The Gate of Fire (67 page)

The army of Lord Dahak had found a camp among the foothills of Mount Alvand. Snowcapped peaks rose up just to the west, and the village was sheltered in a rich valley that spilled down toward the plain of Ecbatana in the east. They were close enough to the city to reach it in a day of marching, but not so near as to draw unwanted attention. The village was a trim collection of whitewashed brick buildings with canted roofs. Some of the scouts had reported that a ruined palace lay just west of the town, choked with brambles and willow saplings. Some of the Huns who had followed C'hu-lo now ghosted through the pine forests and ravines of the valley, keeping a watch for the sorcerer's enemies.

Arad entered the camp. Men clustered in front of their tents, eating and talking, hands busy cleaning weapons and armor. They looked up at him as he passed. Nearly all wore the black tabard of their master—a long plain garment of dyed wool with a hole for their head and open on the sides. It was worn belted, with a leather girdle closed by an iron buckle in the shape of a curled serpent that bit at its own tail. The front of the tabard was plain and dark, but upon the back the busy needles of the women of the mountain had stitched a single half-curled red serpent. The camp had an uneasy air, for Lord Dahak had ordered his army into the south without explanation. They had marched down out of the grim mountains without complaint. Even the lack of horses that made most of the men march afoot had not roused a grumbling word.

A single tall standard, a long trailing flag of black with a wheel emblem upon it, stood at the entrance to the sorcerer's tent. A palisade of iron staves surrounded the pavilion, making a clear space on all sides. There was one gate through the paling, though there was space enough between each stave for a man to pass. Arad knew that no man in the camp had tried, nor would any dare. The iron strakes were carved with thousands of tiny incised glyphs in the spiky cruciform lettering that the sorcerer favored. Arad felt the air tremble as he passed through the gate. It grew chill, but his step did not falter.

"Ah... our most beloved servant attends us."

Arad stopped, standing still and quiet, his hands clasped behind his back. This was the will of the figure that lounged in a seat of bone at the center of the tent. Upon leaving the fortress of Damawand, the sorcerer had adopted a regal costume—long black silk pantaloons thrust into the tops of tooled kid-leather boots of dark curdled red. He habitually wore a shirt of fitted iron mail, composed of interlocking metal lozenges, though Arad knew that no blade of steel could kill this thing in the shape of a man. Each link of the mail had been enameled with indigo, and it shimmered in the light of the lanterns like the skin of a snake. Over this armor he wore a voluminous cloak with a peaked hood. The cloth was thick and heavy and it made a dry rustling sound as he walked. It, too, was indigo as pure as the night sky. Despite all this, and the thin circlet of gold that he wore on his high brow, he still remained clean shaven. His pale skin gleamed like a candle against the firmament of his clothing.

"You see, Khadames, he comes most readily when we summon him. He is the most loyal of all those who follow us."

Arad remained silent, for no word had been addressed to him. From the corner of his eye he could see that the stocky general remained impassive in the face of Lord Dahak's banter. The general had adopted a stance with his feet apart and his face schooled to a calm impassivity. He had a helm of painted steel, conical and pointed, under one arm. Arad could feel the tension in the older man, radiating like the warmth of a charcoal brazier. Streaks of gray had begun creeping into the general's thick black beard even during the short time that Arad had been awake and aware of him. Khadames' face seemed graven in stone, and he stood like a mountain.

"Arad, my beloved, come sit with me." Dahak indicated an empty chair close by his side. It was plain and wooden, without cushions or ornamental carvings. Arad did not blink, but stepped to the chair and sat, folding his hands in his lap.

Dahak turned again to the general, his long thin face suffused with a wicked delight.

"You see? He is the most dutiful of men."

Dahak stood, gliding to his feet, letting the long robe fall behind him. He motioned to a man who had been squatting in the shadows by the door of the tent. The sorcerer brooked few servants, but those he maintained were well schooled in remaining invisible until desired. The man who came forth was bald, short, and gnarled, with a twist in his shoulders. His face and arms were marked with many thin scars, each making an odd, shiny ridge on his dark skin. He carried a ceramic bowl covered with a gauze cloth that steamed in the cool air. The man also had a bag slung over his shoulder. Dahak turned his chair of bone so that he could face Arad.

"Begin!" The sorcerer leaned forward, all attention on the small, twisted man.

The man placed his bowl on the ground and opened the leather bag, taking out shining, well-honed knives and curved lengths of metal. He removed glass bottles filled with odd-colored liquids and two cloths. A wooden box burnished dark with wear and about nine inches long on a side followed. Arad remained motionless in the chair, staring straight ahead. The will of his master held him tighter than any vise. The twisted man uncorked one of the glass bottles and moistened a cloth with the fluid inside. This done, he rubbed the cloth over the whole of Arad's head, coating it liberally with a clear, gel-like substance. When the man reached Arad's eyes, still open, he raised a razor-thin eyebrow and carefully closed them with his thumb.

In sudden darkness, Arad could feel the man at his shoulder working. After a moment, there was a rasp of metal, and then the man began carefully shaving the fine down of hair from Arad's neck and face. Arad, by custom long engrained, went clean shaven both on face and head by nature, but this man seemed intent on making sure that not a single hair remained on his pate. The curved shape of a razor wielded with exquisite skill glided over Arad's skin. When this was done, the man moved away and then returned with a warm cloth. With swift, sure movements, the man scrubbed all of the remaining gel from Arad's face, head, and neck. A pause followed, marked by a faint
tink
and the rattle of razors and knives being carefully put away in the wooden box and the leather bag. Water or some other fluid made a splashing sound.

The man bent again at Arad's shoulder, and there was a pungent smell in the air. Another cloth moved slowly over Arad's newly shaven scalp and face. This time the man was very careful to work a layer of oil into and across each ridge, bump, hollow, and opening of Arad's visage. The oil lay heavy on his skin, feeling like a close-fitting mask. The man worked his way around to the back, covering the neck and the back of the skull as well. He ended by swabbing the inside of Arad's nostrils with a small, round-ended wooden dowel. The man was clearly immersed in his work, for he had begun to hum a tune under his breath.

Arad remained patient and still, though in the cell of his mind, he was becoming restless.

The ceramic bowl rattled a little as the twisted man stooped to pick it up. A cloth was laid on Arad's lap, and his hands moved reflexively to take hold of the bowl as it was placed on his thighs. The twisted man paused—Arad could feel him looking across at the sorcerer—and then continued about his business. Warm steam drifted up around Arad's face, and in the cool air the touch was a blessing. The twisted man moved around to the back of Arad's head, and there was a light touch as a sheet of silk was laid over Arad's skull. The fabric fell down just past his mouth, tickling his chin. The leather bag rustled again, and something larger was taken from it. Heavy wood touched Arad's neck and settled there. Something like a yoke rested on his shoulders, coming up almost to his ears. Metal buckles clinked as they were closed on either side, holding it firm.

Arad could hear General Khadames shift his feet, and there was a hiss of indrawn breath.

The bowl moved as the twisted man reached into it. In the cell of his mind, Arad suddenly felt a chill as an old memory began to work its way out of the back of his mind. Very long ago, when he had been a small child living with his uncle in the sprawling metropolis of Alexandria, he had seen such a wooden collar. Something hot and tacky touched the back of his head. The twisted man's hands moved strongly, pressing a thick, waxy substance across the back of Arad's head. The man scooped more material out of the bowl, building it up quickly across the nape of the neck and the line of the skull. The substance was very hot and almost liquid. Some of it seeped down, pooling against the wooden yoke before it stiffened and set. Arad's nostrils twitched, and he knew by the smell that it was fine beeswax. The twisted man quickly covered the back half of Arad's head, then pulled the silk drape back away from his face, laying it back over the wax. Then he shifted around to the front, even as the wax was beginning to congeal and shrink against Arad's flesh.

Wax touched Arad's throat like a hot compress, and his body trembled. In the cell of his mind, Arad remembered what he had seen that long-ago day, and he began to whimper. The man worked swiftly, building up a thick layer of beeswax, pressed close into the flesh, up over Arad's chin, then mouth, then nostrils.

Arad's eyes flew open, defying the implied will of his master. The twisted man was bent close, his fingers covered with wax, his eyes squinting in concentration. Wax covered Arad's nostrils, being carefully moulded into the cavities and around the nose. Then the cheeks were covered. The wax seemed tremendously hot, and Arad's skin felt like it was being burned away. His whole head was almost encased in hot wax, and the heat was incredible inside the mask.

Arad gathered his strength, trying to ignore the sensation of suffocation that clouded his mind. His lungs labored to breathe, his nostrils to inhale, but there was nothing, only a choking sensation. Within the cell that held his mind inviolate from his body, Arad marshaled all the will left to him. A single burning point of concentration gathered, shining like the tip of a hot poker fresh from the forge. He settled his ragged mind, trying to center himself, trying to find some foundation from which to work.

There is no wall that does not have a weakness
. He chanted an old litany from his master. One blow of his will, directed with infinite precision, might rupture the iron bands of thought that held him long enough for him to tear away the wax and take a breath.

The twisted man covered his forehead, leaving cylindrical pits clear where Arad's eyes stared out. His body suddenly ceased breathing, having discovered that there was no air to draw into the lungs. A trembling shuddered through him, making his hands twitch and rattle the bowl. Arad was distracted, feeling the blood suddenly stop moving in his veins. His heart thudded to a stop, leaving blood to lie stagnant in its cavities. The rush of life, sustained by ingrained memory and all the autonomic systems of the body, failed. Arad's thought careened wildly in its cell, filled with a crushing fear of dissolution. The blazing spark of will fluttered and scattered.

The twisted man leaned close, peering into the pits left for Arad's eyes. His quick fingers scooped wax from the bowl and made a matching cylinder. He looked again, his bright black eyes gauging the depth he would need. Arad stared wildly back out. His eyes were still working, though a thin veil had fallen across the world he could see.

The little old man pushed a cylinder into each eye with his thumb, closing off even that sight. The wax burned against Arad's eyelids.

Arad whimpered, his mind folding up into itself over and over and over...

A good road wound down the northern slope of Mount Alvand, broad enough for two carts to pass, with a drainage ditch cut on the uphill side. Afternoon haze lay over the valley below, and the chattering of birds in the trees was muted by the late spring heat. Arad strode briskly, a walking staff of blond wood in his hand and a felt hat with a dimpled crown on his head. His face and skin were still pink and raw from where the wax had been peeled carefully away in two halves by the twisted man and his apprentices. They had seemed very pleased with the casting. Arad's feet were bare, for he had become used to the lack of pain that his current state allowed. Though he would not feel more than the memory of a sunburn, his master judged that he should not peel overmuch, as it might attract flies. A carry bag was thrown over one shoulder with a bowl and some oddments.

He wore the off-shoulder tunic and robe of a traveling priest. That familiar touch soothed him, though the brittle laughter of the sorcerer riding in his mind reminded him that he had wandered far from that path. Arad passed under an arch of oaks, descending down out of the pinewoods into the thick lowland forest covering the feet of the mountain. Alvand towered behind him, rising up in the air to find peaks capped in snow the year round. Robins flashed past on the wing. It was a peaceful afternoon. There was a touch of thought in his mind, and at this command he began to whistle a merry tune.

In his mind, Dahak laughed like winter coming in summer, restless and watching.

Flame curled from broken rock, hissing and spitting yellow in the air. Arad paused, looking down in interest at the cracked shale tumbled below the level of the road. A ridge of toppled stone ran down from the slopes of Alvand, intersecting the High Road as it came from the mountain passes of the west to the gate of the city. The High Road ran toward the sunset like an arrow, heading over the Zagros massif and then down through narrow passes to the great plain of Tigris and Euphrates. This passage was the single fastest way from east to west in the realm of Persia. Armies, kings, priests, merchants, pilgrims thronged it by day. Here, where the road came up over the crest of the ridge on a long ramp of filled stone and rubble, a cliff had slid down, breaking open the earth.

A thick, cloying smell rose from the shale, and the air was filled with odd humors. Fires flickered among the rocks, and one flame burned continuously. In the early evening, now that the stars had come out, it cast an eerie glow over the crushed gravel of the roadbed. Arad resumed walking, his staff making a
tik-tik
sound. At this hour, well after any responsible fellow would be within four walls and under a roof with his feet up before a fire, the High Road was deserted. Soon he would come to the city.