The Gate of fire ooe-2

by Thomas Harlan

  Vladimir hung his head again, burying it in his hands. "Yes," the Northerner said. "I could… I should have, but I have been trying to master myself, to better it by my will. Some few of us, the rashkashutra, can do so. They are our wise men, our war chiefs. They can command it. I thought that I could… it is…" The Northerner paused, groping for the words he wanted. Nicholas felt a change in the air in the room and half turned.

  "It is dangerous to hunt here," whispered a rich voice, redolent of dead flowers and the curling vapor that rises from newly turned earth, "without my leave."

  Nicholas froze, hearing the scrape of the door closing. There was a presence behind him, something cold and old and very angry. Under his hand, Brunhilde quivered, sending up a faint almost imperceptible keening sound. By sheer will, he mastered the gibbering fear that the voice engendered and he turned, rising, the blade in his hand.

  There was a woman at the threshold of the room, with a face like the moon in clear water. He met her eyes-a blue so clear, it was almost white-and felt the blow of her will. He stepped back, between the woman and Vladimir, and Brunhilde was singing in his hand. Pale light gleamed along the spine of the dwarf-steel blade. The woman stepped forward from the door, her thin white hand on a staff of bone as tall as a Varangian. Her bracelets made a soft clinking sound. Nicholas did not move, though he felt Vladimir's fear at his back like the heat from a fire.

  "What a sight," she said, low voice purring, "the a'ha-tri'tsu child defends the murderer, the one who has taken a day-walker woman without my leave. Stand aside, O man, and let my justice take him."

  "No," Nicholas grated between clenched teeth. Fear ran riot in him, the sight of those white eyes triggering a heedless desire to run. Only the shudder of Brunhilde in his fist made him stand his ground. "He is my friend, and I owe him my life. You cannot have him."

  "I cannot?" The woman circled to the right, her dark red hair spilling over her shoulder like a wave of drying blood. Her cloak shifted as she moved, showing deep green glints in the fabric that he had first thought black as night. Her hair was bound back by thin silver wires, and the gleam of ruby shone at her neck. "You should welcome me and my justice. The k'shapacara are not well known for their mercy toward the children of the day."

  "He did not hunt in your domain," Nicholas said, thinking furiously, "save in extremity."

  "Cannot he speak for himself?" The woman edged closer, and Nicholas felt the wash of fear at his ankles, rising like a cold chill tide. "Why does he hide behind you, O man?"

  "I can speak for myself," a quavering voice came over Nicholas' shoulder. "I beg your indulgence, bidalak'sha-virazh'oi-the pain was upon me! Please, I did not mean to trespass."

  The woman stopped and smiled, her fine white teeth gleaming in the candlelight. Then she laughed, a sweet sound like the chime of silver bells. Nicholas felt a pain in his bones at the sound and memory stirred in his heart. An odd longing came upon him, but he pushed it away.

  "You are a polite creature," she said. "It has been a long time since one of the dushkula spoke so to me. Indeed, I am flattered. But you know the law. You may not feed, even among the least of the a'ha-tri'tsu, without my leave. Death is the price of your weakness."

  "No," Nicholas quietly said, his jaw clenched. "Not without passing me. This man was driven to break your law by hunger, but he is still my friend, and I will not let you take him."

  The woman drew back, seemingly growing in stature, her presence filling the room. "You put great trust in that sliver of iron, day-walker. Do you not believe that I can put forth strength enough to overcome you? Do you not believe that I may summon my pack to me, and they will rend you with tooth and claw?"

  "There is no need of that, noble lady. I will vouch for his parole-let me take him away from this place, from your city. He will trouble you no more."

  Nicholas felt Vlad tense, gathering his legs under him. The woman's eyes met his, and Nicholas felt the world spin around him, the room growing faint and distant. Pools of blue-white opened before him, and he felt the feather touch of a power on his soul. Brunhilde keened sharply, but her warning and anger seemed very far away.

  "Ah…" The woman sighed in surprise, and her staff made a tapping sound on the brick floor as she turned. "You have your parole, day-walker child. But do not waste it, for even in age, my patience is short." Then she was gone, a dark blur, and the door swung slowly closed.

  Nicholas shuddered, feeling his muscles relax and tension flood from him. He stepped to the door and pushed it tight. The bar had moved aside, and he replaced it, sliding it firmly home, with a bleak face. When he turned around, he found Vladimir curled into a ball on the narrow cot. "Are you all right?" he asked, though his voice seemed very distant.

  Vladimir whimpered, though at the sound of Nicholas' voice, he slowly uncurled, looking this way and that, sniffing the air. "The Surapa Queen is gone?" Vladimir's voice was shaky.

  "Yes," Nicholas said, sitting heavily on his bed. "For now."

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Near the Town of Ganzak, Northern Persia

  T'u-chueh banners snapped sharply in the cold wind, whipping out from standards thrust into the ashy ground. The man, Arad, stood on the edge of a terraced hill, staring across the shallow valley. It was night, and the moon was riding low on the horizon, barely above the mountains. The man now possessed clothes given from the hand of his master; a tunic of black wool with a short cloak and a hood. His feet remained bare, though the night was quite cold. Some fraction of his power clung to him, keeping him warm.

  In the chill darkness, he could hear the mutter of men and the rattle of horse tackle, and the clink of metal on metal. Lord Dahak had come to look upon the stronghold of his enemies, but he did so cautiously. A dozen paces behind Arad, the sorcerer stood on the summit of the hill, in quiet conversation with the barbarian chieftain, C'hu-lo, and the Persian officers. Arad ignored them, treasuring this small moment of peace and solitude, feeling the wind brush over his skin. It was a little place of privacy, and he clung to it with all his will.

  In the valley below, men were sleeping, exhausted from a hard day of labor. On the opposite slope, under the eaves of a high ridge and beetle-browed granite cliffs, the ruins of a huge building climbed up from the bottomland. Once it had boasted long pitched roofs and hundreds of columns of painted marble. In the fading light of the day, when Arad had first come to the hill, the remains of a massive staircase could be made out. Now everything was covered by the mantle of night. Still, Arad could see in the dark-another remnant of self-willed power-and the extent of the burned-out, shattered building was impressive. The men who slept in the valley below, men who labored in daytime under the aegis of a double-peacock banner-the senmuru-were striving to clear the rubble and restore some portions of the building to use.

  Arad let his sight settle into the second opening and reveal the clusters of firefly lights and swirling patterns that marked the encampment below-the subdued red glow of men sleeping, the friendly brassy fire of horses and mules dozing in their corrals, the flickering yellow of waking men on patrol and watch. Even the lambent purple fire of wizards or priests in the big tents. A corner of his mind felt the numbers of points resolve into a discrete symbol in his mind-there were just over four thousand workers in the camp below, and some three thousand soldiers, priests, and engineers. Or so the corner of his mind, busy in its purposeless way, had concluded. Arad blinked, letting the gossamer veil of invisible fire fall away from his sight.

  Cool darkness flooded in, for now even the moon had slunk away behind the hills in the west.

  "Beloved servant," a cruel voice came on the wind, "attend me."

  Helpless once his master's thought had touched his mind, Arad turned and climbed over the tumbled stones and low-growing gorse bushes to the summit of the hill. In the darkness, he could feel the lord standing, leaning against a slab of granite, a burning black point of infinite cold. The Persian captains and the barbarians seemed half shadows alr
eady, their essential spirit already dimmed and clouded by the presence of Lord Dahak.

  "Good Arad," Dahak purred, his eyes glittering yellow in the darkness, "you have looked upon the valley, seen the men who toil in the service of my enemies, seen the great house they seek to put aright?"

  "I have, lord." Arad's voice was a little slurred. He was still remembering how to speak this tongue of the Eastern men. "There are many in their encampment-many soldiers-many strong priests."

  "Yes," Dahak said, his long head nodding in the darkness. "For all their faults, the peacocks that nest on the throne of my father have some small sense of the importance of such a place. Thus, we must take steps to see they do not have their way with us."

  "What is this place?" Arad's voice was calm and without inflection. Though rage and hatred and shame might etch his soul like acid, expression was denied him. "What happened here?"

  "Good friends," Lord Dahak laughed, "came here and smashed it down. They doused the fire that had once burned here, lighting all the world. Though they knew it not, they gave me the most precious gift. There is no limit to the love I feel for them. But now, as these peacocks strut and preen, defying me, I must complete the work."

  Dahak paused, soft laughter echoing. Arad felt that black joy beat against him like a wave. The lord was filled with secret amusement and ached to tell of it. Discipline held in the creature, and his thought again turned to the matter at hand.

  "Loyal Khadames-you and your captains I have brought here to observe and watch. No finger will you lift against the nindingir in the valley below. This is work for our good friends from the east. Noble C'hu-lo, have you looked upon the land? Have you seen the position of your enemies?"

  The T'u-chueh stirred in the darkness. Unlike the Persians, who fidgeted and spoke softly among themselves, thinking that the mantle of darkness made them invisible, he had sat quietly in the shadow of the slab of granite, keeping-even now, after nightfall-his head and body below the crest of the hill. Now he stood and leaned against the rock, the shape of Lord Dahak between him and the priests in the valley.

  "I have seen them, Lord Dahak. They have taken some precautions, though not many. They think themselves in a safe land, free of enemies. What would you have us do?"

  Dahak shifted, and Arad felt the lord turn his attention to the camp.

  "Ah, we must fall upon them, these mobehedan and their servants. We must scatter the workers, tear down their equipment, murder the priests in their beds, kill the soldiers. This work will stop tonight. By morning, only crows must remain, feasting on the flesh of the dead."

  There was a hiss of indrawn breath and the metallic rustle of one of the Persians making some movement. Arad felt Dahak turn, and the sorcerer's voice was soft in the dark.

  "I did not bring your men, noble Khadames, because they are not ready for what must be done tonight. But these T'u-chueh-they are hardened fellows, used to the smell of innocent blood. I brought you and your captains so that you would know what will be required of you and your army in the future. That place"-Arad knew that the sorcerer pointed across the valley-"is the last vestige of a dead faith. An empty shell that Rome cracked open, revealing its bankrupt heart. Rome quenched the fire that burned in that place, but it was down to the last dregs of its fuel. Tonight, we will complete what Rome began. Tonight a new faith will be born, one that will make Persia strong again. You will see and you will believe."

  After a moment, C'hu-lo broke the difficult silence that had descended upon the hilltop. "In darkness it will be difficult to make sure that none of them escape."

  "That is not necessary," Dahak allowed, gathering up a long staff of iron. "The peasants may flee into the hills. It is the priests I want-the mobads and their temple guardsmen. Come, the night is waning. Take your men, C'hu-lo, and come up the stream, against the wind. I will be close by. You need not worry about their priests."

  The staff made a faint ringing sound on the rocks as the sorcerer moved away down the slope. Arad followed, feeling the thought and desire of his master. C'hu-lo had already disappeared down the hill in the other direction.

  On the hilltop, the Persian dihquans huddled in the shelter of the stone, feeling the night grow colder.

  – |"Stop," Dahak whispered, his hand on Arad's shoulder. The man had followed the sorcerer down the hill and into a dense thicket of bramble and lilac. Lord Dahak had passed through like a ghost, Arad at his side. Now they had reached the jumbled boulders at the edge of the stream that ran along the base of the hills. The fires of the encampment were very close, just beyond the water.

  "You are strong," the sorcerer hissed as he climbed onto Arad's broad shoulders. The man staggered a little, but then the hard muscle of his legs took over and he regained his balance. The flesh of the sorcerer was like ice against Arad's neck and arms. "Cross, beloved servant." Dahak's voice was filled with cruel laughter again. The man eased out into the water, feeling the gravel and stones of the streambed shift under his feet. The rocks were slippery and the water rushed past, chilling his legs.

  Despite this, Arad reached the far shore without incident, though his muscles were burning with exertion when he clambered up the bank on the far side.

  When Arad's feet were on dry ground again, Dahak alighted, twitching the hem of his long dark cloak to dry it. The sorcerer raised his head, sniffing the air. Arad could smell pine smoke and the hearty aroma of lamb stew and brewing tea.

  "Attend me," the sorcerer said in a low voice. "Soon the Huns will attack, sprinting up out of the darkness to the south. When they do, the mobehedan, who lie not far away, will rise up, filled with furious anger. Then, my beloved Arad, you will go among them, wielding the lightning. I will watch over you, for I prize you above all other possessions."

  The man did not move, waiting for his master's will to send him forth. Dahak waited, a shadow wrapped in shadow. The night passed over them, and Arad heard an owl as it ghosted past on the wind.

  – |Arad measured the passing of an hour by the beats of his own heart and then another.

  When the fire came, blossoming in the center of the camp, he moved. Grass and small stones blurred under his feet as he ran. A rough fence marked the border of the encampment-no more than wooden poles staked in the ground, supporting a barrier of twisted brush. Without thinking, he sprang up and flew over the fence, landing lightly on the ground within. Behind him, in the thicket of scrawny trees, he could feel the cold shadow of Lord Dahak watching. Shouting and screams rose up, then a confused babble as the Persians scrambled out of their tents. The fire climbed into the sky, lighting the trees with a ruddy orange glow.

  Arad felt the chains and coils that bound his mind slip and he paused, standing in the shadow of a large tent, and settled his breathing. The first and second entrances unfolded before him, yielding up visions of infinite spaces hiding within the crushed stems of grass inside the compound. Men ran past, ignoring him in the confusion. Despite the fire and the screams, it seemed that the Huns had not yet attacked the camp. Soldiers jogged by, holding torches aloft and shouting at the workers to return to their beds. The peasants, staring forth from their ragged shanties of canvas and brush, watched with wide eyes.

  Boom! A jarring sound rippled through the air. Arad's head rose, pointing like a hunting dog toward the west. Blue-white light flickered among the tents, then there was a ripping sound like a sail shredding in a high wind. The man could feel the power unleashed there like a rush of hot wind in the invisible air. More soldiers ran past, heading toward the flare of light. Arad, unnoticed, slipped in among them, running alongside.

  At the center of the camp was a cleared space, now thronged with hundreds of workers milling about. The soldiers were struggling with them, trying to restore order. Two great bonfires had been lit, casting a shifting orange light upon the mobs of men who pushed this way and that. At the edge of the crude plaza, Arad turned aside and slipped along the line of tents that faced the bonfires. He could feel something in the air, an obscu
re tension. As he moved from shadow to shadow, the man realized that the cold presence of the sorcerer had not left him. Suddenly aware, he knew that Lord Dahak was riding behind his eyes, seeing all that he saw, hearing all that he heard.

  Horns suddenly sounded, away across the tents to the south, and a shrill keening sound cut the air. Arad crouched down in the lee of a wagon he was passing, pressing himself close to the rough wood of the wheel. The air hummed, and suddenly a long black arrow was shuddering in the earth within inches of his hand.

  C'hu-lo's umen-nearly seven thousand archers on horseback and on foot-had finally attacked.

  The arrow storm whispered down out of the night sky, plunging at a steep angle into the crowded center of the camp. Among the triple-edged shafts, whistling arrows fell as well. Their cunningly worked heads, carved during the long steppe winter, raised a shrieking sound as they flew. Arad felt panic bubble up in the minds and hearts of the men in the camp like water rushing up a dry well. Fire-arrows fell as well, and the cloth tents burst into ready flame. Men fell, transfixed by the arrows that crowded out of the sky. The Persian soldiers lost control of the mob, and it stampeded away to the north, trying to flee the invisible death.

  Arad crawled under the sheltering bed of the wagon and lay down under the axle. Even with a good six inches of stout lumber above him, he did not feel safe. An armor-piercing shaft tore through the wood a foot from his head, making a high screech. The arrowhead ground to a halt inches from the ground. Men stampeded past, and one staggered, crying out, at the end of the wagon.

  The body fell, twitching to the ground. An arrow had punched into the top of the man's clavicle and torn through his spine and out his lower back. Already dead, the corpse shuddered on the ground, and Arad's nostrils flattened as the stench of death flooded the air.