The Dark Lord

by Thomas Harlan

  Reaching his horse, the tarkhan's heart lifted to see a heavy enameled bow case still slung on the saddle. Two of his guardsmen had remained with their mounts while Jusuf had gone down to the shore. Horseflesh was highly prized, even among the dirt farmers. He ran a proprietary hand over the black case. The bow within was nestled in Roman cloth as soft as a woman's hair. Nervous to see the weapon so exposed, he turned a corner of the riding blanket over the painted wood.

  "Ready, tarkhan?" His guardsmen were mounted and ready, each man on a different mount than he'd brought ashore in the morning. The army was preparing for a long march; soon they would be alternating walking and riding to spare the horses. Jusuf nodded absently, taking a last look around the grove of trees, measuring the faces of the men and the health of the horses in the jegun. As he did, his eye lit on the same dark-haired Greek cinching the bellyband of a Khazar horse, a scabbarded gladius and axe swinging from a strap over his shoulder. What is this? A Greek among us?

  "Wait a moment." Jusuf ran his hand gently across the bow case before striding off through the high grass. His guardsmen sighed, then settled in to wait. Who knew what these officers were doing? The kagan had declared the army would land and then march east along the main highway until they reached the town of Kosilaos, all in a single day. Twenty miles from the Chalcedonian shore, more or less. A late night's camp, they grumbled.

  "What is your name, soldier?"

  The Greek looked up and Jusuf slowed to a halt, struck by the man's odd dark eyes. This close, the Khazar was impressed by the scars—old and new—making a tracery on his exposed arms and neck. The broad shoulders were no illusion either, feeding powerful arms and wrists like tree roots. A legionary, Jusuf guessed. How odd.

  "Ruf—no, call me Hippolytus, my lord," the man answered. As he did, a peculiar expression of relief filled his face. "Hippolytus," he said again, taking his time with the word.

  "You're a Roman soldier," Jusuf said. "Why do you ride with Bulan's jegun?"

  The Greek offered a slight smile, causing a deep scar at the corner of his mouth to twist like a snake. "I was a soldier for the old Emperor," he said in a deep voice. "Heraclius is dead, and his son taken into the west." Hippolytus shrugged, making his mailed breastplate shimmer. "There is nothing for me in the Empire anymore. I wish to go to a new land and begin a new life, far from Rome and Achaea and everything here."

  Jusuf nodded slowly, searching the man's face. It was weathered and old, graven by many misfortunes and mischance. How old is this man? The black eyes seemed fathomless, barely reflecting the dappled sunlight. A sense of enormous, long-held grief radiated from him. Grief and terrible loss. There was something familiar about him too... The Khazar felt a chill raise the hackles on his arms and neck but then the moment passed. Just another elderly Greek soldier with too many memories.

  "You've sworn fealty to the kagan, then? Accepted his bread, placed your hand on his stirrup?"

  "Yes," the Greek said, placing a broad palm over his heart.

  "Then," Jusuf said, striking upon a thought and finding it pleasing. "You will ride with me, and my guardsmen—your Turkic is not so good, I'd imagine?"

  "No," laughed the Greek, "but I find languages easy."

  "Good. Ride with me, then, and I will teach you the ways of our people, Hippolytus."

  "Very well." The Greek turned to Bulan, who had ridden up to see what transpired. "Captain—this man wishes me to go with him—is this meet?"

  "Thief of a prince," Bulan growled at Jusuf, making the tarkhan smile. "Recruiting your own war band, are you? I'll trade him to you, my lord, for a brace of your Thessalian mares."

  Jusuf raised an eyebrow at Bulan's bold words. "You've grown avaricious down among these Greeks! I'll gift you a wagon instead, with sprung wheels and a tarp."

  "Done." The beki jegun grinned as well, showing gappy yellow teeth. The Khazar spat on the ground, then clasped wrists with Jusuf. "And done."

  "Come then." Jusuf waved the Greek towards his guardsmen, who had taken the opportunity to lie down in the grass under the trees. Two men remained on watch, while the others napped. "We've a hard ride, before night falls. The kagan wishes to be gone from Roman lands with all haste."

  Hippolytus nodded in agreement, swinging up onto his horse. For a moment, he looked back, across the broad, sparkling waters of the Propontis, at the domes and towers of the city shining in the afternoon sun. A bleak look crossed his face, but then he turned away, idly scratching at a still-healing scar on his breast. The wound was itching under the breastplate, but he knew the angry, reddish flesh would knit soon, leaving only one scar among many.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  The Western Desert

  Vladimir crouched in a thicket of low-lying shrubs, thick, waxy leaves tickling his face. The gray plants, mixed with stands of ragweed and nightshade, covered a low hill south of the promontory holding the temple of Amun-Ra. From the rise, Vlad could peer down through drooping palms at the road descending into the village. Behind him, the vast expanse of a shallow lake gleaming silver in the moonlight stretched out into the desert. The red moon was nearly touching the western horizon and the Walach could smell dawn coming.

  He was panting, exhausted from carrying the heavy bronze disc out through the long, narrow tunnel. At the end of the passage, a ladder leading up into the floor of a house on the outskirts of the abandoned town had nearly stymied him. The muscles in his back and legs cramped painfully, reminding him of the enormous effort required to hoist the metal contraption up through the trap-door.

  Smoke billowed silently into the night sky, obscuring the forest of pillars and single round tower crowning the hill. Intermittently, flashes of reddish and orange light washed over the walls of the ancient buildings. Vladimir felt his throat tighten each time. Nicholas and Thyatis were inside, somewhere. They are probably dead, he thought mournfully. And I can't find Betia!

  The little blond girl's trail had vanished in the town, lost among the stink of human habitation and rotting flesh. The exit house of the tunnel had been filled with corpses. The dead were well preserved in this dry, salt-tinged air, but the slow business of corruption was taking its inevitable hold. Vladimir grinned cheerlessly in the dark. I know why the stone houses are so silent. Soon the ants and beetles would find the drying flesh and reduce the corpses to a carpet of white hone.

  Motion on the road caught his eye and he stiffened, wide dark eyes drinking in the faint moonlight. Three figures descended the sloping ramp in haste, flitting between the obelisks and sphinxes. A deep, angry growl rumbled in his throat. Persians. Even at this distance, the Walach recognized the striding gait of the curl-bearded horse rider. The other two shapes, dark on dark, sent a shiver down his spine and triangular nails dug sharply into the ground. Curse it! The corpse walkers survived.

  Vladimir swallowed, distraught. These Persian creatures were not the surâpa of his homeland—they did not go abroad in the guise of living men—they were something worse, something made, cobbled together from corpses and venom and old, dry-smelling evil. He had felt their tremendous strength, traded blows with their tireless arms, seen the snake-quickness of their movements. There was no way he could face all three of them and win—not this young, still green Walach! One of the old ones... they might know a chant to strike down this enemy, but he did not.

  Despite a trembling urge to flee, to lope away across the desert, to run until he was in green forest and meadowed glade again, Vladimir remained crouched on the hill, watching, while the three Persians disappeared among the crumbling walls of the town. Some time later, while he watched and waited, he saw them emerge from the date palm orchards beside the lake. Then he flashed a white grin in the darkness, for they stooped over a trail he had laid himself. A little later, he saw them again, spread out to cover more ground, entering the desert east of the oasis.

  "Now," he growled to himself, rising up, shaking sand and prickly leaves from his back and thighs. "There's a little time." Patting the tel
ecast lying half-buried in the sand beside him, he crept down the hill, then ran swiftly through the streets of the town and began to climb the long ramp to the temple.

  —|—

  Hoarse coughing, like a bellows rasping at a forge, lent speed to Vladimir's sore legs and he jogged into the little courtyard at the top of the hill. Ahead, the great doorway into the sanctuary was limned with leaping flame. Dirty white smoke poured out of the temple from windows and doors, twisting away into the night. A hammerhead cloud of smoke and vapor built in the otherwise clear sky, lit from below by a sullen orange glare. Vladimir tore off his tunic, wrapping the grimy linen around his face, then—squinting—he plunged into the smoke, keeping low to the floor.

  The great statue loomed ominously, red flame beating at sandstone legs, stern face staring down through coiling fumes. The pit at the god's feet hissed and roared, jetting fire. Vladimir crawled to the edge of the stone shaft, ears flat back against his head. Something moved on the stairs—a huddled shape, wracked with terrible, hollow coughing—wrapped desperately in a blood-stained cloak.

  "Nicholas!" the Walach shouted, cry muffled by the cloth over his mouth. A stiff wind gusted out of the pit, feeding the fire roaring in the tunnel mouth. Heedless of the heat, Vladimir plunged down the stair. Nicholas grasped feebly at the step above him. The Walach snatched him up, batting at tiny flames leaping on the man's clothes, then staggered back up the steps.

  The effort of dragging the telecast out into the desert came back, his calves and thighs trembling with the effort of each step. Barely able to breathe, Vladimir went down on both hands, Nicholas clinging to his back like a cub and scuttled for the door. Moments later, the Walach rolled on his back, gasping, sucking clean, cold air into his lungs. His eyes streamed with tears and the choking, bitter smell of smoke clogged his nostrils.

  Beside him, Nicholas heaved weakly, barely able to move. His cloak and tunic smoldered, littered with glowing embers.

  —|—

  "There. They got out." Thyatis breathed a sigh of relief. She rose, biceps and back aching with fatigue. She could still feel the impact of the corpse-thing's blows vibrating in her forearms. Keeping her head low, Thyatis slid down the dune to where the others were waiting. Three of the women, shrouded from head to foot in long robes and heavy veils, turned away as they clucked at the pack camels. One of the beasts groaned in protest and drew a slap across the snout for his trouble. A bulky package was strapped to the creature's back, tied down with cords and wrapped in woolen blankets.

  A smaller shape—Betia—watched Thyatis for a moment, a dim outline against the predawn sky, then she too turned away to slog down the long reverse face of the dune, sand slipping and sliding under her feet. The Roman woman swayed a little, feeling exhaustion cramping her legs, stealing their strength. The last figure, cloaked like the others, her breath a faint white puff in the deep cold of the desert night, stood watching Thyatis in silence. One camel remained, kneeling on the slope, reins clutched in the figure's hand.

  Thyatis felt like a fool, at a loss for words after envisioning this moment for so long.

  "You look wretched," the woman said at last, her voice tinged with a smoky rasp.

  "I..." Thyatis stumbled into silence again, her thoughts a wild jumble. She felt dizzy again, fear churning in her stomach. Unable to stand, she squatted on the sand, one hand out to support herself. "I should go back... with them."

  "To Rome?" Shirin settled beside her. Her voice was soft. "To the Emperor?"

  "They are my men," Thyatis said, head down. She was having trouble breathing. "They'll think I've—"

  "Betrayed them," the Khazar woman said, stretching her hand out, a black shadow creeping across faintly gleaming sand. "Penelope told me about the device. You've done your duty by the Order, keeping the telecast from those men. From your Emperor."

  Thyatis coughed hoarsely. Smoke bit at her lungs. "Those two are my responsibility. They are my command. I can't abandon them in this wasteland." Dizziness whirled away, leaving her head feeling empty and drained.

  Shirin caught her shoulders, easing Thyatis back onto the sand. Gentle fingers pressed against the Roman woman's forehead, her throat, her hands. "You're far too cold! You've been hurt," Shirin said. "Are you bleeding?"

  Thyatis shook her head weakly, staring up at the stars. In the chill air, she could smell Shirin very clearly—a subtle mix of sweat and crisp linen and roses. She was very tired and a cold sea of sleep lapped around her legs. "I... I don't think so. There's just so much..."

  Grunting, Shirin hooked her fingers into the leather straps holding the clamshell halves of the Roman lorica together. Digging her feet into the sand, the Khazar woman dragged Thyatis to the kneeling camel. Grimacing, her own muscles complaining at the heavy weight, Shirin rolled the Roman onto the camel's back, drawing a honk of outrage. Disgusted, the beast rose on ungainly legs. Shirin danced around the splayed feet, avoiding a kick, keeping Thyatis from falling.

  The Roman woman oofed in pain, the high-cantled saddle digging into her stomach. A moment later, the camel began ambling down the slope in a swaying gait. Shirin ran alongside, one hand wrapped in the lead. Thyatis squirmed weakly, then fell still in exhaustion.

  Later, the ground leveled out. Shirin could see the others far ahead, a sparse line of humped silhouettes against a slowly brightening eastern horizon. Wind ruffled her cloak, drawing the veil away from the Khazar's face. They passed scattered black stones, pitted and scored with dimpled cavities.

  "You cannot go back to his service," Shirin said gently, seeing Thyatis had woken from her daze. "You balanced two masters for a long time, but in the end, you must choose between the Empire and the Island."

  The Roman woman groaned, then pushed herself up, swinging one leg forward over the saddle. Her face was flushed with blood from hanging upside down, tangled hair in disarray, her armor dented and stained with smoke. Shirin laughed, watching her rub grime away from bloodshot eyes.

  "What?" Thyatis tried to glare, but lacked the energy for more than a befuddled stare.

  "I missed you." Shirin put her hand on Thyatis' sandal, slim fingers wrapping around her toes. "All smelly and disheveled, stinking of iron and blood." The Khazar woman smiled up at her friend.

  "Like old times," Thyatis croaked. If anything, she was looking worse, staring at Shirin with empty, hollow eyes. "Shi—you should know—your children... your children are—"

  "They are dead," Shirin said, squeezing Thyatis' foot. "I know. I found their bodies."

  "You... you did?" Thyatis' eyes widened, a pale streak of tears oozing down her cheek. "How? I looked and looked in the ruins..."

  Shirin nodded, leaning her head against the camel's flank. The creature was warm, gut rumbling with digestion, hide smelling of tamarisk and broken shale. "The cook... the Duchess' cook told me where to find them. But everything was gone, all burned houses and naked trees and ash. I had to... dig. But I did and laid them to rest afterwards." She looked up at the sky, starlight gleaming on her face. "They are with the sky-father now, in peace and plenty."

  "Shi—I..." Thyatis stopped, coughing, then cleared her throat. She switched the camel on the top of its head, making the creature grumble and slow to a halt. The Roman woman slid down, landing heavily. Shirin caught Thyatis with a hand on her elbow, keeping her from falling on her face.

  "You should stay on the camel," Shirin said with asperity. "You might not have been cut, but you're certainly bruised within an inch of your life."

  "No," Thyatis said, standing away from the Khazar woman. She squared her shoulders, chin rising. "There's more. I... I was responsible for them, for the blast. We fought on the mountaintop..." Thyatis' voice trailed away, then she rallied. "I was too slow, Shirin, and all those people were killed. Your children were killed, because I looked away at the wrong moment."

  Shirin stared at the Roman, lips twisting into a surprised grimace, then settling into a tight, hard line. "What are you talking about?" Her eyes glitter
ed, even in the encompassing darkness. Thyatis took an involuntary step back, licking her lips.

  "The Duchess sent me—sent us—to murder Prince Maxian. He was hiding out in a villa on the slopes of Vesuvius. I nearly had him in the crater—my knife was at his throat!" Thyatis' voice slewed into a harsh growl. "But it wasn't enough. The mountain erupted. I think... I think he did something, disturbed something, and Vesuvius just... blew apart."

  Shirin stood silent and Thyatis waited. After awhile, she sat down, still waiting, but too tired to stand. The eastern sky brightened steadily, shading from deep blue to pink and then a pearl white. Finally, Shirin stirred, shaking the cowl of her djellabah back. She faced the sun, long hair a wavy cloud behind her head, and she breathed deep, holding her arms wide. The dawn wind was dropping, reduced to gusts and zephyrs scudding across the barren plain.

  "This prince... what was his name?"

  Thyatis looked up, startled at the grim determination in the woman's voice. "Maxian Atreus, the younger brother of Emperor Galen."

  Shirin nodded to herself, fine white teeth biting her lower lip. "A wizard? A sorcerer?"

  "Yes." Thyatis watched her friend with growing puzzlement. "Shi—I'm sorry."

  The Khazar woman stepped to the Roman and held out her hands, an expression of deep and abiding grief making her cheeks hollow and her eyes dark pits smudged with pain. Thyatis took them and stood, leaning heavily on the slighter woman. Shirin held her close, face pressed against leather and iron, raven-dark hair tickling Thyatis' nose. The Roman woman sighed, overcome by enormous relief, and then staggered, barely able to stand. Again, Shirin caught her and put Thyatis' hands against the camel for support.

  "Tell me one thing," Shirin said, voice suddenly cold. "Did you have any idea what would happen on the mountaintop?"

  Thyatis looked sideways, meeting the Khazar woman's eyes, shaking her head. "We all thought we would die at the prince's hands, or those of his servants. I didn't think he..." Her voice failed, her attention focused on something very far away. She resumed, voice faint. "No one knew how powerful he was or what he would do to live."