Thomas Harlan - The Gate of fire

"Greetings, honored guests. Be welcome in my house."

The sorcerer's voice filled the air with warm, good humor. He stood, a lithe figure showing boundless energy and will in each step as he descended to the floor. The tribal chieftains, their eyes either suspicious or filled with fear, backed away from him as he came to stand in front of them.

"Please, you are guests here. There is no need for caution or fear."

The sorcerer motioned to one of the servants standing in the shadows. A young, dark-haired woman, dressed in a plain black linen dress, shawl, and modest veil, came forward with a silver platter. In her white hands was a tray bearing a loaf of bread and two golden cups. She knelt at the sorcerer's side, holding the platter up for him. The dark man produced a knife from his sleeve and cut the loaf. "Here is the bread of my house; it is yours."

He offered a piece of the loaf to the nearest chief-a tall, strapping man with a thick black beard and a turban of red and gold. The hill-chief regarded the bread for a moment, then gingerly took it. It was freshly baked and even on the height of the dais, Khadames could smell the sharp tang of yeast and the rich aroma of the new crust. The sorcerer put the rest of the loaf back on the platter and raised the first golden cup. "Here is the salt of my house; it is yours." He sprinkled coarse-grained salt in the upturned palm of the hill-chieftain. Another young woman with hair the color of fresh rust came out of the shadows behind the throne, bearing another goblet. The sorcerer poured wine from the cup on the platter into the new cup and took it himself. The servant bowed to the dark man and took the first cup from the platter and presented it, bowing again, to the hill-chieftain. Demurely, she did not look up, her face remaining hidden behind the veil.

"This is the blood of my house; it is yours. Drink with me, and know that we are guest-friend and there is peace between us."

The sorcerer raised his cup and drank from it. A thin trickle of wine spilled down the side of his chin and he wiped it away with the back of his hand. The hill-chieftain, his dark eyes intent, watched the dark man carefully. The sorcerer took bread and salt from the platter and tasted first the salt, then took a bite of the bread and chewed. He swallowed and turned to the assembled chieftains. "Welcome, friends, to the house of the mountain of the Eagle. Pray, join me."

The hill-chieftain, the wariness a little gone from his face, tasted salt and bread as well, then sipped the cup of wine. Seeing that he had done so, the others followed suit. After they had done this, they sat on the cold stone floor, crossing their legs under them. The sorcerer sat down as well, flipping the dark red robe behind him. He seemed completely at ease among them.

"You are well spoken," said the first hill-chief, his voice gruff. "You claim much, coming to the hidden mountain and making it your home."

"I only claim what is mine," answered the sorcerer in an even voice. The hill-chief raised an eyebrow at this. "I have been away a long time," continued the sorcerer, looking around the circle of chieftains. "But now I dwell here again-in ancient days, your forefathers served me well and swore mighty oaths to come to my banner when I called. By my right, I call you to do the same."

The chiefs looked around at the huge hall and the armored men standing by the side of the dais. Some looked up, seeing that above the throne a mighty flag hung down from the hidden ceiling-twenty feet wide and a hundred high, a dark, rippling surface that bore a wheel of twelve interlocking serpents in crimson upon it. One frowned, staring up at the banner, and tugged at his beard. Khadames guessed that the man was searching his memory for some tale of that flag.

"And who are you, to stand in the hall that Faridoon built and claim it for your own?" The black-bearded hill-chieftain's voice was mocking, and he made to stand up.

The sorcerer raised a hand, and his face subtly darkened in anger. He stood in a smooth motion. "That name has no place here now, Khawaj Ali. The brothers of the fire did not carve this hall from the mountain, or raise the fortress that stands about us. No, they came by it by treachery. They stole it." The sorcerer's voice rose, filling with an echo of thunder, and rattled from the roof. "I built this place! I brought it forth from the mountain. At my command ten thousand slaves raised it. At my command ten thousand slaves made these halls and tunnels. This is my place, this mountain called Damawand." His voice softened, standing still among the chiefs, who seemed ready to bolt. "Have you forgotten me so soon? Are the memories of men so short-once my name was known throughout the world, and nowhere better than these hills…"

While he spoke, the sorcerer had seemed to grow, standing now a head or more above the men who stood at his back. Too, the drums had begun a low, almost soundless beat, and fires had leapt up behind the throne and in the dark recesses at the sides of the hall. In this new light-all ruddy orange and flickering-great statues of stone emerged from darkness, flanking the great pillars and lining the arches of the hall. The first chieftain stood, his feet wide, with a fierce glower on his face. "Name yourself, then, stranger! You summon us but do not give your name. Say who you are, and let us have done with these mysteries!"

The sorcerer turned fully to face the chieftain, and again he seemed to grow. He pulled the wine-red hood over his head, and his eyes, now cast in shadow, gleamed and flickered with an odd yellow light. When he spoke, the floor trembled and a wind rose, making the torches flicker. "You do not know me by sign and deed? Then I will tell you, short-lived man. I am Azi Tohak-he who some men name Dahak. I am the lord of this place, this tower of stone, and lord of all the lands that lie under the sky."

The chieftain blanched and staggered a little. The other men gasped and began to crawl away. They could not escape, for at Khadame's signal, the Uze had crept up behind them and now formed a ring of steel around them. The curved blades in the nomads' hands gleamed red in the light of the fires that now roared up behind the throne. The sorcerer turned and mounted the stairs to his seat of iron. There he sat again, turning his countenance upon the hill-chieftains who now knelt, some whimpering in fear, at the base of the dais.

"Yes, now you remember me, not least from the tales your mothers told you when you were young. Yes, I am a lord of demons, a wizard, and a sorcerer who crosses the night sky on the wings of the great byakhee. I have returned to my place of power, and you will bow before me and swear the same oaths that your ten-times grandfathers swore when first I walked on this earth."

Of all the hill-men, only one remained standing-the first, the one named Khawaj Ali. His face was stern and filled with stubborn anger. Of all the chieftains, only he showed no fear. "This is not your place," he barked. "This is the fortress that Faridoon built! The priests of fire will cast you down again, as they did before. You and your dark master have no place here-"

Laughter cut him short, a bitter mocking laugh from the hooded man. Dahak raised a hand, and figures appeared out of the flame-shot darkness. They were dressed in full lamellar armor of steel bands from head to toe, and their helms were contrived to seem as the faces of horned and terrible demons. The red light washed over them, making them seem insubstantial. They carried long poles over their shoulders and from the poles, suspended by blood-matted beards tied around the shaft, were the heads of many elderly men.

"Here are your priests of fire, those who mouth the platitudes of a dead god," crowed the sorcerer, his hand outstretched. "See how they bow to me?"