The Dark Lord (75 page)

The ebon blade shattered, metal parting in a tortured groan. The wight staggered, then hissed in fury. Nicholas whipped Brunhilde sideways, a blur of smoking azure light. An up-flung arm caught her stroke on a wrist guard, but the dwarf steel trembled like a struck bell, shearing through the softer iron. Something brittle snapped and Nicholas bounded past, leaving the Persian sprawled on the ground.

"Go go go!" He bolted past Vladimir, taking a wild cut at the bearded Persian's head. The legionaries were running too, though at least one of them was a still shape on the ground. The Walach gave a skirling howl, then leapt into the darkness. Nicholas didn't look back, darting around the first column he passed.

"Thyatis!"
Where was the woman?
His arms felt like lead already, sweat streaming from his neck into his armor. Steam curled away from his exposed skin. Vladimir charged past and Nicholas grasped wildly for him, catching the man's cloak. "Get over here," he snarled.

Light sparked high above, a sudden flood of greenish refulgence. Nicholas looked away, half-blinded. Something hissed in the sky, floating above the broken crowns of the pillars, shedding a hot, spitting light. "Thrice-cursed sorcerer! Come on."

The enormous voice rang, shaking the ground. Whirling rainbow light etched the crevices between the stone slabs into perfect clarity. Thyatis caught a glimpse of enormous stone feet, pitted and scored by centuries of exposure to the sky and wind. Her entire body shuddered, pulsing in time to the sound filling the world. Blinded, she crawled on the floor, screaming soundlessly, groping for some kind of shelter. Smeared blood glowed ruby alongside her nose, picked out in the brilliant glare.

THE CIRCLE BEGINS TO CLOSE. THE SHELTER OF THE STARS FAILS, RIVEN BY INEXORABLE TIDES.

Thyatis clawed at the edge of a slab, dragging herself forward.

A viper unfolded a glossy, pearl-colored hood. Tiny black eyes glittered above a hissing mouth. A dark green tongue darted. A dusky hand grasped the viper swiftly, just behind the mottled, scaled head. The snake's jaws yawned, revealing a pink mouth and pale white fangs. The hand moved swiftly, each motion assured, squeezing the poison sac behind the muscular jaw with deft fingers. A milky drop oozed out, dropping into a pink palm. The venom hissed, bubbling the skin, then the hand lifted to Thyatis' mouth. Her tongue dipped, tasting the burning liquid. For a moment, it seemed there would be no pain, only a spreading numbness. Then the muscles in her chest contracted violently and she could feel her heart being crushed by a series of jolting spasms. She fell backward, stiffening, and her last sight was of the great doors crashing aside, revealing a crowd of grim-faced men in iron helmets.

Gasping, tears streaming from blind eyes, Thyatis turned her face from the coruscating light.

A PAEAN OF JOY RISES FROM THE CAMPFIRE, VANISHING INTO THE RISING DISK OF HOLY FATHER SUN.

A crowd of men pressed close around her, white robes shining with midday heat. Their faces, puffed with fat, glistening with sweat, smiled genially at her. Tired, head throbbing from the noise, Thyatis sat on a stone bench—one among hundreds—waving off pressing hands on either side. A man approached, freshly-shaven chin gleaming red. His mouth moved, but Thyatis could hear nothing over the roaring sound of the colossal voice. He too, she waved away, but he refused to leave. His hands grasped her shoulders, pinning her to the seat. Thyatis brushed the hands away, her voice raised in a sharp rebuke.

A blow rocked her back and she looked up to see a black-eyed man with a grim, seamed face draw back a bloody dagger for a second stroke. Limpid fire lit in her limbs, one hand snatching a freshly-cut stylus from the pocket of her robe. Before the man could react, she grasped his wrist and slammed the point of the stylus into his bicep. He screamed—though the noise was lost in the rolling boom of the voice speaking again. She leapt back, crashing into the bodies of many senators crowding close on all sides. Another blow stunned her, and she looked down, seeing a Corsican-styled hilt jutting from her chest. Cold welled in her breast, filling her throat. A ring of men surrounded her, faces drawn and tense, eyes wild in fear. Every one held a drawn knife.

Thyatis swayed, feeling blood sluice down her side, but did not fall. Instead, she tore her gown with trembling fingers, letting half fall decently over her midriff and legs. The other section, perfect white linen spotted with bright red blood, she raised over her face. She closed her eyes.

Another blow slammed into her side, then another, and another...

Drooling, Thyatis collapsed onto the stone floor, fingernails still clawing to drag her forward.

LEAVES FALL INTO A RUSHING STREAM, GOLDEN-RED, SWIRLING AMONG GRAY STONES.

Her eyes were partially open, only bare slits fringed with long eyelashes. Above, she could make out a flat ceiling, chased with gold, ornamented with blocky geometric diagrams. The sun was shining in—bright, very bright—through cross-shaped windows. She could smell myrrh, coriander, roses, lavender, sweet scented oil. Figures moved into her field of view—men in red cloaks and bronzed armor were shouting, their faces flushed with emotion. They were all so familiar... Perdiccas struck one of the other captains a heavy blow with a fist glittering with golden rings. Another appeared, this man with a heavy beard and quick, knowing eyes. Alone of the angry men in the room, his eyes showed true grief.

WIND SIGHS AMONG TREES BLOSSOMING IN THE COURTS OF THE MORNING.

Pain lanced along her arms, burning like a fire. She staggered, nerveless fingers letting fall a cloak of golden leaves. Discolored streaks appeared on massively muscled forearms, then the poison rushed up across her biceps. Gasping for breath, she fell heavily on a floor of carefully fitted slate. A chair of stone stood on a raised dais. A plastered wall stood behind the throne, painted a dusky red, with curling lines of geometric waves running just below the ceiling. Dolphins sported in a stylized ocean. A gray-haired woman stood over her, tears streaming down a seamed, lined face, wrinkled hands pressed against her ears. Someone was screaming endlessly, like a gelded bull.

How did Deianira grow so old, Thyatis wondered, before searing pain ripped all thought from her mind.

HANDS TOUCH IN THE DARKNESS AND THERE IS HOPE.

Scarred, furred fingers reached out—barely lit by intermittent flares of sullen yellow light—and grasped a gleaming, golden tablet. Spindly legs braced against a surface of glistening dark metal. She tugged furiously, chipped nails bleeding. Then the tablet came free. Clutching the glowing stone to her chest, she scuttled down into darkness, slipping and sliding over oil-black surfaces. The light burned against her chest, filling her with warmth, driving back the endless, eternal chill.

THIS IS YOUR TIME.

Betia froze, startled by a greenish white light blooming in the sky. She set down her injured foot gingerly, then realized with a shock she was surrounded. A wicked-looking knife—plainly illuminated by the strange radiance—pressed against the side of her throat. Eyes wide, she turned her head slowly. She blinked. Four women crouched in the shadow of a massive column. One of them, dark eyes glittering over a dirty veil, held the point to her throat.

"I'm—" Her gasped words stilled, blade pressing into her flesh. A finger rose to the woman's lips, hidden behind tattered linen. Betia closed her mouth. Fingers shaking, she raised a hand, sketching a quick bow sign in the air. "...please, I'm no enemy."

The knife withdrew slowly. A rattling
boom
sounded through the forest of stone. The hissing light in the sky fell slowly among the pillars, shadows dancing wildly in the avenues between the columns.

"Move," hissed the woman with the knife. All four of the Daughters darted out into a plaza of fitted stone. Betia sprinted after them, ignoring the sharp pain in her foot. There was a huge doorway under a wall of brick, then they were inside, in darkness. Betia stopped hard, panting. Someone drew back a leather cover from an oil lantern, letting a warm yellow glow spill into the vast chamber.

Directly ahead, a mammoth statue rose towards a ceiling hidden in darkness. Huge, square-fingered hands rested on round knees and a stone beard was visible at the edge of the lantern light. Betia's arms rippled with goosebumps, looking up at dead, staring eyes. The light flickered and glowed on disks of mother-of-pearl set in the sockets and she felt sudden, overwhelming dread. Then she looked down, unwilling to face the god in his sanctuary and yelped in surprise.

A figure lay sprawled on the floor at the edge of a pit.

"Thyatis!" The tallest of the cloaked Daughters bolted forward, knife forgotten, and knelt beside the Roman soldier. Betia hurried forward as well, her mind moving again, and together they rolled the supine form over. Tapering olive fingers peeled back one of the Roman woman's eyelids, and pressed against a powerful, scarred throat. "She lives..." said the Daughter in an emotion-choked voice.

Betia felt paralyzing fear recede. She bit her thumb nervously. Thyatis seemed cold and dead to her, face pale under a wash of freckles and old sunburn. A flutter of breath barely moved her lips. "What did this? Can we wake her up?"

"There's no time for acquaintances," barked one of the other Daughters, before the dark-eyed woman could answer. The old woman's veil had fallen away, revealing a wrinkled, angry face. "We've got to go!"

Shouts echoed outside on the plaza, followed by the sound of running feet. Betia jerked around, pulling back the sleeves of her cloak. Bloodfire tickled in her throat, making a rushing sound in her ears, and she jacked back the lever on the spring-gun at her wrist. The spring closed with a snap. Outside, she saw figures rush from the columns. Another sparking, hissing light flashed in the sky.

"Help me," the olive-skinned woman snapped. Betia turned, meeting fierce dark eyes and together they lifted Thyatis up. The Roman was heavy, her limbs slack in unconsciousness. Betia gasped, pushing on a muscular thigh with all her strength. The Daughter shifted, getting her shoulder under Thyatis' breastbone, then took the larger woman on her back with a grunt. "Follow."

Staggering under the weight, the olive-skinned woman placed a foot on the top step. Betia stared giddily down into the pit, brickwork walls illuminated by unsteady lanterns in the hands of the Daughters. The stairs corkscrewed down and beyond the flaring, intermittent light there was only darkness. A cold, sharp-smelling wind blew up in the girl's face and she swayed at the lip, then caught herself.

Steel rang on steel outside and a man screamed in pain. Betia darted down the steps. Barely twenty feet down the pit—though the stairs continued on, winding into the depths of the hill—a section of the wall had folded away. Betia ducked into the opening, following Thyatis' disappearing foot—one sandal strap dangling—and the receding light of the lantern. A tunnel with a triangular roof slanted down at a steep angle and the Gaul found the shallow, worn steps difficult to navigate.

Behind Betia, the wizened old Egyptian woman braced her feet against the floor and pressed on a stone counterweight with all her strength. Ancient cables groaned, squeaking with dust, and then delicately balanced stone plugs rumbled and the wall swung closed with a dull thud. Grit drifted from the ceiling, making the woman cough. Then she too hurried down the slope, feeling her way along the wall in the darkness.

With a shout, Nicholas leapt into the midst of the Persians as they charged out of the forest of pillars. The dwarf-steel blade flashed overhead as he cut at the lead man. The Persian—not the big bearded one, but one of his confederates—shouted in alarm, throwing up a block with his broadsword. Brunhilde clove through the weapon with a ringing spark and Nicholas felt a solid jolt in both arms. The man's helmet splintered, cloven through by the blow and steel grated on bone. Twisting his wrists, Nicholas wrenched the blade free, a wash of blood darkening the metal.

More Persians swarmed out from the columns, two attacking him as he backed up. Vladimir had started to chant a high, wailing war cry and the Walach threw a long, twisting shadow in the glare of a fresh witch light sputtering overhead. Nicholas slapped aside a swinging mace with the flat of his blade, then bulled in, smashing the nearest Persian in the face with his fist. Mailed knuckles banged on the noseguard of the man's helmet, but the soldier rocked back, stunned. Grimacing, Nicholas grasped the protruding iron, digging his thumb into the man's eye.

The other Persian soldier charged, hewing wildly overhand with his cavalry sword. Nicholas surged back, swinging the broken-nosed Persian into the path of his fellow's blade. The overhand blow sank deep into the man's back, drawing a hoarse grunt and a fountain of black fluid from the dying Persian's mouth. Nicholas lunged, jamming Brunhilde under the collapsing man's arm. The chisel-shaped tip of the runeblade cracked against the attacker's breastplate, ripping through close-set links of chain and sank into his chest with a flat, slapping sound.

A queer, shivering cry sounded and Nicholas swung round, chilled by the sound.

One of the black-cloaked men waded into the fray, head and shoulders above the Persians and Romans struggling back and forth across the little plaza. The creature bounded forward, flat black blades in either hand. In a blink, the thing hewed the head clean from a set of Roman shoulders, then smashed Florus to the ground with a blow of his fist. Nicholas' eyes widened, seeing the plates of the centurion's
lorica
crumpled and splintered.

In his hand, Brunhilde suddenly woke to life, flaring blue-white like the sun shining through sea ice. Nicholas felt her scream in defiance and crabbed forward, his veins roaring with bloodfire. The shape turned, the blue glare shining in empty eye slits. There was a cold
hiss
, and the wight rushed forward, cloak streaming back.

Nicholas parried high, slapping away the point of the sword cutting at his head. The second point stabbed in, flickering in and out of sight as the illumination in the sky faded. Nicholas blocked, hilt to hilt, driving the creature's blade into the ground. He stamped down, trying to catch the thing's instep. His hobnailed sandal ground on an armored foot, but found no purchase. The thing smashed an elbow into his chest, throwing Nicholas back, breathless, through an archway.