The Dark Lord

CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

The Catanian Shore, Sicilia

"Where are we?" Alexandros shouted, his strong voice carrying in the humid afternoon air. He rode at the head of a column of his Companions-the Gothic knights astride heavy warhorses, armored from head to foot in the Eastern style, great bows jutting from sheaths on their saddles. Two of his scouts emerged from a thicket of dusky gray brush on the meandering farm track ahead. The Macedonian spurred Bucephalas the Black forward, the stallion catching his master's tense mood. "Where is the sea?"

The scouts stared back at him in alarm, their faces red with the sun and scratched by low-hanging branches. One of them-with the shoulder flash of a file leader-swallowed nervously and jogged up to Alexandros' stirrup. "My lord! We thought this was the way to the beach!"

"Who is behind you, then?" The Macedonian's voice came in a harsh snap.

"The whole of the sixth syntagma, my lord," the man answered in a rush. "The syntagmarch said march away from the sun, great lord, but we've gotten turned around in these lanes…"

Alexandros stopped the man with a raised hand. His eyes glittered in fury. "Climb a tree, now!"

Moments later, the younger-lighter-scout was swaying in the branches of a tall poplar, shading his eyes against the last gleam of the day. He stiffened, one hand clutching the thin trunk. His free hand stabbed out, pointing left of the farm track. "There," he shouted, "a fleet! A whole fleet! Hundreds of sails!"

"How far?" Alexandros bellowed, while the cavalrymen behind him stared nervously into a dense boscage of vines, creepers, silver-barked trees and thorn between them and the presumed enemy.

"Less than a mile, my lord," the scout replied. "This track turns and swings towards open ground and grassy bluffs."

"Double-time," the Macedonian roared to his signalmen and file captains. Without waiting for the scout to clamber down from the tree, he urged Bucephalas on and the horse thundered down the lane, Alexandros leaning close to the stallion's neck, branches whipping at his shoulders. The earth trembled as the rest of the column kicked to a trot. Dust boiled up from the dry road, coating the horses' chests and making men blink.

The lead scout jumped out of the way, crushing himself against a stand of holly to avoid being trampled. His own column was only moments from marching onto the road, pikes and axes swinging and there would be a Fury's own mess if the two groups collided. Ignoring his junior, who was swinging precariously in the treetop, the lead scout crashed off through the tangled undergrowth, bawling "column halt!" at the top of his lungs.

Attend me, beloved Arad! The Lord of the Ten Serpents turned his attention from the land, where C'hu-lo and his Huns were gathering in a lean, dark circle around the copse of trees where Dahak had made his temporary command post. T'u-chueh archers laughed in the shade of intertwined trees, unpacking long curved bows they had carried ashore wrapped in leather and waxed cloth. The sorcerer felt much at ease, knowing he would not be taken unawares. He squatted at the base of a tree, his banner flapping smartly in the wind only paces away. Have you come ashore?

The mental query was met by unexpected silence-more than the attenuation of distance or the interference of the sea-but an emptiness, a void from which Dahak's tendril of thought did not return. Arad? The sorcerer's lean head stiffened, turning to face the glittering water. Triply-lidded eyes flickered, focusing on the rakish shape of the Palmyrene flagship. The Asura rode easily at anchor, her sails furling as sailors scrambled in the yards, dragging in canvas. Where are you?

Dahak realized he had not felt the mournful wail and lament of the Egyptian priest's mind for some time. He concentrated, feeling a sickly, cold fear welling up at the back of his own thoughts. The Queen, the Boar, the Eagle, the Sixteen… he could feel all his servants, even the least, the gaatasuun and their harsh, singular thoughts of blood and sharp teeth crunching through flesh. But not the first tool he had made with his own hands.

Arad? Faithful servant? Dahak wailed, reaching out into the emptiness. Gone? Gone? How could you escape these bindings? These chains? Rage flared in the sorcerer's heart and he leapt to his feet, the air around him darkening with malefic power. Return to me!

There was no answer, though the tall poplar at his back shriveled and cracked, suddenly dead leaves falling in a drifting rain around him. "Arad!"

— |-

Shahr-Baraz splashed ashore, hairy feet bare on clinging black sand, low waves rushing past with a hiss of spray and foam. Riding boots hung around his neck on a leather thong-a cumbersome, heavy weight of leather reinforced with strips of iron-but worse still if they were wet. The soldier Patik was only a pace behind, followed by a crowd of Immortals, bannermen, trumpeters, runners and aides. The Boar found his footing on drier sand and picked up the pace, massive thighs propelling him up the beach without pause.

The shoreline itself ran in shallow, then rose up at a line of hard-packed dark sand mixed with debris from passing ships and storms. Beyond the tide line, a hundred feet-or less-of rumpled sand dunes slanted up in a gentle shelf and then the shore proper began, with scattered grass-covered dunes, stands of cork trees and the lower, marshier outlets of streams.

Shahr-Baraz found the banners of two regiments of Persian footmen standing above the tide line, surrounded by a mixed crowd of soldiers. Thousands of gaatasuun were crawling from the sea in complete disorder, wandering aimlessly in packs, forcing the living men to form a barrier of steel and wooden shields around the banners to protect themselves. Officers were shouting, trying to make themselves heard above the rush of the sea. The following wind, which had driven the fleet from Alexandria with such speed, snapped the banners taut, throwing sea spray and sand against their backs. The Boar growled, drawing the attention of those nearest to him and stormed into a cluster of men in peaked helmets and sunflower insignia.

"Who commands here?" he roared, grasping one diquan by shoulders and setting the surprised man aside by main strength. "Why are you standing about?"

A portly nobleman in the etched, fluted armor of the Kushanshahr highlands stepped forward, making a deep bow to his king. "King of Kings," he declaimed in a serious voice, "we're trying to rally our men, and gather our companies, but-" The man waved his arm to encompass the long sweep of the shore. Everywhere, there were ships-some run aground, others standing offshore, soldiers piling into longboats-and the beach itself was no better, with the sodden dead crawling through the breakers, while men came ashore in dribs and drabs, as skiffs and barges could manage. The gusting wind made the sea rougher than Shahr-Baraz had expected and as he watched, a longboat turning away from the beach took a breaker abeam. Sailors tumbled into foaming white water as the boat capsized, oars splintering against the sandy bottom.

"— everywhere there is confusion. Only a handful of my levies have found me." The Kushana finished, his own impatience and concern showing.

"Don't worry about that," Shahr-Baraz boomed, making every man in the group of officers start in alarm. "Take these men and push inland! Where you see the gaatasuun, drive them before you! Take any soldier, no matter his clan or house, under your banner. We must get off this beach!"

The Pashtun chief nodded, forked beard making a sharp shadow on his breastplate, then turned away, his own bull-like voice raised in command. "Men of Herat-with me! Persia, with me!"

The living soldiers crowded around the banners answered with their own shout, taking heart from his bold words and the entire mass of men began slogging inland through the deep sand. The Boar gestured for his own officers to attend him. "Here, you lot," he boomed, his powerful voice overreaching even the sea and the wind. "Patik-where is Prince Rustam?"

Patik had been surveying the beach, eyes shaded against the setting sun. "We've drifted north before this wind, my lord," he replied after a moment. "I see the prince's banner-he's a mile away or more south…"

"Go to him," the Boar snapped, his tone brooking neither delay nor disobedience. "Tell him to master his dead servants and send them inland. They're useless for fighting in formation, so they might as well bring confusion and despair upon the enemy."

Patik nodded, then jogged off through the sand. After a hundred paces, he swerved towards the waterline, where the footing was firmer. Shahr-Baraz immediately forgot him, turning to his other officers. "Piruz-you're a likely lad, beloved of my daughter-take a dozen men and move along the beach. Tell every officer and lord to take what men he can find and move inland with all speed! There's no time to muster properly, not in this chaos, so every diquan and lord must show boldness and daring, striking at the enemy with every means at their disposal."

The prince of Balkh nodded, sharply, his expression hungry for battle and glory.

"You boys," the Boar growled at the spry young lads he used as couriers. "The rest of the pushtigbahn will be coming ashore somewhere near here…" Shahr-Baraz waved a huge, armored hand in a vague circle. "…find them and send them to me. We will take yonder hill-" An empty grassy mound rose behind the beach, two hundred yards away. "-as our command post. Off with you!"

The Boar grinned then, drawing his own blade, a massive length of steel that measured more than most men could lift. He swung the sword inland, bellowing: "The rest of you, with me! Forward, to victory!"

Bucephalas burst from the trees and galloped across a swale of high grass. The rich, dark soil of the bottomlands turned to grainy obsidian-colored volcanic sand. Alexandros breathed a sigh of relief to see the green ocean swell before him and to get his cavalry free of the constricted lane. Then he cursed, the stallion slewing into deep, loose sand. He reined in before the horse broke a leg and pirouetted back onto harder ground. In the brief moment, he had looked down on the sweep of the beach and his heart froze with alarm.

The sea was black with ships, the dull gray strand swarming with Persians, their banners a forest, their spears glittering stars. He drew Bucephalas to a halt, the stallion snorting in disgust, and the Macedonian took a long, hard look up and down the beach. The rest of the Companions trotted out of the orchard lane, spilling to his left and right, automatically forming a loose, irregular line. The Gothic knights unlimbering their lances, preparing for a charge.

"All sections, halt along the verge," Alexandros shouted, turning so his captains could hear him and repeat the commands. "Dismount, send the horses back. Form two ranks! Philos-find the pike syntagma those scouts were talking about and get them up here, now!"

Immediately, there was confusion as men swung down from their horses, one in five grasping bundles of reins, hurrying to tie leads to the following mares. The grassy sward filled with a huge crowd; more men riding up from behind while others tried to move back. The Gothic captains and centurions were hoarse, screaming at their dull-witted charges, trying to form ranks while men rushed this way and that. Alexandros ground a fist into his saddle. This is very bad, he realized; nervous, quick eyes scanning the beach.

A mob of Persians moved slowly uphill towards him-he doubted they even realized his Companions were shaking out a confused, disordered line-they were certainly in no better order. But there were a great many of the enemy and there were so many ships offshore, crowding the sea with dozens of smaller craft. He glanced to the north.

In the distance, outlines shaded by humid air, he could make out the rooftops of a small town rising on a rocky headland. Catania, he thought, wishing suddenly he'd stopped the army in the little city at dawn. They had marched down from Messina with heedless speed. A day and night's march toward the looming cone of Aetna had been draining to men and horses alike. Now, today, they had put on another burst of speed-the prince had said the enemy would make landfall on "the beaches"-and here they were.

Seeing their numbers, the Macedonian felt a cold chill in his bones. If we'd regrouped at the port, we could advance like a scythe, from north to south along the beach and slaughter these lambs as they came ashore, our lines orderly, our wings entirely in my sight. Now, Alexandros was all too aware he'd scattered his forces piecemeal among the farm lanes and tracks behind of the beach. Where is my vaunted skill now? he thought harshly. I should have been patient and sent out my scouts to spy the land and the positions of the enemy.

Alexandros felt his stomach roil. He'd advanced recklessly, trusting to speed and surprise to overwhelm the enemy. "Krythos was right," he muttered under his breath. "I need to stay back."

"Orders, sir?" A captain of the Companions was standing at his foot, grizzled face looking up expectantly.

"Two ranks deep, Ostrys, and extend the line as far on the flanks as we can. Keep the Persians from getting off the sand." Alexandros squinted at the sky, taking some faint hope from the dwindling light. "When the pike syntagma gets here, form three ranks deep and advance in a wedge." He pointed down at the beach. "Cut your way to the waterline, then hold. If more men come up, expand the wedge to the left and the right."

"Ja, my lord." The Goth grinned. "Keep them in the sea, where they can drown before our shield wall."

"Yes," the Macedonian said sharply, "and keep them from gathering their forces!"

Now where should I be, Alexandros thought as he turned Bucephalas away from the sea. I need to find the rest of my army. He rode towards the thicket, though slowly, the big black forcing his way through a countervailing flow of pikemen. Long spears danced around him, a thicket of ash and iron, and the footmen swung past with a grin and a rousing shout. They were glad to be out of the claustrophobic trees as well. How am I going to find anyone? The Macedonian clucked, nudging the horse to the side of the road. A new column of men jogged towards him in the golden, late afternoon sunlight, through sparkling clouds of dust. He realized there was literally no way he could find anyone else-Chlothar, Krythos, any of his commanders-in the sprawl of hedges, meadows, streams and orchards behind the beach.

Grunting in dismay, Alexandros turned the stallion, then stopped abruptly, his eye hanging on something passing strange. The approaching column tramped smartly out of the lane, three banners-a golden hand, a silver eagle and a square plaque bearing a horned ram-leading the first ranks. These men were smartly equipped, oval shields slung on their arms, long spears in hand, feathered conical helms snug under shaven chins. A Roman officer-he could be no other, not with such a proud nose and grim expression-paced them on the left and Alexandros found himself staring down in surprise at the man.

"Who are you?" the Macedonian asked, feeling a chill to see the man's iron breastplate no more than shadow or mist and his speaking mouth like glass, showing trampled leaves and mud.

First Legio Roma, the ghost answered, saluting smartly. The centurion's eyes were dark pits, without even a gleam in their shadows. Pale teeth showed in a grin. The Consul said the Epirotes are coming ashore? We're ready for another go at them, by Mars! We've waited a long time to even the score for Ausculum.

"The… yes, they are landing from their ships, just over there." Alexandros pointed over the downs towards the sea. "My men will hold the center. You… take the right flank."

Ave! came a soundless response and the centurion turned away, broad hand chopping at the air. The ghostly ranks clashed spears silently on bronzed shields, then jogged on, a long, ceaseless line. The Macedonian watched them with slowly mounting fear eating away at his composure. By his count, at least four thousand men marched past, not one more than a pale outline, casting no shadow on the sunny ground, but in the dimness under the trees, they seemed almost solid.

Unwillingly, Alexandros looked to the sky and saw the sun touching the mountain peaks to the west. It will be dark soon, he thought. Will I hear their battle cries then?

A brace of Palmyrene sailors, stripped down to loincloths, bronzed limbs flashing in the water, ran the longboat ashore. The Queen swayed a little as the keel breasted on the sand, then her men braced the boat and she stepped down into shallow water. More boats followed, carrying her guardsmen from the Asura. The cool water felt good on her bare feet, splashing against armored greaves covering her trim calves. Zoe stood ready in the back of her mind, the center of a glittering dodecahedron of shifting light and half-seen patterns. Can you feel him yet? Zenobia asked.

No, but something is happening… there is a veritable army of lights snaking towards the beach from inland. Not men-not living men-but not these husks the Serpent has stirred to life either. They are very angry, I can feel that much!

"The Romans are coming," the Queen called to her captains. She saw the Palmyrene sailors and pilots had done well, keeping their flotilla together, the ships anchored to form a barrier against the wind. The Persian fleet-and she allowed herself a cold, satisfied smile-was in confusion, ships yawing against the breeze, some fouled in another's anchor chains. "Skirmishers and archers forward in a screen, form up the qalb and the maimanah as they come off the boats. Lord Khalid!"

The young Arab turned, brief anger flitting across his face at her preemptory command. The usual gang of Sahaba was around him, all younger men culled from the cities and towns of the Decapolis. His recklessness had turned many of the more experienced Arabs from his faction. Odenathus was first among Khalid's confidantes, but the Queen knew his friendship restrained the Eagle from openly flaunting her authority.

"You must command," she said firmly, raising her voice to be heard over the rattle of oars and men shouting as they unloaded. "Lord Odenathus and I will be busy in the hidden world. The Romans are sending some power against us, not just mere legionaries, and we must turn our attention away." Zenobia singled out two of the Sahaban captains of heavy foot. "Malik, Duraid-you must watch over us while our minds are distant-find a hundred men and form a square, girding each of us in a fence of steel."

Both men nodded sharply, then set to work gathering up likely men. The Queen beckoned Khalid close, though she had yet to step out of the rushing surf. The day was hot and the sea pleasant between her toes. "Our armies are scattered," she said as the young Arab approached, "and everywhere I see confusion. Victory will be more likely won today by clear thought than bravery or strength of arms. The footing is poor on this sand and we have no horses, so we must strike inland as quickly as we can."

Khalid nodded in understanding, looking sharply to Odenathus and then back to Zenobia. "Will you each ward a flank, north and south? We may be attacked from either side…"

"We will," Zenobia nodded, and then-with a sigh-let her mind fall back, yielding hands, eyes, legs, even the beat of her heart to Zoe. The girl surged forward, filling the body with her quick energy. "Here they come," she cried, spying the glittering flight of arrows and javelins lofting into the afternoon sky. The Arab skirmishers were already among the higher dunes. Her hand sketched a complicated sign and a wavering gleam filled the air as the wind rushed into a near-solid barrier before the advancing army.

The Sahaba surged up the beach, voices booming like the sea, crying Allau, Allau ak-bar! Horns and trumpets wailed, answering the skirling call of the Roman bucinas. The men of Mekkah were used to running in sand and they loped towards the enemy with glad hearts. Every step taken away from the unsteady sea raised their spirits.

Zoe walked forward, surrounded by a ring of armed men and she stretched her power, feeling the heavy blue strength of the sea behind and shining red streams of power in the earth ahead. "This land is strong," she cried, though Odenathus was now beyond earshot.

A huge shadow suddenly rushed overhead and Zoe yelped in alarm. Shocked, she looked up, catching a glimpse of vast wings, a snaky head and a sinuous tail lashing in the air. Stunned, she and the men around her saw the thing roar past, the sound of its passage deafening everyone and snap into a tight circle over a stand of trees a half-mile away. Flame vomited down, spewing from gaping, black jaws and the entire copse burst into flame, men fleeing in all directions, the trailing black banner of the Serpent Lord engulfed in a blast of greenish-white fire.

The Queen heard a piercing howl echo in her mind and staggered, clutching her ears in pain. The cold, clammy touch of the lord Dahak faltered and she felt him struggle, wrapped in flame. In a single, crystalline moment, his control slackened, lifting iron chains from her will.

Cousin! Zoe screamed at Odenathus, her thought leaping across their battle meld, mind and mind meshing violently into one. The young man's mind was awhirl and he groped to match her thought. We are free! Zoe's shouted giddily.

Not yet, Zenobia forced herself into their meld, unexpectedly filling the apex of a triangle she'd not known existed between them. Odenathus recoiled, but then she felt glad wonder touch her like the glow of a warm fire on a cold night. Hello, nephew. Zenobia thought wryly. Zoe-the Roman prince?

The girl's exultation faded, dashed by chilling reality. Yes, she thought in unison with Odenathus. It's him!

Zenobia recoiled, faced with a secondhand image of a storm-dark titan astride a steed of iron, wreathed in rippling flame, circled by flickering blue-white signs and glyphs. A constellation of bright spirits whirled around him, shrieking with rage. Power cracked from his hand like the stroke of a forge hammer. Her body's hearing shuddered in response, the air thundering with a long, echoing crash. Lightning stabbed along the beach, darkening the air.

Our men come first, Zenobia snapped, capturing the stunned attention of the two young wizards. We must protect them!

The Lord of the Ten Serpents writhed on the ground, flames roaring around him, scaly limbs glowing cherry-red with intense heat. The copse of trees roared, slender trunks wrapped in greenish fire and the sandy ground bubbled and popped, turning to a glassy slurry under the sorcerer's feet. Wailing, barely able to breath, Dahak lunged away from the sea, bounding up into the air. Power wicked around him, the tormented core of his mind struggling to ignore the searing pain stabbing from ruined flesh and summon a shield of defense.

Gusts of wind slammed the sorcerer to the ground, sending him crashing into a stand of brambles. The iron monster in the sky banked sharply, wing rolling over and a searing trail of phlogiston smoked in the air. The viscous fluid streaked across the ground in a long arc. Dahak rolled away from the tongue of flame. Everything-trees, brambles, sand, old tufa-lit with brilliant greenish-white fire. Smoke roared up, climbing to the heavens in a thick, black cloud. The iron drake shrieked upwards, gaining altitude.

Coughing up soot and burning ash, the sorcerer scrambled down the dune. The sandy crown burned fiercely, streams of molten glass spilling after him. The T'u-chueh fled, leaving smoldering corpses scattered under the trees. Dahak wailed, a long, sobbing moan escaping his seared throat. He'd only felt such dreadful pain once before and he splashed desperately into a muddy pond, crying in relief as cool water hissed against his skin. Taloned fingers plunged into the mud, feeling strength throbbing in the rich soil.

A rising, hurricane shriek snapped his head around, the sorcerer catching sight of the flying machine-now he could sense gears and wheels, cunning skeletal limbs sheathed in hammered copper and bronze, a blazing crystalline heart-sweeping towards him. Even the brief respite had been enough, letting his mind settle, confusion flee, and power rush into his body from the living earth.

"Now we'll see, stripling!" Dahak turned, one black hand slashing across the pale blue sky. The sun had settled behind the mountains, but the heavens were still flush with day and the rising smoke was only a smear against a perfect field of azure. Lightning leapt up with his motion and the iron drake plowed into a massive, earth-shaking discharge. A thunderclap smote the ground, shaking leaves from the trees and making the surface of the muddy pond jump.

The machine staggered in flight and Dahak felt his enemies' surprise. Iron plates glowed bright, groaning as iron expanded in the wake of the strike. The sorcerer rose from the pond, delighted to see his opponent veer away, a spiral of smoke hanging in the air. He scrambled out of the pool, eager to gain some high ground.

Smoke hissed away from the turning drake as it rushed through the upper air and then petered out. A faint blue-white flash rippled across the massive head, deep-set eyes blazing orange and red. The machine banked around with a shriek, the wind of its passage bending the trees.

Dahak cursed, summoning every power and ward he knew. A wave of darkness rushed away from him, killing grass, flowers, trees in a great circle. "Come then!" he screamed at the sky, "test my strength!" At a great distance, the door of stone quivered, feeling binding signs upon the ancient granite weaken and fray.

Stunned, the Sahaba raised their heads from the sand, every man's eyes wide in fear. The Queen was already standing, searching the sky with liquid brown eyes, her lips a harsh line. Three more of the great creatures plunged towards her from the west. Against the sun-bright sky, they were almost invisible, but the earthshaking roar of their passage rolled before them like the clash of a massive drum. Zoe grasped the air, her fingers tangling in the last rays of the sun. A hazy wall flickered above the dunes, fierce zephyrs rushing over the ocean hurrying to her aid. "Keep down," she managed to shout as the first of the enemy cracked past overhead.

The drake's wingtip, tending low towards the ground as the leviathan body slewed into an S-curve towards the fleet, clipped the trembling, near-invisible wall. Zoe was slammed back into the sand, breath driven from her body and the shield of wind disintegrated in a whirlwind of sand and dust and debris. The iron machine cartwheeled unexpectedly, flame spilling away from a twisting snout, and slammed at great speed into the merchantman Der'a. The colossal impact broke the ship in half, iron wings tangling in the mast, planks and keel shattering with a roar. A huge spout of water fountained up, vaporizing to steam as the drake coughed up a bellyful of phlogiston. Fire rained down in blazing droplets, engulfing the broken foredeck of the Der'a, and spreading on the tossing sea in great, hissing sheets.

"Dusarra's brass teat!" Zoe cursed, scrambling to her feet. Two more ships caught fire in the space of her exclamation, their sails bursting into yellow flame, rolling black clouds surging across the water. The iron monster struggled in the wreckage, tangled, massive claws shredding the hull as it fought free. Steam boiled up with an ear-splitting hiss, obscuring her view. The surf glowed red, catching the light of the inferno roaring around the three ships.

The other two iron drakes had broken away, veering left and right from their unexpectedly fallen brother. Zoe's heart fell as the bat-winged monstrosities shrieked over the fleet, triangular heads dipping down, sending sheets of green flame drifting down over the massed ships. A rippling series of booms echoed across the water, dry cordage and canvas catching alight. Dozens of ships were aflame in moments.

Odenathus, Zoe called, feeling her cousin rising woozily from the sand. Give me your strength!

Her fist clenched in the air, whipping through a tight circle. Giddy power rushed from land and sea and air, coalescing into a shimmering, blood-red cube clasped in her ghostly hand. Grim brown eyes followed the swooping flight of one of the machines as it pulled away from the stricken fleet, wings roaring in the air, clawing for altitude. Odenathus' power joined hers and the cube multiplied fourfold. Now the simple shapes split and re-formed, tearing and extruding new surfaces with dizzying speed.

The iron drake executed a sharp plunging turn and shrieked back across the bay. Zoe canted her arm, then flung the power she'd gathered like a javelin, leading the massive, onrushing metallic shape. The girl staggered, drained by the enormous gradient she'd released, then armored hands caught her from both sides. A spray of brilliant crimson duododecahedrons snapped out in an expanding cone.

The machine slammed into the cloud and the sky lit with a concussive, blinding crack!

Smoke and fire bloomed in the air, a roiling black cloud. Metal screamed and the drake burst free, one wing torn away, the head smashed, white smoke billowing from rents in the scaled flesh. Zoe shouted in triumph, and the men around her cheered wildly. One massive wing still beat the air, and the machine tilted to one side. Zoe turned to find the other drake, catching sight of it sweeping inland, rising on titanic wings.

Look out! Odenathus shouted over the meld. Zoe spun back-just in time to see the crippled drake slam into the shallow water a hundred yards away and crash through a burning barge, sections of iron hull flaking away from the skeleton. Zoe sprinted away, her guardsmen wailing in fear, and the enormous machine bounced-wreathed in flame-onto the beach behind them. A whoomp of flame jetted out and the creature blew apart. Zoe felt something lift her up, then she smashed into a sand dune with a sickening crack. Fire roared around her and she blinked smoke from her eyes. Dazed, she tried to roll over, but her arm failed and groaning metal drowned out her weak cry for help.

Something blotted out the sky, toppling over, and she caught a glimpse of an intricately detailed iron wing rushing towards her before searing pain washed consciousness away.

Dahak leapt into the air, tearing free from the burden of gravity and a thick, scaled tail slapped the ground where he'd stood. Trees shattered, limbs torn away, filling the air with flying splinters. The sorcerer twisted, a crackling blue-black flare leaping from his outstretched hand. The blast seared the drake's head and shoulders, iron plates groaning with the impact and the creature whirled away. Wounded, the machine bounded for the open sky.

Something rose out of the smoke, surrounded by whirling points of white light and Dahak drew back, drifting in the sooty air, eyes narrowed in surprise. His enemy came forth in the flesh at last and the young Roman's aspect was vastly different than he'd seen before.

You have grown strong, the Lord of the Ten Serpents hissed.

Maxian rushed forward, suspended in a shifting sphere of sullen glyphs and whirling, frenetic bright sparks of living flame. His lean face was dark with strain, but the sorcerer could feel power moving to the boy from every direction. The hidden world twisted, contorting around the strength collecting in the Roman. Even Dahak felt the tug, a steadily steepening slope wicking his own mana away.

No! Dahak howled, and mustered his own vigor, sapping the land, sending thousands of his gaatasuun collapsing to the ground, yanking tendrils of guiding thought away from his servants, opening his heart to the power dwelling in the empty spaces behind the moon and the sun. Incandescent with rage, he met the prince's charge with his own blow-a flickering, swift sign bursting new-formed and whole from the air-darkening the afternoon sky.

Jagged patterns clashed, lightning licking along impossible surfaces and a coruscating blast of fire, wind and deafening sound rolled away from the two wizards. The sea heaved, more Persian ships capsized or the flames raging on their decks were snuffed by the overpressure of the blast. Thousands of men threw themselves to the ground in fear, some blinded. The soft bottomland convulsed and heaved, entire orchards and meadows flattened or swallowed by the uneasy earth.

Dahak slashed in, howling unholy words, splintering the prince's wards like eggshells, dispersing glyphs, striking at the power flooding from earth and sky. They grappled, a whirlwind of searing blasts rippling along the edge of their conflict. The prince strove to drive Dahak towards the sea, but the sorcerer did not yield. His reptilian eyes blazed red, curdling beams lashing across Maxian's pattern. Defenses flaked, splintering under the blow and the prince staggered.

The Lord of the Ten Serpents grinned, bearing down, his will closing like a vise.

Maxian slammed back, ultraviolet lightning crashing against Dahak's shields, bleeding through layers of swirling defense. The sorcerer felt his ties to the earth weaken, then a raging inferno enveloped him, hammering with heat and light at his concentration. Gasping, desperate to recover himself, Dahak leapt away, soaring across the empty sky, high above the line of the beach, towards the harbor of Catania itself. He's too strong here, the sorcerer thought wildly, dimly perceiving some enormous pattern building behind the prince's ever-mounting attack. I've been lured into a trap!

The prince gave chase, roaring in pursuit, a roiling cloud stabbing with lightning hot on his heels.

Run, old snake! The prince's grim thought arrowed after the sorcerer. You can't find a hole deep enough to keep me from your throat!

A howling mob stormed against the Roman lines, withered corpses screeching, skeletal hands clawing against shields and grasping at the stabbing spears. Alexandros trotted great Bucephalas behind the third rank, screaming encouragement, ordering men up from the reserves when he saw the line weaken. The dead swarmed up the slope in waves, throwing themselves heedlessly against the Gothic shield wall. Red-bearded men hacked with axes, hewing away brittle arms, throats, hands. The pikemen stabbed overhand, crushing the chests of corpses, yet still the dead surged against the line, trying to break through with main force.

The Gothic line sudden split open, a wedge of waxy faced legionaries crashing through, swords slashing wildly around them.

"Hold! Hold!" Alexandros waded into the fray, slashing down with his cavalry spatha, splitting open the skull of a desiccated Roman. The creature's hands scrabbled against the blade, trying to wrench the sword from his hands, but the Macedonian kicked out, shoving the corpse away. The dead man was immediately trampled underfoot by a wave of his fellows, oily yellow guts squishing under hobnailed boots. A noisome stench rolled before the gaatasuun, choking the air and making living men faint with nausea. "Reserves! Reserves here!"

Bucephalas reared, striking out with flying hooves. Steel sparked on rusted armor, smashing two half-rotted ghouls back. The dead went down, tangling the legs and arms of those behind. Alexandros swung with the horse, slashing the head from another undead Roman. The legionnaire continued to fight, methodically hacking away in front of him, even though no one was there. Grimacing, the Macedonian leaned down and slashed the backs of the thing's mottled gray legs. The corpse toppled, arms still swinging.

Another rush of the dead boiled up the slope and Bucephalas screamed. Spears jabbed at the horse's face and he reared. Alexandros, unprepared, toppled out of the saddle, hitting the ground with a clang of armor and metal. The stallion whirled, kicking with his back feet, shattering the dried, fragile skulls of two more assailants. The dead pressed forward, black ooze spilling down their archaic armor.

Whinnying, Bucephalas bolted back out of the line of battle. With only a moment to spare, Alexandros managed to get to his feet and was immediately beset by two headless spearmen. Their leaf-bladed spears jabbed at him in eerie synchrony and the Macedonian slapped one weapon away, then grunted, the other scoring across his breastplate at an angle.

"Reserves!" he screamed, hacking down with his spatha and cleaving the exposed arm in twain. "Hold the line!"

The other spearman lunged and Alexandros twisted, catching the point on his shield. Iron squealed on the laminated wood, then the Macedonian stepped in and smashed his blade down on the thing's exposed collarbone. Ribs splintered, black-and-gray dust spewed from a dozen ancient wounds and the thing collapsed. Alexandros stepped back, drenched with sweat, gasping for breath. His sword arm did not feel exhaustion, but his mind struggled to break free from the melee surging around him.

"Hold the line!" he screamed, falling back a step. Two legionaries with oval shields filled his space, and Alexandros felt a peculiar chill as one passed through him like mist. "Hold…"

We'll hold, growled a sharp voice in his mind. The ghostly centurion stepped past and a maniple of his men flooded into the gap. As insubstantial as their spears were, they crushed back the crawling dead, bright blades licking down to pierce spines or hew legs from under the walking corpses.

Alexandros staggered back from the line, then flinched away from the sky.

A colossal blast thundered overhead and two burning figures streaked past in the upper air. The Macedonian's head snapped around, trying to follow their flight to the north and he suddenly realized the sky was choked with cloud, vast plumes of steam rising from the bay, the forested lands behind the beach engulfed in a spitting, crackling forest fire. The sun had set, but the land was lit by wavering flame on land and sea. High up, beyond sight, he could hear the roar of some monstrous creature quartering the sky.

Stand fast, bellowed the centurion and Alexandros was at his side, staring down the slope. A wedge of men-living men-in gleaming armor jogged towards them under waving sunburst banners. The furious attack of the dead had drained away, those few remaining animate wandering aimless or crawling on the ground like enormous snakes. The Macedonian stared in surprise, recognizing the enemy banner, then drew himself up.

"Romans! To me, to me!" His spatha swung down, pointing at the advancing men. "Great Persia comes! Let us show him what Roman valor means!"

A bellowing shout answered the Macedonian as he wiped sweat from his eyes and settled his battered shield. He had never expected to face the war flags of Achamaenid Persia or the golden-masked Immortals again-yet here they came at a run, straight up the shallow slope at him. His grip tightened on the sword hilt.

Epirote scum, echoed the ghostly centurion's voice. The man was almost solid now. Where are your fucking elephants now?