Voice speaking like thunder, the sorcerer leapt into the air again, invisible servants swarming to him, a glistening flight of loathsome birds to hold him up. He sped north with unseemly speed, his will reaching out heedlessly in the hidden world to damp the flames and hold back the roaring conflagration from the library stacks.
Behind him, the Gate of the Sun echoed with the tramp of marching boots and the cheers of the Persian soldiery as they entered the city.
Confusion reigned in the plaza around the white pillar. Mobs of frightened citizens continued to pour out of the city, throwing the Roman line into disorder. The Praetorians dissolved into knots of individual soldiers fighting to keep together. The Sahaba fared no better, pressed back by screaming, weeping women. Khalid bounced from foot to foot, shouting commands to his men. The roar of the crowd, a vast, frightened baying, drowned his voice. The mob pushed the Arabs back, forcing them to lock shields and dig in their feet to hold back the human tide.
"They're getting away," Khalid shouted, pointing with his sword. A mass of legionaries were fighting their way west along the docks. The young Arab could see a tall Roman-the man had to be an officer with his commanding presence-rallying the legionaries to him. "Follow me!"
Khalid darted off to the right, hacking around him with the blade of the city. The shining dark edge sheared through a scrawny neck, then into the arm of a fat woman cradling a baby. The child flew off into the crowd, the woman wailing, pudgy fingers clamped over a spurting wound. The Sahaba hesitated, many of the men unwilling to strike down the innocents sobbing around them, but then rushed forward, following their general. In a grain, their faces were tight, unfeeling masks as they stabbed and chopped their way forward. With the main body of the Sahaba leaving the causeway, the citizens flooded past towards the island.
Blade dripping crimson, Khalid broke out of the mob, loping forward among the fallen. Ahead, the legionaries had resorted to pushing their way through the mob by brute force. They had locked spears into a wedge and advanced step-by-step, forcing aside the crowd by main strength. The harbor was white with foam, dozens of people plunging into the water.
The red-bearded officer was in the middle of the rear rank, a commanding voice shouting to his men, an outstretched arm holding a Roman cavalry sword out to mark their line as they backed up. Khalid sprinted up, suddenly filled with perfect, icy determination. He did not recognize the man's face, but every instinct screamed general! to him. The Sahaba rushed soundlessly after him, lean wolves hot on the scent.
Khalid leapt a sprawled body, the blade of night darting out, just as the Roman turned his head.
The man blocked, spatha whipping up to smash Khalid's stroke aside. The Arab was stunned, obsidian blade nearly torn from his fingers, and skipped back wildly. The Roman blade clove the air where he'd stood, powering through a tight arc. One of the Sahaba, charging up to help his commander, met the blur of steel with a lunging spear. The Roman turned sideways, the spear point slashing past, and the return stroke clove the Arab's head from his shoulders.
Khalid goggled, lean, dark face spotted with blood. The Sahaban fighter's head bounced away, gargling, and crunched into the retaining wall beside the dock.
"Form up," bellowed the Roman, warning his men. Khalid dodged in, trying to circle, finding himself hemmed on three sides by the crowd and the line of soldiers, the other by the harbor waters. Where's Patik when I need him? he wailed inwardly, blocking an overhand cut. The ebon blade sang with a shrill note, taking the blow, and Khalid nearly lost his grip again. Fear sparked in his heart, draining strength from his limbs, and he fell back, parrying wildly. The Roman laughed, trading blows with another of the Sahaba. Almost contemptuously, the red-beard knocked the man's mace aside, then transfixed his throat with a sharp jab. Six inches of steel sprouted from the back of his neck, then withdrew in a blur.
The fear curdling in Khalid's heart disappeared in a blaze of fury. No man laughs at me!
He leapt at the enemy, flinging his shield aside. Taking the blade of the city in both hands, he powered in, the full strength of his wiry shoulders in an arcing cut. The Roman blocked, matching strength for strength, and the Arab's stroke cracked against an immobile barrier. Wincing, Khalid parried weakly, and the Roman drove his sword into the ground, steel springing back from marble paving.
The Sahaba surged around the two captains, stabbing overhand, and were met by massed shields and the grim faces of the legionaries. Again, a brisk play of long cavalry blades, maces, axes and spears sparked on the docks. Khalid hung back a half-step, watching his enemy. The Roman did not abandon the front rank, wielding his hand-and-a-half blade with aplomb. Another Arab was struck down, helmet crushed in, neck severed from behind by a looping, sideways strike.
Gods, Khalid breathed, what a champion! Even Patik might find his match!
The Sahaba fell back, leaving a handful of bodies on the pavement. The Roman line stood unshaken. Khalid felt the air change, momentum shifting around him. The panicked crowds had thinned, through the ground still jumped with an enormous, drumming beat. The dead are coming, Khalid realized.
Someone started shouting behind the Roman lines and Red-beard turned, falling back a step. Khalid cursed as another legionary stepped smoothly into his place. Some kind of courier ran up, gabbling at the general.
Khalid glanced around at his own men, seeing weary faces, though they were still game for another go. He licked his lips. He'll know he's trapped… the dead will be upon us soon and there's no way out. Perhaps… perhaps he will surrender! The young Arab's heart leapt at the thought, for the honor and unsurpassed bravery of the Roman general touched even him.
"Roman!" he shouted, stepping out of the wary line of Sahaba. "Roman, listen!"
Red-beard turned towards him, wiping sweat out of his eyes. "What do you want, rebel?"
"Your city is lost," Khalid called into sudden, encompassing silence. Everyone fell quiet, the men on both sides staring at him in speculation. A few citizens ran past, faces haunted, but they spared no attention for the two opposing lines of soldiers. The young Arab pointed to the east. "Great Persia enters the city-his armies swollen by the risen dead-and you have no hope but honorable surrender. Yield your swords to me, and I will protect you!"
The red-beard gave him a considering glance, then leaned down, speaking softly to the messenger. The man nodded sharply, then bolted off down the docks. The Roman smiled, a grim, wintry expression without humor or malice. "Romans do not surrender," he called, voice ringing in the air. "If you wish our swords, you'll take them from the dead, as the ghouls you are!"
A laughing shout rose from the legionaries and many of the Germans clashed their swords and axes on their shields, raising a drumming, raucous noise. In response, the Sahaba growled and Khalid's face set, graven stone showing no mercy or remorse.
"Allau ak-bar!" the Sahaba roared, taking a step forward in unison. Fresh reinforcements joined them from the causeway. Khalid caught sight of Jalal and Shadin from the corner of his eye, and felt fresh hope jolt through him. The Romans matched the shout with their own: "The City! The City!"
A wordless cry ripped from Khalid's lips and he bounded forward. His men followed a breath later and a ringing crash echoed from the buildings and the water. Again, a fierce melee raised a vicious din on the docks, as Roman and Sahaban soldiers grappled, trading blows. Men toppled from the line of battle, slicking the ground with their fresh
A pack of gaatasuun were feeding in the entry hall of the Sema as Dahak entered. The sorcerer's face darkened with rage, pale eyes passing swiftly across the scattered bodies of priests and attendants. The prince's tunic was scorched and riddled with ash-burned holes. His usual poor humor deepened into simmering rage as he took in the carnage filling the tomb hall. There was dark, drying blood everywhere and the floor was slick with greasy-white entrails and offal. One of the corpse-men squatted on the floor, desiccated flesh peeling from a mottled black-and-gray back, as it pounded a newly dismembered head against the tile paving. The skull made a sharp, cracking sound as the blow split open the cranium. The gaatasuun's withered fingers pried aside bone, letting a long black tongue dip into the opening. A thick slurping sound followed.