered, forcing himself to remain standing by catching himself on one of the trunks. The Eastern tribune cried out and fell to his knees in a clatter of iron scale. 'The Emperor was murdered last night, even as my men crossed the strait.'

'Your...' Alexandros rallied himself, denying an urge to bow to the prince. 'You've brought reinforcements?'

'Yes,' Maxian said, stepping forward out of the shadows. As he did he seemed to shrink and the pressure in the air eased, allowing Alexandros to stand without effort. 'I've brought at least three Legions across from Italia.