The storm of Heaven ooe-3

by Thomas Harlan

  The hulls of the two great galleys loomed up. Even here, under the water, the glittering shields of the wards shone in the dimness. In truth, there was no less light than above, but it was obscured, scattered, fouled by sparkling motes of plankton and microbes. Everything in the sea, even the density of the water, distorted raw perception. Zoe struggled with the roving Eye. It got harder to control the farther it flew from her.

  She sped closer to the wards and saw, as she closed in, that they were weak and diffracted by the constant motion of the water and the ship. They swelled up before her, glittering and splitting her vision of the black-tarred hull above her into a dozen distorted images. For a moment she hung just out of the pattern of the ward, waiting.

  A crosscurrent surged past, thrown out by the churning oars of another ship. As it washed across the ward, the pattern fractured and Zoe leapt into the breach. There was a burning sensation and then the curving hull was directly before her. In her sight, ghostly fingers stretched out, giving shape to her intent. Fingertips caressed the black tar Imperial shipwrights used to seal the planks. A dozen coats had been applied during the last careening. Only a few barnacles had managed to attach themselves.

  Zoe bent her will to the incredibly complicated pattern of the tar. It was smooth and composed of uncountable flat ribbons sliding across one another, intertwining like a coil of snakes. The structure formed a watertight barrier, but it was filled with hidden fire. Zoe brushed invisible fingers across the ribbons, calling on a fragment of the sign of fire that Dwyrin had shown her.

  A white-hot spark lit in the surface of the ship's hull.

  Zoe released her Eye, snapping violently back into her own locus of perception.

  – |The Khuwaylid cut in across the wake of a Roman galley, ram breaking free of the blue-green waters, then plunging down again. Mohammed clung to the railing, feeling the whole ship flex as it plowed down into the trough. On the deck, sailors slid amongst sea spray and blood fouling the channels along the rowing gallery. They were busy stripping the bodies of the dead. Naked corpses were thrown over the side. The Imperial galley had turned away, but the Khuwaylid had not given up the chase. Another Roman galley was busily stroking forward, directly across the Arab ships' line of sail. The Yemenite captain shouted for a double-stroke and the flautists shrilled wildly.

  Mohammed felt the air tremble and looked up.

  A mile away, through a drifting forest of ships' masts, he saw a massive, four-banked Imperial galley shudder violently. The huge ship, main deck easily fifteen feet higher than his own, advanced at a stately pace through the battle. The air around the galley was hazed with mist. Red banners flew from the foredeck and painted eyes snarled at every enemy in its path.

  Then the sea heaved around her flanks, and a blinding flare of red-orange fire bloomed out of the water. Mohammed's jaw dropped open and he raised a forearm to shield his eyes. A tremendous boom snapped across the water as the Imperial galley convulsed, rising up in the air, spilling men and oars into the sea. Fire rippled up the hull, burning white-hot, and steam billowed from every oar port. Blazing fragments of mast spiraled into the sky, trailing curlicues of smoke.

  The debris slammed back down in a concussive roar, disappearing into the boiling sea. Waves leapt up, hissing and steaming, swamping the nearest single-bank galley, which was turning away. Even across the distance, Mohammed's blood ran cold as he heard the shrieks and screams of agony from the doomed ship. Boiling water smashed into the smaller ship, turning the galley sideways, then swamping her. The men within perished in the scalding water, swallowed up in the dark sea.

  "Ramming speed!" the Yemenite captain screamed, completely focused on the enemy ship dead ahead. Oars dug deep into the water and the Khuwaylid leapt forward. Mohammed bowed his head in prayer, wishing the souls of the dead a swift journey into Paradise.

  The Khuwaylid ground into the flank of the Roman ship, bronze beak shearing through oaken planks and hide-wrapped shields. An enormous screeching followed as the ram crushed through the planking. Water poured into the wound, drowning men trapped in the wreckage of their oars. Sailors clawed out of the rowing gallery, dragging their fellows down in panic The Imperial galley shuddered, then began to list to one side.

  "Back oars!" the Yemenite captain howled. Obediently, the rear half of the Khuwaylid's oarsmen began rowing in reverse. The fore half had shipped oars back into the body of the ship to avoid having them fouled or shattered in the collision. The bronze ram scraped and squealed out of the stricken galley. The sea poured into the gaping hole, causing the Imperial ship to wallow deeper into the waves. Sailors plunged into the water. Grayish-black shapes were already busy in the wreckage, rolling and diving, fins cutting above the water.

  Mohammed heard another crack and caught a glimpse of a scorpion stone, wreathed in green fire, whirling through the air towards him. With a warning shout, he leapt from the fighting platform. He hit the deck hard, but managed to get his legs under him and rolled away. The stone shattered the platform with a boom, then rolled out of the wreckage and bounced across the rear deck. Fire spattered from the missile, leaving burning trails on the deck. Splinters scythed through the air. Mohammed flinched, wiping blood from his cheek. One of the Yemenite captain's legs was lying on the deck. The rest of the round little man was nowhere to be seen.

  Mohammed picked up a helmet and tied the strap tight under his chin. The battle was growing fiercer. He stood scanning the horizon. The first two lines of Arab ships were fully engaged with the Imperial fleet. Driven by the wind, the entire battle was drifting towards shore. Mohammed's reserves were hanging back, though the right wing of the Imperial fleet was trying to swing upwind.

  The shattered Imperial four-banked galley burned furiously, sending up a thunderhead-shaped pillar of smoke. Steam boiled from the sea around the wreck. Mohammed's lips drew back in a snarl. The sinking ship was still burning underwater, lighting up the dark sea with a shimmering blue-white light.

  Wizardry! He did not like this kind of war. He felt very tired for a moment, but roused himself. There is work to be done. He stepped away from the burning deck. A pair of Arab sailors ran up onto the rear deck with buckets of sand. There was nothing to be done about the captain or the archers. They were just gone.

  "Signal the reserves," he shouted to the remaining signalman. "Go after the Roman wing with all speed."

  The sailor, face half covered with blood, nodded weakly and began running up banners on the rear signal mast. Mohammed turned back to more immediate concerns. A pair of Roman galleys were cutting in from the Khuwaylid's port beam. Unlike the Arab ship, neither vessel boasted a ram at its prow. Its decks were thick with men.

  They'll want to board us, Mohammed thought, fingers drifting to the hilt of his sword. Well, now; that we can accommodate!

  – |The big quinquereme continued to burn like a star, even as the sea swallowed it. Zoe had to block it out of her perception, for the fury of the combusting tar was furiously bright in the hidden world. The golden sphere around the ship had winked out just a grain after the ship had exploded, which filled Zoe's heart with a grim humor. The other four-banker had swerved away from its stricken sister and the glitter of its protections had doubled or tripled at the same time.

  Eager to keep the Roman thaumaturges distracted, Zoe bent her will upon the sea itself, trying to rouse the choppy waters to new heights. In moments, she realized she had made a serious mistake. The sea had its own mind about such things. Affecting the waves required a long reach and greater power. The gelid patterns in the water slid away from her intent, leaving her drained and the sea undisturbed. Worse, the effort flared bright, drawing the attention of the enemy.

  Violet fire licked across her pattern, hissing and snapping in the matrices forming her battle-ward. Zoe sweated, still kneeling on the quilts. At least two more thaumaturges had been lying low amongst the Roman ships and now they attacked. By great good luck, neither had taken the time to raise his efforts into the realm of
the physical. They strove against her solely in the hidden world.

  Zoe invoked a quicksilver lattice, a shining gradient drawing away the stabbing power, dissipating it into the body of the sea. Even that response was too weak and too slow. While she deflected one attack, the other struck. Heat flashed through her and she gritted her teeth, retreating behind a hasty blue sphere. The poorly formed shield buckled and cracked within half a grain, crushed by licking black flame.

  I need help! she wailed. If Odenathus, or even Dwyrin were here, he could have easily overmatched these children! There were vast reservoirs of strength in the long-familiar matrix of her cousin's mind.

  Here, here, my child! See the brightness? See the strength it offers you?

  The whispering voice returned. Distracted, Zoe rocked back, flung against the wall of the cabin by a hammer blow from the Romans. Desperate, she collapsed the remains of her other shields and curled back into a spiky violet tetrahedron. Brightness swam close at hand, a singing glow waxing and waning with the beat of her heart. More black fire raged around her, the tetrahedron cracking under the attack. Zoe wept, seeing annihilation sweep in upon her.

  You've stood in the furnace, the voice snapped, now quite clear and familiar. You're just afraid! You'll die if you don't act!

  Zoe gurgled, blood seeping from her mouth. The Romans, sensing victory, redoubled their attack; the woolen quilts began to smoke. The Roman mages drew swiftly closer, their efforts strengthening. It was becoming difficult to breathe.

  The Roman attack suddenly slackened and Zoe caught a glimpse of arrows zipping through the windows of a cabin much like hers. A young man with flowing blond hair was throwing himself to the floor, shouting in alarm. She snarled, white teeth bared in defiance. There was no more time for quibbling. She reached out to the close white radiance as she had done so many times with Odenathus and Dwyrin. Zoe's pattern mingled with encompassing warmth and the shining power folded around her. Raw strength poured in, rushing like a wadi in a spring flood. For an instant, her concentration frayed, overwhelmed, but the voice was there, hectoring her, and she composed herself. Her control would be crude but far better than nothing! Mohammed does not have the skill for this, she realized, though this splendor flows through him.

  Her attention turned, hawk swift, to the enemy and saw they were very close.

  – |The Khuwaylid shuddered, oars snapping as the lead Roman galley swerved into its side. In the rowing gallery, men were crushed between the twenty-foot long oars. A dreadful screaming rose up, but Mohammed blotted it out. He had been a grain slow to call for them to ship oars. Bitter anger at his failure welled up, but he pushed it aside. There was no place for hate or anger in this business. He willed himself to be cold, to ignore the dead and the maimed that thrashed in the bloody gallery below his feet.

  "Ship oars," he called at last, his clear voice carrying well over the tumult. "Weapons!"

  On either side, the Roman galleys were sliding closer, their decks filled with armed men. Arrows soared from both ships, plunging down onto the deck of the Khuwaylid. Some of the Arab archers returned fire, but most of the fighting men still on the deck crouched down behind their shields. Below the deck, the remaining rowers stowed their oars, then scrambled to pull on helmets and find their weapons. Like the tribes of the far north, Mohammed's rowers were soldiers first. The Yemenite crew scurried out of the way, gathering on the rear deck with their own arms and armor.

  A grinding sound cut through the noise as the port side of the Khuwaylid felt the brush of the Roman galley. It had shipped oars as well and iron grapples flew across the shrinking distance between the two dromons. Neither Imperial ship was equipped with a corvus, but they had plenty of rope and shorter ladders. The two ships ground belly to belly and the first of the Roman marines sprang across the gap, shouting fiercely.

  "The Emperor and the City!" shouted the man, just before the Arab fighters on the deck rose up as one. The marine was flung back against the railing by a dozen spears and died, bright red blood flooding from his mouth as his armor was pierced again and again. Then a flood of Roman marines and sailors swarmed over the railing, stabbing swords flashing. The Arabs raised their own cry in return, the rowing benches emptying. "Allau Akbar!"

  Then a din of metal on metal and the cries of the dying and the wounded drowned the sound.

  On the rear deck, Mohammed drew the sword of night, eliciting a gasp from the Yemenite sailors around him. Even in the bright sunshine, it gleamed like the dark vault of heaven. The sun reflected in it, a dim and bloated orange disk. In it, Mohammed felt the hopes and dreams of his city and his people. As ever, it quivered in his hand like a live thing. Strength seemed to flow from it and memories of his daughters, his wife, his friends came to him.

  Then he staggered, feeling as if the voice had come upon him, but there was only a great roaring sound in his ears. The Yemenites, shouting in dismay, leapt to support him. A gray haze seemed to cloud his vision and he glimpsed the second Roman galley swinging alongside and its crew preparing to leap aboard the Khuwaylid.

  "At them," he croaked, pointing with his sword at the new enemy. The Yemenite sailors turned, their faces painted with indecision. "At them, by the great and merciful lord!"

  The Imperial ship was only a dozen feet away, its crew hanging on the railing, quiet as wolves. The Sahaba fighters on the deck of the Arab ship were fully engaged in a pitched battle with the other crew. Finally, the Yemenites mustered themselves and leapt down the steps to the main deck, howling a warning to their fellows. Mohammed, struggling against this strange weakness, lurched to the opposite rail.

  An arrow flashed in the sun, spiraling in towards him. It seemed to be moving so slowly. He could see the fletching turning as the bolt flew towards his chest. Mohammed dragged at the sword of night and it leapt in his hand, vaulting up to slap the arrow aside.

  Normal motion resumed with an almost audible snap and the broken arrow fell into the sea. Mohammed found himself on the lower deck, running towards the starboard railing. Already some of the Romans from the new ship had leapt aboard and were trading swordstrokes with the Yemenites.

  "Allau Akbar!" His voice boomed like a roll of thunder over the dry desert.

  At the same instant, blue-white flame jetted from the windows of the rear cabin on the Imperial dromon. The back quarter of the ship shuddered and cracked, lifting skyward. Smoke billowed from the gangway and the oar tholes. Roman sailors, perched on the railing, were pitched violently into the sea. The Yemenites howled in laughter, shaking their spears. Some of the Arab archers took the opportunity to feather those men still clinging to the railing of the enemy ship. The Imperial galley slewed drunkenly, loosing way as its steering oars, burning, fell into the sea. The dry wood and caulking tar of the liburna caught alight with wicked speed.

  "Mohammed, beware!"

  Mohammed spun in surprise at the shout, the slim ebon blade knocking aside a spearpoint. Some of the Roman marines had broken free from the mass of struggling men and ran at him. Mohammed felt old skills, now rarely used, spring to life. He slapped aside the spear, then lunged. The black sword screeched through the marine's armor, then slid into his chest. Mohammed drew back violently, feeling the edge of the blade catch on a rib, then shear through the bone. Two more marines attacked, one from either side, crouching slightly behind their shields. Mohammed plowed into the one on the left, beating aside his blade, then powered the blade sideways through the man's helmet. The poor quality iron, quartered and riveted, sparked as the edge of the blade cut in, parted and then the man's skull took the rest of the blow.

  The second marine lunged, stabbing with his gladius. Mohammed tried to turn back to block his thrust, but the blade of night snagged in the heavy bone behind the dying marine's brow. He felt a freezing moment of anticipation, waiting for fatal metal to penetrate his side.

  Lightning blazed instead, booming across the deck and the Roman was silhouetted for a moment in actinic light. Then his corpse was flung ac
ross the planks, smoking and hissing. The metal buckles on his leather armor scattered in molten droplets. Mohammed stood back, the blade of night dripping blood in his hand. He was half-blinded by the violent radiance, but his vision began to clear after a moment. Zoe was standing at the top of the steps from the cabins, her hand raised, her hair fanned behind her in a dark cloud.

  "My debt, lady Zoe," he said, raising the sword in salute to her.

  "I am still in yours," called the young woman, but there was an odd double echo in her voice.

  Mohammed started, sheathing his sword with unusual speed and stepped quickly to Zoe's side. She stared up at him with wide liquid-brown eyes. He made to speak, but saw the edge of fear in her pale face. He realized that he was looming over her, beard bristling. There was no time for this mystery now. The fleets were still locked in battle all around them. He squeezed her hand briefly, sketching a quick bow.

  "Seize their ship," he shouted, turning back to the melee that still surged back and forth across the bloody deck. "We've need of swift hulls!"

  The Arabs, seeing that their captain was with them, raised a great shout and stormed forward, all eagerness for battle. The Romans, seeing that their fellow ship had foundered and was now afire, fell back. They still fought fiercely, but their hearts were no longer in the struggle. Mohammed waded into the fray, his long blade drinking deep of the enemy. None of the leather and cork armor could blunt its edge or still his overhand stroke. Within moments, the Sahaba were leaping across the gap into the other galley, their war cries shrilling loud in the smoky air.

  – |Zoe felt light, insubstantial. A giddy sensation plagued her focus, but she concentrated, bringing to mind old, familiar sequences of the basic signs and transformations. As she progressed through the sixteen symbologies, her mind calmed and familiar patterns reasserted themselves. The flush of power faded, but she did not relinquish control. There was still need of the blazing flower and its strength.