The Storm of Heaven, page 42
Zephyr and Boreas, West and North—promising splendid victims
Pouring generous, brimming cups from a golden goblet,
Begging them to come, so that the wood might burst in flame
And the dead burn down to ash with all good speed.
Iris, messenger, hears her prayers, rushes the message on
To the winds that gather now in stormy Zephyr's halls
To share his brawling banquet."
The Chin woman poured thick wine into the channel at her feet. It mixed, swirling ruby and black, with the pitch. The bearers finished with their task, leaving the girl wrapped in gentle cloth, covering her limbs and body, all save her face, which was calm and still, staring out upon the mourners.
The three women turned again, and now the Matron's disciple faced the girl. In her hands there was a slim candle of beeswax, unlit. She, too, sang, her eyes closed.
"No time for sitting, cries the swift-winged messenger to the assembled hall.
I must return to the Oceans running stream, the Aetheopian's land.
They are making a splendid sacrifice to the gods,
I must not miss my share of the sacred feast.
But hear me, I bring the prayers of the daughter of Artemis!
She begs you come at once, Boreas, blustering Zephyr,
She promises you splendid victims—come with a strong blast
And light the pyre where a brave warrior lies in state
And all the Argive women mourn around her!"
The young disciple touched the lit candle to the dried flowers. Around the circle of the platform, the mourners raised their voices in song, all in harmony, ringing like a great bell. Fire flared and sparked in the petals, leaping up in orange and green. The disciple stepped back, as did the Matron and Mikele, and cast the candle into the pitch.
Flame roared up, licking along the circumference of the seated girl. The wax cloth dripped and then caught, burning a clear blue. Within an instant the center of the platform was a writhing column of fire and smoke, leaping towards the sky. The faces of the assembled women gleamed with firelight.
The massed voice of the sisterhood sang:
"At that hour, the morning star comes rising up,
To herald a new day on earth, and riding in its wake,
The Dawn flings out her golden robe across the sea,
The funeral fires will sink low, the flames dying.
And the wings will swing round, heading home again,
Over the Thracian Sea, and the heaving swells will moan.
Then at last Artemis, turning away from the corpse fire,
Will sink down, exhausted. Sweet sleep will overwhelm her,
Giving her ease, sending these dreadful thoughts away."
The Matron turned her face away from the pyre. She walked slowly, stiffly, to the head of the long stair. Her old bones would feel every step as she descended to the city hidden below. One by one, each of the women on the mountain peak approached the raging fire and bowed, throwing her torch into the conflagration. In the end, as the rising sun filled the east with pink and gold, only Mikele remained, watching the dawn.
The funeral ash rose up in a gray cloud, thick and heavy, then scattered to the west, across the jagged cliffs and steep slopes of the island, lost amongst tumbled boulders and black sand. Within a few grains, the platform was swept clean and the Chin woman turned her face from the rising sun, cold, swift wind nipping at her gown. Then she, too, descended.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
The Walls of Aelia Capitolina
Dwyrin stalked along the city wall, a cloak pulled tight around his thin shoulders. A fierce wind blasted out of the east, flinging grit and sand in a brown haze over the surrounding hills. On the battlements, it was growing colder as the day faded. As the Hibernian paced, his head bent low, he chanted to himself. A dull red glow followed him like the wake of a ship, spreading across the parapet's limestone slabs. The sentries along the wall stayed well away, either sitting on the roofs of nearby buildings or standing around in the darkening street below. After he had passed, they tentatively returned to their positions.
Dwyrin paid their fear no heed, concentrating on laying his fire-ward. Nicholas had been fretting for days. The enemy attacks had ceased. The bandits were lying low, barely stirring from their camps. The centurion was sure it meant a trick in the offing. Without sufficient troops to guard the entire wall, he pressed Dwyrin to find a sorcerous answer to the riddle. Dwyrin couldn't give him an answer—he had no idea what the enemy was up to. He had never learned the mnemonics to invoke the Eye of Mercury or raise some spirit to spy on the enemy. That, he reflected sourly, had been Zoë's job. Not mine! Not the too-young recruit, too late and too slow to learn those things.
He smiled mischievously. The next time the Arabs attacked, they would get a surprise. He might lack many skills, but he was becoming fire's master. They would burn hot, if they tried to scale these walls. The pale, white limestone was the perfect matrix; the stone would burn by itself, if sparked to the proper temperature. He could feel that yearning tugging against his feet as he walked. The sign of fire burning in his own heart inspired other flames to life.
Vladimir had banned him from the kitchen of the praetorium. It was too dangerous!
No dishes for me to wash! The memory of school brought a pang of remorse. He wondered how his teachers were doing, Ahmet and the others. He hoped that they were safe and sound, lazing on the banks of the Nile, herding the gaggle of junior boys through whitewashed halls. He shouldn't be here, locked in a death struggle with an old friend.
Dwyrin looked out over the dun fields and the scraggly line of Arab tents, his heart heavy. Twilight was on the land now, making everything hazy and indistinct. Odenathus was out there, somewhere. The Hibernian had tried to touch his friend's mind through the vestige of their battle-meld, but he had found only a blank sensation. Odenathus had more than enough skill to block him out. Too bad. Maybe if they could have talked, they could have ended this... Probably not. He sighed. I've killed too many of his friends.
He reached stairs leading up into a tower flanking the Damascus gate. The red glow dripped from his cloak and seeped into the flagstones. Below him, under the light of many torches and lanterns, the gate tunnel echoed with hammering as the Roman engineers levered blocks of stone and brick into place. Today, Sextus and his stonemasons hoped to complete work on sealing this gate. The gate tunnel near the praetorium was already closed and work had started on the Dung gate at the southwestern corner of the city.
The stairs led up into a large room with arrow slits on the outer wall and murder holes cut through the floor. Now, of course, the openings to shoot down at attackers in the gate tunnel showed only dirt and bricks. Dwyrin ignored the citizens clustered in the room. They were men of the city, clad in heavy leather jerkins reinforced by metal plates. It wasn't nearly as good as the Legion armor, but it could be turned out by the tannery and the blacksmith's shops within the city. Their arms were no better, mostly old swords dug out of attics or cellars and new-forged spears. The few militia officers were Legion veterans settled here decades ago. They were a grizzled lot, but the backbone of the defense. They ignored Dwyrin in turn, keeping the other men occupied while he worked.
Placing a hand over the middle arch of the gate tunnel, Dwyrin bent his will upon the keystone, etching a sign and pattern to tie together the fire-ward he had scattered along the rampart. A fierce glow radiated from the stone, lighting the room and silhouetting his hands as they bore down on the floor. Then he let go, feeling pressure release and a pop as the pattern locked into place. Now, while the keystone remained intact, the walls would make any assault costly.
The fire-barrier wasn't anything Odenathus couldn't overcome, but then, the Palmyrene couldn't be everywhere at once, could he?
Dwyrin wiped his forehead. It was damp with sweat. This was hot work, even on a chill evening like this. The desert weather and its moods never failed to amaze him.
It was coming on full summer, yet the nights were still bitterly cold and a stiff wind could make you reach for your cloak. The day's work done, he clattered down the stairs to the street, thinking with anticipation of a stein of corn beer in the praetorium mess hall. Maybe there would be something other than the usual mutton to eat, too. Rations weren't short in the city, but there was little variety.
" 'Ware! 'Ware!" The dissonant clanging of an alarm bar suddenly cut the hazy air as he reached the street. Cursing, he turned and leapt back up the flight of stone steps. "They're coming!"
Dwyrin frowned, hearing panic in the lookout's voice, but when he reached the top of the tower and looked out upon the darkening plain, he knew why.
The enemy had not been planning some trick, they had been waiting for reinforcements.
A vast number of lights covered the rocky fields before the walls, flickering orange and red. They advanced swiftly in winding columns of torches. A low rumble of boots and sandals thudding on the rocky ground reached the ears of the men on the tower. Where before the Arabs had come against them in thousands, now there were tens of thousands.
"Signal the praetorium!" Dwyrin's voice cracked like a whip and the men leapt to obey. A shuttered lantern, backed by a silvered mirror, was uncovered and it flashed towards the southwest. The soldiers on the wall were shouting too, calling down to their mates in the street behind the rampart. Men rushed forward, weapons in hand, struggling to pull on their helmets or armor. "Keep everyone back from the face of the wall when they put the ladders up!"
The columns of men on the plain jogged closer, their helmets and spears glinting in the torchlight. On the road there was a great racket as two siege towers rumbled towards the wall. The shouts of sergeants and captains rose up to the defenders. With a rattling of armor and weapons, the attackers began to fan out as they came within arrow range of the walls.
"Wait for it!" Dwyrin hoisted himself up on the walkway behind the tower parapet. Two of the citizens followed him, each carrying large rectangular Legion shields. While he peered out into the gathering darkness, they covered him on either side from enemy arrows. "Hold your shot until I've a chance to work."
The Hibernian closed his eyes, a soft chant on his lips. He felt the sign of fire calling, its voice irresistible. He struggled to contain the swiftly growing power. An indiscriminate release would kill thousands and set the city ablaze. Clenching his jaw, Dwyrin bore down, trying to master the sign. He felt shaky, trembling with effort. It was growing stronger.
Arrows cracked against the wall and whistled past overhead. Dwyrin turned his attention outwards, seeing the plain swarming with men. His mage-sight let him see through the darkness and make out battalions of spearmen, masses of archers and ranks of cavalry waiting on the road behind the siege towers. The towers themselves flickered with a corpse light, showing the faint tracery of fresh wards and shields. Dwyrin grimaced, half sensing the pattern of aqua and terra striving against his ignis and ventus.
He had prepared for this day, too. A word formed on his lips and he stabbed out his fist, letting a tiny portion of the sign raging within him billow forth.
Fire ripped across the plain, shattering the ranks of the first wave of Arabs. Huge jagged waves of flame consumed the men. Most of them simply disappeared in the actinic white glare. A halo of red light wavered in the air around Dwyrin, though he no longer had time to notice such things. The two shield men screamed and fell back, their faces burned. Steam hissed from their clothing and armor. Arrows filled the air, flaring bright against the fire-ward as they sought out Dwyrin's life.
On the plain, now lit by shuddering red light from pyres burning amid the scattered rocks, the massed ranks of the Arabs raised a great cry like the ringing of enormous trumpets: Allau Akbar!
Then they surged onwards, the siege towers rumbling forward in their midst.
—|—
Nicholas squinted to the north, pale violet eyes straining against the gloom, one hand leaning on the parapet of the praetorium tower. Lurid orange and red stabbed on the horizon. A series of thunderous booms rolled over the roofs of the town, shaking dust from the rafters and startling the dogs awake. There were fires in the city, too, but luckily most of the buildings were brick. Something was throwing up a huge column of smoke, though, which glowed from below with a baleful red light. Amid the fumes the centurion could make out the flicker of a signal lantern.
"Tens of thousands," he muttered to himself, reading the slow pulse. "Shit."
Vladimir padded up, lanky frame jingling with a coat of heavy mailed armor. The Walach bartered a sheep for the old-style hauberk of overlapping leaf-shaped plates. He wore the mail cinched with a broad leather belt and a linen surcoat. One of the townswomen had stitched a snarling cat in black and white on the chest. It was poorly made, but Nicholas kept his peace, seeing the pride filling his friend. The Roman guessed the sign was the clan-totem of his people. A long-bladed ax was slung over the barbarian's shoulder. "Runners just came in, Nicholas, there are armed men on the western ramp."
Nicholas bit his lip, then came to a swift decision. The last day had come. "Vlad, round up the engineers, as quick as you can. We're going out. I'll get the boy and meet you in the tunnel. Go!"
Raising a thick black eyebrow in surprise, Vlad nodded sharply and then bolted down the stairs, taking the narrow steps three and four at a time. Nicholas would have tripped, broken his ankle and then stove in his fool head trying such a thing. The Walach was sure on his feet, though, and never seemed to step wrong. The centurion listened, cocking an ear to the darkness. Sure enough, he could hear the clink of metal on metal and the sound of men running in boots below the western wall. He did not risk looking over the edge. The enemy counted many fine archers among their number.
Sighing, he looked out over the domed roofs of the city, taking it all in. The thunder at the northern gate was still rising in pitch, with the entire line of the wall lit up by a violent red glare. The boy was making quite a noise, but if the enemy had enough men to test the whole length of the rampart, there was no way they could hold the city.
Another command wrecked, he thought, caught by a tinge of remorse. Another lee shore in a bad wind.
He pushed away thoughts of Dannmark and the memory of men shouting in fear in the darkness. The fog-shrouded coast of Scandia was far away and those men had been dead and rotting in the cold ground for years. Shouts from below the wall roused him to action. In a moment, ladders and grappling hooks would crash against the parapet. He needed to move swiftly. Despite his haste, he took the stairs only two at a time, one hand brushing the wall to steady himself.
—|—
Nicholas struggled through the plaza behind the Damascus gate, pushing through fleeing citizens. Despite their solid construction, the houses along the street were burning furiously with transparent blue-white flames. The northerner crouched low, scuttling along the ground. Women and children were running in the other direction, wailing in thin, high-pitched voices. Some of them were on fire. Things seemed to have gotten out of hand atop the gate tower. He paused, trying to draw breath in the superheated air, sheltering behind a tall column standing in the middle of the plaza. The carvings of marching soldiers and triumphant emperors were hot to the touch.
In his hand, Brunhilde was keening with fear. The blade's watery surface reflected a hundred leaping flames. Another titanic boom rocked the city and clods of dirt and stone rained down into the street. Nicholas could feel power surging in the air, bitter with the smell of discharged lightning. He mustered his courage, peering around the column.
The main tower seemed intact, though a whirling orb of red light wrapped the upper third. Flashes and sparks danced against the northern face of the sphere. Nicholas gripped Brunhilde tight then thrust her forward and sprinted for the base of the stairs. She shrieked in outrage, but the blade cut through the wavering red light, leaving a whirling tunnel of breathable air. He took the stairs as fast as he could, bending his shoulder forward. There was a burning hot resistance and each step was a struggle. Brunhilde began to smoke and glow but he reached the roof of the tower alive. The rectangular space was littered with corpses, most of them charred beyond recognition.
Nicholas felt sick. These were Romans from the look of the puddled, melting armor. The stones cracked underfoot, broken by the intense heat. He skipped across them, hoping that his boots would hold out. Bending nearly double, he peered between the merlons out onto the plain before the city.
The plain burned and smoked, pitted by huge craters. Columns of Arabs continued to rush forward into the conflagration, their helms glowing orange in the flare of the sphere of fire. Pillars of smoke boiled up, clouding the sky, and fiery stones plunged from the heavens among the running men. The remains of two siege towers smoldered on the road before the gate, shattered, logs and mantlets scattered in all directions. The war cries of the attackers were faint, almost drowned out by the burning hiss of stones bursting amongst them.
Nicholas flinched back from the carnage, seeing the ground carpeted with... He stopped, then looked again. Then he did curse, violently and at length, but it was too late to do anything but what he had already done.
"Dwyrin!" His scream was lost in the ripping sound of a bolt of fire leaping from the boy's fingertips to lash down amongst a charging battalion of armored horsemen. The ground erupted at the blow, spewing dirt and rock and limp bodies into the air. Nicholas lunged to the boy's side, feeling the feeble protection afforded by his sword fail. Heat beat at him like the mouth of a furnace. He grabbed Dwyrin's arm, then stifled a cry, feeling his hand burn. "Come on, lad! It's fake, it's all fake! We've got to run!"
The boy turned, head swiveling like that of a hunting cat, and Nicholas felt his heart go cold at the sight of Dwyrin's eyes. They were slits of brilliance, blazing with incandescent light. Nick slapped him hard across the face, wincing at the pop and bubble of his flesh as he touched forge-hot skin.
