The Dark Lord

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

The Oasis of Siwa, West of Alexandria

Under a twilit sky, a lone pillar rose from the sand, three faces worn smooth by the wind. The fourth side, facing the north, retained shallow outlines of hawk-headed men and cranes and kilted servants bowing down before a sun-crowned king. Thyatis roused herself as her camel ambled past, dragging the corner of her kaffiyeh away from a parched mouth. Her lips were dry and cracked, mouth foul with the taste of salt and week-old grime. At least the sun had set, releasing them from the torment of its blazing furnace. The night wind was rising and cooler air pricked her to alertness.

"Quietly now," she called to the others riding behind her. The camels snorted in response, but the rest of the Roman party was too thirsty and exhausted to speak. Thyatis slipped a leather cord from the crossbar of her spatha freeing the long blade for a swift draw. Her armor was tied in a bundle to the high-cantled saddle behind her. Riding without close-fitting mail heavy on her shoulders and chest felt strange, but the heat in the open desert was only bearable in loose robes.

The camel plodded on. The string of riders approached a thick line of palms and scrubby, dark brush. Thyatis' head raised in surprise as she smelled open water. Everything under the palms was dark-the light of the moon, an arc of dusky red high in the sky, failed to penetrate the foliage-but she swung down, heedless of any possible danger. Her legs were stiff and sore, but the Roman woman pushed through the branches and stumbled into a shallow pond.

Thyatis slid to a halt, the water unexpectedly cold against her legs. Mud oozed into her sandals.

"Wait," she hissed, furious at herself for rushing ahead, as Vladimir slid through the hanging branches. The Walach froze at the edge of the pond, hand halfway dipped to the quicksilver surface. "Smell first, my friend. We don't know who might have been here before us."

Thyatis drew her sword slowly, oiled metal sliding free without a sound. She could feel Betia and Nicholas and the others waiting in the darkness. Everyone's discipline had broken at the heady, irresistible smell. Vladimir withdrew his hand slowly, watching her with huge eyes, then audibly tasted the air, canting his head to one side. He bent low over the water, then dipped his hand again, long tongue flicking over the back of his hand.

"Water," he whispered. "Mud. Dates. Camels. Men. Women."

"Poison?" Thyatis coughed quietly, clearing a dry, dusty throat.

Vladimir shook his head.

"Drink then," she said, "but take your time." She forced herself to stand, alert to any disturbance in the night, while he drank. When the Walach had finished, he slipped back into the brush and Thyatis waded quietly to the edge of the pond. Betia came next, gliding between the palms like a ghost. The Roman woman continued to listen, nerves on edge, suppressing a start every time one of the camels honked or grumbled.

"Why is it so still?" Nicholas squatted beside her, wiping his face with a damp rag. Thyatis sipped slowly from one of the waterbags. She had washed her face, hands and arms in the pond, but longed for a real bath. Everything sticks together in this heat… The pilgrim road from the coast south to Siwa crossed nearly a hundred miles of lifeless, sun-blasted desert. Endless miles of rocky flats interspersed with acres of gravely lowlands. Thyatis had expected a desert filled with sand, like the lands around Lake Mareotis. But here in the western reach, there were no springs, no water and no shelter to speak of. Only wells built a day's march apart along the trail allowed passage from the coast. The last of those cisterns, cut into a shallow canyon twenty miles north of the oasis, had been bone dry.

"I don't know," Thyatis said, keeping her voice low. Stands of palms and scrawny trees stretched away to the south, forming the main body of the oasis. In the fading sun, as they had descended the flank of a flattened, rocky ridge, Thyatis had seen whitewashed houses and sand-colored temples at the center of the depression. The glittering expanse of a dry lake blazed beyond the green fields. People-priests, shepherds, artisans-were supposed to live here, drawing life from the bubbling pools and the fields the springs allowed. Flat-topped mesas surrounded the valley of Siwa, though they were nothing more than barren white stone and chalky gravel. "There must be someone here."

She pointed into the darkness. "There is a hill at the center-you saw it from the ridge? The temple of Amon-Ra is there, and the Oracle, and the quarters of the priests."

"I saw." Nicholas shifted in the moonlight, nodding. Thyatis felt Vladimir and Betia stir. The others were resting farther back in the grove. Everyone was worn down by the punishing heat. They had pushed hard from the coast. Thyatis' thighs and back simmered with dull, constant pain. Camels had a strange, loping gait and she'd felt nauseated for five days while they ambled south. She longed not just to be clean again-preferably via hours spent soaking in blisteringly hot water-but a masseuse afterwards, iron-hard hands kneading her tortured muscles into welcome oblivion.

"What did your bird say? Where do we go now?"

Nicholas rose, grimacing as abused muscles complained. Thyatis didn't think he was used to riding so much either. He was happy at sea, she remembered. A Roman sailor, how funny! He cracked his knuckles.

"She said-if we can believe her more than we could our poetic Cypriot-to enter the Mystery itself, the nave. The god looks down on a pit, from which bitter fumes rise. If we descend the pit, there is a stair and a chamber below." Thyatis could see the Latin's teeth shine in dappled moonlight. "The priests of the Oracle store the offerings there."

"And among those gifts, offered up so long ago, is one of Nemathapi's legendary telecasts?" Thyatis forced disbelief into her voice, though she prayed silently for the Daughters to have been and away with their prize. She had watched carefully as they came south, looking for the signs of another party on camels coming and then going. She had seen nothing.

"She had good reason to speak true," Nicholas answered. "I saw the papyrus myself-the signs and devices-one clearly described a telecast, given as tribute to the Oracle by the pharaoh Djoser in thanks 'for his salvation.' And if the librarian lied?" He laughed. "She'll still be in our cage when we return."

Thyatis stood as well, breathing deeply, forcing her tension out in a sharp huh. Bird-like Sheshet was tucked away in a prison cell beneath the governor's palace. She wondered if Nicholas would really put burning irons to the woman if they found nothing in the temple. She wondered how the librarian had known the truth. The matron Penelope seemed sure there was an Eye here… shouldn't such a thing be a closely held secret? But then-the priests of Amon-Ra would know and they might tell another, and then another… who would care for old bronze and rusting gears?

"Doesn't matter," Thyatis said aloud, flexing a cramp from her calves. They complained, but she ignored the soreness. "We'll check and see." She smiled tightly at Nicholas, fist over the prince's amulet. "If there's nothing here, we'll know soon enough. If there is, we'll find the telecast one way or another and take it home. Everyone have enough to drink? Are the waterbags full?"

The legionaries with the camels whistled in acknowledgement and Vladimir rose up, shaking out his shoulders, long axe swinging in his right hand. Scaled armor rattled softly. The barbarian grew more lively and awake as the night deepened and the air cooled.

"Vlad, you lead." Thyatis said, flipping her cloak free of both arms. Betia had helped her squeeze into the mailed armor. The metal was almost hot from riding on the back of a camel all day. In the damper, chillier air of the oasis, the warmth felt good. "Nicholas, you're on the right. I'll take the left. Florus…"

One of the shapes in the darkness raised his head attentively. Nicholas had tried to commandeer an entire cohort from the city garrison for their expedition, but had only managed to wrinkle free a handful of men-four recruits fresh from the Italian provinces and a veteran centurion to watch out for them. Thyatis didn't mind-they had borne up well in the dash from the coast-and they were willing to take orders. She hid a smile. Better yet, they were too exhausted to ask questions.

"…you cover the camels and the gear. Betia will follow along behind. Remember, people get lost in the dark. If you get separated, meet us back at the pillar we passed by the edge of the oasis."

Everyone nodded, a motion more felt or sensed than seen. Thyatis tucked her braids behind both ears, then padded off through the palms. The long blade was back in its sheath, but her hand was poised to draw at an instant's notice.

The night remained entirely still, without so much as the squeaking passage of bats to break the silence. Thyatis began to get a queer feeling between her shoulder blades. This just isn't right… Even in the desolation out beyond the ridge, the desert came alive after sunset, filled with scurrying lizards or scorpions, the hushed passage of hunting owls, sand moving in the night wind. The night under these close, humid palms felt watchful and oppressive.

A narrow road climbed the temple hill, rising up from a crowded little mud-brick town filled with twisting streets. Stumpy obelisks and eroded sphinxes lined the outer edge of the avenue. The rusty moon had begun a slow descent towards the western horizon. Nicholas darted from turn to turn, rushing forward in sharp bursts. Thyatis followed, keeping her sandals soft on the irregular slabs of fitted sandstone.

A dozen yards behind, the others crept forward, hugging the inner wall where deeper shadows covered them with a black cloak. Below, the town was abandoned and silent. No dogs barked, no lantern or candle flared in a window.

At the top of the hill, the road passed through a squat gate of brick. Thyatis stepped around the corner, through a pale section of moonlight and into deeper shadow. Nicholas was already crouching across the road, his outline obscured against the crude shape of a lion in bas-relief. She exhaled slowly, testing the air, and saw fog condense from her breath. The night had grown steadily colder.

Pillars rose up against the starry sky, huge and round, tapering towards the heavens. If they had ever supported a roof, the vault had collapsed long ago. Thyatis snapped her fingers softly-Nicholas' head turned sharply towards her-she pointed off along the main path through the colonnade. "Lead," she whispered.

Nicholas glided away into darkness. Thyatis stepped back to the edge of the gate, feeling her flesh crawl with uneasiness. Too quiet… what's going on? There had been no sign of pursuit on the trail. Has this place been abandoned?

She flashed her hand in the pale slat of moonlight, beckoning to the others. A moment later, she heard the thump-thump of camel paws on the ground, then Betia was crouching beside her. The legionaries loomed over the girl, smelling of rust, fish sauce and sweat-stained leather.

"Where's Vladi-?" Thyatis turned sharply in alarm, staring into the darkness among the columns. There was nothing, only more shadow and the vague outlines of crumbling brick walls and more pillars. The shrine and temple had fallen on bad times. Her hand twitched to the hilt of her sword, but she repressed the urge to draw the blade. "-mir."

"Here," the Walach said, deep voice rumbling despite an effort to keep quiet.

"We're switching off," Thyatis whispered, turning back. "Nicholas is ahead. You back him up. Florus, the camels will have to go around-they won't fit through these columns. Betia, you've the rear guard."

"What about you?" The little Gaul's voice was so faint Thyatis almost missed her question.

The Roman woman bent close, close enough to smell lavender oil and juniper in Betia's hair. "I'll flank."

Vladimir padded off, armor lying quiet against his heavy, felted shirt. The legionaries crept after, each man leading a camel by a shortened rein. Thyatis caught Betia's shoulder as the girl moved past.

"Well behind," Thyatis breathed, her hand trembling against the urge to draw her blade and whirl with a shout. "Something is watching us. If anything happens, get away." The girl touched her fingers, then vanished into the gloom, drawing up the hood of her cloak. Thyatis squinted into the darkness, but the little Gaul had already vanished without a sound.

Be safe, Thyatis thought, putting everything but soundlessness from her mind. Knuckles white on the hilt of her blade, hand gripping the scabbard, she drifted off to the right, circling around the columns. I should take my sandals off, she thought after a moment, hearing a faint scuff-scuff of leather on stone. A thin layer of sand covered the floor and she felt each grain as it rolled under her tread like a gong ringing from the Capitoline.

She passed through two, then three ranks of pillars. They were old and worn, lacking the smooth plaster facings of younger temples. There was no marble here, not so far from the sea, only crumbling brick, streaked with salt crystals. The moonlight faded and she looked up. A single chimney-like tower loomed against the stars, obscuring Luna's faded crescent. Without hesitation, she slipped forward, blade inching from the scabbard. The sensation of watchfulness was fading and she swiveled her head from side to side, staring down the dim corridors between the columns as she ran forward.

Where are the priests? Where are my sisters? Have they fled? she thought. Suddenly, the maze of pillars ended. There was a courtyard, bounded on four sides by columns and an ancient, crumbling pediment. Before her, the round tower rose from a blocky foundation. A doorway gaped, twice the height of a man, three times as broad. Thyatis turned, thinking what was that? There had been a noise, half-heard, at the edge of perception.

HERE, something spoke in the darkness, COME TO ME.

Thyatis' eyes widened, light blooming on her face like the rising sun. Her mouth opened in a shout but no sound emerged, drowned in surging waves of color. Silence continued to grip the night.

COME, I HAVE BEEN WAITING, the voice boomed, though no sound reverberated in the air.

Brilliant white light blazed in the courtyard and Thyatis crumpled to her knees, eyes squeezed shut against the blinding glare, one hand thrown up to block out the brilliance flooding from the doorway. Tears streamed down her cheeks and the sword fallen on the ground began to smoke.

ENTER, MY CHILD. ENTER.

Where is everyone? Nicholas paused, hand against grainy, eroded brick. He looked back along the avenue. One of the camels ambled towards him, a wash of moonlight gleaming on a legionary's iron lorica. Here on the summit of the hill, the curved horns of the moon were clear in the sky. The Latin felt a flash of relief to see the others, then stiffened. Still sheathed, Brunhilde suddenly began to hum, sending a piercing vibration through his hand and arm.

"'Ware!" Nicholas shouted in alarm, leaping away from the column. The dwarf-blade sang free from her sheath in a glittering arc. A pale, bluish light gleamed in watery steel, silhouetting the columns and fallen blocks of stone. Behind him, he heard the rush of feet and half-sensed Vladimir at his side.

A deep, cold voice boomed in the darkness, then three hulking figures were revealed by the wavering blue light. Two were clad from head to toe in dark cloaks and mailed armor, not even the glitter of an eye shining in the slit of their helmets. The other was a stocky, muscular Persian, blue highlights shining in his curly beard. Nicholas motioned Vladimir aside to clear fighting room, eyes fixed on the Persian captain.

He didn't die in the tomb, Nicholas thought, licking his lips, weighing the situation in his mind. What about the mage? Did he live too? Is he in the darkness, waiting to strike? The image of Mithridates-such a big man, corded with muscle, effortlessly powerful-convulsing in the blast of witch flame haunted the Latin's dreams. But Brunhilde's presence in his grasp steeled his resolve, for she had never betrayed him, never failed in battle, not matter what foe they faced.

No one spoke, the Persians spreading out themselves. The big-beard wielded both a curl-crowned mace and cavalry sword, while the other two bore only swords of some dark metal. Nicholas blinked-they were hard to make out, even in the simmering glare of the rune blade-no more than dark outlines against an indistinct background. White breath curled from his lips. Brunhilde trembled eagerly in his hand, her desire sending a hot shock of bloodfire coursing through his limbs. He could hear the legionaries' hobnailed sandals rattle on stone behind him.

More Persians appeared from the shadows, gripping axes and long, straight swords. Nicholas settled into balance, briefly wishing he had a shield. Even numbers, then, unless Thyatis hears… where is she?

Steel rang on steel with a high, singing note, then an echoing rasp of disengagement. Betia did not wait, turning away from behind the camels. She sprinted off between the pillars, sandals slapping on the cobblestones, chill air cutting her throat. Almost immediately, her foot smashed into the edge of a broken block of masonry. Biting her palm to keep from crying out, the girl hopped away, tears streaming down her face. Fool girl! You can't run around blind!

"Thyatis?" she croaked, trying not to shout wildly. "Thyatis!"

Limping, her toe sparking with pain every time she put weight down, Betia pressed ahead, groping among the dark columns. She wished desperately for a light, but the candles and lanterns were slung in a woven basket on one of the camels.

A grumbling crack smote the air, making her start forward in surprise. Lurid yellow light shone forth for a moment, throwing long shadows down the aisles between the columns. Betia spun, staring back towards the road in horror, then the light faded and the sound of men shouting in battle echoed.

"Thyatis!" Betia shouted, caution discarded, stumbling forward. "Where are you?"

Nicholas rolled aside wildly, blocking desperately with Brunhilde. The air was still ringing with the blast of light. Camels shrieked, enveloped in flame as they charged down the road. Two of the legionaries sprawled on the ground, armor popping and sizzling, iron glowing cherry red. One of the cloaked men hewed down with his ebon blade and dwarf steel rang like a bell, turning the stroke. Nicholas felt the blow rock his arm back to the shoulder socket, then scrambled to his feet.

The Persian wight circled, blade held high over the shadowed helmet. Nicholas took hold of Brunhilde with both hands, blinking sparks from his eyes. A jagged after-image of the sorcerous blast lingered, making blind patches in his vision. The creature attacked, chopping hard at Nicholas' head. The Latin skipped back, the triangular end of the Persian blade hissing past. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a glimpse of Vladimir attacking, long axe whirling, driving back Curly Beard.

The clang and rattle of iron on iron was harsh in his ears, the legionaries at sword strokes, big rectangular shields up, with the Persian soldiers. Men grunted, rushing and darting in the terrible light. Brunhilde's radiance was barely enough to let Nicholas pick out details on the armor of the shape attacking him. He parried again, arm still stunned from the previous blow. He was forced to give ground.

The wight pressed the attack, chopping at his leg, then slapping Brunhilde aside with a monstrously powerful, wrenching blow. Nicholas gasped, still stunned by the strength in the black-clad arm. He scuttled back again and his hip slammed into one of the obelisks lining the road. He felt a chill, realizing there was nothing behind him but cliff and the steep, rocky hillside.

Brunhilde trembled a little as he raised her in guard. The dark shape slid sideways, cutting off his retreat down the avenue. Nicholas gathered himself, settling his grip two-handed on Brunhilde's hilt.

"Into the columns!" He shouted and rushed the black shape, stabbing for the thing's invisible face. The Persian met him head-on, throwing a shoulder into the Latin's rush. Nicholas, jaw tight in a snarl, whipped Brunhilde down, letting her take the ebon sword edge on edge. The stroke jarred his shoulder, rocking him back. Metal squealed-a high-pitched scream Nicholas felt as a crushing physical pain behind his right eye. A cold laugh issued from the heavy cowl, only inches away. Nicholas wrenched Brunhilde aside, slamming his hip into the Persian's groin. "Let's go!"

The ebon blade shattered, metal parting in a tortured groan. The wight staggered, then hissed in fury. Nicholas whipped Brunhilde sideways, a blur of smoking azure light. An up-flung arm caught her stroke on a wrist guard, but the dwarf steel trembled like a struck bell, shearing through the softer iron. Something brittle snapped and Nicholas bounded past, leaving the Persian sprawled on the ground.

"Go go go!" He bolted past Vladimir, taking a wild cut at the bearded Persian's head. The legionaries were running too, though at least one of them was a still shape on the ground. The Walach gave a skirling howl, then leapt into the darkness. Nicholas didn't look back, darting around the first column he passed.

"Thyatis!" Where was the woman? His arms felt like lead already, sweat streaming from his neck into his armor. Steam curled away from his exposed skin. Vladimir charged past and Nicholas grasped wildly for him, catching the man's cloak. "Get over here," he snarled.

Light sparked high above, a sudden flood of greenish refulgence. Nicholas looked away, half-blinded. Something hissed in the sky, floating above the broken crowns of the pillars, shedding a hot, spitting light. "Thrice-cursed sorcerer! Come on."

The enormous voice rang, shaking the ground. Whirling rainbow light etched the crevices between the stone slabs into perfect clarity. Thyatis caught a glimpse of enormous stone feet, pitted and scored by centuries of exposure to the sky and wind. Her entire body shuddered, pulsing in time to the sound filling the world. Blinded, she crawled on the floor, screaming soundlessly, groping for some kind of shelter. Smeared blood glowed ruby alongside her nose, picked out in the brilliant glare.

THE CIRCLE BEGINS TO CLOSE. THE SHELTER OF THE STARS FAILS, RIVEN BY INEXORABLE TIDES.

Thyatis clawed at the edge of a slab, dragging herself forward.

A viper unfolded a glossy, pearl-colored hood. Tiny black eyes glittered above a hissing mouth. A dark green tongue darted. A dusky hand grasped the viper swiftly, just behind the mottled, scaled head. The snake's jaws yawned, revealing a pink mouth and pale white fangs. The hand moved swiftly, each motion assured, squeezing the poison sac behind the muscular jaw with deft fingers. A milky drop oozed out, dropping into a pink palm. The venom hissed, bubbling the skin, then the hand lifted to Thyatis' mouth. Her tongue dipped, tasting the burning liquid. For a moment, it seemed there would be no pain, only a spreading numbness. Then the muscles in her chest contracted violently and she could feel her heart being crushed by a series of jolting spasms. She fell backward, stiffening, and her last sight was of the great doors crashing aside, revealing a crowd of grim-faced men in iron helmets.

Gasping, tears streaming from blind eyes, Thyatis turned her face from the coruscating light.

A PAEAN OF JOY RISES FROM THE CAMPFIRE, VANISHING INTO THE RISING DISK OF HOLY FATHER SUN.

A crowd of men pressed close around her, white robes shining with midday heat. Their faces, puffed with fat, glistening with sweat, smiled genially at her. Tired, head throbbing from the noise, Thyatis sat on a stone bench-one among hundreds-waving off pressing hands on either side. A man approached, freshly-shaven chin gleaming red. His mouth moved, but Thyatis could hear nothing over the roaring sound of the colossal voice. He too, she waved away, but he refused to leave. His hands grasped her shoulders, pinning her to the seat. Thyatis brushed the hands away, her voice raised in a sharp rebuke.

A blow rocked her back and she looked up to see a black-eyed man with a grim, seamed face draw back a bloody dagger for a second stroke. Limpid fire lit in her limbs, one hand snatching a freshly-cut stylus from the pocket of her robe. Before the man could react, she grasped his wrist and slammed the point of the stylus into his bicep. He screamed-though the noise was lost in the rolling boom of the voice speaking again. She leapt back, crashing into the bodies of many senators crowding close on all sides. Another blow stunned her, and she looked down, seeing a Corsican-styled hilt jutting from her chest. Cold welled in her breast, filling her throat. A ring of men surrounded her, faces drawn and tense, eyes wild in fear. Every one held a drawn knife.

Thyatis swayed, feeling blood sluice down her side, but did not fall. Instead, she tore her gown with trembling fingers, letting half fall decently over her midriff and legs. The other section, perfect white linen spotted with bright red blood, she raised over her face. She closed her eyes.

Another blow slammed into her side, then another, and another…

Drooling, Thyatis collapsed onto the stone floor, fingernails still clawing to drag her forward.

LEAVES FALL INTO A RUSHING STREAM, GOLDEN-RED, SWIRLING AMONG GRAY STONES.

Her eyes were partially open, only bare slits fringed with long eyelashes. Above, she could make out a flat ceiling, chased with gold, ornamented with blocky geometric diagrams. The sun was shining in-bright, very bright-through cross-shaped windows. She could smell myrrh, coriander, roses, lavender, sweet scented oil. Figures moved into her field of view-men in red cloaks and bronzed armor were shouting, their faces flushed with emotion. They were all so familiar… Perdiccas struck one of the other captains a heavy blow with a fist glittering with golden rings. Another appeared, this man with a heavy beard and quick, knowing eyes. Alone of the angry men in the room, his eyes showed true grief.

WIND SIGHS AMONG TREES BLOSSOMING IN THE COURTS OF THE MORNING.

Pain lanced along her arms, burning like a fire. She staggered, nerveless fingers letting fall a cloak of golden leaves. Discolored streaks appeared on massively muscled forearms, then the poison rushed up across her biceps. Gasping for breath, she fell heavily on a floor of carefully fitted slate. A chair of stone stood on a raised dais. A plastered wall stood behind the throne, painted a dusky red, with curling lines of geometric waves running just below the ceiling. Dolphins sported in a stylized ocean. A gray-haired woman stood over her, tears streaming down a seamed, lined face, wrinkled hands pressed against her ears. Someone was screaming endlessly, like a gelded bull.

How did Deianira grow so old, Thyatis wondered, before searing pain ripped all thought from her mind.

HANDS TOUCH IN THE DARKNESS AND THERE IS HOPE.

Scarred, furred fingers reached out-barely lit by intermittent flares of sullen yellow light-and grasped a gleaming, golden tablet. Spindly legs braced against a surface of glistening dark metal. She tugged furiously, chipped nails bleeding. Then the tablet came free. Clutching the glowing stone to her chest, she scuttled down into darkness, slipping and sliding over oil-black surfaces. The light burned against her chest, filling her with warmth, driving back the endless, eternal chill.

THIS IS YOUR TIME.

Betia froze, startled by a greenish white light blooming in the sky. She set down her injured foot gingerly, then realized with a shock she was surrounded. A wicked-looking knife-plainly illuminated by the strange radiance-pressed against the side of her throat. Eyes wide, she turned her head slowly. She blinked. Four women crouched in the shadow of a massive column. One of them, dark eyes glittering over a dirty veil, held the point to her throat.

"I'm-" Her gasped words stilled, blade pressing into her flesh. A finger rose to the woman's lips, hidden behind tattered linen. Betia closed her mouth. Fingers shaking, she raised a hand, sketching a quick bow sign in the air. "…please, I'm no enemy."

The knife withdrew slowly. A rattling boom sounded through the forest of stone. The hissing light in the sky fell slowly among the pillars, shadows dancing wildly in the avenues between the columns.

"Move," hissed the woman with the knife. All four of the Daughters darted out into a plaza of fitted stone. Betia sprinted after them, ignoring the sharp pain in her foot. There was a huge doorway under a wall of brick, then they were inside, in darkness. Betia stopped hard, panting. Someone drew back a leather cover from an oil lantern, letting a warm yellow glow spill into the vast chamber.

Directly ahead, a mammoth statue rose towards a ceiling hidden in darkness. Huge, square-fingered hands rested on round knees and a stone beard was visible at the edge of the lantern light. Betia's arms rippled with goosebumps, looking up at dead, staring eyes. The light flickered and glowed on disks of mother-of-pearl set in the sockets and she felt sudden, overwhelming dread. Then she looked down, unwilling to face the god in his sanctuary and yelped in surprise.

A figure lay sprawled on the floor at the edge of a pit.

"Thyatis!" The tallest of the cloaked Daughters bolted forward, knife forgotten, and knelt beside the Roman soldier. Betia hurried forward as well, her mind moving again, and together they rolled the supine form over. Tapering olive fingers peeled back one of the Roman woman's eyelids, and pressed against a powerful, scarred throat. "She lives…" said the Daughter in an emotion-choked voice.

Betia felt paralyzing fear recede. She bit her thumb nervously. Thyatis seemed cold and dead to her, face pale under a wash of freckles and old sunburn. A flutter of breath barely moved her lips. "What did this? Can we wake her up?"

"There's no time for acquaintances," barked one of the other Daughters, before the dark-eyed woman could answer. The old woman's veil had fallen away, revealing a wrinkled, angry face. "We've got to go!"

Shouts echoed outside on the plaza, followed by the sound of running feet. Betia jerked around, pulling back the sleeves of her cloak. Bloodfire tickled in her throat, making a rushing sound in her ears, and she jacked back the lever on the spring-gun at her wrist. The spring closed with a snap. Outside, she saw figures rush from the columns. Another sparking, hissing light flashed in the sky.

"Help me," the olive-skinned woman snapped. Betia turned, meeting fierce dark eyes and together they lifted Thyatis up. The Roman was heavy, her limbs slack in unconsciousness. Betia gasped, pushing on a muscular thigh with all her strength. The Daughter shifted, getting her shoulder under Thyatis' breastbone, then took the larger woman on her back with a grunt. "Follow."

Staggering under the weight, the olive-skinned woman placed a foot on the top step. Betia stared giddily down into the pit, brickwork walls illuminated by unsteady lanterns in the hands of the Daughters. The stairs corkscrewed down and beyond the flaring, intermittent light there was only darkness. A cold, sharp-smelling wind blew up in the girl's face and she swayed at the lip, then caught herself.

Steel rang on steel outside and a man screamed in pain. Betia darted down the steps. Barely twenty feet down the pit-though the stairs continued on, winding into the depths of the hill-a section of the wall had folded away. Betia ducked into the opening, following Thyatis' disappearing foot-one sandal strap dangling-and the receding light of the lantern. A tunnel with a triangular roof slanted down at a steep angle and the Gaul found the shallow, worn steps difficult to navigate.

Behind Betia, the wizened old Egyptian woman braced her feet against the floor and pressed on a stone counterweight with all her strength. Ancient cables groaned, squeaking with dust, and then delicately balanced stone plugs rumbled and the wall swung closed with a dull thud. Grit drifted from the ceiling, making the woman cough. Then she too hurried down the slope, feeling her way along the wall in the darkness.

With a shout, Nicholas leapt into the midst of the Persians as they charged out of the forest of pillars. The dwarf-steel blade flashed overhead as he cut at the lead man. The Persian-not the big bearded one, but one of his confederates-shouted in alarm, throwing up a block with his broadsword. Brunhilde clove through the weapon with a ringing spark and Nicholas felt a solid jolt in both arms. The man's helmet splintered, cloven through by the blow and steel grated on bone. Twisting his wrists, Nicholas wrenched the blade free, a wash of blood darkening the metal.

More Persians swarmed out from the columns, two attacking him as he backed up. Vladimir had started to chant a high, wailing war cry and the Walach threw a long, twisting shadow in the glare of a fresh witch light sputtering overhead. Nicholas slapped aside a swinging mace with the flat of his blade, then bulled in, smashing the nearest Persian in the face with his fist. Mailed knuckles banged on the noseguard of the man's helmet, but the soldier rocked back, stunned. Grimacing, Nicholas grasped the protruding iron, digging his thumb into the man's eye.

The other Persian soldier charged, hewing wildly overhand with his cavalry sword. Nicholas surged back, swinging the broken-nosed Persian into the path of his fellow's blade. The overhand blow sank deep into the man's back, drawing a hoarse grunt and a fountain of black fluid from the dying Persian's mouth. Nicholas lunged, jamming Brunhilde under the collapsing man's arm. The chisel-shaped tip of the runeblade cracked against the attacker's breastplate, ripping through close-set links of chain and sank into his chest with a flat, slapping sound.

A queer, shivering cry sounded and Nicholas swung round, chilled by the sound.

One of the black-cloaked men waded into the fray, head and shoulders above the Persians and Romans struggling back and forth across the little plaza. The creature bounded forward, flat black blades in either hand. In a blink, the thing hewed the head clean from a set of Roman shoulders, then smashed Florus to the ground with a blow of his fist. Nicholas' eyes widened, seeing the plates of the centurion's lorica crumpled and splintered.

In his hand, Brunhilde suddenly woke to life, flaring blue-white like the sun shining through sea ice. Nicholas felt her scream in defiance and crabbed forward, his veins roaring with bloodfire. The shape turned, the blue glare shining in empty eye slits. There was a cold hiss, and the wight rushed forward, cloak streaming back.

Nicholas parried high, slapping away the point of the sword cutting at his head. The second point stabbed in, flickering in and out of sight as the illumination in the sky faded. Nicholas blocked, hilt to hilt, driving the creature's blade into the ground. He stamped down, trying to catch the thing's instep. His hobnailed sandal ground on an armored foot, but found no purchase. The thing smashed an elbow into his chest, throwing Nicholas back, breathless, through an archway.

Vladimir leapt in, axe-blade glittering in a swift arc. The blow glanced from the Persian's breastplate, tearing the cloak away, sending sparks flashing and chunks of iron spalling away. Nicholas rolled up to his feet, then darted in from the flank. For a moment, there was a blur of metal, blades licking back and forth as they fought in the doorway. The Persian parried effortlessly, weaving a double-bladed barrier of steel in front of him. Vladimir hacked at his legs and the creature leapt up, slashing at Nicholas' head.

The Roman panted, sweat streaming down his arms and legs. Everything narrowed to a swirling gray tunnel, focused solely on dancing black metal and the void of enameled armor shifting in and out of sight. He lunged again, trying to catch the thing's elbow joint. Brunhilde was slapped away and Nicholas had to leap back, arms windmilling for balance to escape losing his head to a powerful sideways cut.

His back foot, sliding on the floor, suddenly found a raised lip of stone.

Beyond the thing's huge shoulder, he caught a glimpse of Florus twitching into oblivion, blood spilling from his slack mouth in a thin stream. The other legionaries lay scattered on the plaza, arms and legs twisted in death. The big curly-bearded Persian loped through the arch, shaking gore from his mace.

"Run!" Nicholas shouted at Vlad, gasping as he weakly blocked another cut. He strained, muscle against muscle, hilts locked, Brunhilde's point driven down to the floor. The Walach scuttled past and vanished below Nicholas' line of sight. The Latin kicked, catching the black-cloaked thing on its hip. The blow knocked the Persian back and Nicholas skidded sideways. An open, stone-sided shaft yawned beside his foot.

Black-cloak fell back a step, adjusting its grip on one blade, flipping the other in its hand. Nicholas gasped for breath, crouched, Brunhilde's tip wavering in the air. Curly-beard circled to his left and the two Persians adjusted their spacing. Nicholas swallowed, keeping both opponents in view. His arms burned with fatigue.

Vladimir leapt down the curving steps, two and three at a time. The intermittent glare from outside barely illuminated the pit, but gave the Walach's huge, dark eyes enough to see by. The stairs circled away into the depths and he could feel a cold, steady wind blowing up past him.

Deep, part of his mind gibbered, one hand sliding along the rough brickwork. Can we get out?

"No choice," he growled, hearing Nicholas panting harshly above and the slippery, ringing clash of metal. "Got to be better below than above!" Vladimir spun, bounding back up the steps. As he did, flared nostrils caught a fragment of scent in the roiling air. Thyatis?

He stopped, limbs tensed, bending to the crumbling old stone steps. Yes! The Roman woman's particular blend of leather and soap and sweat was suddenly everywhere. "Not alone-Betia too!" The little girl's heady aroma of lavender and juniper was very clear.

Vladimir crabbed sideways down the steps, nose close to the curving surface. Her hand brushed along the wall…

Then the trail stopped abruptly and he frowned, puzzled. Nothing but a wall faced him, lines of thin, splintery brick and fragments of old plaster. Long-splayed fingers tested the masonry. Something smooth! One of the bricks was not brick-a cunningly cut piece of marble among the course. Hissing in effort, he jammed his hand against the glassy surface, feeling it give.

"Nicholas!" he screamed, putting his shoulder against the wall. There was an answering rumble and brick screeched on brick. "Nicholas! This way!"

Brunhilde whirled in a blur; fat hot sparks leaping from her edge as Nicholas waded in, throwing a blizzard of cuts and thrusts at the wight. Startled, the black shape gave ground, parrying deftly. Nicholas jumped past the shape, driving down one ebon blade-extended in a block-and then flicking the dwarf-steel blade back. The creature didn't flinch, interposing the haft of the other blade, but Brunhilde struck square with a ringing clang and shrieking-a piercing high wail of audible sound-shattered the glossy dark metal. The ebon blade splintered with a crash and the wight staggered back, stunned. Nicholas, teeth gritted in a feral snarl, bulled in, smashing aside the other blade, slashing Brunhilde down across the front of the black helmet.

Metal squealed, iron flashed hot and the dwarf steel burned through. A hoarse, gargling cry went up; a black, mailed hand clawing at the still-unseen face. Nicholas slammed his shoulder into the creature, sending it crashing to the floor.

The big curly-bearded Persian shouted hoarsely, leaping in, mace swinging at Nicholas' face. The Roman ducked, then sprinted past. His boot hit the lip of stone at the edge of the pit, then he kicked off, plunging down into the darkness.

Wind whipped past for an instant, then Nicholas crashed into the steps beside Vladimir. The Walach's eyes were wide in surprise, his mouth a round O. His long-fingered hands grabbed for the Latin, who swayed wildly on the edge of the steps. Vladimir seized the front of his shirt, giving a great heave. Both men toppled back into the dark opening yawning in the side of the pit.

Nicholas, breathless, his legs smarting with the blow of his landing, gasped for air.

Vladimir scrambled up, eyes wide, searching the walls. Above, at the top of stairs, a terrible voice boomed in anger. Boots clattered on brick. Light flared in the shaft, a sullen red glow. In the glare, the Walach caught sight of a glistening smear of sweat on a stone jutting from the wall of the passage. Heedless of the consequences, he grabbed hold of the rock and pushed, muscles bunching under his armor. A grinding sound issued from the walls and he felt the stone give slowly.

Outside, the light flared brighter. There was more shouting.

Vladimir snarled, long teeth white in the hurrying flare of torchlight. The stone scraped and ground and suddenly sank flush with the tunnel wall. A slab of stone faced with brick rolled out of a recess, powered by hidden counterweights, and slammed closed. The Walach caught a glimpse of armored men in the opening before he was plunged into darkness.

"Forward," he hissed, scooping up Nicholas from the ground. Brunhilde's gleam had faded to a dull watery blue, but there was still enough radiance in the passage for the Walach to find their way down, deeper into the earth. After a moment, the Latin managed to get his legs under him and they ran as fast as they could, leaping from step to step.

A heavy boom echoed in the passage behind him, then another. Dust sifted from the ceiling. An indistinct voice shouted words of power and the floor trembled violently. Vladimir stumbled, picked himself up and ran on.