Thomas Harlan - The Gate of fire

"He did not hunt in your domain," Nicholas said, thinking furiously, "save in extremity."

"Cannot he speak for himself?" The woman edged closer, and Nicholas felt the wash of fear at his ankles, rising like a cold chill tide. "Why does he hide behind you, O man?"

"I can speak for myself," a quavering voice came over Nicholas' shoulder. "I beg your indulgence, bidalak'sha-virazh'oi-the pain was upon me! Please, I did not mean to trespass."

The woman stopped and smiled, her fine white teeth gleaming in the candlelight. Then she laughed, a sweet sound like the chime of silver bells. Nicholas felt a pain in his bones at the sound and memory stirred in his heart. An odd longing came upon him, but he pushed it away.

"You are a polite creature," she said. "It has been a long time since one of the dushkula spoke so to me. Indeed, I am flattered. But you know the law. You may not feed, even among the least of the a'ha-tri'tsu, without my leave. Death is the price of your weakness."

"No," Nicholas quietly said, his jaw clenched. "Not without passing me. This man was driven to break your law by hunger, but he is still my friend, and I will not let you take him."

The woman drew back, seemingly growing in stature, her presence filling the room. "You put great trust in that sliver of iron, day-walker. Do you not believe that I can put forth strength enough to overcome you? Do you not believe that I may summon my pack to me, and they will rend you with tooth and claw?"

"There is no need of that, noble lady. I will vouch for his parole-let me take him away from this place, from your city. He will trouble you no more."

Nicholas felt Vlad tense, gathering his legs under him. The woman's eyes met his, and Nicholas felt the world spin around him, the room growing faint and distant. Pools of blue-white opened before him, and he felt the feather touch of a power on his soul. Brunhilde keened sharply, but her warning and anger seemed very far away.

"Ah…" The woman sighed in surprise, and her staff made a tapping sound on the brick floor as she turned. "You have your parole, day-walker child. But do not waste it, for even in age, my patience is short." Then she was gone, a dark blur, and the door swung slowly closed.

Nicholas shuddered, feeling his muscles relax and tension flood from him. He stepped to the door and pushed it tight. The bar had moved aside, and he replaced it, sliding it firmly home, with a bleak face. When he turned around, he found Vladimir curled into a ball on the narrow cot. "Are you all right?" he asked, though his voice seemed very distant.

Vladimir whimpered, though at the sound of Nicholas' voice, he slowly uncurled, looking this way and that, sniffing the air. "The Surapa Queen is gone?" Vladimir's voice was shaky.

"Yes," Nicholas said, sitting heavily on his bed. "For now."

Near the Town of Ganzak, Northern Persia

T'u-chueh banners snapped sharply in the cold wind, whipping out from standards thrust into the ashy ground. The man, Arad, stood on the edge of a terraced hill, staring across the shallow valley. It was night, and the moon was riding low on the horizon, barely above the mountains. The man now possessed clothes given from the hand of his master; a tunic of black wool with a short cloak and a hood. His feet remained bare, though the night was quite cold. Some fraction of his power clung to him, keeping him warm.

In the chill darkness, he could hear the mutter of men and the rattle of horse tackle, and the clink of metal on metal. Lord Dahak had come to look upon the stronghold of his enemies, but he did so cautiously. A dozen paces behind Arad, the sorcerer stood on the summit of the hill, in quiet conversation with the barbarian chieftain, C'hu-lo, and the Persian officers. Arad ignored them, treasuring this small moment of peace and solitude, feeling the wind brush over his skin. It was a little place of privacy, and he clung to it with all his will.

In the valley below, men were sleeping, exhausted from a hard day of labor. On the opposite slope, under the eaves of a high ridge and beetle-browed granite cliffs, the ruins of a huge building climbed up from the bottomland. Once it had boasted long pitched roofs and hundreds of columns of painted marble. In the fading light of the day, when Arad had first come to the hill, the remains of a massive staircase could be made out. Now everything was covered by the mantle of night. Still, Arad could see in the dark-another remnant of self-willed power-and the extent of the burned-out, shattered building was impressive. The men who slept in the valley below, men who labored in daytime under the aegis of a double-peacock banner-the senmuru-were striving to clear the rubble and restore some portions of the building to use.

Arad let his sight settle into the second opening and reveal the clusters of firefly lights and swirling patterns that marked the encampment below-the subdued red glow of men sleeping, the friendly brassy fire of horses and mules dozing in their corrals, the flickering yellow of waking men on patrol and watch. Even the lambent purple fire of wizards or priests in the big tents. A corner of his mind felt the numbers of points resolve into a discrete symbol in his mind-there were just over four thousand workers in the camp below, and some three thousand soldiers, priests, and engineers. Or so the corner of his mind, busy in its purposeless way, had concluded. Arad blinked, letting the gossamer veil of invisible fire fall away from his sight.

Cool darkness flooded in, for now even the moon had slunk away behind the hills in the west.

"Beloved servant," a cruel voice came on the wind, "attend me."

Helpless once his master's thought had touched his mind, Arad turned and climbed over the tumbled stones and low-growing gorse bushes to the summit of the hill. In the darkness, he could feel the lord standing, leaning against a slab of granite, a burning black point of infinite cold. The Persian captains and the barbarians seemed half shadows already, their essential spirit already dimmed and clouded by the presence of Lord Dahak.

"Good Arad," Dahak purred, his eyes glittering yellow in the darkness, "you have looked upon the valley, seen the men who toil in the service of my enemies, seen the great house they seek to put aright?"

"I have, lord." Arad's voice was a little slurred. He was still remembering how to speak this tongue of the Eastern men. "There are many in their encampment-many soldiers-many strong priests."

"Yes," Dahak said, his long head nodding in the darkness. "For all their faults, the peacocks that nest on the throne of my father have some small sense of the importance of such a place. Thus, we must take steps to see they do not have their way with us."

"What is this place?" Arad's voice was calm and without inflection. Though rage and hatred and shame might etch his soul like acid, expression was denied him. "What happened here?"

"Good friends," Lord Dahak laughed, "came here and smashed it down. They doused the fire that had once burned here, lighting all the world. Though they knew it not, they gave me the most precious gift. There is no limit to the love I feel for them. But now, as these peacocks strut and preen, defying me, I must complete the work."

Dahak paused, soft laughter echoing. Arad felt that black joy beat against him like a wave. The lord was filled with secret amusement and ached to tell of it. Discipline held in the creature, and his thought again turned to the matter at hand.

"Loyal Khadames-you and your captains I have brought here to observe and watch. No finger will you lift against the nindingir in the valley below. This is work for our good friends from the east. Noble C'hu-lo, have you looked upon the land? Have you seen the position of your enemies?"