The glyph sputtered and flashed, hanging afire in the world of forms. Maxian summoned up a long invocation- carefully memorized and drilled over and over- and let it form in his mind. Despite the lurid descriptions of the popular ballads, the words he summoned did not shape the world. Instead, they served as a mnemonic that described patterns of force that he put into play with his will. Into the shape of his brother as Emperor- a thing that hung like a shroud around the bright golden flame of Galen himself in the world of forms- he sank deep hooks of intent and desire and thought. The curse boiled up around him, black as the pit, and attacked, lashing at him with fangs of deep blue night.
Maxian howled in anguish, feeling the teeth bite into him. But his will did not waver. The shroud of Empire was torn away from the sleeping Emperor, and Maxian fled, all thought focused upon returning to the Egyptian House and the shuddering half-alive corpse of Augustus.
A burly praetorian with shoulders like Atlas crashed through the wooden door. It shattered as soon as he put his full body against it, sending the soldier sprawling on the ground amid a cloud of sawdust and broken hinges. Nikos leapt over the man without even pausing and darted down a long hallway. Black mist boiled around his feet, but the dreadful corruption did not touch him. It was a tremendous relief to be out of the storm and under shelter. The hallway was dark, but Nikos had come prepared. He skidded to a halt and unclipped a storm lantern from his belt. Behind him, more praetorians clambered through the doorway, their swords out. Every third man fell aside as they entered and shifted lanterns from their backs. Leather hoods were removed, and flints sparked in the darkness. A flame leapt up, casting a pale yellow glow on the walls and the faces of the men.
Thunder rumbled in the sky, and the crack of fresh lightning sent white bursts of light through the windows. Nikos looked around, finding his squad leaders by the plumes on their helmets. "Break out in groups of five," he rasped in his command voice, "two lanterns with each. Check each room, each hallway, each cupboard. Prisoners are to be taken alive if possible. There is one friendly, a young woman with dark red-brown hair. Go!"
The praetorians clattered off down the hallway, their swords and spears bright in the lantern light. Nikos looked over at Jusuf, who had unslung his bow and had a long dark arrow fitted to the notch. Here, in the darkness, with unknown enemies about, with some undefined conspiracy against the Emperor afoot, the Illyrian wished devoutly for the presence of his old commander, the Amazon Thyatis. She never had a queasy stomach on an operation like this. Enough moping, he snarled to himself. He moved forward through the dark house, Jusuf ready at his back with a strung arrow.
Here, in the dim confines of the house, the storm was muted. Trickles of water spilled down out of the ceiling.
Maxian fell through clouds boiling with fire. Black flames licked at his spirit form, sending agonizing jolts of pain through his mind. He fell through night sky, curled around the cloak of the Emperor, and was in the buried chamber again. The standing ring of power continued to howl and buzz, rushing around the triangle formed by the three men. Maxian settled again within his body, all concentration focused upon the shifting pattern of forms that he had stolen from his brother. He launched into the next phase of the incantation, all effort at last collapsing upon this one single thing.
At the side of the room, Krista covered her head, flinching aside as rock flakes spalled down out of the ceiling. The house above shuddered like a dying thing, shaking with each new peal of thunder. A fine rain of dirt and rock fell from the roof of the buried chamber. She had already pulled her cloak over her hair, and crouched at the join between the wall and the floor. The chanting of the Persians and the Nabateans had begun to waver as stone chips pattered down around them. An ominous groaning sound had begun to make itself heard as well, and Krista felt the wall at her back tremble.
Fire rippled in the unseen world, brilliant shapes invoked by the mind of the Prince hovering around the shape of the first Emperor. He felt a gradient growing as he rushed through the invocation; each moment cost him more and more as he bound the shape of the Imperial duty to the corpse. Greedily, the action drew more and more from the old man, the Persian, and the golden youth. Still, Maxian rushed on, heedless, his thought and will stitching the garment of sparkling form to the body of Augustus. In a moment, he knew, he would reach a critical point. He could feel the fury of the Oath raging around him, only bare feet away beyond the shining barrier.
Krista flinched again, feeling wetness along her cheek. One of the Persians cried out as a rock sliver, curved like a scythe, slashed across his eye. The man gobbled in pain, his chanting cut off, and clutched at his eye. As he did so, his hand strayed out of the circle inscribed on the stones of the floor, and he screamed in horrible pain. His hand smoked with dull fire, and as Krista watched, her eyes wide in fear, the man's arm withered and crumbled away. Insane with pain and fear, the Persian leapt up and bolted for the door. His feet went first, corroding to dust in an instant, and then his whole body was consumed. She turned away, keeping her hands and feet inside the circle, curling ever tighter into a tiny ball.
Maxian put forth the totality of his will, grasping the raiment of the Emperor, now bound to the corpse of Augustus, bending his power against the last single silver thread that bound it to the distant, sleeping shape of his brother.
Nikos skidded into the dining chamber, his blade up and the lantern flaring in his other hand. Men struggled, crying out, with a fast blur of darkness. A praetorian lunged, his whole weight behind the stroke of his spatha, and missed, cleaving air where a shape had stood only an instant before. A gray-green hand, tendons standing from it like iron bars, snaked out of the darkness and crushed the man's throat. Blood spattered away, soaking fingers that punched into the flesh and tore away the soldier's trachea. Two more praetorians lay dead, scattered on the floor, their arms and legs at odd angles.
Jusuf loosed in the same moment, his bowstring thrumming sharply against his wrist guard. The arrow flickered across the space and sank to the fletching in the chest of the creature.
Nikos stumbled, seeing the thing in the light of the lantern for the first time.
It wore the shape of a man, but its skin was gelid and cold, like the intestine of a snake. It had a man's head, but the yellow eyes that burned in the narrow skull had never been human. It was naked, but its slick, wet body was a confusion of tattoos and scars and long, thin ridges that clung to the curve of muscle and sinew and bone. It blurred into motion, faster than the eye could follow. A lantern was smashed aside, spattering burning oil and broken glass against the far wall. Another praetorian was flung down, bones snapping at the force of the impact, his iron helmet caved in by the blow of a fist.
Nikos cast aside thought and leapt forward, his gladius whispering in the air. He had faced men and beast for twenty years and he could not conceive of an enemy that would not bleed and die at the touch of his sword. The thing whirled to meet him, its claws snapping toward his head and face. The Illyrian twisted, taking the first blow on his shield at an angle. The thick buckler- an oaken roundel covered with a layer of cured hide and then a metal facing bound through with wireshattered like a cheap amphora. Nikos felt his arm break in two places, and the jolt of pain slashed up into his chest. The claw faded back into darkness and Nikos leapt up, curling his legs under him. A long leg, tipped with claw like nails, flashed past underneath him. The point of the gladius arrowed at the thing's eyes, smoky yellow in the lamplight. It bobbed away from the blow with effortless ease. It rapped the blade away with a forearm, and Nikos howled in disgust as the blade was torn from his hand. He ducked, feeling the rush of air where his head had been.