The Dark Lord

is a worthy opponent! He circled, blood singing, looking for an opening.

The wind gusting among the dunes fluttered and then stopped.

Alexandros looked up, gray eyes widening in surprise. He saw a lone figure—a woman in gleaming armor and a tattered white tunic—standing on the ridge above them. She was facing the north, her unbound hair fluttering in some distant breeze. The men of both armies had grown still, and everyone turned, even the giant, who slowly lowered his spear.

A man approached in the turbulent air, shining like the sun, his raiment glowing with inner fire. A crippled thing followed at his heels like a dog, barely alive, leaking blood and dark fluid. As the shining figure passed over the top of the dunes, the woman bowed her head. Alexandros, standing below amid the armies of Rome and Persia alike, watched in awe. Golden light washed across the ground, shining on the fallen bodies, broken spears, cloven shields. Withered trees stirred and new growth sprang from charred limbs. Tiny blue flowers bloomed across the protected, landward face of the dune. Spring did not touch them, but the power radiating from the beneficent face did.

The giant knelt and the remains of the Persian army bowed down, pressing foreheads to grounded weapons, averting their eyes.

Alexandros felt a great sense of peace wash over him and he too collapsed to his knees. His spirit struggled, trying to force him to his feet, but every bone and sinew responded gladly to the silent command. The legionaries stiffened, raising their arms in the Imperial salute, and every eye blazed with proud delight.

'I am Maxian,' a stern voice rolled and crashed in the sky. 'Put down these weapons. Let there be peace in the world.'

Alexandros, teeth gritted in a furious effort to control his hand, felt his fingers open and the sword fall to the sandy ground. Not more than a pace away, the giant king let his spear drop, though his neck bulged with effort.

'This is ended.' The prince settled to the ground, waves of silvery light shining in every face. Then the radiance faded, leaving only men and women—wounded, tired, exhausted from the day's struggle—standing in a darkened hollow between the turbulent sea and burning land. Alexandros slumped, falling onto his hands, and felt every muscle in his body trembling in reaction.

Even I will be sore tomorrow, he thought. This Persian has Herakle's own strength in those arms!

—|—

Maxian stood on the crest of the dune ridge, his lean, dark face silhouetted against the distant glare of Catania. The city was burning fiercely, billowing clouds rolling up into the sky, obscuring the slopes of the great mountain. The stars had come out, shining down fitfully through drifting ash and a gritty, bitter-tasting haze. The prince faced a handful of men and one woman. His face was in shadow, though a single green ember burned where one eye would be. The distant voice of Gaius Julius faded from his thoughts.

'My brother is dead and by the acclamation of the people and the Senate, I am Emperor of Rome.' The young man's voice was flat, leached of every emotion. 'I rule and within the reach of my hand there will be peace.'

No one spoke, a fugitive breeze tugging at their hair or hissing across scored and dented armor.

Maxian placed his hand on the withered, broken shoulder of the creature crouched at his feet. 'This is Dahak and he is the first of my servants. I have made him loyal, for in his flesh rides the life of the world.'

Light blazed from the sorcerer's eyes, mouth, seeping from myriad wounds. He shuddered, overcome, and then stood, body whole, skin rippling with scale, his elongated skull dipping in obedience. Obscure glyphs flared on his body, covering every inch of skin, even the darting black tongue. Then they faded. Maxian stepped to the next man.

'You are C'hu-lo, yabghu of the T'u-chueh, the Great People.'

The Hun nodded, swallowing convulsively. His high cheekbones were scored with ash, his arms lashed with wounds. He leaned against a broken spear, one leg lamed by fire. Maxian brushed back long, oily black hair, and the man's skin cleared, flesh knitting without blemish or scar. 'You will rule in my name,' the Emperor said, 'khan of khans, in all the lands under the Rampart of Heaven. Your armies will be as leaves of grass, without number, your flocks plentiful and the strength of your race unbounded.'

Maxian stepped before two young men, each wounded, armor spattered with blood, faces gaunt with exhaustion, leaning on one another for support. They were alike as peas in a pod, fierce, noble faces turned to the Emperor with dread riding in their dark eyes.

'You are Khalid al'Walid, the last son of the Makhzum,' he said to the first. He set his hands to both men's cheeks, inclining his head towards them in greeting. 'You are Odenathus, son of Zabda, prince of poor, dead Palmyra, like your friend, the last of a noble line.'

The Emperor smiled and both men straightened, weariness banished, their eyes brightening. 'You will build anew,' he said, 'and your cities will grow great, radiant with learning and knowledge, filled with cool gardens and shining marble. Those lands, you will hold in my name, and guard wisely.'

The young Eagle knelt, pressing Maxian's hand to his lips. 'In your name, great lord.'

'What is this,' the Emperor said, raising a hand to beckon a dark shape from the shadow of the hill. 'Which hides its face from those of living men?'

A harsh, armored shape stirred unwillingly, then stepped before Maxian, cloak thrown back, a dented iron mask catching the gleam of the burning city. The Emperor looked upon the captain of the Shanzdah and his shadowed eyes took the measure of the thing and its purpose.

'Even in an empire of light,' Maxian said, his voice untroubled, 'there will be work better done by night than by day.' The shape stiffened, then knelt to the ground, making the proskynesis in the Persian style, forehead to the ground, hands outstretched. 'You and your brothers please me,' the Emperor said, touching the iron crown of the helmet with his fingertips. 'With such devotion.'

A giant man loomed over Maxian, long mustache sweeping from a craggy, bloodied face. Arms like old roots crossed the chest of a titan or a god. A beard shot with silver covered a laminated steel breastplate. In Shahr- Baraz's eyes, there was nothing but defiance and ancient pride.

'Have you drunk deep enough of war?' The Emperor's voice softened for the first time. 'Is your thirst quenched? Where are your sons, the friends of youth, your brothers?'

'Dead,' growled the King of Kings, the word forced from his mouth against his will, face twisting in despair. 'They are dead.'

'You are Shahr-Baraz, the Boar, shahanshah, lord of the Medes, master of the Persians.' Maxian's voice cracked sharply. 'You will rule Persia in my name and yours will be a realm at peace, where a wise king rules from a throne not drenched in blood, but founded on order.' He lifted his hand and the middle-aged man tried to turn away, but sighed—a long, exhausted exhalation—when the Emperor smoothed back his wild, tangled hair. Years lifted from the man's face and his beard curled dark and lustrous again.

'You, I know.' Maxian looked upon Alexandros with a grim smile. 'By your tread, I will measure the circumference of the world.' The Macedonian flinched, his heart quailing away from the pressure in the shadowed eyes. Maxian grasped his shoulders and Alexandros felt weariness fade, spilling out on the ground in an invisible stream. 'India is waiting and beyond her—who knows what wonders might lie?'

The Macedonian pressed fingertips to his forehead, and bowed, as the others had done.

Only the woman remained, standing a little apart, her face turned away to the east. Wind tugged at night- black hair, cascading in waves of curls down her back. The Emperor looked upon her and his mouth tightened. 'Who are you?'

The Queen turned, looking over her shoulder. Her face matched his for cold composure, showing neither fear nor despair. The glow of the burning city shone in sapphire eyes and her chin lifted. 'I am Zenobia Septima,' she said tonelessly. 'My city is ruins, scattered bone and rock. I have no kingdom, no subjects, nothing save sand and wind.'

'Palmyra the Golden will rise again,' Maxian said, brow furrowing slightly. 'White towers will rise and countless gardens bloom. Silver will fill her coffers and her ships will ply the wide sea, holds filled with silk, spices and every luxury. All will look upon your beauty and rejoice!'

Zenobia did not respond, the corners of her mouth tightening. Sweat beaded her neck. The Emperor waited, remaining entirely still. She swayed, then straightened. Long fingers stiffened and her oval face became pale.