The storm of Heaven ooe-3

by Thomas Harlan

  Just below him, the screaming, blue-painted horde of men-barely armored, most only with riveted iron caps and woolen tunics-smashed into the Eastern troops. Within a grain, the ground below the earthworks was filled with knots of struggling men. Arrows continued to rain down, killing Roman and Slav alike. The weight of the Slav rush bore the Romans back, but more legionaries rushed up from the rear and then the shield-wall locked. Spears and swords flashed and a great growling clashing sound filled the air. Vladimir groped for his axe, seeing the Slavs scrambling up the side of the earthworks, trying to flank the Roman line.

  The two Faithful were already in motion, darting forward along the walkway, long swords bare in their hands. Vladimir shouted in outrage. "Come back!" But they were already trading swordstrokes with the first of the Slavic warriors. One of the Slavs pitched back, his head half cloven from his neck. The Faithful were powerful men, with arms like tree-trunks and in heavy armor. Against them, the lightly armored Slavs were terribly outmatched.

  Much the same carnage was occurring below, where the well-protected legionaries were wreaking a bloody slaughter with their heavy stabbing swords upon the Slavic spearmen. The Roman shield wall had reformed, now in two steady ranks, and was beginning to advance. More and more Slavs poured in, though, now sprinkled with Avar nobles in full armor. Arrows continued to rain down as well, spiking darkly from the earth or pinning men, screaming, into the bloody ground.

  A Slav rushed up the slope of rampart at Vladimir, his eyes wild, his beard matted with sweat and mud. The Walach rose up, swinging his heavy laminated shield around. The man stabbed with a crude spear which ground across the painted linen face of his scutum, then Vladimir struck with his axe. The tempered iron head plowed through the man's flimsy pine shield, splintering it, and sunk deep into his chest. The Slav staggered, falling to his knees. Blood flooded from his mouth. Vladimir kicked him away with a boot, wrenching the axe from his chest.

  Pity Nicholas isn't here, he thought, crouching down again, one eye on Dwyrin. That lich-sword of his would drink deep today. The roar of battle below him continued to mount as more Romans, Slavs and Avars poured into the melee.

  – |Shahr-Baraz rode swiftly, pleased with the smooth, even gait of his warhorse. The pushtigbahn kept pace. The earth under their hooves trembled with motion. Shahr-Baraz lifted the visor of his helmet and craned his neck, looking to the right. His formation was moving swiftly at a diagonal behind the huge mass of his spearmen and archers.

  A constant snapping sound filled the air, the effect of five thousand archers and slingers firing into the oncoming ranks of the Roman Legions. The Boar watched with a critical eye, seeing a dark cloud hissing into the morning sky. The archers-men in long woolen shirts, dark trousers and round leather caps, wooden quivers slung over their backs, long-staved bows in hand-were trying to keep up a steady rate of fire. Instead, clumps of arrows lofted skyward and fell in patchy rain, rather than a constant storm upon the enemy.

  "Bah!" the King of Kings rumbled. He hoped they weren't hitting their own troops. Long lines of spearmen and some dismounted diquans in heavy armor fronted the archers. Ahead of the Boar, the left wing of the spearmen advanced slowly, urged forward by the horse archers anchoring the Persian left. While the Romans advanced across the whole length of the field in line, the Persians were only swinging their left out to meet them, making a long diagonal.

  The Boar didn't know if the Romans would match his maneuver, but if they did, their far left flank would be exposed to the heavy Arab cavalry hidden on the hill, behind ranks of infantry and archers. Shahr-Baraz doubted if the Romans would be so rash. Of course, this left their right flank exposed to the weight of his attack.

  He cantered forward, seeing bands of spearmen part before him. A clump of banners and flags lay ahead where a band of armored knights milled about on the field. Shahr-Baraz urged his mount forward and was quickly among them.

  "Shahanshah!" General Khadames turned his horse towards Shahr-Baraz, gray beard jutting from his helmet. The older man looked grim, his face pinched. "We're moving, lord, but slowly."

  The Boar nodded, raising his hand to signal halt to the Immortals trotting up behind. Off to his right, where Khadames' captains were driving the spearmen and archers forward, the body of a great host of clibanarii was waiting on muddy, churned ground. The diquans were moving restlessly, their horses eager, curved bows laid over their saddles, arrows already fitted to the string. "How long?"

  "Only moments." Khadames shaded his eyes, rising up in his stirrups. "Here they come."

  Shahr-Baraz nodded. He could see the Romans coming in great blocks, square shields forward, making a moving, solid wall. "Stand ready to loose arrows!" The deep-throated roar of trumpets and the flash of signal flags echoed his voice.

  Ahead of the Boar, a space opened in the Persian line as it swung to his right. Only a mob of Slavic infantry were in the way, crowding towards the city, to his left, swarming up over the Arab ditch and rampart like dark blue ants. A trampled field of wheat stubble lay open before his Immortals, scattered with arrows, dropped weapons or shields and even a few corpses. A hundred yards away, a block of Romans advanced, standards and flags fluttering in the breeze. They were thickly packed in ranks, the bronze metal bosses on their painted shields catching the sun.

  The Boar chopped his hand forward, a motion echoed by his bannermen, and the front ranks of the Immortals began to trot forward. Khadames and his horse archers peeled away to the right, but they did not go far. Shahr-Baraz and his officers remained behind while the pushtigbahn flowed past in an armored stream of leather, iron and steel. As the lines of pushtigbahn trotted forward, the men unlimbered their long stabbing spears. Shahr-Baraz felt the earth tremble as six thousand men began to gallop, plunging towards the Roman line.

  The King of Kings turned his horse, spurring back towards the center of his army. Though his heart yearned to rush forward, horse thundering over the grass, mighty sword in hand, to lose himself in the hot shock of combat, hewing down his enemies, duty commanded that he remain aloof from battle. Grains spilled away, and he watched the cloud of dust rising from the rushing mass of horses and men.

  A dozen yards away, Khadames raised his hand and thousands of clibanarii arrayed around him lifted their bows as one. The old general waited a beat of his heart, then slashed his hand down. Eight thousand men loosed as one, the rippling thwack of strings on leather arm guards sharp in the air. A hissing moan rose up as a vast cloud of arrows leapt into the sky. Shahr-Baraz was pleased, seeing a second volley loosed within two grains of the first. The initial arrows had not even struck their targets.

  The Shahanshah wheeled his horse, waving at Khadames. "Close up behind the Immortals," he called. "Strike hard!" Then he galloped away, back along the long line of archers and spearmen holding the center of the field.

  – |Cursing violently, Rufio crouched behind a heavy scutum, holding the shield at an angle. The sky darkened and a storm of arrows flashed down with a chilling hiss. Yard-long shafts ripped through the formation of Faithful, though the men stood rock solid, heavy round shields angled towards the sky. He staggered suddenly, one of the arrows crunching into the surface of the shield. The triangular iron head ripped through three layers of pine laminate and cracked out of the hide backing. Another shaft splintered violently on the metal boss. Rufio cursed again, shoulder sore from the impact. Only feet away, one of the burly Scandians holding up the Emperor's icon staggered, a gray-fletched shaft jutting from his upper chest. The man swayed, then caught himself, though blood leaked from the wound. He did not drop the pole gripped in his scarred hands.

  Fifty feet away, Rufio saw the mass of Eastern legionaries stagger as well. The rain of arrows was fiercest there, in the rear ranks of the Twelfth Asiatica. Rufio knew most of the men were veterans, but they had been recently constituted from the remains of three other legions shattered at Yarmuk. Theodore's failure in Syria weighed heavily on the Eastern army.

  A rumbling in t
he ground resolved itself into an onrushing mass of horsemen. Everyone tensed. The Persian cavalry slammed into the front ranks of the Twelfth with a huge clang! Rufio couldn't see the front rank, not through the black haze of falling arrows, but he saw the legionaries surge backwards. Their centurions and tribunes were screaming, trying to keep the men in ranks.

  Suddenly, the armored heads of Persian diquans loomed up among the legionaries, laying about them in a frenzy with spears and heavy maces. Rufio leapt up, ignoring the arrows sleeting out of the sky. The shock of the Persian charge carried them deep into the lines of the Twelfth. The arrow storm slackened and the captain of the Faithful Guard turned, shouting in a bullhorn voice to his men, "Forward! The Guard, forward!"

  With a great shout, the Scandians unlimbered axes and swords and charged forward, fur cloaks flying. The Persians drove hard, splitting the Legion line in two. A dozen of the diquans spurred their armored warhorses out of the melee, aiming for the Emperor's standard. Rufio hoisted his shield, running forward, a throwing spear gripped in his right hand. Around him, the Faithful swarmed forward in a forest of red beards and tall conical helms. Rufio hurled his pilum into the shield of one of the horsemen. The breach was sealed by the Faithful, axes blurring red in the air, forcing the diquans back. The pilum's lead point snagged in the Persian's shield, dangling, dragging the man's arm down. Enraged, the Persian shook his arm, trying to free the spear. One of the Faithful, bellowing a war cry, hacked at the diquan while he was distracted. The tempered edge of the ax bit into the man's neck, crunching through a chainmail gorget, spewing blood. The Persian struck across his body with his sword, the blow ringing off the Scandian's helmet. Then another of the Faithful rushed up and two axes hewed into the diquan's legs, splintering his laminate armor. Blood gouted, and the knight fell from his horse, disappearing into the violent melee.

  Rufio shouted, screaming at the legionaries from the Twelfth. They fell back all around the Emperor's standard in panic. The charge of the diquans shattered their first three ranks and threw the rest into confusion. Only the Faithful seemed to be holding, a thin line of red cloaks between the Persians and the icon.

  "The Emperor! The Emperor! Stand and fight, you dogs!" Rufio bellowed.

  Some of the legionaries rallied, taking heart from the towering, glowing image of Heraclius, but more fled past. A clump of men carrying the banners of the Twelfth stopped, seeing him. Their signifier and aquilifer stood out sharply against the midday sky. Rufio clenched his teeth and drew his gladius, running up to join the four men. Seeing their battle standards halt, more legionaries began to gather, shaken but regaining their nerve. The sun rose higher into the sky. It was getting hot. Rufio wondered if he would see Martina again. At least the Persian archery had stopped.

  – |Heedless of arrows snapping past in the dusty air, Dagobert spurred his horse forward, plunging into the confused mass of Eastern light infantry. Men scattered away as he rode into their midst, followed by a wedge of his own household troops. The Western legate was furious. The Eastern troops, mostly archers and slingers, watched him pass, faces filled with puzzlement. They seemed directionless, standing about in disordered cohorts and maniples. Persian arrows flicked out the sky. One of Dagobert's aides suddenly cried out, then slumped forward over his saddle, a black-fletched shaft jutting from his neck.

  "Turn and shoot back!" Dagobert cried, forcing his horse through a band of Eastern spearmen, long ashwood weapons waving about him like reeds. "Form a line!"

  The Western commander had been pacing the Eastern troops' advance with his own reserve, a force of some six thousand Sarmatian lancers, following behind the veteran Third Augusta, which anchored the right wing of the Western line. He had seen the Persian heavy cavalry burst out from behind a screen of horse archers and crash into the main body of the Eastern troops. Despite a hurried search, he had not found Prince Theodore and his staff. Dagobert was sure the man was here somewhere but with the Eastern formations breaking apart in the face of the Persian attack, he had to do something.

  The Sarmatians followed in two columns, pressing forward through the scattered Eastern infantry. Now the Western dux had a clear view of the melee. Persian diquans in their full armor, including even their horses, had shattered the Eastern infantry and had pressed them back into the side of the old Arab fortification. The glowing portrait of Heraclius still rose above the battle, now surrounded by dozens of other banners and standards and a ring of men in red cloaks, though they were hard-pressed, fighting on foot against the Persian horse.

  "Columns! Deploy! Prepare to advance!" Dagobert pointed with his ivory baton and the Sarmatians spilled out from behind him, their heavily built chargers neighing and whinnying as they spread out into a line three deep. Between the Western troops and the Persians, the ground cleared as those few remaining Eastern spearmen and legionaries scattered to the south.

  "Dux!" Dagobert turned, even as the Sarmatians formed up, their long, heavy lances swinging down into position to charge. "You must fall back!"

  Dagobert scowled at his aide, one of the Latins in his service, rather than the Franks who were already drawing their weapons-long-hafted axes or heavy hand-and-a-half swords. The Roman officer was pointing back over his shoulder, at the main body of the Western army. The four legions arrayed across that front were continuing their steady advance, though the Third Augusta had begun to shift, refusing its right, so that the Persians did not turn its flank.

  "Sergius, we have to break this Persian attack. Prince Theodore is nowhere to be seen. One swift charge will restore this position!"

  "I know, dux, but these Sarmatians will do that. You are in command of the whole army!" Sergius leaned close, his whole posture intent on Dagobert. "You are responsible for everyone, not just this little battle. We must return to the center."

  Dagobert almost struck the young man, but then restrained himself with an effort of will. His father and grandfather would not have paused for an instant before throwing themselves into the thick of battle. Their worth as men depended on courage and bravery and their public expression. Part of the Frank yearned for violent release, but he was more Roman now than barbarian. "Very well. Merovech! Take command of these Sarmatians and strike! The rest of us will return to the center and see about these other Persians."

  Turning his face from Sergius, Dagobert wheeled his horse, then galloped off, back behind the Roman lines. The other Franks glared at the Latin officer, but they followed. Merovech spurred his horse forward, waving his sword, and the Sarmatians began to trot towards the Persians, slowly picking up speed.

  – |"Ready!" Khadames raised his hand again, feeling the weight of the heavy laminated armor on his arm. Once he had born it without qualm or effort, but the last two years had leached his body of its old strength. The cold mornings in this rainy land pained him. Even now he felt a remnant of that chill in his bones. His horse was walking forward, guided by the pressure of his knees. His clibanarii had spread out a little as they advanced in the wake of the Immortals. Now they were four lines of men, rather than a thick block nine deep. Grass, mud and the bodies of dead Romans and Persians passed by, littering the ground. "Draw!"

  The pushtigbahn had torn a huge hole in the Roman line, helped by a withering arrow storm laid down by Khadames' horse archers. But their advance seemed to have stalled, swirling in a roar of battle around the glowing shape of a man standing on a low hill. Now a great force of Roman auxillia-Huns or Sarmatians by the looks of their armor and horse barding-was preparing to countercharge into the Immortals' flank. Khadames and his forces had begun the day hiding behind a screen of massed spearmen; now they were partly obscured by the dust kicked up from the melee. Too, they were the reserve behind the Immortals, hanging back, keeping out of the battle.

  Two hundred yards away, the Roman horse began to wheel out, speeding up to a trot, their lances glittering in the sun. Khadames drew his own sword, a Damawand-forged blade that curved towards the tip, with a thick back and a single cutting
edge. There was just enough time…

  "Loose!" Eight thousand men released as one, their bows singing, and a black cloud leapt up, hung for a long, still moment in the air, and then plunged into the Sarmatians as they swept forward on the attack. Hundreds of men were knocked from their horses, the beasts pierced, screaming, thrashing on the ground. The momentum of the attack staggered, but then picked up to a gallop. "Loose!"

  Shafts raked the flank of the charging Romans, pitching more men down. Khadames waved his sword in the air, letting it catch the sun. "Advance!" The Persian clibanarii stowed their bows in a smooth motion, sliding them down into the gorytos, then their horses were cantering forward, picking up speed. Khadames was in their midst, his horse rushing forward over the lumpy ground. Ahead, between the lurching bodies of his men, he could see the Sarmatians swinging out, away from the Immortals, to meet him. Their numbers were visibly depleted by the flights of arrows. Their lances dipped towards him, but the Persian charge was already at full speed, thundering across the field.

  Khadames angled his sword forward, aiming at the enemy. On his left arm, a small round shield jogged as the horse picked up speed. A great cry suddenly sprang from the lips of the clibanarii. "Persia! Persia! Persia!" Then the diquans plowed into the Sarmatians with a ringing clang and everything dissolved into a furious swirling melee of men hacking and stabbing at one another. Khadames forced his horse forward, then jerked aside. The twelve-inch steel tip of a Sarmatian kontos cracked against his shield. Khadames hacked overhand, the weighted tip of his sword biting into the hard wooden shaft of the lance. The Sarmatian whipped it back, his horse ramming into the side of Khadames' mount. The Persian ducked and thrust, the tip of his sword ringing off the barbarian's scaled corselet.

  Shouting, the Sarmatian discarded the broken lance. Grunting, Khadames forced his horse wither to wither with the barbarian's, hacking viciously at the man's head. Twice the Sarmatian's shield blocked the strokes, splintering, then Khadames powered through his guard. The sword bit into the man's neck, shearing through his gorget of boiled leather and then the man was falling away, blood sluicing from the blade in a thin stream.