Gordius Falco, equites scout of the Third Augusta Fre-tensis, stared in shock as the body of a young man in dirty tattered clothing bounced down the slope above him in a spray of gravel and smacked into the bole of a thick juniper tree. He kneed his horse to turn it around, halting his slow trot up the hill. Gordius stared around, his eyes wide, but he saw no one. He walked the horse forward to the boy and leaned down to shake his shoulder with a meaty hand.
The boy’s eyelids fluttered and he turned his head a little. There seemed to be some dim recognition in them. Gordius probed the arrow wound gently, but blood was spilling out of the boy’s back and puddling on the ground under the tree. The boy tried to say something, but his lips moved and there was no sound. Gordius leaned closer, feeling the faint flutter of a pulse at the boy’s throat.
“The Iron Hats…” was all he heard. Gordius looked up sharply, scanning the ridge above him. Off to the right, where a dip in the line of hills made a saddle, his eye caught on movement. He squinted and saw, there in a clearing of tufted grass and scattered rocks, five men on stout bay-colored horses with colorful peaked caps and long coats over their armor. Curved bows were slung over their backs and longswords hung from their saddles.
“Mithras,” Gordius breathed, pushing away from the tree and the dead boy. “Time to be going!”
He turned the horse again and calmly rode away down the hill, being sure to keep trees between himself and the dip in the ridge. After a mile of walking the horse, he kneed it to a trot and hurried north, hoping to run into the rest of his patrol.
Heraclius was standing on a log platform, looking out on a field south of the Roman camp, when one of his dispatch riders scrambled up the ladder behind him. The Emperor turned at the sound of the boy huffing and puffing for breath.
Theodore laughed, catching the boy by the shoulder before he pitched off of the platform. “Hold, lad, before you break your neck!”
The dispatch rider fell to one knee before the Emperor, having caught his breath. “A patrol has come in, Great Lord! Persian horsemen have been sighted seven or eight miles south of the river, moving north. The centurion in charge sent a man ahead to warn the camp.”
Heraclius traded a glance with Galen, who had ordered the patrols south, and with the third King on the platform, Ziebil of the Khazar khanate. The Western Emperor was tired looking, but this news did not please him either and he met it with a frown. The Khazar, a short, broad-shouldered man with sandy hair streaked with gray and a very short beard, shrugged and returned Heraclius’ look with a bored expression. Ziebil spoke seldom, preferring to listen and watch. Heraclius had heard that he was a very demon in battle, though he seemed almost unnaturally calm in the short time they had seen each other face to face.
“Is this what you expected?” Heraclius had turned back to Galen, who shook his head sharply.
“Winter is close,” the Western Emperor said. “They must have sent men north to keep us from sneaking over into the highlands before the passes are closed by snow. Shall we drive them off?“
Heraclius nodded, his mind made up. It was time to see how well his Khazar allies performed in the field. “Great Khan? Would you care to do the honors?”
Ziebil pursed his lips and idly pulled a thick-hafted knife from his belt. He tossed it from one hand to the other, then slid it quickly back into its sheath. He nodded, and there was a flicker of a grim smile on his face. He leaned over the side of the platform and whistled, a piercing sound. Out on the field, two bands of horsemen detached themselves from the crowd of men maneuvering about and galloped over to the platform.
Ziebil turned and gestured to the dispatch rider. “Boy, take these men to find the patrol.” He pointed south and shouted down to his men, “Iron Hats!”
There was a fierce cheer. The Khazars had been late reaching Tauris and had not blooded themselves on the walls or in the fighting in the streets. They were eager for battle. The dispatch rider climbed down and swung up on his own horse. Together they trotted off to the south, the Khazars whooping and yelling as they passed through the picket lines around the camp.
Heraclius snorted and turned back to his compatriots. Galen was still worried about something but had volunteered nothing save a desire to have the lands around the camp thoroughly patrolled. Heraclius put the worry away, doubtless it was nothing more than a runaway slave or nerves. l@QHQM(M)M()HQWOWOWQM(M)HOHOW()W(M)M(M)MOMOM()H()HQl THE HILLS ABOVE PALMYRA
H
Darkness crawled across the rocks, fanged and red-eyed. Skeletal wings fluttered on its back. Moonlight fell across the sandstone. It stopped, hissing at the sight of the moon, its head raised. Dull red fire leaked from its eyes. A long black tongue darted, tasting the air. The creature was afraid, and it slunk across the stones on its belly.
Taloned fingers flashed and seized the thing by its scrawny neck, dragging it out into the moonlight. The winged creature hissed and scrabbled at the air with its claws, but it found no purchase. The fingers, stronger than iron, squeezed, and the thing gave a mournful bleat and hung limply in the withered hand. The Lord Dahak drew a bag from within his robes and stuffed his captive into it. After throwing the bag over his shoulder, he limped down the hill. The moon gleamed on a vast tumult of boulders, stretching in every direction. The sorcerer vanished into deep shadow between two monoliths.
Baraz dreamed. He dreamed that he was walking on a battlefield, littered with heaps of corpses. Only he remained alive, his sword coated with gore, his legs splashed with blood. Tens of thousands of dead carpeted the field, rotting and covered with ants. The horizon was a wall of snowcapped mountains, blue in the distance. A sun hung overhead, a pale disk of white. Banners hung limply, askew and tattered. The air was still and quiet, though he was sure that, a short time before, it had been filled with a stunning noise. He was alive, amid all the dead, and his heart was filled with a fierce joy at his survival. He raised his arms to the sky, shouting, his voice echoing across that dreadful valley.
Something touched his shoulder and he was awake, one thick fist wrapped around the hilt of a thinTbladed dagger. His tent was dark, but he could feel the chill presence of someone standing by his cot. The general sniffed the air and then cursed. “Lord of light, Dahak, can’t you let me sleep?”
Baraz fumbled for the lantern by the bed and, after a moment of work with a flint, lit the wick. Dim light spilled out, showing the sorcerer sitting at one of the stools next to the planning table.
Baraz squinted at him. “What is it? They trying something in the city?”
Dahak laughed mirthlessly.
“No,” the sorcerer said, his long, lean, face slashed with shadows. “A message has come.”
Baraz sat up, his thick chest and massive legs painted with warm light from the lantern. A thick black pelt of tiny curls covered his chest and stomach, though his arms and legs were shaven bare. He reached under the cot and dragged out his riding boots. Absently he turned them upside down and knocked them against the side of this cot. A translucent scorpion fell out of one, tiny and pale yellow. It bounced, then flipped itself upright and scuttled off into a dark corner of the tent.
“What does it say?” Baraz pulled a tunic on over his head and closed a thick leather belt around his narrow waist.
Dahak reached into the folds of his robe and pulled out an ivory cylinder, no more than three inches long.
“It is for you,” he said in a raspy voice. He was slow in recovering from the wounds he had taken in the fight on the plain of towers. “I have not opened it.”