The Gate of Fire (66 page)

"What is that?" Jalal shouted over the thunder, pointing up at the mountaintop.

"Lord Mohammed," Shadin cursed as he turned to join his men running into the city. "He left us up there in the pass. He's about his own business."

The slim gateway had shattered, cracking lengthwise, when Mohammed had thrust the cold iron of the Palmyran blade through the invisible membrane. The shock of the blast had thrown him down the marble stairway, crashing into the Sahaba behind him. The crowd of men and women on the mountaintop began shrieking in fear. Some had been felled as well by flying debris. The Quraysh, his ears ringing, clawed his way out of the tangle of bodies. A blue light flickered beyond the gate, illuminating the shattered pillars.

Act! Time is fleeting!

The voice that spoke in the empty places roared in his mind. Mohammed hurled himself forward through the gateway, even as the Sahaba behind him were shaking themselves out of their daze. The blue flare surrounded him, and he skidded sideways, avoiding a figure that staggered toward him. One of the worshipers stumbled past, a man with a ruined face covered with blood. Mohammed raised his blade, holding it up against the light.

The pool of water was gone, and in its place was a dreadful radiance. Something had risen from the womb of the mountain, a whirling amorphous thing that crackled and shuddered with lightning. Ultramarine fire washed off of it, spinning out in the night and falling in sheets of flame toward the rocks and buildings far below. All of the worshipers on the mountaintop lay dead or dying, their bodies scattered in windrows. Only one remained, the figure who had raised the stone knife to the sky. That one stood behind the altar, his face raised to the pulsating blue cloud that drifted and buzzed and hummed above the dry pool.

Mohammed scuttled forward, crouching low to the ground, leading with the tip of the saber. Arrows snapped overhead as the Sahaba reached the gate and saw what lay before them. Mohammed's face was grim and set—he had seen such things before, like the monstrosity that had stood above him at the Damascus gate. Wind howled around the mountaintop, and lightning jagged through clear air, dancing on the cliffs. Thunder rolled in an unceasing wave, shaking the stones on the ground, making the world shudder and dance.

The priest behind the altar slashed down his hand, pointing with the stone knife, and the whirling chaotic sphere drifted toward Mohammed. The arrows of the bowmen at the gate flashed into the blue haze and then drifted to a stop before they burst into flames and were consumed. The Quraysh suddenly leapt to his feet and dashed to the right, heading for the precipice over the canyon. Flickering light followed him, reaching out with spiky fingers. Blue radiance strengthened and washed over him. He skidded to a halt at the edge of the cliff, stones flying away from his boots to rattle down into the dark abyss.

Sahaba spearmen dodged in behind the whirling ultramarine blue refulgence. They sprinted toward the priest, their spear points glowing with echoes of the thing that had Mohammed distracted. The Quraysh leapt into the air, slashing out with his saber, and the steel tip sliced into one of the glowing tendrils that had suddenly sprouted from the amorphous center of the blue light.

In his mind, Mohammed could see the white arm of the Queen and her chainmail glove lunging, the saber gleaming in the sun, as it touched the crawling lightning.

Beyond that vision, the priest in red turned too late, and his eyes widened in horror. Three Sahaba spears of cold iron, driven by all the might the soldiers could muster, pierced his torso. Blood suddenly welled in his mouth, and the priest convulsed as one spear point tore through his spinal cord. The others punctured a lung and cut into his heart. The stone knife slipped from nerveless fingers, sliding to the ground and cracking in half with a hollow sound.

Mohammed's sword blazed like the eyes of the angels he saw floating in the air around the mountaintop, trapping the white-hot fire that boiled and howled at the center of the blue light. A vast, colorless radiance flooded the world, and Mohammed felt his
kaffiyeh
and riding scarf burst into flames. Across the narrow space at the top of the mountain, the Sahaba cried out as the intense burst blinded them or threw them to the ground.

A third enormous flash lit the valley of the city, and Jalal turned away from the mountain, his eyes screwed shut, his shield raised to block out the infernal light. But this time there was no mind-shattering crash of thunder or rolling boom that cracked temple doorways and tumbled the stone seats of the theater into a ruined pile. Instead, there was complete silence, without even the sound of running feet. All across the valley of Petra, there was utter quiet. The Sahaba, driven to the ground, lay where they had fallen. None dared raise their eyes up to the sky for fear of what they might see there.

Jalal crouched on the ground, tears streaming from his eyes. Sound slowly filtered into his consciousness, and it was the crackle and snap of burning wood. He raised himself up, blinking furiously, and saw that the nearest building—a stall in the colonnaded street that led into the city—was on fire. The dry canvas and light wood had ignited in the titanic flare of light. Jalal brushed soot from his eyes, and his hand came away covered with curled, burned hair. He held his hand up, seeing it double and triple in his sight.

Cursing, he touched his face and found it raw and sore. His beard came away in his hand, all shriveled and falling to ash. Tears streamed down his face, cutting tracks in the white dust that covered him and every other thing within the valley.

The sky was dark again, free of the strange blue light.

Cries rose from the city as men stirred themselves. Jalal shook his head and tore the ruined
kaffiyeh
from his helmet. The cloth was burned, too.

"To me," he croaked, finding his throat constricted and dry. "To me, Sahaba!"

The kings of Nabatea had raised a fine temple at the center of their city. It held echoes of the Greeks, with long lines of columns carrying understated capitals and a pitched roof. Unlike the other buildings that crowded the valley floor, however, each course of fine-cut stone was separated from the others by a layer of wooden spacers. Where earthquakes had damaged the other buildings over the centuries, or even cast down the Temple of the Winged Lions in ruin, the great temple stood, serene and intact. It stood at the heart of the city, where three streams joined at the western end of the valley. A hill rose behind it, covered with villas and houses with flat roofs. The buildings that flanked it were raised up in the same red sandstone as the rest of the valley, but inset panels lined the walls, covered with painted carvings. Kings and heroes stared out of the stone, frozen in their moment of triumph. A grand Roman theater also graced the city, but it could not compare with the elegant beauty of the massive temple.

Mohammed had taken it as his residence while he remained at Petra. The statues had been covered, for the moment, with burlap and the fires of sacrifice put out. An iron chair with a padded cushion served him as a throne, though in no way did he think of himself as a king. All those notables of the city who had survived the slaughter in the High Place knelt before him on the smooth marble floor of the temple.

The Quraysh scratched his bare chin idly. It itched terribly sometimes, though he was always surprised when he touched his face and found it smooth. The ruin of his beard would take some time to grow back, and he had thought it better—though he was sure that the elders of Mekkah would not approve!—to start afresh than have it grow in unevenly. He looked around, smiling at the discomfiture of many of his men who had suffered the same fate.

Those forty men who had followed him up the Long Stair and survived were beardless, too, and the other Sahaba had taken in grave jest to refer to them now as "the children." Mohammed knew, despite the gibe, that those who had survived the test on the mountaintop had earned an honored place, both in the hearts of their companions and in the eye of the great and merciful God. Any man who placed himself against the dark powers that infested the earth, sullying the Lord's perfect creation, would find a place in Paradise.

"This is the law," he said, turning his attention back to the city fathers, still kneeling on the temple floor before his chair. "The Compassionate One does not seek the sacrifice of goods or gold or children. He offers you a choice—to submit to His will and choose the Straight Path and find the joy of Paradise at the end of your days, or to err into sin and find fire and torment. Each man among you, each man in this world, must make this choice for himself. I have placed this city and all your domains under my protection, and while that stands, you will abide by the law. The law will guide you to the Righteous Way, but you must choose to submit to His will or not, as your heart dictates."

Mohammed gestured to the covered statues and the temple around him.

"This place, and all others like it, will either be turned to the contemplation of the Great and Merciful God, or it will serve the State. These works of art will be taken away. They do not have a place here, nor does any depiction of a form or shape of God. No sacrifice will be made at the coming of the sun, or at the turning points of the year. Five times in each day, you will bow down before the Merciful and Compassionate One and you will pray, submitting yourself to His will. Beyond these things, you will live and work as you did before."

The city fathers remained kneeling, their eyes downcast. Mohammed knew that they were filled with confusion. They may have railed against the rule of the Empire when in their cups, but they looked upon him with naked fear.
The master that is known must be better than that unknown?
It did not matter; he did not intend to tarry here.

"Sit with me, good men of the city." Mohammed gestured for the guards to bring chairs from the nave of the temple. "There is much to discuss, for I will not be here long. First, there is the matter of the taxation of trade that comes through these lands..."

Each hour weighed heavy on his heart, for the voice from the clear air remained with him and urged him to all speed.

An oak leaf fell, its shiny green upper surface flashing as it twisted and drifted in the air. Clear evening light, a cool pale blue, fell upon it. The man Arad watched it flutter past his outstretched fingertips. He tried to catch the leaf, bending his will upon his hand to force it to movement. His hand was a dead thing, frozen, stopped in midmotion, half raised in the air. He stood under a crown of old trees, looking over the crest of a ridge. The slope before him was rocky and strewn with small boulders. The ground was almost bare. Goats and sheep from the village had been grazing along the rise. Tonight, the sky would be clear and cold. Even the sunset was muted, finding nothing to catch its golden glow.

Men's voices came from behind Arad, and he could hear gravel scattering down the slope as they trudged up to where he stood. They came from Lord Dahak's encampment, which sprawled in a confusion of tents and wagons around the village. The sorcerer had finally moved in strength from his mountain fastness, coming down into the highland plains of old Media with nearly twenty thousand men. This time the army was composed mostly of Persians. C'hu-lo had been sent off to the northwest on another errand with his Huns. Had the sorcerer given Arad leave to speak, he would have advised against such a thing. It was not wise to let a T'u-chüeh army wander about unescorted. His desire did not matter; Arad stood frozen, trapped by the will of his master.

Two Persians in felt caps and long black tabards came into his field of view. Each man bore a longsword in an ornamented leather scabbard at his side and a small, round shield slung over his shoulder by a strap. Their beards were cut square in a style made popular by the late King of Kings, Chrosoes, and were thick with ringlets.

"Come along," the first of the two men said. Arad felt sensation and movement suffuse his body with those words. His master's will withdrew for a moment, leaving an invisible trail of smoky black power in the air. The guardsmen motioned down the slope. Arad complied, turning and picking his way over the stones and raw red gravel. In the poor light, a diffuse gray that made everything seem equally indistinct, whether it was near or far, he took his time. The guardsmen, silent and wary, followed him, each a step behind and aside. At the base of the ridge the trees ended, and a pitiful-looking field of wheat stubble began. As he crossed the field, Arad made a cautious effort with his will.

Grudgingly, the mage-sight that came with the first opening unfolded. Now he could see the individual stalks of wheat, the crumbled dry clods of earth, the line of tents ahead, the faces of the men standing watch. In recent days, as he had spent a great deal of time in thought walking beside the wagon that carried his master, some disquieting aspects of his condition had impressed themselves upon him.

Despite the shock of sensation and delight that had accompanied his birth into the service of the sorcerer, he had slowly realized that his native eyesight, taste, and touch were poor in comparison to that enjoyed by living men. Too, there was a grainy feeling that never left him, even with sleep and rest. It seemed that a dirty gray film lay between his mind and all that was around him. He knew, for memory was still etched bright, that the hue of a rose on a marble wall carved with horsemen should be brighter. The taste of fresh water sprung from a mountain stream should be sharper. The touch of a beloved hand should bring a tingling shock. Of all the bindings laid upon him by the sorcerer, he wondered if this was not the cruelest. The pain that came of that, particularly when he allowed himself to think upon the memories of his life before, pierced him. Arad tried to keep the best of those memories bright in his mind, as a bulwark against the constant horror that surrounded him, but it cost so much.

Bright blue eyes in a pale oval face haunted him.