Thomas Harlan - The storm of Heaven

"Stand! Stand!" Nicholas shouted, his voice a basso roar over the tumult. The dead stormed forward, some in rusted armor, some naked, some newly dead with their flesh still pink with the residue of life. Flame licked out from Dwyrin once and then twice, setting huge swaths of the mob alight. Even burning, wreathed in blue flame, they kept coming. "The Emperor! The Emperor!"

The dead slammed into the shield wall, mouths gaping black in the horrid red light, rotting hands clawing at the faces of the Scandians. The Faithful took the charge with a grunt, then fell back a step. Their axes slashed down, hewing heads from gangrenous necks, arms from pasty, white torsos fat with worms. The endless hollow shrieking of the dead rose and rose, rending the air, drowning out the bull roar of the centurions, hiding even the cries of the Faithful who fell, borne down by the pressing, irresistible weight of the living corpses. Even hewn to bits, lacking heads, legs, arms, the dead bit and humped forward, sliming the ground with black, rotting entrails. A vast, suffocating stench rolled before them.

Dwyrin was surrounded by an arc of desolation, clouded by a choking, bitter smoke of incinerated bone and charred flesh. Vladimir was at his back, hacking wildly at anything that lurched too close with his great ax. The blade was slick with noisome gray-green fluid that seeped from the wounds of the dead, or burst from their abdomens as they were cut down. The Hibernian's face was a tight mask of control, but fire lashed out again, ripping long burning avenues of destruction through the pressing tide. Despite this, the Faithful were forced back a yard, then another.

Nicholas, fighting in what was suddenly the front rank, stabbed Brunhilde into the chest of a corpse coming at him with a Legion pilum. The creature staggered, then clawed its way up the length of bright steel. Grunting, Nicholas slammed the thing's face, feeling bone crack under the impact of his armored elbow, then wrenched the long sword free. Undaunted, the creature clawed at his head, bony hands scraping across the cheek guard of his helmet. A fingertip, still sheathed in flesh, caught in his eye slit. Nicholas gasped at the stench, then slashed Brunhilde down, cleaving the arm from the body. The finger wiggled into his helmet, a sharp nail jabbing at his eyelid.

Nicholas staggered back, out of the line of battle, shouting with fear and grasping at his own helmet. Too late. The finger was already inside the close-fitting iron, squirming against his cheek. Frenzied, Nicholas tore at the strap under his chin, feeling the nail bite at the soft surface of his eye. There was a sudden, blinding pain and then he felt the helmet give way. Screaming in fury, Nicholas grasped the wiggling bony worm in both hands and it popped free with a wet sound. Blood slicked his face, spilling down his cheek. The vile thing squirmed in his gloves, still trying to kill. He threw it away, out over the heads of the corpses shambling towards him.

Nicholas blinked, half blinded, then wiped blood from his face. He gingerly touched his left eye and found a loose flap of skin over something squishy and moist. He felt faint, then he was on the ground, staring up at a burning sky. In his hand, Brunhilde was keening, a sharp, piercing note of dismay. "Vlad! Vlad! Help me!"

– |Dwyrin heard Nicholas cry out, then knelt swiftly, his mind speeding through ancient, half-heard chants and patterns. Everything was coming to him with dizzying speed, power wicking up out of the ground, flying down from the sky. He had wreaked enormous destruction on the surging mob of the dead, but there were still thousands coming on. Dwyrin knew, in some calm and observant corner of his mind, that these were not just the dead of the battle, so strangely left to lie on the field in the rain and mud, but the ancient dead of the city tombs and graveyards. Their numbers might be limitless.

The limestone flags of the plaza were ancient, long separated from their native hills and mountains. The fire in them was buried deep, hidden, barely an ember. Dwyrin touched it, feeling the quivering spark come to life in his presence. Wake! he called to the stones, moving his hand in a sharp arc that included the whole plaza. Wake!

– |"Fall back! Re-form shield wall!"

Rufio skipped aside, letting one of the living dead lunge past him. The captain's face was a grim mask under his helm, and he slashed down with his gladius, neatly severing the hamstrings on the back of the thing's legs. It toppled over, momentarily crippled. Despite their horrific, unnatural life, the corpses still had to use bone and muscle to move. The Faithful fell back, their axes and spears making a glittering hedge before them. Rufio was sweating heavily and his mouth was fouled with this stench that hung in the air like black fog.

He glanced to his left, looking for Nicholas, and saw to his horror the left wing had swept away from him. Hundreds of the things pushed into a gap in the shield wall, cutting the line of battle in twain. Rufio backed up hurriedly, seeing the gleaming iron helms of the left falling back towards one of the streets opening onto the square from the south. He reached his own line and looked sharply for the Emperor.

Heraclius was not far away, his armor dented and slick with gray-green ichor. The Emperor had a barbarian-style longsword in both hands. It was nicked and almost black with age. Only five or six of the Faithful were still with him, clustered at his back, watching in all directions. Their eyes met and Heraclius smiled, a half-grin. "Rufio! Where is the boy? The firecaster?"

The captain looked about, then he saw him, a hundred feet away, surrounded by a milling circle of the dead. Strangely, they were not attacking recklessly, but slowly edging their way forward. Heaps of burned, ashy corpses were strewn around the barbarian. The boy was kneeling on the ground, his face screwed up in concentration, his palms flat on the ground.

"I'll get him!" Rufio rushed forward, his sword licking out and cleaving the head from the nearest of the walking corpses. He smashed through the next two and was into the circle. Dwyrin looked up and Rufio skidded to a halt, ash puffing up around him in a cloud, his heart stricken with dread. The barbarian's eyes were burning, filled with leaping flame.

"Rufio!" Heraclius cursed, then dropped his hand. He turned, gesturing with the longsword he had torn from the rotting grip of the dead. "Come on, lads, we've got to-"

A vast blast of fire leapt from the stones, ripping from one end of the plaza to the other, shooting skyward in a flare of greenish white. Tens of thousands of the dead were caught in the explosion. Hundreds of tons of limestone slabs volatilized to an incandescent white-hot cloud in one stunning blast. Corpses and bits of corpses were flung skyward, each wrapped in clinging green fire. Heraclius was thrown back by the blast, into his bodyguards. They skidded backwards in a rattle of iron and wood, a tangle of arms and legs.

The Emperor was stunned, seeing only the shoulder vambrace of one of the guards and a sliver of red sky. At least two strong men were on top of him, crushing the breath from his chest. Cursing, he shoved at them, trying to lift away the mail pressing down on him. It was getting hard to breathe. Slowly, for his arms were far weaker than they once had been, he managed to shove the bodies aside and crawl out onto the stones. The sky was lit for miles in all directions by a hissing flare that consumed the center of the plaza. Everything was as bright as noon, tinged with strange green shadows. The roar of the combusting stone was so loud that Heraclius was deafened.

He managed to get to his knees. The guardsman on top of him seemed to be dead, his armor smoking and his beard alight. Heraclius batted at the smoldering hair with his glove, but it did no good. Acres of dead seemed to surround him, all thrown down by the blast. Many of the buildings fronting the square were now burning, smoke flooding from their windows. The temple of Mithra was a wavering vision, barely visible through the heat haze and smoke. He looked for a weapon, anything, and for any of his men who were still alive.