The sky above was serene and blue, clear as a high mountain lake.
Zenobia stepped out onto the broad brick platform that was raised before the vast bulk of the palace. The gates were swung wide and a constant stream of women, children, and old men poured up the ramp and into the precincts of the royal family. She walked out onto one of the buttresses that held the great winged lions, her left hand on the muzzle of the beast. Her attendants had repaired her golden armor and polished her silver helm to a brilliant sheen. She had added a long cape of purple with a gold trim as well. The wings that swept back from her face gleamed in the sun. It was heavy on her head and a trail of sweat trickled down the side of her cheek.
The people pushing past below in the gate looked up at her and smiled, though their faces were haunted by the long siege. Many raised their hands to her, seeking her blessing. She smiled down upon them. There was little she could do now, though the sight of her brave figure might give them hope for the hours that remained. She felt cold inside, shaky with apprehension.
The lion trembled under her hand and a moment later the air shook with the sound of a deafening crash. Zenobia’s head snapped around and across the city. At the distant embattled gate she caught sight of a vast towering shape out of the corner of her eye, something wreathed in smoke and flame, looming over the towers. Titanic wings unfurled and Zenobia reeled, gripped by a terrible nausea. The sun seemed to dim and the earth grew silent. The shape struck downward and there was a tremendous booming sound. It struck again and towers and stone cracked. It struck a third time and the gate towers crumbled in a huge gout of dust and smoke. The tower to the right side of the gate split down the side and tilted over. Hundreds of tons of sandstone and concrete crumbled down into the street. The thing moved in the smoke and fire roared up. A nightmare head was’thrown back in howl of victory and Zenobia fell to her knees, her heart thudding like a dove.
Across the width of plaza, men and women threw themselves to the ground, shrieking in fear. The darkness on the sun choked the sky. Zenobia struggled to rise, her mouth twisted in a feral scream of rage and defiance. The thing at the gate stomped forward, its mammoth shoulder brushing against the second tower. The stone crumbled and cracked, sending screaming men flying from the platform. Zenobia staggered to her knees and raised the sword of her father up. Her mouth struggled to cry out, but the air was chill and cold and no sound escaped her lips.
“Enough,” rang out from behind her. “This is a world of men, not of demons.”
The thing at the gate seemed to grow, towering over the city, its serpentine legs smashing buildings to ruin. A red mouth whirled open, filling the streets with a howling hot wind. Fires sprang up in the dry buildings. A roar shattered the air, driving all thought and consciousness from men.
Zenobia turned her head, a Herculean effort, for fear and despair beat down upon her like the blows of a blacksmith’s hammer. Ahmet stood in the gateway, leaning on a staff of pale wood, his scarred body barely covered by a clean cotton robe. White fire ringed him, a shuddering corona of a thousand rays. She cried out in pain at the light that shone from him.
“Azi Dahak, I name you, dark power of witchcraft and lies.” His voice rang like thunder.
The thing at the gate convulsed, steams and smokes billowing from it. A tentacular claw lashed out, sending a jagged bolt of flame licking across the length of the city. Ahmet raised his hand. The flame sputtered and died, falling into the streets as pale white smoke.
“Azi Dahak, the ten serpents, I name you.” The sun flared, a white nimbus, and shadows fell upon the ground in opposing directions.
“Azi Dahak, I bind you in the name of the Binder. I compel you in the name of the God that Died and has Risen with the Sun.” Zenobia, her ears ringing with a tremendous noise, fell back to the ground, nerveless and without thought. The whole universe around her seemed only to be the ragged voice of Ahmet, shouting against a gale of wind.
The thing that towered over the city reached down and dust spouted up as its claws dug into the earth, tearing aside brick and mortar and concrete like dry grass. Ahmet staggered forward to the top of the ramp. He made a sign in the air, something that flickered and changed and hung in the wind like a glowing star.
“Azi Dahak, in the name of the Lord of Light, the maker of the world, begone!”
Wind rose in a gale, tearing at the clothing of the people lying senseless within the palace grounds. Bricks and tile sheared off the roofs of buildings and flew toward the’thing. A whirling storm of wind hissed up off of the deserted streets and abandoned gardens. Timbers, wagons, the bodies of men, entire roofs of tile and slate, leapt into the air. The vortex hammered at the thing, raging with fire and crackling with lightning. It shrank, clawing at the air around it, tumbling palaces and temples. The columns that lined the great avenue tore from the earth and arrowed into the heart of the creature. Marble and agate burst into flames and were devoured, by the shape. The sun expanded, filling the whole sky. Men screamed and tore at their faces, feeling their skin dissolve and burn away.
An enormous clap of thunder shocked the city, breaking statues of long-dead kings into a thousand shards, shivering goblets and amphorae into dust. The thing that raged against the whirlwind folded in upon itself and then, with a hot spark of black light, vanished.
Silence fell upon the city. The wind died. The sun stood forth in the blue vault of heaven, a solitary disk. Dust fell in a fine rain from the sky, covering everything with a mourners’ pall.
Zenobia crawled from under the rubble of the winged lion. A great stone wing had fallen over her, shielding her from the flying debris. The lion’s head was gone, torn clean off. The other lion was scattered across the courtyard. Ahmet lay in the threshold of the gate, his tattered robe wrapped around his loins. She touched his face.
It was as cold as any stone. Trembling fingers pressed against his neck, but there was nothing. Tears fell, sparkling like dew on his haggard, dead face. The Queen of the city wept.
The General Khadames raised his head up, shaking broken roofing tiles from his helmet. Around him, before the gate of the city, thirty thousand men were stirring, amazed that they were alive. They rose, by ones and twos, covered with fine white dust, ghosts in a desolate world. Khadames stood and ran his gloved hands over his body. He was stunned to be alive, much less whole. He looked around, blinking his eyes to clear the grit from them.
The ladders had been torn from the walls, leaving hundreds of men writhing on the ground injured or dead. The siege towers were only‘ lonesome great wheels leaning against timbers torn in half like straws. Acres were covered with horses lying dead on the ground, their riders missing or crawling away, crying out in horror.
The gate of the city was gone. One tower had been smashed down into a great ash heap, while the other leaned drunkenly, its top half torn away. The massive doors themselves were nowhere to be seen. An empty street, lined with broken columns like the stumps of teeth, could be seen through the ruin. Men stirred in the rubble or wandered in the avenue, dazed and mindless.
Khadames cleared his throat, but then paused and looked around him in sudden fear.
The black wagon had slid off of the road, a hundred feet behind him. The black horses were scattered about it, dead, their corpses withered and desiccated. The host of knights who had surrounded it in such terrible panoply lay in rows, their arms and legs a jumble of cracked and broken limbs. Khadames breathed a short prayer, but it stuck in his throat.