Thomas Harlan - The Gate of fire

The faces of the people in the crowd were confused or angry. It was hot in the noonday sun, and little wind made its way into the pillared courtyards of the temples. He caught Jalal's eye, and the burly mercenary shook his head minutely.

"I will show you the voice of the god who made the world!" Mohammed spun, drawing his saber in one quick movement, and it flashed in the midday sun as he clubbed the nearest priest on the side of the head with the pommel. The man's skull made a sharp cracking sound and he fell away, his arms and legs tangling with his fellows. The Tanukh gave a great shout and leapt up the stairs. The priests cried out and cowered away from the glittering blades. Some fell down the steps. Mohammed, sneering, pushed through them to the doors themselves. He put his shoulder to the right panel, feeling the heat of the sun-warmed metal burning through the cloth of his robes.

The door opened, slowly, creaking on ancient hinges. The close smell of incense and smoke and sweat flooded out. Mohammed stepped inside, his saber nosing forward to test the passage.

– |Around the cobblestoned square a great cluster of temples had grown up over the years. Domes and minarets sprouted from the decaying brick and stone buildings. Narrow passages wound between the temples of great gods and small, opening into unexpected courtyards and upon wilting gardens. Dim passages echoed with the chanting of priests and the stink of incense. All of Zam-Zam lay in a great bowl that had once housed a spring of medicinal repute. Now stone and brick buried the spring and the waters had been driven deep underground. Dozens of wells had tapped it dry, and only a bare trickle could be had. With the flight of water, the gardens had withered. At the northern end of the maze of whitewashed plaster, facing the city walls of Mekkah some miles away, a great vaulted gate stood.

In the shadow under the gate, a man sat, his lean, dark face creased by a little smile. He smoothed the fine hairs of his beard down and cut an orange in half with his saddle knife. Some of his men, marked by their white-and-blue turban braid, squatted in the shade as well. Some bore wounds from the fighting in Mekkah, but all were alert in the lazy way of hunting cats. Though the gate of the temple precinct stood open, these men held the way closed.

Uri Ben-Sarid looked up, hearing the rattle of hooves on stone, and in the barren upland that lay between the city and the temple he saw men approaching on horseback. Bone-white dust plumed behind them as they came, rising slowly in the still air. Ben-Sarid pushed away from the stone bench and stretched his arms. He yawned and then bit into the orange half. Juice dribbled at the edge of his mouth, and he wiped it clean with the sleeve of his robe. His men, watching with slitted eyes, had seen the dust as well, but they did not get up. Ben-Sarid nodded to one of them, and the tribesman slowly rose and walked off into the twisting passage that led into the city of the priests.

The riders came closer, coming at a good pace. Ben-Sarid stood at the gate, just within the shade cast by the great vault. There were more than a dozen men coming, maybe as many as fifty. He shrugged his tan-and-white robe off one shoulder, freeing his right arm and the polished horn hilt of his saber. Silver and ruby winked at the cross-guard. Behind him, there was a rustling as his men finally stood, and a light clatter of metal on metal as they drew their weapons. Those men who bore shields shrugged them into place.

– |Mohammed pushed aside a hanging drape, letting the thousands of tiny onyx beads flow over his arm like a snakeskin. Beyond it, a room opened up. This was the center of the great square building-this room without windows, pierced only by one narrow door-filled to overflowing with thousands of statuettes, idols, graven images, and painted icons. The air was thick, filled with the sweet, waxy smell of hundreds of candles that flickered around the circumference of the chamber. Narrow pathways wound between the looming shapes of great gods and small. On any day but this, a slow procession of penitents and priests would clog the corridor behind and spill into this room, making a slow circuit through it.

But today it was quiet and empty. Mohammed drifted into the room, his saber sliding through the gloom in front of him. Candlelight glittered in its steel depth, and Mohammed moved as quietly as he could. After a moment of listening, he moved to the right, following the twisting path around the tightly packed cluster of statues that stood at the center of the room. As he edged deeper into the room, the beaded curtain shifted a little, tinkling in an invisible breeze.

Behind the statues, the room was darker and Mohammed slowed, letting his eyes adjust to the light. There, at the back of the room, the walls took an unexpected turn. Old stones, still showing the marks of wind and sun, jutted out of the brickwork at an odd angle. A space had been cleared before this ancient remnant, and many small shoe-shaped oil lamps gleamed at its foot. Mohammed felt his heart lighten, seeing that the oldest shrine in this whole dilapidated place still received some small veneration. He bowed his head, feeling memories of his father curling up in his thought.

A candlestick rattled, brushed by the hem of a robe.

Mohammed dodged aside, his boots scattering the little oil lamps. A cold breeze followed the passage of a blade. The assailant, garbed in dark colors with only his eyes showing in the turban wrapped tight around his face, faded back into the gloom. Mohammed grinned, his white teeth catching the candlelight. "Well met, my son!" Mohammed's voice was eager, and thoughts of his father were lost. "Are you mourning, hiding here in shadows with the priests? Do their soft words wash away your blood-guilt?"

Fire sprang up from the spilled oil, lighting the room with dancing shadows. The Bani Hashim Princeling was revealed. Mohammed circled to the right, his saber drifting in the air before him. Sharaf matched him, his saber-clean and shining with oil-almost touching the Quraysh chieftain's. There was little space to move here among the statues, but Mohammed was certain that his bitter anger would carry him through. "Have you wept, boy, knowing that you murdered your wife?"

Sharaf attacked, his blade flickering high and fast. Mohammed parried and parried again, testing his strength against the younger man's arm. The Bani Hashim took a step back, and the echoes of steel on steel faded slowly among the thousands of gods that looked down upon them. Below the ancient wall a pool of oil burned brightly, melting the candles that encrusted the walls. Old colors began to run as the wax melted and the empty eyes of the idols filled with leaping shadow.

"Have you told your sons that their mother is dead by your hand?"

Mohammed leapt forward, his saber lashing out in a blur of cuts. Sharaf barely recovered in time, crashing back into the shape of the god Baal that crouched behind him. The Hashim was quick with youth, though, and Mohammed's blade rang off stone. His riposte cut the air below Mohammed's knees, but the chieftain had sprung up, avoiding the blow. Now there was an exchange at close quarters, blade ringing on blade, in a quick succession of cuts and slashes. Mohammed turned sideways, then chopped down hard, catching the edge of Sharaf's blade, driving the tip into the crumbling brick of the floor. It stuck for a moment, and the older man slammed his shoulder into Sharaf's chest.

The Hashim grunted in pain, and Mohammed jerked his blade back, catching the younger man's chin with his elbow. There was a dull, cracking sound, and Sharaf toppled backward. Mohammed spun, slashing down, and only raw instinct got the hilt of Sharaf's saber up in time to catch the blow. Mohammed's blade ground down, squeaking, against the hilt. The Hashim squirmed on the ground, trying to get leverage to rise.