The storm of Heaven ooe-3

by Thomas Harlan

  "This is your solution, to hit something until you feel better?" Odenathus laughed as he approached the supine form of the general. The body twitched, arms and legs limp, but now moved by the power that thickened the air and distorted the light. The Palmyrene clenched his fist and Jalal was blown through the back of the tent. The heavy cloth parted with a ripping sound and suddenly the entire back wall was gone, shredded away. The general sailed out into the darkness, flying over the heads of surprised soldiers and camp followers. A great wind rushed out, flattening their fires and blowing down tents.

  "I will not kill my friend!"

  Odenathus' voice raged like the storm winds out of the desert, cracking with anger and despair.

  Jalal hit a supply wagon filled with huge pottery amphorae with a resounding crash. Wine and oil jetted out of the broken containers, leaving the general's legs sticking up out of the mess of crockery and broken wicker.

  My friends. Odenathus spun around, his eyes wide with surprise. It was the familiar voice of Mohammed, but it echoed in his thoughts like his own. We go, today, to war against a great nation. It is an empire that many of us have served in our lives. There are those among you who have friends, even relations, in the ranks of those we will fight.

  Odenathus stopped, shock-still, blood and tears leaking down his battered face. These were words Lord Mohammed had addressed to the entire army when they had set forth from Petra to invade the northern Decapolis. The great camp at Lejjun had been their objective.

  The day will come, as the Merciful and Compassionate One knows, when you will face someone dear to you in battle. They will be your enemy. They will strive against you, against the will of the power that moves the tide and the stars. When this occurs, you must put your faith and your heart in the hands of he who made men from clots of blood. All things begin with him and all things end with him. We strive against wickedness, and any man who falls in the service of the all-knowing and the all-seeing, he will find that paradise is his reward.

  Odenathus shuddered. The boy, Dwyrin, his friend, was an enemy. Rome, the empire that he had once sworn to serve, was an enemy. There could be no quarter between them. He had given himself over to the service of the Lord of the Wasteland. Now the first hard choice had come.

  The strange wind died down. Uri fell to the ground, as did a great deal of tent, crockery, tables and chairs. Odenathus knelt on the ground, his face contorted. He was trembling, trying not to cry out. He felt cold and empty, but something had become very clear to him.

  I must kill Dwyrin or more of us will die.

  Odenathus stuffed a cloth against his nose. It was still bleeding. He stood. Uri was watching him from the other side of the tent with wide eyes.

  "Apologies, Lord Uri. I did not mean to harm anyone. That lummox is right, though."

  The Ben-Sarid sheathed his dagger and stood up. His lean face was troubled. It had been a very hard day for the clan lord too, for his men had suffered grievously in the failed attack.

  "What do you mean?" Uri sounded tired and exhausted.

  "My mind has been clouded," Odenathus said and he realized that this was the literal truth. "I know this enemy wizard's capabilities as well as I know my own. I have no excuse for the losses your tribe has sustained. I owe your people a debt of blood. It will be repaid."

  There was a clattering sound out in the darkness and a stentorian shouting. Odenathus grinned, his teeth white in the red wash that covered his face and beard. Jalal seemed to have recovered. "Once that blowing ox returns to the stable, I will tell you what we are going to do."

  – |The streets of the city were narrow and overhung by ancient buildings, making them absolutely pitch black after dark. Dwyrin was only partially conscious of the gloom. His head hurt so much he wouldn't have noticed a slap. Guided by one of the local boys, he stumbled down a broad, flat flight of steps. Then they turned and passed through a maze of corridors and streets. The boy seemed to know where they were going, and Dwyrin followed along doggedly.

  White sparks drifted in front of his eyes, clouding his vision. Curlicues of violet flame seemed to shimmer along his hands and arms if he looked down. Another sorcerer or thaumaturge might have been gibbering in fear now, watching in horror as the walls and bricks that surrounded him faded in and out of sight. Sometimes lighted rooms yawned before him, blurred by the indistinct vapor of walls and doors. He had overextended himself today, letting fire flow through him like a rain channel. It had eroded the symbolic mental barriers that kept his conscious mind from comprehending the true world.

  Those same symbologies defined who he was in human terms. They gave him a name, a physical description, context for his thoughts and actions and they made him a unique entity. For most men, when those symbols ceased to define them, they went mad. Who could remain sane if he looked upon the face of chaos unveiled?

  Once, Dwyrin had been stressed almost to the point of dissolution by the failure of these symbologies. He had survived. In the testing fire, he had become aware that there was a core pattern within the whirling dance of fire that described his physical body. There was a self, buried at the heart of his mobile shape. It was atomic, indivisible, but it was easily overlooked or forgotten. Something gave his pattern and form will and intent. This was what the teachers at the school named the ka, the indivisible spirit of man. Dwyrin had lived, clinging to that last, final uniqueness. From it, all things sprang. Many masters of the art never reached that point, blinded by their own pride and ego.

  After an endless time filled with slowly writhing snake patterns that curled and squirmed under his feet, the boy led him into the citadel gatehouse. The room was warm and filled with firelight. Dwyrin stumbled into the edge of a table, cracking his thigh. Distantly, some part of his physical mind registered pain.

  "Come on, lad, let me get an arm under…" Smell intruded, presenting an intelligible form where sight had failed. It was a warm, musky odor, thick with memories of the forest and newly turned earth and rotting logs.

  "Vladimir?"

  "Yes, lad," the Walach said, carrying him up the stairs. Dwyrin let his head fall against the man's chest. It was warm too, and soft with thick dark hair. Sound penetrated: the regular beating of a heart, the crack of a boot against a wooden door. Then there was softness: a blanket being turned over his weary body. Dwyrin tried to bring his vision under control.

  "Is he all right?" That must be Nicholas. He sounded tired too, and concerned.

  "His heart is strong," Vladimir answered, "but look at his eyes. Is he mad?"

  "Lad?" Nicholas again. Dwyrin was aware of pressure and something closed. Ah, his eyelids. A hand was over them. Dwyrin could see the pattern of veins in it, pulsing with blood, and the twitch of muscles as it moved.

  "I… hear… you." It was hard to make this body work. It moved so slowly. It was so cumbersome. "I… must sleep."

  "Wine, perhaps?" Vladimir again and the sound of pottery rattling on the table.

  "I've something better." Nicholas, voice receding. "Here." It was close again.

  Something hot and bitter flooded his senses. Taste was still working properly. Something strong with alcohol. After a moment, Dwyrin felt a warm glow in his physical body, and the insane flight of the tiny brilliant lights that formed the air and the walls and the insides of his own eyelids suddenly dimmed. Welcome darkness flooded up, blotting out the true world.

  The boy, lying on a Legion-issue cot in a nearly bare stone room in the citadel of the city, snored softly. His face, which had been a tense rictus, relaxed and the pale light seeping from his skin faded. Nicholas, his face slowly falling into shadow as the strange radiance died, breathed a sigh of relief.

  "It's too hard on him," Vladimir said. "It wears on him. Look at him, Nick, he's like a ghost!"

  "I know." Nicholas laid the back of his hand on the boy's forehead. It was very hot, the skin radiating heat like an iron stove. "But what can I do? Without him, those bandits would be over the wall in a day and we would all be
dead."

  Vladimir shook his head. He had no answer either.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Siscia, Magna Gothica

  Alexandros rode beside a swift river, sun shining in his golden hair. Along the bank, glossy-leaved willows drooped over the current. Great flocks of birds roosted in the trees, chattering like a storm cloud as he passed. The air was crisp and the Macedonian felt relieved to escape the dreary tomb of Rome.

  The old Roman road turned through a break in the hedgerows and cut across a great field. Red flowers produced a riot of color against the dark hedge. Alexandros shouted, face lighting with joy when he saw horses browsing in the stubbly field. The herd, hundreds strong, drifted slowly across the side of a hill.

  "They're beautiful," he called back to Ermanerich. "Do your people value horses?"

  "Above all else," the Goth shouted back, light blue eyes twinkling. Ermanerich cantered up the hill. The Macedonian craned his neck, looking out over the valley. The horses had shied away, thundering down the far slope before turning and resuming their grazing. "What man can call himself a man without a horse?"

  Alexandros nodded, feeling a subtle shock of recognition. Horses consumed fodder, effort and gold, but mounted men were the foundation of victory. Only Rome ignored this truth, relying on massed formations of heavily armored infantry.

  But their lands are not well suited for horse herds, he reminded himself. And they have been victorious for a long time.

  The Gothic prince pointed south, down the valley. A haze of gray wood smoke lay over the trees. "Our capital lies just there, friend Alexandros. You will see that it is a fine, modern city!"

  Alexandros smiled to himself, hearing pride and insecurity mix like wine and water in his companion's voice. He had watched and listened, while they rode up out of Italia, crossed the snow-capped Alps and descended into the Pannonian basin. The Goths were a proud race, weaned on battle, and for a long time they had tested their strength against Rome, devastating the frontier. The greatest Roman defeat in modern history, at Adrianopolis, had been inflicted by Gothic arms.

  A dark storm rushing out of the east had broken the death-struggle between the two nations. Ermanerich had labored through a long epic song to describe the war against the "ugly men." Tears had streaked his cheeks as he chanted the names of all the captains and heroes who had fallen at Olbia, where Attila had shattered the might of the Goths.

  Trapped between the relentless Huns in the east and Rome in the west, the Goths had been forced to enter the Empire as penitents. At that time a Romanized Scythian named Flavius Aetius had been Emperor of the West. Despite a dubious ancestry, Aetius had, by constant and vigorous effort, restored the West and gladly accepted the Goths as a feoderata, or "settled tribe." The description of the Gothic chiefs swearing fealty to the Western Emperor had raised the hackles on Alexandros' neck.

  It was far too similar to the Legion oath Maxian had found in Khamun's old book. Even the memory stirred unease in the Macedonian, knowing that each recitation of the story would bind the Gothic tribes ever closer in the service of the Empire. It had been enough, then, to stop the Huns, with Aetius throwing back Attila's invasion of Gaul in a cataclysmic battle at Argentorate on the Rhenus. Extolling that victory, where the Goths had reclaimed their lost honor, occupied an entire evening. Again, Alexandros listened closely, picking out details of interest. The core of the Hunnish army, which crushed so many nations, was a host of heavily armored knights wielding a long, heavy spear called the kontos. Supported by masses of exemplary mounted archers, they had obliterated two Eastern Roman armies, as well as the Goths and Sarmatians, before breaking apart against Aetius' Legions.

  Since those heroic days, the Goths had held the Danuvius frontier from Carnuntum in the north to Sirmium in the south. From the evidence of his own eyes, Alexandros knew that it was a rich land, well watered and blessed with plentiful fields and easy-rolling hills. Under the tutelage of Roman engineers the Goths had reoccupied the fortresses along the river and repaired roads and bridges fallen into disuse during the Great Invasions. Even Siscia was relatively new, only sixty years old. The Goths were a strong, powerful people.

  But they still knew, in their hearts, that Rome was the master. Alexandros could see it in Ermanerich's companions, a brash young lot, and in the boy himself. They knew they were strong, easily the equal of any Roman, yet this corrosive sense of inferiority bridled them. They were stepchildren of the Empire, and their hearts were filling with bile.

  "This seems a rich land, Ermanerich. Is every man blessed with a fine horse?"

  The Goths laughed and swirled around him, their faces bright. "That is so," they shouted, and two of the younger boys galloped down the hill towards the road. Ermanerich clucked at his horse and turned, following at a slower pace.

  "Only the poorest men cannot ride. This land was empty when we came and we have yet to fill it up. Though some try, I warrant!"

  Alexandros responded with a grin. The Goths viewed large families as a right. In comparison to the Romans, they bred like rabbits. For the moment this meant more land fell under the plow every year and the towns along the river grew by leaps and bounds. It also meant there was still open land for horses. To Alexandros, Gothica promised everything he desired.

  So many younger sons, filled with this desire for glory and honor won in battle… O Fates, I see your hand guiding me! I will sacrifice a white bull at your shrine, Ares, when I look upon dear Macedon again!

  "Your people ride into battle, then." Alexandros let his horse turn onto the road. Poplars and beeches crowned the lane, making a dappled green tunnel. The smell of wood smoke filled the air, reminding the Macedonian they had not yet eaten a midday meal.

  "No," Ermanerich scowled. "We fight on foot, behind our great shields, in line as the Romans direct. Some serve a-horse, scouting and covering the flanks of the army."

  "You fight Roman-fashion?" Alexandros did not bother to disguise his surprise.

  "Yes, the reik bids us do so and his advisers agree. It has always been this way."

  "Why? Surely, if you and your cousins are any guide, you are fine horsemen!"

  "Of course!" Ermanerich's sour mood lightened. "But that is not the Roman way. We follow the Emperor; his wisdom guides us and bids us fight in massed formations on foot, behind our round shields, axes and spears."

  Alexandros frowned, but they were nearing the city, so he let the matter drop.

  – |Siscia sat on the banks of the Savus, surrounded by a high wall of dressed stone studded with square towers. As they approached, Alexandros could see a gatehouse and towers flanking two gates, one set behind the other. A broad ditch ran at the base of the wall and a good hundred yards of space had been cleared out between the city and the forest. Oxen and kine grazed on the short grass filling the open meadow. To the left, a bastion rose on the bank of the river, easily double the width of one of the other towers. The Savus was thick with barges, skiffs and shallow-draft coasters.

  They entered the gate, joining a steady stream of men and women in plain gray, brown or black homespun. Burly men with conical helmets and shirts of leaf-shaped mail under madder-dyed red cloaks eyed them as they passed into the shadow of the gate. Horsetail plumes hung down from their helmets and their faces were hard. Alexandros judged them to be veterans, not just city militia sent to police the gate. They were armed with long, plain-hiked swords in tooled-leather scabbards.

  Within the walls, broad, regular streets, surfaced with fitted stone, marked the city. As in a Roman city, there were no wagons in evidence during the day, but there was a thick press of men on horses and every kind of citizen on foot. Two- and three-story wooden buildings lined the streets, most overhanging the avenues.

  Despite the press in the streets the city did not seem festive. Many of the passersby flowing around Alexandros seemed tight-faced and quiet. Everyone moved with purpose. Occasional dashes of color revealed merchants or traders from the south.

  Not a Greek city!


  "Here is the house of my father," Ermanerich said, raising his voice over the mutter of the crowd. "You are our guest, so while you are with us, he will feed you and see that you have wine and beer in plenty to drown your thirst. Ho, Olotharix!"

  Alexandros looked up as they rode through an arched doorway into a stableyard. The house was three stories high, with a sharply angled tile roof and red-painted wooden columns making a portico on one side of the yard. What seemed to be a stone barn sat to his right, where servants in plain white tunics came out to greet Ermanerich and his cousins. Alexandros slid down from the horse and patted its nose affectionately. It was no warhorse, but it had a pleasant disposition and hadn't complained all the way from Rome.

  Two boys descended steps from the house, carrying flagons of wine and rounds of cheese. Ermanerich, having seen his own horse into the stable, joined Alexandros and motioned for his guest to join the boys on the portico.

  "This is our custom, which came with us from the Salt Sea," he said, raising one of the flagons. With gusto, he drank deep, letting the wine spill red on the ground. This done, he tore a hunk of thick white cheese from the round and chewed it down.

  Alexandros took the greeting cup himself and drained it dry. The wine was sweet and thick, hardly watered at all. It burned in his throat like an old friend and he ate the cheese with relish. It was heady with flavor, and sprinkled with tart seeds. It was light work to pretend hunger in front of these men.

  "Greetings, Alexandros, son of Phillip, friend of the house of Theodoric!"

  "Greetings, Ermanerich," the Macedonian replied, gripping the youth's arm with his own. "son of Theodoric, third of that name, reik of the Goths. Well met, I say, and I accept your welcome with a warm heart."

  "Come inside," Ermanerich said, clapping his friend on the shoulder. "Later there will be a great feast and endless drinking, so my father wanted to meet you now, while he can still see your face."