The Dark Lord

snapped the banners taut, throwing sea spray and sand against their backs. The Boar growled, drawing the attention of those nearest to him and stormed into a cluster of men in peaked helmets and sunflower insignia.

'Who commands here?' he roared, grasping one diquan by shoulders and setting the surprised man aside by main strength. 'Why are you standing about?'

A portly nobleman in the etched, fluted armor of the Kushanshahr highlands stepped forward, making a deep bow to his king. 'King of Kings,' he declaimed in a serious voice, 'we're trying to rally our men, and gather our companies, but—' The man waved his arm to encompass the long sweep of the shore. Everywhere, there were ships—some run aground, others standing offshore, soldiers piling into longboats—and the beach itself was no better, with the sodden dead crawling through the breakers, while men came ashore in dribs and drabs, as skiffs and barges could manage. The gusting wind made the sea rougher than Shahr-Baraz had expected and as he watched, a longboat turning away from the beach took a breaker abeam. Sailors tumbled into foaming white water as the boat capsized, oars splintering against the sandy bottom.

'—everywhere there is confusion. Only a handful of my levies have found me.' The Kushana finished, his own impatience and concern showing.

'Don't worry about that,' Shahr-Baraz boomed, making every man in the group of officers start in alarm. 'Take these men and push inland! Where you see the gaatasuun, drive them before you! Take any soldier, no matter his clan or house, under your banner. We must get off this beach!'

The Pashtun chief nodded, forked beard making a sharp shadow on his breastplate, then turned away, his own bull-like voice raised in command. 'Men of Herat—with me! Persia, with me!'

The living soldiers crowded around the banners answered with their own shout, taking heart from his bold words and the entire mass of men began slogging inland through the deep sand. The Boar gestured for his own officers to attend him. 'Here, you lot,' he boomed, his powerful voice overreaching even the sea and the wind. 'Patik—where is Prince Rustam?'

Patik had been surveying the beach, eyes shaded against the setting sun. 'We've drifted north before this wind, my lord,' he replied after a moment. 'I see the prince's banner—he's a mile away or more south...'

'Go to him,' the Boar snapped, his tone brooking neither delay nor disobedience. 'Tell him to master his dead servants and send them inland. They're useless for fighting in formation, so they might as well bring confusion and despair upon the enemy.'

Patik nodded, then jogged off through the sand. After a hundred paces, he swerved towards the waterline, where the footing was firmer. Shahr-Baraz immediately forgot him, turning to his other officers. 'Piruz—you're a likely lad, beloved of my daughter—take a dozen men and move along the beach. Tell every officer and lord to take what men he can find and move inland with all speed! There's no time to muster properly, not in this chaos, so every diquan and lord must show boldness and daring, striking at the enemy with every means at their disposal.'

The prince of Balkh nodded, sharply, his expression hungry for battle and glory.

'You boys,' the Boar growled at the spry young lads he used as couriers. 'The rest of the pushtigbahn will be coming ashore somewhere near here...' Shahr-Baraz waved a huge, armored hand in a vague circle. '...find them and send them to me. We will take yonder hill—' An empty grassy mound rose behind the beach, two hundred yards away. '—as our command post. Off with you!'

The Boar grinned then, drawing his own blade, a massive length of steel that measured more than most men could lift. He swung the sword inland, bellowing: 'The rest of you, with me! Forward, to victory!'

—|—

Bucephalas burst from the trees and galloped across a swale of high grass. The rich, dark soil of the bottomlands turned to grainy obsidian-colored volcanic sand. Alexandros breathed a sigh of relief to see the green ocean swell before him and to get his cavalry free of the constricted lane. Then he cursed, the stallion slewing into deep, loose sand. He reined in before the horse broke a leg and pirouetted back onto harder ground. In the brief moment, he had looked down on the sweep of the beach and his heart froze with alarm.

The sea was black with ships, the dull gray strand swarming with Persians, their banners a forest, their spears glittering stars. He drew Bucephalas to a halt, the stallion snorting in disgust, and the Macedonian took a long, hard look up and down the beach. The rest of the Companions trotted out of the orchard lane, spilling to his left and right, automatically forming a loose, irregular line. The Gothic knights unlimbering their lances, preparing for a charge.

'All sections, halt along the verge,' Alexandros shouted, turning so his captains could hear him and repeat the commands. 'Dismount, send the horses back. Form two ranks! Philos—find the pike syntagma those scouts were talking about and get them up here, now!'

Immediately, there was confusion as men swung down from their horses, one in five grasping bundles of reins, hurrying to tie leads to the following mares. The grassy sward filled with a huge crowd; more men riding up from behind while others tried to move back. The Gothic captains and centurions were hoarse, screaming at their dull-witted charges, trying to form ranks while men rushed this way and that. Alexandros ground a fist into his saddle. This is very bad, he realized; nervous, quick eyes scanning the beach.

A mob of Persians moved slowly uphill towards him—he doubted they even realized his Companions were shaking out a confused, disordered line—they were certainly in no better order. But there were a great many of the enemy and there were so many ships offshore, crowding the sea with dozens of smaller craft. He glanced to the north.

In the distance, outlines shaded by humid air, he could make out the rooftops of a small town rising on a rocky headland. Catania, he thought, wishing suddenly he'd stopped the army in the little city at dawn. They had marched down from Messina with heedless speed. A day and night's march toward the looming cone of Aetna had been draining to men and horses alike. Now, today, they had put on another burst of speed—the prince had said the enemy would make landfall on 'the beaches'—and here they were.

Seeing their numbers, the Macedonian felt a cold chill in his bones. If we'd regrouped at the port, we could advance like a scythe, from north to south along the beach and slaughter these lambs as they came ashore, our lines orderly, our wings entirely in my sight. Now, Alexandros was all too aware he'd scattered his forces piecemeal among the farm lanes and tracks behind of the beach. Where is my vaunted skill now? he thought harshly. I should have been patient and sent out my scouts to spy the land and the positions of the enemy.

Alexandros felt his stomach roil. He'd advanced recklessly, trusting to speed and surprise to overwhelm the enemy. 'Krythos was right,' he muttered under his breath. 'I need to stay back.'

'Orders, sir?' A captain of the Companions was standing at his foot, grizzled face looking up expectantly.

'Two ranks deep, Ostrys, and extend the line as far on the flanks as we can. Keep the Persians from getting off the sand.' Alexandros squinted at the sky, taking some faint hope from the dwindling light. 'When the pike syntagma gets here, form three ranks deep and advance in a wedge.' He pointed down at the beach. 'Cut your way to the waterline, then hold. If more men come up, expand the wedge to the left and the right.'

'Ja, my lord.' The Goth grinned. 'Keep them in the sea, where they can drown before our shield wall.'

'Yes,' the Macedonian said sharply, 'and keep them from gathering their forces!'

Now where should I be, Alexandros thought as he turned Bucephalas away from the sea. I need to find the rest of my army. He rode towards the thicket, though slowly, the big black forcing his way through a countervailing flow of pikemen. Long spears danced around him, a thicket of ash and iron, and the footmen swung past with a grin and a rousing shout. They were glad to be out of the claustrophobic trees as well. How am I going to find anyone? The Macedonian clucked, nudging the horse to the side of the road. A new column of men jogged towards him in the golden, late afternoon sunlight, through sparkling clouds of dust. He realized there was literally no way he could find anyone else— Chlothar, Krythos, any of his commanders—in the sprawl of hedges, meadows, streams and orchards behind the beach.

Grunting in dismay, Alexandros turned the stallion, then stopped abruptly, his eye hanging on something passing strange. The approaching column tramped smartly out of the lane, three banners—a golden hand, a silver