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Overview
The great three-sided war continues, Rome against Persia against the tribes of the desert now commanded by Mohammed of Mekkah. The tide is turning against the Eastern Empire--the Emperor Heraclius lies bedridden in Constantinople and his brother Theodore has lost a great battle to the tribes. In the West, Rome lies devastated by the long-pent eruption of Vesuvius. And in the hidden valley of Damawand, the Persion sorcerer Dahak plots his revenge.
Among the lost are the Princess Shirin, vanished in the explosion of Vesuvius that wrought so much destruction, and Thyatis, still living but broken in mind and body. Her struggle will mirror the torment of the Empire, as it rebuilds its strength and purpose after so much destruction.
But there is hope for the West. Prince Maxian, horrified at being the cause of so many deaths, has come to realize that the Oath need not be broken; it can be changed by a skilled sorcerer. And in Judea, young Dwyrin is coming into his full powers, honed by sorcerous combat with his friend Odenathus, who now leads the shattered remnants of the army of Palmyra. And among the Goths north of the Danuvius, a new legion is being forged, by a very old general.
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Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781429974974 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Tor Publishing Group |
| Publication date: | 07/14/2002 |
| Series: | Oath of Empire , #3 |
| Sold by: | Macmillan |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 512 |
| Sales rank: | 757,061 |
| File size: | 3 MB |
About the Author
Thomas Harlan is a remarkable new talent. He lives in Tucson, Arizona.
Thomas Harlan is the author of the highly regarded “Oath of Empire” fantasy series, starting with The Shadow of Ararat, The Gate of Fire, and The Storm of Heaven. An internationally-known game designer, he lives in Salem, Oregon.
Read an Excerpt
The Storm of Heaven
Book Three of the Oath of Empire
By Thomas Harlan, Beth Meacham
Tom Doherty Associates
Copyright © 2001 Thomas HarlanAll rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4299-7497-4
CHAPTER 1
THE PORT OF KORINTHOS, 31 B.C.
The sea gleamed like spoiled glass, a flat murky green. Smoke from the town hung in the air, drifting slowly along the beach in thin gray wisps. The Queen, her pale shoulders covered by a rose-colored drape, stood in the surf. Tiny waves lapped around her feet, making silver bangles lift and fall with the water. The sea was as warm as a tepidarium pool.
"No man has ever set foot on the island." The Matron's tone was harsh.
"This is my son," said the Queen, her voice urgent. "I need your help."
Sweat beaded on the Greek woman's face, even in the shade of a wide parasol that her servants had lodged in the sand. The Matron stood on the polished plank deck of a small galley, riding low in the water a dozen yards away. Despite the Queen's entreaties, the gray, stiff-backed woman had refused to leave the ship and come ashore.
"We give shelter to women, grown and child, but never to men."
The Queen winced, for the harsh snap of the older woman's voice carried well over the water. There was no wind to break up the sound, or drown it with the crash of surf on the rocky shore.
"He is your get, you must care for him. This is the rule of the Order, as it has been from the beginning."
The Matron turned, flipping the edge of her woolen cloak, black and marked with white checks, over her shoulder. The Queen flinched, feeling the rebuke in her bones. She turned, staring back up the beach to the awnings and pavilions of her camp. The bright colors of the pennants and the cloth that shaded her son and the waiting servants seemed dull and grimy in this still, hot air.
"Have I not given enough?" Despite her best effort, the Queen's voice cracked and rose, shrill and carrying. "Must I give up my son for your faith? He is all that remains of our dream — his father murdered, his patrimony stolen. Hide him for me ... just for a few months, perhaps a year!"
The women in the galley's rowing deck, responding to the shrill whistle of a flute, raised their long leaf-bladed oars as one. The Matron's figure descended from the platform and paced, slowly, to the foredeck of the vessel. She did not turn or look back, and the angle of her head was canted towards the horizon. A single bank of oars dipped into the water, and the galley turned, swinging easily in the calm sea.
The flute trilled, and the ship slipped across the water, gaining speed with each flashing plunge of the oars.
The Queen felt great weariness crash down upon her, pressing on her shoulders with thick, gnarled fingers. She swayed a little, feeling the sand beneath her feet slip, but then righted herself. Her right hand clutched at a diadem around her neck, slim white fingers covering a golden disk filled with an eight-rayed star.
It would not do, she thought, to be carried up from the baleful shore by my servants.
The Queen walked in darkness, her head bent in weariness. A bare gleam of firelight from the bonfires by the ships touched a curl of hair. Now her feet were bare, the wet slippers long discarded, ruined by the salty water. At the very edge of the firelight she stopped and turned, staring out at the gloomy sea. It lay flat and still, windless, as it had done for days, stranding her fat-bellied troop ships in the port.
"Your son is beautiful, daughter. I see him standing by the fire, light gleaming on his limbs."
The Queen stiffened, feeling the air grow chill. She raised her head sharply, nostrils flaring at the languid voice in the darkness. There was a woman, there in the shadow, just beyond the edge of the light. A rustle of cloth and a flash of white caught the Queen's eye as a hood was drawn back.
"Who ...? I know you." The Queen's voice turned brittle and hard. "Why are you here?"
Laughter drifted, dying leaves in the fall, cascading down on chill autumn air. "You need me, Pharaoh, to save your son and your dream."
A hand came out of the darkness, thin and elegant, with long, tapering nails. Their surface winked in the dim firelight, glossy and black. Thin gold bracelets jingled a little as the woman stepped closer. The Queen raised her own hand sharply, though the imperious gesture seemed futile against the presence in the darkness. "I will not give him to you. I did not summon you. Go away."
The figure stopped and paused, and the Queen sensed a lean head turning in the night, considering her. A faint wind began to rise, brushing the Queen's curls and softly fluttering the silk draped around her shoulders. Pale red caught in the eye of the figure, gleaming with the bare echo of one of the bonfires.
"Then he will die, spitted on the blades of your enemies, or strangled in some cold cell. Is this your desire? To see your son placed on a pyre of scented wood? To see the flames leap up around his beautiful face?"
The Queen shuddered, feeling her gown cold as a shroud under her fingers.
"Give him to me," hissed the darkness, "and he will grow strong and powerful. He will learn many arts lost to the race of men ... everything that you dreamed for him will come true...."
"No!" The Queen ran. Sand sprayed away from her feet, but the cold breath on her neck gave her feet wings.
Behind her, far from the firelight, a figure moved, gathering its consorts. Silently, on padded feet, they went away in the night. The pale woman turned on the height above the town, looking down upon the dim lights in the windows and the torches burning on the steps of the temples.
"So did old Pelias run," the woman mused, amusement stealing over her. "When his daughters came singing, bearing a cauldron of ruddy, red iron ..." She settled her cloak on thin shoulders and turned her face to the stars in the dark sky, smiling.
CHAPTER 2THE YARMUK PLATEAU, SOUTHERN SYRIA COELE, 624 A.D.
"This is it! Form up by ranks, you lot!"
Colonna, centurion of the Third Cyrene, wiped his face with a dirty white cloth wound around his helmet. The sun had risen only moments ago, wallowing up huge and pale orange in the eastern sky, but the air was already hot. The Roman tried to spit but his mouth was too dry. Around him, legionaries staggered to their feet, strapping on belts and pulling on rivet-studded helms.
Dust puffed into the sky, forming a slow-moving, yellowish cloud over the stirring army. Orders had come before dawn, and Colonna, at least, had seen his men fed before the chill of night fell away. Thousands of soldiers shuffled into formation on dry grass and stony ground. Mindful of the flags of his banda commander, Colonna walked along the line of his men. He kept his face grim and impassive, but in his heart he sighed, seeing painfully young faces squinting out from under metal helmets.
A fresh army; those were the words that the Imperial Prince Theodore had used when they had first landed at the great port of Caesarea Maritima, down on the Judean coast. One destined for victory and glory.
"You men, listen close." Colonna stopped, settling a hard glare on his face. He scowled at the legionaries in his squad and paced slowly back down the line. They were fit enough, with kit barely a year old and clean weapons. Their ranks were trim; his hobnailed boot had been on their backsides enough in the last month. The baby fat was gone, burned away in the Syrian sun as the Imperial Army marched endlessly, searching for the enemy.
"This is the day. No more running up hill and down valley, trying to bring these bastards to heel. This is the day they stand and fight."
Colonna half turned, shading watery-blue eyes with a sunburned hand. He looked east, squinting in the glare of the morning sun. The land was open and uneven, marked with tumbled hills of black rock and shallow washes filled with scrawny trees. A slight slope descended from the Imperial camp, down toward a dry watercourse. Beyond that an equally gentle slope rose up, thick with tufted grass and scattered fist-sized stones. There, anchored by a high tor of crumbling black rock on the left, and by the edge of the plateau on the right, massed the enemy. A lone outcropping of dark stone rose up just behind the enemy's right wing.
The centurion pointed, one cracked finger stabbing at the foe.
"Look, lads." His voice was soft and some of the men bent forward to hear him. "There they are, this rabble that we have chased about, these bandits that the Prince rails against. Do you see them?"
None of the men turned to look. Colonna had a quick reward for rash action!
"Arrayed in ranks, four divisions, with flags and banners and horns. Half our number, if that ... Do you see them? They stand ready for battle. We are still knocking the sleep from our eyes yet they are already in battle line...."
The ouragos sighed, settling the lorica of overlapping iron scales on his shoulders, blunt fingertips brushing over his sword, his bow case, the edge of his layered oaken shield. The scutum's painted leather cover was freshly oiled and he hoped it would not crack in the heat of battle. There would be a struggle today.
A deep note sounded in the air, the drone of a bucina in the hands of one of the signalers.
"Squad, face forward!" Colonna tugged the cheek plates of his helmet down and tightened them snug under his chin in one motion. "Ready at the walk!"
All around the centurion, the Roman army was in motion, shaking out into line of battle, men jogging slowly forward in great square blocks. Cavalry thundered past, raising more dust. The horsemen wore long striped robes and chainmail glinted beneath. Thin lances lay across the shoulders of the horses. Within a moment, the Ghassanid auxiliaries were gone, trotting down the slope, angling towards the left.
Colonna looked sideways, seeing the flags of his banda commander rise and fall. He raised a hand and chopped it towards the enemy. "Forward!"
"Lord of the Wasteland, O power that raises the wind and moves the stars in their courses, strength that brings the crop from barren ground, I submit myself to your will. You have spoken from the clear air, and I have listened. Now, our enemy is before us; now our strength will test his. In your hands, I leave victory or defeat. I am your servant, fill me with your desire."
The man bent his seamed forehead to a plain rug laid down on the rocky soil. For a moment he rested there, feeling the peace of early morning. He put from his mind the rising sound of men and horses and metal clattering against metal. He closed his ears to shouted commands and hooves thudding on the ground. In his mind he cradled the silence of the predawn air, when he walked alone among the sleeping men, feeling the wind rising in the east, rushing over the land, fleeing the coming sun.
In a single smooth movement he rose, drawing up the rug with a thick, scarred hand. He blinked, unseeing, and minded only the business of brushing dirt and grass stems from the woven fabric in his hand. When he was done, he smoothed down his beard, ruefully fingering thick tendrils of white creeping among the black. His body still felt young and strong, thick with muscle and hardened by long years of travel on the fringes of the Empire, but his beard was that of an elder, a chieftain....
Fool! he chided himself. You are a chieftain now, a king....
"Lord Mohammed?" The voice was low, but the man smiled at its soft, husky quality and the carrying power hiding within. He turned, raising a bushy eyebrow in question. "Yes, Lady Zoë?"
The young woman matched his gaze, dark brown eyes narrowing in suspicion. For a moment she considered him and he could tell that his good humor had put her on edge. Then she plunged ahead, pushing aside her fear that he was mocking her. "You rise each morning to greet the sun, praying to your god?"
Mohammed nodded, stowing the rug behind the saddle on his flea-bitten gray mare. "I do."
"What do you say?"
Frowning, Mohammed turned and looked around, seeing that a large number of his Tanukh were loitering near, just out of earshot. The men, seeing that he glanced their way, feigned indifference, bending to their tasks. Some were speaking softly with their horses, hands moving slowly on glossy brown necks, or checking over weapons and armor. Nearly all were garbed in long desert robes of white and tan laid over green coats. Some, like the massive Jalal, had wrapped their helmets with twined cloth. They had come a long way from the ragged, hungry band of men fleeing with Mohammed out of dying Palmyra. Strength and purpose were apparent in the surety of their movements, in their quiet voices.
"I say that which is in my heart, Zoë."
The young Palmyrene woman frowned, her patrician nose wrinkling. Unconsciously, she brushed a curling tendril of rich dark hair back from her cheek. Inwardly, Mohammed sighed to see her tuck it back into the folds of cloth cushioning her curving steel helmet. Like his companions, the Sahaba, she was armed with a long, straight cavalry sword and clad in armor of iron rings sewn to a leather backing. Like them, she would fight today, pitting her strength against the enemy.
Such a maiden should not carry anger like a cracked water urn, he thought sadly.
"Does this god hear you?"
"The Lord of the Empty Places hears all things, Zoë. He fills the world."
"Does he ..." Zoë paused, her eyes troubled, lips pressed into a line. "Does he answer?"
Mohammed nodded, his rugged face suddenly lighting from within with a smile. Fine white teeth flashed in the thicket of his dark beard and he saw her relax minutely. "He does, my friend."
Mohammed pressed the flat of his hand against the center of Zoë's chest. The thick iron rings were still a little cold from the night air. "Here, in true silence, you can hear the voice from the clear air. Take a little time each day and listen. If you can still your own thoughts, if you can calm your heart and put your fears aside, you will hear it. It sings, calling like a dove...."
Zoë blushed, her fingers darting towards his hand, then away, falling stiff to her side. Mohammed quelled his smile and took his hand away.
"Come, there will be battle today." He strode up the hill, mindful of the loose black rock covering the slope. Tents waited, just beyond the crest, and a banner fluttered above them, a green field marked by a crescent moon and a sword.
"It is a strong position," Jalal growled. The stocky Tanukh commander had plaited his hair into four long braids, and two of them hung down nearly to the surface of the map table. His knuckles, glassy with scars, rested on the table like the roots of ancient trees.
"It is a trap," the younger man said, lean and fine-boned like a hunting bird, with a deep-hooded robe of rich cloth thrown back from broad shoulders. "Look at the ground! Bounded on one side by cliffs that plunge a hundred feet or more to the bed of the Wadi Ruqqad. On the other, there is a swath of ground so broken and rough that our camels can barely pass, much less these soft-hooved Roman horses. Behind their camp is another ravine crossed by a single bridge. He has put his neck in a noose!"
"All that means, O most noble Lord Khalid, is that we must confront the enemy head-on, across a frontage he has the men to cover, while we do not."
Khalid shook his head in dismay and made a show of rising from his camp chair. He flicked his robes into order and smoothed dark blue silk down over a fine Persian mail shirt. The young man glanced sidelong at the older Tanukh and stifled a smile. "I wonder, Lord Jalal, why it is, if the Roman position is so strong, that we are the ones outside and they are the ones inside. They outnumber us, conservatively, by four to one. They have better arms and armor and far more cavalry. Their heavy horse, these cataphracts, these mounted armored bowmen, are rightly feared throughout the world. Did they not crush the might of the Persian empire just two years ago?"
Jalal bridled at the sneering tone in Khalid's voice and his eyes narrowed. The young commander grinned back at him, silently daring the older man to violence.
The door to the tent parted and Mohammed entered, with Zoë hard on his heels. Jalal stood back from the table, relieved, and made a sharp nod in greeting. "Lord Mohammed, good morning."
Mohammed ignored the tension in the air and looked idly from man to man. Khalid bowed in greeting and reclaimed his seat. Jalal also stepped away from the folding wooden table, taking his place with the other Tanukh on the opposite side. Mohammed marked the way in which the other men — the lieutenants and chieftains and petty kings — arranged themselves into familiar groups by clan and nation.
"Good morning," he said to the assembled men.
The table was covered with tattered papyrus scrolls. Mohammed leaned over the maps, pushing some aside. Luckily, his travels as a caravan master had taken him along the Roman roads tying the Empire together. He had crossed this highland plain before, coming up from the coast and heading for Damascus. Thick fingers smoothed his beard as he considered the sketch maps Khalid's scouts had devised.
"Al'Walid," he said, after a time, "you count the enemy numbers at forty-five thousand."
(Continues...)
Excerpted from The Storm of Heaven by Thomas Harlan, Beth Meacham. Copyright © 2001 Thomas Harlan. Excerpted by permission of Tom Doherty Associates.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.
Table of Contents
Contents
Title Page,Copyright Notice,
Acknowledgments,
THE PORT OF KORINTHOS, 31 B.C.,
THE YARMUK PLATEAU, SOUTHERN SYRIA COELE, 624 A.D.,
THE WASTELAND, EAST OF THE BAY OF NEAPOLIS,
THE TEMPLE OF ASKLEPIOS, BELOW PERGAMON,
THE BUCOLEON PALACE, CONSTANTINOPLE, CAPITAL OF THE EASTERN EMPIRE,
THE INSULA TIBERINA, ROMA MATER,
THE PLAINS OF SCYTHIA, SOMEWHERE EAST OF TANAÏS,
A VILLA OUTSIDE ROME,
AELIA CAPITOLINA, THE ROMAN PROVINCE OF JUDEA,
THEODORA'S LIBRARY, THE PALACE OF THE BUCOLEON, CONSTANTINOPLE,
THE CAPITOLINE HILL, ROMA MATER,
THE SEVERAN PALACE, ROMA MATER,
THE TEMPLE OF ASKLEPIOS, BELOW PERGAMON,
THE GARDENS OF THE BUCOLEON, CONSTANTINOPLE,
THE TOWN OF NARNI, EAST OF ROME ON THE LATIN PLAIN,
CAESAREA MARITIMA, THE COAST OF JUDEA,
THE BATHS OF TRAJAN, ROMA MATER,
A HILL ABOVE THE PLAIN OF SCAMANDER,
THE VILLA OF THE FAUNS, OUTSIDE ROMA,
AELIA CAPITOLINA, ROMAN JUDEA,
SISCIA, MAGNA GOTHICA,
THE PALATINE, ROMA MATER,
THE DISTRICT OF THE CISTERNS, CONSTANTINOPLE,
THE FLAVIAN AMPHITHEATER, ROMA MATER,
THE SEA, OFF OF THE ISLAND OF CYPRUS,
NEAR THE TOWN OF AQUINCUM, PANNONIA INFERIOR,
AN INN, THE NAUMACHA DISTRICT, ROMA MATER,
THE ISLAND OF THIRA, SOMEWHERE IN THE AEGEAN,
THE HIDDEN WAY, AELIA CAPITOLINA,
THE FORUM BOARIUM, ROMA MATER,
THE PALACE OF THE STAG, CONSTANTINOPLE,
THE PITS BENEATH THE FLAVIAN, ROMA MATER,
THE GULF OF FINIKE, OFF THE COAST OF LYCIA,
THE CROWN OF THIRA,
THE WALLS OF AELIA CAPITOLINA,
THE PALATINE HILL, ROMA MATER,
NEAR TYRE ON THE COAST OF PHOENICIA,
CHERSONESOS, A PORT ON THE SEA OF DARKNESS,
THE PALATINE, ROMA MATER,
THE PRACTICE YARD, THE LUDUS MAGNUS,
CAESAREA MARITIMA,
NEAR PELUSIUM, LOWER EGYPT,
THE FLAVIAN, ROMA MATER,
THE DISTRICT OF THE CISTERNS, CONSTANTINOPLE,
OFF SESTUS, THE EUROPEAN SHORE OF THE PROPONTIS,
THE OFFICE OF THE EMPEROR, THE BUCOLEON, CONSTANTINOPLE,
THE FLAVIAN, ROMA MATER,
THE OLD CAMP OF THE XTH LEGION, AQUINCUM, MAGNA GOTHICA,
THE SUB-URBS OF CONSTANTINOPLE,
THE VILLA OF NARSES, OUTSIDE ROMA MATER,
THE PROPONTIS, NORTH OF THE GOLDEN HORN,
THE LUDUS MAGNUS, IN THE DISTRICT SOUTH OF THE FLAVIAN,
PERINTHUS, THE COAST OF THRACE,
THE FIELD OF BLACK BIRDS, MOESIA SUPERIOR,
THE PITS BENEATH THE FLAVIAN,
THE WALL BEFORE CONSTANTINOPLE,
THE VILLA CASTIMONIA, OUTSIDE ROMA,
THE ACROPOLIS OF CONSTANTINOPLE,
THE CIRCUS MAXIMUS, ROMA MATER,
CONSTANTINOPLE,
THE TEMPLE OF VESTA, ROMA MATER,
THE HALL OF THE FAITHFUL GUARD, THE BUCOLEON, CONSTANTINOPLE,
THE CIRCUS MAXIMUS, ROMA MATER,
THE BUCOLEON, CONSTANTINOPLE,
THE PLAIN OF MARS, BEFORE CONSTANTINOPLE,
THE PALATINE, ROMA MATER,
THE ROAD TO PERINTHUS,
THE PALATINE HILL, ROMA MATER,
THE ARAB ENCAMPMENTS BEFORE CONSTANTINOPLE,
NEAR THE CHARISIAN GATE, CONSTANTINOPLE,
THE PALATINE HILL, ROMA MATER,
CONSTANTINOPLE,
PERINTHUS, ON THE THRACIAN COAST,
THE PERSIAN CAMP,
What Has Gone Before,
DRAMATIS PERSONAE,
NOTES ON NOMENCLATURE,
Tor Books by Thomas Harlan,
Author's Note,
Copyright Page,