Thomas Harlan - The Gate of fire

In the few moments he had taken to post his sentries at the dam-gate, Khadames had seen that the massive towers and the broad battlement had been abandoned for many years. Small trees grew in cracks among the mighty stones, and a deep drift of leaves and dirt had accumulated on the valley side of the wall. The four heavy gates themselves-monstrous constructions of oak and iron and steel rivets-were frozen open in their posts. It would be a great task to pry them free and set them to close again.

Too, the road, while canted in the Roman style and marked by stone gutters on either side, was showing signs of wear. The first bridge over the stream had nearly collapsed, forcing Khadames to dismount and carefully walk his horse across it. How the dark Prince had gotten the wagon over was a mystery-but, then, around that creature were many mysteries. Khadames crossed a second bridge, and the road began to climb up out of the valley. The night air was still, hushed, even a little stuffy. It seemed odd, for a strong breeze blew through the tunnel in the gate. Now the road cut up the side of a long slope, marked by great stone pylons on the outer side. In the flickering light of the lantern, Khadames saw that great chains once had hung from rings screwed into the stone. Dry streaks of rust were all that remained of them.

The road turned back upon itself, still climbing, and at the turn, Khadames passed over a broad circle of fitted stones and pavement. Whoever had first occupied this hidden valley and raised these mighty works were well-accomplished stonemasons and builders. Slowly, as he rode up the long road, as it turned upon itself and turned again, he began to feel a bitter chill seep through his clothes. He was warmly dressed, for the mountains of Irak and Tabaristan are unforgiving and prey to terrible storms. This seemed to congeal out of the air around him, cold fingers plucking at his sleeve and creeping around his neck. A sense, too, grew in him of an oppressive weight hanging over him, looming above, hidden in the darkness.

The road ended at a narrow platform, perched at the end of a steep climb. The last length of road was carved from the side of a great cliff, and ended with an outthrust platform of stone. Great pylons rose out of the darkness below to support it, and curled around its lip like titanic fingers. Khadames reined his horse around and peered back, down in the depths of the valley. Far away and below, like the sight of fireflies at night, he saw the lights of the campfires of his men. The cold slid along his back and arms, for he guessed at the distance and knew that-should he look down from this precipice by the light of day-he would near swoon from vertigo. He turned away.

A gate rose out of the darkness, hewn from the flank of the mountain. Forty feet or more across and fifty high it rose, a black mouth straddled by carved figures. A portal closed it with two massive valves of stone. Across their face, signs and symbols were graven into the rock face, line after line of them, swirling around a central figure of the Flame Eternal. At each side, the figures of men surged out of the dark rock, their bodies forming the side of the gate, their arms-outstretched to each other-the lintel. Their faces were still in shadow, far above the poor light of his tiny lantern. At the foot of the gate was a puddle of black silk.

Khadames blanched and felt faint. The Flame stared back at him in the yellow cast of the travel lantern. In this place, even graven in stone, it seemed to leap and burn, shedding a fierce light. His right hand twitched to make the sign of the Lord of Light, but stopped, and he forced it back to his saddle horn. The remembered smell of burning flesh and the agonized screams of men echoed in his memory.

If you love the fire so much, said a dreadful voice, then you shall have it.

The sorcerer did not countenance that his men, his followers, even his generals, embraced the words of the prophets of Ahura-Mazda, he-who-rules-the-Universe-in-Light. Khadames had not opposed him on this, either, not after the slaughter in the temple at Sura. If you rode at the side of the dark man, you rode far from the light of the Beneficent One. The Persian swung down off of his horse, feeling his legs twinge in response. Now that they had reached their goal, his body-so long driven by his will alone-was beginning to rebel, demanding sleep, food, rest, even a bath. Regardless, he walked warily forward to the body slumped at the base of the mammoth gate. A boot of tooled leather jutted from under the flowing robes.

Khadames knelt, and gingerly turned the man over. The sorcerer's head rolled back, bile-yellow eyes staring into nothingness. The once-handsome features seemed slack and lifeless, but breath still hissed between his fine white teeth. Khadames pulled his hand away, feeling moisture on his fingers. He stared at them in puzzlement: They were damp with tears.

– |The Uze, their figures bulky in thick furs and glinting with half-hidden armor, stood as one when Khadames rode back into the camp. Their felt tents, low and round, clustered like toadstools around the bulk of the sorcerer's great yurt. Each night on that long march from Syria, they had raised it, then unfolded their own in barrier around it. Tagai, their broken-toothed leader, moved slowly forward and reached up to take the limp body of the sorcerer from Khadames. His thick arms, corded with muscle and ridged with old scars, took the weight easily. The Persian dismounted, his face grim, and gestured for Tagai to take the body into the tent. The other Uze edged toward him, some glancing over their shoulders at their chieftain.

"Go," Khadames growled in the badly accented Sogdian he shared with the Northern barbarians. "Bring each man in the camp, one at a time, to me in the lord's tent. If a man refuses, say that I command him. If he refuses again, say that the lord wills it. If he still will not come, then cut him down."

An odd fever was upon the Persian. He felt odd-light-headed and dizzy-but he knew that despite his fear he must do his honorable duty to the commander he had sworn to obey. Part of his mind, that which still half remembered the words of the old fire priest in his home village, railed at him to cut the throat of the dark man who now lay on soft cushions in the tent. Those words he pushed away, remembering the bright eyes of another man-one he accounted his true master and friend-General Shahr-Baraz.

I leave him as your support, Khadames, echoed the booming voice of the greatest general Khadames had ever known. He is willful, though, so watch him like a spirited horse! If that braggart and fop Shahin contests your command, he will support you. Watch the "great Prince" cower then! He I entrust to you, and you to him, and this army. Do your duty to the King of Kings, old friend.

Khadames blinked away his own tears. By all accounts, the Royal Boar was dead in the ruin at Kerenos River, laid low with his army by the Roman enemy. Even the King of Kings was dead, his body cut to pieces by the Roman Emperors amid the wreck of his great capital at Ctesiphon on Euphrates. Khadames wondered if the Empire itself still stood, outside this remote ring of mountains. With the royal seat fallen, and the Shahhanshah dead and the armies scattered, there was little left and no one to rule. The general sat down heavily in one of the camp chairs within the great tent. The weariness threatened to pull him down into sleep at any moment.

He stood again, forcing his eyes to open, and moved to the side of the cot where Tagai had laid the sorcerer. Khadames looked upon that drawn and pale countenance-yes, he thought, it is as it was before. He has overreached himself, pitting his will against that vault of stone and the emblem of fire.

The general looked up at Tagai, who squatted on the other side of the cot, a curved blade unsheathed, gleaming, laid over his thighs. Khadames pursed his lips and nodded to the pile of trunks and baggage laid against the felt wall.