The Storm of Heaven (119 page)

Maxian responded to the snap of command in the elderly voice, his mind finding the pattern that restored flesh and bone and the vital humors. Health suddenly blossomed in his flesh and the pain stopped, cut off like a joint split by the butcher's cleaver. His mind was clear, even the strange voices fading away. The air warmed within his compressed, almost destroyed shield. Ice melted away from his feet. The crawling skin of shadow cracked, then hissed to vapor. Bone knit in his shattered ankle, flesh regrew at a phenomenal rate, strength returned to arm and leg.

A sharp shout of command focused his mind, and pure white light flooded from his upraised hand. The shadows fled, shrieking, dissolving as the light touched them. Maxian stood, hale, upright, on the blocky flagstones of the plaza, his shields restored, burning blue and white in the darkness.

A scene of devastation greeted him. The column of Constantine had been shattered, leaving a concrete stump jutting into the air. The statue itself lay broken in pieces on the far side of the plaza. Most of the buildings surrounding the Forum were burning furiously, their marble facades hissing with blue-white flame as the lime in the stone cooked away. Great smoking pits belched flame, clouding the air.

The Dark Queen was on the attack, her staff spinning in the air, a flicker of standing lightning describing a wheel of power. Her voice was roaring like a storm, calling words of power, breaking the air with staggering bolts of crimson lightning. The dark thing was wreathed in its own brittle shell, horrific images flashing around it, describing a faceted pattern. As Maxian watched, lightning licked down from the sky, shaking the reptilian figure, burning through two, three, four layers of its defense. It howled, touched by the Queen's rage.

Maxian leapt into the air, wind rushing around him. He crossed half of the massive plaza in a single bound, alighting on the ruined stump of the great column. Movement caught his eye, something crawling in the ruins. It was the iron dog, head low, still smoking with heat, but it crawled, bloody fingers dragging the ruined body through the tumbled brick and concrete. Grimacing, the Prince focused his will, feeling the reverberations of the Queen's attack shake the world. He chopped his hand down.

An ultramarine-blue flame leapt from his hand, tracing a sizzling arc through the air. It touched the iron dog, flinging it to the ground in a violent blast. Concrete piers, revealed under the shattered cobblestones, collapsed. A plume of dust and rock flew up, lit from within by flickering lightning. The iron dog gave a wail and vanished, smashed into the earth. Smoke billowed out of the collapsed area. Maxian grinned, his face feral, and turned away.

The thing in darkness had withstood the Queen's attack, shrugging off the hail of blasts and lightning strikes. Now the shadows scattered in the air swarmed around her, shrieking and dying in a blaze of crimson bolts. As fast as she struck them down, more flooded out of the night sky. Burning red motes joined them, hurling themselves against her pattern, destroying themselves in a mad rush to overwhelm her. Maxian saw his enemy clearly, for the first time.

It bore a human guise, tall and lean, with long dark hair falling over bony shoulders. Once the face had been noble and handsome, striking, with a powerful brow and sharp nose. Now a mottled darkness was on the skin, curling around the flat ears and deep-set eyes. Though the skin was pale, there was a rippling shimmer that made it seem dark. Maxian felt an instant and powerful revulsion. Here was a thing that was the enemy of Man. Something primordial in him howled in defiance, urging him to kill.

Maxian's hands blurred in a pattern, making the air around him groan. Power wicked up out of the earth, causing stone, concrete, marble, brick to quiver to dust all around him. There were hidden ways and adits under the city. They shook, roofs collapsing, supports crumbling away. Water poured from broken cisterns, flooding the tunnels before it froze. The nearest building, a four-story temple adorned with friezes of the ancient gods at the harvest and a dozen lithe statues of nymphs, shook and then fell, toppling into the square with a roar.

He struck, everything focused into a shining cyan mote that hissed across the space between the column and the dark man. The figure spun, feeling the world shift. Its thin red eyes widened in surprise, then it soared away, flashing into the sky. Maxian's orb ripped in pursuit, accelerating to enormous speed. The enemy twisted, flashing a clawlike hand in a matching pattern. A black lattice congealed out of the air. The cyan orb plowed into the center of the matrix.

Maxian was thrown down, smashing against the rubble-strewn ground. The sky split, filled with a ravening blue-black flare. All across the city, buildings crumpled, crushed by the blast of superheated air. Maxian rolled away, feeling his shields buckle, compressed down to within a finger's breadth of his skin by the shocking roar and burst of power. The remaining stump of the column shattered, flinging chunks of concrete, marble and brick across him.

Debris rained down, making his shield flare with each blow, but the Prince gritted his teeth and rode it out. An enormous thunderclap followed, blowing a fine rain of grit into his face. Shadows and clouds alike were blown back, leaving a great still space over the heart of the city.

Maxian scrambled to his feet, feeling his skin burning. He wiped a hand the length of his body and the dead, ruined flesh firmed, filling with life. His eyes, half seared away, quivered and vision was restored. The dark thing was gone. The sky empty, save for a distant boil of clouds.

But it is not dead.
Maxian could feel the presence at a distance. The power had withdrawn, stymied for the moment. The Prince looked around, suddenly sick. He could feel thousands of people, dead and dying, within his immediate vicinity. They had been hiding in the buildings, cowering in basements or inner rooms. The blast had thrown down every standing building within blocks, leaving only stray single pillars, jagged shells of houses, perhaps a lone wall standing alone, pierced by a window.

The Queen was gone. Maxian climbed across the wreckage, searching for her. He could not feel her anywhere. He hoped that she was not dead. The iron dog was gone, too, the collapsed section of plaza now filled with new rubble. The Prince felt desolate, alone. After a moment, he gave up the search.

It will be a long walk home, he thought, disheartened, if the
telecast
is closed.

The city seemed dead and Maxian was ashamed. This was no better than a draw. Worse, the enemy would hold these ruins once he was gone. But there was nothing he could do by himself.
I should not have come...

A hint of mocking laughter chased him as he jogged east towards the palace.

"Look out!" Rufio croaked, looking behind Dwyrin. They had staggered down a sloping avenue from the square of Mithra, stumbling over corpses both fresh and ancient. The Hibernian had lugged the heavy Greek, armor and all, nearly a block before Rufio managed to get on his own feet. Dwyrin thought the guard captain looked pretty bad, his face burned, most of his hair missing, one eye closed and bruised, yellow serum leaking from under the lid. He hoped he didn't look worse.

Dwyrin turned, exhausted. He felt weak. The fire in his heart still pulsed and burned, but everything else was stretched thin. Only the greenish-white flare in the north gave him heart, knowing he had struck a heavy blow against the enemy. The stuttering light helped them too, showing them the way down the avenue.

A yowl cut the air and the Hibernian grabbed Rufio's arm, pushing him away from the sound. A high-pitched yipping followed and then a pack of men rushed out of the shadows. Their long hair was greased into long spikes at the backs of their heads, their faces white with ash. They were lightly armored, with thick leather tunics stiffened by boiling. Most of them didn't even have metal helms, only caps of hide sewn with iron plates. Dwyrin crossed a fist before his body, his will struggling to call the fire.

A spear flicked out of the night and crashed into his shoulder. Gasping, Dwyrin was swung around. He fell back, barely catching himself. The tip had gouged into his shoulder, leaving a smear of blood. A cold sensation wicked down his arm. Struggling to ignore the pain, he turned back towards the enemy. One of the barbarians, whooping, lunged at him, hacking overhand with a long-hafted ax. Dwyrin ducked aside, feeling the blade hiss past, and then grabbed the man's face.

The Slav bit at him, still whooping a war cry, but Dwyrin's fingers dug in and there was a hot rush of flame. The man's shriek of agony was cut abruptly short and steam boiled out of his ears. Dwyrin pushed the corpse away, the head and shoulders wrapped in spitting flame. The rest of the Slavs drew back, sliding to a halt. The Hibernian snarled, flame spilling from his hand. Their eyes caught the glow and they began to back away.

Dwyrin stabbed out a hand, fingers stiff, and one of the Slavs at the end of their bunched line suddenly burst into flame, screaming hoarsely. The man writhed, bright blue tongues of fire rushing from his mouth. Smoking, he fell back. Dwyrin glanced over his shoulder, looking for Rufio. The Greek had found a sword, a heavy, thick-bladed barbarian weapon, and was holding it in both hands, half blinded but ready for battle.

"Run!" the Hibernian shouted, turning back to the enemy. He barely caught sight of a mass of rushing shapes and the fast patter of bare feet on stone. The Slavs had lunged forward, spears stiff in front of them. Dwyrin gargled in pain. Two of the leaf-shaped iron blades sank into his chest. Then a third pierced his neck and he went down.

Fire bloomed in his mind, though a swelling black tide filled his arms and legs with cold. Two of the Slavs incandesced, bursting apart in a brilliant white flare. The rest, blinded, staggered back, their clothes and armor smoking. Dwyrin tried to breathe, but there was only a horrible choking sensation. It was very cold. Very cold. The fire in his heart continued to spin, hissing and sparking, but now there was only darkness all around him.

The shape of an old man, his ancient face graven with dismay and pity, loomed over Dwyrin.

Rufio blinked, seeing sparkling motes fly across his vision. The boy had gone down under the rush. Shouting madly, the Greek stormed in, the heavy sword cutting sideways. There was a jolt as the blade bit into the neck of the nearest Slav. Blood jetted out, smearing the sword crimson. Most of the barbarians were still burning, though some of them were rolling on the ground, trying to snuff the flames. Rufio cut on a diagonal, the whole weight of his body behind the blow, and another Slav collapsed, his spine cut.

The boy was pinned on the ground under two bodies. Blood spilled from his mouth and nostrils. Rufio reached down, dragging a body away. The strange fire was still glowing in the Hibernian's eyes, like a distant lantern. He was convulsing, trying to breathe.

Rufio's fingers touched the iron spear point embedded in Dwyrin's throat. He swallowed a curse. There was nothing that could be done. Tears ran down the side of the Greek's nose, cutting a trail in the ash and soot. As he watched, the fire died in the boy's eyes and his body suddenly became still. "Good passage," Rufio whispered.

A shout roused him from his prayer, and the guard captain turned, his face bleak, the heavy sword raised in guard position. The street had filled with more Slavs and the stocky shapes of their Avar masters. High stiff plumes marked the officers. Thirty or forty of the spearmen, their faces painted with ash and woad, loped forward, yelping.

Rufio reached down and snatched up a spear, haft still smoking. He balanced it in his hand, then, as the Slavs sprinted to the attack, he hurled it, left-handed, with all his strength. The shaft transfixed one of the barbarians, throwing him back, blood spitting away in an arc. Then the others were on him, spears thrusting.

The Greek parried the first thrust, blocking it away with the flat of the sword. Then he rushed them, crashing into three of them, his elbow cracking across the nose of one. The others shouted, swirling around him. His blade hewed through another spear, cutting through the arm behind it. Rufio staggered, his armor grating as they stabbed at him from all sides.

"The Emperor! The Emperor!" he shouted, whirling, the long iron blade shearing through a bearded face, bone cracking, droplets of blood flying into the eyes of the next man. The air suddenly hissed with arrows and he staggered. A black-fletched shaft jutted from his arm, the triangular iron head punched straight through an iron ring. Rufio felt weak and knew that blood was seeping down his arm in a bright red stream. Another shaft plunged into his chest with a cold shock. His arm flew up, the blade rising. A Slav knocked it away with the haft of his ax.

They closed around him, eyes bright. The skyline of the city was glowing behind them, the sky a roiling mass of cloud and flame. Rufio coughed, his beard clotting with blood. Another of the barbarians raised an ax, the edge gleaming with red light. The Greek cursed under his breath.

This is going to hurt.

Brunhilde
wailed, whipping around Nicholas' head. Her mirror-bright edge slashed through a man's back, cleaving metal, gristle, muscle like soft dough. The northerner, half mad with fear, choking in the tight air, shoved the corpse away with his boot. Behind him, Nicholas could hear Vladimir bellowing, his ax
thunk
ing into something heavy. The remaining Faithful, still chanting hoarsely, were on either side of them, pushing their way through the crowd.

Tens of thousands were packed onto the harbor docks, weeping, crushed, pressing madly for the sea. Nicholas put his shoulder into the press, pushing past a dead woman, still held on her feet by the mob all around her.
Brunhilde
keened, blood soaking into her blade, and Nicholas stabbed forward, cutting down another man. He could hardly see, his left eye packed with cloth and a bandage.

Far ahead, across a sea of heads, tossing and crying out, he could see the end of the dock and the masts of an Imperial galley. The last hour had been a gruesome struggle, inching their way forward through the mob, finally reduced to chopping their way through the bodies of the citizens. From the height of the harbor causeway, the fleet had been in plain sight, standing off in the harbor waters, one ship at a time venturing to the end of the main pier, taking on the red-cloaked shapes of soldiers. Now it seemed impossibly far away through a dense thicket of weeping, crying people.