make a fire, for no enemy of ours will ever find this place."
Khadames watched as the sorcerer rode past with his wagon and the long coffin of gold and lead that had ridden in it, securely fastened with ropes and chains, from the gates of dead Palmyra. The memory of cold yellow eyes remained with him. He even fancied he could still see them hanging in the air when the dark shape had turned away. The Persian reached down to the travel lantern slung on a leather strap by the pommel of his saddle. At least light would be allowed them for this camp.
—|—
The moon had risen by the time Khadames made his way out of the camp and onto the road that wound along the side of the stream. For a few moments it had gleamed down over the jagged ridges that ringed the valley, but then the clouds had swallowed it. In that time, Khadames had seen that the valley was broad and fertile, filled with great stands of trees and meadows among the crags. On every side it seemed that impassible cliffs stood as a rampart of stone, closing all entrances save the great gate at the dam. Khadames had ordered guards posted there as soon as the last of his men had entered the valley. The sorcerer had claimed that none could follow them in their long journey through the mountains, but the Persian general was not so sure. Where one man walked, so might another.
Of the 20,000 men who had stormed the walls of Palmyra three months before, he had counted only 516 as they passed through the vaulted gates of the valley. Every man was worn to the bone from his long trek. Still, he wondered why they had come. Some, he thought, followed him as their captain. Others were drawn to the dark Prince and his terrible power—those men Khadames watched closely, for they had come out of the deserts to join them during the flight from Syria. Others, like the Uze mercenaries who had served as the lord's bodyguard since the great battle at Emesa, seemed content to draw their pay and follow. The others? They had fled in the darkness during the march, or deserted in whole regiments whenever the little army passed a city. Some had died during the long journey, and those had been buried in unmarked graves. Khadames raised the travel lantern, letting its wan yellow light spill out on the road before him, and rode up the valley.
In the few moments he had taken to post his sentries at the dam-gate, Khadames had seen that the massive towers and the broad battlement had been abandoned for many years. Small trees grew in cracks among the mighty stones, and a deep drift of leaves and dirt had accumulated on the valley side of the wall. The four heavy gates themselves—monstrous constructions of oak and iron and steel rivets—were frozen open in their posts. It would be a great task to pry them free and set them to close again.
Too, the road, while canted in the Roman style and marked by stone gutters on either side, was showing signs of wear. The first bridge over the stream had nearly collapsed, forcing Khadames to dismount and carefully walk his horse across it. How the dark Prince had gotten the wagon over was a mystery—but, then, around that creature were many mysteries. Khadames crossed a second bridge, and the road began to climb up out of the valley. The night air was still, hushed, even a little stuffy. It seemed odd, for a strong breeze blew through the tunnel in the gate. Now the road cut up the side of a long slope, marked by great stone pylons on the outer side. In the flickering light of the lantern, Khadames saw that great chains once had hung from rings screwed into the stone. Dry streaks of rust were all that remained of them.
The road turned back upon itself, still climbing, and at the turn, Khadames passed over a broad circle of fitted stones and pavement. Whoever had first occupied this hidden valley and raised these mighty works were well-accomplished stonemasons and builders. Slowly, as he rode up the long road, as it turned upon itself and turned again, he
Khadames watched as the sorcerer rode past with his wagon and the long coffin of gold and lead that had ridden in it, securely fastened with ropes and chains, from the gates of dead Palmyra. The memory of cold yellow eyes remained with him. He even fancied he could still see them hanging in the air when the dark shape had turned away. The Persian reached down to the travel lantern slung on a leather strap by the pommel of his saddle. At least light would be allowed them for this camp.
—|—
The moon had risen by the time Khadames made his way out of the camp and onto the road that wound along the side of the stream. For a few moments it had gleamed down over the jagged ridges that ringed the valley, but then the clouds had swallowed it. In that time, Khadames had seen that the valley was broad and fertile, filled with great stands of trees and meadows among the crags. On every side it seemed that impassible cliffs stood as a rampart of stone, closing all entrances save the great gate at the dam. Khadames had ordered guards posted there as soon as the last of his men had entered the valley. The sorcerer had claimed that none could follow them in their long journey through the mountains, but the Persian general was not so sure. Where one man walked, so might another.
Of the 20,000 men who had stormed the walls of Palmyra three months before, he had counted only 516 as they passed through the vaulted gates of the valley. Every man was worn to the bone from his long trek. Still, he wondered why they had come. Some, he thought, followed him as their captain. Others were drawn to the dark Prince and his terrible power—those men Khadames watched closely, for they had come out of the deserts to join them during the flight from Syria. Others, like the Uze mercenaries who had served as the lord's bodyguard since the great battle at Emesa, seemed content to draw their pay and follow. The others? They had fled in the darkness during the march, or deserted in whole regiments whenever the little army passed a city. Some had died during the long journey, and those had been buried in unmarked graves. Khadames raised the travel lantern, letting its wan yellow light spill out on the road before him, and rode up the valley.
In the few moments he had taken to post his sentries at the dam-gate, Khadames had seen that the massive towers and the broad battlement had been abandoned for many years. Small trees grew in cracks among the mighty stones, and a deep drift of leaves and dirt had accumulated on the valley side of the wall. The four heavy gates themselves—monstrous constructions of oak and iron and steel rivets—were frozen open in their posts. It would be a great task to pry them free and set them to close again.
Too, the road, while canted in the Roman style and marked by stone gutters on either side, was showing signs of wear. The first bridge over the stream had nearly collapsed, forcing Khadames to dismount and carefully walk his horse across it. How the dark Prince had gotten the wagon over was a mystery—but, then, around that creature were many mysteries. Khadames crossed a second bridge, and the road began to climb up out of the valley. The night air was still, hushed, even a little stuffy. It seemed odd, for a strong breeze blew through the tunnel in the gate. Now the road cut up the side of a long slope, marked by great stone pylons on the outer side. In the flickering light of the lantern, Khadames saw that great chains once had hung from rings screwed into the stone. Dry streaks of rust were all that remained of them.
The road turned back upon itself, still climbing, and at the turn, Khadames passed over a broad circle of fitted stones and pavement. Whoever had first occupied this hidden valley and raised these mighty works were well-accomplished stonemasons and builders. Slowly, as he rode up the long road, as it turned upon itself and turned again, he
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