The Dark Lord (76 page)

Vladimir leapt in, axe-blade glittering in a swift arc. The blow glanced from the Persian's breastplate, tearing the cloak away, sending sparks flashing and chunks of iron spalling away. Nicholas rolled up to his feet, then darted in from the flank. For a moment, there was a blur of metal, blades licking back and forth as they fought in the doorway. The Persian parried effortlessly, weaving a double-bladed barrier of steel in front of him. Vladimir hacked at his legs and the creature leapt up, slashing at Nicholas' head.

The Roman panted, sweat streaming down his arms and legs. Everything narrowed to a swirling gray tunnel, focused solely on dancing black metal and the void of enameled armor shifting in and out of sight. He lunged again, trying to catch the thing's elbow joint. Brunhilde was slapped away and Nicholas had to leap back, arms windmilling for balance to escape losing his head to a powerful sideways cut.

His back foot, sliding on the floor, suddenly found a raised lip of stone.

Beyond the thing's huge shoulder, he caught a glimpse of Florus twitching into oblivion, blood spilling from his slack mouth in a thin stream. The other legionaries lay scattered on the plaza, arms and legs twisted in death. The big curly-bearded Persian loped through the arch, shaking gore from his mace.

"Run!" Nicholas shouted at Vlad, gasping as he weakly blocked another cut. He strained, muscle against muscle, hilts locked, Brunhilde's point driven down to the floor. The Walach scuttled past and vanished below Nicholas' line of sight. The Latin kicked, catching the black-cloaked thing on its hip. The blow knocked the Persian back and Nicholas skidded sideways. An open, stone-sided shaft yawned beside his foot.

Black-cloak fell back a step, adjusting its grip on one blade, flipping the other in its hand. Nicholas gasped for breath, crouched, Brunhilde's tip wavering in the air. Curly-beard circled to his left and the two Persians adjusted their spacing. Nicholas swallowed, keeping both opponents in view. His arms burned with fatigue.

Vladimir leapt down the curving steps, two and three at a time. The intermittent glare from outside barely illuminated the pit, but gave the Walach's huge, dark eyes enough to see by. The stairs circled away into the depths and he could feel a cold, steady wind blowing up past him.

Deep,
part of his mind gibbered, one hand sliding along the rough brickwork.
Can we get out?

"No choice," he growled, hearing Nicholas panting harshly above and the slippery, ringing clash of metal. "Got to be better below than above!" Vladimir spun, bounding back up the steps. As he did, flared nostrils caught a fragment of scent in the roiling air.
Thyatis?

He stopped, limbs tensed, bending to the crumbling old stone steps.
Yes!
The Roman woman's particular blend of leather and soap and sweat was suddenly everywhere. "Not alone—Betia too!" The little girl's heady aroma of lavender and juniper was very clear.

Vladimir crabbed sideways down the steps, nose close to the curving surface.
Her hand brushed along the wall...

Then the trail stopped abruptly and he frowned, puzzled. Nothing but a wall faced him, lines of thin, splintery brick and fragments of old plaster. Long-splayed fingers tested the masonry.
Something smooth!
One of the bricks was not brick—a cunningly cut piece of marble among the course. Hissing in effort, he jammed his hand against the glassy surface, feeling it give.

"Nicholas!" he screamed, putting his shoulder against the wall. There was an answering rumble and brick screeched on brick. "Nicholas! This way!"

Brunhilde whirled in a blur; fat hot sparks leaping from her edge as Nicholas waded in, throwing a blizzard of cuts and thrusts at the wight. Startled, the black shape gave ground, parrying deftly. Nicholas jumped past the shape, driving down one ebon blade—extended in a block—and then flicking the dwarf-steel blade back. The creature didn't flinch, interposing the haft of the other blade, but Brunhilde struck square with a ringing
clang
and shrieking—a piercing high wail of audible sound—shattered the glossy dark metal. The ebon blade splintered with a crash and the wight staggered back, stunned. Nicholas, teeth gritted in a feral snarl, bulled in, smashing aside the other blade, slashing Brunhilde down across the front of the black helmet.

Metal squealed, iron flashed hot and the dwarf steel burned through. A hoarse, gargling cry went up; a black, mailed hand clawing at the still-unseen face. Nicholas slammed his shoulder into the creature, sending it crashing to the floor.

The big curly-bearded Persian shouted hoarsely, leaping in, mace swinging at Nicholas' face. The Roman ducked, then sprinted past. His boot hit the lip of stone at the edge of the pit, then he kicked off, plunging down into the darkness.

Wind whipped past for an instant, then Nicholas crashed into the steps beside Vladimir. The Walach's eyes were wide in surprise, his mouth a round O. His long-fingered hands grabbed for the Latin, who swayed wildly on the edge of the steps. Vladimir seized the front of his shirt, giving a great heave. Both men toppled back into the dark opening yawning in the side of the pit.

Nicholas, breathless, his legs smarting with the blow of his landing, gasped for air.

Vladimir scrambled up, eyes wide, searching the walls. Above, at the top of stairs, a terrible voice boomed in anger. Boots clattered on brick. Light flared in the shaft, a sullen red glow. In the glare, the Walach caught sight of a glistening smear of sweat on a stone jutting from the wall of the passage. Heedless of the consequences, he grabbed hold of the rock and pushed, muscles bunching under his armor. A grinding sound issued from the walls and he felt the stone give slowly.

Outside, the light flared brighter. There was more shouting.

Vladimir snarled, long teeth white in the hurrying flare of torchlight. The stone scraped and ground and suddenly sank flush with the tunnel wall. A slab of stone faced with brick rolled out of a recess, powered by hidden counterweights, and slammed closed. The Walach caught a glimpse of armored men in the opening before he was plunged into darkness.

"Forward," he hissed, scooping up Nicholas from the ground. Brunhilde's gleam had faded to a dull watery blue, but there was still enough radiance in the passage for the Walach to find their way down, deeper into the earth. After a moment, the Latin managed to get his legs under him and they ran as fast as they could, leaping from step to step.

A heavy
boom
echoed in the passage behind him, then another. Dust sifted from the ceiling. An indistinct voice shouted words of power and the floor trembled violently. Vladimir stumbled, picked himself up and ran on.

Mohammed stood at the gates of the city, a newly carved staff of fig wood resting against his shoulder. Sounds and smells washed over him—the clash of cymbals, voices raised in raucous song, lamb covered with ground spices and pepper and salt roasting on a spit; the stamp of dancing feet; the skirling sound of pipes and the hoarse twang of a zither; water falling; children laughing; the beat of hammers on molten iron; wind sighing in the rigging of a ship under sail; the call of an imam as the sun rises, summoning the faithful to prayer; the racketing of looms, the
clack-clack
of a shuttle; dust and wind rushing before a summer storm out upon the desert; breathy poems hurried under a moonlit sky—and he felt all his certainty fail.

Within the gates of the city, on the narrow street, ablaze with color and light, he saw Zoë on a balcony, looking down into the avenue, her hair a dark cloud shot with shining pearls. Khadijah was standing beside her. They were laughing, standing hand in hand. Below them, among the throng, a wizened old monkey with scarred hands was dancing in a circle of light, while drums pounded and men clapped a heady beat.

Both women turned towards him in welcome, one old, one young. Their glance was a blow, driving him to his knees. Seamed knuckles whitened on the staff and Mohammed felt his heart race, hammering in his chest. He could hear them calling, their voices all but drowned out by the cacophony of the city.

"This gate," he gasped, driving all thoughts of the flesh from his mind, forcing himself to his feet, "is closed."

Again, he stood erect, the staff grinding into the earth, before the gate.

"This gate is closed," he declaimed, voice growing stronger. His vision of the city wavered, distorting in a heat haze. The glad sounds died, growing faint and tinny, then ceasing altogether. "This gate," he repeated, "is closed!"

He raised the staff, striking the air. "Let the gate open!"

The clear air rippled away from his blow, walls and towers and houses contorting, growing large, then small in turns. Beyond the minarets, the sky darkened, a storm boiling out from the horizon. Lightning stabbed among seething gray-green clouds. Winds howled, rushing over the city. The ripples faded, clarity restored. Mohammed saw every face turn towards him, even the tiny old monkey. There was nothing in those eyes, not even the grief of the dead.

"Let the gate open!" he commanded, striking again with the staff.

Clear air splintered like a fractured plate. Mohammed heard a great sigh rise up from the forest behind him, the exhalation of countless voices. Wind tugged at his robe with ghostly fingers. He struck downward with the staff. Hanging fragments of sight and sound rushed away, scattered, driven by the winds howling around the Quraysh. Thunderheads rushed across the sky, flashing with lightning glare, plunging the plain into darkness.

Out of the corner of his eye, Mohammed saw shapes fly past, rushing forward in multitudes. The glassy air fell away into an infinite distance. Every fragment of the city receded with tremendous speed, then vanished. Only darkness remained, intermittently broken by flaring, jagged lightning. Beneath his feet, the grass shriveled and died, becoming crushed, black, glassy stone. Irregular pillars and monoliths were revealed in the howling wind and cloud. Harsh, metallic air bit at his lungs. Smoking hail pelted down from the sky, shattering on the towering rocks.

Mohammed stood at the edge of desolation, trembling with cold. He turned slowly, keen eyes tracing the horizon. His heart raced.

The massed dead were gone. So too were the white-barked trees, the hill, even the remains of the young fig that had sheltered him. There was no sign of the creature Mōha.
All was illusion,
he thought, starting to wrap a length of cloth across his mouth and nose. Then he stopped.
Is this any different?

"Be still," he commanded, refusing to raise his voice above the raging storm. "Be still."

Wind whipped his robe back and forth, shrieking among the tumbled glassy stones. Mohammed felt his skin abrade, flayed by flying sand. His breath grew short, stolen by the poisonous air.

"I am still," he said to himself, closing his eyes. He shut out the sound of roaring wind, concentrating on the beat of his heart. It began to slow. He counted heartbeats, settling his breathing. "I am still."

The wind whimpered down to nothing, a bare gust eddying around his feet. Then it stopped. Everything became very quiet. Mohammed continued to count, stretching out the interval between breaths, between the trip-hammer blow of his heart. At last, it beat normally, his breathing steady and even. "I am still."

He opened his eyes. The storm was gone.

A flat black sky shimmered overhead, perfect as a starless night. There was no sun. He whistled softly in dismay and turned, surveying the plain. Crumbling, ruined boulders littered the earth. Splintered green-and-black glass covered the ground, twisted into fantastic shapes. A queer directionless light filled the air. Broken, cone-shaped spires delimiting the horizon cast no shadows.

In the silence, the sound of someone gasping for breath was very loud.

Mohammed turned towards the noise, seeing nothing but tumbled debris. The sound came again, a whimpering cry followed by unintelligible words. Raising an eyebrow—the sound, for no reason he could name, sounded
real
—he began climbing across the flinty slope, using the staff for support. There was no trail or path, but he managed to pick his way past the shattered translucent cones and across fields of splintered, gleaming obsidian.

He ducked through a wildly twisted curlicue of half-melted metal, pierced with dozens of shattered bubbles, and found himself looking down upon a hollow in the earth. A man lay on the ground, back to an eroded, pockmarked slab of rust-streaked basalt. He was gasping for breath; a long, lean body savaged with scars and open wounds, his face seared with glassy burns. Crippled hands spasmed into fists. Mohammed stood at the edge of the hollow for a long time, watching the naked man shuddering on the black sand, crying out to himself in hideous pain.

At last, face graven with compassion, the Quraysh slid down into the pit and put his hand upon one withered shoulder. The man's eyes snapped open, staring wildly up at the sky. Slowly, as if he came back into himself from a vast distance, the man focused upon Mohammed's face. He blinked, trying to see, then stared in incomprehension.

"Hello, Ahmet," Mohammed said, leaning over his friend. "Do you remember me?"

The dead man blinked, then slow recognition bloomed in his broken face.

Groaning, Thyatis jerked awake, a hand flinching across her eyes. A pulsing hum filled her chest. Woozily, she stared around, expecting to find a courtyard flooded with unendurable brilliance. Instead, the soft light of oil lanterns bathed her face, illuminating bits and pieces of a huge, vaulted chamber. The Roman woman worked her jaw, fingers coming away damp with blood from her nose. Blinking tears away, she rose to her knees. The amulet between her breasts trembled with constant vibration.

Twenty feet away, three women in desert robes were straining atop a sandstone platform, iron pry bars in their hands. The little blond Gaul, Betia, bent her shoulder among them, teeth gritted in effort. Iron wedges scraped between the stone and a ring of bronze. Under their feet, Thyatis could make out familiar interlocking gears and sweeping metallic arcs. This telecast seemed ancient—not clean and polished like the one in Rome—but corroded with age and ill-use.