Thomas Harlan - The storm of Heaven

The block of stone, Dwyrin saw, was an altar. A corpse was lying on it, wrapped in grave cloth. A tall, golden-haired man was standing on the steps, speaking quickly to officers gathered below him. Rufio stood at the man's side, a bared gladius in his hand. More of the Faithful were also standing close by, helmets hiding their faces. Everyone was very grim. Dwyrin could feel an electric tension in the air.

"Runners have come," said the golden-haired man in a powerful voice. "The gate of Charisus and the Great Gate have both fallen. The earthquake toppled the gate and then something that cannot be described forced its way though. Our only hope is to hold the old walls of Constantine, halfway across the city. I will take the Guard and my household troops up the avenue of the Mese to hold the North Road gate. Gregorious, you will take the rest of the men, and anyone you can find in the city, to hold the entrance of the West Road."

Some of the officers shouted their understanding, then pushed away through the crowd. Vladimir worked his way around to the side of the altar, finding Nicholas in close conversation with Rufio. Dwyrin still felt very strange, seeing everything from above, but the Walach did not seem to notice the extra weight. The Hibernian ran his hands through his long red hair, quickly braiding it back behind his head.

"You're the firecaster?" Dwyrin looked down into the pale, haggard face of the golden-haired man. He was broad in the shoulder, though his skin seemed to sag on the bone. The blue eyes were haunted and shadowed. Despite the frailty of his body, the man was filled with nervous energy and he seemed to carry the heavy iron armor without complaint. A thin circlet of gold crowned him, holding back his stringy hair. "The witch-boy, Dwyrin?"

"Yes, lord. I am." Dwyrin bobbed his head, unable to make the proper proskinesis. "I mean no disrespect, but I hurt my foot."

"None taken." The Emperor smiled, showing uneven yellow teeth. "This is not a day for ritual. Rufio says you are very strong, as strong as any wizard he's ever seen. Can you stop this monstrous power that comes against us?"

"I don't know." Dwyrin shook his head, feeling queasy at the thought. "I will try."

"That will have to be enough, then." Heraclius reached up and clasped hands with the young sorcerer. A grim smile lighted on his lips, then disappeared. "I will do the same."

Dwyrin nodded again, feeling some spark of strength pass between them. The Emperor's eyes were bright and strong, even though his face was that of an ancient, sagging and wrinkled. There seemed to be no fear in him, even though the enemy had breached a wall that had never been overthrown in three hundred years. Heraclius turned away, raising his voice in a strong shout of command. "On the march, my friends! We go to battle!"

The Faithful were already tramping out of the huge room, their voices raised in a deep-throated chant. Dwyrin looked down at Rufio and Nicholas.

"We go with the Emperor," said the captain of the Faithful, squinting up at Dwyrin, his black eyes fathomless in this poor light. "Save your strength, boy, you look as poorly as he does!"

– |Heraclius climbed the altar steps wearily. Even that much effort began to tire him. He could not afford the luxury of a chair and bearers today! On the marble slab, laid out, arms tucked in at his sides, was Theodore's corpse. The face was covered with a golden cloth, hiding the ruined eye and savaged throat. The Boatman, Heraclius supposed, knew each man's face, as he was supposed to know the names of all the dead. The Emperor was still unsettled by the injuries. A dull feeling of dread pressed on him, filling the air. Some sorcery was at work, overwhelming the ancient wards and patterns that had defended Constantinople for the last four centuries. Looking down at the cold pale body of his brother, Heraclius was filled with confused outrage.

"You are the younger man," he whispered to himself, brow furrowed in despair. "You should be alive. I was the one dying and crippled. You were strong… Fool, fool of a boy. Riding out in armor of gold, like it was a parade! Reckless child!"

Heraclius put his hand over his brother's, feeling the cold clammy flesh. There was no life left here, only a cast aside husk. "In the songs, they will praise you, brother. I will keep the memory of your failures, your stupidity, your misguided chauvinistic loyalty, to myself. History will only remember that you died in battle, a hero, leading a doomed army bravely in a doomed cause. Maidens, I think, will swoon at your legend, leaving roses and love-notes on your tomb."

At the same time that he bent down, kissing the cloth of gold and his brother's forehead, Heraclius felt a curious relief. The tension that had marred his relationship with Martina would fade, now, and the hatred between the niece and the uncle would be a thing of the past. Even his estranged son Constantius would return to him, freed of the envy and malice that Theodore had inculcated in him.

"All we must do," Heraclius said, stepping back from the altar, saluting the dead, "is win."

– |BOOM!

Green flame jetted away from the edge of the spinning disk, licking across rows and rows of bundled scrolls and leather-bound chapbooks. For a wonder, the ancient parchment and papyrus did not burst into flame. Maxian landed heavily on the floor, his knees bending, and he had to catch himself with his hands. Steam hissed from his body, curling up into the air. The center of the wheel of fire quivered, distorting the vision of the library on the Palatine, then steadied again.

The Prince stood, shaking his head and popping his ears. "Empress?"

Martina was on the floor, body curled around her son, who was peering up at Maxian with wide eyes. A little kitten was clutched tight in the boy's hands, mewing angrily. The Empress was shaking, but Maxian couldn't tell if it was from fear or shock. He reached down and lifted her up.

"Empress, everything is fine. Look at me."

The woman's eyes, screwed shut, slowly opened and she gulped. She seemed astonished that the Prince was actually before her, holding her up. "Caesar Maxian… you're real!"

Maxian laughed, then lifted her, her son and the cat up onto the table. "Quickly now, while the disk is perfectly clear, step through." He pointed into the library in distant Rome, where Gaius Julius was waiting, arms raised to catch her. Helena was standing right behind the old man, a thin hand raised to her lips, staring in astonishment. "Go on, just step through. There's only a momentary dizziness."

"I… I can't!" Martina wailed. "This is impossible!"

Maxian shook his head, irritated by the delay, and pushed the woman hard in the back, throwing her through the wheel of fire, which still hissed and spun and smoked, and flames licked away from the whirring edge, lighting the room with a sullen green glow. Martina squeaked, then fell through the clear air, her image distorting for a moment as she passed across the disk. Then she was on the other side, gasping, her child screaming, the little cat squirming free from its chubby hands. Maxian turned away, the woman forgotten.

A pale-faced young man, dressed in priestly robes, was staring at him in wonder.

"Do you know how to keep the device attuned?" Maxian's voice was sharp.

"Yes!" stammered the priest. "I do."

"Good, then keep it focused on Rome, on the library. A great power is attacking your city-I do not think that I can stop it, not here, not so far from Rome, but I will try. I will send anyone I meet to you. Pass them through the disk, but only while the air is clear within the circle!"

"I understand," the young priest said, his whole demeanor changing, becoming confident, his face grim. He caught Maxian's shoulder as the Prince strode towards the doorway. "I'll wait for you to come back."