The Dark Lord

by Thomas Harlan

Nicholas spit on the ground, silently furious. "What a waste."

  "True enough." Thyatis nodded, feeling a cold, empty sensation at the thought of Mithridates' easy smile. Bending her head, she said a short prayer for the departed dead. But you will not go into the darkness alone, comrade, she thought. The Aryan lords will bear you golden cups, filled with new wine. Their sorcerer will be your servant in high-ceilinged halls, overlooking fields of golden wheat. She tilted her head towards the camels. "Let's move—the Persians may have friends about."

  The Latin nodded sharply and turned away. Thyatis walked up to Betia and Vladimir, shrugging the scabbard of her own sword to a more comfortable position on her shoulder. "Vladimir, thank you," she said softly. "We wouldn't have gotten out without you and your nose." The barbarian gave her a blank, exhausted look in return, then nodded sadly.

  "There's blood debt aplenty," he said, then coughed. Betia helped him stand up. The Walach managed a wry grimace in the place of a smile. "We can't pay Mithridates back... but another grain for that wizard to do his work and we'd have all been roasted on a spit."

  Thyatis nodded in agreement, clasping wrists with the barbarian. "But we live," she said.

  "We live." Vladimir limped away towards the pile of baggage. Nicholas was already loading the camels with bags of water and bundles of clothing and tools.

  Thyatis looked down at Betia, her own weariness and grief undisguised. "Did you see anything?"

  Betia nodded, her eyes smudged pits of darkness in the moonlight. Her small face seemed carved from ivory. "I saw the Persians come," the little Gaul said softly, "but before I could creep down into the tunnel, two more... men came."

  "Two?" Thyatis tensed, feeling the darkness—which had seemed almost comforting, a dark cloak laid across the land, hiding them from any prying eyes—fill with malice. "What kind of men? Persians?"

  Betia shook her head minutely. "I don't think so. I could not see their faces and all their garb and armor was black as pitch. They... crept along the ground like Vladimir when he hunts. They were following our tracks."

  "Where did they go?"

  The little Gaul pointed off into the night, towards the jumble of pillars and wind-carved spires rising from the desert to the north. "That way. They didn't come back." She shivered. "I think they were ghosts."

  "Why?"

  Betia's face remained impassive, though Thyatis regretted the disbelief in her voice. The girl deserved better—she was no apprentice, not any more!

  "When they were well gone, I went down onto the sand," the Gaul said sharply. "They left no tracks. No trace at all. There was a strange feeling in the air."

  Thyatis nodded. "If the Persians have allied themselves with infernal powers, they will receive aid from unexpected sources." She shook out her shoulders. "The more distance between us and this place, the better."

  Betia said nothing. Thyatis made to take her hand, but the little Gaul flinched away.

  "Keep watch behind," Thyatis said, pretending nothing had happened. The girl would deal with these matters in her own way. There was little time for anything but flight now. "Nicholas, let's move. There are lamiae abroad tonight!"

  The camels made a low, grumbling sound, but the Latin had bound their mouths closed to prevent the ungainly creatures from bellowing. Vladimir moved downwind, a bundle heavy on his back. Thyatis cast an eye around, making sure they'd left nothing behind. Nicholas rapped the lead camel on the haunch with his switch and the animal shuffled to motion, broad three-toed feet splaying on the sand.

  "What did she see?" Nicholas strode up, the hood of his cloak cast back on broad shoulders.

  "Two figures," Thyatis answered, settling her feet in a new pair of boots. They were too big for her feet, but Mithridates didn't need them anymore, did he? "Betia didn't think they were human. The only other players in this game are the Persians, so I think they summoned special help—but it didn't quite arrive in time. They must have gotten something from our poet too."

  "Huh. Doesn't matter now, does it? Not with the tomb buried under countless tons of sand and rock." Nicholas' voice was very sour in the darkness. Thyatis couldn't see his face in the moonlight, but knew the man was grinding his teeth. "We didn't cover our tracks very well. They could have followed us out here."

  "Into a dead end," she said with a certain wry tone. They began to descend from the ridge, down into one of the long, stony valleys running east and west, parallel to the prevailing winds. The footing was poor, but they could make better time than on the soft slopes of the dunes. "Now the question is... did the Persians know where the 'device' really is? I think they didn't—not if they followed us out here."

  "True," Nicholas said, his mood lifting. "The Cypriot was telling the truth, then! He hadn't time to contact them between finding his blessed lading document and our arrival." He stopped, though the camel kept ambling along. "Should we go back?"

  Thyatis bit her lip, considering the situation. She wished the Duchess were here. Then the conniving old woman could clean up her own mess! The needs of the moment are more pressing, she realized. If the prince's toy spoke true, there is a telecast in there. Is it safe to leave behind, buried in the sand? The Persians might dig it out. Thyatis realized she was fingering the amulet in kind of a nervous tic. Nicholas was staring at her, hands on his hips, head canted to one side.

  "No," Thyatis started to say, then stopped. She suddenly recognized the scent she had tasted in the tomb air. Unbidden memories rose, lifting her head with a start.

  "What in Hel are you smiling about?" Nicholas growled, picking at the scab around his eye. "Do we go back or not?"

  "No." Thyatis shook her head, schooling her lips to a grim, thoughtful line. But her heart was singing, though a corner of her mind cautioned vigorously against disappointment. The coffins were disturbed, she remembered. Someone else was in the tomb with us. She was in the tomb. I smelled her perfume. That's why this toy didn't react—the telecast had already been taken away!

  Near giddy with relief, Thyatis let herself breathe, feeling a vast weight lift from her.

  "No," she said again, suppressing a wild grin, "there's nothing there. Just coffins and broken stone and dead men. Let them dig all they like." Then gladness fled sickeningly and she almost turned around, to run back towards the buried tomb, to dig wildly in the collapsed rubble. Gritting her teeth, Thyatis started walking east again. There is another entrance, she reminded herself, another way out. The telecast was not there! They—she—escaped, they carried the device away in time. Betia's warning was heeded. Please, goddess, let it be so.

  "What about the other one, then?" Nicholas sounded surly again. Thyatis barely heard him.

  "That one," she heard herself say, distantly, "we'll find without them finding us."

  —|—

  Fallen stone creaked and grumbled, slowly settling. The sandstone pinnacle above the tomb adjusted itself, squeaking and shifting, to the abused fracture lines running through its stony heart. In one of the tunnels—only partially filled with fallen debris—the dust settled in thin, veil-like sheets. At the end of the corridor two black shapes knelt amid haphazard slabs and jammed, splintered sandstone blocks.

  Without the hiss of strained breath, in silence save for the scraping grind of stone on stone, they lifted a massive plinth. One figure held the slab upright, while the other crawled beneath—heedless of the mass teetering above—and dug into the looser shale below. After a moment, someone coughed and a hand waved weakly from the rubble. Obsidian fingers seized the collar of the man's armor and dragged him forth. Another body was recovered in a similar manner, then all four clambered back up the sloping tunnel and out under the night sky.

  The two dark shapes dropped their burdens on the sand, letting Patik and Artabanus sprawl on the cooling ground. The wizard coughed weakly, his face streaked with blood, a purpling bruise spreading on the side of his face and shoulder. Despite his wounds, the middle-aged Persian clutched a tangled leather sandal to his chest.
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br />   "You breathe," one of the dark shapes said in a cold voice. "Speak." It rolled the big man over with the point of an armored shoe.

  Patik gasped, blood leaking from the corner of his mouth and his eyes wavered open. The looming figure was only darkness against darkness, vaguely outlined by missing stars. "The... cough... Romans found nothing. The tomb was... wheeze... empty."

  The dark shape considered this for a moment, attention turned away from the Persian noble. Patik let himself slump back into the rocky sand, laboring to breathe. His entire body was gripped by twisting, muscle-deep pain. Like the wizard, he was badly bruised, his ear still bleeding.

  "The Accursed were here," the figure said, dead voice ringing hollow in the close-fitting helmet. "They would not have come, were the sepulcher truly empty."

  Cloth rustled, then metal sang on metal. Patik managed to open his eyes and saw the shape raise something—a curved blade?—against the night sky. Frigid blue-white light played along the athame, sparking and sputtering.

  "Uttish'tha," commanded the voice, harsh syllables echoing back from the standing stones. "Ash'hrrada!"

  Patik felt Artabanus flinch and the wizard moaned, one trembling hand trying to block out the sight of the sky. The big Persian narrowed his eyes—crawling blue light played across his face—briefly illuminating the sandstone wall towering above them. The light burned his skin and he turned away, suddenly afraid he might be blinded by the witch light.

  "Uttish'THA!" The sound boomed in the air, making the sand jump and quiver. Sharp, cold wind played in the avenues between the pinnacles, tugging at Patik's hair, swirling the cloaks of the dark shapes. Again, the earth groaned and shifted, then settled.

  The dreadful bluish light died and slowly the stars reemerged from the encompassing dark. Patik shuddered, realizing something vast had obscured the winking, faint lights during the strange interlude. He was aware of darkness withdrawing into the sky, folding in upon itself.

  Only the Shanzdah remained and the Captain turned to look upon Patik again, two faint points of radiance burning in the cowl of his hood. "We will follow the Romans. They will lead us to the prize, the duradarshan, the Gate unopened and unrevealed." An ironbound hand reached down and dragged the Persian to his feet, as effortlessly as a man might lift a child.

  "You will run ahead, Great Prince, our hound." Something like laughter issued from cracked, withered lips. "And we will course behind, hunting with bright spears."

  —|—

  Thunder growled in the distance, though no flare of lightning lit the night. Shirin, laboriously climbing the slope of a dune at the edge of the plain of stones, turned. Penelope, still riding on her back, thin hands clutched at her breast, lifted her head. Both women looked back, seeing nothing but darkness in the shallow valley. The other Daughters continued on, climbing the dune ridge, keeping themselves below the unseen, night-shrouded summit.

  "What was that?" Shirin whispered, though she was sure they had left the Romans and Persians miles behind. Gusts of night wind lapped around her ankles, sending individual grains of sand stinging against her skin.

  "Keep moving," croaked the old woman. "Something foul is abroad on the plain. We should not wait for it to find us."

  Shirin resumed her steady pace. The slope of the dune was long and there were many miles to cover before dawn. Haste in such soft sand would not be rewarded, save with useless weariness.

  After a time, as they approached the crest, Shirin turned her head questioningly. "Mother," she said, using a term often heard on the Island during her abortive training, "in the tomb—the dead Queen bore a blazon—an eight-rayed star set in gold. Was that her personal crest?"

  Soft, breathy laughter answered and the Khazar woman frowned, thinking the old Egyptian would not reply. But then Penelope said, in a sly voice: "Her family held the star of Vergina in high regard. From the first days of their house, the sunburst rode on their shields and banners."

  "I've seen it before—the same star or rayed sun—in..." Shirin paused, swallowing the words... in Ctesiphon, in the house of my husband, King of Kings, Khusro Anushirwan, or on the ruined buildings of old Babylon... "...in the east."

  "Many kings ape the guise of the Lord of Men," the old woman said. Shirin could feel Penelope's thin body shaking with laughter through her back. "Yet, Great Egypt had better claim than most to the Temeniad crest."

  "What do you mean?" Shirin frowned, plowing step-by-step up over the dune crest and down the opposite slope. The moon was riding high in the sky, illuminating the long, rippled face of the ridge with gleaming silver. Ahead, the shapes of the other Daughters cast long shadows across pure, unblemished sand. "The sons of Temenos are the house of Royal Macedon. Why does—"

  A spidery hand closed over Shirin's lips and she stopped.

  "Hush," Penelope said, whispery old voice soft in the Khazar's ear. "Some things should not be said under such a baleful sky, certainly not aloud. Let us say not all roots were cut that black day in Amphipolis when Cassander hewed down the last saplings of the Agead oak. One seedling escaped, and found new, royal soil in Egypt where he grew and thrived under the Saviour Ptolemy's name. Our buried Queen was the last of a noble line..." Penelope's voice trailed away, lost in sadness.

  Shirin made a face, shaking her head. The thin hand withdrew and she tramped on, under the thin moon, into the desert. Far ahead, the sky was hazed with mist and fog, for the delta sweltered in the summer heat, even at night. Shirin thought she could make out the waters of Mareotis, sparkling under the moon.

  —|—

  Encompassing pitchy darkness drew back, broken by green fire licking among gauze-wrapped limbs and fallen chunks of stone. The lip of the stone coffin holding Kleopatra had held back the falling slabs and shattered blocks. She lay, buried deep under the ruined ceiling, her golden mask undisturbed and the rayed sun on her breast hummed with emerald fire. Viridian tongues flickered and coursed around half-hidden rings and intersections of ancient bronze.

  Far above, a booming voice died and a black knife lowered. The sky shuddered, darkness receding. Greenish flame wicked down, pooling into ancient glyphs etched in bronze, then faded into night's embrace.

  The Queen slept, her treasures deeply buried, safe again from the grasping hands of men.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  Near Iblis

  Mohammed sat under the fig, legs crossed, deep in thought. Ráha's visions had passed, leaving him with an unexpected clarity of vision and thought. The thirst once burning in his throat now seemed negligible, the weakness in his limbs a passing memory. The cerulean sky and white-barked trees revealed a queer flatness, as though they were painted on air. His own hands, scarred and weathered with age, stood proof of his own solidity. He looked within, seeking the singing note once perceived among the dizzying splendor of the world.

  Assailed by sensation on all side, deafened by the beat of his heart, the whistle of air into his lungs, Mohammed groped for concentration. A frail voice emerged from unsure memory: He causes the night to pass into day, and the day to pass into night... He felt his mind settle, turning inward.

  For a long time, he found nothing but violent, chaotic emptiness. At last, banishing all attention to the outer world, ignoring even the smooth sensation of the fig bark against his back, he found a delicate whisper of the glorious sound. Strangely, at first the trembling note was distant and faint, but as he focused and beheld, it grew in strength, a long, wavering tone, rising and falling, louder and fainter, drawn from a single source, yet infinite in its variety.

  A great yearning to yield himself to dissolution came over him. Why not join with the heavenly chorus, wayward thoughts urged. There is perfect harmony and peace within the celestial gate. Enter!

  "Master?" A voice spoke, penetrating his consciousness. Mohammed opened his eyes and saw before him the creature Mōha. Perfect lips moved, saying: "You are emaciated, pale, near death. Please, you must pass on from this place. You must choose to go forward. Abandon this
useless striving—"

  "I will not," Mohammed said, his voice strong once more. Looking upon Mōha's face, he was struck by the pitiful nature of the creature's disguise. How could anything so false seem beautiful after looking upon the heart of the world? When he had seen the burning stone and the glory of the unbounded universe revealed? The guardian seemed small and weak, an ivory doll, doomed to wander in half-life, among these dead things, for all time. "Only the Great and Merciful Lord may set the length of my days. When he wills they end, then they will end. Until the day he summons me into his presence, to judge the deeds of my life and dispense perfect, immutable justice, I will never abandon the straight and righteous path."

  Mōha's face contorted in frustration. "My lord, did you see nothing in glorious Ráha's eyes? You looked upon the heart of the world—such things leave no man unchanged! You cannot lie or dissemble to me—how can you cling to pitiful life, to this decaying shell and scrap of rotting flesh, in the face of such glories? Let go, yield the illusion of mortality and pass onward!"

  Mohammed shook his head. "I will not abandon striving. I will endure."

  The creature flinched away from Mohammed's commanding tone.

  "Please..." Mōha begged. "You will suffer endless torments, you will grow old and die, weak and finally alone. How can the fleeting pleasures of a mortal life compare to what you have seen?" He stopped, groping for some convincing word.

  Mohammed shook his head. Certainty burned in his heart and the sound of wind in the trees swelled, filling his limbs with strength. Hunger and thirst no longer touched him and his wizened arms and legs felt strong. "All you say is true, guardian, but I will not step aside from the straight and righteous path. I choose to live, even if I must suffer the torments of those doomed to the fiery pit."

  "Foolish man!" Mōha shouted in anguish. "If you must choose slow corruption, then set aside your impossible task, cease this useless struggle. Live a meritorious life in quiet! Return to your home, set your grandchildren upon your knees, speak wisely in the city council, do no evil to men, weigh honestly and in full measure in all your dealings. But do not inflict these agonies upon yourself!"