Thomas Harlan - The Gate of fire

"Do you have a patron?" It impressed Arad that such a deep sound could come from a man, even a man with a chest as broad as this one's. "Other than the word of that popinjay at the western gate."

"No, noble lord. I have just come to the city from the west and I know no one within these walls."

The captain nodded, and a stubby finger scratched the side of his nose. He made to speak, but there was a sudden shout from within the palace.

Arad leapt back, down the steps, and barely missed having his throat cut by the lightning-quick draw of the Pushtigbhan captain's longsword. His men spun, blades half-drawn, a shout on their lips.

A man staggered through the doorway and fell heavily on the steps. Two more of the Pushtigbhan came through the portal, dusting their hands of him. Unlike those who stood without, these men's faces were bare, showing their curled beards.

"The gracious and merciful Empress Purandokht bids you a good night, my lord Faridoon. Pray, take her mercy and have done-no one here is interested in the ravings of a madman."

Arad rose and straightened his tunic, hearing the sarcasm dripping from the soldiers' words. The man on the ground rose stiffly, brushing back long, wild hair from his face. He was quite old, past fifty, and his face was deeply lined by starvation and the cruel hand of long days spent unsheltered among the elements. His clothes had once been fine and well made, but a seeming eternity upon the open road had worn them down, leaving them patched and mended and ill-used. For all this, there was a fire in his eye as he stood, picking up his cap. His beard was ragged and shot with white, but there was the remnant of a noble bearing.

"Shout all you will at the night," he boomed, for Faridoon's voice was deep, deeper even than the guard-captain's. "Those things that walk in it are not afraid of the cries of children. Rather, my lords, they sup at fear, growing fat in the darkness. I have been to the great temple at Ganzak, not a score of days ago, and there is nothing in that place but dust. Heed me! Do you know what this means for the children of man?"

The Pushtigbhan guard strode down the steps and struck Faridoon on the face. The old man buckled at the blow and fell to his knees. Blood streamed down from a cut on his forehead. The guard stood over him, glowering, his hand raised for another blow.

"The fire that lit the dawn of the world has gone out." Faridoon remained on one knee, his eyes hard as he looked up at the guard. "Beside that one, all other lights are dim. Hope, noble lords, flickers and goes out. Strike me, if you will, but listen. There is little time left to us."

"Bah!" The guard turned on his heel and walked up the steps. The captain of the guard watched the other Pushtigbhan go back inside the palace. He raised an eyebrow and crossed his arms across his chest. The man Faridoon picked himself up again, wincing at the pain in his head. With a last look at the soaring walls of the palace and the lamps of crystal and silver that lighted the doorway, he turned away.

This one, we follow. Dahak inched forward into Arad's consciousness. But carefully…

Arad shrugged and turned away from the palace door. Where his master willed, so he would go.

– |Can this be the one who plagued me so? Arad felt the sorcerer seize control of his limbs, pushing him to break into a trot. They had followed the man Faridoon down into the warren of the lower city, through alleys and dark passages between crumbling brick buildings. Now they paused in shadow, watching their quarry lean against the wall of a doss-house with a weary air. The street was foul with slops and refuse, but a reed taper guttered before the door of the boarding house, giving a wan light. If it is he, he has fallen far in the world.

Despite the apparent satisfaction in those words, the sorcerer was loath to approach the tired old man. Arad waited patiently in the darkness, his tireless body willing to remain until the snows came again. Finally the old man pushed himself away from the wall and dug in the coin purse at his belt. Even in the poor light, Arad could see that only one or two copper coins were yielded up.

"Master Faridoon?" Arad stepped out into the little circle of light. The old man started and raised a hand to ward his face, but then lowered it slowly as he took in the poor robes and sandals of the priest. "Fear not! I am a fellow traveler and I saw the poor way they treated you at the palace. I am Arad."

Faridoon raised a tired eyebrow at the priest's name but made a shallow bow.

"Well met, then, Master Arad. I remember, you were getting out of the way of the guardsmen. What drives you to follow me on this black night?"

Arad leaned on his staff and motioned with his head toward the doss-house. "I am equally poorly provided with coin. It seemed that you might know the way to lodgings that might provide for me as well."

Faridoon laughed and relaxed a little. Arad moved closer and dug in his own purse, pulling forth four copper coins. "You see, here are the sum of my riches. Will this suffice?"

Faridoon nodded, his weather-beaten old face settling into a long familiar grimace. "For tonight, at least, friend Arad. Come, let us dine on the watery gruel they call soup here."

"Master Faridoon? That name is well known to me from the readings of our temple-are you descended from the great hero's line, or is it a name of honor?"

Faridoon turned on the step, his hand on the latch. Great sorrow seemed to pool behind his eyes. "I am the five hundred and fifteenth to bear this glorious name," he said in a sad voice. "But I cannot spring from mountaintop, or break a dragon's back with my bare hands. Time has attenuated that blood in my veins. Now I am only the vessel of strange dreams and portents, without the strength to raise the spear of fire against the darkness." Faridoon stopped the rush of long-pent words with his hand, bowing his head in embarrassment.

Good, Dahak purred, and black strength flowed into Arad's limbs. He stepped forward and placed a hand on the old man's shoulder. "You must rest," Arad said, feeling his voice and the sorcerer's overlay in a gruff echo. "Sleep and put these troubling dreams aside."

Faridoon frowned at the odd tone in the priest's voice and looked up. He was too late, for Arad's grip closed on the old man's throat and his fingers, burning with the hidden venom of the sorcerer's ancient hatred, crushed his larynx. Faridoon struggled, thrashing, his hands clawing at the priest's face. The pain was nothing, only a distant memory. Arad raised the old man from the ground, letting his feet kick fruitlessly. There was a cracking sound, and old Faridoon, the last of his noble and blessed line, went limp.

Ah, this is a day of joy. The sorcerer's voice bubbled with glee and an all encompassing relief. I never dreamed that it would be so easy!

Arad carried the body of the old man into one of the alleyways and laid it gently on the ground. With a short prayer, he folded the man's arms on his chest and closed his eyes. Then he walked away, trying to ignore the voice of the sorcerer chattering in his mind. Arad settled his mind, trying to keep the buzz of questions and conjectures from his conscious thought. He did not mark that the reed taper by the door of the doss-house had gone out.

– |Arad came once more to the door of the palace, though this time the sorcerer had crept forward enough in his consciousness to peer out through the windows of his eyes and mark the formidable barrier of the Pushtigbhan. The same scarred captain was still on watch, though now that a deeper night had fallen, most of the hangers-on in the courtyard had left. Only the two bonfires continued to crackle and blaze, holding back the night a little. Down in the city Arad had acquired a parchment and-at the direction of the sorcerer-had made some marks upon it. Though Arad knew six languages well, he could not ken the meaning of the spiky letters.