The Gate of fire ooe-2

by Thomas Harlan

  While he spoke, his clear, strong voice ringing out over the great crowd, Mohammed slowly circled the old house and the black stone. The mare was content to slowly clop in a wide circle between the old house and the ring of the Tanukh. The great silence remained, so much so that Mohammed could hear the faint echo of his voice coming from the marble facings of the old temples at the edge of the square.

  "Some of us who stand here are righteous men and some are not. Those who submit themselves to the way that has been revealed pursue the right path. Those who do wrong-they shall become the fuel of Hell itself."

  As he said this, Mohammed shuddered, the brutal vision of Palmyra dying coming before his eyes. Now his throat was dry, and he swallowed hard, gathering his strength to continue. "If men pursue the straight path the Lord of the Wasteland will vouchsafe them abundant rain, and show them the proof of these words. He who pays no heed to the warning of the Compassionate One shall be sternly punished."

  Mohammed paused and turned the horse. He stood once more before the black stone. He half turned in the saddle, looking back upon the old house with its smoke-blackened stones. "Temples," he shouted, raising his voice to be sure that all could hear. "Temples are built for God's worship; invoke in them no other god besides Him. When God's servants rise to pray to Him, a multitude will press around them. No one can protect you from God, nor can you find any refuge besides Him."

  The mare turned at the nudge of Mohammed's knee, and he rode back to the edge of the crowd. He leaned on the saddle horn and searched the faces of those who pressed close. Some were weeping. Again, he thought of the dead city and the thing that had feasted within its walls. "A scourge is coming. I cannot tell whether the scourge the compassionate and merciful God has promised is imminent, or whether the Lord has set it for a far-off day. He alone has knowledge of what is hidden: His secrets He reveals to no one, save to the prophets He has chosen. He sends down guardians to walk before them and behind them, that He may ascertain if they have, indeed, delivered the messages of the Lord of the Wasteland."

  Mohammed paused, meaning to speak, but his throat closed up. He tried to cough, but could not. A whispering buzz rose in his ears, and he suddenly felt his skin crawl with the invisible touch of thousands of insects. The mare reared, and Mohammed, clawing at his arms, fell heavily to the ground. The buzzing in his ears roared louder, drowning out the cries of his men and the shouting of the crowd. The sky darkened, and he tried to stand. A wind whipped across the square, blowing a wall of dust before it. Grit stung his face and eyes.

  Jalal was shouting, trying to reach his chieftain's side. The wind held him back.

  Mohammed staggered to his feet, standing at the center of the whirlwind. Beyond the rushing wall of air he could see the crowd surging back and forth. Many people had been knocked down and were being trampled. He felt faint, and the roaring sound in his ears was a sharp spike of pain. Enraged at the threat to the people in the plaza, his hand groped at his waist for his sword. It had fallen to the ground, torn from his belt.

  He turned toward the blade, his shoulder against the rush of the wind.

  A blow smashed into his back and threw him to the ground. Something flowed over him, and there was a scent of ancient dust and withered crops in his nostrils. He rolled, feeling the thick, muscular power that pressed against him. The skin of the thing, all unseen, was scaled and cold like a great serpent. A snarl of rage split his face, and Mohammed struggled, trying to pry the coils from his neck. Scales slid across his face, trying to crush his skull. His fingers clawed at it.

  Hot breath washed across his face, stinking like the Pit. Mohammed cried out, feeling the air being crushed from his ribs. The sky cartwheeled above him, spinning, and a gray tunnel closed down his vision. The wind continued to roar, though he could feel his bones crack under the incredible pressure.

  "O Lord of the World," he wept, feeling death close at hand. "Deliver your servant…"

  Mocking laughter hissed in his ears, and then the pressure around his heart became too great.

  – |Maslama was thrown down by the surge of panic. Men crashed into him, trying to flee the blast of wind that howled forth from the whirlwind. Rocks and small stones lashed the crowd, and they surged back. Maslama rolled under the feet of the stampeding people. Someone kicked him in the side of the head and then fell down, pinning him to the rough cobblestones. A roaring sound filled the air. People were screaming and shouting in fear all around. The young man, gritting his teeth against the pain that stabbed in his temple, surged up, trying to stand.

  More men pushed against him, and he fell heavily on one knee. He threw up a mailed arm, fending off the elbows and arms of those running past.

  Suddenly they were all gone. The wind buffeted him, and he bent his head against it. The desert robes shielded him from the worst, though his hands-bare and scraped bloody on the ground-were suddenly touched by a chill.

  He looked up, one hand down to help him raise up, and saw the old stone house limned by crawling blue flame. A darkness covered the sky, and something titanic and foul was struggling at the center of the plaza. The Tanukh had scattered, leaving behind a drift of bodies. The crowd was pressed back against the walls of the temples, trying to force their way to safety. Beneath the coiling, rugose, tentacular limbs was a figure in a dirty white robe and battered armor, struggling on the ground.

  Maslama crawled forward, his heart hammering in his chest.

  Red shuddered at the heart of the thing and sparked across the stones of the plaza. A foul stench rolled off it like the odor from a freshly ruptured corpse. Maslama gagged, retching. Something squirmed across the stones toward him. He struggled to pull the sword from its sheath.

  – |There were words-Maslama knew that he had heard them-but though he felt their shape and color and knew what they meant as they sounded, ringing clear and true and perfect in the air, he could put no name to them. With them, blooming like the sun suddenly breaking through the clouds on a day of heavy rain, came light. A pure white radiance flooded forth, and Maslama, squinting in the glare, could see that at their center was the figure of the man in the dirty robe.

  The thing, the crawling leprous inchoate form that had loomed over the ancient ruin, shuddered and then turned sideways and folded itself up into nothingness. Maslama gaped, his mind shrieking at the impossibility of what it had-dimly-perceived, but then the light touched his face, feather-light, and all horror and pain and suffering was gone. The sword slipped from his fingers and clattered on the ground.

  All across the square the people-almost driven mad with fear and terror at the power that had protruded into their world-stopped. They turned, like flowers tracking the sun, and the light fell across them. Many cried out in joy, or fell to their knees, or fainted.

  Only two men stood unmoved by the power that-briefly-flared into existence before the old house. One turned immediately and walked away into one of the streets of the city. The other raised himself up from the ground and brushed off his cloak. A brace of wain wrights had trampled him in their haste to flee. Outweighing him by five to one, they had won the argument.

  The light faded, curling back into the shape of the man lying on the ground.

  Khalid al'Walid looked about him, seeing the throng standing stunned in the wake of the efflorescence, and he rubbed his smooth-shaven chin.

  "Well," he mused to himself, walking toward the old house and the supine form of the chieftain Mohammed. "This is the truth of the Lord. Let him who will, believe in it, and him who will, deny it."

  High above, the sun moved in its courses in a bright blue sky.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  The House de'Orelio, Rome

  The little blond maid, Betia, moved around the room lighting oil lamps. The lamps were set into brass holders shaped like conch shells and painted a light pinkish white. As each lamp flared to life and then settled into a warm glow, the room shrugged off the night. At the end of the room, a pair of double doors opened onto a balcony
. Below the balcony the secluded garden at the center of the house lay sleeping. On other nights, the ornamental paper lanterns in the trees would have been lit, but not tonight. Betia returned to the head of the long porphyry table that stood at the center of the room and replaced the candle she had used to light the lamps in its archaic-style Greek candelabrum.

  Nikos watched the little Gaul out of the corner of his eye. He was sitting by the window on a chair of painted wicker. The Khazars, despite the presence of couches and chairs, were sitting on the floor in the corner, throwing knucklebones and talking in low voices. Something about the slave had bothered him for some time, but he was just beginning to understand her place and purpose. The girl, who must have been no more than sixteen years old, was in constant attendance upon the Duchess. For all that-for all that he knew that she was an ever-present fixture-the Illyrian had begun to realize it was very difficult to mark her presence. It was more than the casual indifference of a citizen to a slave; that was a habit Nikos had never developed. In his profession it never paid to be unwary or to discount the inoffensive.

  Smiling, Nikos realized the girl was very good. She was quiet and graceful. She did not drop things or bump into the edges of tables. She went barefoot nearly all the time and walked quietly.

  That which does not draw attention is unseen. Thyatis' voice drifted in his memory.

  Betia placed green enameled bowls of shelled nuts and cut fruit on the tabletop and then departed. Nikos watched her go in interest, suddenly seized by the desire to follow her in his own quiet way and see where she went. But there was no time for that, and he put the thought away for a later time.

  She must be, he thought, from the island.

  Rubbing the back of his head, feeling the bumps and knots in his skull and remembering each one and how he had gained it in the service of the Empire and then the Duchess, Nikos wondered if he ever dared broach the matter of the island with his employer. No one had ever talked of it directly, or spoken of it aloud in his presence, but Thyatis had been comfortable enough to mention that she had once been on the island. Nikos was sure, from watching the Duchess and her servants, and the masked women who came and went from the secret entrances of the house, that the island must be the fixture of a mystery cult. Nikos had considered poking about, just to see what he could see. He had not. Some things, he thought, were better left undisturbed.

  The mysteries of women and their ceremonies were one of them. His father had said that. Nikos put great store by his father's wisdom and daily vowed to follow it as soon as he had time.

  The sound of low voices came from the door and Nikos rose, walking to his place by the head of the table. The Duchess entered, her hair bound up in a short waterfall of ringlets. Her arm was entwined with that of the Khazar Prince, Jusuf. Nikos suppressed a grimace at that, for the content expression on his friend's face was hard to dismiss. Anastasia laughed, a low throaty sound, at something the tall, rawboned man was saying.

  With a flourish of her dark blue skirts and the gold-colored gauze drape laid around her smooth white shoulders, the Duchess sat in a wide-armed round-backed chair the girl Betia had pulled out for her. Nikos blinked in surprise as he seated himself and had to bite his tongue to keep from speaking. He had not even noticed the girl, though she must have come into the room in the company of the Duchess.

  Nikos glared at Betia, his brow furrowed. She gazed back, meeting his eyes for the first time.

  They were a liquid blue like the light on northern sea under a cold summer sky. For a moment, he was transfixed, seeing unguessable depths reflecting there. Then she smiled and the corners of her eyes crinkled up as she winked at him. Nikos banged his knee on the table, then winced.

  "Come, my friends," the Duchess said, ignoring the look of pain on Nikos' face. "We have much to discuss." The Khazars got up from the floor, gathering their coins and scooping the bones up into a bag of soft velvet. The mute, Anagathios, joined them, sitting cross-legged at the end of the table, where he could see the lips and faces of his companions. Nikos caught the eye of the Syrian-born actor and smiled. The mute bowed back to him, making a courtly flourish, even when seated.

  "Do not take this amiss, but I fear that we face quite a difficult situation." The tension in the Duchess' voice focused all of Nikos' attention. Even in this muted light he could see that she was drawn and tired. Her gorgeous violet eyes, usually lighted by the fire of her personality, were hooded and distant. The Illyrian sat up straighter in his chair. Anastasia looked around the table, meeting the eyes of her men, nodding to some, smiling at others. "A problem has arisen that involves the Imperial family."

  Anastasia stopped and seemed lost in thought. None of the men spoke. Any matter that involved the Emperor could only be a dangerous and difficult one. After a moment, though, she visibly gathered her strength and resumed. "The youngest Atrean prince, Maxian, has returned from the east. Of itself, this would not be notable, save that he has returned in the company of Persians and others. Some of you know that just over two weeks ago, Jusuf and Nikos led a raid against an abandoned estate in the hills to the east of the city. They were accompanied by almost twenty of the Praetorian Guard."

  The Khazars and others around the table perked up at this. There had been some ferocious rumor attendant upon the failed raid. The men who had come with Nikos from Egypt and the east had been disgusted that they had not received the tap to join in. Now, however, they congratulated themselves on avoiding disaster. Nikos knew that the Duchess-not having served with the Khazars and Armenians in the Persian campaign-did not trust these men. Nikos she trusted as she had trusted Thyatis, and Jusuf had found his own favor in her heart, but the others? She was not sure of them.

  "I had received word that the Prince was attempting some kind of conjuration in that house. It was said that this effort-this sorcery-was directed against his brother, Emperor Galen. Such things are not to be allowed. The raid, for all the blood spilt in the process, was a failure. The Prince escaped, and with him some unknown number of his servants and allies. The house was destroyed, and the praetorians massacred."

  A chuckle ran around the table, though it stilled quickly at the fierce look on the Duchess' face.

  "Nikos, relate what transpired there."

  The Illyrian stood and bowed and hooked his thumbs into his belt. He turned to the assembled men, his face grim. It was not a pleasant tale.

  – |The carnica rattled through the Ostia gate, its high wooden sides swaying as it rolled over the cobblestones of the street. The sun had set, bringing darkness to the city and allowing, at last, the entrance of draymen and wagons into the Imperial capital. Bolts of cloth were carefully piled in the back, bound for a dressmaker's shop on the northern side of the Aventine hill.

  Sprawled on the top of a leather sheet spread over the cloth, a straw hat pulled low on her face, snoring, rode a tall woman with tan legs and tangle of red-gold hair. Her travel cloak, once a dark green, was now a muddy gray. She had pulled her travel bag and the worn leather sheath of her sword onto her chest and had wrapped her arms around them.

  It had rained much of the afternoon as the wagon had lumbered up the long road from Ostia and the port. Despite the clatter of the big wooden wheels on the stone street, Thyatis slept, exhausted from her journey.

  – |The Duchess coughed, covering her mouth with a fine-boned white hand. Nikos had finished telling what they had seen and fought. The Khazars were openly interested-none of them had ever matched wits or sword with a demon before. Anagathios' striking features were filled with worry. He did not like battles. His particular skills were of little use once things had come to blows.

  "My other servants," Anastasia said in an even, controlled voice, "have excavated the house and pulled many bodies from the cellars. The effects of these dead men have been examined. It is all too clear that the Prince-once accounted a friend and welcome guest of this house-has taken to trafficking with the abominable Persian magi and other foul spirits. It is clear he has
summoned, or gained control of, an inhuman thing of unsurpassed ferocity and power. Many of the bodies recovered from the house in the hills show signs of torture and necrothia."

  The Duchess paused, seeing that those seated at the table did not know the term.

  "Necrothia, I have recently learned, is the technical term for the markings apparent upon a body that has been revivified from death by the application of certain powers and rituals."

  She surveyed the men seated at the table and saw that a chill had fallen over the gathering.

  "Yes, the Prince or someone among his party dabbles in the arts of necromancy. He is served by the living dead."

  Nikos was hard pressed to suppress a shudder at this. Even among his usually hardheaded and stoic people the corpse-walkers were a night terror.

  "We do not know if the Prince himself has the strength to undertake these acts, or if he is accompanied by others who do. We know, from two exceptionally reliable sources, that he has lately been in the plain of the Euphrates valley-even as were you-and that he undertook excavations in one or more of the dead cities there. What he may have recovered is unknown, but it may be that the thing that Jusuf and Nikos crossed swords with in the ruined house was the fruit of his labors. We know, too, that he is possessed of a flying creature out of legend-something that can carry him great distances at great speed-this thing that resolute Nikos terms an ignis dracorus or fire-drake."

  Jusuf turned to the Duchess, making a slight bow with his head. "What then, noble lady, will we do?"

  Nikos repressed a bitter laugh. It was clear that the Duchess had scripted parts of the meeting.

  "We must undertake," the Duchess said slowly, "to secure the person of the Prince and return him to Imperial custody. We must attempt to destroy this thing that accompanies him and to capture or kill his servants. We must do so quietly, without arousing undue suspicion on any part."

  "Including the Emperor's?" Nikos flushed, for he had spoken without thinking.