The Gate of Fire (12 page)

The soldiers, a stolid collection of Lakhmids Arabs, Bactrians, and native Persians, watched the sorcerer warily. They had heard little or nothing of the events of that night, for Khadames had impressed stringent secrecy upon the other men.

"Khadames," the dark man continued, "take the paint and mark each man with this sign." He pulled his shirt open, showing an odd, inverted mark—more like a blunted triangle than anything else—that was painted on his chest.

The general paused a moment, regarding the sorcerer with suspicion. Then he shook his head. If the creature meant ill, there was little need for this ritual. He went to the first man and made the same mark on the Arab's forehead. The man screwed up his nose at the smell—the paint was thick and sour-smelling. Khadames stepped back, checked his work, and proceeded on to the next man. By the time that he had finished, the sorcerer was squatting again, his legs folded under him, at the center of the rough circle of men.

"Lord General," the dark man said over his shoulder, "pray take the horses down to the first turn of the road—there will be some noise and it would not do to affright them."

Khadames nodded, puzzled, but slipped the hobbles from the horses and tied them to a lead line. When he was done, he rubbed the side of their long noses and clucked at his own steed to lead them down the steep road. Behind him, as he descended the slope, he heard the sorcerer begin to chant. By the time he had reached the roundabout and had tied off each string of four horses to the great jutting pylons that marked the edge of the paved space, the air itself was trembling with sound.

He turned, looking back up at the face of the mountain, and felt his knees give way. He fell to the ground, paralyzed and weak.

The sound of the chanting had swollen to fill the world, ringing off the distant peaks and the plunging cliffs that ringed the valley. Blue lightning rippled and cracked along the lines of the black peak, arcing in sheets of brilliant white and orange from stone to stone. A fierce red glow shimmered around the gate itself—the source hidden from Khadames' stunned eyes by the lip of the final platform on the road. Above, the clouds swirled around the peak and a wind rose, whipping at the general as he lay on the half circle of stone. Thunder boomed in the suddenly dark sky, and within the rushing clouds, yellow-orange lightning shuddered, leaping from cloud to cloud.

Then the whirlpool of air spun back with majestic slowness, revealing the peak—a fierce tower of carved stone and battlements. Arch upon arch rose up to the summit, a fortress of native stone and columns and pillars. The sky boiled behind it, sliding into a deep greenish black.

Khadames cried out, his eyes seared by a blinding flare of red light from the gate.

The world shook with a thunderclap like the stroke of the gods. The horses shrieked in fear, tearing at their bridles, then were thrown to the ground by an impossibly fierce blast of wind that howled down from the peak. Khadames was crushed to the stones, his nose grinding into the pavement. He felt blood spurt and a stinging pain. All across the valley the wind bent trees low and lashed the waters of the streams and pools. Auroral fires flickered from men's hands and weapons. In the camp by the lower gate, hundreds of men threw themselves to the ground, overcome by a paralyzing fear.

A booming crack, greater even than what had gone before, smote the air. The horses that had struggled up collapsed and Khadames drooled mindlessly on the octagonal paving tiles. The burning red light flickered and then went out with a sharp popping sound.

Even in the camp of the soldiers, a mile or more distant, the titanic sound of stone grinding over stone could be plainly heard. In the camp, the men who bore the mark of the knife on their right wrist knelt—unbidden—and bowed their heads toward the dark mountain that loomed, revealed at last, at the head of the valley. Some among them exulted, their hearts filled with a great joy. The others, they wept in fear, feeling the last vestige of their old faith wither and die.

Cold stone pressed against Khadames' face when he woke. He felt very cold, and water was dripping nearby. He tried to move his head, but a spike of pain behind his eye ended the effort. Swallowing was no better: The pain transferred to his throat. When he managed to open his eyes he found himself lying on a bed of stone flags set into the wall of a great chamber. Sparkling lights danced in front of his eyes for a moment, but then he was able to focus and see that torches of pitch sparked and guttered on the walls, casting a fitful light. There was a great rattling sound, and the shouting of men. He closed his eyes, trying to gather his strength.

"Here, faithful ones!" The voice was too familiar, and rich with delight.

A banging sound came, and the scrape of metal on stone followed. Khadames opened his eyes again and was rewarded with only mild pain. A door swung clear in one wall of the chamber, and a gang of his men—stripped to the waist and sweating heavily—were manhandling the heavy oblong shape of the coffin of gold and lead into the room. The general rolled over onto his side. The sorcerer strode into the room, his skin flushed with the pale rose of good health, his long, thick hair flowing like a raven's tail behind his head.

"To the stone bier, my friends. Yes—lay it there."

The coffin entered the room by inches, with the groans of struggling men punctuating each movement. At last it was dragged on a sled of wooden rails to the edge of a stone platform set into one wall of the chamber. A vaulted dome of stone rose above it, pierced by triangular windows. Through them, Khadames could see a cloud-filled sky and hear wind and rain. The mutter of thunder growled in the distance, too. With thirty men on a side, the coffin was levered up onto the stone platform and finally pushed to rest.

The sorcerer seemed more than pleased, and spent a long moment caressing the dull metal surface of the funereal casket. "Soon, dear one, you will feel the touch of life again..."

Khadames turned away at the soft voice; he had heard the long litany before, many times, on the road from the ruin of doomed Palmyra. He did not need to hear it now; the pain in his limbs and head was company enough. He tried to find sleep again, but it eluded him.

"You are better, faithful General?"

Khadames started awake—he had not heard the sorcerer creep up to him. He turned his head a little and opened one eye a bare slit. The pale yellow irises of the sorcerer looked back, close over his face. The chill in the room seemed to have flooded around him, and Khadames shivered despite a thick blanket that had been laid over him.

"I did not mean for you to come to harm," said the dark man in a gentle voice. "I sent you away to tend the horses... Such things happen, though."

"Yes," Khadames said, coughing, "they do happen. Where are we?"

"Ah... you have missed more than a little, faithful General. We are in a chamber near the summit of the Eagle's Nest—a place once called the
kahar kehediupan
—the Room of Life. Your men have tended you since we entered the mountain. You took a strong blow to the head."

"And you," Khadames chattered through clenched teeth, "what have you done in this place?"

The sorcerer straightened and stood back, putting his hands on his hips. "I have made the mountain wake," he said, his lean face smug and filled with delight. "In ancient days they called this place Damawand and trusted much to the strength of its walls and ramparts. They trusted it to sleep, too, at their command and not wake unless they willed it. An unwise assumption." He smiled down at Khadames and sat on the edge of the stone bench. "This is a place of secrets, faithful General, secrets eager to reveal themselves to me. This is a place of power, power that will come to me, now that I inhabit it. Damawand is mine now, a strong place that will call more strength to it."

Khadames closed his eyes. Thoughts fluttered aimlessly in his mind until one managed to force its way through to his lips. "And the men who stood with you at the gate? What of them?"

"Ahhhh..." The sorcerer took a long breath. "You are wise, noble Khadames, far wiser than I. This lesson, above all things, I cherish—that one man, even gifted with the strength of multitudes, is still but one man. He has but one pair of hands, one set of eyes—he can only be in one place at once. Oh, this is the most beneficent lesson!"

The dark man reached out and gently stroked the side of Khadames' face. At the touch, there was a brief sensation of bitter cold and then warmth flooded through the general. The chill that had gripped him vanished, leaving a sense of thick warm blankets piled up to the nose, and a chilly room beyond. Despite himself, Khadames sighed and lay back.

"One man may struggle and fail," mused the sorcerer, "where two may succeed or
five hundred
may triumph. You need not fear, faithful General, the men who stood with me at the door, before the sign of fire; they are precious to me beyond belief—they are my Sixteen now, my hands where I cannot lift, my eyes where I cannot see, my voice where I cannot speak. Oh, they are treasured—they will be well looked after. Just as you will be..."

The dark man continued speaking, but Khadames could not make out the words. Sleep stole over him in the delicious warmth, and he yielded gratefully to it.

Drums rolled, making a deep thunder that boomed back from the walls of the great hall. Khadames stood, dressed in full armor and the dark green surcoat of his house. A helm of iron chased with silver and gold was tucked under one arm. His mustache was waxed stiff and jutted from his face like the tusks of a boar. His long gray-brown hair lay on his shoulders in heavy braids. Behind him, in four ranks, stood half of his men, each dressed in their finest attire. The hall itself, a brooding vault of heavy stone bracing and towering pillars, lay at the center of the mountain, just opposite the great gate.

The upper reaches were filled with shadow and the fumes of a multitude of torches that burned in sconces cut into stone. At the center of the room a dais of blocky steps rose up, and atop it, seated on a chair of plain iron, the sorcerer sat at ease. The five hundred were arrayed in two great wings on either side of the throne, the captains on the steps and the ranks of men sweeping down on either side. The dark man had somehow acquired a rich wine-red robe and velvet hood that lay back on his shoulders, exposing the graceful sweep of his neck and head. Beneath it his customary black shirt and long pantaloons gleamed like a film of water over ice. Like his subordinates, he was immaculately groomed. Somehow, during the time that Khadames had lay in his feverish weakness, servants had come into the mountain—groomsmen, washerwomen, maids, even link-boys to light the thousands of lamps and torches that filled the vast warren of the mountain with their fitful dim light.

The drums ceased, leaving the air trembling. The heavy iron and oak doors that closed the main entrance to the great hall groaned and then swung wide, pushed by dozens of slaves in black tunics. Between the opening doors, a small crowd of men advanced slowly. A small drum hidden somewhere in the recesses of the hall began to tap in time with their footsteps. The visitors crossed the expanse of the hall still huddled together. At the foot of the dais they halted, and Khadames observed them carefully.

As the sorcerer had promised, they were the headmen of the surrounding villages, clans, and tribes. The mountains of Irak were riddled with narrow valleys and hidden basins. The tribes that clawed a meager existence from the barren plateaus and rough mountainsides did not welcome lowlanders. Too, they were fractious and given to mutual slaughter and betrayal. These six men, with their escorts behind them nervously fingering their weapons, were the chiefs of the greatest clans in the mountains. Each was richly dressed—by their standard, at least, though they could not begin to match the opulent splendor of the Imperial Court, or even the understated refinement of the sorcerer.

"Greetings, honored guests. Be welcome in my house."

The sorcerer's voice filled the air with warm, good humor. He stood, a lithe figure showing boundless energy and will in each step as he descended to the floor. The tribal chieftains, their eyes either suspicious or filled with fear, backed away from him as he came to stand in front of them.

"Please, you are guests here. There is no need for caution or fear."

The sorcerer motioned to one of the servants standing in the shadows. A young, dark-haired woman, dressed in a plain black linen dress, shawl, and modest veil, came forward with a silver platter. In her white hands was a tray bearing a loaf of bread and two golden cups. She knelt at the sorcerer's side, holding the platter up for him. The dark man produced a knife from his sleeve and cut the loaf. "Here is the bread of my house; it is yours."

He offered a piece of the loaf to the nearest chief—a tall, strapping man with a thick black beard and a turban of red and gold. The hill-chief regarded the bread for a moment, then gingerly took it. It was freshly baked and even on the height of the dais, Khadames could smell the sharp tang of yeast and the rich aroma of the new crust. The sorcerer put the rest of the loaf back on the platter and raised the first golden cup. "Here is the salt of my house; it is yours." He sprinkled coarse-grained salt in the upturned palm of the hill-chieftain. Another young woman with hair the color of fresh rust came out of the shadows behind the throne, bearing another goblet. The sorcerer poured wine from the cup on the platter into the new cup and took it himself. The servant bowed to the dark man and took the first cup from the platter and presented it, bowing again, to the hill-chieftain. Demurely, she did not look up, her face remaining hidden behind the veil.

"This is the blood of my house; it is yours. Drink with me, and know that we are guest-friend and there is peace between us."

The sorcerer raised his cup and drank from it. A thin trickle of wine spilled down the side of his chin and he wiped it away with the back of his hand. The hill-chieftain, his dark eyes intent, watched the dark man carefully. The sorcerer took bread and salt from the platter and tasted first the salt, then took a bite of the bread and chewed. He swallowed and turned to the assembled chieftains. "Welcome, friends, to the house of the mountain of the Eagle. Pray, join me."