“Eight.” Blanco started whistling, a little tune that ran along the scales, up and down again. Dwyrin’s right eye failed, consumed by a white-hot blur of sparks only he could see. Only his left remained, filled with the sight of cracked white teeth in Colonna’s mouth. He saw the centurion turn and say something to the Sicilian. The other laughed and slapped his knee. Dwyrin snarled in rage, spittle trailing from his mouth.
“Nine.”
“Ten.”
“Eleven.” The girl was pausing now, drawing out each stroke. The disgust of her gaze sank into the raw blood on his back, and he could feel the quiet laughter of the two boys. Spinning hot, the spark suddenly consumed his left eye as well and he saw nothing but staccato white and orange, shot with green and purple. Dwyrin suddenly felt his body snap away, lost in black and red pain. His mind recoiled free and he plunged into the world of forms without meditation, without trance. Power coursed, brilliant flows and patterns turned and wheeled around him. Familiar analogies and themes failed him. A shifting pattern of noth ingness trapped him in a confined space. Vortices of form spun in the void around him. The familiar patterns of earth flow and life energy could not be discerned. He grasped futilely for the meditations, for his center, but there was nothing but the spinning spark, shuddering and flaking at the edges.
A ghost rose up before him in the void of forms, each layer rotating in counter to those below; it flexed and bunched, then power leapt and cast from it. Dimly Dwyrin grasped that the girl was laying the lash against him, yet the bands of cerulean and rose that extended from the ghost did not touch him but disrupted against the nothingness. His heart expanded and the spark annihilated the nothingness. The void shattered and broke into mirrored fragments. The surging coil of the earth flow gripped him.
His form solidified in the void. Suddenly the glowing snake shapes of the girl behind him and the boys to either side sprang into focus from the writhing maelstrom of ether. The narrow darkness of the lash flicked toward him and the hot spark flared, consuming it. Dwyrin howled soundlessly, hot yellow light rushing out from him, crashing against the pale-blue geometries that sprang into being between him and the lithe coil of the two boys.
The ghost girl lunged, her spirit-fists red-hot with power as they smashed into him. The spark whirled and turned in his mind, shedding layers of light. Dwyrin steadied himself and lanced back, deep green-black power flowing from the earth below him. Shining brightly he gripped the dull fires of the wooden frame and leached them into his arrow-bright attack.
The girl ghost spun and darted, her dragon coil shading and swallowing his stroke. The two boys attacked simultaneously against the counterspin of the sphere that Dwyrin coalesced around himself. The sphere cracked in a rippling line and the girl struck through it. Dwyrin shuddered, his form collapsing around the pinpoint hole that knifed into him. The three were like quicksilver, gliding away from his attack, tearing long strips out of his defense. He leached the earth, but the currents of power there were far too deep to reach. Stones yielded their hearts to him and burst into powder at his feet. Lightning rippled and he sought to bind the two boy ghosts with a feint; one he caught and held in contest a moment, but the girl swept away the remainder of the sphere and knifed into the red-hot core of his being. The second boy followed her attack, shredding his connection with the earth. Darkness collapsed and left nothing.
Gasping, Dwyrin’s true eyes stared into the sun. The swirling disk of Ra now rode in the sky, moments from passing into the clutter of stays, guides, and lines that suspended the woven net above the inner camp. A face obscured the sky. Dwyrin blinked. The girl’s face resolved itself, sweat dripping from the side of her nose. Her eyes were slits. She thumbed back his eyelids in turn and slapped the side of his face lightly. Dwyrin choked and tried to sit up. Movement drew ragged pain across his back. Tears welled from his eyes, blinding him.
“He’s fine,” he heard. “No worse than most. Some salve and a week and he’ll be done.”
Gentle hands slid under Dwyrin as he gasped, and lifted him up. He blinked furiously, catching sight of a tent roof occluding the pale sky, before he was lain into a stretched canvas bunk. The sound of clinking coins echoed from the roof down to him. The two boys slid quietly into the corners of his vision. The blond one smiled encouragingly, the corner of his mouth stained with red juice.
“Pomegranate?” he ventured. The other boy scowled, thick dark hair inching down over his eyes. He brushed it back as he leaned closer. Dwyrin turned a little toward him. The dark boy reached out of sight and brought a leather canteen with a knurled bronze lip to Dwyrin’s mouth. Cool water spilled across his lips and he drank hungrily. The throb of his back was growing greater in his mind. Even before, on the frame, it had not itched so mucht The blond boy broke a little of the pomegranate off and pushed it into Dwyrin’s mouth. He bit down on the bitter seeds and felt them squeak aside before breaking. Sharp-tasting juice filled his mouth.
“You were, lucky,” the blond one confided, chewing on the rest of the pomegranate. “Usually they finish the lashing, even if you pass out.”
“He’s right,” the dark-eyed boy asserted, “I lost a mule once, got fifteen, each accounted for and measured.” Both boys nodded in agreement.
“Lucky,” they said, as Dwyrin slipped first into a gray haze and then nothing.
THE ROMAN CAMP OF DENABA, SOUTHERN SYRIA MAGNA
Empty,“ Zenobia shouted as she galloped down the via principalis of the encampment. A dry wind whistled through the streets, blowing thistles and trash in front of it. At the center, before the broad brick front of the headquarters, she pulled up and turned the midnight-black stallion that she had taken to riding to face her companions. Ahmet, Mohammed, and the others cantered up to meet her. The square in front of the commandery was of hard-packed earth and flat stones. The building behind Zenobia was shuttered and empty, its doors barred. Around them the camp lay deserted; hundreds of fired-brick buildings stood in neat rows with dirt streets between them. The barrel-vaulted roof of the baths stood off to one side of the square, and Ahmet could see that its doors stood ajar, with sand blown into the doorway.
“Not so much as a chicken or a pig left,” the Palmyrene
Queen continued, leaning forward in the saddle and scratching the ears of her mount. “So like a Roman, leave nothing, take everything. Al’Quraysh, have your scouts found anything in the vicinity?”
Mohammed shook his head. The sheykh Amr ibn’Adi nominally commanded the motley collection of tribesmen, Palmyrenes, Syrians and Nabatean levies who formed the light horse attached to the army. Mohammed was their leader, however, and ibn’Adi spent much of his time as one of Zenobia’s close circle of advisors instead. Ahmet had not seen the Southerner happier since they had begun traveling together.
“No, Empress, the hills around us are deserted and even the dwellings of the camp followers are abandoned. Some of my men report that there is a good place to set up camp down the stream three or four miles. Shall we move on and camp there?”
Zenobia laughed, her dark hair a wave of ebony around her head. “What? And waste this perfectly good camp? If we are to do Rome’s work, then we will take Rome’s privileges! We camp here tonight, and for the next week or two. My brother will be coming soon to meet us here with the rest of the army of the city. Quarter the men, send out foraging parties, and repair any defenses that have fallen into disuse. Go!”