The Dark Lord

assumed the city had fallen—but where was the occupying army? Where were the oppressed citizens?

Blunt fingers gripped the head of the arrow in his left arm, then dragged the shaft out through the muscle. The point emerged, slick with reddish-yellow fluid, and Rufio tossed the arrow away. He bent over, feeling abused muscle and bone creak. Two arrows were buried deep in his chest. Squatting, bracing his shoulders against the nearest building wall, Rufio lifted a spent shaft from the ground. Another dead Slav, lying facedown, flesh distended and purple, provided him with a moderately clean knife. Ignoring the throbbing pain in his left arm, Rufio cut the head from the arrow, then trimmed the resulting shaft, notching the blunt head into four quarters.

Clenching his jaw, Rufio wedged his trimmed arrow against the broken butt of the one in his shoulder, wiggling it until the notched head settled properly against its new friend. Then, holding his body as still as he could manage, the soldier bore down, pushing the arrow lodged in his body through, feeling it grind past bone and muscle, until it punched through the skin of his back. Tears streamed down his cheeks, cutting tracks in dried, crusty blood. Despite being half-blind, his entire body shimmering with pain, he carefully withdrew his dowel. With the iron head of the shaft sticking out of his back, Rufio managed to reach around and snag it with his thumb. Some wiggling around managed to slide the bolt free.

One more to go. Rufio lay back, panting, staring at the pale sky. A haze seemed to lie over the city, making even a clear bright sun, high in the bowl of heaven, seem faded and washed out. Oh, you cursed gods, the soldier thought bitterly, I never asked for this... to see nothing but an eternity of ruin and destruction! You should have left me safely dead, cursed physician!

But he remained alive, and though his entire body was trembling, he fitted the dowel, again, to the broken stub jutting from his chest and began to push. A long agonized groan escaped the soldier's lips as the arrow punched out his back.

CHAPTER THREE

North of the Reed Sea, Lower Egypt, Early Summer, A.D. 625

The stand of cane waved softly, moved by some zephyr of the upper air, creaking and rustling with quiet voices. A thin little man, wiry body given desperately needed bulk by layered leather armor, crouched at the edge of the thick green stalks, his lower body tugged by a sluggish current. The Roman peered through the foliage, ignoring the flies buzzing and crawling on every surface and the gelid sensation of leeches squirming against his legs. One of the man's hands was raised, bidding other men—hidden still further back among reeds and rubber trees thick on the banks of the canal—to wait, to be patient.

Beyond the screen of cane was a ford where the ancient brick sidings of the canal slumped away with age and use, leaving a high sandy bank cut by a rutted wagon path. Here in the lower delta of the Nile, silt filled old passages and the river—in times of flood—cut new channels on its way to the sea. From where Frontius was crouched, skin itching and nostrils filled with an overpowering stench, he could barely make out the paving stones that had once joined a proper road—a Roman road—to a bridge across the canal.

Frontius clenched his fist, feeling the water stir. Little dimples began to appear in the thick brown surface. A sound rose over the constant buzz and hiss, a thundering roll of hooves on sand and broken paving. A man appeared, jogging along the old road, leading a small tan horse. The new arrival was swathed in white and ochre, mail glinting through his robes, and a conical helm wrapped with a green flash. The scout, careful, probed the muddy water with a spear, then—even at this distance, in this heavy, nearly opaque air—Frontius could see the man smile. The old bridge had collapsed into the muck, making a firm, sandy bottom. The Arabian high-stepped through the water, but there was little need—the slow current barely covered the mare's fetlocks.

After a moment, the Arab disappeared back the way he had come. Frontius opened his hand, making a signal to the others, then settled himself lower in the muck, letting the tepid water lap up around his torso until only his head and shoulders were revealed, pressed against the heavy black loam anchoring the reeds. The thundering in the earth was growing stronger, making the surface of the canal ripple and bounce. Then the scout reappeared and the Arabian splashed lightly across the stream and scooted up the far bank. Within an instant, the road and ford were filled with men. Dozens, then hundreds of mounted men picked their way across the canal, surging up the western bank.

In the cane break, Frontius bit at his knuckle, counting and watching, praying the footing of the ford would hold—they had not expected so many of the enemy to come this way! A troop of men with green banners splashed past, then they too were gone. For a moment, there was silence, then the croaking of frogs and the honking cries of marsh egrets and cranes returned. Frontius rubbed furiously at his ears, crushing a feathery carpet of mosquitoes. His hands came away bloody and gray.

He bent his head, listening. A grain passed, and then another, then most of a glass, before he heard the rattling din of battle suddenly brew up to the west. Horns called, echoing mournfully over the swamplands and the screaming of horses grated across his nerves. Now he stood, arm raised again, mud oozing from his armor, and watched the high bank where the banda of Arabic cavalry had passed. The sound of the fighting grew closer—shouts, the clash of metal on metal, cries of pain, the snap and hiss of arrows. High in the broadleaf trees, Frontius could see branches moving in some breeze, but here, down in the muck, there was only a close stillness. Sound carried far over this stagnant water.

A horse burst from the top of the western bank, slewing down the slope, throwing up a spray of sand and brown water as it hit the canal. The Arabian staggered, then came up, leeches clinging to its flanks, saddle askew. There was no rider. A moment later, a man—his face covered with blood—limped down the sandy bank, then managed to cross the ford, using his spear as a cane. Off to the west, there was a sharp boom and leaves fluttered out of the cottonwoods. Frontius smiled: the Legion thaumaturges weighed in.

The Roman engineer turned, opening and closing his hand twice. Off through the thick brush, reeds and white-barked trees there was an answering flash of light. Frontius closed his nose, trying to keep mites from crawling in, then began wading back up the canal. The mud was deep and thick under the thin sheet of water, slowing his progress. His heart started to beat faster, hearing a low rumbling sound upstream, and he veered towards the bank. Here, under the tree roots, there was a course of fitted stone. He reached the bank as the first wavelet passed, pushing gently at his legs. Frontius swallowed a curse, then grabbed hold of one of the clinging roots and started to climb out of the canal.

Another, higher wave rushed down, more of a rolling hump in the brown water, but when this one passed, the level of the canal did not drop. Instead, the water began to sluice past, running faster and faster, swirling around Frontius' boots. The wiry little engineer struggled, trying to scramble up the stone, cursing the enormous weight of mud and water trapped in his armor.

Someone shouted in anger behind him and Frontius risked a look over his shoulder. The ford was filled with Arabs afoot and a-horse, crowding through the crossing. The hump of water crashed into them unexpectedly, throwing some down, fouling others. The sky above lit with a searing bolt of flame, followed by a resounding crack! Some of the Arabs on the far bank turned and loosed arrows in quick succession over the heads of their comrades. Horns shrilled on both banks.

Gritting his teeth, Frontius lunged for the top of the stone wall, catching the lip with his fingers. Desperate— for the water was rising very swiftly now—he clawed at the roots and loose soil. A clod of dirt came free and broke apart on his face, blinding him. 'Gods!'

The Arabs shouted, voices filled with fear. The canal was surging up around them, boiling white around the horses. More men fell down and were pushed away, into the deeper channel where the canal cut behind the blockage of the fallen bridge. Another shout joined them, the basso roar of the Legion advancing. The clash and clatter of men in combat was very close.

Frontius felt the swift water drag at his legs and his left hand slipped from its purchase. He cried out, feeling his right elbow twist in the joint, then managed to clutch at an overhanging branch. The Arabs, driven back into the rising canal, fell into the water, where a huge crush of horses and men jammed the sunken bridge.

An arrow shattered on ancient stone beside Frontius' waist and he yelped. On the opposite bank, one of the Arab archers crawling through the underbrush had seen him. Without sound, neck bulging and arms twisted with agony, he heaved himself up, out of the canal, now running close to the top of the bank, and clawed his way into the sumac and thornbush lining the old canal. Arrows whipped past, hissing through leaves and clattering off the trees.