The storm of Heaven ooe-3

by Thomas Harlan

  In that instant, as the blade grated across the solid metal, Alexandros' spatha nicked the saddle strap on the opposite side of the stallion, shearing through the thick leather band. Crying out in rage, the Draculis lord whipped his blade back, barely stopping Alexandros' stroke inches from his face. The stallion lunged forward at the same moment, and strong yellow teeth chomped down on the bay's haunch.

  Alexandros let the bay bolt for twenty feet, then reined in fiercely. The bay was shivering from head to toe, back leg held up. The Macedonian vaulted out of the saddle, spatha reversed and pointing up behind his head.

  "Krythos! Take this horse away and see to its wounds."

  The scouts were arrayed in a loose line thirty feet behind Alexandros, bows drawn and arrows ready. At least half the Companion cavalry had joined them. Matching them, behind the Draculis lord, who had fallen heavily from his horse, were the remains of the Gepid nobles.

  The truce of single combat maintained. Alexandros caught a glimpse of the two lines fighting on the other side of the meadow; they had broken apart. Bodies were being dragged from the wreck of the phalanx by the Goths, and the Gepids had fallen back to form into a ragged mob behind their chieftains. Many of the men were watching the single combat as well, though their sergeants were keeping an eye on the immediate enemy.

  Alexandros walked forward, boots sinking a little into the springy loam. Bluebells and a scattering of tiny white flowers peeked up out of the green grass. The sun was high in the sky, burning away the morning's chill. The spatha felt good in his hand. He drew out a long dagger from a scabbard at his left side. The Draculis stallion was unhurt, and had run off when the lamia had fallen. Alexandros' heart leapt to see the horse safe. The Draculis scrambled to his feet as the Macedonian approached. The man's helmet had been knocked askew, but he righted it with a swift motion.

  "You are a cunning dog," the Draculis rasped. "Do you think that we are evenly matched now?"

  Alexandros grinned, raising his sword and the dagger in guard. "I think I still have the advantage of you," he said merrily. "Let us see how well you fight without that beautiful horse!"

  The Draculis moved warily, both hands on the long, wire-wrapped hilt of his sword. Like many of the northern barbarians, he favored a long blade, giving him at least six inches of reach over Alexandros. The Macedonian crabbed sideways, leading with the dagger in his left hand. The ground was a little uneven, littered with tufted clumps of grass.

  "Ha!" The Draculis attacked with a wickedly fast diagonal cut against Alexandros' head. The Macedonian blocked with the shield on his upper arm and gasped at the power behind the blow. The oval shield, a laminate of pine on pine, faced with stiffened leather, cracked lengthwise. Alexandros reeled back, engaging the man's longsword with the tip of his own.

  The Draculis beat Alexandros' blade aside with two powerful lunges and then slashed upwards with the tip of his longsword. The Macedonian flung his head backwards, barely escaping losing his lower jaw. Without pausing, Alexandros spun and the edge of his dagger clanged against the side of the Draculis' blade. He pressed hard, trying to turn the man and drive the longsword into the ground.

  Heedless, the Draculis wrenched back, his entire body behind the motion. Alexandros' left arm flew back, unable to withstand the man's raw strength. The tip of the longsword blurred past an inch from his nose. Alexandros scrambled back, fending off two more slashes at his head.

  Cursing, the Macedonian flipped the dagger into the grass behind him and took his spatha in both hands. The ruined remains of the shield on his left arm were a distraction. He had never faced an opponent so quick and strong. The barbarian even had some idea of what to do with a sword.

  "You're the first of these children to last against me, daywalker." The Draculis breathed easily, moving gracefully on the uneven ground. Alexandros felt a chill wash over him. There was something inhuman about the man, some cast to his face, something in the way he moved. "You will die with honor."

  Snarling, the Draculis bulled in, his longsword snapping through the air. Alexandros blocked the first blow, putting his strength into it, and was not knocked back.

  You are the master of this body, his mind shouted. It does not feel pain or exhaustion!

  For an instant, locked hilt to hilt, he matched his gaze against the Draculis and saw the man's eyes were yellow and bisected by vertical black pupils. At the same moment, there was a shock of some power against his mind, something that clawed at his thought, trying to make him gibber with fear and run. The Macedonian laughed, for such phantoms had no power over him.

  "You," he grunted, putting his shoulder into a push, "are a pitiful creature."

  The Draculis sprang back as Alexandros broke their lock and slashed at his legs. The Macedonian circled, letting his awareness of the other man grow. He dragged his left foot a little. Then, as the Draculis lunged at the opening, he sprang into the man's motion. The spatha whipped sideways in a flat arc. The Draculis lord reacted just as fast, blocking with the haft of his longsword. Alexandros let his blade "stick" to the other sword, driving it into the turf. Again, they struggled, strength against strength.

  The Draculis rammed his head at Alexandros, catching him on the side of the skull with his beast-faced helmet. It was a heavy blow and Alexandros was thrown back. By sheer will, he managed to keep his sword, but blood clouded one eye. The cut bled profusely. Alexandros tried to roll away from a half-sensed blow. The Draculis' sword arrowed down, grinding against the mail backing the Macedonian's lorica. Metal, stressed beyond its ability to withstand, popped with a tinny sound. Alexandros felt cold steel slide into his flesh, piercing his stomach.

  He blinked furiously, clearing his sight. The Draculis, narrow face split by a tremendous grin of triumph, loomed over him. The man was trying to twist the longsword in the wound, but the flat iron plates held the blade straight.

  "Well fought, child!"

  Alexandros grimaced, willing his body to respond, and his right arm whipped the spatha across the front of his body, cleaving the Draculis' head from his neck with a meaty thwack. The skull, eyes wide in surprise, spun off across the green grass, bouncing to a halt amid a spray of daffodils. Alexandros raised his other arm just in time to catch the corpse as it fell heavily onto him. Blood flooded from the severed neck, drenching him in a thick bluish fluid. Spitting, Alexandros pushed it off. It was heavy, with all that armor and inert weight.

  There was a great commotion all around him, howls of despair and hooves hammering on the ground. The Companions flooded past Alexandros as he staggered to his feet, charging into the mass of Gepid knights. Arrows whistled past overhead as the scouts loosed themselves onto the mass of spearmen beyond. Across the meadow, the Peltasts were shooting, their bowstrings humming like a lyre as they sent volley after volley into the barbarian ranks.

  Krythos ran up to Alexandros, his face white with fear. Alexandros stumbled as he tried to walk forward, then looked down. The Draculis longsword was jutting out of his stomach, dark blood spilling off of it in a thin stream.

  "Curse it," Alexandros gasped. "Give me your shoulder, lad."

  Krythos seized his right arm, holding him up. Alexandros grimaced, took hold of the sword hilt and wrenched it from his body. The blade scraped and sparked on the edge of the armored plates on his midriff, but then slid free from his body with a greasy sensation and a pop. The scout swayed, almost fainting, but Alexandros caught him and held him upright.

  "Don't worry, I've taken worse. It only caught my side." Alexandros laughed, staring down at the decapitated body of his enemy. "Did someone take that magnificent stallion in rein?"

  Krythos nodded weakly, falling to his knees. His face was a bilious color.

  "Good. I want that horse for my own."

  Alexandros felt better, now that the wound had time to close. Though he couldn't see the gash beneath the heavy armor and felted shirt, he knew from careful experimentation that it was closing, leaving only a crust of dried blood around the scar.
He flexed, turning, and the muscles in his side seemed to have already knitted back together. While the Prince willed that he live, the Macedonian did not fear death.

  The sun seemed particularly warm, the air crisp with the smell of pines and flowers. "Ah, Krythos, a fine day to be alive! Look, the barbarians are running!"

  The scout vomited noisily, his hands sinking into the bloody mud.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  An Inn, The Naumacha District, Roma Mater

  Vitellix was singing, his voice booming through the low-ceilinged room. It was a clear, beautiful voice, particularly with its edges smoothed by a great quantity of good beer. The clamor of the crowd in the caupona did not dissuade him. Both citizens and travelers were packed into the underground room, drinking and singing themselves. The smoky air was filled with many cheerful voices.

  The Gaul's voice faded away, and he raised a cup high. "Let the Many-Handed hear our prayer and look upon our sacrifice with joy," he said, draining the cup.

  Dummonus, Otho and Franco raised their own flagons and drank. Diana, squeezed in between Ila and the aerialist, sipped at hers. The wheaten beer was heavy and dark. She liked it very much, finding it soothed the throat and added to a pleasant sense of well-being.

  Vitellix ended their day early, calling a halt to their unceasing practice. Diana hadn't paid attention to the gossip, but she gathered that the urban prefects had allowed artists and performers to use the theaters of Pompey and Marcellus to prepare for the upcoming munera. No date had been set for the funeral games, races and performances to begin, but an electric tension was palpable in the air. The diverse troupes that had been loitering in the countryside, observing the word of the Emperor's edict that "lest they debauch women and stir up tumults, disturbing the unquiet dead, they are banished from the city of Rome until such time as given leave to return," had entered the city in a flood.

  Diana snorted in her beer, thinking of the previous "secret" traffic of the lanistae and their performers into and out of the city. No one had paid the Emperor great heed. She was pleased to work on a proper wire at last. The Pompeian Theater was equipped with a suspended harness and ring system that lowered from a crane atop the backdrop. With it, she could soar out high over the empty white seats, flipping and rolling at the end of the wire. Dummonus had begun teaching her how to use her muscles and strength to perform amazing feats. The weakness in her limbs was being driven out by hard work. Her leg and arm had healed up straight, too.

  She leaned back into the wall, closing her eyes, one arm tucked around little Ila, pleasantly aware of the warmth of Dummonus' thigh next to her own.

  "Let's play a game," Otho was saying to his brother. Vitellix groaned in despair. "It goes like this," the acrobat continued, ignoring his father. "One man asks questions, while the others must answer without saying the words yes, no, black, or white. Simple, yes?"

  Franco laughed, saying, "I think not. Are you going to begin?"

  "This cup, what color is it?" Otho was holding up a Crotonese-style ceramic wine cup, white with a blue band around the lip.

  "I'd say it had a light color." Franco grinned.

  "Ha! You've lost! You said it was white!"

  "Never. It is light."

  "I'm sure you're saying white."

  "You'll have a light eye if you keep this up."

  "Will I? You'll have a black eye to match mine. Hey, is that Numismatix?"

  Franco looked over his shoulder. A gang of burly gladiators were pouring down the steps into the inn, bodies gleaming with fresh oil. Most of them were wearing only cotton loincloths and banded leather belts. The noise level in the inn rose appreciably. The men waved to the proprietor for wine and began pushing people out of their seats near the middle of the room. The innkeeper bobbed nervously at them, then began hastily filling wine cups from wide-mouthed amphorae built into his counter.

  "No, that's not… Curse you! You're a fine brother!"

  Otho laughed like a donkey braying and Diana closed her eyes and put her fingers in her ears to try and block out the sound. Ila turned into her shoulder, covering her head with her hands. Franco, infected by his brother's good humor, started to laugh as well. Luckily, the room was so loud that you couldn't hear him. Vitellix grinned, trying to catch Diana's eye.

  She had gone quite still. With her eyes closed, she felt something, some sensation in the room. There was a cold feeling on her neck and arms. With all of the raucous merriment and the distractions afforded by sight, it was almost disguised.

  Someone is watching us. The thought was unbidden, but once it had broached the water of memory, it was unmistakable. Diana swung Ila into her lap and then switched places with her.

  "Hide under the table, little mouse," she whispered in the girl's ear. Ila looked up quickly, her face screwed into a mask of concern. Dummonus was also looking at Diana, his placid face questioning.

  One of the gladiators pushed over a man sitting in a chair. The man jumped up, shouting. He was a drover, thick bodied with rugged features and arms stout as axles. The gladiators sneered at him and his friends, turning their backs on the rage percolating through the wagonmen. Diana stepped away from the table against the wall, motioning to Vitellix. The troupe master half rose, his face concerned, while Diana's eyes flicked across the crowd in the room. There were too many people in too small a space now. She felt hemmed in, trapped. It would be difficult even to reach the stairs going up to the street.

  "Oh," came a voice, sharply clear in the angry murmur of the room. "Are you girls bleeding today?"

  The gladiators gave out a great angry cry and spun on the wagoners. Diana watched, detached from the violent movement in the room, as the lead gladiator snatched up a wicker chair and swung it, hard, at the nearest drover. The burly man was already swinging his fist, which punched through the bottom of the chair and slammed into the gladiator's chin. The oiled man's head snapped backwards at the blow, sweat flying away from his nose, and he fell heavily to the grimy floor.

  Diana was in motion a grain ahead of everyone else. A heavy pottery mug whipped through the air and her hand rose, fingertips flipping it away to shatter against the wall. Men surged against her, some rushing the doorway to escape the riot, others striking out at anything around them. Three men scrambled up from their table. A body flew into them and they all hit the ground hard in a tangle of arms and legs. Diana turned sideways and let them fall past.

  A hot eager fire wicked up in her breast as she ducked a flying wooden platter. With each motion, as she spun and danced, evading blows, limbs, bodies, thrown chairs and splintering amphorae, the fire mounted, hissing in her veins and making her head throb. This was not the usual gray pain. This felt good!

  She glanced sideways and felt a stab of relief. Vitellix and the others had turned their table over and crouched behind it while wine bottles smashed on the wall and men punched and kicked, gouging at one another's eyes on the ground. The old Gaul caught her eye and pointed desperately at the door. With Dummonus holding up the rear legs of the table, they were edging along the wall, using it as a shield. Perhaps they could make the stairs that way. Diana leapt across the space between them.

  Something swift slammed into her shoulder, cracking against the bone. She spun. Two men rushed forward out of the mob. One of them spun a heavy hand-sized bag from the end of a leather thong. Diana knew instantly what it was, and what they were.

  Slavers! Man catchers, with a sap and a net.

  That was enough. The black-bearded man flung a net with a practiced hand. It whispered out, the edges dragged wide by lead weights. The smaller, pox-faced man ducked left, avoiding the flight of the net. He whirled his sap high, waiting for her to be tangled. Diana was moving too, hitting the floor with her hands flat, taking the weight of her body on her biceps. The net whispered overhead. Diana spun hard, her legs arrowing out.

  The bearded man was still moving forward, trying to crash into her and bear her down. The side of her spinning foot cracked into his kn
eecap. Sadly, she was not wearing heavy boots, only sandals. He staggered, clutching at his knee. Diana rolled up, legs coming under her.

  Pockmark swung at her right-handed, face contorted by rage. The sap breezed by her head as she leaned to the side, coming up off the floor. Silence swallowed the room, the noise of the riot and the mob drowned out by a rushing hiss. She caught Pockmark's wrist, then wrenched down and away, in line with the movement of his body. It seemed right and natural that his elbow would bend back against the joint, that his mouth should open in a cry of agonized pain, that her left elbow should swing around, hard and pointed, to drive into his shoulder.

  Sound resumed with a roar and a crash of splintering wood as a table flew across the bar and into wicker shelving. The proprietor ducked behind the countertop. Pockmark screamed, his voice high and thready, as Diana's motion snapped his elbow and then popped his arm from the shoulder joint. The rest of his motion threw him headfirst into the plaster wall where Ila had once been sitting. There was a wet sound as his face jammed into the bricks.

  Diana spun back, left arm up in guard across her face, in time to see Blackbeard lunge with a knife. He was limping, his body turned to favor his injured knee. Diana drifted to his empty hand, her motion becoming languid. Everyone in the room clawed through tar, though she felt exhilaratingly light. She caught Blackbeard's thumb and bent it back with her left hand. The knife flew away, skittering across the floor, and she twisted her upper body into the blow, smashing the man's hand into his nose.

  Blood gouted and she punched him in the throat with her right hand, fingers stiff and pointed. Cartilage and muscle cracked under her fist and Blackbeard's eyes widened in horror. Blood bubbled out of a crushed nose and he fought for breath. Diana pushed him away, turning, her face a mask of calm. A chair flew at her and she caught it by one of the legs.