Thomas Harlan - The Gate of fire

The fire crept up the wall, filling the air with colored smoke and an odd smell. At the center of the ancient wall, framed by chiseled blocks of fine sandstone, a cube of black rock glittered in the firelight. Its matte black surface yielded neither light nor shadow.

Mohammed snarled, stamping down with all his strength on Sharaf's knee. The Hashim rolled away, but his grip on the saber weakened. Mohammed's blade whiskered, grazing the side of the man's head. Blood spurted, and Sharaf's ear spun away across the floor. The Hashim cried out and clapped one hand over the gaping wound. Sharaf's saber flexed and then sprang out of his hand.

"You will serve her in Hell," snarled Mohammed, slamming his saber down, pinning his son-in-law's neck to the ground. Blood welled up around the tip, thrust squarely through the man's throat. For a moment the youth stared up, eyes wide in horror, feeling his throat filling with blood, and then Mohammed whipped the blade out, sending a spray of ruby droplets across the faces of the gods that loomed over them both. Sharaf jerked, his hands clutching his ruined throat, and then made a bubbling sound as he died.

Mohammed staggered back, anger flowing out of him like the tide rushing away on an Adenite shore. His boots scattered the remains of the burning oil, setting it to lick against the wooden feet of Baal and the other gods. He slumped down against the ancient wall. He felt empty.

Above his head, the black stone was wreathed in smoke.

– |"Ho! The gate!" The first rider in the column pulled up, his horse snorting and stamping its feet. Uri stood, thumbs hooked into the broad ornamented leather belt at his waist, feet apart, at the center of the gate. He squinted up at the man on the horse. There were more like a hundred riders, as motley a collection of brigands, sell-swords, mercenaries, and landless men as Uri had ever seen. To a man they were filthy from a long haul on desert trails; their beards matted and dark with sweat. Their leader, whose sleek black mare was still eager to run, pirouetted his mount in a circle and then back again. He was tall, with a strong olive face and a neatly trimmed black beard. Uri raised an eyebrow-the chieftain of these rascals was young, barely twenty if a day.

"Greetings," the Ben-Sarid chieftain said, showing an empty hand. "The temples are closed today."

"I heard." The young man laughed, grinning like a cat. "I came looking for Mohammed of the Quraysh. I heard he might be hereabouts."

"He might be," Uri allowed, "but I think he is seeing to some family business. Perhaps if you come back on another day… he might speak with you."

The young man swung lightly down from his horse and tossed the reins to one of his fellows.

"I can wait," the young man said, striding to face Uri. "I have come a long way to see him, to bring him news I know he dearly wants to hear. I had not expected to find the city in such an interesting state, though. I am Khalid, son of Al-Walid, of the House of Makhzum. Well met, Uri of the Ben-Sarid."

Uri raised an eyebrow again and tilted his head to one side. The smirking, confident young man before him did seem familiar-but Uri was certain he knew the faces of every Makhzum clansman in the valley. And this rascal-well, he was none of them! "Well met, then, son of the Makhzum, but I do not know you, and Lord Mohammed is busy."

The young man grinned again, and shrugged in a galling way. "I can wait all day-here in the hot sun, if you like-Grandfather. Will you wait with me?"

– |The wooden idol of Baal the Devourer burned merrily, the wood spitting and hissing as pockets of ancient rosin caught fire. Jets of smoke billowed from the cracks in the wood and out of the gaping mouth. The other statues, even the stone or ceramic ones, were burning, too, for a thick layer of dust and paint clung to all of them. Flames roared up, licking at the wooden beams that held up the high ceiling. Smoke, flattened into swirling layers, rose up to be trapped against the roof.

Jalal hunched forward on his hands and knees, trying to keep his head out of the poisonous smoke that curled and eddied above him. The heat from the room beat at him like the mouth of a furnace. Behind him, in the doorway, his fellows shouted in fear and cried out for him to return. He did not.

A statue of Baalshamin, cast long ago in some nameless northern city, suddenly shattered in the heat, spraying smoking fragments of pottery across the room. One sliver slashed across Jalal's forehead, making a stinging cut. Despite this and the chokingly hot air, he swarmed forward around the curved path. There, ahead of him, he saw Mohammed slumped under the ancient wall, his head hanging limply to one side. Despairing, Jalal slithered to his side and dug one arm under the chieftain.

Mohammed's eyes opened, and Jalal paused, seeing some flicker of consciousness. Mohammed's mouth moved, but the roar of the flames drowned out all other sound. The Tanukh shrugged and hoisted his commander upon his shoulders. Mohammed struggled, his arm reaching for the wall, but Jalal ignored him and braced for a run through the flames. The smoke had grown so thick, he could no longer see the door.

– |"Does Mohammed know you?" Uri remained standing in the sun, though the midday heat had grown intense. The rascal in front of him shook his head no, his dark eyes sparkling.

"Ah, but Uncle, I know him! Who better than one who watched him for months as he strove against the might of Persia? Who is closer to a man: his cousin, or a man with whom he has crossed swords? No wife studies a husband as I have studied Lord Mohammed of the Quraysh. No man respects him more than I, who have seen him draw a match against the greatest general in the world. Can you say, holding this gate for him, that you know him better than I?"

Uri snarled, and his hand gripped the hilt of his saber without thinking. The youth shook his head at the movement, raising both hands-empty-to show the Ben-Sarid and the men clustered in the gate. The mercenaries had dismounted and held back a dozen yards or more behind, but they, too, tensed. Uri's eyes flickered over them, but he saw no drawn blade or strung bow. When he looked back at Khalid, the youth bowed to him, as a younger man to his elder.

"I mean no disrespect, Uncle, but I have come a long way to offer my services-mine and my men-to Lord Mohammed of the Al'Quraysh. I knew he would need men skilled in war to follow him, so I gathered those I could and followed him out of the north. My grandmother tells me there has been some blood spilled already-but not all that needs be. I bring him news, too, from the north, from the city of Yathrib, whence we have just come."

Uri nodded slowly and removed his hand from the saber. A hot wind lapped around his ankles. "You were at Palmyra, then? You served the Persian? What did you see?"

Khalid bowed again, pressing his hands together. "I saw a noble city fall, Lord Ben-Sarid," he said. "I saw Lord Mohammed strive against impossible odds-outnumbered five to one or more-and come within a day's breadth of victory. For months the Persians strove against the walls of golden Palmyra, and each day they dreaded the stroke of his blade. At every turn he was waiting for them, matching wit and skill and cunning not only with the great general Shahr-Baraz, he whom men name the Royal Boar, but with the thing-that-walks-like-a-man as well."

"The what?" Uri scowled at the youth. Many stories had circulated among the followers of Mohammed about the siege of the City of Silk, but Uri had discounted the wilder ones-even when they had come from the mouths of Tanukh well into their cups. Dreadful things had happened in the north, but he could not bring himself to believe all of the stories.

"The dark Prince, my lord." Khalid's face turned grim, and his easy smile faded, leaving him looking old and worn. "The one the Persians name Dahak. The Lord of the Ten Serpents. The destroyer of cities."