H
A cold wind blew out of the north, driving sheets of dust before it. Nikos and Anagathios huddled in the lee of a tumbled mud-brick building. Their horses clustered in front of them, tied to stakes driven into the loose sandy soil. The sky was dark, the sun only a dim circle through the howling wind and dust of the storm. The yellow-brown grit got into everything, even when they were, as now, bundled up tight in their robes with scarves over their faces. They sat, not bothering to speak, waiting for the storm to pass. The wind hissed and wailed around the building.
A figure appeared momentarily in the dust, between flying sheets of sand. The figure was wrapped up too and leaned forward into the wind howling out of the north. Nikos made to rise, but Anagathios grabbed his arm and sat him back down. The approaching figure continued to battle against the wind, but finally reached the poor shelter of the wall and sat down heavily next to them. Nikos and Anagathios leaned close, straining to hear.
“… a city of… there.” The figure pointed off into the brown murk.
Nikos shook his head-he couldn’t make it out over the sound of the storm. The figure shouted again but was still unintelligible. Finally the other gave up and settled back against the wall. The horses continued to stand, heads down, and the sand began to pile up around the feet of the three waiting travelers.
The storm passed and the stars came out in a deep blue velvet sky. The sun had begun to set while the trailing edge of the sandstorm had passed. The travelers shook the dust from their cloaks in clear red-gold light. There was still a high cloud of thick dirty brown and the rays of the sun slanted in under it, painting the desert with rich full colors. Jusuf, Nikos, and Thyatis stood at the edge of a canal a hundred yards from the tumbled-down wall. Across the gurgling water of the canal, beyond a belt of date palms and greenery, a great city rose around a broad, flat hill. It had no walls, only a gate that they could see. A huge building rose at the center of the city, a stepped pyramid a hundred feet above the flat roofs of the houses. Sand had invaded its precincts, burying the streets and agora. Pillars thrust from the dunes, leaning at odd angles. The windows of city were dark, the only light a dull orange flame coming from the top of the ziggurat.
“That place has an odd feel to it,” Jusuf said, scratching at his beard, which had finally recovered something of its usual fullness. “There should, be lights, noise, something.”
“And walls,” Nikos added, peering through the night, trying to see if anything was moving in the silent city. “The Arabian desert is not far off-there might be raiders.”
Thyatis felt something too, a prickling at the back of her neck. She looked up and down the canal. The water was a black pit holding the stars, wavering, in its heart. There seemed to be no bridge or crossing.
“Some things,” she said softly, not wanting to draw attention to herself, “do not bear investigation. Get the men mounted up-we press on down this canal. We need a bridge if we’re to get to the Tigris…”
Thomas. Harlan
Dawn was close when the dark engine descended out of the sky. A wailing high-pitched roar and the rush of flames shattered the quiet of the night. Ruddy light scattered over the dunes as it touched down, limbs flexing as they settled into the sand. Flames hissed and then died, leaving the desert quiet again. Molten sand bubbled and popped where the talons of the engine had touched. A door, hinged at the top rather than the side, swung open and pale-yellow light spilled out onto the dunes. Figures climbed out, stretching and groaning after the long flight from the north.
One, taller than the rest, strode to the top of the nearest dune. Two shorter figures followed, one on either side. Beyond the dunes, across rippling white ridges, the shape of a buried city rose, dark and desolate. Behind them other figures were busy unloading supplies and tents from the belly of the engine.
“So,” the first figure said in a conversational tone, “this is the city of the magi.”
“Yes, great lord,” the shortest figure said, a tremulous note in its voice, “the forbidden place. Dastagird of the Kings of old. Once it was the residence of the King of Kings-a city of marble palaces and beautiful gardens- but the priests coveted it and made it their own. Now the gardens are buried in the sand and the palaces are filled with shadows.”
The Prince pulled the cowl of his robe back and shook his shoulders out. He was nervous, but there was little to fear. He had powers on his side too, strong powers.
“Gaius?” He turned to the other figure. The old Roman stood at ease, his hands clasped behind his back. “Suggestions?”
The dead man nodded, his leathery face creased with the smallest of smiles. “First we take a look around, and see what there is to see, Lord Prince. Then we show ourselves. With your permission, the Valach and I will go out tonight and find the lay of the land.”
Maxian nodded sharply, then turned around and de scended the dune. The others were still unloading crates. He was tired and hoped to find sleep soon. Behind him the little Persian took one last look at the darkened city and then hurried after him. Gaius Julius took his time, watching the silent buildings and the empty steps of the great ziggurat for a long time. Two other figures joined him, squatting in the sand at his back. When at last he turned back to the engine, he found both of them waiting for him. The dead man smiled, looking upon his little army. “Alais. Khiron. Are we ready?”
“Yes, lord,” they whispered. “We are ready.”
“Good.” He checked the shortsword at his hip and the fit of the bracelets on his arms. “We go.”
Dust blew in the street, and steppe thistle bounced past out of an alleyway. Gaius Julius strode down the middle of the pavement, feeling the edges of the bricks under his sandals. The sun had just risen when he and his companions entered the city through the eastern gateway. Pale-pink light fell on dark bricks and stone and was swallowed. Beside the wind and his shadow, sprawled out before him on the street, nothing moved. Alais paced him on the right, shrouded in a voluminous black cloak and cowl. Even her face was hidden in the depths of the cloak, only a pale-white shadow peeping out. The creature, Khiron, was on his left, garbed in dark-brown wool and a thin desert robe over that. Khiron’s face, too, was hidden; he had wound his kaffieh around his head, hiding everything but his eyes.
Gaius alone showed his face. He wore only a simple tunic and kilt, with his thick leather belt cinched tight and his sword slung over his shoulder. His leathery brown face was set and his nearly bald head gleamed in the sun. The buildings narrowed, hanging over the street, but then fell away to either side. At the center of the city, a plaza was open to the sky. On the western side of the square, before them, the ziggurat rose up in mighty steps. Gaius Julius halted, the thin fringe of white hair around his head ruffled by the hot breeze. The city was quiet, but Gaius felt that its tenor*had changed since they had come into the heart of it.
“Eyes are watching us,” the homunculus said. Its voice was still raspy and harsh. Even great quantities of pig and calf blood had not restored it to full health. Gaius Julius nodded absently. He felt a familiar tickling sensation at the back of his mind. A brief memory surfaced: a deep-green forest and blue-painted warriors creeping, their long red hair thick with grease and mud. The others made to move forward and mount the flight of steps that led up the imposing side of the ziggurat, but he raised a hand and they stopped.
Gaius Julius stood, waiting, his hands clasped behind his back, his eyes narrow slits against the light. Khiron, as was his wont when action was not required, froze into immobility. Alais drifted closer to the dead man, close enough for him to smell her perfume. It was a bitter scent, reminding him of rose petals that had withered and died still on the thorn.
A man appeared on the second level of the ziggurat. He was elderly, with a long white beard and bushy eyebrows. His skin was very dark and shone like a polished walnut burl. Gaius could feel the power in him. The man was wearing a long dark-blue robe and leaned heavily on a tall staff. His head was bare, allowing his snowy mane of hair to flow behind him.