Thomas Harlan - The shadow of Ararat

A touch woke him, feather-light. He slowly opened one eye and saw that the lantern had failed, leaving total darkness. A pale face hovered over him, seemingly lit by some ghostly pale-blue inner light. Long pale hair fell like gossamer on either side of the face. Rich dark lips moved.

Master?

"Alais," he said, his voice fuzzy with sleep. He raised a hand and touched her cheek. She turned, kissing his hand, the contact shockingly hot. Her tongue moved wetly against his palm. He stroked her hair back, away from her neck. She trembled at his touch.

"Master, we must go." Her voice was an electric whisper in the darkness. "The Romans are searching the woods, looking for something. There are hundreds of men with torches."

"Ah, my brother is keen for something he can only guess at. So, even a brother cannot trust a brother. Help me up."

Her hands, strong as iron, raised him up. He gathered his clothing and let her dress him. Her hands were very warm on his stomach. The Prince smiled in the darkness. If he had to go alone, without his brothers, he would go alone. The citizens were more important. Saving the innocent from unseen, unstoppable death was more important.

Alais drew back the curtain at the door, her voice whispering in the night. The guards outside sat at their posts, unmoving, and did not look up as the Prince exited the tent, closing the drape behind him. Together he and the pale Walach woman walked away through the camp, she a pace behind him.

South of the Kerenos River, Albania

The boy ran through the forest, blood trailing from a cut on his scalp. He gasped for breath and ran crookedly, his right leg moving in jerks. The ground rose, becoming thick with low brush and saplings. He crashed through the bushes and fell to his knees. Without the breath to swear, he scrabbled at the ground, finally finding purchase and rising again.

Behind him there was a whistling sound and the shouts of men. Hooves thudded on the loamy earth, growing closer. The boy staggered up the side of the hill, bent nearly double, trying to keep the brush and trees between himself and his pursuers. Near the crest, his right leg gave out and he tumbled to the ground, rolling back down the slope. Blood oozed out of a deep cut on the outside of his right leg and he lay there, wheezing, unable to move.

The hunters began climbing the hill, their voices quite close. He could hear the horses blowing and the rattle of armor. Through the canopy of trees above him, the boy could see blue sky streaked with high white clouds. He rolled over, biting down on a cracked lip to keep from crying out. On his hands and knees, he crawled along the side of the hill, away from the crest. The ground was rough-rocky and covered with small stones. There was little grass, for these hills were dry and covered with stunted trees with sharp thorns.

He came to a rock outcropping and hauled himself up onto a shelf. Leaning heavily on the stones, he managed to limp around the corner of the rocks. For a moment, as he swung around the side of the boulder, he was silhouetted against the sky.

The boy spun around, losing his grip on the crumbly granite. A black-fletched arrow stabbed out from his shoulder, blood welling around the exit wound. For a moment he stared at the sky and the slope below him on the backside of the hill. Then his knees became terribly weak and he slid down to the ground. His body rolled off the ledge and bounced, arms and legs flailing, down the slope.

Gordius Falco, equites scout of the Third Augusta Fretensis, stared in shock as the body of a young man in dirty tattered clothing bounced down the slope above him in a spray of gravel and smacked into the bole of a thick juniper tree. He kneed his horse to turn it around, halting his slow trot up the hill. Gordius stared around, his eyes wide, but he saw no one. He walked the horse forward to the boy and leaned down to shake his shoulder with a meaty hand.

The boy's eyelids fluttered and he turned his head a little. There seemed to be some dim recognition in them. Gordius probed the arrow wound gently, but blood was spilling out of the boy's back and puddling on the ground under the tree. The boy tried to say something, but his lips moved and there was no sound. Gordius leaned closer, feeling the faint flutter of a pulse at the boy's throat.

"The Iron Hats…" was all he heard. Gordius looked up sharply, scanning the ridge above him. Off to the right, where a dip in the line of hills made a saddle, his eye caught on movement. He squinted and saw, there in a clearing of tufted grass and scattered rocks, five men on stout bay-colored horses with colorful peaked caps and long coats over their armor. Curved bows were slung over their backs and longswords hung from their saddles.

"Mithras," Gordius breathed, pushing away from the tree and the dead boy. "Time to be going!"

He turned the horse again and calmly rode away down the hill, being sure to keep trees between himself and the dip in the ridge. After a mile of walking the horse, he kneed it to a trot and hurried north, hoping to run into the rest of his patrol.

– |Heraclius was standing on a log platform, looking out on a field south of the Roman camp, when one of his dispatch riders scrambled up the ladder behind him. The Emperor turned at the sound of the boy huffing and puffing for breath.

Theodore laughed, catching the boy by the shoulder before he pitched off of the platform. "Hold, lad, before you break your neck!"

The dispatch rider fell to one knee before the Emperor, having caught his breath. "A patrol has come in, Great Lord! Persian horsemen have been sighted seven or eight miles south of the river, moving north. The centurion in charge sent a man ahead to warn the camp."

Heraclius traded a glance with Galen, who had ordered the patrols south, and with the third King on the platform, Ziebil of the Khazar khanate. The Western Emperor was tired looking, but this news did not please him either and he met it with a frown. The Khazar, a short, broad-shouldered man with sandy hair streaked with gray and a very short beard, shrugged and returned Heraclius' look with a bored expression. Ziebil spoke seldom, preferring to listen and watch. Heraclius had heard that he was a very demon in battle, though he seemed almost unnaturally calm in the short time they had seen each other face to face.

"Is this what you expected?" Heraclius had turned back to Galen, who shook his head sharply.

"Winter is close," the Western Emperor said. "They must have sent men north to keep us from sneaking over into the highlands before the passes are closed by snow. Shall we drive them off?"

Heraclius nodded, his mind made up. It was time to see how well his Khazar allies performed in the field. "Great Khan? Would you care to do the honors?"

Ziebil pursed his lips and idly pulled a thick-hafted knife from his belt. He tossed it from one hand to the other, then slid it quickly back into its sheath. He nodded, and there was a flicker of a grim smile on his face. He leaned over the side of the platform and whistled, a piercing sound. Out on the field, two bands of horsemen detached themselves from the crowd of men maneuvering about and galloped over to the platform.

Ziebil turned and gestured to the dispatch rider. "Boy, take these men to find the patrol." He pointed south and shouted down to his men, "Iron Hats!"

There was a fierce cheer. The Khazars had been late reaching Tauris and had not blooded themselves on the walls or in the fighting in the streets. They were eager for battle. The dispatch rider climbed down and swung up on his own horse. Together they trotted off to the south, the Khazars whooping and yelling as they passed through the picket lines around the camp.

Heraclius snorted and turned back to his compatriots. Galen was still worried about something but had volunteered nothing save a desire to have the lands around the camp thoroughly patrolled. Heraclius put the worry away, doubtless it was nothing more than a runaway slave or nerves.