The Dark Lord

CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

The Portus Magnus, Alexandria

Heavy yellow dust smeared across the sky, borne by some zephyr turning across leagues of desert. Khalid al'Walid strode purposefully along the harbor road, most of his tanned face covered by the wing of his kaffiyeh. Flying grit stung his face, but the Arab's long lashes kept most of the dust and sand from his eyes. In any case, he was used to such weather, though the Egyptian workers laboring in the port complained bitterly. The Eagle passed rank after rank of mule-drawn wagons, each cart stacked high with the dusty, withered remains of the dead. Thankfully, these were old, dry corpses scavenged from tombs scattered at the edge of the desert and they exuded only a faint, spicy smell.

Not every corpse-even those stirred to unnatural life for the attack on the city-would suit this new endeavor. Each body, as Khalid was now far too aware, needed to have a certain… composition… to allow stowage in the holds of the fleet. The corpses of those freshly slain still maintained cohesion, if they had not been torn limb from limb or gnawed to the bone. The ancient dead-almost petrified by ages in the dry air-were equally suitable. The rest, threatening to spread disease to the living and foul the air with rampant putrefaction, had been consigned to enormous fiery pits dug outside the city walls. The ditch in front of the Roman wall had proved very suitable.

Khalid struggled against a constant, inner chill when he focused on anything beyond his own booted feet. The fall of a city usually generated plenty of captives-officers to be ransomed, men to be recruited or repatriated in exchange for one's own prisoners taken by the enemy, hapless merchants caught taking the wrong coin, mercenaries eager for new contracts. But not this time. Instead, the animate dead-the gaatasuun-had been driven by a whip-like will to hunt down and kill every legionnaire.

Dangerous, very dangerous. How will the Romans treat us, if we fall into their hands? Khalid thought to himself, though at the same time he grasped the cold, calculated reality of the act. The bodies of the Romans had been carefully gathered, reunited with their arms and armor-weapons tied to the corpse-limbs with hempen twine, helmets nailed to rotting scalps-and sent aboard the fleet. The young Arab trotted up a ramp of broad sandstone steps and found the man he had been seeking.

"My lord," Khalid called to the hulking, powerful shape of Shahr-Baraz. The King of Kings turned, raising a bushy eyebrow at the young man.

"Lord Khalid, what brings you to the port today?"

"Good news, I suppose," the Eagle answered. He failed to banish a sickly, pained expression from his face. "The last of the… the harrows are filled and ready to load onto the fleet." Khalid made a vague gesture encompassing the sweep of the harbor, the outer breakwater, the enormous towering shape of the Pharos and the busy docks. The waters, shimmering almost white in the full summer sun, were crowded with countless ships. Their sails furled, the fleet made a confusing forest of polished masts, rigging and canvas shades suspended over open decks. Odenathus' latest count placed their number at just over two hundred vessels considered reliable for the open sea.

The King of Kings nodded, his own expression ambivalent. He scratched the base of his chin thoughtfully and Khalid gained a distinct impression of a man struggling with unwelcome duty. "Will loading the kameredha be complete today?"

Khalid nodded, focusing on the shining, white-marble sides of the lighthouse. Heat rising from the water made the building-only a mile distant-shimmer in slow, rolling waves. "By nightfall, I hope. I do not think the longshoremen will work after the sun sets."

"Nor will this cargo be disturbed by thieves… Our living crews will go aboard tomorrow morning." Shahr-Baraz fixed the young Arab with a piercing, considering stare. "You seem out of sorts, young general." The Persian did not smile, though a faint amusement sparkled in his deep-set eyes. "I must say, for myself, I never expected to command a Roman army in my life. But the lord of the world is not without his own grave humor."

Khalid started, turning pale at the jest. "Do you find this amusing?"

Shahr-Baraz nodded, hooking his thumbs into a broad, tooled leather belt. He sat up on the stone railing around the observation platform. "You're young, al'Walid. The enmity between Rome and Persia must seem eternal to you. When I was young, I fought alongside men of the Eastern Empire in our war against the usurper and legionaries marched in the streets of Ctesiphon with flowers wound in their helmets as the common people cheered them as saviors. That, young Eagle, was an odd circumstance."

Khalid nodded jerkily, his forearms resting on the warm, smooth stone. "I have heard the stories. I just… this war of sorcery is not… what I wanted, when we set out from Mekkah."

"What did you want?" Shahr-Baraz's rumbling voice was almost quiet. "Honor? Clean glory, won over a lance or sword, in fair, open struggle? Two champions facing one another over dusty ground-and victory turning on the outcome of a single passage at arms?"

Khalid looked away, unable to meet the older man's too-understanding gaze. "I guess… I did."

"Like in a song or story. I had those dreams myself, long ago. But this is the way of things-you chase a half-glimpsed hind and find only sticky, painful reality in your hands." The Boar chuckled. "But our deeds will be a song-if not already-all the smell and stink and sleeplessness and terror winnowed out, never to trouble the thoughts of the young."

"Yes." Khalid felt his heart shrink to agree and a pit opened in his stomach at the prospect of such a cruel end to his dreams of glory. With an effort, he turned his thoughts away from the ruin wrought by circumstance. "How many living men are we taking?"

"As few as I can manage," the king said, one big scarred hand tugging gently at his long nose. "The ship's crews and longshoremen, my own guards, ourselves. I am thinking-the Queen agrees-but you should know, to leave Jalal and Shadin in command of the Egyptian garrison. They are reliable old dogs from what I've seen, and they will not lack for work in our absence."

"Good," Khalid said, feeling his gloomy mood lift. "They can command the Sahaba in my absence. I… I was thinking to leave them all here, all of the men who came up from Mekkah and the Nabateans and most of the Palmyrenes, save those we need to pilot and steer and crew the ships." The younger man's voice almost trembled and he realized he was on the verge of begging.

"I agree," Shahr-Baraz said softly, clapping Khalid on the shoulder. "The Queen has already seen to the assignments and ordering of our fleet and army. She has some experience in these matters." He leaned close. "The Serpent will take his Huns and that wolf C'hu-lo to command them in battle and his cold servants and I will take certain picked men of the pushtigbahn and those we must, but I am sending most of the younger men home, and others will garrison here and there, out of harm's way."

The young Eagle's eyes widened and his hand moved in an abortive sign against ill luck. Despite the fallacy of keeping anything secret if the Serpent turned his attention directly upon them, Khalid's voice fell to a whisper. "You… you and the Queen think we will lose?"

Shahr-Baraz's face twisted into a rueful grimace. He tilted his head to one side. "What if we win? Would that be any better? In the end, all that matters is for the Serpent to live as long as possible. I am growing tired of seeing my men die in his service."

The king looked up at the huge white disk of the sun, shading his eyes with one hand. He sighed, feeling the warmth flood his bones and settle into his chest. Motion in the upper air caught his eye and he squinted, lifting his chin. "Look."

Khalid stared upwards as well, relieved to look away from the wagons rattling past below, each heaped high with rope-bound bodies and gleaming white skulls. An irregular V of birds drifted on the upper air, heading south. At this distance, they were pale cream against a cerulean sky.

"Cranes," Shahr-Baraz said. "The first to head south for the mountains of Axum and Ethiop. Soon, there will be thousands upon thousands. The seasons turn, lad, regardless of what we do."

"Yes," Khalid said, finding no solace in the sight of the glossy, white creatures. "I suppose."

Shahr-Baraz tossed his head, letting heavy black curls shot with gray fall over his shoulder. "Your mood will lift, I think. See-here is a man whose ugly face will cheer you." The king pointed down the steps with his chin.

Khalid turned and saw a tall Persian climbing the stairs, armor gray under tattered desert robes, solemn face creased by the smallest possible smile. "Patik!" Khalid stepped forward, clasping forearms with the big Persian soldier. "Or Prince Shahin, I suppose I should say."

"Patik is better," the diquan replied, crushing the Arab's arm with a powerful grip. "The Serpent Lord is no longer pleased with the great prince Suren-Pahlavi."

"What happened?" Khalid looked to the king in alarm and found the Boar nodding in dour agreement.

"I failed to find our sorcerer his ancient trinket." Patik rubbed his neck. "Though I believe I caught a glimpse of the cursed thing once, at distance."

"Too bad," Khalid said, trying not to grin in delight to find his old friend still alive. "What about your men?"

Patik shook his head dolefully. The young Arab sighed. "I'm sorry."

"Another failed hunt," Patik said, bowing politely to Shahr-Baraz. "Your pardon, Great Lord."

The greeting drew a sharp bark of laughter from the king. Shahin's new sense of humility was far preferable to his old hauteur, which had only gained him contempt. "You look well, Shahin, and I am glad you live, though I begrudge even the deaths of your flea-bitten desert jackals. Particularly in Rustam's service."

"Thank you, my lord." Patik looked out at the fleet. "The Queen sent me to find you. She says everything is in readiness, waiting only upon the wind and tide."

Shahr-Baraz stepped away from the wall, settling the leather harness and straps holding his diverse weapons. Swords, maces and dagger clanked against each other. The king squinted at the eastern sky, then to the south. "The fishermen say there will be a morning breeze as this dust cloud turns and we will make good headway out of the harbor." He looked to the west, his expression hardening. "And we shall see the mountains of Sicilia in a week, or ten days at the most."