Thomas Harlan - The Dark Lord

Dahak realized he had not felt the mournful wail and lament of the Egyptian priest's mind for some time. He concentrated, feeling a sickly, cold fear welling up at the back of his own thoughts. The Queen, the Boar, the Eagle, the Sixteen… he could feel all his servants, even the least, the gaatasuun and their harsh, singular thoughts of blood and sharp teeth crunching through flesh. But not the first tool he had made with his own hands.

Arad? Faithful servant? Dahak wailed, reaching out into the emptiness. Gone? Gone? How could you escape these bindings? These chains? Rage flared in the sorcerer's heart and he leapt to his feet, the air around him darkening with malefic power. Return to me!

There was no answer, though the tall poplar at his back shriveled and cracked, suddenly dead leaves falling in a drifting rain around him. "Arad!"

— |-

Shahr-Baraz splashed ashore, hairy feet bare on clinging black sand, low waves rushing past with a hiss of spray and foam. Riding boots hung around his neck on a leather thong-a cumbersome, heavy weight of leather reinforced with strips of iron-but worse still if they were wet. The soldier Patik was only a pace behind, followed by a crowd of Immortals, bannermen, trumpeters, runners and aides. The Boar found his footing on drier sand and picked up the pace, massive thighs propelling him up the beach without pause.

The shoreline itself ran in shallow, then rose up at a line of hard-packed dark sand mixed with debris from passing ships and storms. Beyond the tide line, a hundred feet-or less-of rumpled sand dunes slanted up in a gentle shelf and then the shore proper began, with scattered grass-covered dunes, stands of cork trees and the lower, marshier outlets of streams.

Shahr-Baraz found the banners of two regiments of Persian footmen standing above the tide line, surrounded by a mixed crowd of soldiers. Thousands of gaatasuun were crawling from the sea in complete disorder, wandering aimlessly in packs, forcing the living men to form a barrier of steel and wooden shields around the banners to protect themselves. Officers were shouting, trying to make themselves heard above the rush of the sea. The following wind, which had driven the fleet from Alexandria with such speed, snapped the banners taut, throwing sea spray and sand against their backs. The Boar growled, drawing the attention of those nearest to him and stormed into a cluster of men in peaked helmets and sunflower insignia.

"Who commands here?" he roared, grasping one diquan by shoulders and setting the surprised man aside by main strength. "Why are you standing about?"

A portly nobleman in the etched, fluted armor of the Kushanshahr highlands stepped forward, making a deep bow to his king. "King of Kings," he declaimed in a serious voice, "we're trying to rally our men, and gather our companies, but-" The man waved his arm to encompass the long sweep of the shore. Everywhere, there were ships-some run aground, others standing offshore, soldiers piling into longboats-and the beach itself was no better, with the sodden dead crawling through the breakers, while men came ashore in dribs and drabs, as skiffs and barges could manage. The gusting wind made the sea rougher than Shahr-Baraz had expected and as he watched, a longboat turning away from the beach took a breaker abeam. Sailors tumbled into foaming white water as the boat capsized, oars splintering against the sandy bottom.

"— everywhere there is confusion. Only a handful of my levies have found me." The Kushana finished, his own impatience and concern showing.

"Don't worry about that," Shahr-Baraz boomed, making every man in the group of officers start in alarm. "Take these men and push inland! Where you see the gaatasuun , drive them before you! Take any soldier, no matter his clan or house, under your banner. We must get off this beach!"

The Pashtun chief nodded, forked beard making a sharp shadow on his breastplate, then turned away, his own bull-like voice raised in command. "Men of Herat-with me! Persia, with me!"

The living soldiers crowded around the banners answered with their own shout, taking heart from his bold words and the entire mass of men began slogging inland through the deep sand. The Boar gestured for his own officers to attend him. "Here, you lot," he boomed, his powerful voice overreaching even the sea and the wind. "Patik-where is Prince Rustam?"

Patik had been surveying the beach, eyes shaded against the setting sun. "We've drifted north before this wind, my lord," he replied after a moment. "I see the prince's banner-he's a mile away or more south…"

"Go to him," the Boar snapped, his tone brooking neither delay nor disobedience. "Tell him to master his dead servants and send them inland. They're useless for fighting in formation, so they might as well bring confusion and despair upon the enemy."

Patik nodded, then jogged off through the sand. After a hundred paces, he swerved towards the waterline, where the footing was firmer. Shahr-Baraz immediately forgot him, turning to his other officers. "Piruz-you're a likely lad, beloved of my daughter-take a dozen men and move along the beach. Tell every officer and lord to take what men he can find and move inland with all speed! There's no time to muster properly, not in this chaos, so every diquan and lord must show boldness and daring, striking at the enemy with every means at their disposal."

The prince of Balkh nodded, sharply, his expression hungry for battle and glory.

"You boys," the Boar growled at the spry young lads he used as couriers. "The rest of the pushtigbahn will be coming ashore somewhere near here…" Shahr-Baraz waved a huge, armored hand in a vague circle. "…find them and send them to me. We will take yonder hill-" An empty grassy mound rose behind the beach, two hundred yards away. "-as our command post. Off with you!"

The Boar grinned then, drawing his own blade, a massive length of steel that measured more than most men could lift. He swung the sword inland, bellowing: "The rest of you, with me! Forward, to victory!"

Bucephalas burst from the trees and galloped across a swale of high grass. The rich, dark soil of the bottomlands turned to grainy obsidian-colored volcanic sand. Alexandros breathed a sigh of relief to see the green ocean swell before him and to get his cavalry free of the constricted lane. Then he cursed, the stallion slewing into deep, loose sand. He reined in before the horse broke a leg and pirouetted back onto harder ground. In the brief moment, he had looked down on the sweep of the beach and his heart froze with alarm.

The sea was black with ships, the dull gray strand swarming with Persians, their banners a forest, their spears glittering stars. He drew Bucephalas to a halt, the stallion snorting in disgust, and the Macedonian took a long, hard look up and down the beach. The rest of the Companions trotted out of the orchard lane, spilling to his left and right, automatically forming a loose, irregular line. The Gothic knights unlimbering their lances, preparing for a charge.

"All sections, halt along the verge," Alexandros shouted, turning so his captains could hear him and repeat the commands. "Dismount, send the horses back. Form two ranks! Philos-find the pike syntagma those scouts were talking about and get them up here, now!"

Immediately, there was confusion as men swung down from their horses, one in five grasping bundles of reins, hurrying to tie leads to the following mares. The grassy sward filled with a huge crowd; more men riding up from behind while others tried to move back. The Gothic captains and centurions were hoarse, screaming at their dull-witted charges, trying to form ranks while men rushed this way and that. Alexandros ground a fist into his saddle. This is very bad, he realized; nervous, quick eyes scanning the beach.