The Dark Lord

by Thomas Harlan

  As he worked, face shining with soft, rippling blue white light—like the sea gleaming from a shield or a grotto roof—she moaned and squirmed, unable to speak, transported by his touch. When, at last he was done, he rose to his knees, looking down upon her. A certain expression filled his face, an amalgam of pride, delight and satisfaction. Well done!

  Martina lay among the silken sheets, languid eyes barely open, heart-shaped lips parted, glorious dark brown hair spilling to her waist, breasts now high and firm, velvety stomach curving irresistibly to the sweet cradle of her thighs, legs long and tapering. The sight of her struck him in the stomach, a heavy blow of desire.

  "Could Pygmalion have done better?" Maxian's eyes sparkled. "Martina?"

  "Yes, husband?" The Empress' eyes fluttered open and looked upon him with joy. Her fear, self-doubt and exhaustion were gone—wiped away by his power. "Where is my bridal bed and bower?"

  "Here," he said, standing, silhouetted against the star-filled sky. He raised a hand and the sea foam blazed with deep green light as if the sun rose in the depths, filling the sky with pillars and columns of twisting cold flame. "On a sea of dreams."

  The prince knelt between her legs and now Martina accepted his caress with wanton delight, rising to meet him. He gasped at the hot breath of her kiss. Then she cried out, surrendering to him.

  The ship bore into the west, glittering spray falling back from a high prow and the ghosts of men kept watch in the rigging, spying the deeps for reefs and hidden rocks. Sails of starlight caught invisible zephyrs, carrying the lovers on, into warm, close darkness.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  The Desert Beyond Lake Mareotis, Lower Egypt

  "There!" Nicholas pointed, eyes shaded against the blazing white sky by his burnoose. "A worked edge."

  Sandals crunching in loose pea sand, Thyatis climbed a low dune to stand beside the Latin. Pillars and knobs of crumbling russet-colored stone rose from the desolation, stretching to the horizon in either direction. Beneath the eroded towers, dark red sand moved slowly south, driven by a constant gusty wind. The Roman woman had never seen a more inhospitable place. All signs of life were absent—no short grass, no lichen, no birds—nothing but keening wind and the rattling sound of sand blowing against rock.

  Ahead, beyond Nicholas' pointing finger, she saw a larger pinnacle jutting from the wayward dunes, burnished sandstone striated with dark streaks. The lowering sun threw a long shadow to the east, but her eyes found a dissonant angle on the face of the worn, curved rock.

  "Not a door," she said, voice muffled by the heavy linen covering her mouth and nose. "But something made by man."

  Nicholas nodded and they advanced cautiously. Thyatis drifted to the left and the Latin to the right. A hundred yards behind, the camels and workers waited patiently in the lee of another knob of fluted stone. Thyatis kept a sharp eye on the avenues of sand and barren rock between the pillars, watching for any movement. Disquiet had plagued her since they'd entered the wasteland—she was sure someone was watching them as they picked their way across the broken, rough ground. Nicholas darted ahead, reaching the side of the pinnacle. His hands searched over grainy, pebbled stone. Up close, the sharp edge that had seemed so clear from a distance vanished, lost in wind-carved surfaces.

  Thyatis continued to watch their backs, crouching against the base of the rock, letting her tan-and-brown silhouette merge with the land. The sense of unease grew and her fingers tightened on the hilt of her sword. "Anything?"

  "No." Nicholas stepped back, looking up. "But I'm sure..."

  Thyatis froze, feeling a strange trembling against her breastbone. Without looking down, she slid one hand into her tunic, groping for the prince's amulet. The copper disk, warm from the heat of her body, was vibrating. Gritting her teeth, she clamped down—though the device made no audible noise—and felt the metal humming.

  Curse this Roman and his mysterious friends! Thyatis felt a brief spike of fury, then quashed the emotion. She twitched her shoulders, trying to keep from tensing up. Curse the Persians too for inspiring a lax, slovenly Cypriot to find something valuable in the morass of that library for once in his wretched, short life! She looked sideways at Nicholas, who was crouching on the sand, looking up at the stone face from an odd angle.

  "See anything?" Thyatis startled herself with a wry laugh. Upside down, he looked like a monkey.

  "Maybe..." Nicholas began digging in the sand blown against the base of the pinnacle.

  Thyatis watched him, weighing her options. If the prince's talisman told true, there was a telecast nearby. She couldn't let it be found, either by Nicholas or anyone else. Should I kill him now? she wondered, glancing back to the rest of the caravan. Mithridates and Betia were watching her, while the others kept an eye on the camels or the wasteland. The pinnacles and spires broke up the horizon, making everything a jumble. It would be easy for someone to approach, hiding among the broken rock. Murder Vladimir and the workers... tell the Emperor the Persians ambushed us...

  The thought made her feel ill and cold. She didn't know how she felt about Nicholas, but Vladimir was a gregarious, outgoing fellow and this mess was none of his making. What is so important about these cursed devices anyway? The Duchess' fears seemed remote and insubstantial under the desert sun, with a hot wind tugging at her robe. Thyatis felt irritated too. She had never been troubled by the thought of striking down an enemy of the state before—but was Nicholas an enemy? Cursing under her breath, she kicked sand away. My dear mother has to make everything so complicated...

  "Here!" Nicholas turned, grinning. His hole in the sand had gone down a foot or more and the worn, smoothed stones had changed, revealing a sharper, clearly man-made cut in the rock face. "Hallo!" He sprang up, waving at the others. "There is something here!"

  —|—

  Thyatis whistled softly, a warbling trill, and Betia—standing watch over the camels fifty feet away—turned to face her. The little Gaul was wrapped from head to toe in desert robes, a mottled brown and tan and white, only pale blue eyes peering from a thin slit in the cloth. Thyatis had been circling the pinnacle, watching for anyone or anything, and now stood out of sight of the excavation busily underway at the base of the rock face.

  The fellaheen had been digging industriously for over an hour, their mattocks and spades burrowing into the firmly packed sand. Nicholas' discovery had proved to be the side of a frieze. Only the legs and feet of three figures remained, protected by the packed sand. Everything exposed above the ground level had been obliterated by seven hundred years of ceaseless, gnawing wind. Thyatis felt a steadily rising tension in her gut, mirroring the slow appearance of a stone door covered with hieroglyphs and animal figures. Nicholas squatted at the top of the pit, watching with excited interest.

  Ignoring Betia for the moment, Thyatis let her eyes unfocus, turning slightly and surveying the surrounding landscape. There was no movement, nothing out of the ordinary, no suddenly familiar silhouette against the organic shapes of rock and sky. Vladimir and Mithridates—muscles gleaming with sweat—were hauling bags of sand out of the pit, daring each other to carry heavier and heavier weights.

  Circle, Thyatis signed at Betia, when she was sure no one was watching. Look for tracks or signs. Stay out of sight.

  The little blonde nodded, then her hands moved sharply. Archers?

  Thyatis signed I hope so, then resumed her drifting movement between the pinnacles and jagged stones. She hoped the Daughters were somewhere nearby. Any hope of them having come and gone remained faint—the amulet around her neck continued to shiver, the hum vibrating through her breastbone.

  —|—

  Torches guttered, whipped by the dying sundown wind. Thyatis stood at the top of the pit, now grown to a dozen paces wide and twice as long. The excavation revealed a pair of fluted, acanthus-topped pillars and a step buried long ago by the sand. Nervous, she bit her lower lip, watching men strain against stone. A massive granite slab closed the entrance to the tomb, but Mithri
dates and Vladimir leaned on a pair of iron pry bars, gleaming muscles tense with effort. The fellaheen made a crowd on the ramp, watching with trepidation. At least one was chanting nervously, making signs against ill fortune. Nicholas seemed terribly pleased with himself, caught in the excitement of opening something hidden for hundreds of years.

  Mithridates grunted, a deep basso noise, and the bar in his hands began to bend, torqued beyond the ability of the iron to withstand. Vladimir braced his feet again and shoved, flat muscles rippling under a thick pelt of fur covering his back and upper arms. His effort was rewarded with a grating sound, then dust puffed from the edges of the stone door. Thyatis held her breath, fingers white on the hilt of her sword.

  The slab groaned again, scraping, and then an opening appeared—dark and fathomless in the wavering light of the torches—on one side of the slab.

  "That's it!" Nicholas shouted, scrambling down into the pit. He snatched up another pry bar and squeezed in, thrusting the iron into the crevice. Several of the fellaheen—seeing none of the Romans had perished so far—crept up and lent their own wiry muscle to widening the opening. After a long moment of grunting and sweat streaming from matted hair, the door rumbled to one side. All five men stepped back, grimacing. The tomb exhaled a draft of dull, dead air. Nicholas thrust a torch into the doorway.

  Broad, crisply cut steps led down into darkness. Ruddy orange light revealed wall paintings in brilliant azure, umber, crimson and white—cranes and kings and delta fields thick with game birds and peasants working pumps, scythes, bellows. Nicholas stepped into the passage, reaching out with a tentative hand. His touch barely brushed the painted colors and they crumbled away to rose-colored dust, leaving only a faint memory on the smooth stone.

  "Come," the Latin barked, gesturing for the fellaheen. "Bring the torches and the sled."

  Mithridates and Vladimir climbed out of the pit. Thyatis caught the African's eye as he bent to lift the wooden platform with its greased rails.

  "Betia?" he whispered, casting about for the little Gaul. Thyatis flashed him a quick smile, indicating the encompassing darkness with a momentary tilt of her head.

  "I'll follow," Thyatis called down to Nicholas, "and watch our backs."

  "Good." The Latin singled out two the fellaheen. "You and you, guard the camels."

  Grinning in relief, teeth white against sun-darkened faces, the two Egyptians scrambled out of the excavation. Thyatis followed Vladimir and Mithridates down into the pit, blade now bare in her hand. The tunnel was already filled with flickering light as Nicholas and a crowd of fellaheen descended, torches and lanterns held high. She turned in the doorway, casting a wary eye at the desert, but could see nothing—not even the stars, or the late moon—beyond the torches thrust into the sandy ground. Some distance away, the camels honked and grumbled at the approach of the two men.

  Frowning, the Roman woman turned and stepped lightly down into the tomb. Her neck was prickling again. There is someone out there... She hoped Betia would be careful.

  —|—

  Quiet and patient, Patik stood in the shadow of a nearby crag. A dozen yards away, torches guttered in the wind, illuminating the pit. The Persian watched with interest, a faint gleam of light sparkling in his eyes. He never failed to be intrigued by the ability of men—even experienced soldiers—to be blinded by the simple division of light and darkness. The torches were visible for miles across the desert plain, winking between the standing stones. He and his men had approached cautiously, but even the Roman watchers had remained within the circle of light, blinding themselves. Patik had no cause for complaint.

  Two of the Egyptian workers approached the camels and gear piled in the lee of one of the stone pinnacles. Both of the animals were nervous, but the men—tired from a long afternoon and evening's labor—ignored their warning grunts. Amur, his armor and face blackened with soot, rose quietly from the ground as the two fellaheen passed and his scarred hand was over one mouth, his knife sawing in one neck before anyone could do anything. The other Egyptian walked two paces, then turned, curious, missing the sound of his friend's footsteps. The Persian thrust hard, driving his dagger into the man's throat. A choking, gargled cry was drowned by blood flooding from the wound and Mihr caught the body before it could fall to the ground.

  "Move," Patik hissed, padding forward silently across the loose sand. Despite his size and bulk, he showed a feral gracefulness in motion. The big Persian paused at the top of the excavation. No one was in sight, not even in the tunnel mouth. Tishtrya and Asha slid down the slope at the Persian's signal, then crept into the tunnel.

  "Are you ready?" Patik kept his voice low, even doubting there were any Romans within earshot. Artabanus nodded, looking a little sickly in the poor, wavering light. Patik doubted the mage had ever seen a man killed before, at least not at such close range.

  "Good." The big Persian descended into the pit, finally drawing his own sword. Asha was visible, ahead, crouched in the tunnel at some kind of turning.

  —|—

  Allowing herself a breath of relief, Shirin raised her head from the sand. The edge of the pit was only two strides away. Echoing, the soft voices of the Persians receded into the earth. As she watched, two more Persians slipped out of the darkness, one man wiping blood from a knife on his tunic and disappeared into the excavation.

  "Lovely," the Khazar woman breathed out slowly, then carefully backed away into the darkness. Beyond the circle of light thrown by the torches, only starlight picked out the tumbled stones and massive pinnacles. But this was enough for a daughter of the house of Asena. Padding softly on bare feet, Shirin circled away from the lights and the buried door. She had hoped to follow Thyatis into the tomb, but had waited—unaccountably nervous—and the sudden appearance of the Persians had almost stopped her heart with surprise.

  Who else is creeping around in the darkness? she wondered, drifting behind another towering column of sandstone. Disturbed by the thought, Shirin looked to the east, hoping for the moon to rise, but Orion was still low on the horizon and when Luna did rise, she would be thin and pale. The land among the pillars was very dark and the intermittent, wayward wind obscured as many sounds as it carried. I have to do something, she decided, turning back towards the tomb. I should warn Thyatis.

  A faint sparkle caught her eye as she moved back around the wall of stone. Off to her right, starlight shifted on disturbed sand. Shirin paused, looking towards the circle of torches, then back to the pale, gleaming avenue between the stones. Gritting her teeth, she darted forward, iron knife bare in her hand. Stooping over the sand, she saw the faint outline of footprints arcing away from the Roman camp. The unsettled feeling in her stomach worsened. There is someone else out here.

  Head raised, eyes straining to pierce the night, Shirin followed the tracks in a half-crouch, one hand drifting over the sand, finding the shallow wells of someone moving lightly on the earth. After a few moments she reached another towering sandstone pinnacle. Gingerly, she picked her way around the scalloped, eroded wall. The breeze fluttered, disturbing her hair, then died.

  She froze. A tremendous silence filled the night, without even the whisper of the night wind to disturb the sand. Counting thudding, enormously loud heartbeats, Shirin waited. Nothing moved in the darkness. Cautiously, she resumed creeping along the stone face. Twenty steps later, she froze again. A breath of air brushed her cheek, ruffling a wayward curl.

  Anticipation mounting, Shirin's fingers explored the rock, finding a narrow vertical crack. Air hissed softly from the opening. A cave, she realized, remembering her uncles' tales around a winter fire, very long ago. A big one. She pressed against the rock, fingers pressing and poking in the hollowed stone. A sharp-edged groove revealed itself to her searching fingers, then another. Frowning in the darkness, Shirin traced a half-familiar pattern. A bow? Newly scratched in the stone?

  Without thinking, she traced the sign of the Archer in the air, nodding to herself. The Daughters must have been here recen
tly. Putting her shoulder against the rock, the Khazar pushed, feet slipping on the sand. There was a scraping sound, then the stone face slid away and she fell, startled, into the greater darkness beyond. A rumbling creak followed as she scrambled up from a smooth floor and the counterweighted block rotated back into place, cutting off even the faint ghost-light of the stars.

  —|—

  Time passed, the eroded face of the pinnacle remaining stolid and unmoving despite the faint sound of metal banging on stone. Eventually the faint noise stopped and silence settled on the sand and rock.

  Some time later, the curved arm of the moon lifted above the eastern horizon, casting a pale, silvery light over the wasteland and the rocky knobs. The shadows grew deeper, though the sand glittered faintly. A figure, hunched and bent over the rippled sand, appeared in the dim radiance, creeping along Shirin's trail. After casting back and forth across the marks of her sandals, it reached the rocky face. Thick fingers, clad in burnished dark mail, examined the worn surface, poking and prodding.

  A hiss of anger broke the silence. The figure drew away from the hidden door and moved back along the footsteps in the hard sand. Another shape, also cowled and shrouded, met the searcher and together they loped off towards the Roman excavation. The torches had burned down to glowing ash, which did nothing to prevent the entrance of the two wights into the tomb.

  —|—

  "Another dead end!" Nicholas cursed, backing up. Behind him, two of the fellaheen scrambled backwards up a sloping ramp. Their torches flared along the low ceiling, leaving washes of soot on the bare stone. Nicholas glowered at the rough-hewn stone wall closing off the end of the passage.