The storm of Heaven ooe-3

by Thomas Harlan

  The melee got bigger, spreading out from the impact of the charge as more Persians piled in, grinding the Sarmatians back. Khadames looked around for his bannermen, then caught sight of them a hundred feet away, swept away from him by the eddies and currents in the fight. He spurred his horse that way, fending off the spear-thrust of a Roman on foot. Everything was mixed up now. The general passed a single Persian soldier, his face bleeding from a cut, standing alone by his horse. No one was attacking the man, who was binding a length of cloth over his forehead, trying to keep the blood out of his eyes.

  Khadames wheezed, exhausted. He wondered briefly if all of the time spent in the smoke and fumes of Damawand had stolen his breath.

  – |Shining figures stormed across the glittering field, rising as they ran forward until they towered higher than the ramparts of the city. Dwyrin was vaguely aware of the giants, though his concentration was focused on shattering the last of the matrices that protected the Persian magi. The Eastern savants were fighting hard, their wills compressed to diamond brilliance as they struggled against the Hibernian. Fantastic creatures boiled up out of the earth-titans and dragons and horned men-hurling themselves against Dwyrin, battering at his orange-red shields, stooping over the heads of the mortal men struggling and fighting on the broad field.

  The phantasms might have distracted Dwyrin a month ago, but now he could see through them, though they were marvelously complex. Far below the earth, stone and rock groaned and shifted, yielding slow mottled power to him. Despite the fierce eagerness flowing through him, Dwyrin was tiring. His physical body suffered as the strength in the spark of fire rushed out. The mental effort of giving so much power, shape, purpose and form was terribly wearing.

  Luckily, there seemed to be only a few Persian savants arrayed against him, and those whose wills battled his seemed to lack skill. Briefly, he wondered what had happened to their great mobeds and mobehedan. Where are the priests of their eternal fire? Dead, he supposed, already stricken down in this endless war. Azure lightning raged against his shields, splintering the first shell of defense. Dwyrin mentally shook himself, returning his attention to the struggle.

  The Persians tried to attack on multiple levels at once; some sent phantoms against his mind, others tried to bull their way through his ethereal defense, still more were working a pattern that would cut him off from the power inherent in the earth and the air. For an instant, he let them come, ceasing his attacks. They raged against him, brilliant lightning bursting around him, the patterns of earth and air and stone ruptured in their fury. Giants assailed him, lashing down with enormous spiked clubs; fanged mouths opened in the earth-all these things were seen only by his eyes. The mobeds were not wasting their strength by assailing him in the physical world.

  His strength gathered, Dwyrin's will rode stealthily along the backwash of their lightning and bolts of fire. The violence of their attack distorted the hidden world, making perception difficult. He was sweating now, his body strained to the breaking point. A particularly vicious pattern smashed against his rotating spheres, sending glowing orange fragments in all directions. A bloody cut suddenly opened on his cheek, leaking clear fluid. Dwyrin flinched but did not let it distract him. Just a moment more…

  Heartened by the rupture of his defense, the magi redoubled their assault, lashing him with waves of carnelian and abyssal darkness. Another sphere shattered, leaving golden glyphs hanging in the air, then they were swept away. Dwyrin bent his head, enduring the attack. Each time that the Persians sent their power against him, a tenuous, flickering pattern linked him and they for the tiniest of instants. Each blow echoed back in a swirling infinitesimal cloud of reaction. His will flashed along the path, following the burning paths cut in the air.

  Suddenly, like the sun breaking from behind a dark cloud heavy with rain, he was within the Persian ward, standing in their camp, looking down upon them, a dozen boys and beardless men shuddering and sweating in the shade of their tents. Persian soldiers in long coats of mail watched over them, bared swords in their hands.

  Why, he thought, looking upon them in horror, they're only children!

  Behind him, the pattern of their defense sparkled like wet pearl, but it had been rendered useless. Dwyrin said a prayer, calling upon Badb Catha, the black crow, to carry their souls to the western islands, where these children might drink deep of green mead and sing in joy, sitting among the ancient heroes. Then his hands struck, palm to palm, and the air rumbled and shook. On the ground, the bodies of the twelve Persians stiffened, a single thin cry escaped one throat, and then they were dead.

  Dwyrin leapt back, shuddering, to find himself in his body, eyes open, staring up at the sun, tears streaming down his face. The bearded faces of Vladimir and the Faithful loomed over him, enormous and dark against the radiance of the sun.

  "Lad!" Vladimir was shaking his shoulders. "You're alive?"

  "Yes," Dwyrin croaked, terribly thirsty. "Is there any water?"

  – |Trumpets pealed, cutting the dusty air with their bright metallic sound. Dagobert scowled furiously, urging his warhorse forward through the serried ranks of Eastern cataphracts. The horsemen astride their thick-bodied chargers waited at ease, helmets riding on their saddle bows, short beards gleaming with sweat. The Eastern troops parted before the Western dux, letting him and his staff thunder past. Much like their Persian adversaries, the Eastern horsemen were armored from toe to crown in overlapping lozenges of iron, with heavy curved bows slotted behind their four-cornered saddles. Long spears rode close to each hand, joined by a profusion of maces and heavy swords. On his left, the easterners bore dark blue shields, tabards and banners worked with gryphons. To his right, a flame-vermilion predominated and bore a rampant dragon.

  "Prince Theodore! What are you doing?" Dagobert's calm had frayed enough to let long-held anger spill out. He did not wait for the Eastern lord to reply before stabbing his armored finger sharply back at the clangor and din of battle that raged along the Arab wall. "Your men are hard pressed!"

  "My men?" Theodore's eyes narrowed at the sharp words, his face cold. "My men are here, obeying my command. Those legionaries there-I do not know who they serve, but I am not responsible for them."

  "What? Are you mad?" Dagobert nudged his horse alongside the Eastern Prince's, reining over hard when the Frankish charger tried to nip the Eastern stallion. Despite the dustiness of the day, Theodore had managed to keep the glossy black hide of his mount sparkling clean. Further, the Prince and his staff were sitting a-horse, at ease, under a huge silk pavilion held up on five tall poles carried by servants. The opaque red silk allowed them to stay cool despite the sun high in the sky. "Your Twelfth Asiatica is getting ground to bits!"

  Theodore shrugged, his gilded armor clinking gently at the movement. "As I said, barbarian, I do not command the Twelfth. Those men are mutinous, having marched out of the city without either my leave or command, following some trinket, some magicked-up picture of my esteemed noble brother. In fact, I am sure that he did not order them forth from the city, either!"

  Dagobert shook his head, amazed and repulsed at the same time. "You'll not help them, then?"

  "Why should I?" Bitter anger seeped into Theodore's words. "Their centurions swore to abide by my command not more than two days ago! Now they show themselves to be baseless, dishonorable men. Let them drink deep of treachery's wine… No. I shall wait and see their punishment; then-perhaps-I will take a hand in this, to save you from your folly."

  "Will you?" Dagobert felt uncontrollable fury mounting in him, but he sagely suppressed the urge to strike the Eastern lord. "You would take the field of battle, then stand aside while your countrymen, your fellow soldiers, were slaughtered before you? Take care, Prince, for your actions verge on cowardice and treachery!"

  Theodore laughed, surprising the Frank, then leaned close, dropping his voice. "Barbarian, you struck a poor bargain. Your army is committed to battle, your allies weak, your enemies strong. I know that you have been co
nniving with that black-eyed whore son, but I do not hold it against you. Your plan was clever, bringing forth the Emperor's standard. You knew I would have to come forth out of the city or lose the confidence of my men-but hear this, I do not have to fight."

  Dagobert ground his fist against his armored thigh, metal squeaking on metal. "We are Romans, we must stand together, fight together, or the Persians will brush us aside like gnats. The city will be besieged! What will you have then? Nothing."

  Theodore smoothed his close-clipped beard down, smiling. "I will be rid of many traitors, barbarian. The Persians are the gnats buzzing about the walls of my city. They have tried twice before to take Constantinople and they have failed. This will be the third time. I say, let them come and bleed themselves to death on her walls."

  "Fool!" Dagobert's temper snapped. "They have a fleet, you will be blockaded and starved out! We must defeat them in the field, then smash the remnants and drive off their ships. You must order your men into battle, restoring this flank and turning the Persian right wing."

  "Must I?" Theodore rubbed his thumb and forefinger together. "Persuade me."

  Dagobert heard a great rushing sound in his ears. He cast around, staring wildly at the long rows of Eastern cataphracts, at the small band of his own men, at the battle raging along the Arab wall. A great pall of dust spiraled up from the melee, broken by gusts of arrows flickering through the air. The Romans were falling back, fighting hard, anchored on the tight knot of red-cloaked guardsmen and the gleaming icon of the Emperor. The portrait was riddled with arrows, some of which were burning, adding trails of white smoke to the fume in the air. The Frank turned back to the Eastern Prince, who was watching him and grinning.

  "What… do… you… want?" Dagobert could barely make himself say the words. He felt dizzy, unable to grasp the incredible arrogance of the man. Who bartered for pigs on the battlefield? Where was this Eastern whelp's honor?

  "My brother is very sick." Theodore straightened up, a sad look on his face. "He is not well enough to rule. His son, young Constantius, would make a fine emperor. Of course, he is not quite of his majority yet. He will need a regent."

  Dagobert stared at the man's face, seeing the smile, the gleaming white teeth, the feral amusement dancing in his eyes. "That is monstrous."

  "It is necessary!" Theodore snapped in a commanding voice. "The state is crippled. I will take command of these legions and crush the Persian wing. You and your master, the oh-so-noble Galen, Emperor of the West, will support me in placing Constantius on the throne under my regency for the next two years. Once this battle is done, you will also follow my command while we kennel these Persians and their Arab dogs."

  "And your brother? What of him?" Dagobert felt a sickening gulf open under him.

  "Our traditions hold," Theodore said in an offhand way, "a crippled man cannot be emperor. I am sure, after such a long sickness-my poor brother has lost a hand, a nose, some vital parts-he will be retired and can live out the rest of his unfortunately disease-ridden life on some quiet island, with his wife."

  The Frank recoiled from the undisguised venom in the Prince's voice. What do I do? Dagobert cocked an ear, hearing the roar and clash of arms behind him. The Persians were pressing very hard against the Romans. Without the support of Theodore's heavy cavalry, the line might break, forcing the Romans away from the city and opening their right flank.

  "Very well," Dagobert said, his heart sick. His face contorted, then settled into a frigid mask. "Constantius will be Emperor, and you his regent."

  "Very wise." Theodore smiled genially. Then he raised his hand. For a hundred yards in every direction, thousands of armored men lifted their heads, seeing the signal flags rise up, echoing the Prince's motion. "Advance!"

  Dagobert wheeled his horse away, cutting across the line of march. The Eastern cataphracts surged past, the earth rumbling with the trot of their horses. The Frank felt ill, but he had his own business to attend to.

  – |Jusuf shaded his brown eyes with a hand, perplexed. "What are they doing now?"

  Out on the plain, the regular blocks of the Roman line were shifting. The four Western Legions had advanced abreast across the irregular fields, then stopped. The main body of the Persians had matched their motion, leaving the two armies only a hundred feet or so apart. Clouds of arrows, sling-stones and javelins arched back and forth. Now-much to Jusuf's consternation-the Romans were angling away from the Khazar position, falling back on their right.

  Dahvos, sitting astride his horse a few yards away, shrugged his shoulders, making his armor creak. "Their right wing must be falling back. Messenger!"

  One of the courier riders scrambled up onto the crest of the hill. Both Khazars, as well as the coterie of staff and guardsmen that followed them, were standing on the eastern end of a low hill. The Khazar lines stretched off to their left, mostly arrayed across the slope and in the shallow valley between the Roman lines and the Arab position on the hill opposite. Down in the valley, there was a darting, swirling engagement between the Khazar light horse and their Arab counterparts. The main bodies of both armies remained in reserve, crouched on their respective hills. The Arabs seemed to have fielded a large army of heavily armored infantry, which stood in four deep ranks on the opposing slope, amid old fieldstone walls and abandoned vineyards. Their archers and slingers were busy sniping at the Khazar horse in the valley, or exchanging shots with the Khazar archers at the base of the hill.

  "Lad, go find the Roman legate in command of the Tenth down there and find out what is going on." The courier dashed off, though he was not the first to speed between the two allied forces. Communication between the allies was poor. How many Romans spoke Turkish? How many Khazars could hold forth in Latin?

  Dahvos bit his lip, eyeing the battle slowly unfolding before him. From this height, the scene took on a surreal quality, as if he were looking down from the heavens. Men were dying in droves down there, but here-in the slightly cooler breeze, among the softly rustling olive trees-there was a sensation of peace. "The Persians must be hammering the right, trying to break through to the road."

  Jusuf nodded. "We shouldn't be here."

  Dahvos sighed in agreement. Initially, putting the Khazar army on the left-all horsemen-had seemed like an excellent idea. Put that down to bad scouting, he thought ruefully. The Arabs crouched on the opposite hill had shown the fallacy of that. Dahvos was not willing to send his men across the soft ground in the shallow valley, then up a hill against massed infantry. "Truth. This is an infantry position. We're not going to be turning this flank."

  "Your orders, khagan?" Jusuf smiled gently at his half-brother. "Do you want to try pushing the Arabs off their hill?"

  "No!" Dahvos shook his head violently, pointing with his chin. "Not with half their line behind a stone wall and uphill, I won't."

  "We could dismount our heavy horse, then strike down this slope on foot and into the Persian flank. The rest of the umens could cover the advance with archery." Jusuf motioned down the rolling slope below them. There were low walls here, too, the remains of old farms and houses, then the flats and the Roman line. Dahvos tapped his teeth with a thumb.

  "No, we won't do that either. If we leave the hill our flank is exposed and we lose mobility. Jusuf, take all of the heavy horse back through the orchards, onto the road, and swing behind the Tenth Fretensis. Then the Legion can cover your flanks and you can get to grips with the Persians."

  Startled, the older man shook his head in dismay. "Dahvos, are you sure? We'd have to back eight thousand men off this hill, march through those narrow lanes and hedgerows to get to the road. Let me take the heavy lancers straight ahead-our horse archers and light horse can cover the wing."

  Jusuf half turned in his saddle, motioning with a gloved hand at the plain. "Look, the Persians have drawn off all their cavalry to the far end of their line. There's nothing down there but spearmen backed by archers and slingers! We can crack right through them!"

  "And the Arab ho
rse?" Dahvos slapped a hand against his thigh with a crack. "They have a reserve, too, though we've not seen it. They must be hiding back behind their infantry, just like ours are hidden in these trees. They will countercharge into you and you'll be exposed and afoot. Get the lancers back off the hill and follow my orders!"

  Jusuf met his brother's eyes, feeling a tension in the air between them. There was a fierce light in the younger man's blue eyes. Jusuf ran a hand back through his hair, feeling his scalp slick with sweat. He is khagan, thought the Khazar, and he is probably right.

  "Yes, khagan," Jusuf barked, raising an arm in salute. "As you command."

  He turned the horse and trotted off through the ragged lane of olive trees. He felt anxious, hurried, eager to be done with this thing. Jusuf shook his head as he rode, regretting the harsh tone in his parting words. But there is no time to lose in argument or apology.

  "Tarkhans, attend me!" he shouted as he rode through the orchard, drawing the attention of his banner leaders. "Leave your men who are exposed on the crest; everyone else reverse and follow me. We're back to the road!"

  Nearly seven thousand Khazar lancers swarmed onto their horses, slapping helmets on their heads, stowing waterskins. The orchard quickly filled with dust and a deafening racket as the tumens mounted up and then turned in place. Jusuf was quickly hoarse from shouting, trying to bully the men into order again and get them moving back down the hill. Thousands of men did not reverse direction easily.

  Oh, he thought in disgust, watching a pall of white dust drift up above the trees, this is secret, all right.

  – |A thicket of spears crashed into the shield wall. Rufio, standing shoulder to shoulder with the Faithful, felt the blow on his shoulder and hip. A wild screaming filled the air as the Slavs and their Avar masters stormed in again, slipping and sliding on ground thick with a slurry of blood, mud and entrails. Three times the Avars and their levies had rushed the Faithful, trying to break through the Roman line, and three times the staunch defense had thrown them back in bloody ruin. Bodies were heaped up on all sides, limbs hewn off, faces cut open, heads lolling at impossible angles. Rufio twisted his shield, slipping a spear point, though it ripped across the painted linen. The Greek stabbed out, his gladius licking against the arm of a Slav.