The Dark Lord

fury radiating like the glow of a banked oven.

'Cut me loose,' Helena whispered in her ear. Thyatis shook her head. She shifted her footing on the tiled roof, the pressure of the Empress' weight vanishing as bloodfire kicked through her veins. With slow grace, she turned in line with Nicholas, blade swinging back and up. He matched her motion, but again, his footing was precarious.

For a moment, they froze, each in balance, watching and waiting. The legionaries in the courtyard fell silent as well, their rude cries dying down. Tense expectation settled on the rooftop; the warm, humid night drawing close around them. Thyatis realized with faint regret she would have to kill every man in the house if she were to escape.

Nicholas attacked, the gleaming blade flashing at Thyatis' face. She blocked the blow away and down, steel ringing high and clear, then there was a blur of cut and counter-cut. He gave a step, then two, back foot sliding on the tile and she reversed, whipping the spatha at his exposed knee. Grunting, face streaming with sweat, Nicholas parried, catching her blow inches from his leg. Thyatis bore down, forcing the shimmering blade into the tile with a squeal of metal.

The Latin struggled to rise, failed, then wrenched his sword away. The spatha sprang back with a ringing sound and Nicholas rolled away. Almost immediately he slid, clattering down the rooftop, fingers clawing at the tile, terra-cotta shattering under the impact. His foot fetched up against a drainpipe along the edge of the roof and he slammed to a halt. Nerves singing, Thyatis darted towards the balcony. Legionaries began to shout and there was a commotion as the men in the courtyard scrambled into the house to cut her off.

Only a single figure remained in the courtyard, a silver-haired old man in patrician's robes, his face turned to the skyline. Thyatis skidded to the end of the roof, then slid sideways, one hand catching an overhanging eave to stop her. She bent down, preparing to swing onto the landing.

Vladimir was waiting, axe poised, his pale face framed by unruly waves of hair. He looked dreadful, face mottled and streaked, but his hands were firm on the haft of the war axe. Thyatis saw him and stopped, searching his face. The Walach advanced a step, teeth gritted, eyes enormous and filled with anguish.

'Don't...' he managed to choke out, licking his lips. Thyatis was very still. Boots clattered on the stairs, mixed with sound of shouting. Torches flared in the passage.

The Roman woman smiled, catching the Walach's eye with her own. 'Be well, Vlad,' she said and scrambled back up onto the spine of the roof. She came up, one hand out of balance, the spatha drifting out of guard. Nicholas rushed forward, his blade glittering with pale color and she grunted with the effort of swinging the cavalry sword into the path of his blow. The impact knocked her back, one leg twisting under her and the spatha shrilled, metal screeching as Nicholas caught her blade square on edge. The spatha rang like a bell, iron cracking end to end and the sword splintered. Iron fragments zipped past her face, one scoring her cheek. Thyatis' arm shuddered, stunned, and she could barely make nerveless fingers fling the useless hilt aside.

Nicholas windmilled a second cut, his blade cleaving the air where her head had been. The Empress screamed, crushed under Thyatis' armored weight as she fell. A wild hand groped at the side of the younger woman's face. Thyatis rolled aside, trying to spare Helena, feeling tile shatter and crack as her feet groped for purchase. Broken tile cascaded toward the street. Nicholas crabbed down the incline, the tip of his sword punching the air. Thyatis scrambled aside and the blade sheared through three layers of terra-cotta with a crack! Nicholas started to slip himself, staggering, trying to catch his balance.

Thyatis scrambled back to the roof ridge, one hand steadying her, the other drawing a dagger from her belt. She glanced sideways and saw Vladimir crawling out from the balcony, his feet bare, the axe clutched in one hand. The lone man was still standing in the garden below and she risked a look over her shoulder at the adjoining building. The Empress' breath was harsh in her ear.

No one peered down from the trellised balcony and the section of cross-hatched wood had been replaced. Thyatis hissed in dismay, though her heart leapt with the hope her friends had escaped. The sound of creaking tile snapped her head around and she scuttled back, the dagger feeling painfully small in her left hand.

Nicholas did not delay, rushing in, his face contorted with a cold, determined rage. Thyatis lunged forward, the dagger slashing left to catch the glittering sword, her right fist swinging at the man's nose. The two blades met and the lighter dagger twisted away. Gasping, Thyatis felt her arm wrenched aside by the blow, the longsword thrusting past as her fist crunched into the side of Nicholas' face. His head snapped to one side, but he did not go down. Time seemed to slide to a halt, Thyatis tottering back, sandals slipping on the loose tile, Nicholas recovering. His blade ripped back in a savage sideways cut and Thyatis felt the blow as a massive concussion to her side. Breath rushed from her mouth, metal squealed, mailed links shattering as the dwarf-steel sword clove through Helena's outflung arm and into Thyatis' ribs.

She crashed backwards, the Empress crying out, and slid sickeningly down the roof, tile shattering and splintering. Both women hit the edge of the roof, the gutter—poorly fired pottery—disintegrating and they fell, limbs cartwheeling. Thyatis tried to twist into the fall, but hit the top of a vine trellis with her chest, crushing the last breath from her and everything went black in a roar of shattering wood, falling tile and then a dull, wet crunch!

—|—

One last tile slithered from the roof and spun through the air, shattering on the paving below. Gaius Julius blinked but did not flinch away from the sound. With a sigh, he returned his gladius to the leather sheath with a soft click. The sounds of men running echoed from the house, but for the moment the old Roman was alone in the courtyard. Repressing an urge to vomit, Gaius picked his way through the ruins of the vine trellis. Bending down, he lifted shattered, twisted wood and foliage away from the two twisted bodies in the garden plot. Helena's pale face stared up, eyes sightless, framed by crushed roses and lilies. Her body was hidden under the bulkier, broader shape of her protector.

The old Roman surprised himself with the strength in his arms, straining to move the heavy, armored body aside. Beneath her, the Empress lay contorted, one arm ending abruptly in a severed forearm. A sluggish flow of wine-colored fluid spilled from the mangled limb and Gaius Julius felt his stomach roil as he sagged into the mushy, blood-soaked soil. Trying to keep his fingers from trembling, Gaius touched her pale, unmarked neck. The skin was growing cold. Oh, no, he thought mournfully. His thumb peeled back an eyelid, revealing the sightless stare of the dead. Dead already from the loss of so much blood...

The old Roman pressed a hand to his mouth, taking a breath, and then another. Why have things ended this way? he wondered, feeling all of his plans and intrigues turning sour. There was no joy in this—he had never intended for anyone important to die. Some of the lesser lights could be snuffed, to show he meant business, but Galen and Helena? They had entertained him at dinner, listened to his stories, even laughed at his jests...

'Well?' a thin, strained voice echoed down from above. Gaius Julius looked up, seeing Nicholas silhouetted against the softly glowing clouds. The old Roman tried to speak, but had to cough, clearing his throat before he could respond.

'She is dead,' he said, feeling anew the pain of such bald words.

'And the other?' Nicholas' sword shifted, pointing, a pale brand against the darkness.

Gaius Julius managed to turn the armored body. The face was revealed, matted with mud, scratches tearing one eyelid, a cloak and mailed armor shattered and wadded around the woman's chest. The old Roman felt another shock, a cold, icy blow stunning his troubled mind to stillness. Diana? My Diana? No... Thyatis. Her name was Thyatis.

He wiped mud and flower petals away from high cheekbones, bloody fingers leaving a smear. Her skin was clammy. Gaius Julius bent his head for a moment, remembering the fire in her brilliant gray eyes as she wrenched her hand from his grasp in the garden of Gregorius Auricus. A brief vision of her dueling on the white-hot sand of the arena tormented him, slowly replaced by her slack, pale visage in this ruin and mud.

'Dear Amazon,' he whispered, 'how could this happen to you? Aren't you invincible?'

Gaius felt his knees and supporting hand sink into the garden mud, finding himself beyond caring for his ruined garments. He struggled against hot tears, shocked to feel such grief for an opponent. Why is my heart so stricken? Gaius struggled to think, though his thoughts seemed to crawl where once they