The Dark Lord

of battle.

'But you must wait,' Alexandros continued, 'until the enemy—goaded beyond anger by our slaughter in the middle—unleashes all his dogs, not just a few, and they are intent upon their prey. Do you understand?'

'Yes,' Demetrios said, choking, suddenly aware of the fierce look on the Macedonian's face and the way Alexandros loomed over him. 'We will wait until the moment is right.'

'Good.' Alexandros' face was very hard and Jusuf wondered if the comes had been drinking. There was something about the quicksilver change in his emotions that brought the grape to mind. 'If you charge too soon, or not at all, indeed—if you fail to perform adequately, Demetrios, then you will find yourself unable to perform at all.'

—|—

Sweating with fear, Bayan, son of Jubudei, khagan of the Avar nation, woke in darkness. Heavy quilts lay across his body and silken pillows cushioned his head. Concubines, comfortably warm, curled on either side of the Avar. In the gloom, he could hear the girls breathing softly, deep in sleep. The khagan's face twitched and he squeezed his eyes shut, trying to keep from crying out. Though the night covered his right arm, Bayan could feel the limb lying stiff beside him, the flesh cold and inert. Grunting with an effort, he groped across the quilts with his good arm.

Beside his bed, on a folding lacquered table, his fingertips brushed across a bow stave of horn and springy wood. Something like a hot, bright spark flashed in the darkness. Bayan gasped, and felt a hot, warm rush of strength flood his body. Ignoring the sleepy complaints of the two girls, the khagan threw back the quilts and rolled out of the bed. Outside, lanterns hanging from the eaves of his great tent shed a faint illumination.

Bayan watched his right arm, streaked by pale bands of light, and the limb trembled with suddenly flowing blood, with the flush of life, and then stringy muscles swelled and firmed with visible speed. The khagan felt joy fill him, even as his arm grew stronger and stronger. He clasped the tall bow, glittering and dark in the faint light, to his breast. His right hand clenched into a fist.

'What a gift!' He breathed, barely audible even to himself. 'What a gift.'

Even the bearer had been delightful, the perfect emissary to catch Bayan's attention...

—|—

The T'u-chueh bent one knee, neck exposed between his oily black hair and the top of his laminated armor. Bayan snorted, turning from his place at the edge of the raised wooden platform. He did not deign to look fully upon the ambassador. 'Rise, Persian slave.'

The T'u-chueh stood, his temper admirably leashed. Bayan was in a foul mood, as were his advisors, a grizzled set of older men standing close by. They glowered at C'hu-lo, fingering their weapons. Persia was no longer a friend of the Avars, not after the disasters of the previous spring. Sending one of the eastern lords to treat with them was daring—had not the Avar broken free of the T'u-chueh yoke a hundred years before? Didn't the eastern Turks call the Avars 'slave' and 'beast'? But Bayan acknowledged, silently, the sight of the single-braid kneeling before him was pleasant.

'Great lord, my master sends you warm greetings, offering you gifts and tokens of his friendship.' C'hu-lo pulled a gorytos from his back in a smooth motion, laying the bow case down on the rough-hewn planks. In the bright sunlight the case gleamed a rich dark red. The horsehide was carefully treated, rubbed with preserving oils, the nap of fine hair arranged just so. Leather edging surrounded the mottled red- and-white hide, punched with signs representing the sky, the wind, the gods, the horses and the people. 'The king of kings thinks you will find this small gift, the least of gifts, pleasing.'

Bayan did not look at the case, his face turning dark with anger. The khagan was a stout man, shorter than his advisors, with one arm hidden in the folds of his fur vest. His other hand, his left, tugged at a thin patchy beard. Like his captains and advisors, he was wearing a long peaked cap of green felt and a fur-lined cape. Armor of riveted iron rings covered his barrel-like chest and hung down past his waist. His features echoed C'hu-lo's own—a flattened nose, high cheekbones, a slant to his eyes. To the Eastern eye, there were subtle differences; the Avar khagan wore his long black hair in two plaits, where the T'u-chueh favored one.

'You are not pleased, lord of men? Has the king of kings given offense in some way?'

The Avar advisors growled, bristling, and one of them drew his curving cavalry sword. The T'u-chueh did not respond, watching Bayan with a patient, stoic expression, one hand flat on the platform.

'What is the cost of Persian friendship?' Bayan looked down upon C'hu-lo. 'You offer a single bow and the swords of the Romans will take ten thousand of my subjects. You offer fine words and promises of victory, but the Romans will deliver fire and death. Three years we strove against the walls of the City. We took nothing but windrows of the dead. Where is the glory there? The prizes? The slaves? Cold and rotting in the ground with my sons, with the sons of my sons.'

C'hu-lo remained impassive; though the fury and hatred in Bayan's voice was hot enough to set wood alight. In response, he unhooked three clasps holding the bow case closed. Deftly, he opened the case, revealing the bow and arrows within to the sky. The Avars surrounding him hissed in surprise.

The bowstave was a sleek dark wood on the inner face, then glossy bone on the outer. It was of a full length, the 'man' bow of the Huns, with a long curving topstave and a shorter, thicker foundation. Coiled strings, shining with oil, sat in leather holders on the inside of the case. A sheaf of arrows, the shafts painted in blue, the fletching white-and-gray goose, filled the other half of the case. C'hu-lo stood, holding the weapon in his hands. 'This is the bow of a king, of a hero.'

Bayan's face darkened, turning a muddy red color. C'hu-lo matched his stare. Bayan thought his heart might burst, so fiercely did it hammer in his chest. 'Here, lord of men, take it, draw it, set your sight upon a pleasing target.'

Bayan could not bring himself to speak. His right arm, hidden in the vest, slipped out. The limb was withered, scored by a long curling scar lapping over the elbow. C'hu-lo took the moment—the advisors averted their eyes from the khagan's shame—and stepped close, looking slightly down on the man. 'Lord Bayan,' he whispered, 'put your hands upon this weapon, feel the power! The king of kings offers you not insult, but a great gift.'

Bayan glared up at him, but then paused, seeing a strange pleading in C'hu-lo's eyes.

'My arm is too weak,' the khagan whispered. 'You insult me before my men!'

'No, great lord,' C'hu-lo's voice was low and urgent. 'Here is the string, well waxed, a shaft, straight and true. Do as your fathers have done, string, draw, loose! Trust me and you will be delivered from shame.'

Bayan shook his head, refusing to touch the weapon. C'hu-lo knelt again, holding the bow above his head. 'If you do not find the weapon sufficient, great lord, then strike off my head.'

C'hu-lo thrust the bow into Bayan's hands, forcing the man to take the stave, lest the weapon drop. No T'u- chueh, or Avar, would allow such treatment of a bow. The T'u-chueh bent his head to the planks, dragging aside his hair with one hand, exposing a tanned neck. His voice muffled, he said, 'This thing is in your heart, great khagan—your ancestors look down. See the pride in their eyes!'

Bayan grimaced, but the bow felt good in his hands. He looked around, seeing his advisors—the lords of the Avar clans, the chiefs of the towns under his sway, his kinsmen, the friends of his youth—still looking away in embarrassment. Among their people, it defied the gods for the khagan to be crippled or flawed in the body. But Bayan's affliction came late in life, well after he had established himself and sired many strong sons. Each day he cursed the chance Roman arrow. It had been such an insignificant skirmish in the depths of winter too. There had been many victories in his youth and his legend was strong among the yurts and campfires of the people. His recent failures ate at him like a cancer. The Romans would be his slaves!

The khagan looked out on the marshlands, squinting into the sun. The land was green and verdant, filled with stands of aspen and willow, cut by hundreds of channels, sparkling bright under the sun. Egrets and herons filled the air, sweeping and darting in numberless flocks. This was a rich land, filled with game. It pleased the khagan to know true men hunted in these willow breaks and fished in these plentiful streams. In the distance, there was a thundering of wings and a flock of geese suddenly bolted into the sky. Doubtless one of the wild cats hunting in the estuaries startled them up.

Bayan swallowed, then put the bow to his knee. A leather pad was sewn into his legging for just such a purpose. His fingers remembered what to do, at least, and he slipped the tightly wound string loop under the base of the bowstave. The other end hooked over the top and the wood of the stave began to flex. Despite gnawing