The Storm of Heaven (105 page)

Dwyrin.
Zoë flinched away from the glowing star, realizing that he could feel her touch, even through the storm of hate and fear and rage that billowed up from the battle, fouling the air and twisting the patterns of the world. A vision of his face—such a familiar, freckled, grinning face—all slick with sweat and haggard, drained, lingered with her.

There is no margin for friendship,
she growled at herself, raising her arms. Odenathus moved with her, his thought entwined in hers, making them more than a single mage. With a full five in tandem, like a swift, skilled racing team, they could exert tremendous pressure upon the pattern of the world. Now, with only two of them, they would have to trade speed for power.

Zoë's will leapt across the embattled plain. Odenathus was with her, his strength hers, his will anchoring her like a mountain. Dwyrin's wards rose up, a burning sphere a hundred feet across, enclosing the boy and the frightful icon that blazed with such ferocity at the heart of the Roman army.

The Palmyrene Queen ignored the looming shape of the Emperor, his head wreathed in storm clouds, thunder on his brow, lightning leaping from gauntleted hands. The men fighting among the shadows of his feet might feel their hearts lifted, weary limbs given strength, fear banished, but she knew only a terrible burning hatred for the Empire that had betrayed her.

"The city and the Queen!" She punched at the wavering figure of the boy, hidden behind his swirling, inchoate shield of disks and signs. Lightning leapt at her touch, raging against the wards. Sigils burst into brilliant light, touched by her power. The whole sphere de-formed, spidering with cracks, as it shook from the blow.

Behind the ward, Dwyrin staggered as well, stunned by the fury in the stroke.

"The city!" Lightning burned, flooding the plain with an actinic white glare. The Hibernian was thrown down on the ground, his spirit form stunned. The outer surface of the ward splintered, shedding smoking flakes of orange light, then shattered along one of the cardinal points. Zoë's entire mind was engaged, letting the hate and fury that she had carried from the ruin of Palmyra flood forth. Her spirit arm slashed down again, wringing dark lightning from the sky.

The oblate sphere flattened, then cracked through. Dwyrin screamed, the side of his face burning with ultraviolet flames. His hand rose up, will rallying. The flames eating at his skin died. Power flooded from the sky and the earth to him, leaping like a wadi in storm flood, and a skein of light sprang up around him. Zoë staggered back, feeling the echo of that strength. Lightning leapt from her fingers again, playing across the glittering shield, but arced away uselessly.

Dwyrin's will turned upon her, focused like a Syracusian mirror, and he clenched his fists, then slammed them down. The earth buckled and shook, and a blast of flame leapt up, slashing across her. Zoë leapt to the side, feeling the heat of the bolt hiss past. Inwardly, she quailed, seeing his power rising like the sun, growing stronger and stronger.

O Dusarra, aid me!
She dug deep into the earth, groping for strength in rock and stone and deeply hidden water, but there was nothing there. The land was already stripped bare, the
mana
in its heart swallowed up in this conflagration. A bare blue flicker of the Shield of Athena sprang up around her and she rushed through a mnemonic to reinforce the—

A pure white bolt exploded from Dwyrin's open hand, bursting through her shield with a hammer blow. Zoë screamed, her spirit shattering, burning blue shards ripping across her. Everything whirled down toward darkness, though she clung to consciousness with a grim effort. She fled, leaping across the field, rushing for the safety of physicality. Glowing white shapes rushed around her, snatching at her with burning teeth.

Dwyrin had grown huge, like a god himself, dwarfing even the figure of the spirit-emperor. His hand reached out for her, a ghostly shade lit from within by lightning. Zoë turned on the hilltop, her ghostly shape crouched over her own pale, sweating body. A ring of lightning blazed up around her, tearing the hounds of light into fragments. Her slim hand clutched at the sky, dragging down the thin power in the wind, then stabbed out at Dwyrin.

The Hibernian shrugged off the blow, though his shape dwindled. He was rocked, staggered by the blast. Zoë smiled grimly, catching lightning in her fingers, twisting it into a new pattern of attack. Now his orange ward sprang up again, though it was patchy and weak. The enormous strength that had filled him only moments before was fading. She could feel his weariness.

Dwyrin!
Her words leapt across the dark void between them and his head snapped up, blue eyes burning, a word forming on his lips.

Odenathus struck, bursting from hiding amongst the struggling shapes of men, green fire blazing from his brow, leaping from his striking hand. The bolt raged across Dwyrin, crumpling the pale orange shell around him. He cried out, stricken, and fell. Black flames licked up around him, and Odenathus struck again, his pattern grim and frightful, driving a blazing viridian spear into the boy's heart.

Zoë cried out, feeling an overwhelming burst of pain leap across the remnants of their old battle-meld. She staggered, clutching her chest. Breath failed in her throat.

Khadames, grunting with effort, parried the overhand blow of a Roman
cataphract
. His sword rang like a bell, then the old Persian went hilt to hilt with the Eastern soldier. Their horses jostled, each biting viciously at the other. Khadames punched the man in the face with his fist, the reinforced metal gauntlets cutting the Roman's cheek. Grappling, they struggled for a moment, but then another Persian
clibanarus
thrust a spear into the Roman's side. Metal links snapped and parted under the blow and then a trickle of blood appeared under the man's helmet.

Sweating and gasping for breath, Khadames pushed the dying Roman away, spurring at his horse, trying to break out of the press of men and horses all around him. The Sarmatian attack had broken on the Persian
diquans
, unable to build up the momentum to use their
kontos
effectively. In these close quarters the Persians' armored horses lent them the advantage. Most of the nomads were falling back, trying to break away from the
clibanarii
.

"Form diamond! Form diamond!" Khadames rode among his men, shouting and gesturing with his sword. Off to his left, towards the ruined Arab fortification, the Immortals were vigorously engaged in slaughtering the remainder of the Roman infantry holding them back from the road. Some of the
pushtigbahn
were already fighting on the metaled, stone surface of the highway. Two of the Roman Legion standards had fallen, hacked to bits by the Persians. The legionaries, disordered, were unable to hold back the heavily armored horsemen. "Bows! Ready bows!"

The old general pushed up his visor, letting a blessedly cool breeze wash over his face. His men were riding or running back towards his banners, forming up again. There was very little time. Another great mass of Romans—their heavy horse, the
cataphractoi
—were already surging forward, brushing the remnants of the Sarmatians aside. Like his own
clibanarii
, they were armed with horse bows and armored from head to toe. Khadames rose up in his stirrups, glancing left and right, gauging the order of his troops. Many men had lost their horses and were now fighting on foot.

"Bows!" he screamed, his voice thin and hoarse, but enough of his captains heard the call to pass the order on through the swelling ranks. Each regiment was clustering around their own banners, making a patchwork line three ranks deep. Across the field, now littered with dead and dying horses and men, the Romans were beginning to trot, gathering speed. Khadames watched them come, each grain passing with agonizing slowness, as his own men snatched bows from their
gorytos
, strung them in quick, assured motions, then drew arrows to the notch. The Romans were sweeping forward now, swords, maces and long spears in hand, rushing ahead.

"Loose!" Khadames slashed his sword down, feeling the air ripple with the singing
thwack
of massed bows firing. At this range, barely a hundred feet, the shafts flicked across the distance in a heartbeat. "Loose!" The second rank of Persians shot through gaps in the first rank. The Roman charge staggered, slammed by a storm of arrows. Despite hundreds of men being hit, dark fletched shafts hanging from armor and shields, the Romans came on.

A thunder of hooves rolled before them and dust mounted into the sky behind. Khadames shook his head, surprised that their commander had ordered such a hasty charge. The old Persian would have chosen to rake the mass of the enemy with his archery first. "Loose!"

The third rank of Persians shot high, lofting their arrows over the heads of the first two lines of horse. Those
diquans
had stowed their bows and closed up, forming a solid mass, bared long swords, lances and maces in hand. These Romans would not find a disordered foe! Khadames spurred his horse forward, galloping down the line of battle. Everywhere he saw his men standing firm and resolute. Now, he thought, they could advance again into the maw of battle. The stain of the defeat at Kerenos River was black on the honor of Persia. Khadames grinned wildly, seeing brave honor etched on the faces of his kinsmen.

"Advance!" Trumpets and horns echoed his call, and all three ranks of horsemen began to move forward. Better to be moving, when mass collided with mass!

Then, over the heads of his knights, Khadames saw the Romans burst forth from the cloud of dust, charging full speed into his line. At their center, three ranks back, also rushing forward, he saw a tall man in gleaming golden armor, surrounded by many
cataphracts
in silvered mail. The old general's eyes widened in surprise. What fool wore such gaudy armor in the middle of a battle?
The Emperor? Impossible!

"Archers! Archers to me!" Khadames curveted his horse. Three men in the rear ranks of the nearest regiment turned towards him, black beards bristling from their helmets.

"Lord General! We are archers!" Their voices boomed with the accents of Balkh, that ancient Eastern city on the green waters of the Oxus. The middle one, a tall fellow with mighty arms, spurred his horse forward. A bow was already in his hands, wrapped on the upper stave with a length of black silk. "What is your command?"

"There, do you see the man in gold?" Khadames pointed urgently out over the field. The Romans were only an instant from collision with his forces rushing forward.

"I do!" shouted the archer, flipping up his visor. He was young but well made, with clear dark eyes and a classic Persian nose. "Like a king or a god!"

"Kill him," snapped Khadames, "kill him, and the
Shahanshah
will give you great honor!"

"I do not want honor," shouted the man, bending his bow, a long gray-fletched arrow already on the notch. "I'd have his daughter's hand instead!"

Khadames laughed, for now he knew the man, Piruz of Balkh, Prince of the North. "Then shoot well, Prince, and you will have your heart's desire!"

Forty feet away, the charging Romans slammed into the trotting Persian line in a huge
crash
of metal on metal and the screaming of horses. Immediately, the front line was embroiled in a vicious hand-to-hand struggle. Though the Roman horses refused to charge pell-mell into the solid wall of Persians, the momentum of their attack staggered the
diquans
. Khadames almost immediately found himself surrounded by struggling, fighting men. His own blade licked out, clanging off an upraised Roman sword. The heat returned, descending upon him like a burning cloak.

Piruz, sweat running down his neck and into the felt undercoat of his armor, sighted across the field, seeing his enemy shouting commands, rising up above his men in a waving sanguine forest of swords and lances. The Prince breathed, letting his heart settle. The bow stave flexed away from him as his left hand pressed against the bone-covered back. Goose feathers tickled his brow as he raised the bow up, a hiss of air passing his clenched teeth. The roar of battle receded from his thoughts. Everything was silent.

The man in gold turned to face him, his face a graven-steel mask. Piruz saw, in that frozen moment, that the Roman armor lapped over his enemy's shoulders and arms in fitted bands of iron. Ribbons hung down from the peaked helm and a maroon tabard lay over his shoulders. The golden king's voice boomed, urging his men onward. Piruz did not know this Western tongue, but he saw a powerful man in the thick of battle.

This is an honorable death,
thought the Persian and he loosed, the arrow singing away from the stave, arcing up into the air, only one of many that flashed across the sky. The stillness remained, his breathing slow, the long moment passing so slowly... Piruz's hand moved of its own accord, drawing another arrow from the wooden quiver, the smooth ashwood sliding against the curve of the bow stave.

The arrow fell, spiraling down out of the sky. The golden man was looking away, his arm waving, gleaming in the sun. The triangular iron head of the arrow struck his gorget of flattened iron links, shattering on the metal plates. Piruz could not hear the sound it made, but he could see sparks leap from the armor.

Again the Persian raised his bow, his movement effortless, the wind catching the black silk and ruffling it back and forth. He knew that a mighty tumult was all around him, a roaring and a clashing of arms, a titanic noise, but he heard nothing but the wind singing against the horsehair string of his bow. He drew, sighted, loosed, all in one breath.

Amid a roil of color and iron and banners and bloody steel, the golden man was slumping into the arms of his fellows, his hand rising up to clutch at the sky. Crimson welled from beneath the gorget, spilling across the golden breastplate. One of the other Romans unclasped the visor from his helmet, letting cool wind kiss the man's golden hair. Piruz saw the distant face turn up to the sun, to the blue bowl of the sky.

The second arrow fell from the sun, glittering, and plunged into the man's eye. A violent convulsion wracked his body, his guardsmen crying out, closing about him, their swords bare. Piruz lost sight of the golden armor and the dying man it held.