The Dark Lord

by Thomas Harlan

  The sound of running feet interrupted her. Thyatis' head rose, squinting across the circle of lanterns. Another of the Daughters ran into the chamber, cloak billowing behind her.

  "They're coming!" a familiar voice called, the woman sliding to a halt at the base of the dais. "The Romans are right behind me!"

  Thyatis rose, staring down in mingled surprise and fear at Shirin's face. The Khazar woman stepped back, startled at the sight of a tall, broad-shouldered Roman above her, then smiled brilliantly in greeting. The Roman woman felt a sharp tension in her breast ease, her own smiling flickering in response.

  "You're—"

  A hoarse shout echoed from the unseen ceiling. Everyone turned. A flickering blue radiance danced in the entrance tunnel, shining on half-hidden statues of rearing bulls and bare-breasted goddesses.

  "Go!" Thyatis snatched up her pry bar, waving the Daughters away. Her gaze locked with Shirin's for a fleeting instant. "Go, now!"

  —|—

  Two men stumbled out of the tunnel mouth, a blade filled with cold light raised above their heads. Thyatis recognized their outlines and the tread of their feet even before they emerged into lantern light.

  "Quick," she called to Nicholas and Vladimir, "help me! I've found the cursed thing!"

  Without waiting, she knelt on one knee, sliding the pry bar into the innermost bronze gear. Grimacing with effort, she wedged the iron into an eye-shaped opening, and then backed up, keeping tension on the bar. Both men scrambled up onto the platform, Nicholas staring at her in rage, Vladimir's eyes wide to see the pattern of arcs and gears set into the floor.

  "Where were you?" Nicholas lunged at Thyatis, teeth bare. "My men were slaughtered up there!"

  Thyatis caught his fist, feeling furious strength in his arm. Tensing, she pushed it aside with an open palm. "I heard you fighting," she said, swallowing a sick feeling at the lie, "but the way was open. I rushed ahead and found our prize."

  Nicholas stared at her, the corner of his jaw twitching with muscle spasms. Thyatis' gaze did not waver.

  "Our duty," she said softly, "is to find this device. Here it is. Now, we must be quick if we've any chance of getting away."

  "How?" Vladimir looked up, sharp nails scratching at the junction of metal and stone. "There's no gap..."

  "Like this," Thyatis said, turning away from Nicholas. He continued to stare at her with a fixed, unblinking expression. She threw her weight on the end of the pry bar, shoulders flexing as she pressed down. A metallic creaking answered her motion and the center disc groaned in protest. "Nicholas, help me. Vladimir, you stand ready to get your shoulder underneath..." Bracing her legs, the Roman woman bore down again.

  Nicholas dithered for an instant, eyes flicking back and forth between the bronze disc and the tunnel mouth and Thyatis. His nostrils flared, but Thyatis saw him take himself in hand with an effort of will. "Put your weight on this, with me," she ordered, beckoning with a tilt of her head.

  The sound of a distant crash rippled through the air and the floor trembled a little under their feet. Snarling, Nicholas leapt to her side and together they dragged on the end of the iron bar. Squealing metal answered, then the entire bronze disc tilted up. Vladimir, poised and ready, ducked underneath, putting his own broad shoulders under the weight of metal.

  "Vlad," Thyatis gasped, feeling her forearms burning with effort. "Can you lift this?"

  A hollow grunt answered, then the Walach squared his legs, the tendons in his neck straining. Each of his hands curled back, groping across ancient gears until they found the edge, then long fingers curled around the beveled surface. Thyatis plucked the pry bar out of the eye-shaped opening—now twisted by the lever's pressure—and stepped back. Nicholas did the same, on the opposite side of the disc. Vladimir swayed a little, then found his footing.

  "I can," he grunted. "But it will be slow."

  "Good. Nicholas, you go with—"

  Greenish-white light flared in the chamber, blinding Thyatis, casting long-reaching shadows from the pillars. She turned, automatically dropping into a guard stance. Nicholas was in motion as well, springing down onto the open floor, the runeblade glittering in his hands. The tunnel mouth flared with light, then the shadows of running men grew large on the walls.

  Wheezing, Vladimir stumped down the flight of steps. Without stopping to consider, he followed the faint smudges of footprints on the age-old floor and the delicate traces of juniper and lavender in the air. A half-hidden passage yawned before him, slanting gently upwards.

  Thyatis stared after the Walach with a sinking heart—the Daughters fled that way, but how else will he get out?—then groped at her waist for the hilt of her spatha. The weapon was gone, lost somewhere in a dream of blazing rainbow light. Swallowing, she stepped down onto the hexagon-tiled floor, taking the iron bar in both hands. Your weapon is the mind, ran a training chant in her memory, summoning up memories of sweat and clashing hardwood on the training floors of Thira.

  Calmness settled over Thyatis as her body responded, shifting into line with the tunnel mouth, left hand leading, right high, cold iron nestled in her palms. Thyatis looked sideways at Nicholas. The Latin was watching her, though he'd fallen into a crouch, one hand run forward against the crossguard of his sword, the other almost on the pommel.

  "You're not going?" Thyatis frowned.

  Nicholas shook his head, and she could see a glint of barely repressed fury in his eyes. "What about our duty?" he snarled. "Two more lives for some rusted bronze..."

  She nodded stiffly, acknowledging their dispute. Her own anger was beginning to spark in reaction to his. "Later, then."

  —|—

  Armored boots rang on stone and the black shapes of the Persians spilled from the tunnel mouth, spreading out across the floor. Instinctively, Thyatis and Nicholas drew apart, the woman drifting left, he to the right. As she moved, feet light on the floor, the Roman woman felt the air begin to cool. Watching the enemy, her eyes widened in surprise.

  Though the curly-bearded Persian had stepped down onto the main floor, she was surprised to see him stand aside for another shape—a tall, hulking figure, enameled black armor gleaming in the lazy greenish white light hissing near the ceiling—this one flexing a cavalry blade of flat, dark metal. The thing's helmet was gone, revealing a withered skull and dark pits for eyes. The skin had contracted against the bone, revealing long incisors and jagged, dry scars.

  The thing's head turned and Thyatis felt a physical shock—a rolling wave of frigid air chilled the sweat beaded on her arms and cheeks—and a growing, horrible sensation of something other curdled in her stomach.

  "If you yield," the creature said, voice grating and echoing in a dead throat, "our master will give you new life and you will escape oblivion."

  "Never!" Nicholas barked, spitting in the Persian's direction. Thyatis didn't waste her breath. Her attention was not focused on the horrific creature or the big Persian cavalryman but on the sorcerer she could see hiding in the shadows of the tunnel mouth, face drawn and gray, hands trembling. She dismissed two wounded Persians—mortal men by the sweat sheening their faces and the blood leaking from beneath mail hauberks—from her consideration, gaze flicking back to the dark captain.

  "Resist and you will perish without hope of rebirth." The rattling-bone voice continued, as if the Latin's outburst had been inconsequential.

  Thyatis let her body relax, each muscle falling into a long-accustomed pattern of motion. She advanced, the iron bar held loosely in her hands. Specificity faded from her vision, sharp-edged clarity fading into patterns of motion and intent. Nicholas was also moving, the glittering tip of Brunhilde dancing in the air. Her senses released from grasping consciousness, Thyatis felt a new shock, making her heart race in fear.

  A dim yellow glow flared in the dead thing's eyes and a mind-crushing sense of vast oppression flooded the chamber. The dark captain stiffened, one claw-like hand convulsing. The lights dimmed, oil lanterns hissing out, the sputtering light
dancing at the ceiling dimming abruptly. Only the blue-white flare of Nicholas' longsword remained and Brunhilde flared bright, though the shadows had grown pitch-black at the edges of the chamber.

  You waste time, whispered a terrible voice, issuing more from the trembling air than the creature's throat. A chorus of crickets and squirming, rattling sounds fluttered at the edge of hearing. Find the Eye!

  —|—

  "Haiii!" Thyatis tore herself free of a drowning, choking sensation, leaping forward with a mighty bound. The iron bar lashed out, crunching across the face of the corpse-thing. Bone shattered, white fragments spinning away in the air and the head flew back. A blur of motion, Thyatis whipped the butt of the bar back, ramming the circular end into the withered cheekbone. The jawbone shattered, black dust jetting from empty eye sockets. The bar burst through the skull with a crackling sound.

  The air condensed in terrific cold and Thyatis cursed, leaping aside, the iron bar lodged in the corpse's head. Mist boiled from the falling body and she felt the sweat on her face and hands and arms freeze, then shatter with a brittle sound as she moved. A sodium glow flared bright in hollow eye sockets, then died. The crushing atmosphere lifted in a dizzying rush.

  Chaos erupted in the chamber, the Persians charging Nicholas, Curly-beard dragging a single-edged knife from his belt. Thyatis sprang back, cartwheeling towards the platform. The knife flashed past between her legs, clattering away from a pillar. She snatched up another pry bar.

  She looked back, catching a frozen instant of time: Nicholas met the two Persians with his own rush and one man toppled, right arm sheared away. The Latin's blade keened with a high note, blood wicking away from watery metal. Curly-beard spun away from Thyatis, his mace swinging in a tight arc at Nicholas' back.

  "Look out!" Thyatis shouted, springing forward.

  Nicholas blocked a thrust by the other soldier, then swung back, his sword a blue flare in the darkness. The mace slammed into his crossguard with a ringing tang! The Latin cried out, blade flying from his grasp. Directly in front of Thyatis, the corpse-thing rose from the floor, one mailed hand grasping the iron bar. She skidded to a halt, stunned to see the creature still live and the dark captain wrenched the pry bar free from his ruined skull. A powerful wrist flicked and Thyatis threw herself to the side, still goggling in horror. Jagged iron slashed past, clanking from the side of the platform, then bouncing across the floor.

  Gathering herself, Thyatis dodged in, swinging her iron stave in short, controlled arcs.

  —|—

  Nicholas scuttled backwards, gasping for breath. Curly-beard advanced swinging to his left, while the other Persian soldier dodged in from the right. The Latin had managed to claw a long knife from his belt, but the loss of Brunhilde left him feeling naked and powerless. She had never been far from his grasp in nine years and his left hand continued to grope reflexively for her familiar, wire-wrapped hilt.

  The big Persian grinned, lunging in, cavalry sword darting in a sharp cut at Nicholas' head. The Latin sprang to the side, slashing automatically at Curly-beard's exposed arm. The knife cut empty air, nearly a foot short of the enemy. Sparks flew from a column as the Persian sword rang away from ancient stone. Nicholas gave ground, scrabbling backwards up a pair of steps and into the side gallery.

  Out of the corner of his eye, Nicholas glimpsed movement and flinched away. The other Persian's sword blurred past, glancing from his arm. The legion armor clanked, but held, turning the blow. Nicholas spun, wrenching his arm from harm's way. The Persian soldier dragged his sword back into guard, but the Latin jumped in, kicking, and caught his thigh with a hobnailed sole. Cursing, the Persian scuttled back. Nicholas suppressed a wild urge to charge the man with only a knife, ducking away among the pillars instead.

  Curly-beard leapt after him, shouting, and then the other Persian gave chase as well.

  —|—

  Thyatis pivoted, swinging the iron bar with the entire force of her upper body. The corpse-thing blocked with a forearm encased in overlapping black scales. Her blow clanged against heavy armor and bounced back. Struggling to keep hold of the vibrating bar, Thyatis kicked at the thing's knee. Her boot hit iron plate guarding the joint and glanced away.

  Ignoring the blow, the corpse charged, throwing a gauntleted, spiked fist at her head. Thyatis blocked high, feeling incredible power in the undead arm, then rolled away. Breathless, she bounded up, smashing aside another punch with the iron bar. Sparks popped from the violent intersection of metal and metal. Thyatis gave ground, parrying desperately as the corpse stormed in, fists slamming at her face and body. The bar rang and rang again.

  Gods, this thing is strong! Thyatis ran out of room, her back forced against the platform. Snarling, she gave a short rush, batting aside a swinging fist, hearing wire crack under the force of her blow, then jammed the bar shorthanded into the remains of the withered skull. More bone shattered, skittering across the floor. The other massive arm slammed across the front of the body, but Thyatis was inside its reach. She dropped to the floor, rolling out and up in a single, fluid motion.

  Headless, the corpse swung towards her, metal scales bouncing away across sandstone.

  Thyatis circled, tensed for the next attack. It came with a rush, corpse legs propelling the black shape towards her, arms spread wide for a grappling crush. The Roman woman's feet flashed on the floor, the iron bar swinging over her shoulder. She swung into a crouch as the dark shape slammed into her back, breastplate cracking against the iron bar. A smooth, effortless motion followed as she rotated shoulders, body, and a gracefully sinking leg into a fluid arc. The corpse-thing flew head over heels and slammed into the stone floor with a resounding crash.

  Thyatis bounced up, exultant and immediately caught sight of a middle-aged Persian man with a neat beard and haunted, deep-set eyes. His fist punched towards her, haloed by whirling light and guttering flame. A roaring shriek filled the chamber, reverberating from the domed ceiling. The Roman woman threw herself forward, but she knew the reflex came just a grain too late.

  —|—

  Artabanus staggered, the hilt of a throwing blade jutting from his throat. He tried to cry out, but choked, blood flooding from his mouth, fouling in his beard. The power he'd summoned to hand ignited, blasting wildly across the chamber in a series of burning blue-white rings. Flame lashed across fat-bellied pillars, superheating the limestone. Smoke boiled away from stone and the plaster of the wall behind the row of columns burst alight. Almost invisible tongues of blue fire rippled across frozen waves, blackening cedar-crowned islands and masted ships.

  Shirin bolted from the shelter of a hidden doorway, vaulting over a stone bench. She seized the hilt of her blade, then kicked the dying man free. Blood spattered on her robes, but the man's arm and hair were already burning, ignited by his own blast. Ignoring the hoarse gasps and drumming feet, she snatched up the longsword flickering dimly in the shadows.

  —|—

  "Roman! Catch!" Nicholas heard a strangely accented voice shout and darted out from behind a pillar. The wounded Persian soldier was dead ahead, startled and turning to look over his shoulder. A bar of dim blue-white flew overhead. Eyes wide in surprise and exaltation, the Latin leapt up, eager fingers seizing Brunhilde from the air. He came down hard, then skipped aside, cursing in alarm.

  Curly-beard's mace smashed on stone. Nicholas backpedaled, settling his grip.

  Behind the Persian cavalryman, the Latin saw the wounded soldier topple, neck twisted at a strange angle. A woman in desert robes, long, glossy black hair whirling around her face, dropped to the ground, recovering from a spinning kick. Nicholas caught only a glimpse of her face, but the image burned in his memory—glorious brown eyes, a straight, noble nose, bow-shaped lips, a feral snarl of victory.

  A reflexive block—nerve and muscle responding before conscious thought could interfere—saved him from losing his head and snapped attention back to the matter at hand. Curly-beard's cavalry sword licked back, but the big Persian sho
uldered in with his other hand, the flanged mace swinging hard at Nicholas' crossguard. The Latin danced back, weaving Brunhilde in a figure eight. The Persian grinned, teeth white in a thick, black beard, advancing in a sideways scuttle.

  Nicholas lunged in counter, sword tip flicking at the man's inner arm. The mace blocked with a ringing clang and then there was a flurry of blows, each man lunging and striking in turn, boots scuffling on tile, the ring and clash of steel harsh in the air.

  —|—

  Thyatis looked up from the floor, amazed to still feel life in her limbs, and groaned to see the glorious wall paintings rippling behind a sheet of flame. Smoke boiled into the air, filling the apse of the ceiling. A dull roar grew, coupled with a staccato cracking sound as ancient stone expanded in the heat. Plaster shivered, splitting along ancient foundation lines, millennia-old dust mixing furiously with burning paint. She scrambled to her feet, groping on the hex tiles for a weapon.

  Only yards away, the shape of the dark captain shuddered on the floor, then rose, spilling black dust, fragments of bone and broken iron scales. The head was entirely gone and one arm hung limply at its side. Thyatis swallowed, backing up, mouth dry in fear. The shape stood, leaning a little to one side, then lurched toward her. The crushing pressure was building in the air again.

  "Let's go!" Shirin seized her arm, dragging Thyatis back. "Look later, you dumb ox!"

  Thyatis tried to speak, but the dreadful vision of the undead thing reaching for her held her captive, a cobra's prey hypnotized by the swaying hood. Shirin slapped her hard on the side of the head. Blazing pain in her ear snapped Thyatis out of her daze and she skipped back, shouting in fear, from clutching iron fingers.

  Together, they sprinted out of the chamber, away from the shambling corpse-thing and into the shadowed side tunnel. Behind them, Artabanus convulsed on the floor in the final throes of death, the gradient of his evocation rushing to violent release, lightning leaking from his mouth and eyes, flaring ruby red through vaporizing blood. A stunning crack rolled and boomed in the chamber, coterminous with an incandescent flare of white light.