The Dark Lord

engines blew apart in blue-black flame.

'Set is upon us,' Sextus breathed, stunned. 'The gods walk the earth!'

He turned, settling an unconscious Frontius upon his shoulders and staggered off down the road. The shape of the southern mirror tower loomed up ahead, only a half-mile away. It seemed intact, the morning sun gleaming on the polished shape of the disk in its cradle. Grim-faced Roman legionaries ran past, heading for the sound of battle.

—|—

Nephet groaned, pushing weakly at a smoking, charred timber pinning him among the dead. The old Egyptian's face was streaked with blood, his nose bleeding, thin fringe of hair plastered against a skull shining with sweat. His thin arm strained, then the square-cut timber lifted and clattered to the ground. Surprised, the priest looked up to see a powerful figure crouched over him.

'Lord Caesar!' Nephet turned his head and spit blood on the dusty ground.

'Get up,' Aurelian growled, lifting the frail old man up with both hands. The Roman's eyes were narrow slits against bitter white smoke drifting through the ruins of the bastion. His armor was dented and scored with black streaks, his beard fouled with mud. 'Can you stand? Can you fight?'

Nephet coughed, catching a fringe of the smoke hanging in the air. A sizzling crack-crack- crack roared overhead. The priest ducked, flinching away from the noise. Aurelian's fingers dug into his shoulders.

'Can you fight?' The Roman shook Nephet roughly. Memories flooded back, chilling the old priest's blood. He and the prince had rushed forward to the bastion, alarmed at the enormous noise and the flare of light. The old Egyptian had barely reached the wall in time to watch a conflagration unfold, then the earth heaved and something had smashed him to the ground.

'Yes.' Nephet turned, leaning heavily on his staff. The side of one hand pressed against his brow. The skin felt hot, but touch served to focus his mind enough to descend once more into the maelstrom of the hidden world. My brothers! To me! The old priest sketched a glyph in the air, the mnemonic guiding his thought and will into the desired pattern. A pale, feeble radiance flickered into being around him—an incomplete, weak sphere of defense. Nephet reached out, his will winging across the battlefield, searching desperately for his fellow priests. Sons of Horus, heed my call!

Destruction lay all around, echoing between the physical and the ghost shapes of the hidden.

A hundred-foot-wide section of the forward rampart was gone, reduced to jagged heaps of brick and ash. The remains of an ancient triumphal arch listed drunkenly to one side—the old gate had been completely filled in, making a strong point in the wall. Now the sandstone slabs were cracked and splintered, scattered over a sixty- foot-wide swath from the gate. The bastion opposite, where Nephet had been standing, was cloaked with smoke, watchtowers burning fiercely, a massive gouge torn out of the sloping earthen berm. Glassy slag puddled, shimmering with heat, among the wreckage. The tents inside were blown down and dead and wounded men lay scattered like grain discarded on a threshing floor.

Hurrying lights—the shapes of men—poured through the breach, surging forward into battle with struggling knots of legionaries, regrouping after the blast. Nephet struggled to think—the wound on the side of his head burned with cold fire—and took some heart to see the Roman soldiers rallying around their Legion standards. Furious ghosts and vengeful spirits clustered thick around the ancient banners, driving back the whiplash of fear and despair radiating out from the enemy. The thin cries of the newly dead bolstered the hearts of the living. Older, stronger shades crowded around the legionaries fighting in the wreckage, turning aside burning motes of misfortune flooding the hidden world.

As Nephet watched, one young centurion—fighting alone against three robed Persians—blocked a stroke, then ducked nimbly aside, warned by the spirit-shape of another, older, stronger centurion—perhaps centuries dead—who shadowed his every movement. Other ghosts flickered in the air, knocking aside Arab arrows and sling stones falling from the sky.

A vast shape, anchored by three burning stars, swung forward towards the second wall. Nephet staggered, looking upon the shape of the enemy. Part of his mind yammered in fear, faced with the horror of a god loosed upon the earth. Fool! shouted his conscious will, this is no god! They sleep, buried in the ice, imprisoned under the sea. This is illusion!

Set looked down upon him with blazing wolf-eyes, the head grown so large it blocked out the sky. The sun was reduced to a pale red disk, wreathed in smoke and the fume of battle. An ebon hand reached down, splintering the earth. Nephet felt his physical body topple over, but the Caesar Aurelian caught him in a powerful grip. The priest's attention turned away, summoning up power from the soil, from the stones, from the lifeblood of the Nile at his back.

Sons of Horus, to me! Swift thought winged across the battlefield.

This brought a second shock—worse than the first. Only a half-dozen minds responded, some faint and weak, some strong, approaching rapidly from the west. Are the others dead? Nephet called into the dark void. Then, at the edge of perception, through storms of anger, fear and despair, he caught the faint scent of panic and flight. The priest blazed bright with fury. They run? The mad fools! There is no escape now, not even in death.

Nephet whirled, those few companions rushing forward to join him.

Too late, old man. A sly tickling brushed against his consciousness. Nephet froze, startled by a vaguely familiar touch.

Bow before me, like these others, it whispered, and you will live.

The old priest settled his mind; calming his heart, letting fear wash away, sand spilling into the desert, leaving only unblemished stone. No, he answered into the void, seeing the enemy loom over him, three burning eyes blotting out the sun. I will not yield.

—|—

Khalid clambered across fallen brick and square-cut timbers. He'd snatched up a round shield from one of the fallen. The breach in the rampart was wide, but with hundreds of his men, now joined by a few Persian diquans in heavy armor, swarming through the gap, he found himself among a crowd. The Sahaba chanted as they picked their way forward in a loose, disorganized line.

Ah-la-la-la-la! The long, ululating wail raised the hackles on Khalid's neck, though he had ridden to battle with the men of the desert many times. Thin curtains of smoke rolled across the field, obscuring the enemy. Khalid trotted forward, fearless, and found himself on a rubble-strewn road of planks, looking down into a second dry canal. Staked fences crisscrossed the canal bed.

'To me, Sahaba!' he screamed, turning, waving the ebon blade. 'Bannermen, to me!'

A green flag appeared among streaks of white fog, sword and crescent moon plain on the simple fabric. Khalid felt his heart swell to see the banner of his people. 'Over here!'

Deep shouts belled out, then the rush of booted feet. Khalid whirled, the sword licking across the face of a Roman soldier. The legionary ducked, shoving a heavy, rectangular shield at the Arab. Khalid skipped back, feeling the planks twist uneasily beneath his feet. The Roman stabbed underhand, the triangular tip of his short blade slamming into the edge of Khalid's shield. The Arab hacked overhand and the sable edge of the blade rang away from the iron rim of the big scutum. Gasping for breath, Khalid parried another stab, then slashed at the man's feet. The shield interposed again, sending the point of the blade belling away.

A line of Romans appeared out of the smoke, moving shoulder to shoulder, their shields a solid wall of laminated wood and iron. The Sahaba howled, rushing forward, swords and spears glittering. The legionaries answered with a hoarse bark of rage, standing their ground, and a sharp melee resulted—blades and spear points darting as each side tried to gain the advantage. Two burly Arab spearmen pushed past Khalid, slamming twelve- foot pikes into the Roman shields. One shield slipped, exposing the man behind, and he screamed, taking an iron spear point in his armpit. Blood smeared the leaf-shaped blade and the Arabs yelled wildly, trying to push into the opening. The Roman soldier fell away, vomiting blood, to be trampled underfoot. Legionaries filled the gap, jostling shoulder to shoulder.

Khalid wiped his brow, catching his breath. The battle eddied around him, leaving him alone and unmolested for an instant. The vast shape of the jackal towered across the canal, wreathed in lightning, staggering under bursts of fire. A constant boom-boom-boom shook the air, deafening everyone. Khalid