The Storm of Heaven (36 page)

Jalal snapped aside the cloth drape and stomped across the carpets to the table. Uri looked up at his entrance, then stepped back in alarm at the sight of his face. Without pausing, Jalal seized Odenathus by the collar of his mailed-iron shirt and dragged him to his feet.

"What—" Odenathus barely had time to make a noise before the big Sahaban smashed a thick, knotted fist into his face. There was a rude sound of crunching bone and Odenathus was flung down on the floor. Jalal kicked the three-legged chair away, sending it crashing into an ironwood chest set against the wall.

"Useless child! Are you good for anything save getting good men killed?"

Uri had leapt around the table, intending to restrain Jalal, but now he stopped short and stared at the general in surprise. The Sahaba commander ignored the tribal chieftain, watching Odenathus clutch his broken nose. The Palmyrene had not cried out or fled.

"Our enemy," Odenathus said in a tight, controlled voice, "is stronger than I am. The best shield that I can build shatters before him if he puts forth his full effort." Blood seeped from under his hand, but Jalal saw that the youth's eyes were fixed calmly on him. Odenathus got his feet under him and stood.

"Then we will not play about with trying to
stop
his strongest
effort
," Jalal barked, voice ringing with sarcasm. "We will just
kill
him and be done with the matter."

"Kill him?" Odenathus' hand dropped in surprise, revealing a growing bruise and a crooked nose. "I can't kill him, he's my friend!"

Jalal's fist was lightning, smashing into the Palmyrene's stomach. Odenathus buckled, a great roaring sound in his ears, and tried to bring up a hand to protect his face. The Sahaban's trunklike leg crashed into his jaw and the Palmyrene was thrown back again, cracking his head against one of the supporting tent posts.

"We're not playing about here, you stupid child!" Jalal's voice rose into a howl. "Six hundred men were killed today because you couldn't stop your
dear beloved friend
!" Jalal grabbed Odenathus by the hair and dragged him to his feet. The youth could barely see or breathe. "I would kill you now to appease their spirits, if you weren't the only wizard I happen to have around!"

Odenathus sensed another fist coming at his face and, finally, anger sparked in his heart. He had spent the day wallowing in guilt, watching the litter bearers haul wounded men into the camp. The assault on the northern gate was a spectacular failure, with hundreds of men incinerated by Dwyrin's fire. The siege tower had been destroyed and the Sahaba who had reached the battlement had been hewn down. Odenathus had tried, again and again, to deflect the bolts, to hold a shield against Dwyrin's power, but it had been useless. His friend was too strong.

Jalal was still screaming at him and it was too much. Odenathus, despite the blinding pain in his face and head, let his thought settle and his will reach out into the hidden world.

The fist whipped through the air, aimed for the youth's ear, and then it stopped as if it had plunged into tar. Jalal goggled for a moment, seeing the air thicken around his outstretched arm. Odenathus' face wavered as if a fire stood between them, bloody and terribly grim.

"You may not hit me again," grated the young wizard and raised his hand.

The air rang like a great temple bar, drawing a cry of pain from Uri, and Jalal was hurled the length of the tent. His head, still encased in a heavy iron legionnaire's helmet, cracked against the main tent post, splintering the wood. The general gave forth a guttural grunt and sagged to the floor like a sack of millet. Odenathus stumbled forward, lips drawn back in a snarl. The map table sprang away from the distorted wall of air in front of him. Chairs and chests followed it a moment later, pressed aside by a gigantic invisible hand. Uri felt the power in the air wash over him, flinging him back into the cloth wall. Curlicues of pale white fire danced on the metal objects in the room and the Ben-Sarid lord felt his arms tingle as the hairs stood on end.

"This is your solution, to hit something until you feel better?" Odenathus laughed as he approached the supine form of the general. The body twitched, arms and legs limp, but now moved by the power that thickened the air and distorted the light. The Palmyrene clenched his fist and Jalal was blown through the back of the tent. The heavy cloth parted with a ripping sound and suddenly the entire back wall was gone, shredded away. The general sailed out into the darkness, flying over the heads of surprised soldiers and camp followers. A great wind rushed out, flattening their fires and blowing down tents.

"I will not kill my friend!"

Odenathus' voice raged like the storm winds out of the desert, cracking with anger and despair.

Jalal hit a supply wagon filled with huge pottery amphorae with a resounding crash. Wine and oil jetted out of the broken containers, leaving the general's legs sticking up out of the mess of crockery and broken wicker.

My friends.
Odenathus spun around, his eyes wide with surprise. It was the familiar voice of Mohammed, but it echoed in his thoughts like his own.
We go, today, to war against a great nation. It is an empire that many of us have served in our lives. There are those among you who have friends, even relations, in the ranks of those we will fight.

Odenathus stopped, shock-still, blood and tears leaking down his battered face. These were words Lord Mohammed had addressed to the entire army when they had set forth from Petra to invade the northern Decapolis. The great camp at Lejjun had been their objective.

The day will come, as the Merciful and Compassionate One knows, when you will face someone dear to you in battle. They will be your enemy. They will strive against you, against the will of the power that moves the tide and the stars. When this occurs, you must put your faith and your heart in the hands of he who made men from clots of blood. All things begin with him and all things end with him. We strive against wickedness, and any man who falls in the service of the all-knowing and the all-seeing, he will find that paradise is his reward.

Odenathus shuddered. The boy, Dwyrin, his friend, was an enemy. Rome, the empire that he had once sworn to serve, was an enemy. There could be no quarter between them. He had given himself over to the service of the Lord of the Wasteland. Now the first hard choice had come.

The strange wind died down. Uri fell to the ground, as did a great deal of tent, crockery, tables and chairs. Odenathus knelt on the ground, his face contorted. He was trembling, trying not to cry out. He felt cold and empty, but something had become very clear to him.

I must kill Dwyrin or more of us will die.

Odenathus stuffed a cloth against his nose. It was still bleeding. He stood. Uri was watching him from the other side of the tent with wide eyes.

"Apologies, Lord Uri. I did not mean to harm anyone. That lummox is right, though."

The Ben-Sarid sheathed his dagger and stood up. His lean face was troubled. It had been a very hard day for the clan lord too, for his men had suffered grievously in the failed attack.

"What do you mean?" Uri sounded tired and exhausted.

"My mind has been clouded," Odenathus said and he realized that this was the literal truth. "I know this enemy wizard's capabilities as well as I know my own. I have no excuse for the losses your tribe has sustained. I owe your people a debt of blood. It will be repaid."

There was a clattering sound out in the darkness and a stentorian shouting. Odenathus grinned, his teeth white in the red wash that covered his face and beard. Jalal seemed to have recovered. "Once that blowing ox returns to the stable, I will tell you what we are going to do."

The streets of the city were narrow and overhung by ancient buildings, making them absolutely pitch black after dark. Dwyrin was only partially conscious of the gloom. His head hurt so much he wouldn't have noticed a slap. Guided by one of the local boys, he stumbled down a broad, flat flight of steps. Then they turned and passed through a maze of corridors and streets. The boy seemed to know where they were going, and Dwyrin followed along doggedly.

White sparks drifted in front of his eyes, clouding his vision. Curlicues of violet flame seemed to shimmer along his hands and arms if he looked down. Another sorcerer or thaumaturge might have been gibbering in fear now, watching in horror as the walls and bricks that surrounded him faded in and out of sight. Sometimes lighted rooms yawned before him, blurred by the indistinct vapor of walls and doors. He had overextended himself today, letting fire flow through him like a rain channel. It had eroded the symbolic mental barriers that kept his conscious mind from comprehending the true world.

Those same symbologies defined who he was in human terms. They gave him a name, a physical description, context for his thoughts and actions and they made him a unique entity. For most men, when those symbols ceased to define them, they went mad. Who could remain sane if he looked upon the face of chaos unveiled?

Once, Dwyrin had been stressed almost to the point of dissolution by the failure of these symbologies. He had survived. In the testing fire, he had become aware that there was a core pattern within the whirling dance of fire that described his physical body. There
was
a self, buried at the heart of his mobile shape. It was atomic, indivisible, but it was easily overlooked or forgotten. Something gave his pattern and form will and intent. This was what the teachers at the school named the
ka
, the indivisible spirit of man. Dwyrin had lived, clinging to that last, final uniqueness. From it, all things sprang. Many masters of the art never reached that point, blinded by their own pride and ego.

After an endless time filled with slowly writhing snake patterns that curled and squirmed under his feet, the boy led him into the citadel gatehouse. The room was warm and filled with firelight. Dwyrin stumbled into the edge of a table, cracking his thigh. Distantly, some part of his physical mind registered pain.

"Come on, lad, let me get an arm under..." Smell intruded, presenting an intelligible form where sight had failed. It was a warm, musky odor, thick with memories of the forest and newly turned earth and rotting logs.

"Vladimir?"

"Yes, lad," the Walach said, carrying him up the stairs. Dwyrin let his head fall against the man's chest. It was warm too, and soft with thick dark hair. Sound penetrated: the regular beating of a heart, the crack of a boot against a wooden door. Then there was softness: a blanket being turned over his weary body. Dwyrin tried to bring his vision under control.

"Is he all right?" That must be Nicholas. He sounded tired too, and concerned.

"His heart is strong," Vladimir answered, "but look at his eyes. Is he mad?"

"Lad?" Nicholas again. Dwyrin was aware of pressure and something closed. Ah, his eyelids. A hand was over them. Dwyrin could see the pattern of veins in it, pulsing with blood, and the twitch of muscles as it moved.

"I... hear... you." It was hard to make this body work. It moved so slowly. It was so cumbersome. "I... must sleep."

"Wine, perhaps?" Vladimir again and the sound of pottery rattling on the table.

"I've something better." Nicholas, voice receding. "Here." It was close again.

Something hot and bitter flooded his senses. Taste was still working properly. Something strong with alcohol. After a moment, Dwyrin felt a warm glow in his physical body, and the insane flight of the tiny brilliant lights that formed the air and the walls and the insides of his own eyelids suddenly dimmed. Welcome darkness flooded up, blotting out the true world.

The boy, lying on a Legion-issue cot in a nearly bare stone room in the citadel of the city, snored softly. His face, which had been a tense rictus, relaxed and the pale light seeping from his skin faded. Nicholas, his face slowly falling into shadow as the strange radiance died, breathed a sigh of relief.

"It's too hard on him," Vladimir said. "It wears on him. Look at him, Nick, he's like a ghost!"

"I know." Nicholas laid the back of his hand on the boy's forehead. It was very hot, the skin radiating heat like an iron stove. "But what can I do? Without him, those bandits would be over the wall in a day and
we
would all be dead."

Vladimir shook his head. He had no answer either.

Alexandros rode beside a swift river, sun shining in his golden hair. Along the bank, glossy-leaved willows drooped over the current. Great flocks of birds roosted in the trees, chattering like a storm cloud as he passed. The air was crisp and the Macedonian felt relieved to escape the dreary tomb of Rome.

The old Roman road turned through a break in the hedgerows and cut across a great field. Red flowers produced a riot of color against the dark hedge. Alexandros shouted, face lighting with joy when he saw horses browsing in the stubbly field. The herd, hundreds strong, drifted slowly across the side of a hill.

"They're beautiful," he called back to Ermanerich. "Do your people value horses?"

"Above all else," the Goth shouted back, light blue eyes twinkling. Ermanerich cantered up the hill. The Macedonian craned his neck, looking out over the valley. The horses had shied away, thundering down the far slope before turning and resuming their grazing. "What man can call himself a man without a horse?"

Alexandros nodded, feeling a subtle shock of recognition. Horses consumed fodder, effort and gold, but mounted men were the foundation of victory. Only Rome ignored this truth, relying on massed formations of heavily armored infantry.

But their lands are not well suited for horse herds,
he reminded himself.
And they have been victorious for a long time.

The Gothic prince pointed south, down the valley. A haze of gray wood smoke lay over the trees. "Our capital lies just there, friend Alexandros. You will see that it is a fine, modern city!"

Alexandros smiled to himself, hearing pride and insecurity mix like wine and water in his companion's voice. He had watched and listened, while they rode up out of Italia, crossed the snow-capped Alps and descended into the Pannonian basin. The Goths were a proud race, weaned on battle, and for a long time they had tested their strength against Rome, devastating the frontier. The greatest Roman defeat in modern history, at Adrianopolis, had been inflicted by Gothic arms.