Thomas Harlan - The Gate of fire

"Among his things is a knife of flint. Find it."

The Uze chieftain grunted and moved away. Khadames peeled back the eyelid of the sorcerer with one callused thumb. The yellow orb flickered weakly, turning away from the light of the oil lantern suspended from the center of the tent.

"You still live, then." He sighed and rubbed his face. His mustache and beard were thick with grime from the long road. "Duty commands, honor obeys." An old saying from his youth.

Tagai returned, gingerly holding a narrow knife of glittering black flint by the hilt. It was an old thing, knapped from a single stone, slightly curved, with a fat haft. Countless strips of pale leather wrapped the hilt, glued together with sweat and old blood. Khadames took the knife firmly, showing no fear to the superstitious clansman. He turned it over in his hand, feeling the weight of it. It was very heavy for its size, and the scalloped facets of the blade gleamed oddly in the light. The Persian looked up and saw fear in the eyes of the Uze.

"Go get the others," grated Khadames, and he adjusted the head of the man lying on the cot, tipping it back a little. He pried the mouth open and pushed a wad of silk into the corner. The sorcerer's breath rasped, uneven and fitful. Tagai slunk away, but Khadames did not notice. He smoothed back the long dark hair, leaving the face exposed, pale and drawn. In another place many might have accounted the sorcerer handsome-he bore a strong nose and high cheekbones, with a noble profile. Khadames did not care; all that mattered to him in this tiny moment in a tent, high in the barren mountains, was the execution of his honor and duty.

The tent door was pushed aside, and men entered. Khadames turned, the corners of his eyes crinkling up as he saw that his detachment commanders had come to see what the trouble was. They were angry already-the Uze were not noted for politeness-and had their hands on sword hilts. Khadames stood up, turning the flint knife into the palm of his hand, its blade lying along his forearm. "Mirza-good. Come here and bare your arm."

The blond Khorasanian, who had served with Khadames and Shahr-Baraz for more than a dozen years in campaigns and battles the length and breadth of the Empire, stepped forward, but his face was closed and suspicious. Khadames stepped aside, showing the man the supine form of the sorcerer.

"Yes," the general said, "he is terribly wounded again-even as after the battle on the Plain of Towers. We must revive him."

"Why?" Mirza's voice was harsh and blunt. He turned to Khadames with cold fury in his eyes. "By the sacrifice of more of our men-by their blood? He has killed us all already."

Khadames nodded, his demeanor calm. "He is a hard taskmaster, and death walks with him like a hunting hound. Do you fear him?"

"Yes," Mirza said, his bristly beard jutting out as he faced his commander. "We would all be well rid of him-enough ruin has come of his work already. We know you are bound to follow him, for you swore to the Boar to stand by him. We follow you-but is there no limit to the demand of your honor?"

"Is there to yours?" Khadames' voice was cold. He straightened his back and his eyes swept over the men, and behind them the Uze, who were crowding at the door of the tent. "We all swore great oaths when we accepted the service of the King of Kings-do you repudiate them now? Do you turn your backs on the honor of your houses?"

"No," Mirza growled, without bothering to look to the outraged faces of his fellows. "And where does that leave us? The great King Chrosoes is dead, and with him his wife and children. He has no heir! Barazis dead, too-damnable Rome casts down the entire world in ruin. We hide in the mountains like beggars, following this storm crow on dark paths. Why not have done with it? Cut his heart out and burn it in the fire of the Lord of Light and we will go forth-back to our homes!"

Khadames shook his head and slowly passed among the men, his steady gaze slowly moving from face to face. The anger in the room dimmed and then quieted. The general turned back to the cot and knelt, turning the face of the sorcerer toward them. He looked up. "Do you remember your oaths? The ones you swore to the House of Sassan before the King of Kings that blustery day in Ctesiphon-victory was ours, the Man of Wood thrown down, and the right, true King raised in his place? They were strong oaths, sworn to the Empire and the man, Chrosoes, who restored it. Do you remember that day? You were there, Mirza, at my side-so were you, Peroz, and you Isfandiar. I remember what I swore that day-have you forgotten?"

"No," Mirza said again, "but I say-what of it? All we swore to uphold is in ruins, dead, buried, cast to the winds-there is nothing left of that house. Only memories that will dim with time, leaving cruel Rome in their place."

"Not so," Khadames said, rising to his feet, his voice filling with strength. "The House of Sassan still lives, hidden and in secret, and will rise again-you and I will make it rise, and be strong. Come here."

Mirza stood, rock solid and still, his thick legs apart. Khadames met his gaze and held it. A long moment passed in complete silence in the tent. Then Mirza shook his head and stepped forward. Khadames bent close, whispering in his ear. Mirza stiffened in surprise, but the general's hand was quick, seizing the man's forearm. The black knife whispered, and blood spilled.

Mirza cried out. Outside the tent, the Uze grinned in the darkness.

– |Khadames sat, again, on the campstool by the narrow bed. Another day had passed, and the sun had fallen behind the fence of the mountains. Darkness filled the valley, and outside the tent the lanterns and evening fires of the little army flickered in the twilight. Tonight the men were roasting goats they had trapped in the higher reaches of the long, narrow canyon that fed the stream. Khadames was beginning to grow concerned that they would have to leave their refuge to search for supplies. At his side the figure of the sorcerer lay still and quiet, as it had done for the past eleven days.

The Persian sighed and scratched a mosquito bite on one ear. The men were beginning to recover some of their strength and would soon grow restless. A tapping sound drew his attention. He looked around, then saw that one of the sorcerer's feet was twitching, banging against the edge of the cot. Khadames leaned over, one hand reaching to check the pulse at the side of the neck.

The sorcerer's eyes opened slowly, blinking in the dim light of the lamps. They seemed unfocused and drifted from side to side. They turned toward Khadames-some flicker of recognition entered them. The yellow pupils blinked again, and awareness crept into the face, drawing intellect with it.

"How long?" the sorcerer croaked. His eyes had focused on Khadames.

"Almost two weeks," said the general, picking up a copper cup from the side of the bed and holding it to the man's papery lips. The sorcerer took a taste of the thin red liquid in the cup and an eyebrow raised, arching like the flight of a raven in the winter sky.

"This has been my milk?" The sorcerer's voice was very weak, lacking all but a memory of its usual subtle power. "You are unexpectedly good to me, faithful Khadames."

Khadames matched the yellow-eyed stare, his face a tight mask. He had done what was needful. "It worked before, so I reasoned that it would work again. How do you feel?"

The sorcerer laughed-a weak human sound.

"Like one on the door of death… but worse than my usual state. I owe you a substantial debt, General. It must have been harsh upon you to put men to death."

Khadames shook his head slowly. "No one died for you, Lord. That is your way, not mine." He pulled back the sleeve of the green linen shirt with thin red stripes he was wearing, exposing his forearm. Along the inside, slashed across his wrist at right angles, was a puckered white scar. It was ugly and jagged, but seemed to have healed cleanly. He turned his arm so that the sorcerer could see. "I strove to save you to abide by oaths sworn to the King of Kings, Wizard. Nothing of them says that I must gut men and offer up their bleeding hearts to the sky to feed your power. You wax strong on the blood of men, so we gave you enough to live. But each man gave only a part, and none so much that they sickened or died."