Thessalonica

He forgot all about the centaurs. Since the holy name was not aimed against them, it did them no harm. As a man will, George had sent up a great many prayers in his life, some to get this or that, some to avoid that or the other thing. As is God’s will, some were answered, some not. He had never had a prayer answered so spectacularly as this one.

From the walls of Thessalonica--and also, at the same time, from Father Luke on Elatus’ back, among the band of centaurs--shone a dear, white light, dispelling the gloom the clouds that were Perun had cast over the landscape. Having seen the Slavic gods manifest themselves on earth, the shoemaker expected he would also see God the Father, probably in the guise of an angry old man, appear to stand against them. Bishop Eusebius, Father Luke, and every other priest to whom he’d ever listened insisted God was uncircumscribable in that fashion, but, to George, uncircumscribable had been nothing but a big word. Now he began to understand.

In that glorious light, Svarozhits and Svarog all at once seemed pale, attenuated, like men stricken with consumption. Perun drew back his cloak of clouds, as if to protect himself from the divine radiance. Triglav paused, seeming frozen in his tracks.

But neither the gods nor the wizards of the Slavs were to be despised, nor, for that matter, was the Avar priest who led them as Bishop Eusebius led the Christian hierarchs of Thessalonica. The Avar shouted angrily to the wizards. The wizards screamed at their gods. And the gods regained a measure of the strength and purpose they had lost in the first fierce glow of God’s power.

Triglav stumped forward once more, sword held high. Perun unveiled his features, to show his furious face. Lightnings rippled round the edges of his cloud-cloak. Svarog’s solar eye cast a fierce light of its own. Svarozhits swung his axe, and the heavens seemed to tremble as the moon moved.

The Litaean Gate opened. Out rode a horseman, gorgeous in the parade armor of a bygone era. The Roman cavalrymen carved on the arch of pagan Galerius had gear rather like his. But he was no pagan: he glowed with the same light as had given the Slavic gods pause. “St. Demetrius!” George shouted joyfully.

As if naming the saint had given him fresh force, he lowered his lance and rode straight for Triglav. The Slavic god did not give back a step, but swung his savage sword and bellowed harsh defiance from three throats at once. Demetrius’ lance was aimed straight at his broad chest. The hooves of the saint’s horse thundered like--like those of a centaur, George thought. Though he rode one, he had almost forgotten the centaurs, transfixed as he was by the clash of greater powers.

But the centaurs were still very much in the fray. Crotus hurled a fist-sized stone at the Avar wizard’s head. It hit the sorcerer just above his left ear. He crumpled, limp as a sack of barley. The centaurs roared with delight. The Slavic wizards also cried out, in horror. Stones started fading among them--and striking home, too.

All at once, the marshy ground to which the fight had been transferred faded, returning it--and George, and the centaurs, and the wizards--to the lands the shoemaker knew. It was, he thought, at last a good day. Sunshine streamed down from a sky free of Slavic gods. No divine radiance shone forth from Thessalonica’s wall (where George could see Bishop Eusebius’ bright robes) or from Father Luke, but that was a fair trade. George looked around. No sign of St. Demetrius, but no sign of three-headed Triglav, either. That was a fair trade, too.

Now the centaurs were on solid ground once more. Where they had wallowed forward through mud to get close enough to the Avar priest and Slavic wizards to do them any harm, now they could gallop once more. They might have been an avalanche rolling down on the sorcerers. The Slavs fled from the fire, screaming. It did them no good. The centaurs thundered after them (trampling the unconscious Avar underfoot), flinging stones, seizing with hands, kicking out with hooves. From Crotus’ back, George slashed till his arm was sore.

The massacre took bare moments to finish. George looked around to see what the centaurs might do next. With some astonishment, he realized they didn’t have to do anything more. The wizards must have promised the Slavs and Avars that this last push, with their great gods brought forth to back them, would surely let them break into Thessalonica.