The Storm of Heaven (107 page)

Grunting with effort, the Greek took the edge of the heavy platform himself, letting the Scandian with the bloody face fall to his knees. "Come on," Rufio shouted, "take up this burden." At his feet, the wounded man coughed blood, making a bright patch on the dark soil. Dozens of the Faithful crowded around, thick hands grasping the platform and helping their companions away. As soon as the icon was secure, Rufio let go.

"Take the standard to the top of that wall, so that all might see the Emperor still stands!" The Faithful, voices raised in a marching chant, began to move away towards the inner wall of the fortification. Rufio, after taking a deep breath, ran in the other direction, towards the roar and clatter of battle on the other side of the outer rampart. Olaf and his kinsmen followed, though within moments one of them staggered, struck by a Persian arrow, and fell onto the loamy ground.

"Stand! Stand and fight!" Dagobert's throat was raw, burning with thirst. Despite the weakness in his left arm—badly bruised by a Persian mace—he urged his stallion forward through the ranks of the Third Augusta. Arrows whipped past him in both directions. The Western troops were faltering, trapped between the main body of the Persian army to their front, and now the Persian knights on their right. The remains of the Sarmatian lancers were fighting shoulder to shoulder with the Frankish
dux
and his household
fyrdmen
. Another Persian arrow smashed into his shield, the point burying itself in the thick wood. Dagobert felt sick.

His only consolation was the thought that no one would ever know of his foul bargain with Theodore. News of the death of the Prince, stricken by a stray arrow, flashed through the ranks of the Eastern Legions, reaching Dagobert only minutes after the man had gasped out his last breath in the mud. A great groan of fear went up from the Eastern troops, inspiring the Persians to redouble their attack.

The Persian
clibanarii
had broken through to the highway, but Dagobert and his Sarmatians had managed to stem the collapse of the Western right flank. The Easterners had flooded away, fleeing towards the city, but even that panicked motion seemed to have halted.

Perhaps we can still re-form our line...
A wild blowing of bucinas and cornicens off to his left interrupted Dagobert's train of thought. The Frank wheeled his horse towards the sound, peering across the gleaming helmets of his troops. Far off to the left, where the Western line joined the Khazars on their hill, he could see a roil of dust and the signs of battle.

"Follow me!" Dagobert spurred his horse forward, swinging out of the melee. His mouth was dry with fear. The fighting was far in back of where the Roman front should have been. Darkness hung in the air over the ranks of men. The Sarmatians galloped after him, their lances swinging up. The Frank whipped his horse, sending it bolting forward. He was behind the Roman line now, racing past groups of wounded men trudging back towards the camp in the hills. They stared up at him as he thundered past.

Ahead, a sudden
crash
shook the air and the afternoon brightened with the flicker of lightning in the clear air. Dagobert felt his fear grow, clawing at his throat.

Boom!
Fire leapt up on the plain and a roiling cloud of black smoke began to climb into the sky. More lightning flashed. Dagobert could see men running, throwing down their helmets and shields. Clouds of dark gray smoke drifted among the ranks.

Dwyrin's head jerked up, eyes smudged with fatigue. Something was moving in the hidden world: a shape, a presence like a mountain, a glowing, brilliant white star. He blinked furiously, trying to see. What he could hear, though, was a great moan of fear rising from the ranks of the Roman army. Dwyrin scrambled to his feet, head averted from the blinding light.

"Gods of my fathers..." Vladimir stood on the rampart, mouth open, a look of utter fear upon his face. Dwyrin grasped his shoulder, hiding his head behind the solid bulk of the Walach. The effort was fruitless; the sinew and bone of the Walach were translucent, incapable of shutting out the burning radiance.

"Vlad, what do you see?"

"A pillar of fire striding across the plain." Vladimir choked out the words. "It walks like a giant! Our men are running. They are being struck down by the lightning!"

Dwyrin's fingers dug into the Walach's fur cloak. He was so tired he could barely stand up. Both legs were trembling. "Vlad, you must take care of my body. I am going to... stop that thing. My spirit may not come back, but don't leave my body behind!"

"I understand." Vladimir couldn't tear his eyes away from the storm of lightning and roiling smoke darkening the plain, but his powerful arms hoisted the boy up onto his back, holding him as if he were a cub being carried across a rushing stream. "I won't leave you."

Dwyrin closed his eyes again, veins in his forehead throbbing, breath quick and shallow. Fire beckoned, the flame that burned at his heart.

Mohammed raised his hand, a booming roar of thunder echoing his motion. His eyes rolled up, spittle drooled from the side of his mouth. Lightning leapt from his fingers, ripping across the panicked mob of Roman legionaries. Hundreds of men were dying in the motion, shrieking in fear, their cloaks bursting into flame, skin charring. Arcs of violent purple light leapt from sword to cuirass to spear, setting cloth and leather afire. The sky darkened with swirling clouds, and fires raged across the plain, sending up pillars of white smoke. The sun faded, shrouded in fumes.

Under him, the mare trembled and shook from the tips of her ears to the end of her tail, unable to move. Thunder cracked and rolled in a constant shattering roar overhead. The Roman thaumaturges were stricken down in the first moment of the attack. Now the Western legionaries fled before him. The entire Legion facing the charge of the Arab
qalb
had been slammed aside by the weight of their arms, then scattered by this sudden apparition.

Bow down, idolaters! Bow down before the true God!

The voice from the clear air made the earth shake, collapsing those few buildings still standing in the old suburbs of the city. Mohammed seemed to be at a great height, striding over the field, seeing the running men as tiny ants fleeing his shadow. He raised his other hand and winds lashed the plain, springing from boiling black clouds. Lightning stabbed down, leaving burning trails in the air, tearing great fiery craters in the ground.

Here is the wrath that was promised to the unbeliever!

Mohammed was distantly aware the horse under him was dying, her brave old heart suddenly failing. His physical self toppled to the ground, but he had no need of such a thing anymore. The power that spoke from the mountaintop, the Lord of the Wasteland, had entered him. He had no need of anything.

If you do not follow the righteous path, then the fires of Hell await...

A blast of fire rocked Mohammed back. Orange and red flames raged around him, enveloping his towering body, fire eating away at his phantasmal limbs. In an instant he was no longer a giant figure of smoke and lightning, but a man lying on the ground, staring at the sky in a daze. Khalid and his guardsmen were huddled around him, trying to burrow into the earth. Mohammed staggered up, head ringing with the echo of that titanic voice.

"What... what was that?" He stared around, gaze suddenly settling on a point of brilliant orange light to the southeast, near the gates of the city. Great drifts of dark smoke blew across the field, driven by eddying winds. Everywhere before him there was the litter of war: spears, arrows sticking up from the ground, twisted bodies, the corpses of horses, smashed helmets, discarded shields and bits of armor. The Romans seemed to have disappeared, though scattered fires plumed up puffy white smoke, obscuring everything. "What happened?"

Something moved in the air, rushing towards him. Mohammed grasped for his sword, but the ebon blade was gone, lost among the tufted grass and wheat stubble. Shouting defiantly, he flung up his hand.

The air boomed like a great gong struck in the nave of some colossal temple. The clear air rippled and shook, wavering like the heat above a forge. Flame bloomed out of nothing, darting to the left and right. Mohammed stared in surprise, seeing the grass leap into flame in a half-circle before him. There was a power set against the Quraysh, something on the far hill. Steeds of flame rushed across the sky towards him, burning figures on their backs, hurling spears of light.

The air shook again as glowing bolts crashed into the invisible barrier around him. Mohammed staggered back, stunned, hands grasping at the air. He cried out, distraught, "Where is the blade of night?"

The sound fell flat on his ears. Khalid grasped his boot, shouting up at him. Mohammed could hear nothing. He was deaf. Flame washed over the clear dome and he could feel tremendous heat beating against his face.

"No," Mohammed said, stepping forward. The fire failed and died as he advanced, snuffed out by some invisible power radiating from him. "I will not yield to you."

The burning mote on the hill flashed again, and again. The air convulsed between them and Mohammed shouted in defiance, striking with his fist at the air. A thunderous
crack
answered his motion and black clouds swept forward across the sky. This time, he could feel the power in the air and the earth, he could feel the strength of the Merciful and Compassionate One in him, guiding his thoughts, bending its will upon this enemy.

The sky lit from horizon to horizon with a blast of light. Lightning jagged down from a dark and boiling sky. At Mohammed's feet, Khalid still clutched at his boot in desperation, stunned by a shattering sound rocking the world. Patik was clinging to the other boot, weeping mindlessly.

A burning indigo bolt leapt across the sky, high over Rufio's head. The Greek flinched and looked away, though the
boom
that followed nearly threw him to the ground. The searing afterimage of dark lightning etched across his vision, but he regained his feet.

"Fall back," he screamed into the howling wind. He turned, sword bare in his hand, and gestured violently at the Faithful. The Emperor's icon gleamed, reflecting odd lights and fires burning on the plain. "Fall back into the city!"

Rufio ran ahead, pushing and shoving at the men on the road, clearing a path for the standard. Thousands of men and horses blocked his way, stunned and paralyzed by the conflagration in the sky. The Greek pushed through them as fast as he could, fleeing the battle between gods.

"Retreat! Retreat!" Tears streamed down his face, lit by the staccato flare of lightning. "Fall back!" Around him, slowly at first, the Eastern troops began to move. Within moments a huge mob was pouring through the broken teeth of the Arab wall, flooding down the road leading to the massive shape of the Great Gate.

Among them, the red cloaks of the Faithful stood out like clots of blood in the darkness.

Near the middle of the plain, a half-mile from the conflagration of smoke and lightning and burning fields, Shahr-Baraz stood, helmet under one arm, the wind eddying around him. Bursts of light washed over him, throwing his hooked nose in sharp relief, shadowing his eyes. Black clouds blotted out the sun, throwing everything into a supernal gloom, but he remained, witness to the fury of the gods. His mailed hand slowly smoothed one jutting mustache, twisting the end to a point, then the other.

His army cowered, lines of spearmen and archers hugging the earth, wailing and weeping. Only a few of the officers even dared to crouch, staring up at the mammoth half-seen figures battling in the murky air. The
clibanarii
were already fleeing back to the north, their horses uncontrollable. Many of the
diquans
had been thrown to the ground and limped or crawled in search of some kind of safety. Even the King of Kings' officers were huddled in the lee of his blowing cloak, clutching the ground, their eyes averted from the dreadful sky.

But the Boar did not look away, though the air before him burned and curdled, distorted by the powers struggling in the ether. Fires reflected in his eyes, leaping up from the shattered land. He watched and waited, idly wondering who would triumph. Shahr-Baraz thought it very amusing his victory did not hinge on the success of either power.

Fire licked across the sky, silhouetting the clouds with a pulsing red glow. Mohammed flinched, taking a step back. None of the furious barrage of flame, smoke and shining bolts had broken through the clear shield protecting him. He felt the unseen power that shifted the tides in their courses moving in tandem, a strange partner in this struggle. Effortless strength seemed to fill his limbs, making his eyesight and hearing keen. Testing this power, Mohammed grasped at the sky, feeling storm and wind move at his command.

Thunder boomed in the clouds, presaging a brilliant
crack
of lightning leaping from earth to sky. Distantly, the Quraysh felt his enemy shudder, stricken by the blow. A flare of orange light lit up the walls of the city and the circumvallation. Mohammed smiled, feeling a giddy rush of pleasure. He could move his hand just
so
and...

Rain roared down out of the sky, mixed with hail and howling wind. The grassy fields flattened down before the gusts. Heavy droplets spattered on the broken walls of the old farmhouses. Mohammed stabbed out a hand, shouting. Lightning flickered, arcing from cloud to cloud, lighting them with a sullen yellow glow. A mammoth cyan bolt stabbed from the ground, enveloping the wavering orange sphere on the distant wall. Mohammed felt his enemies' defense crack, weakening. He could feel the terror of the Roman soldiers, struggling through the torrential downpour, the ground turning to queasy black mud with every step.

Rain fell around him, too, but here within the circle of this invisible protection it was a gentle cooling mist. The Quraysh laughed in delight, thinking of the summer storms of his homeland. "You are weakening, my enemy. I think you are nearly spent."

He clenched his fist, will pressing on the sky, the clouds, the earth. A rolling series of blasts shook the ground, a howling cauldron of fire and lightning and hail converging on the sphere of orange light. Abruptly, like a wick being pinched, the light went out. Across the distance, Mohammed could feel the struggling, fierce will that opposed him suddenly fail. There was a wink of orange flame and then only rain and darkness. The fires burning across the field sizzled down to smoke and ash, drenched by the towering thunderheads sweeping across the sky.