The Gate of fire ooe-2 Read online

  "Oh," Vladimir said agreeably, squatting down behind the wooden planks. "You've done this before, I suppose. I thought you looked like a sailor."

  Nicholas glared at him out of the corner of his eye. The fog was almost gone. He bent to untie the leather straps that bound the boots to his feet. Sea work called for bare feet on the decking. He began humming a little tune.

  – |"Ramming speed!"

  The shout echoed from the fore fighting tower of the dromon. Nicholas leaned out, oblivious to the whistle of Persian arrows filling the air over his head. The sea was bright, the wave tops brilliant with the noon sun, and a crisp wind blew past. Oars flashed into the dark water, and with each stroke the great ship surged forward. Spray from the bow wave blew back over the marines crowded into the foredeck. Nicholas squinted forward, seeing the bulk of another Persian ship swell before them. The nine-foot-long iron beak that jutted from the front of the Roman warship cut above the water, spilling back bright foam. The dromon charged down into a swale between the long, slow waves and the beak disappeared again in the blue-black depths.

  The Persian, its sail full of the northern wind, began swinging away from the oncoming Roman ship. Nicholas hissed, silently urging the ship on, on toward its victim. The trill of the row master's flute altered, and the oars on the right side of the ship rippled like snakes and rose up for half a beat. The left bank cut to double time, and the dromon danced to the right, a hurtling spearhead tipped with hungry iron. The Persians, crowding the rails of their captured merchantman, began screaming. The flurry of arrows from their ship faltered, then stopped. The crewmen, in dirty wool breechcloths, began leaping over the side. Nicholas grinned again, and kicked Vladimir in the leg.

  The Northerner rose up, gripping the railing to steady himself.

  "Here it comes," shouted Nicholas over the roar of the waters and the thunder of oars in the locks. The Persian soldiers were scrambling away from the side of their ship closest to the great ram. The sea dipped, and the merchantman slid down into a trough. The beak of the dromon broke out of the waters, dripping foam, and then arrowed down with the tilting sea, to stab into the foredeck of the sailing ship.

  Nicholas flexed his knees in automatic reaction to the shock that shuddered through the length of the ship. The decking under his feet jumped a little, and Vladimir swore as the side of his head cracked against the bulwark. The iron ram punched through the pine planking of the Persian ship with a tremendous screech. The booming roar from the dying ship drowned the screams of Persians hurled into the sea by the shock of the collision. The heavy decking shattered, sending yard-long splinters scything across the deck; then the dromon plunged through the wreck like an axe head into a rotten log.

  Nicholas cursed violently and threw himself down. The sudden wave had thrown the dromon into the enemy ship too quickly-the front ranks of oars were still sliding back into the body of the Roman ship. Thirty or more oars on the right-hand side crashed into the Persian ship as it was brushed aside, shattering and snapping like an overbent bow. In an instant the forward gallery was filled with hideous screams. The thirty-foot oars ground through the benches of seated men, smashing bone and crushing flesh. A spray of blood filled the compartment, and bench after bench was torn to splinters. Sixty men died in an instant. The dromon staggered, seemingly stunned by the blow.

  Nicholas staggered up off the deck, oblivious to the wailing cries of the men trapped below. The Persian ship had fouled on the starboard side of the Roman dromon, the remaining oars tangled with the rigging of the merchantman's mast. The enemy ship, its fore torn away, was filling with water at an alarming rate. Those Persian soldiers still alive crawled among the wreckage. Some, weighted down by their heavy scaled armor, had already disappeared under the dark waters.

  Nicholas felt Vladimir pick himself up off of the deck and stand at his side. "Watch for boarders," Nicholas snapped and he slid Brunhilde back over his back into her sheath with a click.

  "What?" Vladimir was still dizzy from the blow to his head. "Where are…"

  Nicholas vaulted the rail and swung down the side of the ship. The dromon was beginning to list to starboard as the Persian ship's hold flooded. Behind him, distantly, like the cawing of black ravens in the low hills of the Dannmark, he heard sailors shouting. He stepped out onto a top-bank oar. It was almost a foot across at this point, though it tapered toward the leaf-shaped blade. A grim smile flickered across his face-here, at least, he could miss an oar and escape being beaten.

  Behind him, he heard Vladimir shouting in dismay.

  He ran forward, springing lightly from oar to oar, his toes gripping the oar-shafts on each step. The oars were jammed up against the Persian ship, offering him a far more stable platform than in the old days. He reached the last intact oar and sidestepped down its length. The deck of the Persian ship, turned almost sideways, was only a dozen feet away. He slid a herring knife out of the sheath strapped to his leg and crouched, his legs balanced on two broken oars. The curving blade-honed to mirror sharpness-cut into the tangled ropes and guy-lines that bound the two ships together. The ropes, even heavy with seawater, yielded to the knife. The sea rose and fell around him, grinding the broken oars into the decking.

  Under the cork armor, Nicholas dripped with sweat. Someone was shouting at him from the dromon, but he refused to listen. A wave came up, and for a moment he was up to his shoulders in the cold, dark waters of Propontis. It slid away, and it took all his strength to cling to the oar. Something heavy slammed into him from the side, and he blinked seawater away to see the crushed face of a man swing past him. He pushed the corpse off with one arm. The ropes were free on this oar.

  He dragged himself up, feeling water sluicing out of his armor. The oar trembled and he jumped to the next-a tangled mass of ropes, broken oars, and part of the Persian mast. Behind him the freed oars slid away, pulled back into the Roman ship by the sailors still alive in the forward compartment. The rigging was greasy under his feet, slick with blood and long ribbons of gray intestine. He knelt, one knee pressed into the stomach of a corpse caught in the ropes. The herring knife bit at the hawsers. A groaning sound seemed to come from out of the water itself. Nicholas cut faster, his hand and the knife a blur. He could feel the dromon tipping farther, the dark water rising higher and higher toward the open oar ports as the merchantman's hold flooded.

  A rope came free, and with it an oar. He kicked it free with his foot, then rolled off the mass of rope and shattered boards into the water as he caught movement out of the corner of his eye. The chill water was a sharp shock against his sweaty skin. A Persian crawled toward him across the wreckage, his chest bare and face spattered with blood. The man had a stabbing spear though, and Nicholas kicked in the water, pushing himself away from the debris. The Persian staggered up on the ropes, his mouth moving with unheard shouts. Nicholas pushed back again, but more broken oars were behind him. The Persian stabbed at him with the spear.

  Nicholas ducked under the water, feeling it close with a slap over his head. Dimly, for the waters of Propontis were thick with the blue-black silt that marked the Sea of Darkness, he saw a bright flash as the spearhead dug into the water and then disappeared again. He tried to dive and swim away from the wreckage. The cork armor was too buoyant, though, and he ground against the broken mast. The spear plunged into the water again, catching him on the shoulder. The armor caught the tip, but now he was driven deeper, spinning to one side, completely submerged. He clawed at the mast, trying to get some purchase. His fingers slipped off the smooth oaken surface.

  – |Vladimir bounced from foot to foot, staring over the rail with mounting concern. The Roman ship was still tangled with the Persian, though enough oars had been cut free to halt the tipping that had threatened to flood the rowing gallery. Roman archers shooting from the fighting towers were cutting down the few Persians left on the foundering merchantman. Still, down in the dark water, amid the flotsam, Nicholas had not reappeared. Too, the Persian that had been stabbing at
him with a spear was still there, kneeling amid the broken timbers, slashing at the water.

  Vlad looked around; the deck of the dromon was swarming with fighting men and sailors. Around them the sea battle was still raging after a brutal day. Hundreds of ships were locked in a slowly swirling melee. Many of the Persian merchantmen were ablaze with the sticky green fire thrown by the Roman ships from arbalests in their fighting towers. Others were trying to flee toward the coast of Chalcedon, but the smaller Roman double-bank galleys were dogging them like wolves. A thick layer of smoke shrouded the sky. No one seemed to have noticed Nick's struggle in the water. Vlad fingered the heavy iron rings of his shirt, then looked around again. No one seemed to be paying him any attention.

  For a moment he argued with himself silently, weighing pro and con. Then he shook his head, sending dark locks flying, and swung up and over the rail. His cavalry-style boots slipped on the top-rank oars, and he staggered, nearly falling. He shook his head again and frowned, concentrating. He slid, half falling, half running, down the oar. As he almost reached the bottom, it rose up out of the dark sea, and he jumped sideways to the next. His left boot struck it squarely and he immediately pushed off, springing into the air. The oars began to back against the pull of the sinking merchantman.

  Vlad staggered, leaning forward, then windmilling his arms to bend backward. The long oar dipped, sliding under the waves. Water rushed up around his feet, and his footing slipped away. Cursing, he crashed into the water. It flooded cold and numbing into his clothing and armor, pulling him down. An oar rose up, swinging back, and Vlad kicked, surging up out of the sea. His arms wrapped around the heavy ashwood shaft. For a moment he broke free of the water, but then the oar dipped again, and now he was dragged under.

  It was dark and cold, but he clung to the oar tenaciously, wrapping his arms around it. It cut free of the water on the upstroke, and-gasping for breath-he flung one arm out. Fingers grazed the next oar as it came up, then dug in, splintering wood away from his nails. Vlad let go and swung out, crashing into the next oar. Breath chuffed out of his chest at the blow, but he held on. The Roman ship edged away from the wreckage. In the gore-drenched forward gallery, the marines were cutting men away from the ruin of the oars with axes and pushing the bodies out of the oarlocks. The tangled oars fell away, too, sliding into the sea. Bodies and wreckage floated on the water, tipped this way and that by the waves.

  Vlad let himself slide to the end of an oar as it dug into the water, then-holding his mouth and nose closed against the cold shock as he went under again-let go as it broke free. Water rushed up around him, dragging at his armor and boots. He kicked strongly, and his arms plowed through the water. The wedge of ropes and timber and bodies was very close. He surged forward, even as the weight of the iron on him dragged him down. The Persian with the spear turned at the last moment as Vlad caught a net of webbing on the side of the debris.

  The Persian shouted and stabbed down at him. Vlad rolled, his left hand tangled in the netting, and the spear point cut the water beside him. His right hand, free, darted out and seized the haft of the spear. The Persian struggled, hauling back on the oaken shaft. Vlad grimaced, the tendons in his arms bulging, and his face locked in a grim mask. The spear twisted in his hand, then suddenly snapped with a sharp barking sound. The Persian staggered back, then stumbled and fell into the ocean. Spray spurted behind him and he was gone. Vlad crawled up, hand over hand, onto the raft. It shifted queasily under him, but seemed to hold his weight.

  "Nicholas!" Vlad's voice seemed thin and hoarse. The sea around him bobbed with debris; broken oars, shattered masts, crates, corpses, the oily shininess of blood on the water. He was exhausted from the tremendous effort. He fell to his knees, digging his hands into the ropes. "Ho, Nicholas!"

  The sea tipped as a wave passed under the raft. The dromon had pulled away, the rattle of its drums echoing across the water. The Persian fleet seemed smashed, broken into a hundred sinking or captured ships. The Roman fleet, its red sails catching the light, seemed behemoths of war, titanic engines washed in blood. Smoke and haze filled the sky, turning the sun into a monstrous red orb.

  "Nicholas!"

  The raft tipped suddenly, and Vlad fell heavily into the welter of rope, broken pieces of wood and corpses that formed it. A hand appeared at the edge of the debris, cut and bleeding, gripping a rope. Vlad crawled over to the edge, lying flat to spread his weight on the noisome island. A face appeared out of the water, sodden and bedraggled. Vlad grabbed hold of the man's shoulder, catching an armor strap in his hand, and pulled him up.

  Nicholas gasped and sputtered, clawing at Vlad's shoulder to get up out of the chill water. He rolled over, clinging with both hands to the feeble collection of spars and tangled rope. Vlad moved aside a little, grinning furiously through the long trails of black hair plastered to his face by the water. Nicholas coughed up water and sneered at the Northerner. "A brilliant… cough… move, my friend. I could have swum back to the dromon, you know, with this armor to hold me up."

  Vlad clapped him on the shoulder, still smiling like a loon. "No matter, my friend. I'm sure you sailors know many tricks of the sea to get us home again."

  The sun drifted into the west, passing behind a thick band of smoke, its vast red shape shimmering and dancing over the rooftops of the distant city. Nicholas rolled over, seeing the sails of the fleet a mile or more distant. The waves rolled slowly up and down. Fine white ash began falling out of the sky as the upper air cooled. Not too far away was a sudden frenzied splashing in the water, then a short scream. Nicholas shaded his eyes against the glare of the sun. A great white shape rolled over under the water, a massive tailfin swinging from side to side, diving deep after seizing its prey on the surface.

  The air filled with the rattle of wings as flocks of gulls and terns rose up at the disturbance. The white birds were streaked with blood on their downy chests and wings. Within moments they had settled again on the water, feasting on the harvest the day had yielded up.

  "Brilliant, truly brilliant."

  "You're welcome," Vladimir said, wringing seawater out of his hair.

  CHAPTER SIX

  The Highlands of Tabaristan, Northern Persia

  A man, dressed in worn robes and grimy armor, looked up out of the shadow of a narrow canyon between towering walls of granite. Far above, a pale strip of sky showed the lateness of the day. He rode a stout-chested warhorse-a Sogdian charger, by the look-and he leaned heavily in the saddle. Weariness was etched in his face and in the line of his shoulders; he had traveled a long road. The clip-clop of his horse's hooves echoed back from the cliffs that hemmed in the narrow trail he followed. Above him all he could see was a jagged strip of blue. He had been riding in deep shade for nearly a day before he came to this place. At his left, below the road, a foaming cataract plunged down the steep canyon, the roar of the waters reverberating among the thick, dark pines and gray-green rocks.

  Behind the man, on the road, a dozen black mules strained to drag a wagon up the pitch. Behind them, hundreds of men slowly followed-they were exhausted too, having pressed hard for a month or more to cross eight hundred miles of desert, desolate mountain, and forest. The wheels of the wagon just fit between the looming cliff on the right, a grainy rock with long, deep crevices in its surface, and the crumbling edge of the canyon itself. The lead man gently kneed his horse, and it resumed its slow walk up the winding road. Despite his weariness, he kept a wary eye on the rocks and cliffs above-the land they had entered bore an ominous reputation, long stained with blood and murder.

  Hidden away behind the barren peaks and ridges of the land, the sun settled into the west, plunging the dim canyon into darkness well before sunset. The sky itself shaded to pink and then purple, while the mountains assumed a diffuse golden glow that threatened to linger even when the sun was gone and the sky was a black pit. The man on the lead horse reined in and raised his hand.

  The wagon rumbled to a halt, and the puffing breath of the mul
es ghosted through the chill air. On the broad seat of the wagon, a dark shape stirred itself and then stood. Deep black robes of silk rustled away from lean arms and a broad chest. The man on the horse turned in the saddle and nervously smoothed his long mustache.

  "Lord? Shall we press on or camp on the road?" Other unspoken questions hung in the air.

  "No, faithful Khadames," a voice whispered out of the darkness. "There is but a little to go. Behind this narrows, a valley opens out, and there, amid sweet gardens and lush fields, we shall find rest. Just a little farther and we come to the end of our long journey."

  Khadames flinched a little at the sound of that rich, smooth voice. In all the long weeks of grueling passage and intermittent horror, nothing troubled him more than the steady and unmistakable restoration of the man in the wagon. Not long ago, before the looming walls of the City of Silk-Palmyra in the deserts of Syria-that voice had been a hoarse croak coming from a smashed and crippled body. Not much more than a corpse had been dragged from the burning ruin of the Plain of Towers. Khadames had commanded an army then, in the name of his lord Shahr-Baraz, and for a brief moment considered with giddy delight that the black sorcerer was upon the gates of death. But he had bent his knee instead, and pried back a blood-caked eyelid to see if life still flickered in the odd yellow pupils. It had, and they had focused upon him and swelled and rippled like the back of a snake, and he held no will but theirs. The moment had passed, and life had crawled or crept back into the shattered body of the dark prince.