The Storm of Heaven (117 page)

"Hoi nekroi! Hoi nekroi erchesthe!"
shouted a man as he stumbled past, his face mad with fear.

Dwyrin stared after him as he pushed his way through the line of soldiers, fell onto the stones, and then crawled away, weeping. The plaza was emptying, leaving only scattered bodies of those knocked down in the mad flight. A measured drumming paced the legionaries, the sound of their boots echoing back from the empty buildings surrounding the temple square.

"What was he saying?" Dwyrin whispered, looking over at Nicholas. The northerner shook his head; he hadn't understood the words either.
Brunhilde
trembled in his hand, quivering like a hunting hound. With each step, Nicholas' thin face grew grimmer. Strange winds were at play in the vast open space of the square, sending dust and grit into the faces of the Faithful.

"I don't know," Nicholas said, holding up a hand. "Something about the dead, I think. Captain Rufio!"

The black-eyed Greek looked over, seeing that Nicholas and the left wing had stopped. "What is it?"

"I see something, there beyond the temple. We should wait here, I think, where our flanks are protected by the buildings and the aqueduct footing."

Rufio was about to answer, but a stern voice cut him off. "No. We advance. I want to see the face of the enemy."

Dwyrin saw Nicholas start to protest, but the other speaker was the Emperor, glaring between the stoic faces of the Scandians. Nicholas backed down, saluting, his arm stiff. "All maniples, arms ready, advance at a walk!"

The Hibernian let his mind settle, trying to put the distant roar of flames, the tramp of hobnailed boots, the rattle of iron and leather, the harsh breathing of the men around him out of his mind. Tonight, under this dreadful sky, thinking of the vast crawling thing that he had seen, it was very easy. The fire leapt to his will, an eager lover, already pleading for release from the prison of flesh. He looked across the square, his mage-sight casting aside the darkness, the gloom, the odd gray fog that slowly oozed from the stones.

Dwyrin cursed, a lurid, harsh word he had learned from his thaumaturgic instructor. At the same time, a strange wild howling filled the air and the plaza reverberated with the vibration of thousands of running feet. The Hibernian lunged forward, pushing his way through the stolid ranks of the Faithful. Vladimir and Nicholas shouted after him, then Vladimir was close behind, shoving men out of his way. There were shouts from along the line of shields, some of alarm. Other men had caught sight of the enemy.

Dwyrin ducked under the shield of the man in front of him, then stood up, tense. The entire square was suddenly filled with a surging, running, howling mob. Tens of thousands of figures lurched towards the shield wall, shrieking and screaming. Their numbers seemed limitless, filling the whole plaza from side to side. The red glare of the sky illuminated them fitfully, showing patches of white and black, empty eyes, missing limbs.

"The dead," Dwyrin hissed, raising his hand in a sharp, angry motion. "Stand back!"

Vladimir reached his side, saw the seething horde of corpses rushing towards them and blanched with fear. "The Draculis! The Draculis have come against us!"

Dwyrin snarled, his will intent, and fire blossomed in his heart and spoke from his hand. A hissing white bolt of flame leapt out and scythed across the shambling mob that was now only a hundred feet away. The creatures screeched, engulfed, thrashing wildly as white-hot fire burned into their eye sockets and burrowed into their withered chests. A hundred went down, incinerated, and a thousand poured into the gap, clawing their way forward, dead eyes fixed hungrily on the line of the Faithful.

"Stand! Stand!" Nicholas shouted, his voice a basso roar over the tumult. The dead stormed forward, some in rusted armor, some naked, some newly dead with their flesh still pink with the residue of life. Flame licked out from Dwyrin once and then twice, setting huge swaths of the mob alight. Even burning, wreathed in blue flame, they kept coming. "The Emperor! The Emperor!"

The dead slammed into the shield wall, mouths gaping black in the horrid red light, rotting hands clawing at the faces of the Scandians. The Faithful took the charge with a grunt, then fell back a step. Their axes slashed down, hewing heads from gangrenous necks, arms from pasty, white torsos fat with worms. The endless hollow shrieking of the dead rose and rose, rending the air, drowning out the bull roar of the centurions, hiding even the cries of the Faithful who fell, borne down by the pressing, irresistible weight of the living corpses. Even hewn to bits, lacking heads, legs, arms, the dead bit and humped forward, sliming the ground with black, rotting entrails. A vast, suffocating stench rolled before them.

Dwyrin was surrounded by an arc of desolation, clouded by a choking, bitter smoke of incinerated bone and charred flesh. Vladimir was at his back, hacking wildly at anything that lurched too close with his great ax. The blade was slick with noisome gray-green fluid that seeped from the wounds of the dead, or burst from their abdomens as they were cut down. The Hibernian's face was a tight mask of control, but fire lashed out again, ripping long burning avenues of destruction through the pressing tide. Despite this, the Faithful were forced back a yard, then another.

Nicholas, fighting in what was suddenly the front rank, stabbed
Brunhilde
into the chest of a corpse coming at him with a Legion
pilum
. The creature staggered, then clawed its way up the length of bright steel. Grunting, Nicholas slammed the thing's face, feeling bone crack under the impact of his armored elbow, then wrenched the long sword free. Undaunted, the creature clawed at his head, bony hands scraping across the cheek guard of his helmet. A fingertip, still sheathed in flesh, caught in his eye slit. Nicholas gasped at the stench, then slashed
Brunhilde
down, cleaving the arm from the body. The finger wiggled into his helmet, a sharp nail jabbing at his eyelid.

Nicholas staggered back, out of the line of battle, shouting with fear and grasping at his own helmet. Too late. The finger was already inside the close-fitting iron, squirming against his cheek. Frenzied, Nicholas tore at the strap under his chin, feeling the nail bite at the soft surface of his eye. There was a sudden, blinding pain and then he felt the helmet give way. Screaming in fury, Nicholas grasped the wiggling bony worm in both hands and it popped free with a wet sound. Blood slicked his face, spilling down his cheek. The vile thing squirmed in his gloves, still trying to kill. He threw it away, out over the heads of the corpses shambling towards him.

Nicholas blinked, half blinded, then wiped blood from his face. He gingerly touched his left eye and found a loose flap of skin over something squishy and moist. He felt faint, then he was on the ground, staring up at a burning sky. In his hand,
Brunhilde
was keening, a sharp, piercing note of dismay. "Vlad! Vlad! Help me!"

Dwyrin heard Nicholas cry out, then knelt swiftly, his mind speeding through ancient, half-heard chants and patterns. Everything was coming to him with dizzying speed, power wicking up out of the ground, flying down from the sky. He had wreaked enormous destruction on the surging mob of the dead, but there were still thousands coming on. Dwyrin knew, in some calm and observant corner of his mind, that these were not just the dead of the battle, so strangely left to lie on the field in the rain and mud, but the ancient dead of the city tombs and graveyards. Their numbers might be limitless.

The limestone flags of the plaza were ancient, long separated from their native hills and mountains. The fire in them was buried deep, hidden, barely an ember. Dwyrin touched it, feeling the quivering spark come to life in his presence.
Wake!
he called to the stones, moving his hand in a sharp arc that included the whole plaza.
Wake!

"Fall back! Re-form shield wall!"

Rufio skipped aside, letting one of the living dead lunge past him. The captain's face was a grim mask under his helm, and he slashed down with his
gladius
, neatly severing the hamstrings on the back of the thing's legs. It toppled over, momentarily crippled. Despite their horrific, unnatural life, the corpses still had to use bone and muscle to move. The Faithful fell back, their axes and spears making a glittering hedge before them. Rufio was sweating heavily and his mouth was fouled with this stench that hung in the air like black fog.

He glanced to his left, looking for Nicholas, and saw to his horror the left wing had swept away from him. Hundreds of the things pushed into a gap in the shield wall, cutting the line of battle in twain. Rufio backed up hurriedly, seeing the gleaming iron helms of the left falling back towards one of the streets opening onto the square from the south. He reached his own line and looked sharply for the Emperor.

Heraclius was not far away, his armor dented and slick with gray-green ichor. The Emperor had a barbarian-style longsword in both hands. It was nicked and almost black with age. Only five or six of the Faithful were still with him, clustered at his back, watching in all directions. Their eyes met and Heraclius smiled, a half-grin. "Rufio! Where is the boy? The firecaster?"

The captain looked about, then he saw him, a hundred feet away, surrounded by a milling circle of the dead. Strangely, they were not attacking recklessly, but slowly edging their way forward. Heaps of burned, ashy corpses were strewn around the barbarian. The boy was kneeling on the ground, his face screwed up in concentration, his palms flat on the ground.

"I'll get him!" Rufio rushed forward, his sword licking out and cleaving the head from the nearest of the walking corpses. He smashed through the next two and was into the circle. Dwyrin looked up and Rufio skidded to a halt, ash puffing up around him in a cloud, his heart stricken with dread. The barbarian's eyes were burning, filled with leaping flame.

"Rufio!" Heraclius cursed, then dropped his hand. He turned, gesturing with the longsword he had torn from the rotting grip of the dead. "Come on, lads, we've got to—"

BOOM!

A vast blast of fire leapt from the stones, ripping from one end of the plaza to the other, shooting skyward in a flare of greenish white. Tens of thousands of the dead were caught in the explosion. Hundreds of tons of limestone slabs volatilized to an incandescent white-hot cloud in one stunning blast. Corpses and bits of corpses were flung skyward, each wrapped in clinging green fire. Heraclius was thrown back by the blast, into his bodyguards. They skidded backwards in a rattle of iron and wood, a tangle of arms and legs.

The Emperor was stunned, seeing only the shoulder vambrace of one of the guards and a sliver of red sky. At least two strong men were on top of him, crushing the breath from his chest. Cursing, he shoved at them, trying to lift away the mail pressing down on him. It was getting hard to breathe. Slowly, for his arms were far weaker than they once had been, he managed to shove the bodies aside and crawl out onto the stones. The sky was lit for miles in all directions by a hissing flare that consumed the center of the plaza. Everything was as bright as noon, tinged with strange green shadows. The roar of the combusting stone was so loud that Heraclius was deafened.

He managed to get to his knees. The guardsman on top of him seemed to be dead, his armor smoking and his beard alight. Heraclius batted at the smoldering hair with his glove, but it did no good. Acres of dead seemed to surround him, all thrown down by the blast. Many of the buildings fronting the square were now burning, smoke flooding from their windows. The temple of Mithra was a wavering vision, barely visible through the heat haze and smoke. He looked for a weapon, anything, and for any of his men who were still alive.

Something crashed into his back, throwing him down. The Emperor rolled weakly, swinging around. A figure dressed in scaled mail loomed over him, burning with clinging green fire. A spear was clutched in its bony hands, the wooden haft already smoking and charred. Heraclius groped for a sword, then screamed as the spear stabbed at him. There was a sharp grating sound, sparks flying as the spearhead cracked through a joint in his armor, and then a spreading coldness in his chest. The Emperor scrabbled at the spear, trying to pull it out.

The corpse ground the point around in his ribcage, grinning white bone in the ruin of its face. Heraclius struggled, kicking at the thing's leg, then his hands slipped weakly from the smoking wood and his head lolled back, blood spilling from his mouth. With a dry hiss, the corpse wrenched the spear from the man's chest, then crumpled to one side, the green fire eating through its legs and back. Smoke boiled up out of the breastplate, obscuring a stylized emblem of two palms decorating the back of the armor.

Dwyrin scuttled forward, his face averted from the wall of intensely hot flame that roared around the circumference of his little cleared circle. Grunting, the young man heaved Rufio onto his shoulder. "You're a heavy bastard," Dwyrin hissed between gritted teeth. The man seemed to be alive, though part of his face was badly burned. "Let's walk now!"

Rufio managed to get his legs under him and Dwyrin turned in the direction he thought Vladimir had run. The Walach had promised to come right back, but the Hibernian could not see him. Stray corpses staggered past, some burning, some not. There was the sound of battle off in the mouth of one of the streets. Dwyrin staggered that way, dragging Rufio. Behind him, the lime fire continued to hiss and burn, greedily feasting on tens of thousands of corpses.

As he ran, the Hibernian suddenly felt a dreadful chill and looked up in surprise. Something swept past, overhead, something winged like an enormous bat, and angry, speeding east towards the heart of the city. Dwyrin nearly tripped on a crawling arm, disturbed by the presence in the sky. He had felt the power once before, long ago. The memory was a scar, glassed over, buried but not healed. He tried to run faster, hoping to find Nicholas and Vladimir somewhere ahead.

The
Irene
slid across the dark, oily harbor waters. The crew were silent, bent over their oars, the grate and rattle of the oarlocks muted. Fire burned all along the ramparts above the military harbor, lighting the sky. Huge clouds of smoke were mounting into the sky over the city, glowing orange and vermilion. There was no wind. Many galleys were splintered and broken on the stone piers, their hulls listing above the slick water. Everywhere that Dahvos looked, he saw close-packed masses of people. They filled the quays and the breakwater from side to side. Even the half-sunken ships were covered with huddled figures. The white faces, pale and silent, stared back at him as the ship sailed past.