Thomas Harlan - The Gate of fire

"I was with the army in Persia, Centurion. I was at Tauris and Kerenos and Ctesiphon."

Nicholas whistled in appreciation. The boy had seen some action then. Perhaps he had gotten a good draw after all. Not that this job needed it really. "How long have you been in the thaumaturges, MacDonald? Which circle have you attained?"

Dwyrin smiled grimly. He got that question a lot, more so since Zoe and Odenathus had abandoned him at Antioch. "Just about a year, sir. I'm still first circle."

Nicholas raised an eyebrow and shrugged. Back to getting the short stick. Still, an inexperienced hell-caster was better than none, right?

"Sir?"

Nicholas nodded for the boy to go on.

"Where are we going?"

"In a minute, lad. Once we're on the boat and have met the rest of our little crew I'll fill you in."

Ravens flew past overhead, cawing in delight at the warm air. A procession of priests passed them on the raised sidewalk, the voices raised in a chant to the eternal sun. Golden disks were stitched to their long robes, and the lead man carried a solar emblem on a tall pole. Nicholas stepped aside to let them pass, even though it meant that he had to squish through the offal in the middle of the street. Dwyrin hopped after him. The street canted sharply downward, plunging off the hill that held the Hippodrome. A boulevard led down to the harbors on the southwestern side of the city.

Dwyrin was winded by the time they crossed the Racing District and reached the huge brooding gate that opened through the sea walls. A broad road disgorged from the Bovine gate and led down into the controlled chaos of the military harbor. His pack seemed to have become much heavier since he had arrived in the city. His head was still throbbing, too. No more wine for me, he pledged, raising an image of the shrine of Macha in his village before him. Particularly this nasty resinated stuff they serve here. The free-flowing wine, meat, and bread of the Imperial Triumph had left their mark on him. The excellent muscle tone that he had gained under Blanco and Zoe's tutelage and on a thousand miles of Asian road was suffering.

They passed out of the shadow of the towering brick seawalls and walked down a wooden pier broader than the main street of Dwyrin's home village. A forest of ship's masts rose around them, and the air rang with the cry of quartermasters and sailors and the cawing of seagulls. Flocks of the dirty white birds filled the air, casting endlessly moving shadows on the men laboring in the harbor. Nicholas counted piers, finally turning at the sixth one. The wooden quay was choked with piles of crates under nets and rows of barrels. Dwyrin stuck close to the taller man as they wove through the press. Lines of soldiers squatted or sat on the dock, their kit bundled at their feet. Most of them seemed to be Imperials with short-cropped dark hair and proud noses. They watched the two barbarians pass without comment.

Nicholas continued on, past the hulking shapes of troop transports, and finally reached the end of the dock. A low-sided ship with peeling paint, a dingy cabin, and faded markings was moored there. Nicholas bounded up the ramp, the springy wood flexing under his boots. "Ho, the boat!" His voice rolled out over the craft and roused a sailor who was napping under a striped sunshade hung over the stern deck. The man, a dark-skinned fellow with a beard of tightly curled ringlets, opened one eye and waved, his hand languid in the air. Dwyrin took the gangway at a more sedate pace and put down his bags with a hearty sigh. The smell of the sea, sharp with the smell of rotting fish on the shore and cast-up garbage thrown from passing ships, was beginning to cut through the haze in his head.

Nicholas waved to the sailor as he went forward and banged on the door to the fore cabin. There was no answer, so he gave it a kick and it bounced open, making a tremendous rattle. He turned, looking back up the deck. The Hibernian boy was picking up his bags again. "We can leave when you please, Master Tirus!"

Nicholas flashed the sailor a broad smile. Even the feel of a ship at rest, barely shifting in its mooring, made him feel at home. So much better than the grim, tight streets of the city! "Come on, lad, we've much to discuss."

Dwyrin sighed deeply and slung the tent pole on his shoulder again. The centurion's obvious good humor and nervous energy were giving him a new headache.

The fore cabin was little bigger than the cubicle that Dwyrin had been sleeping in, but it had two windows on either side with wooden shutters and four beds. A table folded out from the far wall. Dwyrin ducked under the door lintel and blinked as his eyes adjusted to the dim light. Nicholas had unstrapped the longsword from his back and pushed it into a pile of gear on one of the bunks. The other bunk was occupied, though the man sleeping in it was turned away with a blanket pulled over his head.

"Vlad, time to get up. The reinforcements are here." Nicholas poked the sleeping man with the tip of his boot. There was a grunting sound. Dwyrin dumped his gear on the lower bunk on the side opposite. His head felt better now that they were in out of the sun. The forge hammer that had started to beat in the back of his skull receded somewhat. It was still there, but now it was muted.

The sleeping man grunted again, but threw back the blanket and shifted himself out of the bunk. His shirt was off, and Dwyrin's eyes widened at the thick pelt of hair that covered his chest and back. It was low and napped like the fur of a shorthaired cat, though it covered only part of his arms. The man had a mane of blue-black hair, too. The fellow looked up, and Dwyrin stiffened, seeing the line of his skull and the cast of his eyes.

Nicholas turned, his lips twisted in a wry grin. "Dwyrin, this is… what in Hell's name is that?"

Dwyrin had stood, though his legs were shaking, and his hand-seemingly so slow-had traced a mark in the air. It hung, flickering and green, in the still air of the cabin. The boy's face was taut with fear and his lips moved, though no sound came out. Nicholas felt a humming in his head, a whine that was rapidly rising in tone. In the pile of his baggage, Brunhilde was quivering, her blade echoing the sound with its own vibration. Nicholas felt Vladimir stiffen and stand up. The glyph was beginning to spin on its long axis, tumbling faster and faster in the air.

"Centurion, get behind me." Dwyrin's voice was harsh with worry. "Quickly!"

Nicholas raised his hands and moved forward between the boy and Vladimir. His heart was thudding with the rush of blood-fire. He hoped he could manage to coax a soothing tone out of his throat. "Lad, it's fine-Vladimir is with me; he's in the cohort… He's no danger to us."

Dwyrin flicked his eyes from Vladimir, who was half crouched on the floor, his hands on the decking, for an instant. Nicholas caught them and nodded, trying to put all the meaning he could in the glance.

"Centurion… this creature is not any human soul. It feeds on blood of your kind and mine. Are you sure you want to call it friend?"

Nicholas nodded sharply and dropped his hands. "Yes, lad. I owe Vladimir my life. We are bound to one another by our own debts. Put the… whatever that is… away before it does someone a harm."

Dwyrin shuddered, remembering a time of slow, cruel terror in the hands of just such a creature, but he saw the calm appeal in the centurion's eyes and he broke his concentration. The glyph shimmered, sending a fall of sparks like flower petals to the floor, and then faded away. The humming and the metallic keening in the room faded away as well, though Dwyrin now realized that there were four beings in the room, rather than just three. When the green fire had died, the beast-man named Vladimir breathed a sigh of relief and stood.

"Thank you," said the Walach to Dwyrin, sketching a half bow. "It is not easy for me, either, living among the children of day. But I pledge you that I mean neither you nor Nicholas any harm."