The storm of Heaven ooe-3

by Thomas Harlan

  "Zachar, go along the crest of this ridge and make sure that everyone has come up and stopped. No one is to go down the valley without my command. Only the scouts are to advance." Dahvos turned back, peering forward into the murk. "Is this a foggy country? How long will this last?"

  "Not long," Jusuf said, shifting the hilt of his sword forward in its scabbard. "This is some freak of the weather-it's high summer here! I think it will burn off soon, though the day may be cold."

  "Good. When the air clears a little, I want you to take command of the far left. I am going to shift the heavy horse to the right, more towards the Romans, and I don't want any surprises behind me."

  "I understand." Jusuf raised an eyebrow. "Remember-the ground in this swale will be soft; a charge might founder."

  "I know." Dahvos grinned. "The Western troops are nearly all infantry, though. The Persians are sure to try and turn their flank with their own clibanarii. When that happens, I'd like to be able to strike as they turn."

  Jusuf was about to answer, but a rider came spurring up the hill, his horse's mane flying. Both men turned, watching as the scout made the last length up to the crest. "My lords!" The man heeled his horse around, pointing out into the fog. "The valley is shallow and only a half-mile or so across. The hills on the other side are low, but there are many men there."

  "Persians?" Dahvos' expression sharpened, becoming predatory. "Or Avars?"

  "Neither, lord! These are men I've never seen before! Their skin is dark and they ride under a green and white banner-a sword and letters I cannot read."

  Jusuf rubbed his chin, feeling the oily curls. "These must be the Arabs from the desert."

  Dahvos nodded in agreement. "How are they armed? How is the ground?"

  "All afoot," the scout said, "but they stand in close ranks, like the Romans, with bows, square shields and longish spears. Some horsemen chased us off-a few arrows, though they do not seem to be great shots. There is a shallow stream and the ground is soft and muddy."

  "They do have some lancers," Jusuf interjected crisply. "But they come from Roman cities, these rebels, so they will fight like the Legion. Triple lines of infantry in a shield wall, with archers and javelins in support."

  "Where are the Avars, then?" Dahvos mused, tapping the helmet with the back of his hand. "Not in the center, certainly; they must hold the far right flank of the enemy line."

  "Do we advance?" Jusuf's fingers were busy, testing straps and buckles, making sure nothing was loose or frayed. "Or wait?"

  "We wait. No sense in charging across soft ground and then up a hill. Let these townsmen come down into the flat, then we'll see what they're made of."

  Dahvos nodded to the scout and the man trotted away down the hill. Jusuf unhooked a wineskin from his belt and took a long drink. Even in this cold air, the armor encasing him was hot. If he was right, it would just get hotter as the day progressed.

  – |"Here they come. At last!" Shahr-Baraz felt a great weight lift from his shoulders. The King of Kings stood at the center of the Persian line, a hundred yards behind a huge sprawling block of spearmen. He sat astride a high wooden seat, formed of precut timbers, draped with cloth of gold and silk cushions. His engineers assembled the watchtower in darkness, guided by torches and markings cut into the logs. There were no protective shields or hides, but it offered him a huge advantage-he could see clearly from the hills on the right to the walls of the city on the left. Armored gloves shaded his eyes, and he saw, across the plain, long lines of soldiers pouring out of the city. "He is coming out!"

  Forward of the tower, a great mass of archers and slingers and javelineers stood at ease, some sitting on the dew-soaked ground, others counting their arrows or sling-stones. A space of a dozen paces separated them from the backs of the spearmen, who waited silently in uneven rows, wicker shields facing front, in five deep ranks. Armored diquans paced between masses of lightly armored infantry, helmets glowing in the diffuse light. Groups of men in heavier armor, armed with maces and long, straight swords, were interspersed amongst the militia spearmen. The mass of the Persian infantry needed some stiffening to face the Roman legionary one-on-one.

  Behind the tower, standing beside their horses, talking in low tones, were the Immortals, the pushtigbahn, Shahr-Baraz's reserve. Each of the noblemen were armored from head to toe in overlapping mail coats, and armed with heavy spiked maces, lances, long swords, and the heavy recurved horse bow they had inherited from their Parthian predecessors. Nearly six thousand of the finest fighting men in the world. Shahr-Baraz could name only three other nations that fielded so professional and skilled a force.

  Of course, all three of those powers faced him across the field. The King of Kings was not concerned. He didn't need to win this battle, only fight to a bloody draw. That would be enough. The mere fact the Eastern Legions issued forth from their city made him giddy with relief. Everything depended on Heraclius coming out to give battle. Shahr-Baraz saw the battle emblem of the Eastern Emperor glowing and flickering like a star in the mist. The Eastern troops were having trouble negotiating the Arab fortifications.

  "Bless you, Lord Mohammed. Your men built well!" Shahr-Baraz turned to the west, raising a hand in salute to the Arab forces arrayed on the hills. In any other battle, he would have been forced to deploy Khadames and his clibanarii to cover the right, greatly extending his frontage. Today, however, he was pleased to let the Arabs protect his flank. He had never before met a man, much less a king, who was as honest and honorable as this Mohammed. Shahr-Baraz was certain, from the top of his gilded helm to the iron spikes on the toes of his boots, that the Arab chieftain would stand firm at his right, through fire and storm and even defeat.

  Shahr-Baraz sighed, leaning on his armored thighs. If only I could make this man my friend. Then all would be well in the world. His honor is unimpeachable! Our alliance would doom Rome and leave Persia the master of the world. But such a thing was impossible. The Boar felt a little guilty-he had not revealed the whole plan to seize Constantinople. If Mohammed knew what was to come, he would be an enemy rather than a friend. Thus the Arabs were safely tucked away on the right. Shahr-Baraz owed Mohammed this much, for destroying the Roman fleet.

  But the Avar khagan, now, he will gladly pay my price!

  The Boar smiled, teeth glinting behind tusklike mustaches. Off to his left, the Avar Slav infantry were swarming forward in a great undisciplined horde. They spilled around the earthworks of the old Arab forts like oil, spears, axes and swords glinting, blue-painted bodies and bright-checked trousers merging into a great colorful mass. The barrier of the ditches had already broken the Avar force into two distinct groups-one group of nearly eight thousand on foot on the Persian side, then beyond the circumvallation another mass of infantry backed up by the khagan's mounted nobles. The horsetail banners and dragon flags of the Avars were snapping in the morning breeze.

  The Avars would be attacking straight into the teeth of the Eastern Legions, but if they broke through to the Perinthus road, the bulk of the Roman army would be separated from the city itself, unable to fall back into the massive fortifications. That would be an excellent outcome…

  Horns winded across the plain, where the morning fog was blowing back in streaming tatters. In places, the pale white mist still clung to the ground, but the Boar could see his enemy advancing on a broad front, their ranks perfect, with good separation between each column. The old general's heart lifted to see such precision on the field of battle.

  Ah! A thing of beauty! My spearmen should look so good after an hour's effort in the melee.

  That was part of an old problem-the Persians could march as well as the Romans, engineer as well, fight a-horse far better, but the Romans could fight all day and not lose their damnable order and efficiency.

  Four Western Legions advanced across the plain at a walk, lines undulating with the uneven ground. Shahr-Baraz watched them carefully, seeing that they were moving slowly, centurions walking backwards ahead of each cohort. A
thin line of archers and skirmishers ran ahead, slings and bows at the ready. Behind the ranks of the legionaries were two blocks of reserves, but even with the height advantage of the tower it was impossible to see what kind of troops they were.

  Mercenary horse, he thought, or auxiliaries of some kind.

  "Signal flag!" The Boar's voice cut through the murmur of the pushtigbahn like a cleaver. "Prepare to advance!"

  Down on the ground, four men hoisted colored flags in a prearranged pattern, letting them snap in the breeze. At the same time, trumpeters raised long bronze horns to their lips. The blat of sound carried well. Shahr-Baraz raised his head, watching the western hill. Flags responded. The Boar was pleased to see Mohammed had deployed his infantry in a stout line just below the crest, behind a screen of light horse. He could not see the opposing soldiers, hidden by the last scraps of mist clinging to the hills.

  The Boar swung down from the tower, muscular arms easily taking the weight of his armor and gear. Two boys ran up with his horse, all covered in quilted armor sewn with metal plates, as he lighted on the ground. "Immortals! Mount up!"

  Ten thousand Immortals scrambled onto their horses, raising a huge clatter and noise. Shahr-Baraz felt his blood quicken. Soon… victory would come closer with each Roman corpse. One of the boys placed a stool on the ground, easing his climb onto the horse. He felt gloriously alive, the mighty beast solid under his thighs, armor clinging to him like a second skin. A mailed hand swung down his face plate, clicking it into place.

  "Hey-yup!" The Boar spurred his horse off to the left. He intended to throw his main effort against the Eastern troops around the gleaming icon of the Emperor. As the Arab wall split the Avar advance, so it divided the Eastern Legions. But under the eye of their Emperor, they would stand and fight. With a little luck, he could press them back into the broken ground and drive them from the road in disarray. The great weakness of the Roman formations was susceptibility to a sharp cavalry charge if they were disordered and their line ragged.

  – |Dwyrin climbed up the blackened slope of the Arab rampart, sooty ground falling away under his boots. Vladimir and two of the Faithful followed close behind, fur cloaks flapping in the cold wind. At the top of the slope were jagged burned stumps and the remains of a fighting platform. The Hibernian stopped, looking out in delight upon the plain before him. Just to his left, thousands of Eastern legionaries were marching at double-time through the breach made in the Arab walls.

  Cohorts of iron-clad cataphracts were already through the opening and wheeling on the open plain from left to right. Their lances were tipped with snapping guidons, making a brave show as they trotted past. A hundred yards ahead, to the right, the icon of the Emperor continued to glow and shine. A great red-cloaked block of the Faithful Guard was arrayed around the standard. Cohorts of Eastern legionaries swarmed past. At least four thousand men formed up into battle ranks between the icon and the Persian lines. Dwyrin laughed, then flipped back his hood. Rain seemed unlikely today, now that the fog was gone. The sky was showing clear and blue, the sun a perfect white disk in the eastern sky.

  "Take good care of me, Vlad." Dwyrin settled onto the ground, crossing his legs. He pressed his fingers into the loamy soil, feeling cold dampness in the ground. The first stanzas of the chant to calm his mind and bring forth the opening of Hermes was poised on his tongue.

  "We will," the Walach grunted, squatting down between the boy and the enemy. From this height, Vladimir could see both swarms of Slavic spearmen advancing upon their right on the desolate ground between the Arab wall and the city ditch, and Persians off to the left. The Walach unslung his shield and grounded it, making a barrier in front of the lad. The two Faithful also parked themselves at his side, squatting behind their shields. There was more danger of stray arrows than anything else.

  Dwyrin closed his eyes and the world of the unseen unfolded before him. A great shining eye swept out of the abyssal dark and over him, shedding radiance and warmth. When Uraeus had passed, he looked out upon the field of war. The shapes of soldiers hurrying forward writhed, filled with living flame, merging as they ran into a river of fire. The cold earth itself was dull and without light, but the massed ranks of the Persians and their allies were a brilliant beacon. The air distorted between Dwyrin and the distant enemy, subtly twisted by the patterns of defense summoned by the magi.

  Be careful! Dwyrin thought to himself, struggling a little to keep the power hissing and sparking in his heart from bursting out in an uncontrolled flare. He had learned enough to keep from being overwhelmed, to guide the strength to strike at his command. The little tricks, like keeping himself warm or cool, or making the portrait of the Emperor blaze with light, were valuable tools. They bled off the strength and kept him aware and centered. The chants and symbolic patterns of the Roman wizards approached this understanding of the hidden world, but they did not get into the heart of the thing. Dwyrin knew, watching the Roman thaumaturges raise their wards and spheres of defense around the marching Legions, that he had-somehow-stepped past their limited wisdom. The foundation patterns of the world around him were so clear and obvious.

  But that did not mean that he was invincible. The mobehedan of Persia were the last descendants of the ancient Chaldeans, the first men to harness the power of the hidden world. The priests in the temple of Pthames spoke of them in awe, for in legend the priests of lost Ur and Sanilurfa surpassed all others. Even now, as Dwyrin watched, he saw their skill was far beyond that of the Romans. In strength, each side seemed to draw even.

  But Rome has me, he thought, letting perception expand. The Legions advanced at a walk, in a steady, measured tread, and the mustered will of the soldiers was influencing the hidden world. Their Legion standards carried power, invested by centuries of battle and worship. Ghosts of the Legion dead drifted around the signifer, calling in pale voices to the living men for blood and sacrifice. Even the lead javelins each man carried disturbed the forms and patterns around them, making dead spots in the bright firmament. This will be my day, Dwyrin thought, turning his attention inward. I will prove myself worthy of my Legion.

  Whirling and hissing, shedding heat and light from myriad interlocking spheres, the core of fire within him sang with a clear voice. Dwyrin let the fire spring forth, dancing in the air around him. Swiftly he raised a sphere of defense, much as he had in the dawn attack. An orange glow spilled away from him, flooding over broken timbers and muddy ditches. Three, four and five layers he conjured up, setting the words of the ancient gods upon them, each moving in opposition to the layer without. Conscious of the violent effects his work engendered, he restrained the power in the shields from spilling over into physicality.

  He began to sweat, his body feeling the strain of channeling such raw energies.

  Across the field, behind a glittering shield of violet and blue, he felt perception shift. Someone looked upon him and thus, as such things were, he looked upon the other. A white-bearded elder peered across the distance, shape and will distorted behind a dozen wards. Dwyrin let the man see him, then struck out, the fire singing like a crystal glass.

  The shock of his blow boomed through the patterns, a virulent burst of white leaving a jagged afterimage in the air. Darkness flashed, washing across the Persian wards like a stain of ink. The wards buckled, then shifted and held. Dwyrin laughed, seeing the wide-eyed surprise in the elder's face. Now we will test each other.

  His fist clenched, drawing a blazing shape of lightning from the air. He cast, shouting a wild cry. Again the Persian shields flared and rippled, throwing thousands of distorted images of men and horses. The fire was in him now, hot as the sun, and he let it rush forth. A pitiful wailing rose up from the Roman mages, but he ignored their cries.

  A Persian ward ruptured, shattering like crushed glass, smoke wicking away in all directions, though there was now no wind. Dwyrin pressed the attack, hammering at the enemy with blow after blow. A few weak bursts of yellow lightning leapt from behind the Persian lines, but
too much of their strength was bent against his will, trying to deflect his attack.

  A jagged white flare leapt from his hands, spinning out like a great wheel, flashing above the unknowing, unseeing heads of the Persian spearmen, who advanced across the grassy fields. Some of the soldiers ducked, though nothing visible made them flinch away from the sky. The Persian magi scrambled to match the wheel, throwing up a hazy blue wall of rotating dodecahedrons. The wheel smashed into the barrier, crumpling the twelve-sided structures like faceted eggshells. Dwyrin felt some of the Persian will falter, then suddenly go out. The blue wall splintered, each facet spinning away into smoke. Now he was at grips with the mobehedan.

  The Hibernian's face was wreathed in a hot orange glow, but he grinned like a wolf, hurling bolt after bolt into the enemy.

  – |Vladimir pressed his face into the ground, feeling the air around him shake. A thunderous boom had rocked the field only grains before, followed by a burst of light in the air over the Persian lines. Now something like ash was raining down out of a clear sky. At the same time, the enemy advancing between the two ditches-just to Vladimir's right-had raised a huge howl and charged into the mass of Eastern legionaries that were deployed across the devastated field. A storm of arrows accompanied their frenzied attack, lofting from a mass of mounted men a hundred feet behind the mob of spear and swordsmen.

  Black-fletched arrows plunged into the ground around the two Faithful guards and the Walach. One shaft struck the ground a foot from Dwyrin's body, which lay on the packed earth of the walkway along the top of the rampart. The wooden shaft fell over, then burst suddenly into flame. Vladimir raised his head and flinched, seeing a virulent orange glow slowly spreading through the air towards him. Frozen in horror, he watched as the glow spilled out of the boy like heavy almost liquid smoke. Strange letters and glyphs appeared in the air, then disappeared again. More arrows rained down, one striking Vladimir's shield and springing back. The enemy was loosing at extreme range, but the Walach swung the shield between himself and the Avars.