The Dark Lord

CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

Under Mount Aetna, Sicilia

Maxian swept through smoky air, long, dark hair flying out behind his head. With the Persian sorcerer driven before him in panic, the prince turned his attention aside for an instant, eyeing the fleet scattered across the bay. Many of the ships were afire-some had already burned to the waterline, leaving ghostly hulls half-visible below the choppy water-but more remained. The wind continued to bear unseasonably from the southeast. A few of the surviving Persian merchantmen were tacking away from the shore, wakes bright in the dying, ruddy light. Some of the remaining ships continued to unload, sending more boats filled with men towards the beach.

Alexandros is in trouble, Maxian thought. A chorus of voices rose in his mind, clamoring spirits eager to gain his favor. Their whispers resolved into a litany of coherent thoughts: the Roman army is too small and trying to fight in too many places at once. The prince grimaced, slowing his headlong flight through the air.

The dark shape of the Persian disappeared among the jumble of houses, temples and imposing theatre of Catania itself. There were no fires burning in the town and the fading light cast the streets and avenues into shadow, but Maxian-with a cold smile-thought he'd have no trouble running the sorcerer to ground when he needed to. He's out of play for the moment… and that is enough.

Frowning at the enemy fleet, the prince turned his attention to the sea and the vast web of forces and powers at work above, on, and below the waters. He could feel-would see, if he cared-the glittering forms of two Persian wizards still active on the beach itself. But their light was dim in comparison to their master and Maxian set his thoughts of them aside.

Their fleet is too numerous. Columella's dry voice whispered. You must not give the Persian too much time-he will recover his strength, set fear aside, devise stratagems to defeat you. Let Lord Alexandros deal with these matters.

"No," Maxian said aloud. He drifted in the air, surrounded by potent signs and the ceaseless, shimmering motion of his patterns and wards. Hundreds of feet below, waves swept in long, foaming arcs against the shore and men struggled and died, pierced by iron or steel, over sandy ground. He could feel their spirits flash bright, then vanish as blood spilled and breath fled. "A Persian army ashore, intact and ably led will be more trouble than we can afford."

His eyes lifted to the vast, smooth cone of Aetna and a grim, almost mischievous smile came upon him.

Great Lord, you cannot… Columella grew silent, feeling a spark of anger flare in the prince's mind. The citizens… The old ghost's voice trailed away feebly.

Maxian let sight expand, shedding the immediate pressures of flesh and the wind and smoke biting at his nostrils. A sullen red core slumbered far beneath the mountain, tendrils of glowing crimson slowly rising, percolating through the veins of the earth, finding release from subterranean pressures in gouts of steam and a constant, rumbling hiss that threw a column of flattened smoke away from the mountaintop. The prince felt his irritation mount-time was pressing and he could feel the Persian's sharp-edged pattern growing stronger-the mountain was quiet, without the vast lode of power Vesuvius once held. The Oath is not trying to bottle this one, he realized.

One of the pale lights whirling around him flared, and the prince saw a brief, fear-etched vision of a massive wave roaring up out of the sea, smashing ships to kindling and then raging against a shore studded with ornate houses of stone and brick.

"Well done." Maxian grinned, favoring the mote with a moment of his attention. He could feel the Oath trembling around him; a deep, superbly complex matrix of memories, traditions and the living citizens of the Empire. His intent flashed out, leaping from Aetna's dark, trembling heart along a fissure running out to sea. Swiftly, his will sped, burrowing beneath the earth, finding black fumaroles boiling in the vasty deep, splintered rock grinding against crushed limestone.

Here is some power! he exulted, a diamond-bright pinpoint lancing down as he commanded, spearing into a tight green-and-blue balance of vast forces. There was slippage, weakness and then drowned mountains ground violently against one another, making the ocean floor heave and pitch. The sea shivered. Thousands of feet above, where the water was falling dark with the flight of the sun, a dimple formed on the surface, then collapsed, sending jets of spray hundreds of feet into the air.

The prince laughed in delight, casting a pitying look upon the ships crowding below him. He turned abruptly, speeding north, the sky rumbling behind him. Fey lights played in his hair and the whirling orbs surrounding him brightened, becoming almost visible in the waking world.

Catania swelled below him, whitewashed buildings passing by, temple roofs red with tile and bright ornaments. The streets were empty, every shutter locked tight. No one could be seen or felt. Maxian drifted past a temple of Poseidon-marble columns glowing pale in the twilight-his sense of unease growing. A dog barked wildly in a yard below. He reached out, captured the fragments of the Oath lingering in the ancient town and felt his battle-shield wax strong. His brow furrowed, feeling the tenuous fabric pervading the Roman city fray.

Something flared in the hidden world-a dark spike of power-and the prince cursed, leaping high into the air. Below him-to the right, hard by the port and the sea-the shape of a grand amphitheater rose, strikingly done in alternating slabs of dark volcanic rock, red brick and pale yellow marble. Three terraces of columns and arches, with boxed seats, surrounded an oval floor. The tiers of seats and the sandy floor were covered with thousands of fallen men, women and children.

They fled here when word of the battle came, Columella whispered sadly. Seeking safety. The old city walls were torn down for building materials in the time of Emperor Trajan.

Ebon hues played among the statues lining the top deck of the amphitheater. Maxian slowed to a halt, the roof only inches below his feet. Flat, rust-colored tiles splintered as he drifted across them, the strength concentrated in him distorting the waking world. Ghosts prowled around him, empty eyes vigilant for the enemy. He could smell the acrid stench of death in the air and the queer, trembling vibration in the hidden world when lives were taken to grant power. Maxian shuddered, feeling the urge to consume rise in his throat. His mouth stretched in a feral snarl. Some of those sprawled on the sand still lived… the prince darted down to the theater floor, a black crow with ragged wings stooping over the crumpled body of a young man.

"He's not-" Maxian staggered, the counter-rotating spheres around him lighting with a tremendous flash. The Persian stormed out of a tunnel mouth, a whirlwind of black lightning slashing at the prince's shield. Layers of glittering blue-white shuddered, then cracked, darkness surging against the barrier of drifting glyphs. Ghosts swarmed into the breach, wailing piteously, their frail remnants dissolving in a mad rush. The sorcerer stamped down with a scaled foot and the sandy floor erupted with a boom! Maxian flew backwards, crashing into the retaining wall circling the amphitheater floor. His physical body bounced back from the tufa wall, blood flying from his mouth.

Mind distracted, his shields weakened, straining to hold back stabbing bolts of indigo, the prince spat to clear his mouth, forcing himself to his feet. The last of the ghosts congealed before him in a wavering wall of lights, but their numbers dwindled with each attack. The sorcerer clapped his hands together, eyes blazing, and the stone behind Maxian groaned and split, showering him with needle-like shrapnel. Physical pain cut into his focus, but the prince had no time for such trivialities.

Faintly, he could hear a roaring sound rising to swallow the world.

Maxian crouched down, letting the last of his brittle shields fail, the sign of Athena guttering, overwhelmed by darkness and he pressed his hands against the sandy ground. He closed his eyes, ignoring the blood and sweat dripping from a forehead scored by deep cuts. A familiar, debilitating cold flooded around him, leaching his strength, drawing his breath out in trailing white mist. The Persian's laughter rolled and trembled in his ears, as the stone walls of the amphitheater creaked, crumbling to ash and dust.

Shahr-Baraz ran up the dune, his boots dragging in soft, black sand. His breath came in rasping gulps, though his stride did not waver or slack. He was the Boar and his strength of limb and will was without limit. Armored hands grasped the hilt of a heavy, straight blade half-again longer than the longest carried by his guardsmen. Another man would find the sword taxing to lift, much less wield in combat. Shahr-Baraz had sparred with a weapon like this-either a sword or mace or axe-since the first whiskers sprouted on his chin.

The pushtigbahn loped alongside their captain, each man laboring through the loose sand, weapons held high, shields riding on brawny arms. They did not waste their breath in shouts of rage or war cries; each was a veteran, selected from the ranks of the great nobles for valor, for courage, for skill in the saddle and afoot surpassing all others. Among them, the dark, cloaked shapes of the Shanzdah strode like hunting dogs, silent and intent. The ground firmed and now there were drifts of shattered bodies, legs hewn from hips, arms cast awry, rotted skulls caved in by axe and spear.

Shahr-Baraz saw the army of the dead had broken upon the Roman lines and the enemy was waiting, shields locked, three-perhaps four-ranks deep, every face set, weapons ready, poised to accept their charge. Shahr-Baraz raised his massive blade abruptly and the trumpeters and drummers slowed to a halt. "Sound," the King of Kings shouted, keen gaze sweeping the line of battle.

A brassy honking shocked the air, quickly joined by the rattling of drums. Clouds of smoke drifted in from the sea, glowing with the reflection of the burning, wrecked fleet. In the dim, shifting half-light Shahr-Baraz ran forward again and now the pushtigbahn gathered themselves, many men snapping down the golden masks covering their faces.

The Romans braced, the first rank of men going down on one knee. Javelins and sling-stones pelted the charging Persians. Some went down, struck by a lucky blow, but the Immortal's armor shrugged aside most of the missiles.

Swinging the huge sword over his head, his mighty voice at last roaring a challenge, the Boar leapt among the enemy. His Immortals howled in on either side, hewing with their long axes, maces, swords. Legionaries stabbed back underhand with their short blades and spears. Shahr-Baraz swept his shield aside, knocking down two spears and a sword thrusting for his vitals. The longsword smashed down, cleaving through a tilted shield, splitting the laminated pine with a stunning crack! Blood spattered as the Roman went down, goggle-eyed, his plated helmet shorn through. The Boar roared in exultation, wading into the Roman ranks, his blade ripping sideways, tearing a man's arm clean off. Crimson spewed, blinding a legionnaire in the second rank. Shahr-Baraz smashed his fist into the man's face, feeling metal bend and break.

A broad-chested Roman officer stabbed in from the left, slipping the tip of his gladius past the Boar's shield. The sword point slammed into plated iron, skipped across two curved plates and wedged violently against one of the wire joins. Shahr-Baraz bellowed, feeling the tip pinching his side and crashed the shield into the man's chest. The blow lifted the Roman from his feet, sending him careening into another legionnaire struggling hand-to-hand with an Immortal. The collision left both men pinned against the locked shields of the third rank.

The Boar spared not a grain for the fallen officer, bulling forward into the third and fourth ranks, smashing about him with the long blade, clubbing men with the spiked face of his shield. Two more Romans went down under his rush, and the Immortals crowding in behind him smashed down the struggling men with their maces. Shahr-Baraz waded in blood, his longsword running red.

He laughed, a huge, booming wild cry, laying about him with maniac strength. The pushtigbahn began to chant his name, a rolling, rising shout, and they pressed harder. Among them, the Shanzdah wreaked terrible havoc, ignoring mortal wounds, their ebon blades reaping a rich harvest. The Boar traded blows with a centurion, barely noticed the man was half-transparent, then plunged the gore-slick sword through a fury-crazed face. The ghostly centurion shattered like a glass bead ground under a sledge.

Open ground lay before him and Shahr-Baraz whooped with delight.

Drenched, the Queen struggled to rise, arms straining to push aside a section of iron plating pinning her to the beach. Surf rushed past, filling her armor with sand and grit. Hissing fires eddied in the shallows where the iron drake's belly had split open, spilling oily flame across the water. She could see curving ribs rising above her, black silhouettes against a purplish sky streaked with rising columns of smoke.

"Sahaba, to me!" she shouted, forcing her water-clogged throat to work. The ironwork burned her fingers, the plate glowing red with trapped heat, but she continued to push. For a moment, the massive weight trembled, then moved an inch. Now she could turn her hip and push with her leg as well. Creaking, the etched panel shifted. Zenobia gasped, feeling muscles burn, then the plate fell aside with a wet, smacking sound. She crawled from the wreckage, immediately coming across a fallen, sodden body.

"One of ours?" Zenobia coughed, forcing herself upright.

Yes, Zoe answered weakly. The girl had suffered a heavy backlash when the shield of the winds collapsed. Then she'd tried to protect them from the concussive blast of the machine blowing apart on the beach. They lived, which Zenobia accounted a victory. The Queen patted the dead Sahaba's shoulder and limped towards the high-tide line.

A deep, groaning sound caught Zenobia's attention as she clambered out between two hissing, popping iron ribs. She turned towards the sea, wondering if one of the big grain haulers had caught fire. Her fingers clutched steaming iron in shock, brilliant blue eyes widening in horror.

The water was still crowded with ships, many burning, but others made headway towards the beach. The serpentine shapes of two of the flying creatures circled in the dark air, jets of flame licking down from gaping jaws to set more ships alight.

But the sea in the broad, wide bay had grown strangely flat. Wind still gusted over the waters, tangling the Queen's hair and tugging at the linen shirt over her armor, but the whitecaps and breakers were gone. Instead, the sea was running out, hissing across the sand and galleys that had lately been moored in shallow water creaked and groaned as they settled on the exposed bottom.

"What…" The Queen felt the winds turn, shifting wildly from side to side and then a vast, unimaginably deep groaning sound rose from the waters. The eastern horizon-already plunged into purple twilight-now turned dark in a broad swathe across the mouth of the bay. She felt the ground under her feet shift and settle, little puffs of air jetting from crevices opening in the sand.

Run! Zoe stormed into her paralyzed consciousness, the girl seizing control of their body. The Wave Lord is coming! The Queen leapt between the smoking iron and sprinted up the beach, legs flashing, sand spurting away from blurring feet. Zoe reached out desperately, forcing her battered will to wing ahead of the body, rippling through the soft sand, making a hard-packed surface. Zenobia fought the urge to look over her shoulder, keeping her concentration focused solely on speed and flight.

The groaning sound welled up and up and up, shaking the sky. A vast, crashing sound boomed right behind and a grinding, splintering undertone was swiftly consumed by a roar that shook the ground and sent hurricane winds lashing ahead of the angry god's advance.

Zoe wrenched them free from gravity's cruel bonds and the Queen sprang ahead, soaring over the line of dunes. Below her, startled soldiers turned from their deadly play of iron, then shrieked in horror. The roaring deep rushed up, swallowing everyone on the beach, driving jumbled wood, canvas, cordage and stone cast up from great depths against the land. Lesser waves surged between the high dunes, boiling up the shallow streambeds and foaming in the river mouth.

The Queen turned at the top of her leap, heart in her throat, and saw the great fleet crashing to ruin on the shore.

Many ships had ridden out the sudden wave, but more were shattered wrecks, some still afire-for even Poseidon's wrath could not quench combusting phlogiston-and they glowed and smoked, far beneath the raging surface, shining stars drifting into the abyss.

Weeping for her sailors-many Palmyrenes served aboard the fine, trim ships-she fluttered out of the sky, an armored harpy, circled by quick winds. Sand crunched under her boots as she landed on a slope strewn with the dead. A sunflower banner leaned drunkenly not far away and the Queen looked down into a vale behind the dune ridge, where men still clashed, raising a great smoky din, blades and spears flashing in the dimming, flame-shot light.

More of her allies-a motley band of Huns, Sahaba and Persian land knights-climbed past her, their grim-faced captain aiming to join the battle.

"Fools," she growled, seeing the mighty shape of the King of Kings rampaging among the melee.

A snapping crack of thunder drew her attention and the Queen turned to the north. Light blazed in the air over a town, even now inundated by the rushing waves. She drew back, feeling enormous forces unleashed, making the sky ripple and shake. Her blue eyes went wide and a great, dreadful chill settled in her heart, making her limbs weak. The stone door is breaking!

The earth bounced under Maxian's hands and he let the shock fling him to his feet. The Persian sorcerer was taken unawares by the violent motion and spun in alarm. A towering black wave crashed against the seaward side of the amphitheatre, foam boiling through the pillared terraces and arched tunnels. Maxian let the full power of the Oath rush into him, opening his heart to sixty million striving lights, his fist dragging through suddenly thickening air. The sorcerer screamed in fear, seeing a wall of surging dark water spill across the amphitheater floor. Dahak sprang into the air, conveyed by a ghostly cloud of winged spirits.

Maxian snarled, lean face splitting with a furious grimace and leapt up himself. His blow cracked into the Persian's shields, splintering wards visible and invisible alike. Wreathed in lightning, his fist smashed across the serpent's temple. Stunned, the sorcerer flew into the first rank of seats, smashing through marble and brick and lava stone. His shields flickered and the prince bounded into the ruin. Lightning roared up from the earth, catching the Persian as he staggered to his feet.

Howling, the creature writhed in torment. Maxian stabbed in, fingers stiff in a sharp, cutting sign. The Persian's chest dimpled with crushing, irresistible force. Another shriek of agony pealed from an inhuman throat. Ghosts blew away in a sparkling cloud, unable to resist the prince's advance. Haloed in whirling, incandescent fire, Maxian forced a burning hand towards the sorcerer's scaled neck.

Squirming away, the Persian clawed at the prince's face with razor-sharp talons. Black fingernails bit into Maxian's neck, but the skin healed as fast as they tore, stiffening into dark hide-like armor. Maxian slammed his fist down, crushing the serpent's shoulder. Bones and scales popped, blood spattered on the marble seats and the Persian gasped, unable to breath, collarbone cracking.

Floodwaters broke on the lower seats, fountaining back from the retaining wall. Across the oval, pillars tore loose from their moorings, vanishing in the foaming sea. Statues of the gods and heroes toppled from the upper deck and the entire edifice shivered, bricks splintering. The sea rushed back, cresting, and the eastern wall of the theater collapsed with a grumbling, sharp roar. Bricks, stone, timbers, marble, blocks of tufa larger than a wagon-everything was swallowed by the sea.

Maxian's eyes blazed bright, the power of an entire Empire shining from his mouth, his skin, every pore. The Persian tried to turn away, seeing his destruction in the terrible brilliance. The prince pinned him, one knee cracking a weak arm against the stone floor. His fist opened, flames lashing the sorcerer's broken face and Maxian forced his fingers-spread wide-onto the Persian's forehead.

"You," Maxian growled, savaged throat barely able to form the words, "will never threaten my city again!"

Dahak screamed, a long, wailing, unending cry of torment, his body thrashing violently, every limb loose in abandoned, unhinged motion.

"Rome! Rome and victory!" Alexandros lunged forward, fighting his way through struggling men. The line of legionaries and Goths had broken open, letting the Persian Immortals pour into the gap. A giant of a man was in their midst, howling like a titan, laying about him with an impossibly huge sword. Even the ghostly centurions fell back before him and the Macedonian saw the heavily armored pushtigbahn widening the gap with brutal efficiency. "With me, men of Rome!"

Alexandros loosened his grip on the shield in his left hand. Shouting wildly, he sprang in front of the giant, throwing a high cut at the man's head. The giant spun-so nimble for his great size! — and blocked effortlessly. The Macedonian tried to slip the blow, letting his sword bind on the longer, larger weapon, but so great was the other's strength the spatha was nearly torn from his hand. Alexandros scrambled back to avoid losing his head. The shield was held only by a single strap in his fingers.

The Persian champion rushed in, his blade flickering in tight, controlled slashes. Alexandros blocked hard, swiping sideways to catch the blurring tip and felt his arm rock with the blow. He threw the shield at the man's feet, all of his strength in the motion. The giant hacked down, catching the Macedonian's sword and driving the blade into the sand. Alexandros rolled away, suddenly weaponless, and the man shouted in pain. The flung shield had smashed into his trailing foot and he toppled, going down to his knees.

Heedless, Alexandros plowed into the Persian, slamming his armored hip into the man's face. The golden mask crunched, skewing to one side. The Macedonian followed with a kick to the giant's throat, then gasped, his own foot snatched from the air by a blurring hand. He slammed down on the sand, breath punched from his breast. Alexandros rolled, sand spraying, and a massive fist smacked into the ground. The Macedonian twisted, cracking his vambrace-encased arm across the dented mask. The giant grunted, his tree-like neck barely moving with the blow.

Alexandros scrambled to his feet, sliding back. One of the Roman centurions pitched him another sword and the Macedonian caught the spinning blade from the air. In a single motion he grasped the hilt, flipped the scabbard away and fell into a guard stance.

The giant rose as well, wrenching the golden mask and helmet from his head. Enormous mustaches, dripping with sweat, jutted into the air, and keen, bright eyes looked down upon Alexandros. A huge grin split the man's face.

"A worthy foe, by Ormazd!" he shouted in a basso roar. "The very likeness of the Greek devil Iskender!"

"I am the very Macedonian devil," Alexandros snarled, feeling his muscles waking to the task. "And you the greatest of the Persians, I wager?"

"I am," Shahr-Baraz growled. One of his men threw him a spear, which smacked into his meaty palm. He spun the shaft end for end, settling the weapon's balance to his satisfaction. "Then let the gods judge!"

Maxian's fingers dug into the sorcerer's neck, crushing muscles, tendons and veins. His other hand burned white-hot on the creature's forehead and Dahak struggled anew. Blood sprayed across the seats, dripping smoking hot from the prince's face.

Now I have you, Maxian raged, feeling the last of the Persian's defenses crumble. The world groaned around them, stone and brick shattering, the sky wavering with an aurora of brilliant, ghastly colors. Winds raged in the heavens, lashing the clouds into a maelstrom. The flesh on the inhuman face shriveled, burned down to a bony core. Fangs jutted from blackening gums, then splintered. You end, now!

Dahak twisted, still trying to break free, and found annihilation only a heartbeat away. Every atom in his body was in torment, spiked with lightning, dissolving in acid. Such an enormous pressure weighed on him, encompassing half the world, focused by the shattered walls of the amphitheater like a lens, he could see nothing but destruction before him. "No!" he wailed, the last fragment of his power shredding in the energy storm whirling around the Roman prince. "If I die… the world dies!"

Maxian's eyes darkened, hearing pure fear and terror in the creature's voice. "Show me," his voice boomed, ringing from the heavens, driving columns of smoke into twisting vortices. The fingers of his right hand, still burning white-hot, sank into the Persian's elongated skull. Dahak's scream soared beyond human hearing as bone and membrane parted.

The prince looked, and saw a portal of stone, massive granite cut from the heart of a mountain, etched with a thousand lines of prayers, glittering with every seal and potent sign. The door was shaking, blazing with sullen yellow light, a force building beyond the portal beyond human comprehension. Flakes of stone and dust rained down from a distant ceiling, the living rock shaking in time to a colossal heartbeat.

A fragile, frayed pattern bound the dying sorcerer to the stone door and Maxian perceived the slender thread arcing arrow-straight over the eastern horizon. His thoughts whirled to a halt, the light shuddering from his skin and face dying. The prince looked down on the dreadful, shattered face. "Show me what lies beyond." His voice was cold and emotionless.

Dahak quailed, but Maxian's fingers were deep in the gelid mass of his brain, rippling with power, keeping life in his ancient limbs, while the Persian's secret thoughts and every plan and strategem were peeled away, the cracked shells of countless eggs.

The prince looked, and saw a void of darkness, filled with bubbling chaos, a leviathan shape blotting out the stars, countless worlds rendered down to dust, the shrieking of nightgaunts haunting the black abyss, a lake of obsidian under a sky filled with so many stars it seemed day; a twisted, malefic tower looming over a city composed of a single, endless building.

"They are waiting," Dahak croaked, torn lips fluttering, "beyond the threshold. If they enter…"

Maxian rose up, looking down with a grim, implacable face. His eyes were black pits reflecting the horrors he had seen in the creature's eyes. Tiny motes of light drifted around his head, some shining bright, some bare gleams. "You are the key in our deathless lock," the prince grated, venom and scorn dripping in his voice. "You stole from the gods and now they are rightly angry." Black, fathomless eyes narrowed and Maxian withdrew glowing fingers from the serpent's skull. "You will live."

Dahak collapsed into the dust, shuddering with relief. He closed his eyes, translucent lids lowering one by one. The prince's face did not change, seeming cast from iron and plunged in blood to temper.

"Instead, you will serve." His thumbs ground down on the fluted skull and Dahak stiffened, broken limbs taut, mouth gaping, eyes wild and open in horror. An intricate sign blazed on his forehead, among pebbled black scales, and then faded into the skin like the light dying on the sea at sunset.

"Rise," snapped the prince, standing himself. His clothes-ripped and torn, burned by fires and scored by blasts of fury-shimmered, knitting anew around his lean body. Maxian looked to the south, ghosts whispering to him of battle and fury and men wading deep in slaughter.

The prince ascended, rising into the troubled sky, and the withered, broken body of the sorcerer followed. Together, they sped along the shore, the wind bowing before them, columns of smoke bending away from their passage and those few men left alive in the wreckage below stared up in awe.

Alexandros darted in, slashing with his sword at the haft of the oaken spear. The giant danced away, grinning like a madman, and the leaf-bladed tip whipped round at the Macedonian's head. Alexandros leaned to the side, feeling the breeze of metal passing, then reversed his stroke, steel belling on steel. Shahr-Baraz grunted, the blow knocking him back.

"Well struck!" he called, slashing at the Macedonian's legs. Alexandros leapt and spun, striking and parrying in a whirlwind of motion. They drew apart, panting, and the Macedonian began to grin himself. Here is a worthy opponent! He circled, blood singing, looking for an opening.

The wind gusting among the dunes fluttered and then stopped.

Alexandros looked up, gray eyes widening in surprise. He saw a lone figure-a woman in gleaming armor and a tattered white tunic-standing on the ridge above them. She was facing the north, her unbound hair fluttering in some distant breeze. The men of both armies had grown still, and everyone turned, even the giant, who slowly lowered his spear.

A man approached in the turbulent air, shining like the sun, his raiment glowing with inner fire. A crippled thing followed at his heels like a dog, barely alive, leaking blood and dark fluid. As the shining figure passed over the top of the dunes, the woman bowed her head. Alexandros, standing below amid the armies of Rome and Persia alike, watched in awe. Golden light washed across the ground, shining on the fallen bodies, broken spears, cloven shields. Withered trees stirred and new growth sprang from charred limbs. Tiny blue flowers bloomed across the protected, landward face of the dune. Spring did not touch them, but the power radiating from the beneficent face did.

The giant knelt and the remains of the Persian army bowed down, pressing foreheads to grounded weapons, averting their eyes.

Alexandros felt a great sense of peace wash over him and he too collapsed to his knees. His spirit struggled, trying to force him to his feet, but every bone and sinew responded gladly to the silent command. The legionaries stiffened, raising their arms in the Imperial salute, and every eye blazed with proud delight.

"I am Maxian," a stern voice rolled and crashed in the sky. "Put down these weapons. Let there be peace in the world."

Alexandros, teeth gritted in a furious effort to control his hand, felt his fingers open and the sword fall to the sandy ground. Not more than a pace away, the giant king let his spear drop, though his neck bulged with effort.

"This is ended." The prince settled to the ground, waves of silvery light shining in every face. Then the radiance faded, leaving only men and women-wounded, tired, exhausted from the day's struggle-standing in a darkened hollow between the turbulent sea and burning land. Alexandros slumped, falling onto his hands, and felt every muscle in his body trembling in reaction.

Even I will be sore tomorrow, he thought. This Persian has Herakle's own strength in those arms!

Maxian stood on the crest of the dune ridge, his lean, dark face silhouetted against the distant glare of Catania. The city was burning fiercely, billowing clouds rolling up into the sky, obscuring the slopes of the great mountain. The stars had come out, shining down fitfully through drifting ash and a gritty, bitter-tasting haze. The prince faced a handful of men and one woman. His face was in shadow, though a single green ember burned where one eye would be. The distant voice of Gaius Julius faded from his thoughts.

"My brother is dead and by the acclamation of the people and the Senate, I am Emperor of Rome." The young man's voice was flat, leached of every emotion. "I rule and within the reach of my hand there will be peace."

No one spoke, a fugitive breeze tugging at their hair or hissing across scored and dented armor.

Maxian placed his hand on the withered, broken shoulder of the creature crouched at his feet. "This is Dahak and he is the first of my servants. I have made him loyal, for in his flesh rides the life of the world."

Light blazed from the sorcerer's eyes, mouth, seeping from myriad wounds. He shuddered, overcome, and then stood, body whole, skin rippling with scale, his elongated skull dipping in obedience. Obscure glyphs flared on his body, covering every inch of skin, even the darting black tongue. Then they faded. Maxian stepped to the next man.

"You are C'hu-lo, yabghu of the T'u-chueh, the Great People."

The Hun nodded, swallowing convulsively. His high cheekbones were scored with ash, his arms lashed with wounds. He leaned against a broken spear, one leg lamed by fire. Maxian brushed back long, oily black hair, and the man's skin cleared, flesh knitting without blemish or scar. "You will rule in my name," the Emperor said, "khan of khans, in all the lands under the Rampart of Heaven. Your armies will be as leaves of grass, without number, your flocks plentiful and the strength of your race unbounded."

Maxian stepped before two young men, each wounded, armor spattered with blood, faces gaunt with exhaustion, leaning on one another for support. They were alike as peas in a pod, fierce, noble faces turned to the Emperor with dread riding in their dark eyes.

"You are Khalid al'Walid, the last son of the Makhzum," he said to the first. He set his hands to both men's cheeks, inclining his head towards them in greeting. "You are Odenathus, son of Zabda, prince of poor, dead Palmyra, like your friend, the last of a noble line."

The Emperor smiled and both men straightened, weariness banished, their eyes brightening. "You will build anew," he said, "and your cities will grow great, radiant with learning and knowledge, filled with cool gardens and shining marble. Those lands, you will hold in my name, and guard wisely."

The young Eagle knelt, pressing Maxian's hand to his lips. "In your name, great lord."

"What is this," the Emperor said, raising a hand to beckon a dark shape from the shadow of the hill. "Which hides its face from those of living men?"

A harsh, armored shape stirred unwillingly, then stepped before Maxian, cloak thrown back, a dented iron mask catching the gleam of the burning city. The Emperor looked upon the captain of the Shanzdah and his shadowed eyes took the measure of the thing and its purpose.

"Even in an empire of light," Maxian said, his voice untroubled, "there will be work better done by night than by day." The shape stiffened, then knelt to the ground, making the proskynesis in the Persian style, forehead to the ground, hands outstretched. "You and your brothers please me," the Emperor said, touching the iron crown of the helmet with his fingertips. "With such devotion."

A giant man loomed over Maxian, long mustache sweeping from a craggy, bloodied face. Arms like old roots crossed the chest of a titan or a god. A beard shot with silver covered a laminated steel breastplate. In Shahr-Baraz's eyes, there was nothing but defiance and ancient pride.

"Have you drunk deep enough of war?" The Emperor's voice softened for the first time. "Is your thirst quenched? Where are your sons, the friends of youth, your brothers?"

"Dead," growled the King of Kings, the word forced from his mouth against his will, face twisting in despair. "They are dead."

"You are Shahr-Baraz, the Boar, shahanshah, lord of the Medes, master of the Persians." Maxian's voice cracked sharply. "You will rule Persia in my name and yours will be a realm at peace, where a wise king rules from a throne not drenched in blood, but founded on order." He lifted his hand and the middle-aged man tried to turn away, but sighed-a long, exhausted exhalation-when the Emperor smoothed back his wild, tangled hair. Years lifted from the man's face and his beard curled dark and lustrous again.

"You, I know." Maxian looked upon Alexandros with a grim smile. "By your tread, I will measure the circumference of the world." The Macedonian flinched, his heart quailing away from the pressure in the shadowed eyes. Maxian grasped his shoulders and Alexandros felt weariness fade, spilling out on the ground in an invisible stream. "India is waiting and beyond her-who knows what wonders might lie?"

The Macedonian pressed fingertips to his forehead, and bowed, as the others had done.

Only the woman remained, standing a little apart, her face turned away to the east. Wind tugged at night-black hair, cascading in waves of curls down her back. The Emperor looked upon her and his mouth tightened. "Who are you?"

The Queen turned, looking over her shoulder. Her face matched his for cold composure, showing neither fear nor despair. The glow of the burning city shone in sapphire eyes and her chin lifted. "I am Zenobia Septima," she said tonelessly. "My city is ruins, scattered bone and rock. I have no kingdom, no subjects, nothing save sand and wind."

"Palmyra the Golden will rise again," Maxian said, brow furrowing slightly. "White towers will rise and countless gardens bloom. Silver will fill her coffers and her ships will ply the wide sea, holds filled with silk, spices and every luxury. All will look upon your beauty and rejoice!"

Zenobia did not respond, the corners of her mouth tightening. Sweat beaded her neck. The Emperor waited, remaining entirely still. She swayed, then straightened. Long fingers stiffened and her oval face became pale. Maxian remained still, watching her, implacable and irresistible. The Queen gasped, staggered and fell.

The Emperor caught her with gentle hands and he bent close, whispering. White fingers clutched tight on his arm and he stood while she knelt in homage.

"Now," Maxian said, "there will be order in all the world, and peace."