"Do they?" The King of Kings strode forward, then slowed. Tall iron stakes barred his path, driven into the stone floor without regard for ancient propriety. A palpable chill pervaded the air and the Persian's breath began to frost in his mustache. Indistinct shapes stirred in the darkness and the Boar felt hostile eyes settle upon him. "I would speak with Prince Rustam," he called, stopping just short of the outmost ward.
There was no answer. Shahr-Baraz scowled at the Queen standing by his side. She said nothing, face impassive. In that moment, while they waited, the sound of boots on stone rang around them and the young Eagle, Khalid al'Walid appeared, dark hair shining in the intermittent sunlight. Odenathus was with him, the two men laughing in conversation.
"We are all here, then," the king said suspiciously, turning back to the shadowed hall. He raised a bushy eyebrow-the iron wands had gathered soundlessly to one side-leaving a passage open into the inner chamber of the temple. Suppressing instinctive dread, Shahr-Baraz strode through the opening and into the room beyond. The Queen followed silently and even the two garrulous young men found their speech faltering in such forbidding air.
Once, the central nave of the temple had held a great statue of the god, surrounded by stone and ceramic attendants. Now the altar was bare, the statuary broken and scattered. A carved pair of sandaled feet rose in the darkness, but the body of pink marble was gone. The sorcerer stood among the detritus of recent violence-a smooth head lacking a body, part of an arm, the splintered remains of incense burners and lamps-his outline swallowed by encompassing gloom.
A faint, gray light shone down from drifting specks in the air. Dahak turned as the king entered, his eyes pale flames in the darkness.
"Pharaoh," the sorcerer said, ignoring the Boar, "does the common herd bow down in fear before our jackal-headed god?"
A spasm flitted across Zenobia's face, but she maintained her composure, making a shallow bow. "Yes, my lord, they do. They look upon your servant in his might and glory and they are filled with despair, thinking Set has burst the chains of the sun and now walks among them, as the gods did in days of old, before man first struck fire from flint."
"They are nearly right," Dahak whispered, climbing the steps to the ruined altar. "Do they labor at my tasks? Do they sweat under the whip, dreading each night as a coming death, as a plague?"
"Yes." Zenobia's gaze hardened, her rich lips thinning to a cold line. "Every ship of seagoing size is on the beach, hulls being patched, tarred, careened. Messengers have been sent to every port, summoning the merchants of Palmyra to attend your will."
"I am pleased." Dahak found a cracked piece of rose-colored sandstone on the dais and took the fragment in his hands. He peered at the stone, then let it fall. "And you, Pharaoh, do they prostrate themselves when you pass; do they call your name, begging your favor, your protection, your intercession?"
The Queen said nothing.
"Do they?" The sorcerer glanced at her, lip curling. Zenobia staggered, her skin rippling as though worms crawled beneath the flesh, gnawing at muscle and nerve. She cried out-a short, breathy cry of agony-and fell to her knees. Dahak smiled, showing gleaming white teeth. "I think they do. What name do they give you?"
Another spasm shook the woman and Zenobia let open fury and hatred flare in her face for an instant. Then the calm mask composed her features again. "They call…" she gasped, fighting to speak. "They call me Kleopatra Returned and weep with joy, hoping I will save them, save their husbands, save their children from the mines, the pits, the labor gangs…"
A gleam of delight flared in Dahak's limpid, pale eyes. Zenobia collapsed against the stones, breathing ragged, but the pain lifted from her white limbs.
"Well done," the sorcerer said, turning at last to the King of Kings. "You are displeased, old Boar. You do not like what has happened while you've been away upriver."
"No, I do not." Shahr-Baraz's voice was hard and commanding. "There is no need for these charades and shadow games. Our hand is strong upon the neck of Egypt. There is no need to slaughter the fellaheen-they will work for us as readily as they worked for Rome. The Nile is rising and everyone must wait for the river to fall before the planting begins. This is a time of rest for these people…"
Dahak nodded, eyes glittering in suffuse gray light. "I do not care about the harvest."
"Then we will all starve," Shahr-Baraz replied in a sharp tone. "And we've no need of a fleet-"
"We have every need of a fleet!" The sorcerer's voice cracked like a whip, shocking the king into silence. "We are not waiting for the sacred river to flood the land! We are not waiting for a harvest!" A thin, dark finger stabbed at Odenathus, making the young wizard flinch and turn pale. "When will the fleet be ready to sail?"
The Palmyrene blinked in surprise, looked sideways at Khalid, who shrugged, then back to Dahak. "My lord prince… our crews are working night and day by your command, and wearily too, after fighting for so many months without respite-but they are willing men and loyal. They will not disappoint! Four weeks, I would say, before we complete the refitting."
Dahak snarled, a ripping, taut sound and his fingers curled into a fist. Odenathus stared in shock for a moment, then suddenly howled in agony. Blood clouded his eyes and flickering, black lightning raced across his face and breast. Mouth wide in a pitiful scream, the young man collapsed to the ground, body jerking with muscular spasms, spine bent into a harsh bow.
"I've no margin for weeks to pass in idleness," hissed the sorcerer, opening his hand. Odenathus crumpled like a broken dove, sprawling on the floor, limbs twitching and loose. Khalid almost bent to take his shoulder, but caught sight of Dahak's furious visage and stepped back.
Shahr-Baraz had no such patience and took two swinging steps up onto the platform.
"Fool!" A heavy fist smashed across the sorcerer's cheek, rocking Dahak back on his heels. The Boar loomed over him, face glowing with fury. "These are our allies! Not our servants, not our playthings!"
"Aren't they?" Dahak scrambled to his feet, mouth wide in a feral grin. The blow-strong enough to have toppled a wrestler-did not seem to have affected him at all. The two men faced off, tension crackling in the air, a mad look in the sorcerer's eyes. "They are my servants, O King! Do not dispute my commands, for you may find your own neck bent beneath my foot!"
"Dispute?" Shahr-Baraz's voice settled into a precise, cold tone. Metal rasped on metal as the Boar drew the heavy sword at his side. "You are my sworn man, sorcerer, and you will obey your king!"
"Obey? A king?" Dahak laughed softly and his outline shifted, distorting, and he grew, suddenly towering above the Boar. A shocking chill flooded the room and the chittering of insects and crickets and bats roared loud at the edge of hearing. "I am not your man, old fool. I am not human at all!"
A cone of frigid gray illuminated the altar, pinning the king in its pitiless glare. Dahak emerged into the light, head lengthening, incisors jutting from black, withered jaws. Deep-set eyes burned red and Shahr-Baraz stifled a groan, stepping back. The sorcerer's hand-taloned and dark, rippling with scales-clutched at the air. The heavy hand-and-a-half sword sprang from the Boar's fingers, then metal shrieked as the blade twisted and tore. A heavy, crumpled ball of steel clattered away into darkness.
"Bow," roared an inhuman voice. The Boar staggered, gripped by invisible claws. Dark streaks of red scored his face and creases pinged into the laminated metal protecting his shoulders and arms. A great shout leapt from the king's throat and he strained, tendons bulging in his neck, sweat beading on ruddy skin. Dahak pointed his hand to the floor and Shahr-Baraz was thrown down, forehead grinding against frost-rimed stone. "You are my servant, old Boar, since the moment you sat upon my brother's throne. So are the great snared, with power and glory and honor!"