The Dark Lord

state; Caesar accounted every man not against him, his ally. He forgave all crimes, pardoned all prisoners, returned their properties, sponsored their children, made good their debts...'

Overcome, Gaius Julius covered his face with his cloak, unable to speak, wrinkled old face streaming with tears, his thin shoulders shaking.

—|—

Vladimir heaved himself up into a brick chamber, his long fingers scraping through a thick, gray slime clinging to the lip of the pipe. The cavity was very dark and he groped across the floor, fearing another pit yawned before him. His outstretched fingers touched something warm and he became very still. The sensitive pads on his fingertips traced the outline of a toe, then another, then a slim foot.

'Who is there?' he breathed, barely able to raise his voice. A familiar smell tried to separate itself from the foul miasma in the tunnel.

'Hello, Vladimir.' Betia drew back a heavy cloak from her face and his sharp eyes found her outline—a faint reddish smear against the cold walls. 'You've caught me.'

'No!' The Walach's exclamation was abrupt and unplanned. 'Betia, you should flee...'

Her fingers pressed against his lips, then her gentle hand caressed his short beard, the side of his face, his powerful neck. 'I am tired of running away,' she said, crawling to him. 'Take me to my mistress, she'll need me in captivity.'

A groan escaped the Walach, his free arm crushing the girl to his chest. He buried his face in her hair, breath hot on her neck. 'No... you must fly away from here, far away.'

'What happened?' Betia's voice changed, catching his anguish and her small hands framed his face, her lips brushing against his. 'Where is the Duchess?'

'Dead,' Vladimir managed in a choked voice. 'An accident...'

The girl stiffened, her forehead pressing against his. 'Truly?' Voice was very faint, but then she shook her head. 'You must come away with me,' she said. 'I know where a ship is waiting...'

Vladimir shook his head slowly, though his heart leapt to say Yes! 'I've sworn an oath...' His fingers pressed against his chest, feeling the prince's amulet. The metal was a little warm, comforting against his hand. Like her body conforming to his, her arms around his neck. 'I... I cannot go with you.'

Betia's body slumped against his and she sighed in exhaustion. 'Take me with you, then.'

'With me? But...'

'No one will notice a servant,' she said, head buried against his chest. 'No one at all.'

CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

The Catanian Shore, Sicilia

'Where are we?' Alexandros shouted, his strong voice carrying in the humid afternoon air. He rode at the head of a column of his Companions—the Gothic knights astride heavy warhorses, armored from head to foot in the Eastern style, great bows jutting from sheaths on their saddles. Two of his scouts emerged from a thicket of dusky gray brush on the meandering farm track ahead. The Macedonian spurred Bucephalas the Black forward, the stallion catching his master's tense mood. 'Where is the sea?'

The scouts stared back at him in alarm, their faces red with the sun and scratched by low-hanging branches. One of them—with the shoulder flash of a file leader—swallowed nervously and jogged up to Alexandros' stirrup. 'My lord! We thought this was the way to the beach!'

'Who is behind you, then?' The Macedonian's voice came in a harsh snap.

'The whole of the sixth syntagma, my lord,' the man answered in a rush. 'The syntagmarch said march away from the sun, great lord, but we've gotten turned around in these lanes...'

Alexandros stopped the man with a raised hand. His eyes glittered in fury. 'Climb a tree, now!'

Moments later, the younger—lighter—scout was swaying in the branches of a tall poplar, shading his eyes against the last gleam of the day. He stiffened, one hand clutching the thin trunk. His free hand stabbed out, pointing left of the farm track. 'There,' he shouted, 'a fleet! A whole fleet! Hundreds of sails!'

'How far?' Alexandros bellowed, while the cavalrymen behind him stared nervously into a dense boscage of vines, creepers, silver-barked trees and thorn between them and the presumed enemy.

'Less than a mile, my lord,' the scout replied. 'This track turns and swings towards open ground and grassy bluffs.'

'Double-time,' the Macedonian roared to his signalmen and file captains. Without waiting for the scout to clamber down from the tree, he urged Bucephalas on and the horse thundered down the lane, Alexandros leaning close to the stallion's neck, branches whipping at his shoulders. The earth trembled as the rest of the column kicked to a trot. Dust boiled up from the dry road, coating the horses' chests and making men blink.

The lead scout jumped out of the way, crushing himself against a stand of holly to avoid being trampled. His own column was only moments from marching onto the road, pikes and axes swinging and there would be a Fury's own mess if the two groups collided. Ignoring his junior, who was swinging precariously in the treetop, the lead scout crashed off through the tangled undergrowth, bawling 'column halt!' at the top of his lungs.

—|—

Attend me, beloved Arad! The Lord of the Ten Serpents turned his attention from the land, where C'hu-lo and his Huns were gathering in a lean, dark circle around the copse of trees where Dahak had made his temporary command post. T'u-chueh archers laughed in the shade of intertwined trees, unpacking long curved bows they had carried ashore wrapped in leather and waxed cloth. The sorcerer felt much at ease, knowing he would not be taken unawares. He squatted at the base of a tree, his banner flapping smartly in the wind only paces away. Have you come ashore?

The mental query was met by unexpected silence—more than the attenuation of distance or the interference of the sea—but an emptiness, a void from which Dahak's tendril of thought did not return. Arad? The sorcerer's lean head stiffened, turning to face the glittering water. Triply-lidded eyes flickered, focusing on the rakish shape of the Palmyrene flagship. The Asura rode easily at anchor, her sails furling as sailors scrambled in the yards, dragging in canvas. Where are you?

Dahak realized he had not felt the mournful wail and lament of the Egyptian priest's mind for some time. He concentrated, feeling a sickly, cold fear welling up at the back of his own thoughts. The Queen, the Boar, the Eagle, the Sixteen... he could feel all his servants, even the least, the gaatasuun and their harsh, singular thoughts of blood and sharp teeth crunching through flesh. But not the first tool he had made with his own hands.

Arad? Faithful servant? Dahak wailed, reaching out into the emptiness. Gone? Gone? How could you escape these bindings? These chains? Rage flared in the sorcerer's heart and he leapt to his feet, the air around him darkening with malefic power. Return to me!

There was no answer, though the tall poplar at his back shriveled and cracked, suddenly dead leaves falling in a drifting rain around him. 'Arad!'

—|—

Shahr-Baraz splashed ashore, hairy feet bare on clinging black sand, low waves rushing past with a hiss of spray and foam. Riding boots hung around his neck on a leather thong—a cumbersome, heavy weight of leather reinforced with strips of iron—but worse still if they were wet. The soldier Patik was only a pace behind, followed by a crowd of Immortals, bannermen, trumpeters, runners and aides. The Boar found his footing on drier sand and picked up the pace, massive thighs propelling him up the beach without pause.

The shoreline itself ran in shallow, then rose up at a line of hard-packed dark sand mixed with debris from passing ships and storms. Beyond the tide line, a hundred feet—or less—of rumpled sand dunes slanted up in a gentle shelf and then the shore proper began, with scattered grass-covered dunes, stands of cork trees and the lower, marshier outlets of streams.

Shahr-Baraz found the banners of two regiments of Persian footmen standing above the tide line, surrounded by a mixed crowd of soldiers. Thousands of gaatasuun were crawling from the sea in complete disorder, wandering aimlessly in packs, forcing the living men to form a barrier of steel and wooden shields around the banners to protect themselves. Officers were shouting, trying to make themselves heard above the rush of the sea. The following wind, which had driven the fleet from Alexandria with such speed,