The storm of Heaven ooe-3

by Thomas Harlan

  "Good." Zoe smoothed back his white-shot hair, standing on tiptoe. "You'll frighten the enemy for sure." Mohammed smiled, catching her hands as they withdrew. A helmet and reinforced leather gloves lay beside the bed.

  "Thank you," he said, bending towards her. Her eyes met his and she smiled faintly. "Things are much easier with you at my side."

  "Hmm." She gave him an arch look. "That's almost a compliment."

  "It is." Mohammed turned away, untangling his beard with his thick fingers and arranging it on his chest.

  Behind him, Zoe rolled her eyes, then slipped out of her sleeping robe. Beneath it, she was wearing only a thin breast-band crossed behind her neck and a loincloth. Like him, she drew on long woolen Persian-style trousers and a light tunic. Her felt vest was heavier, clean and didn't smell like a camel.

  "It's safe to turn around." Zoe sat cross-legged on the bed, hands busy behind her head plaiting the riot of dark hair into a long, snakelike braid. She curled the braid around and tucked in the end to make a cap. Besides making a moderate cushion for her helmet, it would stay out of her eyes. "Help me, please."

  With Mohammed's assistance, Zoe wriggled into a very light shirt of mail covering her body and arms down to her wrists. Unlike his heavy disks of flattened iron, hers was a supple gleaming snakeskin of tiny, perfectly fitted rings on a lambskin backing. The shirt had been originally made for her aunt as a girl, and came to Zoe as an heirloom. Even on her, it was getting tight around the shoulders. The Palmyrene breathed in and out, letting the mesh settle across her chest.

  Mohammed lifted up a polished steel breastplate, his muscular arms easily taking the weight. The armorers of Palmyra had done a fine job fitting the gleaming metal to her torso. The armor was made in three parts, one solid section running from throat to waist, then two hinged half-pieces in the back that met in a row of clasps and hooks along the spine. Zoe held her arms out in front of her and stepped into the armor. Mohammed folded the backplates in, letting them meet behind her, then hooked each clasp in turn. "Good?"

  "Oh yes," she groused, "I feel like a statue now."

  "But a safe one." Mohammed strapped curved steel vambraces to each of her forearms. Gloves made of the same fine mail slipped over her hands, padded inside with leather and backed with a solid metal plate. A pleated, Roman-style skirt of heavy leather tongues circled her waist and fell down to her knees. The Quraysh shook his head in dismay, running his hands down her legs. "You should wear something to protect your knees."

  "If I do that," she said in a grumpy tone, "I won't be able to walk. Besides, I'm not supposed to be fighting on the front line, am I?"

  "No." Mohammed gathered up her djellabah. "You and Odenathus are far more valuable defending us in the hidden world."

  "True." A bleak expression suddenly overcame the woman's features. She was thinking of the strength of their enemy. "Will you help?"

  Mohammed paused, staring at her. "If the Lord of the World decides to help us, then…"

  Zoe sighed and held up her hand. "I understand. You cannot control the power that moves through you. We will suffice, if we must."

  "Can you stop him?" Mohammed had not discussed the matter of the Roman firecaster with Zoe, but he could see it weighed upon her. Odenathus had not raised the subject either, keeping to himself or spending his time with Khalid.

  "I don't know," Zoe said after a moment. "To win, we must."

  – |A great number of torches illuminated the tunnel of the Great Gate. Hundreds of giant men packed into the broad space, helmets gleaming in the ruddy light. Clouds of smoke drifted up, pooling in the arches of the building. Nicholas was fully armored, a conical helm with a T-shaped eye slit tucked under one arm. The Latin officer was trying to keep from losing his temper. "Captain, Vladimir and I and the boy are a team. We've fought together before; we have a system. His body needs to be protected while he's working his power. An arrow or spear could kill him just as easily as you or me!"

  Rufio nodded, his face thrown half in shadow by the torchlight. "Centurion, I understand, but I have to leave someone I can trust in the palace. That means either you or me. We have to go forth with both the Hibernian and the standard or we're dog meat. Now, if this works, then Theodore will follow and someone will have to deal with him. That means me. You have to stay in the city."

  "I don't like this…" Nicholas felt queasy, but he couldn't refuse an order. He looked sideways at Dwyrin, who was fairly vibrating with eagerness. "Will Vladimir be enough to protect your back?"

  "Yes, sir." Dwyrin grinned at Nicholas, white teeth brilliant in the darkness. "We'll be fine. The Emperor is more important anyway."

  Nicholas rubbed his face with an armored hand, shaking his head. "This doesn't feel right. Vlad?"

  The Walach was draped in heavy iron armor and a huge black cloak. Never a small man, he looked positively enormous in this light, yellow-gold eyes glittering. Vladimir smiled, showing long incisors and strong sharp teeth. A long ax lay over his shoulder. "He'll be safe with me."

  "Centurion, I can do this." Dwyrin rubbed his hands together, though he wasn't cold at all. An invisible sphere of warmth surrounded the boy. Nicholas assumed it must be a tiny exercise of the art, but it seemed wrong and out of place in this bitterly cold predawn. "Go back to the palace."

  Nicholas looked back at Rufio with a grim expression on his face. "I hope this works."

  "It will." The captain's confidence seemed unshakeable. Nicholas saluted, then nodded to Dwyrin and Vladimir. "All right, then. I'll see you tonight."

  The Hibernian waved at the retreating back of the northerner. Dwyrin felt good, very good. His sleep had been deep and free of dreams. Rising early, when the first of the Faithful stirred, he had dressed quickly and run down to the massive gate. Vladimir, grumbling and complaining, had followed. Something about the city night did not sit well with the Walach, and he was constantly looking behind him. The Hibernian didn't care-today was the day of days! A subtle tension in the air heralded battle.

  From the watchtowers on the Great Gate, Dwyrin could see across the long plain lying before the city. Just before the double ramparts, there was a dry ditch. Then a space of a hundred yards or so and the ragged shape of the Arab circumvallation describing a long arc. Beyond the wall was a long slope dotted with burned-out farmhouses and temples rising up into irregular hills. At some time in the past, there had been orchards, gardens, fields of wheat. All of those things were gone, leaving acres of stumps and tumbled-down walls. Shallow streams ran down from the hills, making spots of marshy ground.

  Dwyrin reached the gate before anyone else, so he had a good view of the Faithful assembling, marching out of the darkness with their thick fur cloaks and round helms. Huge round shields hung over their backs, adorned with black figures of crows and ravens on red backgrounds. Each man carried a long single-bladed ax and a heavy straight sword on a baldric slung over one shoulder. Their deep voices carried up to him as he sat on the tower wall. The captain, Rufio, had followed soon after, accompanying a regiment of men carrying something draped in black canvas.

  "Well, lad, can you make something glow?" Captain Rufio turned to him, dark eyes glinting under a heavy iron helm.

  "Yes, sir!" Dwyrin clenched his fists, concentrating. After a moment, soft white light spilled from between his fingers. "Will this do?"

  "It will." A flicker of something-it couldn't be despair, could it?-crossed the captain's face. "But not yet, not yet. When we march out, then I will need your aid. But first, we must watch and wait."

  Rufio motioned to a man leaning out of a door high on the side of the tunnel. The man nodded, then ducked into a room inside the wall. Almost immediately there was a deep, grinding sound. Before Dwyrin and Rufio, the outermost of the massive gates of the city began to open, swinging in on huge hinges. A dozen men guided each door, walking alongside. Night yawned before them. The sun was still an hour from peeking over the eastern horizon. A faint light was growing in the east, but in the torchlight
spilling out onto the road everything seemed pitch black.

  Mist and fog rose from the ground in wisps. A cold gray day was in the offing.

  – |The Persian camp sprawled across the Galatan hills in an untidy mass, fitfully lit by torches and lanterns. The muffled sounds of thousands of men moving carried easily in the night air. Mohammed and Zoe watched with interest from a hill just north of the stream feeding into the Golden Horn. Nearly a half-mile of water separated their vantage from the ramparts of the Roman city. Constantinople was invisible behind a wall of fog curling up from the water. Mohammed finished a ripe fig. Zoe had refused to eat any breakfast.

  "It will be cold," Mohammed said. Zoe nodded, face wrapped in the tan linen tail of her riding cloak. The Quraysh studied the sky, making out a film over the stars. "It may even rain."

  The clip-clop of horses approaching drew Mohammed's attention and he tucked the remains of the fig into his cloak. He turned his flea-bitten mare, leaning forward on the saddle. Around him, arrayed on the hill, were his Sahaba, their camp torn down and packed. Each man was mounted and armored, lance gleaming softly in distant lantern light. The lean shape of Odenathus appeared out of the gloom, with Khalid following. Both men seemed tense, but then, everyone in the army was on edge. Mohammed raised a hand, beckoning the two young men to his side. Shadin moved up, out of the ranks of the qalb lined up on the crown of the hill.

  "What news?" Mohammed spoke softly, though anyone with eyes to see from the walls of the city knew that the enemy was on the move. "Are there any changes?"

  "No, Lord Mohammed." Khalid's eyes were alight with amusement. Odenathus turned his horse to stand by Zoe and the two cousins exchanged a brief hand clasp. "The Boar is already enraged with the slowness of his men breaking camp. Even the Avars are already crossing the stream." The young man pointed off in the darkness to the northwest.

  "Very well. Is the road still clear?"

  "Yes, lord." Shadin's voice was gruff but confident. "Our scouts secured the bridge over the stream last night. The Romans have not been seen on the far bank." The hulking swordsman pointed at a dim gleam of light tracing a path down the hill. Lanterns hung from trees or posts.

  "Excellent." Mohammed raised his voice so that all of the men and women around him could hear clearly. "As agreed, we have the right flank of the army. We will follow the path laid out for us by the muqadamma. We will need to move swiftly to avoid clogging the road. Beyond the stream there are rising hills to the right. By dawn, if the great and merciful Lord blesses us, we should be in position on those hills, screening the Persian right flank."

  Shadin and the others nodded. Mohammed and Zoe had taken them over the plan in detail the previous day. They, and the Persians and Avars, faced difficult ground on both the left and the right of the plain. To the left, there were both the remains of the Arab fortifications and then the ditch before the walls. After some argument, Shahr-Baraz convinced the Avar khagan Bayan the key to the whole battle lay there, under the gray battlements. The nomad chieftain wanted to command the right wing. Shahr-Baraz insisted the Avars take the left. Mohammed kept quiet during this bickering. He did not want his army exposed to bow shot from the city walls, or broken in two by the double ditch-and-wall of the circumvallation.

  The Persians would array themselves across the center of the plain, where the ground was best for their heavy horse and masses of spearmen and archers. Mohammed didn't care about the presumed honor, but he was glad to have the right under his command. Low sloping hills covered with old walls and copses of trees broke up the ground, but most of his force was actually the heavy infantry of the Decapolis. They would do well there. He assumed that they would face the main body of the Western legions. His precious band of heavy cavalry, the qalb of mounted Arabs and Palmyrenes, would cover the join between his line and the Persians'.

  "Zoe, Odenathus and I will go first," he continued, "with the qalb directly behind us. Then the maisarah and the maimanah will follow with all speed. The heavy horse and the muqadamma will protect the infantry until they are in position."

  Everyone nodded, so Mohammed clucked to his horse and she ambled down the hill, following the trail of lanterns. Behind him, tens of thousands of men began to move, armor rattling and clinking in the gloom. A whispered chant filled the air, raising the hackles on the back of his neck.

  "Praise be to God, Lord of the Universe,

  the compassionate, the merciful,

  sovereign of the day of judgment!

  You alone we worship, and to you alone

  we turn for help.

  Guide us to the straight path,

  the path of those whom you have favored,

  not of those who have incurred your wrath,

  nor of those who have gone astray."

  – |Dawn was starting to break in the east, shedding a gray light. Dwyrin and Rufio stood in the shadow of the Great Gate, looking out across the plain. Drifts of mist and fog clung to the ground. The Hibernian could hear, though. The tramp of booted feet and the rattle of hooves on the stone road carried across the fields. Rufio laid a hand on his shoulder. "Can you see them? The legions marching?"

  "Yes." Dwyrin blinked and the mist faded away from his sight. "They are coming down the road in long columns, shields shining in the light of their torches."

  "Yes…" Rufio squinted into the gloom. Long lines of lights appeared, winding down out of the hills. Some branched off like rivers of fire flowing into the east. "All right, lad, time to make our standard burn like the sun."

  Dwyrin smirked, cracking his knuckles. Directly behind him, filling the gate, was the tall icon of the Emperor. The black canvas had been removed and an especially sturdy troop of the Faithful were waiting for orders. Rufio called out, voice sharp in the cold air. "Raise the standard!"

  The Faithful were quick to heft the platform to their shoulders. The visage of the Emperor rose up, rocked back and forth for a moment, then steadied. Dwyrin opened his hand, thoughts far away. The background of gold and pearl began to shine, glowing like the rising sun. The Emperor's portrait lit with carefully applied colors, the pigments as fresh as the day they were first applied.

  Rufio smiled, then paced out onto the road. With a measured stomp, the Faithful advanced behind him, the Emperor riding high on their shoulders. Light spilled out from the icon, lighting up the road, the ditch half filled with debris, the broken teeth of the Arab wall. Dwyrin walked alongside, one hand on the platform. Vladimir paced him, keeping between the boy and the misty plain.

  Where the light fell, gray mist fled and within a few grains, as the procession walked west, more and more of the plain was revealed. The golden radiance lit even the grim towers flanking the gate. In the city, bells began to ring, pealing in the cold air. All along the vast wall, men stirred themselves from sleep and stared out in wonder.

  "The Emperor goes forth!" rang the massed voices of the Faithful. "The Emperor goes to battle!"

  At the head of the procession, Rufio smiled grimly, hand ever on the hilt of his sword. Before him, the mist parted and was driven back by the golden light. Soon the helmets and spears of the Western troops hurrying down the road would appear.

  – |White fog drifted between the trees, leaving them shining and dark with moisture. Jusuf urged his horse forward, letting it find its way across the stubbled field. High grass stood in clumps, the long stems bent down by heavy dew. On either side of the Khazar, columns of riders moved slowly forward, feeling their way through the mist. A line of trees rose up out of the gloom and Jusuf ducked under a branch.

  "Hold up," he called to the men on either side. The ground descended. The trees made a windbreak at the top of the hill. A slope covered with low bushes fell away below his feet. He whistled, the fluting call of a marsh gant. "Dahvos?"

  The brushy ground swallowed the noise of horses' hooves, making the khagan and his escorts appear as suddenly as phantoms. Dahvos was fully armored, with a conical steel helm sporting a horsetail plume. His guardsmen wore
solid-iron masks, worked with geometric designs, and heavy mail fell in a swath around their shoulders and necks. Much like the Roman knights, they wore vambraces and greaves of spliced metal strips. Just behind the Prince, a rider held the banner of the house of Asena socketed into his stirrup. The flag was barely visible in the poor light, hanging limp, but the green field and red horse were plain.

  "Order both columns to halt on this ridge," the khagan's voice snapped with authority, carrying easily, even in the heavy air. "Send scouts forward and to the wings. Particularly the right-find the Roman Legion there; it should be the Tenth Fretensis. We must close up with them."

  Couriers peeled off from the escort, cantering off through the mist. Dahvos turned to his brother, blue eyes intent. "What do you think?"

  Jusuf shook his head, lips pursed. "We should slow up and make sure we're in line with the Roman advance. There must be a swale between these hills, probably marshy ground down there. Shall I take a party forward?"

  "No." Dahvos had grown into his duties during their long ride around the fringe of the Sea of Darkness. Though he would often consult with Jusuf, the younger man knew his own mind. Jusuf was pleased by his half-brother's maturity-he would make a good khagan for the people. "The Western cohorts must travel farther, on foot, than we. We will wait and let this fog lift and make sure that our flanks are secure." The khagan turned in his saddle, gesturing for another courier to come up to him. One of the young men, not yet warriors, rode up, his face eager.