The Gate of Fire (92 page)

"Where?" His blunt tones were sharper than usual, for a fire seemed to have burst into being in his heart. "Tell me, man, or I'll have you flayed to the bone."

"As hasty as ever," came a rumbling voice, like stones falling in a mountain chasm. "In all this time, you've still not learned a hunter's patience."

Khadames swayed on his feet, faint with astonishment. He grasped the side of the man's saddle, unable to believe his ears.

"How...?"

The figure laughed again, and this time the sound boomed from the arch of the gate and startled the guards on the parapet awake. The man leaned down and clasped Khadames' wrist, nearly crushing the bronze armlet with a fierce grip.

"Take me to wine and a warm fire and hot food, my old friend, and I will tell you!"

Over the centuries, fire and earthquake and siege had afflicted the palaces of Ecbatana. They had been rebuilt a dozen times, each new building rising on the foundations of the old. The basements and cellars ran deep, plunging down into the depths of the hill. Khadames descended steps that had been old and worn in the reign of Darius the Great over a thousand years before. Now they were slick with moisture and he kept a hand on the wall for balance. The stairwell was a round drum, dark and filled with the sound of dripping water. Bas-reliefs had once lined the walls, but time had stolen the faces and figures, leaving only a mottled bumpy wall. The general carried a lantern that hissed and spit and let out a foul odor. The citizens of the city were fond of using the thick black fluid that seeped from the broken shale in the hills for lighting. Khadames far preferred a sweet-smelling olive oil.

The stairs reached a stone landing that jutted out over the pit and the general turned, ducking under a door with a triangular lintel. A short passage followed and then it opened into a round chamber with walls made of thin yellow bricks. A squat doorway stood on the other side, nearly closed by a door of heavy bronze. Two figures draped in shadow stood before it. Iron tripods held braziers of hissing coals on either side of the door. A dull red light filled the space and put the iron masks of the door guardians in soft relief.

Khadames ignored the two of the Sixteen and strode between them. The heavy boots of his companion echoed behind him. The guards neither moved to stop them nor queried their intent. They remained motionless, without even the sound of a breath escaping their iron faceplates. Khadames did not know how they differentiated between friend and foe, but the sorcerer seemed to put great store in them. The general put his shoulder to the door and it squealed open, allowing him to step inside.

In eerie similarity to the room deep beneath Damawand, a stone dais stood at the center of the chamber they entered. Lord Dahak stood at the foot of the slab, his thin fingers just touching the shining black surface. On the basalt table, a muscular man with dark brown skin was struggling silently while four of the Sixteen gripped his arms and legs. The sorcerer ignored Khadames' appearance, though the general did not think for an instant that he had gone unnoticed. Two burly men, blacksmiths from the evidence of their leather aprons and soot-stained arms, were fitting a mask of smooth polished iron over the brown man's head.

Khadames stopped cold, feeling his gorge rise. He stepped aside, into the shadow by the door, and stared at the floor. His companion entered, ducking his head as well. The dark-cloaked figure seemed to fill the room, driving back even the presence of the sorcerer. Khadames felt the surprise and then the disapproval of the figure, but neither man said anything.

Metal grated on the table as the mask was finally wrenched into place. One of the blacksmiths reached into a cloth bag at his belt and took out an iron pin. With a quick motion, he slid the pin into a flange at the back of the mask and riveted it closed with two sharp strokes of his hammer. The ringing sound hung in the air for a moment, then faded sharply. Two more pins were inserted and struck closed. Then the four Sixteen stood aside, loosening their grip, leaving white welts on the flesh of the man.

There was a clank as the man sagged back on the table. He lay still.

After a moment, Lord Dahak sighed and moved, his robes rustling like a dry carapace. His long pale fingers flexed and then disappeared into the folds of his cloak.

"Rise, my beloved. Show us your new face."

At the words, the man on the table rose up and swung off the table. His body remained trim and corded with muscle. Bands of gold had been placed on his wrists and a pleated kilt of linen hung from his waist. Sandals of white leather were tied around his feet and laced to just beneath his knee. The mask... the mask was that of a long-snouted dog with high squared black ears. White teeth jutted from the likeness of a snarl and red markings surrounded the eyeholes that pierced the mask. It was large and it must be heavy, but the man stood straight and tall.

Khadames shuddered, seeing the firelight dance on the iron. In this light and in this place, the lips of the mask seemed to move and the metal pulse with life. Laughter filled the room and it was cold as ice.

"Oh well done." Dahak was most pleased. He turned to the door, his pale yellow eyes lighting up at the look on Khadames' face. "Dear General, he is much improved! Do not blanch so, now he shows his true face to the world."

The massive figure at Khadames' side stirred, twitching the long worn cloak back from the hilt of a heavy sword. The sorcerer moved a little, his face growing pensive. For an instant, something like fear passed over the long face. A pale hand rose to the sorcerer's chest and he made a half-bow, though it was with reluctance.

"Greetings, my lord," said the sorcerer. "It has been a long time since we walked under the moon. I feared... I had heard that you were dead."

Khadames felt surprise stir in him, hearing the sorcerer address another as an equal. But then he took heart, for the man at his side wagered with Kings and Emperors. Even the cancer of Lord Dahak must find pause somewhere.

"Fancy that," rumbled that powerful voice, filling the room with its sound. "You are looking well, corpse-walker. I see you have taken the face of a dead man for your own. That seems very bold. Do you think that people have forgotten what you have done?"

Dahak flinched and stepped back, then straightened to his full height. His eyes blazed with anger.

"I am a power now, old friend. I do not serve anyone. I am freed of debt and obedience by sweet death. As are you, should you choose to follow your own path."

"This is so..." The man in the doorway paused, lost in thought. "All that we built is in ruins. It seems that not a day has passed since the Wooden Man was put to death in the wreck of his treacherous dreams. The land is divided again, preyed upon by Hun in the north and Roman in the west."

"Not for long," said Dahak, stepping forward again. The sorcerer's face was grim, but filled with purpose. "Over half of the great Princes have come to bow before the twins. Soon they will marry, sealing alliances that will bind Persia to the house of Sassan once again. This is only a momentary diversion, this time of anarchy and chaos. Order will return."

"Your order?" Skepticism rang in the powerful voice.

"The order of the King of Kings, my friend." Dahak stood, arms akimbo, matching his gaze against that of the massive warrior. "Neither Radiance has yet wed. Their husbands, whoever they may be, will rule as their councilors and guardians. By my memory, I believe that the girl with brown eyes was birthed first, which makes the bridal dower of Azarmidukht the Radiant the whole of Persia."

Laughter rumbled, shaking the stones of the room.

"And you the dear father, dead man? This will be a fine wedding. I wonder if the grooms will be able to stand your blessing kiss when they accept your
daughters
from your hands."

Anger flickered again in Dahak's eyes, but it was quickly suppressed. The sorcerer cocked his head to one side.

"It strikes me, great lord, that your wife lies cold in the ground a goodly number of years. Your sons, too, lie dead by the hand of Rome. No blood of yours remains to take your holdings, to bear your banner in battle. Perhaps you should seek a young wife..."

A chill developed in the air between the man and the thing in the shape of a man.

"These children? These little girls that I held upon my knee and tickled with my beard? Your thoughts are foul, Wizard. Our discussion comes to a close."

"Wait!" Dahak stepped closer again, and Khadames could see that there was the seeming of honesty in that face. "I mean no disrespect, my lord. You are bereft of a wife and these young women—our most precious possession—are desperately in need of a husband to defend their patrimony. All that they stand to inherit, you built in the name of Chrosoes. Without your strong arm, he was nothing, a penniless refugee in a foreign land. Defend his name, his house, his family. Take his daughters as your wives and honor them. In your household, no harm will come to them."

Dahak paused, searching for words. Khadames made to speak, his voice hot, but the man at his side made a slight motion with his hand and the general subsided. The big man waited.

"At one stroke," said the sorcerer, his words and stance free of guile, "you restore Persia. If you do this thing, then there will be no war among the
spabahadan
. No one will dare resist you. One choice and all that is now lost is regained."

Khadames expected the big man to turn on his heel and leave, but the dark-cloaked figure remained. The moment stretched and the general felt a strange silent tension grow in the air. The man at his side seemed to be bending his will upon the sorcerer and, as grains slipped past, Lord Dahak seemed to shrink and become less.

"Yours was royal blood," said the big man after a long time. His tone was sour. "You were their uncle, a long time ago. Would you drive them to the market to be auctioned to the highest bidder?"

"Is that not the way things have always been?" The sorcerer's voice was equally bitter. "Each of us pays a steep price for what we desire. You, of all of us, have sacrificed the most for Persia. Now the time of your reward has come—the foundation of a strong new dynasty, a crown of gold, peace at long last."

The big man stirred, raising a scarred hand to smooth down the thick, tusk-like mustaches. Khadames swallowed, sensing that his old friend was now seriously considering the situation.

"There will be no war with Rome," said the big man, at last. "We shall bide our time. Too many have died in the service of Empress Maria's revenge. The people must have a reprieve, harvest must be gathered, earthworks repaired, order restored in our own house, the borders strengthened. I have heard that the Huns grow bold."

Dahak bowed in obedience, his arm sweeping out. "As you command, O King of Kings."

The big man laughed at that, a huge booming sound like a temple bell ringing.

"King of Kings! I had not thought to hear that..."

The sorcerer smiled, seemingly genuine. He knelt on the hexagonal slabs that covered the floor, and the Sixteen knelt as well. Even the brown-skinned man in the beast mask knelt.

"Hail the Light of the World, Shahr-Baraz, the Mighty Boar, King of Kings,
Shahanshah
of Persia. Hail!"

The words rolled around the chamber and then died away. Shahr-Baraz tugged at his mustaches, looking down upon the sorcerer and his minions with interest. Khadames scratched the back of his head, unable to speak. The world was turning upside down.

The Boar turned to his old friend and grinned, his big white teeth gleaming in the torchlight.

"Well," he said, his voice bubbling with merriment. "The mule of fate kicks like a very devil, does it not? Come, old friend, I must send a message to my men in the hills lest they think that I have been taken captive."

"You have men in the hills?" Khadames' eyebrows rose in dismay. His patrols had been tasked to quarter every copse, valley, and draw for twenty miles in all directions for possible enemies. The gathering of strength to the twin Empresses would gain the attention of many enemies. "How many?"

Shahr-Baraz squinted and counted on his fingers. At last, he smiled and held up both hands.

"More than ten thousand. All of my Immortals who made it out of Kerenos River and whoever we picked up on the way home."

"Ten thousand? The Immortals?" Khadames sputtered in astonishment. His scout commanders would feel the lash on their backs if this were true. "Where are they?"

"Here and there," shrugged Shahr-Baraz. "Many are in the camps just outside the city." He wagged a finger at Khadames. "Your lookouts and scouts are spending too much time looking for
armies
of men. We trickled in ten and twenty at a time, all hidden in the cavalcade of petitioners, jumped-up provincial governors, and second sons who have been flocking here."

Khadames sighed. At least he wouldn't have to bear the burden of command any longer. Just having his old commander at his side made him feel relieved. The Boar turned back to the sorcerer, who had stood silently, his hands hidden in his cloak.

"Let us leave this noisome pit," said Shahr-Baraz. "Let us go up and speak with these Empresses and see about the business of a wedding."

Dahak bowed again, smiling. "As you say, O King of Kings."

Long shadows fell across the ashy gray surface of Via. Men in plumed helmets, brassy armor, and dull red cloaks rode slowly, their eyes searching the fields on either side of the road. The sun was dim, shrouded by a thick brown haze in the sky. With each step, the horses' hooves raised little clouds of fine gray-black dust. Tiny flakes of ash drifted down from the sky in a constant slow fall like snow. Charred trees jutted from the fields like black posts. The hedgerows and low fieldstone walls were scorched or burned down to the roots. Nothing moved in the dead land save for the party of soldiers on the road.

Amid the red cloaks, Anastasia rode on a brown mare, her face veiled and a hooded robe pulled over her head. Her violet eyes, dark with exhaustion, stared blankly out at the wasteland. She was covered head to toe in dark russet with black edging. The silk over her mouth and nose was already thick with ash. Her escort trotted along at a steady pace.