The Gate of fire ooe-2

by Thomas Harlan

  Cursing, he touched his face and found it raw and sore. His beard came away in his hand, all shriveled and falling to ash. Tears streamed down his face, cutting tracks in the white dust that covered him and every other thing within the valley.

  The sky was dark again, free of the strange blue light.

  Cries rose from the city as men stirred themselves. Jalal shook his head and tore the ruined kaffiyeh from his helmet. The cloth was burned, too.

  "To me," he croaked, finding his throat constricted and dry. "To me, Sahaba!"

  – |The kings of Nabatea had raised a fine temple at the center of their city. It held echoes of the Greeks, with long lines of columns carrying understated capitals and a pitched roof. Unlike the other buildings that crowded the valley floor, however, each course of fine-cut stone was separated from the others by a layer of wooden spacers. Where earthquakes had damaged the other buildings over the centuries, or even cast down the Temple of the Winged Lions in ruin, the great temple stood, serene and intact. It stood at the heart of the city, where three streams joined at the western end of the valley. A hill rose behind it, covered with villas and houses with flat roofs. The buildings that flanked it were raised up in the same red sandstone as the rest of the valley, but inset panels lined the walls, covered with painted carvings. Kings and heroes stared out of the stone, frozen in their moment of triumph. A grand Roman theater also graced the city, but it could not compare with the elegant beauty of the massive temple.

  Mohammed had taken it as his residence while he remained at Petra. The statues had been covered, for the moment, with burlap and the fires of sacrifice put out. An iron chair with a padded cushion served him as a throne, though in no way did he think of himself as a king. All those notables of the city who had survived the slaughter in the High Place knelt before him on the smooth marble floor of the temple.

  The Quraysh scratched his bare chin idly. It itched terribly sometimes, though he was always surprised when he touched his face and found it smooth. The ruin of his beard would take some time to grow back, and he had thought it better-though he was sure that the elders of Mekkah would not approve!-to start afresh than have it grow in unevenly. He looked around, smiling at the discomfiture of many of his men who had suffered the same fate.

  Those forty men who had followed him up the Long Stair and survived were beardless, too, and the other Sahaba had taken in grave jest to refer to them now as "the children." Mohammed knew, despite the gibe, that those who had survived the test on the mountaintop had earned an honored place, both in the hearts of their companions and in the eye of the great and merciful God. Any man who placed himself against the dark powers that infested the earth, sullying the Lord's perfect creation, would find a place in Paradise.

  "This is the law," he said, turning his attention back to the city fathers, still kneeling on the temple floor before his chair. "The Compassionate One does not seek the sacrifice of goods or gold or children. He offers you a choice-to submit to His will and choose the Straight Path and find the joy of Paradise at the end of your days, or to err into sin and find fire and torment. Each man among you, each man in this world, must make this choice for himself. I have placed this city and all your domains under my protection, and while that stands, you will abide by the law. The law will guide you to the Righteous Way, but you must choose to submit to His will or not, as your heart dictates."

  Mohammed gestured to the covered statues and the temple around him.

  "This place, and all others like it, will either be turned to the contemplation of the Great and Merciful God, or it will serve the State. These works of art will be taken away. They do not have a place here, nor does any depiction of a form or shape of God. No sacrifice will be made at the coming of the sun, or at the turning points of the year. Five times in each day, you will bow down before the Merciful and Compassionate One and you will pray, submitting yourself to His will. Beyond these things, you will live and work as you did before."

  The city fathers remained kneeling, their eyes downcast. Mohammed knew that they were filled with confusion. They may have railed against the rule of the Empire when in their cups, but they looked upon him with naked fear. The master that is known must be better than that unknown? It did not matter; he did not intend to tarry here.

  "Sit with me, good men of the city." Mohammed gestured for the guards to bring chairs from the nave of the temple. "There is much to discuss, for I will not be here long. First, there is the matter of the taxation of trade that comes through these lands…"

  Each hour weighed heavy on his heart, for the voice from the clear air remained with him and urged him to all speed.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  Ecbatana, Central Persia

  An oak leaf fell, its shiny green upper surface flashing as it twisted and drifted in the air. Clear evening light, a cool pale blue, fell upon it. The man Arad watched it flutter past his outstretched fingertips. He tried to catch the leaf, bending his will upon his hand to force it to movement. His hand was a dead thing, frozen, stopped in midmotion, half raised in the air. He stood under a crown of old trees, looking over the crest of a ridge. The slope before him was rocky and strewn with small boulders. The ground was almost bare. Goats and sheep from the village had been grazing along the rise. Tonight, the sky would be clear and cold. Even the sunset was muted, finding nothing to catch its golden glow.

  Men's voices came from behind Arad, and he could hear gravel scattering down the slope as they trudged up to where he stood. They came from Lord Dahak's encampment, which sprawled in a confusion of tents and wagons around the village. The sorcerer had finally moved in strength from his mountain fastness, coming down into the highland plains of old Media with nearly twenty thousand men. This time the army was composed mostly of Persians. C'hu-lo had been sent off to the northwest on another errand with his Huns. Had the sorcerer given Arad leave to speak, he would have advised against such a thing. It was not wise to let a T'u-chueh army wander about unescorted. His desire did not matter; Arad stood frozen, trapped by the will of his master.

  Two Persians in felt caps and long black tabards came into his field of view. Each man bore a longsword in an ornamented leather scabbard at his side and a small, round shield slung over his shoulder by a strap. Their beards were cut square in a style made popular by the late King of Kings, Chrosoes, and were thick with ringlets.

  "Come along," the first of the two men said. Arad felt sensation and movement suffuse his body with those words. His master's will withdrew for a moment, leaving an invisible trail of smoky black power in the air. The guardsmen motioned down the slope. Arad complied, turning and picking his way over the stones and raw red gravel. In the poor light, a diffuse gray that made everything seem equally indistinct, whether it was near or far, he took his time. The guardsmen, silent and wary, followed him, each a step behind and aside. At the base of the ridge the trees ended, and a pitiful-looking field of wheat stubble began. As he crossed the field, Arad made a cautious effort with his will.

  Grudgingly, the mage-sight that came with the first opening unfolded. Now he could see the individual stalks of wheat, the crumbled dry clods of earth, the line of tents ahead, the faces of the men standing watch. In recent days, as he had spent a great deal of time in thought walking beside the wagon that carried his master, some disquieting aspects of his condition had impressed themselves upon him.

  Despite the shock of sensation and delight that had accompanied his birth into the service of the sorcerer, he had slowly realized that his native eyesight, taste, and touch were poor in comparison to that enjoyed by living men. Too, there was a grainy feeling that never left him, even with sleep and rest. It seemed that a dirty gray film lay between his mind and all that was around him. He knew, for memory was still etched bright, that the hue of a rose on a marble wall carved with horsemen should be brighter. The taste of fresh water sprung from a mountain stream should be sharper. The touch of a beloved hand should bring a tingling shock. Of all the bindin
gs laid upon him by the sorcerer, he wondered if this was not the cruelest. The pain that came of that, particularly when he allowed himself to think upon the memories of his life before, pierced him. Arad tried to keep the best of those memories bright in his mind, as a bulwark against the constant horror that surrounded him, but it cost so much.

  Bright blue eyes in a pale oval face haunted him.

  The army of Lord Dahak had found a camp among the foothills of Mount Alvand. Snowcapped peaks rose up just to the west, and the village was sheltered in a rich valley that spilled down toward the plain of Ecbatana in the east. They were close enough to the city to reach it in a day of marching, but not so near as to draw unwanted attention. The village was a trim collection of whitewashed brick buildings with canted roofs. Some of the scouts had reported that a ruined palace lay just west of the town, choked with brambles and willow saplings. Some of the Huns who had followed C'hu-lo now ghosted through the pine forests and ravines of the valley, keeping a watch for the sorcerer's enemies.

  Arad entered the camp. Men clustered in front of their tents, eating and talking, hands busy cleaning weapons and armor. They looked up at him as he passed. Nearly all wore the black tabard of their master-a long plain garment of dyed wool with a hole for their head and open on the sides. It was worn belted, with a leather girdle closed by an iron buckle in the shape of a curled serpent that bit at its own tail. The front of the tabard was plain and dark, but upon the back the busy needles of the women of the mountain had stitched a single half-curled red serpent. The camp had an uneasy air, for Lord Dahak had ordered his army into the south without explanation. They had marched down out of the grim mountains without complaint. Even the lack of horses that made most of the men march afoot had not roused a grumbling word.

  A single tall standard, a long trailing flag of black with a wheel emblem upon it, stood at the entrance to the sorcerer's tent. A palisade of iron staves surrounded the pavilion, making a clear space on all sides. There was one gate through the paling, though there was space enough between each stave for a man to pass. Arad knew that no man in the camp had tried, nor would any dare. The iron strakes were carved with thousands of tiny incised glyphs in the spiky cruciform lettering that the sorcerer favored. Arad felt the air tremble as he passed through the gate. It grew chill, but his step did not falter.

  "Ah… our most beloved servant attends us."

  Arad stopped, standing still and quiet, his hands clasped behind his back. This was the will of the figure that lounged in a seat of bone at the center of the tent. Upon leaving the fortress of Damawand, the sorcerer had adopted a regal costume-long black silk pantaloons thrust into the tops of tooled kid-leather boots of dark curdled red. He habitually wore a shirt of fitted iron mail, composed of interlocking metal lozenges, though Arad knew that no blade of steel could kill this thing in the shape of a man. Each link of the mail had been enameled with indigo, and it shimmered in the light of the lanterns like the skin of a snake. Over this armor he wore a voluminous cloak with a peaked hood. The cloth was thick and heavy and it made a dry rustling sound as he walked. It, too, was indigo as pure as the night sky. Despite all this, and the thin circlet of gold that he wore on his high brow, he still remained clean shaven. His pale skin gleamed like a candle against the firmament of his clothing.

  "You see, Khadames, he comes most readily when we summon him. He is the most loyal of all those who follow us."

  Arad remained silent, for no word had been addressed to him. From the corner of his eye he could see that the stocky general remained impassive in the face of Lord Dahak's banter. The general had adopted a stance with his feet apart and his face schooled to a calm impassivity. He had a helm of painted steel, conical and pointed, under one arm. Arad could feel the tension in the older man, radiating like the warmth of a charcoal brazier. Streaks of gray had begun creeping into the general's thick black beard even during the short time that Arad had been awake and aware of him. Khadames' face seemed graven in stone, and he stood like a mountain.

  "Arad, my beloved, come sit with me." Dahak indicated an empty chair close by his side. It was plain and wooden, without cushions or ornamental carvings. Arad did not blink, but stepped to the chair and sat, folding his hands in his lap.

  Dahak turned again to the general, his long thin face suffused with a wicked delight.

  "You see? He is the most dutiful of men."

  Dahak stood, gliding to his feet, letting the long robe fall behind him. He motioned to a man who had been squatting in the shadows by the door of the tent. The sorcerer brooked few servants, but those he maintained were well schooled in remaining invisible until desired. The man who came forth was bald, short, and gnarled, with a twist in his shoulders. His face and arms were marked with many thin scars, each making an odd, shiny ridge on his dark skin. He carried a ceramic bowl covered with a gauze cloth that steamed in the cool air. The man also had a bag slung over his shoulder. Dahak turned his chair of bone so that he could face Arad.

  "Begin!" The sorcerer leaned forward, all attention on the small, twisted man.

  The man placed his bowl on the ground and opened the leather bag, taking out shining, well-honed knives and curved lengths of metal. He removed glass bottles filled with odd-colored liquids and two cloths. A wooden box burnished dark with wear and about nine inches long on a side followed. Arad remained motionless in the chair, staring straight ahead. The will of his master held him tighter than any vise. The twisted man uncorked one of the glass bottles and moistened a cloth with the fluid inside. This done, he rubbed the cloth over the whole of Arad's head, coating it liberally with a clear, gel-like substance. When the man reached Arad's eyes, still open, he raised a razor-thin eyebrow and carefully closed them with his thumb.

  In sudden darkness, Arad could feel the man at his shoulder working. After a moment, there was a rasp of metal, and then the man began carefully shaving the fine down of hair from Arad's neck and face. Arad, by custom long engrained, went clean shaven both on face and head by nature, but this man seemed intent on making sure that not a single hair remained on his pate. The curved shape of a razor wielded with exquisite skill glided over Arad's skin. When this was done, the man moved away and then returned with a warm cloth. With swift, sure movements, the man scrubbed all of the remaining gel from Arad's face, head, and neck. A pause followed, marked by a faint tink and the rattle of razors and knives being carefully put away in the wooden box and the leather bag. Water or some other fluid made a splashing sound.

  The man bent again at Arad's shoulder, and there was a pungent smell in the air. Another cloth moved slowly over Arad's newly shaven scalp and face. This time the man was very careful to work a layer of oil into and across each ridge, bump, hollow, and opening of Arad's visage. The oil lay heavy on his skin, feeling like a close-fitting mask. The man worked his way around to the back, covering the neck and the back of the skull as well. He ended by swabbing the inside of Arad's nostrils with a small, round-ended wooden dowel. The man was clearly immersed in his work, for he had begun to hum a tune under his breath.

  Arad remained patient and still, though in the cell of his mind, he was becoming restless.

  The ceramic bowl rattled a little as the twisted man stooped to pick it up. A cloth was laid on Arad's lap, and his hands moved reflexively to take hold of the bowl as it was placed on his thighs. The twisted man paused-Arad could feel him looking across at the sorcerer-and then continued about his business. Warm steam drifted up around Arad's face, and in the cool air the touch was a blessing. The twisted man moved around to the back of Arad's head, and there was a light touch as a sheet of silk was laid over Arad's skull. The fabric fell down just past his mouth, tickling his chin. The leather bag rustled again, and something larger was taken from it. Heavy wood touched Arad's neck and settled there. Something like a yoke rested on his shoulders, coming up almost to his ears. Metal buckles clinked as they were closed on either side, holding it firm.

  Arad could hear General Khadames s
hift his feet, and there was a hiss of indrawn breath.

  The bowl moved as the twisted man reached into it. In the cell of his mind, Arad suddenly felt a chill as an old memory began to work its way out of the back of his mind. Very long ago, when he had been a small child living with his uncle in the sprawling metropolis of Alexandria, he had seen such a wooden collar. Something hot and tacky touched the back of his head. The twisted man's hands moved strongly, pressing a thick, waxy substance across the back of Arad's head. The man scooped more material out of the bowl, building it up quickly across the nape of the neck and the line of the skull. The substance was very hot and almost liquid. Some of it seeped down, pooling against the wooden yoke before it stiffened and set. Arad's nostrils twitched, and he knew by the smell that it was fine beeswax. The twisted man quickly covered the back half of Arad's head, then pulled the silk drape back away from his face, laying it back over the wax. Then he shifted around to the front, even as the wax was beginning to congeal and shrink against Arad's flesh.

  Wax touched Arad's throat like a hot compress, and his body trembled. In the cell of his mind, Arad remembered what he had seen that long-ago day, and he began to whimper. The man worked swiftly, building up a thick layer of beeswax, pressed close into the flesh, up over Arad's chin, then mouth, then nostrils.

  Arad's eyes flew open, defying the implied will of his master. The twisted man was bent close, his fingers covered with wax, his eyes squinting in concentration. Wax covered Arad's nostrils, being carefully moulded into the cavities and around the nose. Then the cheeks were covered. The wax seemed tremendously hot, and Arad's skin felt like it was being burned away. His whole head was almost encased in hot wax, and the heat was incredible inside the mask.