Thomas Harlan - The Gate of fire

– |"What will we do about the hell-caster?" Kahrmi, the eldest of the two Khazar brothers who had escaped with them out of burning Ctesiphon, leaned on the table. His brown beard, as thick and curly as a bramble thicket, barely disguised the concerned look on his face. At his side, his brother Efraim nodded in agreement. "If this boy-prince can summon the powers of air and darkness, we stand little chance against him. None of us,"-Kahrmi gestured around at the men at the table-"are skilled in those arts. We need assistance; our own witches or warlocks to match power with this boy."

Nikos turned to the Duchess, raising an eyebrow. He had the same questions, though he had not broached them yet.

"I have sought this assistance," the Duchess said in a tired voice. "We cannot use the thaumaturges from the Legion or the Imperial Academy without the permission of the Emperor. This counts them out. I have approached, by messenger, many of the independent wizards who make their home in the city. None have responded. I fear we will have to handle this ourselves."

"What?" Nikos stood, his face the very picture of alarm. "My lady, this is a bootless task! We are strong men, skilled and well versed in the arts of war and murder. But the whole lot of us, even together, even with a plan or a trap, will be very hard pressed to match this thing of theirs, this monster. If we must go up against the lad and his own powers… well, that will be the end of us."

"It will not be the end of you." Anger at last sparked in Anastasia's eyes. "You are thinking men. Crafty hunters. You can track down this boy and his creatures and kill or capture them. He is a living man, so he bleeds and he can die. You said that to me once, if I remember aright."

Nikos flinched at the cutting tone in her voice. "That," he said in a hollow voice, "was before we matched blades with this thing. Jusuf-you were there, you saw how it moved! It is so fast… more, I do not think that it bleeds, my lady."

Anastasia turned to Jusuf, her kohl-rimmed eyes searching his face.

The Khazar looked back, his long face drawn and grim. "It is true," he said softly. "Petronius speared it through with a clean blow and it laughed. It wanted him to pin it, to show that it could not be killed by our weapons. Then it crushed his skull in its fingers. If you say that the bodies recovered from the villa in the hills show signs of being the risen dead, I wager that the thing is of that same ilk."

Anastasia seemed to shrink in upon herself, her face closing up. Nikos fidgeted, his hands shifting on the tabletop. He could see no way to accomplish what she desired and wondered if she would back away from the task. But that would not be like her.

"My lady," he said when she did not speak. "If we are careful, we may be able to take down the boy if we move while he is still in the city. If there is conscience left in him he may not wield his full powers when there are citizens about. If we let him get away, out into the countryside, then we are at his mercy. By the gods, the fire-drake can fly! We have nothing to chase him with if he decides to flee. We are outmatched by this if we cannot bring in help-Imperial help."

"No." The Duchess roused herself at last, sitting up again. Jusuf tried to touch her hand, but she stopped him with a cold glare. She looked around the table, and Nikos felt every man sitting there stiffen. "This is the task that I lay upon you," she said in a brittle voice. "Devise a means to bring down the monster, capture the boy, and return him here, to me. I would advise that you keep him unconscious while he is in our custody. Find a way to win. You are the best that I have to hand, you will have to do. All this without drawing the attention of the Emperor or the State. Do you understand me?"

Nikos felt the venom in her voice like a back-handed slap on his face. He nodded jerkily.

"Good." Anastasia relented a little, allowing the ice in her voice to thaw a fraction. "Now, how will you deal with this monster?"

– |Nervously, Betia bit at her nails. She knew she wasn't supposed to, but she was beside herself in disgust. Distracted, she sneaked a look around the back of the big chair that the Duchess was sitting in. It was hard to make out the muscular, blocky form of the man who had been staring at her, but she could see his hands on the tabletop. They were big and callused and strong. She looked at her own hands, pale and small in the light of the lamps. She had heard that the Illyrian had been a wrestler in his youth. It seemed very possible, particularly since his wrists were like tree roots and almost as big around as her upper arms. His arms, she thought morosely, were worse-ridged with hard muscle and as big as her thighs.

I'm too small, she whimpered to herself. Too small and weak and careless.

Worse, he was covered with fine white scars and jagged puckered welts. He was bald and grim-looking, with a mean look in his brown eyes. I shouldn't have looked right at him, she thought, berating herself for the lapse. It only compounded her error in letting him notice her being unnoticeable. Behind the shelter of the chair she hung her head in shame and almost sniffled. A student of the art was supposed to avoid notice by simply being a part of the background of the scene or room or crowd. It was against the rules to be invisible all the time.

Betia steeled herself and pinched the bridge of her nose with thumb and forefinger. Crying was forbidden, too. She knew where she had fouled up, but it had been a joy to pass through the house or the market or the temples without anyone noticing her. It had given her a delicious sense of freedom, knowing that she could pass into any place, all unseen, without having to explain her presence or ask for admittance.

I was too confident, she lectured herself. Lord Nikos is a professional, not a student. Of course he would notice me! Perhaps I will not get too bad a beating…

Her face fell at the thought. Her mistress was quite strict about these things. Drawing attention to oneself, particularly in such an odd way, was sure to disgust her. She considered throwing herself on the Duchess' mercy, but then remembered that the lady was rather lacking in patience these days.

She sneaked a look around the corner of the chair again. Lord Nikos was standing, his eyes flashing as he argued with Lord Jusuf about some plan or trap or mechanism. Betia noticed that Lord Nikos had a very muscular chest, all smooth and brown and well defined, which you could kind of see through his tunic.

– |"And these servants, what of them? Are they men or monsters?" Nikos put his fists on the table, leaning forward. Maps had been brought out, showing the land between the capital and the great bay a hundred miles to the south. A dozen possible strategies had been raised and discarded. Servants had brought wine and cooked meats and more shelled nuts. The Illyrian turned to the Duchess, raising an eyebrow.

Anastasia sighed and put down a goblet of watered wine. She was tired, though this kind of thing had once fired her blood like a drug. Now it seemed much the same as another hundred sessions late at night in just another room half filled with a smoky haze. "I am not sure of it," she said, "but it may be that some of the Prince's servants are not human. They walk like men, wear the clothing of men, but…" She paused, groping for the word.

Jusuf looked up from where he had been puzzling over the notes written by the foreman of the excavation crew. He turned one of the sheets of thin-scraped parchment around and pushed it across the table to Nikos. "Some of the bodies that were found in the rubble," he said, "seemed to be those of men. But look at the drawing here-see the foot?"

Nikos turned the parchment around and squinted at it. The light was poor, for the candles had begun to burn down. Then it brightened, and he saw out of the corner of his eye that the little blond slave had slipped up beside him and was replacing the candles. He frowned, but pretended not to notice her. The drawing on the parchment was well executed by a man the Duchess employed to paint not only her wall frescoes but also various buildings, people, machines, and other items of interest to her. Things like dead bodies dragged from the ashen slurry of a ruined house.