The Dark Lord (22 page)

"Time to cut wood," he said, chuckling to his aides.

Long wide-mouthed horns of beaten bronze wailed.

A hundred yards away the Avar camp was awake and alarmed, with men pouring out of a farmhouse and leaping up from the ground like ants disturbed from a nest. A huge crowd of Slavs spread out across the open fields, hair hanging lank around tattooed shoulders, the rising sun winking on iron caps and the points of their spears.

"Deploy in loose order!" Jusuf shouted, turning and riding towards the highway on his right. The Khazar lancers advanced to the left of the Eastern infantry, providing an appetizing target for the Avar knights. All around Jusuf, his men rode up out of the stream in a steady wave, lances unlimbered or bows laid across their saddles. A hundred feet away, as Jusuf trotted to the end of the line, a cohort of Eastern Empire heavy infantry splashed across the stream as well. Between the stream and the houses was a long section of open, flat ground. They advanced with a measured step, heavy oval shields facing the enemy. Each man marched forward with a long spear angled up and ahead, steel helmet shining, a tuft of cloth—matching the color of his shield—dancing at the point. The tramp of their boots boomed in time with a shouted cadence.

Beyond them, barely visible against the bright eastern sky, ranks of Goths filled the main road. Jusuf ignored them for a moment and cantered up to the edge of the Roman infantry. A dozen paces from the edge of the formation, a grizzled-looking veteran was walking backwards, his red cape swirling around his legs, watching the alignment of the men.

"Centurion!" Jusuf called as he rode up. "Good day!"

The officer looked up, scowling, then made a face to see some barbarian looming over him. "What do you want?"

"To wish you and your men good luck," Jusuf said, leaning on his saddle horn. He felt a little giddy with battle imminent, and the air was clear and sharp and the morning birds were singing. With luck the day would be gloriously clear, though at the moment a haze drifted among the trees. "We'll watch your back."

The Roman officer stared at him for a moment, walking backwards, one eye gauging his men's advance. Then the man grunted and waved in acknowledgement.

"Good hunting!" Jusuf shouted, saluting to the men in the ranks, some of whom were looking over at him curiously. Then he clucked at the mare and turned back to see to
his
lines. The Khazars had crossed the streambed and fanned out in an easy trot. Across the fields—studded with individual trees and piles of stones gathered by farmers—the Avars were pouring out of their encampment in a black flood. Horns blew and drums beat furiously. Jusuf looked off to his left and frowned. There was no sign of the Eastern
cataphracts
lurking among the brush and trees.

"Signal advance at a walk!" Jusuf signaled to his banner and trumpet men. Flags fluttered in the air and there was more wailing and honking. Mindful of Dahvos' warning to stay out of trouble, Jusuf tossed his lance to one of the couriers behind him, then drew his striking sword. "Advance!"

"My lord! The Romans..."

"I can hear them." Bayan was watching the morning sky, chin raised while servants bustled around him, strapping greaves and armored plates to his legs, his arms. A light fog was dissipating, leaving the sky a clear blue. A few thin clouds streaked the face of Tengri's heaven. A broad leather belt was cinched at his waist and he lowered his arms, letting the armorers slide a back-and-breast of laminated iron strips over his arms. The khagan pursed his lips, finally considering the
umen
commanders kneeling before him. "What do you see?"

The young man kept his face impassive, though Bayan could see a vein throbbing on the side of his neck. "A Roman army, lord of the world... a large force of infantry is astride the road, while cavalry is forming up on either wing."

"Their numbers?" Bayan shifted his bow from one hand to the other, allowing the armorers to secure the straps on his right arm and slide an armored glove over his fingers. The khagan flexed his fingers in the glove, finding the mesh of iron rings firm. He nodded absently to one of the servants, who opened a small box and took out a steel ring, incised with interlocking geometric shapes. The thumb ring fit snugly over the armored glove and Bayan turned the ring slightly, ensuring the smooth inner surface sat under his thumb.

"Three thousand foot in the middle, my lord. Four thousand Khazars on the right, and another four thousand Roman horse on the left." The
umen
commander made a face at his mention of
Roman horse
. Bayan understood—the men of the Stone City might have a rich empire, but they were not
horsemen
. At least the Khazars could draw, loose and ride at the same time. "But more men are still coming out of the woods."

Bayan scratched his beard, thinking. The color of the sky promised a beautiful, clear day. Even the damp closeness of the woods and fields did not weigh on him as it usually did. "I will command the right wing," the khagan said briskly. "My household guard and the heavy horse will be under my banner. The Sklavenoi and Slavs and other lesser men will hold the center, among the buildings. Place Jujen and his
umen
on the left, to screen the flank. I doubt the Roman horsemen will be able to dislodge him!"

The
umen
commanders laughed, rising and bowing to their khagan. Bayan was pleased to see their faces filled with eagerness for battle and honorable glory. The sky father would bless them today!

An hour passed with Jusuf keeping a weather eye on the Roman lines. His riders wheeled and darted towards the slowly assembling Avar lines, loosing clouds of arrows into the Slavic spearmen. This drew shouts of rage and occasional warriors burst from the ranks of their fellows, running out to hurl a spear or a javelin at the Khazar riders, who danced away, laughing. The enemy maintained his line, though Jusuf saw at least a dozen Slavs—wild white hair, thick with grease and clay, barely armored in leather jerkins or woad-blue tattoos—cut down by their Avar officers.

Jusuf bit his thumb nervously.
Those Avar beki jegun are good. They'll kill a hundred men to keep the rest in good order...

The huge mass of the Slavs was being reinforced by troops of Avar horse—glinting mail and horsetail plumes and tall spears—and moving forward. There were a lot of Slavs on the field today, and behind them, half-hidden by the mass of spear- and axe-men and the cloud of dust they raised, bands of cavalry were forming up. Jusuf began to get a feeling the full weight of the Avar nation had come down the road from Constantinople.

He suddenly felt foolish. His appreciation of the
comes
Alexandros' tactics had blinded him. Soon enough, the Avars were going to storm right into his line and try their best to kill him and his men. Jusuf shook himself, like a soft-mouthed Charka hound rising from some prairie lake. A trickle of fear pulsed through the Khazar and he took a firm grip on his sword-hilt.

Then a shrill of
bucinas
and a thunderous kettledrum roar sounded from the center of the Roman line. Without Jusuf noticing, his portion of the line had carried forward beyond the axis of the Roman advance and now, looking off to his right, he could see back into the center. The lines of round Eastern shields had parted, folding back like a clockwork, and a great host of men advanced up the highway, pikes swaying above like young saplings. The Goths advanced on the Avar center with a deep basso shout and the
tramp-tramp-tramp
of their hobnailed boots.

The haze shrouding the field faded and Jusuf wheeled his horse, riding back, shouting for his banner commanders. "Fall back! Re-form on the Roman line!"

Down on the road, the Goths deployed with surprising ease, flooding out across the highway and falling into twelve deep ranks. The drums continued to beat, shivering the air, and Jusuf saw a stillness fall across the Avar front. Every man was staring at the apparition emerging from the Roman lines. The Gothic ranks continued to deploy, pikes upright, swaying almost in unison as the men below marched forward. At the edges of the phalanx, more Goths ran forward, a mixture of armored men with bows and some with swords and maces.

Horns wailed and the phalanx rippled like a snakeskin, the long spears dipping as one and suddenly the Avars were faced with a solid wall of iron points. The first five ranks held their spears low, underarm, while those behind remained raised. The maneuver developed effortlessly and the phalanx swept forward without so much as a missed step.

From his vantage, Jusuf suddenly felt a chill and the hairs on the back of his neck stand up.
Oh, lord of heaven,
his mind raced,
Anastasia was right—this is no actor playing the king of kings, this is the very man himself!

Moments later, the phalanx ground into the center of the Avar line at a swift walk and there was a resounding crash of metal on wood and flesh. The Avar host reeled back from the shock and Jusuf could see men screaming, dying, pierced through by eighteen-foot spears. The Goths stabbed overhand, leaf-shaped points licking into throats and chests. The first three ranks stood their ground, holding the Slavs back with a thicket of iron. A drum boomed, a single deep note, and the phalanx advanced a step.

Terrible confusion gripped the Avar center. The phalanx was hungry and it ate into the crowd of barbarians—armed with axes, short spears, javelins, swords—who could not come to grips with the iron-faced men in the twelve ranks. At the same time, the flanks of the Roman advance filled with lines of Peltasts, running up with their great bows to take a shooting stance.

A deep roar brewed up from the center, mingled screams and battle cries and the ceaseless
stab-stab-stab
of the phalanx grinding forward, a step at a time, into the enemy. Avar officers ran out on the sides, lashing the Slavs and drawing their own weapons. The black mass of the enemy began to draw away from the forest of spears and rush forward on either side.

The first rank of archers loosed, the
snap
of their bows singing across the field. Jusuf flinched as if he had been struck himself. The air was suddenly dark with arrows. The Avar advance staggered and there were more screams. Dozens of men fell, pierced through by yard-long shafts. The second rank of Peltasts loosed hard on the heels of the first and the Slavic line staggered. Then the third rank loosed, shooting high, lofting a black hungry cloud over the heads of their fellows. The first rank had already plucked a fresh arrow, drawn, sighted and loosed again.

The Avar officers screamed, urging their men to stand, but the lightly armored Slavs were being forced back by a constant rain of arrows, loosed at point-blank range. The wicker shields were thick with shafts. Their own archers were trying to shoot back, but everything was in chaos, with men surging back, trying to flee, and more men hurrying up.

The phalanx continued to advance, step by step.

Jusuf tore his attention away from the slaughter. "Stand ready!" His own men formed up, readying arrows. Any moment now the wings of the Avar host would come into play... Jusuf looked back and saw, to his great relief, Dahvos and the heavy Khazar horse surging up out of the streambed, banners snapping in the breeze, their own standards flashing in the morning sun. The Khazar wheeled his horse, surveying his lines and seeing that there wasn't enough space for Dahvos'
umens
to deploy on this side of the streambed.

Need to clear some room to maneuver,
he thought.

"Lancers!" he shouted, voice booming across the field. "With me!"

Surrounded by a thick crowd of nobles on horseback, Bayan rode through a stand of evenly-spaced lemon trees. Thick, glossy leaves brushed his helmet and plucked at his lance. Dappled sunlight fell on dark gray armor under by a shining silk coat printed with a pattern of russet leaves. The khagan felt light, almost exalted. The rumble of four thousand hooves, the creaking of armor and the mutter of men praying or talking surrounded him. The royal guard swept out of the orchard and into the confusion behind the line of battle.

"Clear the way," shouted Bayan's outriders, spurring their horses forward, lances lowered. Crowds of Sklavenoi parted before them, the mountain barbarians staring at the khagan as he passed. Many of the blond and redheaded men watched Bayan pass with ill-disguised anger. The khagan ignored them, for they lived in huts of wattle and daub in the high mountain valleys. Though they were sometimes brave, they could not withstand the practiced efficiency of Avar soldiers.

Horns blew, ringing in the air, and the royal guardsmen began to form up by rank and file, shifting around Bayan like a cloud of dark birds. The
hring
banner came forward and the khagan raised a hand in salute. Other banners—long dragon-mouthed tubes of cloth, or square blazons holding images of the sun and the lightning—surrounded him.

Ahead, beyond clumped
umens
of spearmen and axemen, Bayan heard the sound of battle. The earth quivered and he could see arrows in the air, flashing bright as they fell.

"The Khazars," he said, caressing the stave of the bow laid across his saddle horn. "Are they attacking in earnest, or only flourishing before our lines?"

"They harass the foot soldiers," barked one of the beki jegun, quilted armor spattered with dust. The man's voice echoed from behind a full face mask. "Like Huns themselves."

"Very well." Bayan raised the black bow and every man within sight focused on him, their eye drawn—willing or no—to his face. "Form wedge and prepare to attack! We will drive off these slaves of the T'u-chüeh and show them how real men fight! You, messenger, inform the commanders of foot we will be moving up. They will clear a lane through their mob for us!"

Men wheeled their horses, eager to do his bidding. Bayan smiled, then laughed aloud.

The day was perfect. His quiver was filled with arrows, fletched with gray goose, and each shaft, he knew, would find destiny in a Khazar heart.

Jusuf slashed his arm down, pointing with the sword, and his line of horsemen bolted forward, hooves drumming on the stubble. The Khazars swung out, riding hard at the Avar line and clumps of high grass, isolated trees and marshy wet ground flashed past. Jusuf held his mare back a bit, letting the first wave of lancers sweep on. A clot of couriers, young faces gleaming with sweat and wild grins, swerved with him and his own bannermen and trumpeters held themselves close, hands tight on their standards and horns, mounts guided by knee pressure.