The Gate of Fire (3 page)

There was a sharp metallic
twang
, and a six-inch steel bolt punched through the Avar's right eye and rang off the inside of his conical helmet. Blood and white flakes of bone smeared the right side of the nobleman's face as he crumpled soundlessly back into the welter of other bodies.

Nicholas half saw a blurring shape in the air and threw himself forward. One of the long arrows whickered over his head and glanced off the inner gate post with a shrill
tang
. He crawled hurriedly, searching among the bodies for his sword. More arrows flicked past, hunting him. He bellied down behind one of the dead horses and scuttled forward.

Behind him, in the street, was a confused melee. More Avars and Slavs poured through the gateway and piled into the Romans trying to hold the boulevard against them. Legionnaires atop the wall were throwing javelins and stones down into the mass of men struggling on the pavement. The masons and engineers who had been working behind the Wall rushed up, spears and great hammers in their hands. Nicholas heard the bellowing voice of the blond centurion ringing above the din of steel and iron, rallying his men to him.

Nicholas breathed a sigh of relief;
Brunhilde's
engraved hilt was barely visible, jutting from under the carcass of a sandy-colored mare. The grooved leather binding on the hilt met his fingers like a well-loved friend. The four-foot length of rune-carved Scandian steel stuck for a moment, but then slid free with a greasy popping sound. He ducked aside from another arrow, but the Avar archers were now occupied exchanging missile fire with the Romans on the Wall and on the battlements. Nicholas sprinted across the killing ground to the foot of the nearest wooden stair tower.

Taking the plank steps two and three at a time, he leapt to the second level of the tower, fifteen feet above the battle raging in the street. Two Avars had also climbed up before him and were firing arrow after arrow into the ranks of the Romans fighting below. Nicholas shifted one hand back on
Brunhilde's
long hilt and, taking her two-handed, ended his rush with a hard horizontal chop that bit deep into the neck of the Avar on the right, sending his body sprawling into the other archer. Bright arterial blood gushed out, spraying down on the men below, and the Avar's head lolled at an obscene angle. The other Avar staggered up in time for Nicholas to shatter his outthrust kneecap with a sharp kick. The man was still howling in pain as Nicholas heaved his body over the railing.

Arrows thrummed through the air, spiking into the pillars of the tower. He dodged again, this time up the stairs to the next platform. The tower shook with the weight of more Avars swarming up the steps. Nicholas skidded back on the undressed planks of the third platform, swinging
Brunhilde
into guard position. Four Avars in glistening iron-scale tunics, their furs cast aside, showing long mustaches and lank black hair, stormed up the stairs. Luckily, they blocked the view of the archers behind them for a moment.

The first Avar rushed onto the platform, his axe a blur of short cuts at Nick's midriff. The Roman slid aside, falling back a step, and then feinted overhand with the longsword. The Avar parried up with the head of the axe, and Nicholas reversed his stroke, catching the nomad on the outside of his left arm.
Brunhilde
bit deep, cleaving the muscle and tendon. The Avar cursed and fell back, switching the axe to his off-hand. Nicholas rushed in, keeping the wounded man between himself and the others at the top of the stairs. The axeman tried to block with the haft of his weapon, but Nicholas was inside his guard and jerked his blade upward, punching the triangular tip through the bottom of the Avar's jaw. There was a gelid sound and then a tinny ringing as the point ground on the inside of the man's helmet.

Another Avar stabbed over the first dead man's shoulder with a long spear, catching Nicholas squarely in the left side of his chest. The spear point, a rusty iron wedge with a poorly forged brace running down the middle, ground at the center of one of the links of chain, sending a burst of cold through his chest. Nicholas rotated left, slipping the spear off, though there was a tearing sensation as he whipped
Brunhilde
back out of the dead axeman. The second Avar slid his spear back and jumped up onto the platform from the steps below.

Nicholas ducked low, feeling the point slash across his head, and lunged, extending
Brunhilde
like a spear herself. The Avar tried to dance aside, but more men were pushing up the stairs, and the Nordic longsword punched through the stiff leather armor under his left armpit, blue-black blood gurgling up around the blade. Nicholas rushed again, shoving the dying man back down the stairs onto his fellows.

Cries of rage rose up as the first rank of Avars tumbled backward, arms and legs flailing. For a moment, the stairway was clogged with bodies and Nicholas shook his hair out of his eyes and fell back, sliding his boots across the rough floor, searching for good footing. The sword felt light in his hand and the air danced with tiny points of light. Even the air was warm, almost hot, against his skin. An Avar on the lower platform hurled a small axe overhand at him, but it seemed to hang in the air and Nicholas stepped easily aside, bringing
Brunhilde
up in guard again. The
falx
hissed past, the delicate interlocking carving of dragons and deer spinning head over heels.

Two of the spearmen separated themselves from the mass of bodies on the stairs and scrambled up at him, crouching low and apart, keeping to the railings. The spearheads flickered like snake tongues in the air at him, bright points of iron. Nicholas lunged at the man on the left, near the outer railing, and cut sharply at the head of the spear with
Brunhilde
. A veteran, the man slipped his spear back and slashed at Nick's head. At the same time, the other man rushed in, stabbing low at Nick's thigh. The Roman watched them come, like clockworks advancing in slow motion. Cold burned in his veins, powering his muscles and thought. He leaned back, weaving away from the spear slash and turned right, spinning into the attack coming low.
Brunhilde
brushed the lunging spear point aside, tip arrowing at the floor. Inside the spear's length, Nicholas spun back the other way, the longsword flicking up to intersect with the haft of the spear, shearing it in half, and then into the spearman's shoulder, gouging through light mail and a shirt of leather. The man's mouth opened in a snarl of surprise.

Tiny links of mail ornamented with perfect ruby droplets scattered through the air, whirling like tiny stars.

Nick's hard-muscled shoulder powered the blade through the rest of the arc, plunging into the chest of the first spearman. The man sucked air for a moment, then choked on the blue bubbles filling his throat. Nicholas pushed him off of the blade with his boot, cracking the railing with his weight. The spearman toppled back, hanging for a moment in the air before he slammed into the paving stones below. The other Avar was still gasping at the pain in his shoulder and the ruin of his spear when Nicholas spun back to face him.

The sound of running men rattled the stairs above the third platform, and Nicholas spared a glance upward, catching sight of billowing red cloaks and hobnailed boots pounding on the upper steps. Shouting rose from below, and he turned back in time to see a cloud of arrows hurtling toward him. A cry of rage caught in his throat as he threw himself backward.

Sparks from a burning timber flew up, tracing a slow, whirling dance against the dark sky. Nicholas lay with his back against a stone wall, vision blurry with exhaustion. He could barely lift his left arm but, with a grunt, he stripped the leather bracing of the spring gun off his forearm. Snow was falling again, but the heat from the bonfire kept melting it before it could stick to the paving stones of the street. Legionnaires moved about in the darkness, briefly illuminated by the bonfire or resin torches in the gateway. A cart rumbled past, its high wooden wheels turning slowly over. A thicket of bruised-looking arms and legs jutted from the back of the wagon, and a seep of blood pattered on the street as it passed. They were the bodies of the dead, going to feed the fires that burned in the street the length of the Wall. A sickly sweet odor permeated the air, fueled by sizzling fat.

Clenching his teeth against the pain, Nicholas leaned slowly forward and stripped off the heavy shirt of iron rings. It was fouled with the
thoracomachus
beneath it where the rings had been driven through the thick felt padding by the force of Avar blows. The shirt next to his body had almost disintegrated into a pudding of blood, silk, and sweat. Cold air bit at his exposed flesh, and he hissed in pain as the layers of armor and padding peeled away from his skin.

The left side of his chest and most of his torso was already turning blue-purple. Dozens of cuts where the iron rings had ground into his skin were already clotted. He prodded the longest cut, just under his left shoulder. Clear fluid oozed out of the jagged red gash.

"Huh, you look fine. Another winning mission for you, I see."

Nicholas looked up; in his exhausted state, he couldn't quite place the voice. A stout man stood over him, a deep red cloak rippling on his shoulders. The fellow wore a burnished breastplate over a shirt of fine chainmail links and carried a full helm under one arm. He was clean shaven, though a beard would have improved his pox-scarred face by hiding old wounds. The officer's hair was shaved very close to the scalp, almost bald.

Nicholas squinted against the firelight. A vague knocking in his head reminded him that he knew the man.

"Tribune Sergius...
ave
. Hail and well met." Even that much left Nicholas feeling exhausted. "He got away," Nicholas muttered almost inaudibly. "Slippery bastard..."

The tribune squatted down next to Nicholas and peeled back an eyelid with one thumb. Even that much contact caused Nicholas to turn away in pain. The soldier grunted and put his helmet down, shifting his weight to both feet. The tribune shook his head slowly, surveying the drubbing that Nicholas had endured. One thick finger gently traced over the pattern of melon-shaped contusions scattered across his ribs.

"I came looking for you after I heard that the breach had been thrown back. Some hard work here today, but then you have a very nose for slaughter... I was talking to one of the wall commanders—he says you showed up at almost noon. What the Hades were you thinking? I sent you up here at daybreak!" Sergius paused in his incipient rant, his eyes narrowing. "Can you understand anything I'm saying?"

Nicholas blinked and looked back at the fellow. Why was he talking to him? The thought of sleep seemed tremendously appealing, but at the same time something warned him that it was a bad idea. The image of the man wavered a little, like he was standing in the heart of a fire. "What?"

The tribune sighed and stood up. He gestured into the darkness, and two men in slave tunics and fur-lined boots came up.

"Put him in the litter and take him back to the offices. He's no use to me here. Get some hot food and wine in him and have one of the surgeons check him over. His eyes look like those of a reveler at a Dionysus festival, so—don't let him sleep."

Strong hands grasped Nick's arms and hauled him up. He felt very faint, but the prospect of wine and some fresh bread dripping with oil and garlic roused him a little. The two slaves helped him to a litter and laid him inside. One turned a blanket over him. It smelled of cloves and some kind of perfume. Lying down, he found that he could see. The sky over the city was black as pitch; without the heavy clouds that hung above them, he guessed he could see the stars and the moon. Snowflakes swirled down, passing through bands of gold and red cast by the bonfires. The slaves lifted the litter and he swayed from side to side, then they took a step, and another, and jogged off through the dark streets.

Snow continued to fall.

A young man dressed wholly in black and dark gray climbed stiffly up a ladder made of beech wood handles set in hand-forged iron brackets. At the top of the ladder a metal cover swung away at his touch, flooding the narrow tube he had ascended with sunlight. He squinted for a moment, and then the clear blue of his eyes darkened, deepening to an almost metallic aqua that covered both iris and pupil. Able to see at last, he clambered out of the tube and swung his long legs out into the cavity of the observation deck. A stiff wind rushed past, catching his long brown hair—now beginning to show tendrils of white—and blowing it out in front of him. He slid down into the cavity, lined with wooden seats and stout ropes, with a sigh.

By a trick of the design of the upper surface of the Engine, the roaring of the wind within the cavity was reduced to a dull, basso rumbling. The sound came more from the iron heart of the machine than the air whipping past. The man popped his ears with narrow, long-fingered hands and pulled one of the ropes across him, securing it to a stout bronze clasp set into the metal skin.

"Lord Prince, you don't trust your power so far?"

The young man smiled wryly at the young woman seated opposite him and shook his head. "No, I must be awake and aware to rebuild skin, bone, tissue, the vital humors. A fall from this height would kill me as surely as you or anyone."

The young woman smiled back, a little, but there was a guarded reserve present in her face and the line of her body that pricked at him. He returned her smile with a greater one of his own, genuine and filled with warmth. For a moment the cold cast that governed his features faded, and he seemed the amiable young physician she had first met, neither the Prince of the Realm nor the power that he had become. Despite a deep distrust, she replied in kind, and her own features—a little longer than the classical oval, but marked by striking dark eyes and rich lips, framed by a barely restrained mane of rich dark brown, nearly black hair—were transformed as well. The man felt a pang in his heart to see her so, beautiful and elegant, sitting sideways on the bench in a thick furred cloak, with neat leather gloves on her hands, and her svelte legs covered by Persian-style silk trousers.