Thomas Harlan - The Gate of fire

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.