In darkness, crowned with a haze of smoke, the mountain trembled. Far down the cone, on slopes covered with woodlots, pasture, and vineyards, the earth shifted and trembled. Stone grated on stone, and in every farmyard the animals were bawling with terror. Men woke from troubled sleep and stared out into the night. But there was nothing to see save some dim lights on the height.
Clouds had gathered, thick and dark, around the periphery of the mountain. Yellow lightning flickered and rumbled in them, but they formed a swirling broad ring a dozen miles out. No rain fell from them, but in the streets of Cumae and Herculaneum, late-night revelers marked the oppression in the air and the feeling of tension. Some, suddenly nervous, went home in haste. It did not feel safe to be out.
The iron spike oozed from the side of Maxian's head, making a popping sound as it came free. The Prince was on his knees, thrown down by the incessant shaking in the earth. He stared at the bloody bit of metal with his one working eye. The other shimmered with cerulean waves of power as the optic nerve was rebuilt and the eyelid regrew an atom at a time. His lips contorted in something like a laugh- he knew this thing. Once he had touched it with his own power, making it a puissant weapon. With a jerk, he threw it aside and rose up, floating above the quivering ground.
Krista, her body burned beyond recognition, lay at his feet, twisted into a curl. The Prince gulped, his mouth twisting into a grimace. Come my love, he whispered to his thought. The corpse rose up, shedding ash and burned cloth. Conveyed by his will, it floated before him into the maw of the Engine, which had lowered itself to receive its master.
The fury of the mountain was about to find release and Maxian, mindful of his own existence, put forth his strength to form a sphere of ward around himself and the Engine. Flying, his cloak fluttering behind him, he soared up and into the cargo hold of the iron drake. The forest that had ringed the grotto was almost burned out, leaving only smoldering patches. Smoke and fumes still rose up, however, and steam jetted from cracks yawning in the ground.
Above the summit of the mountain, a haze was billowing up, climbing into the clear night sky.
Maxian settled onto the honeycombed decking of the Engine and laid Krista's corpse on a crate of books lashed to the metal floor. Numbly, he lashed the body to the crate with leather straps. His mind whirled with thoughts and it seemed that his hands and the charred skull of the young woman were very far away. Only the trembling in the air and the mounting pressure from the mountain could catch his attention.
"Away," he whispered to the Engine that enclosed him. "Take us away."
Outside, iron wings extended, bolts and cogs whining with the strain, and then the Engine kicked off from the ground and soared up into the night sky. In the hold, Maxian gripped one of the wall struts with a white-knuckled hand. The steed born from the forge climbed steeply, sending unsecured crates and boxes sliding across the metal decking. In a moment, wind rushing under its wings, it burst free of the haze collecting above the summit of the mountain and flashed east into the clear air.
The Palatine Hill, Roma
An ewer of wine rattled sharply, then danced across the edge of the tabletop and tipped clattering to the floor. Galen leapt up at the unexpected sound and then swayed drunkenly. Anastasia, still holding Aurelian's arm, felt the room jump and the rattle and crash of toppling vases and statuary was obscenely loud. Plaster dust cascaded from the ceiling in a white mist. The Emperor fell backward, striking the dining couch, and fell over onto the floor. Distantly, the Duchess could hear shouts of fear and the clanging of alarm bells. The floor steadied, though there was still a queasy feeling in the air.
"An earth tremor?" Galen grasped the edge of the couch and pulled himself up. "I've never heard of such a thing in Rome!" Plaster dust settled on his brown hair.
Aurelian stood as well, his bearded face streaked with tears. "What do we do?"
"A doorway or arch," said Anastasia, striding to the heavy archway that led out onto the balcony overlooking the Forum. "It is safest there."
Galen hurried to her side, dragging his brother behind him.
The earth trembled again, but it was not as sharp. Only an echo of what had gone before. The marble flooring quivered and the walls gave forth an alarming groan, but nothing fell and there were no screams of pain.
Anastasia looked out over the rooftops, her dark eyes seeking out the shape of the Quirinal and her house. Lights still sparkled there and the city seemed the same. She felt herself breathe at last. Perhaps there will be only one tremor?
"Look!" Aurelian shouted in fear. The Duchess turned and saw, to the south, over the roofs of the palace and the walls of the circus, a great red glow filling the night sky. It flickered and pulsed and then suddenly died away.
"Fire in the city," whispered the Duchess, voicing the single great fear of the urban Roman. Despite the presence of numerous public and private fire brigades and strict building codes, the tenements of Rome, particularly those on the Aventine and beyond, were deathtraps waiting for a stray spark to set them alight. With the earth shaking, it would be nothing to have an oil lamp skitter off a table and fall into papers or hay or old clothing. A tiny apartment would be an inferno in moments, wicking up the poorly plastered walls and catching the dry exposed roof beams. Thousands could die in such an inferno. She grasped the Emperor for support.
His face grim, Galen stared at the southern horizon.
"That is not a fire in the city," he said. His voice was like iron, inflexible and certain sure. "That is far away and big, bigger than any fire we have ever seen."
The City Once Known As Agamatanu, Persia
Long-lashed eyelids flickered open, revealing pupils of a rich yellow. Narrow irises of red flickered and a membrane occluded the surface of the eye, then slid away. The eye moved in darkness, seeing that the candles had burned down to stubs on the copper holders. There was movement and a rustling like beetles squirming in a dry well and the figure stood up.
Dahak, scion of the House of Sassan, once brother of the King of Kings, raised a hand. A leprous pale light sprang from the walls, flickering with viridian and indigo. The sorcerer stood in a small bare chamber buried deep under the Palace of Seven Gates. It was round and lined with walls of flat ochre bricks. There was one door, still closed. The floor was covered with hexagonal tiles, each incised with a single spiky glyph.
The sorcerer hissed in wonder, his will and thought turned inward. Far to the west, beyond the curve of the world, enormous power had been uncorked with traumatic results. Even from here, from within a shielded chamber built by the Old Ones, he could taste the deathflower. It was bitter on his tongue, attenuated with such distance. He craved it and his body trembled with need.
Someone drinks deep tonight, the sorcerer's thought was sick with envy. Another power is waking. He wondered whom this new one served. Then Dahak shivered, feeling the cold of the abyss between the stars and he put the thought away. Even in memory, the will of his master burned him. Day would come soon and he would need to take a pleasing shape. It was a small effort, but it whetted the edge of his hunger.
Garbing himself in black and gray and crimson, the sorcerer went out, closing the lead door behind him. Despite its vast weight, it moved gently, like a feather. That fat priest is still about, he thought, smiling to himself. Very plump indeed.