Maxian swept through smoky air, long, dark hair flying out behind his head. With the Persian sorcerer driven before him in panic, the prince turned his attention aside for an instant, eyeing the fleet scattered across the bay. Many of the ships were afire-some had already burned to the waterline, leaving ghostly hulls half-visible below the choppy water-but more remained. The wind continued to bear unseasonably from the southeast. A few of the surviving Persian merchantmen were tacking away from the shore, wakes bright in the dying, ruddy light. Some of the remaining ships continued to unload, sending more boats filled with men towards the beach.
Alexandros is in trouble, Maxian thought. A chorus of voices rose in his mind, clamoring spirits eager to gain his favor. Their whispers resolved into a litany of coherent thoughts: the Roman army is too small and trying to fight in too many places at once. The prince grimaced, slowing his headlong flight through the air.
The dark shape of the Persian disappeared among the jumble of houses, temples and imposing theatre of Catania itself. There were no fires burning in the town and the fading light cast the streets and avenues into shadow, but Maxian-with a cold smile-thought he'd have no trouble running the sorcerer to ground when he needed to. He's out of play for the moment… and that is enough.
Frowning at the enemy fleet, the prince turned his attention to the sea and the vast web of forces and powers at work above, on, and below the waters. He could feel-would see, if he cared-the glittering forms of two Persian wizards still active on the beach itself. But their light was dim in comparison to their master and Maxian set his thoughts of them aside.
Their fleet is too numerous. Columella's dry voice whispered. You must not give the Persian too much time-he will recover his strength, set fear aside, devise stratagems to defeat you. Let Lord Alexandros deal with these matters.
"No," Maxian said aloud. He drifted in the air, surrounded by potent signs and the ceaseless, shimmering motion of his patterns and wards. Hundreds of feet below, waves swept in long, foaming arcs against the shore and men struggled and died, pierced by iron or steel, over sandy ground. He could feel their spirits flash bright, then vanish as blood spilled and breath fled. "A Persian army ashore, intact and ably led will be more trouble than we can afford."
His eyes lifted to the vast, smooth cone of Aetna and a grim, almost mischievous smile came upon him.
Great Lord, you cannot… Columella grew silent, feeling a spark of anger flare in the prince's mind. The citizens… The old ghost's voice trailed away feebly.
Maxian let sight expand, shedding the immediate pressures of flesh and the wind and smoke biting at his nostrils. A sullen red core slumbered far beneath the mountain, tendrils of glowing crimson slowly rising, percolating through the veins of the earth, finding release from subterranean pressures in gouts of steam and a constant, rumbling hiss that threw a column of flattened smoke away from the mountaintop. The prince felt his irritation mount-time was pressing and he could feel the Persian's sharp-edged pattern growing stronger-the mountain was quiet, without the vast lode of power Vesuvius once held. The Oath is not trying to bottle this one, he realized.
One of the pale lights whirling around him flared, and the prince saw a brief, fear-etched vision of a massive wave roaring up out of the sea, smashing ships to kindling and then raging against a shore studded with ornate houses of stone and brick.
"Well done." Maxian grinned, favoring the mote with a moment of his attention. He could feel the Oath trembling around him; a deep, superbly complex matrix of memories, traditions and the living citizens of the Empire. His intent flashed out, leaping from Aetna's dark, trembling heart along a fissure running out to sea. Swiftly, his will sped, burrowing beneath the earth, finding black fumaroles boiling in the vasty deep, splintered rock grinding against crushed limestone.
Here is some power! he exulted, a diamond-bright pinpoint lancing down as he commanded, spearing into a tight green-and-blue balance of vast forces. There was slippage, weakness and then drowned mountains ground violently against one another, making the ocean floor heave and pitch. The sea shivered. Thousands of feet above, where the water was falling dark with the flight of the sun, a dimple formed on the surface, then collapsed, sending jets of spray hundreds of feet into the air.
The prince laughed in delight, casting a pitying look upon the ships crowding below him. He turned abruptly, speeding north, the sky rumbling behind him. Fey lights played in his hair and the whirling orbs surrounding him brightened, becoming almost visible in the waking world.
Catania swelled below him, whitewashed buildings passing by, temple roofs red with tile and bright ornaments. The streets were empty, every shutter locked tight. No one could be seen or felt. Maxian drifted past a temple of Poseidon-marble columns glowing pale in the twilight-his sense of unease growing. A dog barked wildly in a yard below. He reached out, captured the fragments of the Oath lingering in the ancient town and felt his battle-shield wax strong. His brow furrowed, feeling the tenuous fabric pervading the Roman city fray.
Something flared in the hidden world-a dark spike of power-and the prince cursed, leaping high into the air. Below him-to the right, hard by the port and the sea-the shape of a grand amphitheater rose, strikingly done in alternating slabs of dark volcanic rock, red brick and pale yellow marble. Three terraces of columns and arches, with boxed seats, surrounded an oval floor. The tiers of seats and the sandy floor were covered with thousands of fallen men, women and children.
They fled here when word of the battle came, Columella whispered sadly. Seeking safety. The old city walls were torn down for building materials in the time of Emperor Trajan.
Ebon hues played among the statues lining the top deck of the amphitheater. Maxian slowed to a halt, the roof only inches below his feet. Flat, rust-colored tiles splintered as he drifted across them, the strength concentrated in him distorting the waking world. Ghosts prowled around him, empty eyes vigilant for the enemy. He could smell the acrid stench of death in the air and the queer, trembling vibration in the hidden world when lives were taken to grant power. Maxian shuddered, feeling the urge to consume rise in his throat. His mouth stretched in a feral snarl. Some of those sprawled on the sand still lived… the prince darted down to the theater floor, a black crow with ragged wings stooping over the crumpled body of a young man.
"He's not-" Maxian staggered, the counter-rotating spheres around him lighting with a tremendous flash. The Persian stormed out of a tunnel mouth, a whirlwind of black lightning slashing at the prince's shield. Layers of glittering blue-white shuddered, then cracked, darkness surging against the barrier of drifting glyphs. Ghosts swarmed into the breach, wailing piteously, their frail remnants dissolving in a mad rush. The sorcerer stamped down with a scaled foot and the sandy floor erupted with a boom! Maxian flew backwards, crashing into the retaining wall circling the amphitheater floor. His physical body bounced back from the tufa wall, blood flying from his mouth.
Mind distracted, his shields weakened, straining to hold back stabbing bolts of indigo, the prince spat to clear his mouth, forcing himself to his feet. The last of the ghosts congealed before him in a wavering wall of lights, but their numbers dwindled with each attack. The sorcerer clapped his hands together, eyes blazing, and the stone behind Maxian groaned and split, showering him with needle-like shrapnel. Physical pain cut into his focus, but the prince had no time for such trivialities.