The Dark Lord

by Thomas Harlan

  The Sahaba surged up the beach, voices booming like the sea, crying Allau, Allau ak-bar! Horns and trumpets wailed, answering the skirling call of the Roman bucinas. The men of Mekkah were used to running in sand and they loped towards the enemy with glad hearts. Every step taken away from the unsteady sea raised their spirits.

  Zoë walked forward, surrounded by a ring of armed men and she stretched her power, feeling the heavy blue strength of the sea behind and shining red streams of power in the earth ahead. "This land is strong," she cried, though Odenathus was now beyond earshot.

  A huge shadow suddenly rushed overhead and Zoë yelped in alarm. Shocked, she looked up, catching a glimpse of vast wings, a snaky head and a sinuous tail lashing in the air. Stunned, she and the men around her saw the thing roar past, the sound of its passage deafening everyone and snap into a tight circle over a stand of trees a half-mile away. Flame vomited down, spewing from gaping, black jaws and the entire copse burst into flame, men fleeing in all directions, the trailing black banner of the Serpent Lord engulfed in a blast of greenish-white fire.

  The Queen heard a piercing howl echo in her mind and staggered, clutching her ears in pain. The cold, clammy touch of the lord Dahak faltered and she felt him struggle, wrapped in flame. In a single, crystalline moment, his control slackened, lifting iron chains from her will.

  Cousin! Zoë screamed at Odenathus, her thought leaping across their battle meld, mind and mind meshing violently into one. The young man's mind was awhirl and he groped to match her thought. We are free! Zoë's shouted giddily.

  Not yet, Zenobia forced herself into their meld, unexpectedly filling the apex of a triangle she'd not known existed between them. Odenathus recoiled, but then she felt glad wonder touch her like the glow of a warm fire on a cold night. Hello, nephew. Zenobia thought wryly. Zoë—the Roman prince?

  The girl's exultation faded, dashed by chilling reality. Yes, she thought in unison with Odenathus. It's him!

  Zenobia recoiled, faced with a secondhand image of a storm-dark titan astride a steed of iron, wreathed in rippling flame, circled by flickering blue-white signs and glyphs. A constellation of bright spirits whirled around him, shrieking with rage. Power cracked from his hand like the stroke of a forge hammer. Her body's hearing shuddered in response, the air thundering with a long, echoing crash. Lightning stabbed along the beach, darkening the air.

  Our men come first, Zenobia snapped, capturing the stunned attention of the two young wizards. We must protect them!

  —|—

  The Lord of the Ten Serpents writhed on the ground, flames roaring around him, scaly limbs glowing cherry-red with intense heat. The copse of trees roared, slender trunks wrapped in greenish fire and the sandy ground bubbled and popped, turning to a glassy slurry under the sorcerer's feet. Wailing, barely able to breath, Dahak lunged away from the sea, bounding up into the air. Power wicked around him, the tormented core of his mind struggling to ignore the searing pain stabbing from ruined flesh and summon a shield of defense.

  Gusts of wind slammed the sorcerer to the ground, sending him crashing into a stand of brambles. The iron monster in the sky banked sharply, wing rolling over and a searing trail of phlogiston smoked in the air. The viscous fluid streaked across the ground in a long arc. Dahak rolled away from the tongue of flame. Everything—trees, brambles, sand, old tufa—lit with brilliant greenish-white fire. Smoke roared up, climbing to the heavens in a thick, black cloud. The iron drake shrieked upwards, gaining altitude.

  Coughing up soot and burning ash, the sorcerer scrambled down the dune. The sandy crown burned fiercely, streams of molten glass spilling after him. The T'u-chüeh fled, leaving smoldering corpses scattered under the trees. Dahak wailed, a long, sobbing moan escaping his seared throat. He'd only felt such dreadful pain once before and he splashed desperately into a muddy pond, crying in relief as cool water hissed against his skin. Taloned fingers plunged into the mud, feeling strength throbbing in the rich soil.

  A rising, hurricane shriek snapped his head around, the sorcerer catching sight of the flying machine—now he could sense gears and wheels, cunning skeletal limbs sheathed in hammered copper and bronze, a blazing crystalline heart—sweeping towards him. Even the brief respite had been enough, letting his mind settle, confusion flee, and power rush into his body from the living earth.

  "Now we'll see, stripling!" Dahak turned, one black hand slashing across the pale blue sky. The sun had settled behind the mountains, but the heavens were still flush with day and the rising smoke was only a smear against a perfect field of azure. Lightning leapt up with his motion and the iron drake plowed into a massive, earth-shaking discharge. A thunderclap smote the ground, shaking leaves from the trees and making the surface of the muddy pond jump.

  The machine staggered in flight and Dahak felt his enemies' surprise. Iron plates glowed bright, groaning as iron expanded in the wake of the strike. The sorcerer rose from the pond, delighted to see his opponent veer away, a spiral of smoke hanging in the air. He scrambled out of the pool, eager to gain some high ground.

  Smoke hissed away from the turning drake as it rushed through the upper air and then petered out. A faint blue-white flash rippled across the massive head, deep-set eyes blazing orange and red. The machine banked around with a shriek, the wind of its passage bending the trees.

  Dahak cursed, summoning every power and ward he knew. A wave of darkness rushed away from him, killing grass, flowers, trees in a great circle. "Come then!" he screamed at the sky, "test my strength!" At a great distance, the door of stone quivered, feeling binding signs upon the ancient granite weaken and fray.

  —|—

  Stunned, the Sahaba raised their heads from the sand, every man's eyes wide in fear. The Queen was already standing, searching the sky with liquid brown eyes, her lips a harsh line. Three more of the great creatures plunged towards her from the west. Against the sun-bright sky, they were almost invisible, but the earthshaking roar of their passage rolled before them like the clash of a massive drum. Zoë grasped the air, her fingers tangling in the last rays of the sun. A hazy wall flickered above the dunes, fierce zephyrs rushing over the ocean hurrying to her aid. "Keep down," she managed to shout as the first of the enemy cracked past overhead.

  The drake's wingtip, tending low towards the ground as the leviathan body slewed into an S-curve towards the fleet, clipped the trembling, near-invisible wall. Zoë was slammed back into the sand, breath driven from her body and the shield of wind disintegrated in a whirlwind of sand and dust and debris. The iron machine cartwheeled unexpectedly, flame spilling away from a twisting snout, and slammed at great speed into the merchantman Der'a. The colossal impact broke the ship in half, iron wings tangling in the mast, planks and keel shattering with a roar. A huge spout of water fountained up, vaporizing to steam as the drake coughed up a bellyful of phlogiston. Fire rained down in blazing droplets, engulfing the broken foredeck of the Der'a, and spreading on the tossing sea in great, hissing sheets.

  "Dusarra's brass teat!" Zoë cursed, scrambling to her feet. Two more ships caught fire in the space of her exclamation, their sails bursting into yellow flame, rolling black clouds surging across the water. The iron monster struggled in the wreckage, tangled, massive claws shredding the hull as it fought free. Steam boiled up with an ear-splitting hiss, obscuring her view. The surf glowed red, catching the light of the inferno roaring around the three ships.

  The other two iron drakes had broken away, veering left and right from their unexpectedly fallen brother. Zoë's heart fell as the bat-winged monstrosities shrieked over the fleet, triangular heads dipping down, sending sheets of green flame drifting down over the massed ships. A rippling series of booms echoed across the water, dry cordage and canvas catching alight. Dozens of ships were aflame in moments.

  Odenathus, Zoë called, feeling her cousin rising woozily from the sand. Give me your strength!

  Her fist clenched in the air, whipping through a tight circle. Giddy power rushed from lan
d and sea and air, coalescing into a shimmering, blood-red cube clasped in her ghostly hand. Grim brown eyes followed the swooping flight of one of the machines as it pulled away from the stricken fleet, wings roaring in the air, clawing for altitude. Odenathus' power joined hers and the cube multiplied fourfold. Now the simple shapes split and re-formed, tearing and extruding new surfaces with dizzying speed.

  The iron drake executed a sharp plunging turn and shrieked back across the bay. Zoë canted her arm, then flung the power she'd gathered like a javelin, leading the massive, onrushing metallic shape. The girl staggered, drained by the enormous gradient she'd released, then armored hands caught her from both sides. A spray of brilliant crimson duododecahedrons snapped out in an expanding cone.

  The machine slammed into the cloud and the sky lit with a concussive, blinding crack!

  Smoke and fire bloomed in the air, a roiling black cloud. Metal screamed and the drake burst free, one wing torn away, the head smashed, white smoke billowing from rents in the scaled flesh. Zoë shouted in triumph, and the men around her cheered wildly. One massive wing still beat the air, and the machine tilted to one side. Zoë turned to find the other drake, catching sight of it sweeping inland, rising on titanic wings.

  Look out! Odenathus shouted over the meld. Zoë spun back—just in time to see the crippled drake slam into the shallow water a hundred yards away and crash through a burning barge, sections of iron hull flaking away from the skeleton. Zoë sprinted away, her guardsmen wailing in fear, and the enormous machine bounced—wreathed in flame—onto the beach behind them. A whoomp of flame jetted out and the creature blew apart. Zoë felt something lift her up, then she smashed into a sand dune with a sickening crack. Fire roared around her and she blinked smoke from her eyes. Dazed, she tried to roll over, but her arm failed and groaning metal drowned out her weak cry for help.

  Something blotted out the sky, toppling over, and she caught a glimpse of an intricately detailed iron wing rushing towards her before searing pain washed consciousness away.

  —|—

  Dahak leapt into the air, tearing free from the burden of gravity and a thick, scaled tail slapped the ground where he'd stood. Trees shattered, limbs torn away, filling the air with flying splinters. The sorcerer twisted, a crackling blue-black flare leaping from his outstretched hand. The blast seared the drake's head and shoulders, iron plates groaning with the impact and the creature whirled away. Wounded, the machine bounded for the open sky.

  Something rose out of the smoke, surrounded by whirling points of white light and Dahak drew back, drifting in the sooty air, eyes narrowed in surprise. His enemy came forth in the flesh at last and the young Roman's aspect was vastly different than he'd seen before.

  You have grown strong, the Lord of the Ten Serpents hissed.

  Maxian rushed forward, suspended in a shifting sphere of sullen glyphs and whirling, frenetic bright sparks of living flame. His lean face was dark with strain, but the sorcerer could feel power moving to the boy from every direction. The hidden world twisted, contorting around the strength collecting in the Roman. Even Dahak felt the tug, a steadily steepening slope wicking his own mana away.

  No! Dahak howled, and mustered his own vigor, sapping the land, sending thousands of his gaatasuun collapsing to the ground, yanking tendrils of guiding thought away from his servants, opening his heart to the power dwelling in the empty spaces behind the moon and the sun. Incandescent with rage, he met the prince's charge with his own blow—a flickering, swift sign bursting new-formed and whole from the air—darkening the afternoon sky.

  Jagged patterns clashed, lightning licking along impossible surfaces and a coruscating blast of fire, wind and deafening sound rolled away from the two wizards. The sea heaved, more Persian ships capsized or the flames raging on their decks were snuffed by the overpressure of the blast. Thousands of men threw themselves to the ground in fear, some blinded. The soft bottomland convulsed and heaved, entire orchards and meadows flattened or swallowed by the uneasy earth.

  Dahak slashed in, howling unholy words, splintering the prince's wards like eggshells, dispersing glyphs, striking at the power flooding from earth and sky. They grappled, a whirlwind of searing blasts rippling along the edge of their conflict. The prince strove to drive Dahak towards the sea, but the sorcerer did not yield. His reptilian eyes blazed red, curdling beams lashing across Maxian's pattern. Defenses flaked, splintering under the blow and the prince staggered.

  The Lord of the Ten Serpents grinned, bearing down, his will closing like a vise.

  Maxian slammed back, ultraviolet lightning crashing against Dahak's shields, bleeding through layers of swirling defense. The sorcerer felt his ties to the earth weaken, then a raging inferno enveloped him, hammering with heat and light at his concentration. Gasping, desperate to recover himself, Dahak leapt away, soaring across the empty sky, high above the line of the beach, towards the harbor of Catania itself. He's too strong here, the sorcerer thought wildly, dimly perceiving some enormous pattern building behind the prince's ever-mounting attack. I've been lured into a trap!

  The prince gave chase, roaring in pursuit, a roiling cloud stabbing with lightning hot on his heels.

  Run, old snake! The prince's grim thought arrowed after the sorcerer. You can't find a hole deep enough to keep me from your throat!

  —|—

  A howling mob stormed against the Roman lines, withered corpses screeching, skeletal hands clawing against shields and grasping at the stabbing spears. Alexandros trotted great Bucephalas behind the third rank, screaming encouragement, ordering men up from the reserves when he saw the line weaken. The dead swarmed up the slope in waves, throwing themselves heedlessly against the Gothic shield wall. Red-bearded men hacked with axes, hewing away brittle arms, throats, hands. The pikemen stabbed overhand, crushing the chests of corpses, yet still the dead surged against the line, trying to break through with main force.

  The Gothic line sudden split open, a wedge of waxy faced legionaries crashing through, swords slashing wildly around them.

  "Hold! Hold!" Alexandros waded into the fray, slashing down with his cavalry spatha, splitting open the skull of a desiccated Roman. The creature's hands scrabbled against the blade, trying to wrench the sword from his hands, but the Macedonian kicked out, shoving the corpse away. The dead man was immediately trampled underfoot by a wave of his fellows, oily yellow guts squishing under hobnailed boots. A noisome stench rolled before the gaatasuun, choking the air and making living men faint with nausea. "Reserves! Reserves here!"

  Bucephalas reared, striking out with flying hooves. Steel sparked on rusted armor, smashing two half-rotted ghouls back. The dead went down, tangling the legs and arms of those behind. Alexandros swung with the horse, slashing the head from another undead Roman. The legionnaire continued to fight, methodically hacking away in front of him, even though no one was there. Grimacing, the Macedonian leaned down and slashed the backs of the thing's mottled gray legs. The corpse toppled, arms still swinging.

  Another rush of the dead boiled up the slope and Bucephalas screamed. Spears jabbed at the horse's face and he reared. Alexandros, unprepared, toppled out of the saddle, hitting the ground with a clang of armor and metal. The stallion whirled, kicking with his back feet, shattering the dried, fragile skulls of two more assailants. The dead pressed forward, black ooze spilling down their archaic armor.

  Whinnying, Bucephalas bolted back out of the line of battle. With only a moment to spare, Alexandros managed to get to his feet and was immediately beset by two headless spearmen. Their leaf-bladed spears jabbed at him in eerie synchrony and the Macedonian slapped one weapon away, then grunted, the other scoring across his breastplate at an angle.

  "Reserves!" he screamed, hacking down with his spatha and cleaving the exposed arm in twain. "Hold the line!"

  The other spearman lunged and Alexandros twisted, catching the point on his shield. Iron squealed on the laminated wood, then the Macedonian stepped in and smashed his blade dow
n on the thing's exposed collarbone. Ribs splintered, black-and-gray dust spewed from a dozen ancient wounds and the thing collapsed. Alexandros stepped back, drenched with sweat, gasping for breath. His sword arm did not feel exhaustion, but his mind struggled to break free from the melee surging around him.

  "Hold the line!" he screamed, falling back a step. Two legionaries with oval shields filled his space, and Alexandros felt a peculiar chill as one passed through him like mist. "Hold..."

  We'll hold, growled a sharp voice in his mind. The ghostly centurion stepped past and a maniple of his men flooded into the gap. As insubstantial as their spears were, they crushed back the crawling dead, bright blades licking down to pierce spines or hew legs from under the walking corpses.

  Alexandros staggered back from the line, then flinched away from the sky.

  A colossal blast thundered overhead and two burning figures streaked past in the upper air. The Macedonian's head snapped around, trying to follow their flight to the north and he suddenly realized the sky was choked with cloud, vast plumes of steam rising from the bay, the forested lands behind the beach engulfed in a spitting, crackling forest fire. The sun had set, but the land was lit by wavering flame on land and sea. High up, beyond sight, he could hear the roar of some monstrous creature quartering the sky.

  Stand fast, bellowed the centurion and Alexandros was at his side, staring down the slope. A wedge of men—living men—in gleaming armor jogged towards them under waving sunburst banners. The furious attack of the dead had drained away, those few remaining animate wandering aimless or crawling on the ground like enormous snakes. The Macedonian stared in surprise, recognizing the enemy banner, then drew himself up.

  "Romans! To me, to me!" His spatha swung down, pointing at the advancing men. "Great Persia comes! Let us show him what Roman valor means!"