Thomas Harlan - The storm of Heaven

"Trying to learn what has happened at Constantinople," snapped the Empress. "Gart, get this thing working again. Now." Her cold tone brooked nothing but obedience.

"Yes, Empress." Gart swallowed, his round face almost as red as his beard. "I will try."

"You will do this thing." Helena's fierce look made the man start in surprise. "If you do not, you will be killed." Gart nodded, then pressed his hands together and closed his eyes, thick lips moving silently as he tried to center himself.

"Let me." Maxian pushed past the thaumaturge, breaking the German's concentration again, the Prince's attention fixed on the slowly spinning bronze disks. The outermost disk, carved with runes and symbols, had already clattered to the granite surface of the block. "I know the necessary pattern. You were looking upon Constantinople?"

"Yes, before you barged in, giving everyone a fright." Helena stepped aside, motioning violently behind her back to the three women at the hidden doorway. "I had no idea you were in the city."

"I was ill." Maxian moved his right hand in a circling pattern. A sharp, metallic taste suffused the air. The bronze disks whipped up into the air, emitting a keening sound. The green fire licked from the edges of each segment as they spun faster and faster. In the blink of an eye, they were a solid blur and the sound had hissed down to a nearly inaudible hum. An image of a blue and white and brown sphere leapt into being, then was swiftly replaced by a rushing vision of clouds and sea, then twilight and a city. A great city. It was burning and covered by swiftly moving darkness.

"Ah!" Maxian shouted in dismay and stepped back. The blood drained from his face. "This is the enemy." He clenched his jaw, his body stiffening. The vision changed again, suddenly focusing on a dark room and the pale, frightened face of a young woman. A boy stood behind her, his face tight with concentration. This time the air did not waver or distort. The image of the Eastern Empress was clear and perfect, as if she were standing only feet away. "Empress Martina?"

"Yes," quavered the girl in the burning disk. "Who are you?"

"I am Caesar Maxian, Prince of the Western Empire. Your city is under attack. Do you know what comes against you?"

"No!" Martina seemed on the edge of complete panic. A little boy, perhaps only two years old, was clutched in her arms. "There was this awful sound, like the earth itself groaning in pain, and the darkness came! I can hear sounds of battle… What can we do?"

"Stand away from the disk," grated Maxian, raising his arm stiffly. There seemed to be a terrible resistance in the air around him, but the stone floor under his feet suddenly splintered and cracked. The edges of the granite block were shedding dust and small flakes in a drifting cloud. The sound began to rise again, hurting Helena's ears.

The Empress had stepped back and now she felt something press against her face, pushing her away from the Prince. She stumbled, unprepared, and felt powerful hands catch her, lift her up and place her in Anastasia's arms. The Duchess clapped a hand over the Empress' mouth and together they slipped back into the dark opening of the hidden door. Betia drew the door almost closed behind them.

Thyatis was frozen by indecision. She was wounded, weaponless, her side and leg still throbbing with pain. The Prince had his back to her, power wicking up into the air around him in a thin shining cloud. His entire concentration was focused on the disk and the young woman on the other side.

"I am coming through," Thyatis heard him say, "stand well back."

Thyatis turned, casting about for a weapon, a quill knife, a candlestick, anything!

She met the eyes of the old man standing just inside the door. They were a keen dark brown, and she recognized him-the editore from the senator's party. There was a strange sense of familiarity, of recognition, but then her anger flooded up. Unconsciously, she snarled, her teeth bared in challenge. He smiled wistfully, then shook his head.

"Don't do it," he said in a soft voice, barely loud enough to carry over the grating hum issuing from the floor, the walls, the air. "You should go. Quickly!"

Thyatis stepped back into the hidden passage, her eyes locked with his, glittering with thwarted rage. Shadow fell over her, though the burning green light of the telecast gleamed in her eyes for a long moment. Then the door swung closed with a soft click.

– |In the room, the sound of the telecast grew to a howling roar and winds began to rise in the confined space, lashing at the books and scrolls, ripping them into the air, swirling in a tight cyclone around the man and the blazing-bright disk. The image of Martina had fled, and Maxian gathered himself, all of the strength and power at his command focused on this one thing.

Like begets like. Like is like. Two identical things are the same thing.

He sprang up onto the edge of the granite block, feeling the stone slough away under his foot, then leapt, leg and arm extended, into the furiously whirling disk, which had expanded enormously, now easily taller than a man.

The air shook with a tremendous boom! Gaius Julius was thrown back against the door, cracking his shoulder against the oaken panel. He turned his head away, blinded by a brilliant light. Tears streamed down his cheeks and he raised a hand, trying to block out the radiance.

Constantinople

A ceramic cup danced on the edge of a low wooden table. Dwyrin struggled awake, his mind dulled by exhaustion. It took him an endless moment to realize that the cup should not be spinning and bouncing from side to side. Then the table itself jumped up with a bang and the cup toppled over, crashing to the floor. The Hibernian, eyes wide, clung to his cot, feeling the entire building dance on its foundations. A long, slow, rumbling crack-crack-crack echoed out of the floor. Then there was silence. Dwyrin blinked. Dust was drifting down from the ceiling. He stared at the vaulted roof, watching in horror as cracks rippled across the plaster. There was a grinding sound.

He rolled out of bed, then jumped to the wall. Plaster cascaded down in a loud boom and threw up a huge cloud of choking white smoke. Coughing, Dwyrin scrambled to find his woolen trousers, pulled them on, grabbed a tunic and then bolted out of the room.

The hallway was filled with confused, frightened men. The Faithful Guard had taken a severe beating in the battle among the tombs, losing nearly half of their number. The survivors were a little jumpy. Dwyrin struggled to pull the tunic over his head, standing in the doorway of the room he shared with Nicholas and Vladimir. The Scandians were shouting, their voices hoarse as bears'. The air was filled with dust, making it difficult to see. Some of the lanterns had been knocked down by the shock. Luckily, they had guttered out on the tiled floor.

"Dwyrin!" Vladimir appeared out of the murk. His sweeping mane of dark hair was white with plaster dust and he had a cut alongside his nose. "Something is happening. You must come quickly."

"I can feel it." Dwyrin ran after the Walach, who had not waited for him to answer. He could feel something, a terrible heavy pressure in the air. There was something moving in the hidden world, something monstrous. Dwyrin's mouth felt dry and his limbs seemed to weaken, even as he ran, feeling the enormous power that had shaken the earth. Vlad led him out of the wing of the Bucoleon that housed the Guard and up a flight of stairs. The stairs were narrow and old, a tight spiral leading into a tower standing at the end of the palace wall.

Nicholas was waiting, his face drawn and grim, looking to the west. He did not turn when Vladimir, huffing and puffing, reached the platform. Dwyrin climbed up, breathing hard, and leaned with relief on the balustrade. "What is it?"