Thomas Harlan - The Gate of fire

– |Arrows whistled past Dwyrin's head and one tangled in his cloak. He did not notice, for the bright shuddering spark in his heart had roared to life. This, he rejoiced, is easy! The fire calling had always been a quick summoning for him, not like the complicated battle wards and strategies of the thaumaturges. Each working had some kind of gradient associated with it and those patterns that drew from the glyph of fire were smooth and effortless. He unfolded his hands and let the flames that lapped around him in the hidden world find release.

Nicholas fell hard on the ground, cracking his shoulder against the stones of the road. By a miracle he managed to hold onto Brunhilde and he tried to get up. The nearest bandit ducked around the mare and stabbed at him as he rolled on the ground. One spear caught his side and pinned the edge of his mail shirt into a crevice between two paving stones. He tugged at it, trying to get some leverage, but he had to keep the steel sword between him and the bandit.

The man, his head wrapped in a blue headdress, laughed aloud to see him stuck like a sheep in the pen. He wrenched his spear from between the stones, sunlight flaring off the triangular iron head and the polished faces of the point. Nicholas blanched at the sight, seeing his own death in it.

Flame filled the sky, roaring like the mouth of a furnace a mile tall. A stabbing bolt of shuddering blue enveloped the bandit's head. The man's shriek of horror ended abruptly as the air in his lungs combusted. Nicholas threw up his hand and cried out himself, seeing the man's burnoose char to white ash and his skin shrivel and crisp away from his skull. Still burning furiously, the man toppled over, the iron of the spear point flashing into the air as red-hot globules that spattered on the dust. Nicholas scrabbled away in the dirt, feeling the heat in the sky beat at him. Men were screaming in an odd high-pitched wail all around him. He looked up, squinting into the actinic glare.

Dwyrin was still astride his pony, but the poor creature was trembling from nose to tail, shaking like a reed bank in a high wind. The boy was surrounded by a corona of fire and his mouth was open, shouting words that Nicholas could not hear over the shriek of flame. Bolts of fire winged from the boy's hands, scattering the bandits, shattering rock and stone where they struck. Dozens of the attackers were down, their bodies wrapped in white-hot flame. A few arrows still sliced the air, but most burned away in flight. The legionnaires, showing quite good sense, had thrown themselves to earth after the first sky-ripping blast. The stonemasons had dragged their shields over their heads. The surveyors were huddled under the wagons.

Dry grass on the hillside ignited, sending up a tall column of black smoke. The tamarisk and stunted olive and dry oak in the stream bottom was burning merrily too, clouding the road with drifts of bitter white fog. The last of the bandits fell, struck down by burning motes that flickered through the air to bury themselves in their victims. The men thrashed and sobbed on the ground, then burst into flame and were consumed in an instant.

Dwyrin dropped his hand and the fires died as one, all across the hillside and along the canyon floor.

Nicholas raised his head and peered around, his eyes streaming with tears from the thick smoke. The boy still sat astride his pony, though he swayed a little from side to side. Nicholas spat, trying to clear his throat. He stood, his legs shaking with the blood-fire from his near death and what had come after. Brunhilde trembled in his hand, keening softly in fear. He raised her up, caressing her hilts and smooth worn pommel, then he put her away in the close soft darkness of her sheath. She quieted.

Nicholas looked up the road and saw that it was deserted, though billows of smoke drifted across it like winter fog. Even the sun seemed dim, shining through the gray haze that had risen up over the battlefield. He turned back in time to see Dwyrin slump off of his pony into the waiting arms of Vladimir. The Walach grinned back at Nicholas, and his teeth and face were red with blood.

Nicholas whistled softly to himself and motioned for Vlad to wipe his face clean.

"On, then," he said in a low voice no one could hear. "On to Aelia Capitolina."

– |Another hot dry dusty day ended with the hills of Hierosolyma rising up before them. Nicholas reined his horse to the side of the road and let it rest for a moment, head low, panting in the heat. The city spilled down the sides of the hill in a maze of winding streets and dirty white-and-tan buildings. The old town rose on the summit of one hill, surrounded by ancient-looking walls rising up above newer houses. There was an outer wall for the suburbs and the city flowed over a second pair of hills to finally end in a maze of orchards and gardens. In the fierce sunlight, it seemed to be quiet and peaceful. There was a constant breeze from the east, but the air was still hot. Nicholas sighed in disgust and goosed the horse, urging it back onto the road.

The engineers' wagons rolled past, raising a pall of tacky white limestone dust that clung to everything. Nicholas walked the horse, letting the redii rumble down the highway. Ahead of them, a triumphal arch squatted athwart the road. It was still a hundred yards or more from the nearest building, standing alone in a field of stones. Three arches opened in it, allowing the road to pass through the central one. Nicholas shook his head in disbelief. These Romans tacked an arch on anything in sight. He had not seen one freestanding before. In a moment, Dwyrin and Vladimir rode up, chatting amiably. They fell in beside Nicholas. He smoothed the sharp points of his mustache.

"Seems a peaceful town," he ventured.

Vlad and Dwryin nodded sagely. "Oh yes," they said, "very peaceful and quiet."

Nicholas glared at them and fell silent, wondering what troubles awaited him now. They rode under the arch and he looked up, shaking his head again at the wind eroded statues and inscriptions. Whoever had built it was long gone, swallowed by the gulf of time. Even their monuments were decaying.

– |The city was sleeping-the doors and windows locked up for an afternoon rest during the worst of the heat-and they reached the northern gate of the old city itself before they encountered anyone out and about. Even there, under two crumbling square towers, the gates were standing open and there was no guard posted. A local man hurried past, his head wrapped in a headdress, carrying a lamb with its forelegs tied with hemp twine over his shoulder.

"I'll bet he stole it," whispered Dwyrin to Vladimir as they sat on their horses behind Nicholas.

The centurion turned and gave them both a frigid glare. The engineers had halted their wagons, crowding a half-circle piazza that opened up inside the gate. Sextus stood upon his wagon seat and waved Nicholas forward. The Scandian rode around the line of wagons and past a carved column that rose from the center of the public space. Like the arch outside of town, it was worn down by the elements and many surfaces had been defaced by graffiti.

Marcus was here, read one large carving. Nicholas snorted in amusement. That's original!

"What is it?"

Sextus frowned and pointed forward. At the edge of the piazza two streets plunged into the town. Unlike most Roman cities, the cardo or secondary street was not a broad avenue, but rather a very narrow street snaking off between shuttered shops toward what seemed to be the citadel, which rose on their left. The buildings stood so close that the road quickly disappeared in a dark tunnel made by overhanging roofs. The whole inner town, within these decaying walls, seemed to be built very small.

"There's no way we can get the wagons through there. We'll have to make a camp outside of town."