The Dark Lord

by Thomas Harlan

  "You will be ready in three weeks and your men will keep up. If they do not, they will be left behind, without wine or grain." Shahr-Baraz drew a long knife from his belt. He considered his profile in the mirror-bright blade. "A man might live a day without water, perhaps two, under this sun. His death will be slow and agonizing as his skin burns black and ants consume his eyes. This pleases me—I would not want to sully my steel with the blood of a fool or a coward!"

  Off to Khalid's left, a tall, broad-shouldered Persian stepped out of the crowd. "Great king," the man declared, sweeping the assembly with a fierce gaze. "We will reach Pelusium at your side and we will crush the Romans as your lightning arm! Nothing will stop us!"

  "Well spoken, Lord Piruz." Shahr-Baraz smiled at the man. Khalid looked closer, disturbed by the gaunt features of the Persian lord. There was a brittle spark in the noble's eyes and the Arab found his attention drawn to a flash of black silk at the man's throat. Ah, one of Purandokht's suitors... then he is mad, and reckless for honor too.

  "Consider this," Shahr-Baraz said, stepping away from the throne. His voice took on a considered tone, as if he spoke to children in the temple. "The army of Persia can usually travel ten to fifteen miles in a day. Pressed, my old army of Syria—veterans every one—did twenty. A Roman legion—men accounted throughout the world for their stamina and speed of march—account twenty-five miles a day excellent progress. Between Gazzah, the last town of note before the desert, and Pelusium are no less than one hundred and twenty miles of sand and barren stone. There are no wells, no qanats, no oases. Once we reach the edge of the delta, we must fight our way through the Roman army to the arm of the Nile. Our wagons and pack camels can carry enough food, water and feed for our strength for seven, perhaps eight days."

  Khalid whistled, impressed. That was an enormous amount of baggage. The army encamped at Caesarea numbered sixty or seventy thousand men. How many skins of water will a man drink, unused to this sun? Too many. Al'Walid had seen men, overcome by the heat, drink so much from a well their stomachs burst. He hid a grin. Soon they will all look like the lovesick Piruz, he thought, scratching his short-cropped beard.

  "Great king?" Khalid turned to the voice, unable to help himself. Zoë stirred, stretching, and smiled in a languid way at Shahr-Baraz. "Many of these men—the princes of the Decapolis, the Sahaba, even the T'u-chüeh—are used to swift movement over poor ground. But your Persians... how will they make twenty miles a day? They have so much baggage, so many servants..."

  The Persian diquans bristled at the Queen's tone, and she smiled at them like a cat, eyes half-closed. Khalid felt a stab of anger, then quelled his temper. She taunts us, with her body, with her place of favor... does she kneel for the King of Kings, or—Khalid snuck a glance sideways at the dark corner where prince Rustam stood—for him?

  "We do not need servants," Lord Piruz barked, one lean hand sliding to the hilt of his sword.

  "Really?" Zoë cocked her head to one side, considering the northern prince. "Who will bathe you, Lord of Balkh? Who will tend your wounds, or repair your boots after the sand wears away the stitching?" She smiled lazily, the pink tip of her tongue appearing for an instant between white teeth. "Who will cook your food and keep your tent warm at night? Your squire?"

  Piruz snarled and took a step forward. The rasp of metal on metal was very loud as his sword slipped from the sheath.

  "Peace, Lord Piruz. Peace." Shahr-Baraz's hand was on the prince's wrist and the sword clicked back into the scabbard. "Do not taunt brave men, Queen Zoë. They are unused to this land."

  Zoë bowed her head gracefully, inclining her body towards the King of Kings in obeisance. Khalid bit back a hiss as her gown slipped aside, exposing the smooth curve of her breasts and her flat stomach. He felt a shock in his gut and forced himself to look away. When he did, he saw Prince Rustam smiling from the shadows.

  "You are both right," Shahr-Baraz rumbled, clasping both hands behind his back. "Our army cannot cross the desert in time enough if we are burdened by camp followers, servants, maids and pleasure women. Yet—we cannot fight, we cannot campaign—without their skills, their goods, their labor. But all these things are known to me. Prince Odenathus and his fleet supply our answer."

  The Palmyrene prince's eyebrow rose, then a quick smile flashed across his lean face. He nodded in appreciation.

  "Our soldiers will march," the King of Kings said, pacing back to the throne. "Our servants will ride—in the fleet—which, by happy circumstance, escorts a large number of shallow-draft boats that can easily land on a sandy beach. And between here and Pelusium, my friends, there is no lack of beach and sand!"

  Khalid laughed with the Boar, grasping the careful planning and foresight required to resolve such a thorny problem. The other lords laughed too, but they only laughed because their master did. Khalid felt a weight ease from his shoulders and he realized he had been worrying at the same problem in the back of his mind. And who, he chided himself, is the master general here? Who has campaigned for thirty years or more, ever victorious? Not I! Not yet.

  "Now, noble lords," Shahr-Baraz said, voice booming again, "to your commands! You all have a great deal of work to do. Do not disappoint me."

  Khalid waited, watching the other lords and captains flood out of the tent. He hoped to have a word with the King of Kings, but Shahr-Baraz had already slipped out. Prince Rustam and the Shanzdah were also gone, and the tent felt warmer, more open, for their departure. Only Zoë remained and the young Arab stiffened as she approached.

  "Lord al'Walid. Are you well?"

  "Yes," Khalid said, his skin prickling with unexpected heat. The Queen touched his sword hand and her fingertips seemed hot. "Why do you ask?"

  "You have such a look on your face... are you angry with me?"

  "No," he managed to say, though he did feel a spark of fury gutter in his stomach. I should rule the Sahaba and the Decapolis alike! He was surprised at himself. He was angry with her. Everything he had won, she was taking away. "I... you've changed, Lady Zoë. What has happened to you?"

  "Me?" Zoë bit her lower lip, staring up at him with concern. Her eyes were very, very blue. Khalid shook his head, suppressing the urge to brush something—gnats?—from his face. She was still touching his hand and her warm fingers slid over his. "Have I? Perhaps."

  Zoë paused, looking away, into some abyss of memory. "Yes. You are right. I was very angry when we first met... but the Teacher showed how to leave that behind." She met his eyes again, and such genuine warmth and good humor was shining there Khalid smiled back reflexively, though a bitter, oily feeling swirled in his stomach.

  She's stealing my kingdom! part of his mind growled. I could kill her... reach out and crush her throat...

  "It seems strange," she said, pressing closer. "I grieved for my city, for my aunt. I don't anymore. I know... the lord Mohammed showed me things... I know Palmyra will live again. And Zenobia..." The Queen laughed softly, nails digging into Khalid's hand. "I feel her close to me, every day."

  Khalid blinked, eyes tearing, and he stepped back. His feet seemed to drag through mud or deep, heavy sand. Her fingers slipped softly from his wrist. "My lady... I need to see... to my troops."

  "You are a wise commander, Lord al'Walid. The King of Kings is lucky to have you as a friend, as an ally."

  "Yes." Khalid felt speech return and his mind starting to work again. He thought of Shahr-Baraz and the plan for the campaign. There was so much to do... he would need to meet with Jalal, Shadin and Uri immediately. We must see to our own supplies, he thought, narrowing his eyes. These Persians will run out... and they will be begging for charity in the wasteland. "Good day, my lady."

  "Good day, Khalid," Zoë said, hands clasped at her waist. "Oh, the lord will have need you later—after dinnertime. There are some private matters to be discussed."

  "Very well." Khalid nodded.

  "He will send for you when he needs you." Zoë said, turning away. Again, he was struck by the brillia
nce of her eyes as she looked back over her shoulder. She drew a cloak over smooth brown shoulders, then padded away across the carpets. He noticed she was barefoot and frowned, unaccountably uneasy. Servants were entering, bringing long tables and benches. Khalid watched the Palmyrene girl until she disappeared through one of the curtains.

  Then he shook his head, brushing away the gnats tickling his face, and strode out.

  The King of Kings will summon me? When he needs me... am I his servant? I am a king!

  —|—

  "You will come with me."

  Khalid looked up in irritation. One of the Shanzdah filled the door of his tent. The cowled shape was black against the night sky, barely illuminated by lanterns hanging from the tent pole. Khalid sat cross-legged, the sword of night at his right hand. Jalal, Shadin, Uri ben-Sarid and the big Persian mercenary Patik were also in the tent, squatting or sitting around a confusion of parchments, papyrus scrolls and counting boards. Shadin's mouth closed with a snap. The burly swordsman had been accounting the cavalrymen in his qalb, their arms, armor, mounts and provisions.

  "Will I?" Khalid put down a waxed tablet. He was already tired, though the night was still young. Shahr-Baraz tasked them vigorously with this march on Egypt. "Who asks for my presence?"

  "That one," the Shanzdah continued, its voice a cold hiss, pointing at Patik, "will also come."

  Khalid settled his shoulders, glaring up at the shape. The messenger's eyes could not be seen in the deep recesses of the iron helmet. Patik rose and shrugged on his cloak. The desert night was cold, even with the day wind died down to a mild breeze. Without a word, the Persian stepped past the armored shape of the Shanzdah and into the night.

  "Curse this... we've work to do..." Khalid grumbled, but the creature was not going to leave. He too rose, slinging the sword of night over his shoulder on its leather baldric and ivory-and-cloth sheath. Already in a poor temper, the al'Walid frowned at his captains. None of the three men looked pleased. "I will be back as soon as I can."

  "Oh, surely," Uri said, a thread of mocking laughter in his voice. Khalid's eyes glinted in response, but he said nothing, controlling his anger. The ben-Sarid chafed under his authority. The friction was intermittent, but it grew with each day.

  Not now, Khalid promised himself, but soon. The ben-Sarid are eager for glory—they will have their fill, once we are at grips with the Romans...

  —|—

  Khalid's disquiet deepened as the swift, dark shape of the messenger passed among the tents. Patik, with his long legs, kept pace easily, but Khalid was forced to hurry. They did not turn in the direction of the great king's tent, but rather to the east. After a little time they reached the watch fires at the edge of the camp. The Persians and their allies had not bothered to build a palisade or ditch, relying instead on regularly spaced bonfires, tended by a mixture of sentries. There were other lookouts too, hiding in the darkness or loitering on the nearby sand hills. The land around Caesarea was quiet, almost devoid of settlements. There were few men able to scratch a living out of the sandy soil and barren coast. Any approaching enemy would be visible miles away.

  The Shanzdah vanished into the darkness beyond the campfires and Khalid followed more by hearing than sight. Thorny brush tugged at his clothes and spiked plants stabbed at his boots as they crossed the plain. Khalid's night vision slowly settled and he found himself approaching another camp, unlit by fires or lights. Even the stars seemed dim. The moon was down, making the land ghostly in faint starlight. The night grew colder with each step and Khalid steeled himself, recognizing their destination.

  Your ally, a girlish voice laughed in his head, making Khalid blink, trying to drive a vision of the Queen from his memory. The... prince.

  The messenger paused, raising a hand in the darkness. Starlight gleamed from a mailed fist. Patik stopped as well. After a moment, Khalid became aware of a soft noise—something like crickets or beetles rustling on the ground. A very faint sound of chirping flirted with the edge of his hearing. The messenger moved sideways and Patik followed. Khalid peered ahead in the gloom and made out a tall iron pole thrust into sandy ground. Black against black, the metal rose to head height.

  Shaking his head again—the intermittent chirping grew louder—Khalid followed the others. The Shanzdah weaved off to the left, stepping around bushes and stones, then back to the right. They passed another metal pole, then two more. Khalid felt chilled and drew his cloak tight around his shoulders. Then the chirping stopped and the cold deepened.

  A dozen yards away, a black wagon sat within a cluster of felt tents.

  The T'u-chüeh, Khalid thought, wrinkling up his nose. Even in this winter-like air, he smelled rancid butter and urine. He closed his nostrils, then put his head down as they walked swiftly through the encampment. Nothing stirred among the yurts, but Khalid caught glints of metal and lamplight out of the corner of his eye. He did not see any horses, which was puzzling. But what animal could stand to exist within this dread circle? How can these barbarians? Yet more arrive each day... flies drawn to rotting meat.

  The wagon loomed up, easily twice the height of a tall man, and Khalid saw wooden steps—ornately carved with spiky letters and coiling, eye-dizzying designs—leading up to a door. The Shanzdah stepped aside, his mailed arm raised.

  "They are waiting," the creature said. The voice was very faint, rasping and scuttling inside the iron helmet.

  Khalid tried to clear his throat, grimaced and mounted the steps two at a time. Patik followed, quiet as a shade. For the first time, the young Arab did not feel safer with the Persian at his back. Instead, his shoulder blades crawled with a prickling sensation.

  —|—

  "Lord al'Walid, come in!" A cheerful voice greeted the Arab as he stepped into warm, golden light. Inside the wagon was a spacious room, rich with bright carpets on the floor, the walls hung with heavy embroidered fabric. Lamps hung from the ceiling, burning bright with scented oil. The slim, elegant figure of Prince Rustam sat cross-legged behind a low writing desk. He had set aside his cloak, wearing only a slate-colored shirt. His hair was loose, falling behind his head in an ebon cloud. "Please, sit."

  Khalid looked around, quietly calculating the cost of the golden lamps, the fine carpets, the polished wood paneling. Still in the doorway, he eased off his boots, as was polite, then knelt on a plush, deep-woven Samarkand. Long-bodied hounds intertwined with flowering trees on the carpet. The silk threads felt like fine glass under his fingers. "Good evening, my lord."

  "Do you thirst? Do you hunger?" Rustam gestured to one side and Khalid almost hissed aloud in surprise. Zoë knelt against the wall, leaning on one hand, cheek resting on her shoulder, watching him with a smile. Her hair fell behind her shoulder and arm in a black wave. In this golden light, her skin seemed to have grown pale—almost alabaster—with a milky shine. For a moment, Khalid couldn't speak, then he seemed to come back to himself, from far away.

  "No?" Prince Rustam nodded gravely. "Lord Shahin, please sit. It's you I've summoned, in truth. But since you have been so ably serving Master Khalid, I felt it best to speak with both of you at the same time."

  "Who?" Khalid looked around again, but found only Patik kneeling beside him. The Persian's expression was bleak with unexpected despair. His high cheekbones were pronounced and Khalid realized the mercenary was gritting his teeth. "Who is... Patik? You... you are the Great Prince Shahin!"

  "Yes," the big Persian said, deep baritone filling the room. He looked sideways at Khalid, then away. "Do not laugh."

  "Why would I laugh?" Khalid put a hand over his mouth. He was trying not to guffaw. The man was his friend. They had shared wine, water, bread... thousands of miles in wretched desolation. Khalid did not want to offend Patik—no, Shahin, he reminded himself. "You've always been a mystery! So the secret of your so-extensive education is revealed. Well. Well, well."

  Rustam coughed politely, and both men froze, then turned to face him. The prince's affable manner remained and Khalid
breathed a little easier. Even Shahin relaxed minutely. "There is business to discuss," Rustam said. "You know the shahanshah intends to drive the Romans from Egypt."

  Khalid nodded, darting a glance sideways at Shahin. The matter seemed very obvious now—Khalid had even been one of the Great Prince's couriers, during the Persian invasion of Syria three years previous. There had been trouble—the Persians had nearly blundered into a fatal trap at Lake Bahrat. Shahin's command was stripped away by the fortuitous arrival of the Royal Boar himself, arriving all unexpected in the middle of the night, in the company of... Khalid's eyes slid back to Prince Rustam, who was watching him with a slight smile. A peculiar pale light gleamed in the prince's eyes and the brief moment of comfort vanished. Khalid shuddered, meeting the burning light in the prince's pale, translucent gaze.

  "Khalid... do not trouble your mind. True, Shahin was relieved of his command. True, he has lost his rank, his titles, his lands... even his family is sure he is dead. But—as you have seen—he has won back his honor." Rustam lifted a long fingered hand, his fingertips broad and flat, like some kind of a climbing lizard. Shahin stiffened, transfixed. "He may grow a proper beard again, and oil and curl his hair, as he once did. Perfumes, perhaps, will be made available, and pomades. My lord, do you desire such things?"

  "No," Shahin growled, still meeting the prince's lambent stare. "I do not."

  "You choose this life? Sand and dust, a rough bed among thorns? Only steel for comfort, not silk, not down pillows?" The prince's voice was soft, caressing. Khalid shuddered again, feeling his flesh crawl.

  "I do choose this," Shahin said, narrowing his eyes. He seemed unaffected by the prince's glamour. "I will fight beside my friends. For my king. For Persia."