Thomas Harlan - The Gate of fire

Inana ba'gub.

– |Even more warmly dressed, with a brazier of glowing coals close to hand, Khadames stood on the rampart of the Iron Gate, looking down upon the narrow road below. Fifty of his best bowmen were crouched under the lip of the battlement in hiding, with heavy arrows nocked in their longbows. Three of his captains, clad from head to toe in the scaled overlapping mail of the clibanari-the heavy armor of the Persian dihqan-stood at his side. The general himself wore only the heavy black robes and brocaded red vest that were his appointed uniform. Behind him, on the pinnacle of the gate tower, the charcoal black banner of the lord flapped in the strong breeze.

Khadames' lip curled unconsciously in a sneer-the embassy before the gate raised the hackles on his back and set his hand to the hilts of his saber. Had he dared the anger of the sorcerer, he would have them slain and all like them. Too many friends of his youth had died, choking blood, on their lances or under a storm of their arrows.

A thick cluster of Hephthalite Huns-those called the T'u-chueh by the Chin merchants who sometimes came to the court of the King of Kings-stood waiting on the road. At their head, a chief rode, marked by the ermine fur cloak he wore and the glitter of iron mail at his chest. He rode a barrel-chested roan stallion with a fey look in its eye. Even Khadames, who felt nothing but hatred for the Hun, noticed the noble breeding of the horse. The man was swarthy and strong-featured, with the slanted eyes and sallow skin of the eastern Turk, and he wore his mustache very long and waxed with grease. His coal black hair hung over his shoulder in many small braids, each twisted with the knucklebones of dead enemies. The men that followed him were equally fearsome in appearance, but Khadames let a small chuckle escape his cold lips.

The Hun would not come before the Iron Gate in embassy, bearing the serpent token of his lord, if they did not come to beg for life.

"Who comes before the Gate of Iron?" he called down, his voice imperious.

The tall man on the stallion stirred, and the horse raised its head, evil black eyes looking up.

"I am C'hu-lo, yabghu of the White Huns. Let me into your house of stone. I would have words with your master, this Lord D'ay'hay'ak."

Khadames grinned to hear the barbarian mispronounce the name of the lord of the valley.

"You are a civil barbarian," he shouted down over the rumble of the stream plunging from the water-gate into the narrow canyon, "Who comes politely to the door. You have fallen far, C'hu-lo. Should you not come with armies numberless as the stems of grass on the steppe? Should not the forest of your lances blind the sun with their brilliance? Are these few men, these boys, all you have left?"

A stormcloud of anger gathered on the face of the Hun chieftain, but he mastered himself and did not draw his bow as he might have. Instead, the chieftain, gritting his teeth, answered in a civil voice:

"A messenger came to me, bringing this token." He held high a black knife of the kind that the Sixteen carried as they passed through the land. Along the blade, etched in the steel, was the rippling shape of a serpent. Even in this dim light, under the shadow of the mountain, the red scales glittered. "I am interested to hear the words of this lord of yours. Let me enter as a guest, and we will not dishonor that right."

Khadames nodded to one of his captains and leaned out on the wall. "You may enter, C'hu-lo, but know that no man who does not please Lord Dahak leaves this place alive." The general took great pleasure in stressing the proper pronunciation of the sorcerer's name.

The wall trembled a little as the gate opened, chains rattling through their sockets as a hundred men turned the hidden wheels that raised the three gates of iron. The Huns entered, their eye-slits glancing this way and that. Khadames paced along the inner battlement and descended the broad stair at the back of the gatehouse. He knew they were measuring the depth of the walls, the strength of the gates. Let them, he thought to himself with a smile. This fortress will never fall to the race of men.

Khadames vaulted onto his horse, feeling a twinge of envy at the speed and power of the roan that the Hun chieftain rode. He gestured with his chin, up the valley. "Come, poor C'hu-lo, let us go into Damawand and you will speak with the lord and learn, I imagine, more than you expected."

– |There was singing-soft voices raised in melody. The man woke, feeling a deep ache in his bones. For a moment he lay still, feeling the smooth, cool fabric under his fingertips. A delicate perfume filled the air, bringing memories of lemon trees and running water to his mind. His eyelids flickered and opened and beheld soft drapes of silk and saffron linen hanging above him. He moved his arm, testing the flex of his fingers-they moved unexpectedly. He had thought, no-he was sure-that they had been crippled, broken, unable to move. He held his hand before his face-a brown palm and long, thin fingers greeted him.

"My lord?" a soft husky voice penetrated. Something, no-someone-warm moved at his side. "Are you awake?"

The man turned his head and found a young woman by his side. Her skin was soft and pale, highlighting her long dark hair. It spilled over her white shoulder like a river, gleaming in the light of lanterns with faces of cut crystal. Her lips were pale rose, soft and full. She moved closer, and he smelled cinnamon perfume in her hair. She kissed him-a long, slow kiss-sliding on top of him. Her firm breasts rubbed against his chest. The man lost himself in sensation for a long time.

Later, his stomach growled, and the girl laughed and rose up, drawing a thin drape of golden silk around her body. "We will bring you food," she said, and went away.

The man lay on the cushions, fully awake for the first time. He sat up, feeling a delicious lassitude in the muscles of his arms and back and legs. A tent of silk surrounded him, lit by small lanterns. The air was sweet and he could hear, a little ways away, the chuckle of a stream running over rocks. He stood, finding his legs strong under him. He rubbed his face-there was a memory of a beard-but found it clean-shaven and smooth. The drapes of the tent door parted and two young girls entered, their long red-brown hair tied back behind their heads with scarves of gold. They carried trays of silver, laden with fresh fruit, sliced meat, and fine cheeses. The black-haired girl entered after them bearing a chalice of chased gold, heavy with wine.

"My lord." The black-haired girl bowed. "Please sit and break your fast."

The man sat, looking up in admiration at the supple forms of his attendants.

"Pray, good ladies," he said as they laid out the feast before him. "What are your names?"

The two girls with hair of red-brown giggled and hid their faces, but they sat close to him at either side, their thighs touching his. The black-haired girl knelt before him and poured wine into a cup of gold.

"My lord," she said, blushing, "we have any name you care to give us. Your will is ours in all things."

"Oh," the man said, and then had to stop as one of the younger girls had deftly slipped a choice bit of roasted meat between his lips. He chewed and his eyebrows raised at the rich taste. The girls smiled back at him, pressing close.

After another time, spent in delightful repast, he stood again and brushed his long hair back. He took the ends in his hands-his hair was dark, too, like the raven's tail, and glossy with good health. The two maidens with red-brown hair slipped away, carrying the dishes and plates of the feast. Memory tickled at his thought, but then fled when he turned to seize it. "What is my name?"

The black-haired girl had remained. He looked down upon her, cocking his head in puzzlement. Memory stirred again, far back in his thought. Her dark hair should not be straight, but rather a mane of curls, each catching the light like a black pearl. The girl bowed again, pressing her lips to his foot. "Your name is Arad, my lord, or so I have been told."