Thomas Harlan - The Gate of fire

The praetorians clattered off down the hallway, their swords and spears bright in the lantern light. Nikos looked over at Jusuf, who had unslung his bow and had a long dark arrow fitted to the notch. Here, in the darkness, with unknown enemies about, with some undefined conspiracy against the Emperor afoot, the Illyrian wished devoutly for the presence of his old commander, Amazon Thyatis. She never had a queasy stomach on an operation like this. Enough moping, he snarled to himself. He moved forward through the dark house, Jusuf ready at his back with a strung arrow.

Here, in the dim confines of the house, the storm was muted. Trickles of water spilled down out of the ceiling.

– |Maxian fell through clouds boiling with fire. Black flames licked at his spirit form, sending agonizing jolts of pain through his mind. He fell through night sky, curled around the cloak of the Emperor, and was in the buried chamber again. The standing ring of power continued to howl and buzz, rushing around the triangle formed by the three men. Maxian settled again within his body, all concentration focused upon the shifting pattern of forms that he had stolen from his brother. He launched into the next phase of the incantation, all effort at last collapsing upon this one single thing.

At the side of the room, Krista covered her head, flinching aside as rock flakes spalled down out of the ceiling. The house above shuddered like a dying thing, shaking with each new peal of thunder. A fine rain of dirt and rock fell from the roof of the buried chamber. She had already pulled her cloak over her hair, and crouched at the join between the wall and the floor. The chanting of the Persians and the Nabateans had begun to waver as stone chips pattered down around them. An ominous groaning sound had begun to make itself heard as well, and Krista felt the wall at her back tremble.

Fire rippled in the unseen world, brilliant shapes invoked by the mind of the Prince hovering around the shape of the first Emperor. He felt a gradient growing as he rushed through the invocation; each moment cost him more and more as he bound the shape of the Imperial duty to the corpse. Greedily, the action drew more and more from the old man, the Persian, and the golden youth. Still, Maxian rushed on, heedless, his thought and will stitching the garment of sparkling form to the body of Augustus. In a moment, he knew, he would reach a critical point. He could feel the fury of the Oath raging around him, only bare feet away beyond the shining barrier.

Krista flinched again, feeling wetness along her cheek. One of the Persians cried out as a rock sliver, curved like a scythe, slashed across his eye. The man gobbled in pain, his chanting cut off, and clutched at his eye. As he did so, his hand strayed out of the circle inscribed on the stones of the floor, and he screamed in horrible pain. His hand smoked with dull fire, and as Krista watched, her eyes wide in fear, the man's arm withered and crumbled away. Insane with pain and fear, the Persian leapt up and bolted for the door. His feet went first, corroding to dust in an instant, and then his whole body was consumed. She turned away, keeping her hands and feet inside the circle, curling ever tighter into a tiny ball.

Maxian put forth the totality of his will, grasping the raiment of the Emperor, now bound to the corpse of Augustus, bending his power against the last single silver thread that bound it to the distant, sleeping shape of his brother.

– |Nikos skidded into the dining chamber, his blade up and the lantern flaring in his other hand. Men struggled, crying out, with a fast blur of darkness. A praetorian lunged, his whole weight behind the stroke of his spatha, and missed, cleaving air where a shape had stood only an instant before. A gray-green hand, tendons standing from it like iron bars, snaked out of the darkness and crushed the man's throat. Blood spattered away, soaking fingers that punched into the flesh and tore away the soldier's trachea. Two more praetorians lay dead, scattered on the floor, their arms and legs at odd angles.

Jusuf loosed in the same moment, his bowstring thrumming sharply against his wrist guard. The arrow flickered across the space and sank to the fletching in the chest of the creature.

Nikos stumbled, seeing the thing in the light of the lantern for the first time.

It wore the shape of a man, but its skin was gelid and cold, like the intestine of a snake. It had a man's head, but the yellow eyes that burned in the narrow skull had never been human. It was naked, but its slick, wet body was a confusion of tattoos and scars and long, thin ridges that clung to the curve of muscle and sinew and bone. It blurred into motion, faster than the eye could follow. A lantern was smashed aside, spattering burning oil and broken glass against the far wall. Another praetorian was flung down, bones snapping at the force of the impact, his iron helmet caved in by the blow of a fist.

Nikos cast aside thought and leapt forward, his gladius whispering in the air. He had faced men and beast for twenty years and he could not conceive of an enemy that would not bleed and die at the touch of his sword. The thing whirled to meet him, its claws snapping toward his head and face. The Illyrian twisted, taking the first blow on his shield at an angle. The thick buckler-an oaken roundel covered with a layer of cured hide and then a metal facing bound through with wire-shattered like a cheap amphora. Nikos felt his arm break in two places, and the jolt of pain slashed up into his chest. The claw faded back into darkness and Nikos leapt up, curling his legs under him. A long leg, tipped with claw-like nails, flashed past underneath him. The point of the gladius arrowed at the thing's eyes, smoky yellow in the lamplight. It bobbed away from the blow with effortless ease. It rapped the blade away with a forearm, and Nikos howled in disgust as the blade was torn from his hand. He ducked, feeling the rush of air where his head had been.

Another arrow sprouted from the thing's chest, then another. Jusuf and other men crowded into the room, their bows singing. The thing looked down, seeing the cluster of black fletching dancing in its torso. It looked up, and smiled, its dead mouth stretched into a dreadful grin.

Nikos rolled away, his useless arm blazing with pain. He dragged a long knife from his boot and reversed the point, crouching and circling away. The thing followed him with its eyes. Nikos wheezed in pain, hoping the blood-fire would kick in and elevate him past the crippling damage to his arm. More praetorians, drawn by the sound of battle, rushed in from the other doors.

The homunculus laughed-a long, cruel sound-seeing a feast laid out before it.

– |The entirety of the world collapsed to a single point of glittering white, immensely heavy, and Maxian struggled to contain the power he had summoned. The old man had failed, collapsing into a heap within his triangle of invocation. The golden youth staggered, falling to his knees, his face a rictus of pain as Maxian leached his bones for more power. The raiment of Empire distorted and flexed, slipping away from his will like quicksilver as he tried to fix it to the ancient corpse. Dust spurted up, and the body threatened to dissolve at any moment. Sweat ran in rivers down the Prince's face and soaked his chest. On his forehead the trapezoid of focus burned like a single eye, nearly overcome by the power he had invoked.

Still, the silver thread would not break. Maxian hammered at it with all the strength at his command, trying to sunder the gleaming cord. The Oath raged outside the wards, shattering stone and brick, flooding the upper floors of the house with water and mud, smashing the roof with its fury. The raiment shifted again, sliding away from the face of the old Emperor. Maxian turned his will aside for an instant, fixing the similarity again. The silver cord vibrated like a gong struck by a mallet.