Thomas Harlan - The storm of Heaven

The sword whipped around again and Colonna managed to drag the shield into the stroke. Splinters flaked from the back of the panel, stabbing at his eye. He cursed, hacking blindly at the enemy. Suddenly there was a gurgling cry and a clatter as the saber fell to the stones. Colonna blinked, seeing another legionnaire wrenching his sword from the Arab's side.

"My thanks," the centurion rasped. The legionary, his face gaunt with weariness, nodded dully. Dried gore caked the man's hauberk and his arms were seeping blood from a dozen cuts.

The cornicens blew again and Colonna shook his head, wiping blood out of his eyes. Sweat leaked from his armor, mixing with the dust caking his legs. I've got to get the lads back in line.

"Form up! Fourth of the Sixth of the Third, form on me!"

Other legionaries stumbled towards him. The Third had suffered today, going uphill against these bandits. Unexpectedly, the enemy had been better armed and armored than the Romans. Too many of the new lads were lacking quality gear. They had been mustered too quickly. Their own cavalry trotted past and Colonna stared at them in surprise. These men were fresh, with their tunics clean and weapons dry. Upslope, the Arabs were falling back again, their lines tattered and disjointed, but they still stood firm amongst the black rocks. A column of fresh infantry came marching up the hill and Colonna ordered his men to stand aside. That bastard of a Prince isn't going to let up, is he? Good for him!

– |Theodore took a moment to dismount and refresh himself in the shade of one of the pavilions. One of the servants brought him a porcelain bowl of water to lave his face and a clean towel. Things were well in hand on the field below. It might be time to deliver the final stroke.

"Lord Prince?"

Theodore turned at the voice, grinning, for he owed much to the tired-sounding man standing beside the tent. He finished drying his hands and then gestured for a chair to be brought immediately. Servants scurried off to find something suitable. "Master Demosthenes! You are most welcome! Please, sit."

The thaumaturge slumped into a camp chair. Theodore motioned for wine and something to eat. Demosthenes was exhausted, his long face graven with weariness. His beard, usually neatly trimmed and brushed, was tangled with sweat and dust. Dark smudges colored his eyes and there was the mark of bruising and a burn on his right hand.

Wine arrived, in a silver ewer, and Theodore poured it himself. The thaumaturge put the cup to his lips and drank greedily, though his hands were shaking. "That was hard work, today." Demosthenes' voice was a harsh whisper. Theodore leaned close to hear him. "Their sorcerers were young and strong. Well trained in the art."

"How many were there?" Theodore had begged, borrowed and stolen every thaumaturge he could lay his hands on for this campaign, stripping the entire eastern half of the Empire, including the garrisons in upper Mesopotamia. It might be traditional for the thaumaturges to be parceled out, one or two to each legion for siege work and to block the sendings of the enemy, but Theodore had bigger plans in mind. He had seen the power the Western Empire brought to bear with a massed group of mages. The powers of the Persian priests were legendary… why not match them, strength for strength?

"Not many," the thaumaturge said, some strength returning to his voice, "but they stood only on defense, while we must make do with attack. It is draining work, trying to twist the world that way. Still, we overcame them…" He paused, and Theodore could see that the man was sifting memory, trying to find a pattern in the day's chaos.

"Why," Demosthenes said, surprise in his voice, "I believe there were only two! But skilled, my lord, and well used to one another… perhaps brother and sister. Great strength can be had that way, if the minds can find a common join."

The Lord Prince stood, grinning from ear to ear. "But not enough to carry the day, master wizard!"

Not enough. The Prince swung around, his step light. He looked west, checking the sun. There were still hours of light left. Enough time to smash the Arab army into the dust.

"Send word to the mages' encampment," he called to a courier rider that was standing close by; "tell them their work is done for the day. Tell them to rest, to recover their strength."

– |"All day we wait, sitting and getting fat." The Tanukh's voice was low, but it carried to where Khalid was sitting on his horse, half shaded, half covered by the overhanging branches of a thorn tree. The young commander feigned deafness, brilliant eyes focused on the clouds of dust rising beyond the pass and the two dark hills.

"The city men, they are being heaped with glory. Soon they will rest in soft paradise, their every whim catered to by white-limbed maidens with long, rich hair…" Shadin had been dwelling overmuch on this topic throughout the long, endless day. "…each a virgin and willing, even eager, to learn from a man's hand. Soft-spoken, too, and demure, with downcast eyes."

Khalid ignored him. The big Persian, Patik, waited quietly behind him, squatting in the shade of a thorn tree. The rest of the men were resting in whatever shade they could find, or moving quietly among the horses.

Beyond the little pass, the battle had moved away to the left, though there was still some fighting around the encampment. Khalid ignored that. The wagons were empty, the carts overturned. The camp followers were within, it was true, along with some men wounded earlier in the campaign. The Romans were more interested in the mass of Arab and Decapolis troops now fighting on the shoulders of the hill where Mohammed's banner and tents stood. He squinted, watching a singular figure, dressed in white and brown, standing on the height.

The Romans can see him, too, Khalid mused, his thoughts disguised behind a carefully bland face. But will they know what they see? Can they feel him, their sorcerers?

"These men of the city, they are dying with the word of god on their lips. They will find Paradise." Shadin was still holding forth to the men of his squad, most of whom were trying to sleep, upon the world that awaited them after death. "They will find two cool gardens planted with shady trees, each watered by a flowing spring. Every tree, for I have heard it from his lips myself, will bear every kind of fruit, each in pairs."

Distantly, horns blew and Khalid sat up a little straighter. His eyes swerved to the hilltop. The lone figure remained, standing on the dark boulder, wind blowing its robes out like a flag. The young man looked back to the pass, eyes narrowing. He could see a great flock of banners and pennons moving, as if a mass of mounted men were coming up out of the streambed.

Khalid hissed in delight. Behind him, Patik's cold gray eyes flickered open and the Persian diquan stood. His lamellar armor of overlapping iron plates rippled like a snakeskin. Gentling his horse, the easterner mounted. The other men, roused by the movement, looked to their own horses. Shadin, interrupted in the middle of a long and detailed description of the "dark-eyed houris," scrambled to his feet.

Khalid ignored them all, his full attention focused on the hilltop. He ignored the sky darkening behind them.

Light flashed there, from metal turning across the path of the sun, across the mile or more of scrub and twisted thornbush. Khalid felt something like a physical shock as the tiny figure on the boulder turned and looked at him.

"Mount up!" Khalid's voice carried, strong and clear, across the rocky hillside. Hundreds of men scrambled for their horses, armor jingling in the hot afternoon air. Ahead of them, scouts raised their heads, preparing to rise and run alongside. "Paradise is waiting!"

– |"This is the last act," Theodore said to the cluster of courier riders waiting beside his pavilion. They were very young, these scions of the great houses. For many, this was their first campaign. As had generations before them, they would run errands and messages for the cataphracts, for the nobles who commanded the armies of the Eastern Empire, even-as now-for the Lord Prince himself. Someday these boys would carry the lance, bow and sword of the cataphract themselves.