Arad did not choose annihilation. He chose to continue.

A pressure changed in the air and Arad swam back up out of the inky depths, restoring awareness of sight and sound and the world of physical forms. The Lord Piruz was standing, holding a scarf the color of crushed onyx in his hand. The northerner bent his head over the slim white hand of the Empress Purandokht, taking his leave. He seemed stunned, a beatific smile on his face As he went out, the lean dark shape of the Lord Dahak leaned close, whispering in his ear.

Arad paid no mind; it was the sorcerer's usual wicked business. The triangular shape of a leafy vine on the trellis, glowing with the last rays of the sun, held far more interest.

Bonfires spotted the plain before the lion-gates of the old city. Thousands of tents dotted the fields and ringed the walls. The encampments of the Lords of Persia, even reduced by the slaughter of the war against Rome, were still great. Clouds had covered the sky near sunset and now the night was as black as pitch. The gate passage stood open, flanked by its stone guardians, lit by lines of torches. The general Khadames, the commander of the army of the Empresses of Persia, paced along the paved corridor, deep in thought.

No word had come from the north. C'hu-lo was late in sending a messenger. The Lord Dahak had not confided the substance of the Hun's task to Khadames, but each day the sorcerer swept into the crowded rooms where the general was working long hours. Each day the Lord Dahak leaned on his tall iron staff and raised an elegant black eyebrow to Khadames. All the general could do was shrug and return to the business at hand. Usually that business was settling some ancient dispute between the diquans, freshly renewed by proximity in the camps around the city.

A man on a massive black charger was waiting at the gate itself, shrouded in a midnight blue cloak and a disreputable felt hat. A leather bowcase was slung at the back of his saddle beside a hand-anda-half sword wrapped in ragged cloth. The horse's withers were caked with mud and its coat was spotted and dull. Horse and rider had come a long way. Under the brim of the hat, cold eyes glittered.

Khadames halted at the edge of the light spilling from the gate, his thick arms crossed over his chest. He was tired and footsore from tramping around the barren floors of the palace. He could feel the presence of his bodyguards- a dozen men who had followed him from Damawand- behind him. As was his wont, he was wearing a heavy shirt of iron scale mail. It was like a second nature for him now, after so many years.

"You've news for me?" Khadames squinted at the dark figure. He was getting used to the odd comings and goings that seemed parcel in trade for the business of sorcerers. These days it would be startling if someone showed up not on a secret errand. "From whom?"

There was a muted laugh from the dark shape and white teeth flickered in the shadow under the hat. A hand, gloved in fine metal links over leather, emerged from the weather-stained cloak and tossed something to the general. Khadames plucked it easily from the air and then opened his fist. It was a commemorative, a specially struck coin, octagonal and of heavy gold. On one side it bore the eternal flame of Ahura-Mazda and on the other, along with a line of script, the profile of a man with fierce jutting mustaches. Khadames felt a chill pass over him. He held the coin up to the figure on the horse.

"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. The 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, the 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.