The Gate of Fire (11 page)

An odd fever was upon the Persian. He felt odd—light-headed and dizzy—but he knew that despite his fear he must do his honorable duty to the commander he had sworn to obey. Part of his mind, that which still half remembered the words of the old fire priest in his home village, railed at him to cut the throat of the dark man who now lay on soft cushions in the tent. Those words he pushed away, remembering the bright eyes of another man—one he accounted his true master and friend—General Shahr-Baraz.

I leave him as your support, Khadames,
echoed the booming voice of the greatest general Khadames had ever known.
He is willful, though, so watch him like a spirited horse! If that braggart and fop Shahin contests your command, he will support you. Watch the "great Prince" cower then! He I entrust to you, and you to him, and this army. Do your duty to the King of Kings, old friend.

Khadames blinked away his own tears. By all accounts, the Royal Boar was dead in the ruin at Kerenos River, laid low with his army by the Roman enemy. Even the King of Kings was dead, his body cut to pieces by the Roman Emperors amid the wreck of his great capital at Ctesiphon on Euphrates. Khadames wondered if the Empire itself still stood, outside this remote ring of mountains. With the royal seat fallen, and the
Shahhanshah
dead and the armies scattered, there was little left and no one to rule. The general sat down heavily in one of the camp chairs within the great tent. The weariness threatened to pull him down into sleep at any moment.

He stood again, forcing his eyes to open, and moved to the side of the cot where Tagai had laid the sorcerer. Khadames looked upon that drawn and pale countenance—
yes
, he thought,
it is as it was before. He has overreached himself, pitting his will against that vault of stone and the emblem of fire.

The general looked up at Tagai, who squatted on the other side of the cot, a curved blade unsheathed, gleaming, laid over his thighs. Khadames pursed his lips and nodded to the pile of trunks and baggage laid against the felt wall.

"Among his things is a knife of flint. Find it."

The Uze chieftain grunted and moved away. Khadames peeled back the eyelid of the sorcerer with one callused thumb. The yellow orb flickered weakly, turning away from the light of the oil lantern suspended from the center of the tent.

"You still live, then." He sighed and rubbed his face. His mustache and beard were thick with grime from the long road. "Duty commands, honor obeys." An old saying from his youth.

Tagai returned, gingerly holding a narrow knife of glittering black flint by the hilt. It was an old thing, knapped from a single stone, slightly curved, with a fat haft. Countless strips of pale leather wrapped the hilt, glued together with sweat and old blood. Khadames took the knife firmly, showing no fear to the superstitious clansman. He turned it over in his hand, feeling the weight of it. It was very heavy for its size, and the scalloped facets of the blade gleamed oddly in the light. The Persian looked up and saw fear in the eyes of the Uze.

"Go get the others," grated Khadames, and he adjusted the head of the man lying on the cot, tipping it back a little. He pried the mouth open and pushed a wad of silk into the corner. The sorcerer's breath rasped, uneven and fitful. Tagai slunk away, but Khadames did not notice. He smoothed back the long dark hair, leaving the face exposed, pale and drawn. In another place many might have accounted the sorcerer handsome—he bore a strong nose and high cheekbones, with a noble profile. Khadames did not care; all that mattered to him in this tiny moment in a tent, high in the barren mountains, was the execution of his honor and duty.

The tent door was pushed aside, and men entered. Khadames turned, the corners of his eyes crinkling up as he saw that his detachment commanders had come to see what the trouble was. They were angry already—the Uze were not noted for politeness—and had their hands on sword hilts. Khadames stood up, turning the flint knife into the palm of his hand, its blade lying along his forearm. "Mirza—good. Come here and bare your arm."

The blond Khorasanian, who had served with Khadames and Shahr-Baraz for more than a dozen years in campaigns and battles the length and breadth of the Empire, stepped forward, but his face was closed and suspicious. Khadames stepped aside, showing the man the supine form of the sorcerer.

"Yes," the general said, "he is terribly wounded again—even as after the battle on the Plain of Towers. We must revive him."

"Why?" Mirza's voice was harsh and blunt. He turned to Khadames with cold fury in his eyes. "By the sacrifice of more of our men—by their blood? He has killed us all already."

Khadames nodded, his demeanor calm. "He is a hard taskmaster, and death walks with him like a hunting hound. Do you fear him?"

"Yes," Mirza said, his bristly beard jutting out as he faced his commander. "We would all be well rid of him—enough ruin has come of his work already. We know you are bound to follow him, for you swore to the Boar to stand by him. We follow you—but is there no limit to the demand of your honor?"

"Is there to yours?" Khadames' voice was cold. He straightened his back and his eyes swept over the men, and behind them the Uze, who were crowding at the door of the tent. "We all swore great oaths when we accepted the service of the King of Kings—do you repudiate them now? Do you turn your backs on the honor of your houses?"

"No," Mirza growled, without bothering to look to the outraged faces of his fellows. "And where does that leave us? The great King Chrosoes is dead, and with him his wife and children.
He has no heir!
Barazis dead, too—damnable Rome casts down the entire world in ruin. We hide in the mountains like beggars, following this storm crow on dark paths. Why not have done with it? Cut his heart out and burn it in the fire of the Lord of Light and we will go forth—back to our homes!"

Khadames shook his head and slowly passed among the men, his steady gaze slowly moving from face to face. The anger in the room dimmed and then quieted. The general turned back to the cot and knelt, turning the face of the sorcerer toward them. He looked up. "Do you remember your oaths? The ones you swore to the House of Sassan before the King of Kings that blustery day in Ctesiphon—victory was ours, the Man of Wood thrown down, and the right, true King raised in his place? They were strong oaths, sworn to the Empire and the man, Chrosoes, who restored it. Do you remember that day? You were there, Mirza, at my side—so were you, Peroz, and you Isfandiar.
I
remember what I swore that day—have you forgotten?"

"No," Mirza said again, "but I say—what of it? All we swore to uphold is in ruins, dead, buried, cast to the winds—there is nothing left of that house. Only memories that will dim with time, leaving cruel Rome in their place."

"Not so," Khadames said, rising to his feet, his voice filling with strength. "The House of Sassan still lives, hidden and in secret, and will rise again—you and I will make it rise, and be strong. Come here."

Mirza stood, rock solid and still, his thick legs apart. Khadames met his gaze and held it. A long moment passed in complete silence in the tent. Then Mirza shook his head and stepped forward. Khadames bent close, whispering in his ear. Mirza stiffened in surprise, but the general's hand was quick, seizing the man's forearm. The black knife whispered, and blood spilled.

Mirza cried out. Outside the tent, the Uze grinned in the darkness.

Khadames sat, again, on the campstool by the narrow bed. Another day had passed, and the sun had fallen behind the fence of the mountains. Darkness filled the valley, and outside the tent the lanterns and evening fires of the little army flickered in the twilight. Tonight the men were roasting goats they had trapped in the higher reaches of the long, narrow canyon that fed the stream. Khadames was beginning to grow concerned that they would have to leave their refuge to search for supplies. At his side the figure of the sorcerer lay still and quiet, as it had done for the past eleven days.

The Persian sighed and scratched a mosquito bite on one ear. The men were beginning to recover some of their strength and would soon grow restless. A tapping sound drew his attention. He looked around, then saw that one of the sorcerer's feet was twitching, banging against the edge of the cot. Khadames leaned over, one hand reaching to check the pulse at the side of the neck.

The sorcerer's eyes opened slowly, blinking in the dim light of the lamps. They seemed unfocused and drifted from side to side. They turned toward Khadames—some flicker of recognition entered them. The yellow pupils blinked again, and awareness crept into the face, drawing intellect with it.

"How long?" the sorcerer croaked. His eyes had focused on Khadames.

"Almost two weeks," said the general, picking up a copper cup from the side of the bed and holding it to the man's papery lips. The sorcerer took a taste of the thin red liquid in the cup and an eyebrow raised, arching like the flight of a raven in the winter sky.

"This has been my milk?" The sorcerer's voice was very weak, lacking all but a memory of its usual subtle power. "You are unexpectedly good to me, faithful Khadames."

Khadames matched the yellow-eyed stare, his face a tight mask. He had done what was needful. "It worked before, so I reasoned that it would work again. How do you feel?"

The sorcerer laughed—a weak human sound.

"Like one on the door of death... but worse than my usual state. I owe you a substantial debt, General. It must have been harsh upon you to put men to death."

Khadames shook his head slowly. "No one died for you, Lord. That is
your
way, not mine." He pulled back the sleeve of the green linen shirt with thin red stripes he was wearing, exposing his forearm. Along the inside, slashed across his wrist at right angles, was a puckered white scar. It was ugly and jagged, but seemed to have healed cleanly. He turned his arm so that the sorcerer could see. "I strove to save you to abide by oaths sworn to the King of Kings, Wizard. Nothing of them says that I must gut men and offer up their bleeding hearts to the sky to feed your power. You wax strong on the blood of men, so we gave you enough to live. But each man gave only a part, and none so much that they sickened or died."

The sorcerer blinked slowly at the venom in the general's voice, and with great effort raised his hand to touch Khadames' forearm. One long finger traced the route of the scar, and then the hand fell back onto the coverlet that lay over his body. The yellow eyes closed, and the sorcerer lay still for a long time. Then, just before Khadames was going to rise and leave the tent, they opened again.

"How did you do it?" The voice was little more than a croak.

"With the flint blade from your baggage," Khadames answered. "It seemed proper, from what you had done before."

"How many men gave their blood so?"

Khadames frowned at the sorcerer, but the dark man's eyes were closed again, as if in sleep.

"Not all. A few men were on the watch, or scouting, when I called them to this tent. All told, some five hundred."

"Five hundred..." The sorcerer breathed out a long, slow breath. His eyes flickered open again, and his hand gripped Khadames' wrist. "I owe you much, then, General. You are far wiser than I in this matter. I tell you this"—the sorcerer paused and seemed to consider his words, then his voice became stronger—"the day will come, and soon, when this mark—this scar from an ancient knife—will mean more than kingdoms for the men who bear it. I will not forget you or these five hundred who came to my aid when I lay at the verge of dissolution."

The sorcerer sat up, startling Khadames, and swung his legs off of the cot. He seemed suddenly to have limitless energy—the lassitude and weakness dropping from him like a discarded cloak. The general rose, too, though slower, seeing little reason to hurry. The dark man turned, and his eyes burned with something like their old fire. "Bring the sixteen who did not give their blood to me—we go again to the door in the mountain. But no others—you, the sixteen, and myself. It will be enough." With that, the sorcerer strode out of the tent, clad only in a thin tunic and breeches.

Khadames had not come before the massive door and the emblem of fire since the night when he had found the sorcerer lying at its foot. Now he rode up the long series of switchbacks and felt again, even in the dim overcast light of day, the sense of brooding oppression that had come upon him that night. At the end of the valley, where the road of the ancient builders was hewn from the rock itself, rose a peak of black stone. Upthrust from the dull gray rock of the surrounding mountains, it drew every eye to it, but Khadames found that the mountain was featureless and indistinct. The summit was shrouded in the mist that hung constantly over the valley. Tiny black dots circled below the clouds—ravens or crows in flight. Much of the lower reaches were worked by the hands of men; ramparts and parapets jutted from the bulk of the mountain. Long, narrow windows peered down from the recesses, and high up, near the clouds, were indistinct signs of vaulted arches.

Below, in the shadow of the gate, Khadames found the sorcerer crouched before the massive portal. The sixteen men who rode with the general halted and waited for him to dismount. He told four of the men to hobble the horses, and walked to within a dozen feet of the dark man. The sorcerer squatted near the base of the door; he laid his hands on the cold stone, his fingers spread wide on the rain-damp surface. The dark man had found his robes again and was clad entirely in black, save for a gold bangle on one wrist and red lacings on his boots. Khadames settled himself and waited. Behind him, the men did the same.

After a bit, the sorcerer straightened and turned to face the general. "All are here? Yes? Good. Lord Khadames, take this."

The sorcerer handed Khadames a small clay pot filled with a caked black powder. "Not so long ago," the sorcerer said, standing amid the men, "you were absent from the camp when a ritual was undertaken to save my life. Those men who attended me—who
allowed me to live again
—have won my respect and my debt. Each of you, in pursuit of your duty, was not allowed to partake in that... blessed event."