Faintly, he could hear a roaring sound rising to swallow the world.
Maxian crouched down, letting the last of his brittle shields fail, the sign of Athena guttering, overwhelmed by darkness and he pressed his hands against the sandy ground. He closed his eyes, ignoring the blood and sweat dripping from a forehead scored by deep cuts. A familiar, debilitating cold flooded around him, leaching his strength, drawing his breath out in trailing white mist. The Persian's laughter rolled and trembled in his ears, as the stone walls of the amphitheater creaked, crumbling to ash and dust.
Shahr-Baraz ran up the dune, his boots dragging in soft, black sand. His breath came in rasping gulps, though his stride did not waver or slack. He was the Boar and his strength of limb and will was without limit. Armored hands grasped the hilt of a heavy, straight blade half-again longer than the longest carried by his guardsmen. Another man would find the sword taxing to lift, much less wield in combat. Shahr-Baraz had sparred with a weapon like this-either a sword or mace or axe-since the first whiskers sprouted on his chin.
The pushtigbahn loped alongside their captain, each man laboring through the loose sand, weapons held high, shields riding on brawny arms. They did not waste their breath in shouts of rage or war cries; each was a veteran, selected from the ranks of the great nobles for valor, for courage, for skill in the saddle and afoot surpassing all others. Among them, the dark, cloaked shapes of the Shanzdah strode like hunting dogs, silent and intent. The ground firmed and now there were drifts of shattered bodies, legs hewn from hips, arms cast awry, rotted skulls caved in by axe and spear.
Shahr-Baraz saw the army of the dead had broken upon the Roman lines and the enemy was waiting, shields locked, three-perhaps four-ranks deep, every face set, weapons ready, poised to accept their charge. Shahr-Baraz raised his massive blade abruptly and the trumpeters and drummers slowed to a halt. "Sound," the King of Kings shouted, keen gaze sweeping the line of battle.
A brassy honking shocked the air, quickly joined by the rattling of drums. Clouds of smoke drifted in from the sea, glowing with the reflection of the burning, wrecked fleet. In the dim, shifting half-light Shahr-Baraz ran forward again and now the pushtigbahn gathered themselves, many men snapping down the golden masks covering their faces.
The Romans braced, the first rank of men going down on one knee. Javelins and sling-stones pelted the charging Persians. Some went down, struck by a lucky blow, but the Immortal's armor shrugged aside most of the missiles.
Swinging the huge sword over his head, his mighty voice at last roaring a challenge, the Boar leapt among the enemy. His Immortals howled in on either side, hewing with their long axes, maces, swords. Legionaries stabbed back underhand with their short blades and spears. Shahr-Baraz swept his shield aside, knocking down two spears and a sword thrusting for his vitals. The longsword smashed down, cleaving through a tilted shield, splitting the laminated pine with a stunning crack! Blood spattered as the Roman went down, goggle-eyed, his plated helmet shorn through. The Boar roared in exultation, wading into the Roman ranks, his blade ripping sideways, tearing a man's arm clean off. Crimson spewed, blinding a legionnaire in the second rank. Shahr-Baraz smashed his fist into the man's face, feeling metal bend and break.
A broad-chested Roman officer stabbed in from the left, slipping the tip of his gladius past the Boar's shield. The sword point slammed into plated iron, skipped across two curved plates and wedged violently against one of the wire joins. Shahr-Baraz bellowed, feeling the tip pinching his side and crashed the shield into the man's chest. The blow lifted the Roman from his feet, sending him careening into another legionnaire struggling hand-to-hand with an Immortal. The collision left both men pinned against the locked shields of the third rank.
The Boar spared not a grain for the fallen officer, bulling forward into the third and fourth ranks, smashing about him with the long blade, clubbing men with the spiked face of his shield. Two more Romans went down under his rush, and the Immortals crowding in behind him smashed down the struggling men with their maces. Shahr-Baraz waded in blood, his longsword running red.
He laughed, a huge, booming wild cry, laying about him with maniac strength. The pushtigbahn began to chant his name, a rolling, rising shout, and they pressed harder. Among them, the Shanzdah wreaked terrible havoc, ignoring mortal wounds, their ebon blades reaping a rich harvest. The Boar traded blows with a centurion, barely noticed the man was half-transparent, then plunged the gore-slick sword through a fury-crazed face. The ghostly centurion shattered like a glass bead ground under a sledge.
Open ground lay before him and Shahr-Baraz whooped with delight.
Drenched, the Queen struggled to rise, arms straining to push aside a section of iron plating pinning her to the beach. Surf rushed past, filling her armor with sand and grit. Hissing fires eddied in the shallows where the iron drake's belly had split open, spilling oily flame across the water. She could see curving ribs rising above her, black silhouettes against a purplish sky streaked with rising columns of smoke.
"Sahaba, to me!" she shouted, forcing her water-clogged throat to work. The ironwork burned her fingers, the plate glowing red with trapped heat, but she continued to push. For a moment, the massive weight trembled, then moved an inch. Now she could turn her hip and push with her leg as well. Creaking, the etched panel shifted. Zenobia gasped, feeling muscles burn, then the plate fell aside with a wet, smacking sound. She crawled from the wreckage, immediately coming across a fallen, sodden body.
"One of ours?" Zenobia coughed, forcing herself upright.
Yes, Zoe answered weakly. The girl had suffered a heavy backlash when the shield of the winds collapsed. Then she'd tried to protect them from the concussive blast of the machine blowing apart on the beach. They lived, which Zenobia accounted a victory. The Queen patted the dead Sahaba's shoulder and limped towards the high-tide line.
A deep, groaning sound caught Zenobia's attention as she clambered out between two hissing, popping iron ribs. She turned towards the sea, wondering if one of the big grain haulers had caught fire. Her fingers clutched steaming iron in shock, brilliant blue eyes widening in horror.
The water was still crowded with ships, many burning, but others made headway towards the beach. The serpentine shapes of two of the flying creatures circled in the dark air, jets of flame licking down from gaping jaws to set more ships alight.
But the sea in the broad, wide bay had grown strangely flat. Wind still gusted over the waters, tangling the Queen's hair and tugging at the linen shirt over her armor, but the whitecaps and breakers were gone. Instead, the sea was running out, hissing across the sand and galleys that had lately been moored in shallow water creaked and groaned as they settled on the exposed bottom.
"What…" The Queen felt the winds turn, shifting wildly from side to side and then a vast, unimaginably deep groaning sound rose from the waters. The eastern horizon-already plunged into purple twilight-now turned dark in a broad swathe across the mouth of the bay. She felt the ground under her feet shift and settle, little puffs of air jetting from crevices opening in the sand.
Run! Zoe stormed into her paralyzed consciousness, the girl seizing control of their body. The Wave Lord is coming! The Queen leapt between the smoking iron and sprinted up the beach, legs flashing, sand spurting away from blurring feet. Zoe reached out desperately, forcing her battered will to wing ahead of the body, rippling through the soft sand, making a hard-packed surface. Zenobia fought the urge to look over her shoulder, keeping her concentration focused solely on speed and flight.