Thomas Harlan - The storm of Heaven

"Captain! Signal your ships-half of us will enter the harbor, slowly, the other half must stand to sea, watching for the enemy."

The Roman captain paused in his harangue and nodded. Then he started shouting again, even more loudly than before. Sailors scurried to either side of the ship, lanterns raised in their hands. Dahvos could feel the Irene shift as the steersmen bent their tall oars into the water. The galley swung to the left, heading for the breakwater protecting the military harbor.

The Prince of the Khazars leaned forward, hand still wrapped carefully around the rope, watching for the opening in the breakwater. There should be lights in the towers flanking the entrance, but against the fire in the sky, it was hard to see.

"There!" he shouted, pointing at a triangular sail catching the glare, and the steersmen changed their course again. The ship, a merchantman, was wallowing out of the harbor. The Irene surged forward, the flautists on the lower decks calling for a faster stroke. The Roman captain came to the rail, staring out over the dark and troubled sea.

"They are too low in the water," the captain said, pursing his lips. "Yes! There, do you see them? A heavy cargo."

Dahvos counted his eyesight keen, good enough to spot a ptarmigan in a willow break, but this lurid, shifting light reflecting from the sea confused the eye. The merchantman grew closer, its round hull rolling in the heavy waves. He hissed in surprise, but one look at the skyline of the city, all engulfed in flames, and he understood. The merchantman was crowded from railing to railing with people, packed as tight as salt herrings in a barrel. They made no sound, all white faces, though they stared across the water at the passing ship. Dahvos felt the hair on the back of his arms rise up, seeing the waves slap against the side of the ship, only inches from the gunnel. A thin red stream was spilling from the wash ports.

The Roman fleet parted, letting the merchantman pass through, and Dahvos turned back to the city, his face grim. "All hands to arms," he barked at the captain, startling the Roman from a dreadful reverie. "If you have spears, pass them out. Signal the other ships."

Nodding, the captain shouted for his officers to join him on the rear deck. The Khazar turned back to the ghastly scene. Now he could make out the breakwater, which was thick with men and women and children, some clinging to the rocks, the sea surging up around them. A wailing cry rose above the roar and crack of the burning city. The harbor would be madness, filled with thousands of desperate people. Dahvos swallowed, realizing that he was going to make a terrible decision. The night seemed to grow even darker.

– |The Faithful Guard marched into the square around the temple of Mithra Askendant in a line fifty men across and ten deep. The arches of the Valentinian aqueduct vaulted overhead, glowing with the ruddy light of the burning districts. The temple itself rose in the middle of the square, a great merlot and cream confection of towering pillars, massive statues and three gilded domes. Before them, the square was filled with terrified people, all running from the west. At a barked command, the Faithful extended their line, covering almost half of the square. Men and women in their sleeping clothes, some carrying ragged bundles of belongings, others empty-handed, stopped, seeing the formidable wall of iron, steel and great oval shields. The citizens wept, then fled past on either side, rushing like a stream around a jutting boulder.

The sky above, beyond the black arches of the aqueduct, was glowing red and deep orange. The strange inky darkness that had passed over the city was now replaced by a surge of sooty clouds. Smoke billowed up from the burning city, filling the sky. It glowed and throbbed with sullen light and reflected fire. In the square, as the Faithful began a measured advance, axes and great swords at the ready, the glow cast long shadows on the ground and painted the shields red.

Dwyrin, now kitted out with a pair of borrowed caligulae, trotted along, flanked by Nicholas on one side and Vladimir on the other. Rufio was not far away, pacing the Emperor, who moved surrounded by a double row of the Faithful. Heraclius was wearing battered old armor, with only high red boots to mark him as Emperor.

"Hoi nekroi! Hoi nekroi erchesthe!" shouted a man as he stumbled past, his face mad with fear.

Dwyrin stared after him as he pushed his way through the line of soldiers, fell onto the stones, and then crawled away, weeping. The plaza was emptying, leaving only scattered bodies of those knocked down in the mad flight. A measured drumming paced the legionaries, the sound of their boots echoing back from the empty buildings surrounding the temple square.

"What was he saying?" Dwyrin whispered, looking over at Nicholas. The northerner shook his head; he hadn't understood the words either. Brunhilde trembled in his hand, quivering like a hunting hound. With each step, Nicholas' thin face grew grimmer. Strange winds were at play in the vast open space of the square, sending dust and grit into the faces of the Faithful.

"I don't know," Nicholas said, holding up a hand. "Something about the dead, I think. Captain Rufio!"

The black-eyed Greek looked over, seeing that Nicholas and the left wing had stopped. "What is it?"

"I see something, there beyond the temple. We should wait here, I think, where our flanks are protected by the buildings and the aqueduct footing."

Rufio was about to answer, but a stern voice cut him off. "No. We advance. I want to see the face of the enemy."

Dwyrin saw Nicholas start to protest, but the other speaker was the Emperor, glaring between the stoic faces of the Scandians. Nicholas backed down, saluting, his arm stiff. "All maniples, arms ready, advance at a walk!"

The Hibernian let his mind settle, trying to put the distant roar of flames, the tramp of hobnailed boots, the rattle of iron and leather, the harsh breathing of the men around him out of his mind. Tonight, under this dreadful sky, thinking of the vast crawling thing that he had seen, it was very easy. The fire leapt to his will, an eager lover, already pleading for release from the prison of flesh. He looked across the square, his mage-sight casting aside the darkness, the gloom, the odd gray fog that slowly oozed from the stones.

Dwyrin cursed, a lurid, harsh word he had learned from his thaumaturgic instructor. At the same time, a strange wild howling filled the air and the plaza reverberated with the vibration of thousands of running feet. The Hibernian lunged forward, pushing his way through the stolid ranks of the Faithful. Vladimir and Nicholas shouted after him, then Vladimir was close behind, shoving men out of his way. There were shouts from along the line of shields, some of alarm. Other men had caught sight of the enemy.

Dwyrin ducked under the shield of the man in front of him, then stood up, tense. The entire square was suddenly filled with a surging, running, howling mob. Tens of thousands of figures lurched towards the shield wall, shrieking and screaming. Their numbers seemed limitless, filling the whole plaza from side to side. The red glare of the sky illuminated them fitfully, showing patches of white and black, empty eyes, missing limbs.

"The dead," Dwyrin hissed, raising his hand in a sharp, angry motion. "Stand back!"

Vladimir reached his side, saw the seething horde of corpses rushing towards them and blanched with fear. "The Draculis! The Draculis have come against us!"

Dwyrin snarled, his will intent, and fire blossomed in his heart and spoke from his hand. A hissing white bolt of flame leapt out and scythed across the shambling mob that was now only a hundred feet away. The creatures screeched, engulfed, thrashing wildly as white-hot fire burned into their eye sockets and burrowed into their withered chests. A hundred went down, incinerated, and a thousand poured into the gap, clawing their way forward, dead eyes fixed hungrily on the line of the Faithful.