Gates Of Fire Best Quotes

My name is Matthew Swift. I’m a sorcerer, the only one in the city who survived Robert Bakker’s purge. I was killed by my teacher’s shadow and my body dissolved into telephone static and all they had left to bury was a bit of blood. Then we came back, and I am we and we are me, and we are the blue electric angels, creatures of the phones and the wires, the gods made from the surplus life you miserable excuse for mortals pour into all things electric. I am the Midnight Mayor, the protector of the city, the guardian of the night, the keeper of the gates, the watcher on the walls. We turned back the death of cities, we were there when Lady Neon died, we drove the creature called Blackout into the shadows at the end of the alleys, we are light, we are life, we are fire and, would you believe it, the word that best describes our condition right now is cranky. Would you like to see what happens when you make us mad?

so evenly was strained their war and battle, till the moment when Zeus gave the greater renown to Hector, son of Priam, who was the first to leap within the wall of the Achaians. In a piercing voice he cried aloud to the Trojans: "Rise, ye horse-taming Trojans, break the wall of the Argives, and cast among the ships fierce blazing fire." So spake he, spurring them on, and they all heard him with their ears, and in one mass rushed straight against the wall, and with sharp spears in their hands climbed upon the machicolations of the towers. And Hector seized and carried a stone that lay in front of the gates, thick in the hinder part, but sharp at point: a stone that not the two best men of the people, such as mortals now are, could lightly lift from the ground on to a wain, but easily he wielded it alone, for the son of crooked-counselling Kronos made it light for him. And as when a shepherd lightly beareth the fleece of a ram, taking it in one hand, and little doth it burden him, so Hector lifted the stone, and bare it straight against the doors that closely guarded the stubborn-set portals, double gates and tall, and two cross bars held them within, and one bolt fastened them. And he came, and stood hard by, and firmly planted himself, and smote them in the midst, setting his legs well apart, that his cast might lack no strength. And he brake both the hinges, and the stone fell within by reason of its weight, and the gates rang loud around, and the bars held not, and the doors burst this way and that beneath the rush of the stone. Then glorious Hector leaped in, with face like the sudden night, shining in wondrous mail that was clad about his body, and with two spears in his hands. No man that met him could have held him back when once he leaped within the gates: none but the gods, and his eyes shone with fire. Turning towards the throng he cried to the Trojans to overleap the wall, and they obeyed his summons, and speedily some overleaped the wall, and some poured into the fair-wrought gateways, and the Danaans fled in fear among the hollow ships, and a ceaseless clamour arose.

When a man seats before his eyes the bronze face of his helmet and steps off from the line of departure, he divides himself, as he divides his ‘ticket,’ in two parts. One part he leaves behind. That part which takes delight in his children, which lifts his voice in the chorus, which clasps his wife to him in the sweet darkness of their bed. “That half of him, the best part, a man sets aside and leaves behind. He banishes from his heart all feelings of tenderness and mercy, all compassion and kindness, all thought or concept of the enemy as a man, a human being like himself. He marches into battle bearing only the second portion of himself, the baser measure, that half which knows slaughter and butchery and turns the blind eye to quarter. He could not fight at all if he did not do this.” The men listened, silent and solemn. Leonidas at that time was fifty-five years old. He had fought in more than two score battles, since he was twenty; wounds as ancient as thirty years stood forth, lurid upon his shoulders and calves, on his neck and across his steel-colored beard. “Then this man returns, alive, out of the slaughter. He hears his name called and comes forward to take his ticket. He reclaims that part of himself which he had earlier set aside. “This is a holy moment. A sacramental moment. A moment in which a man feels the gods as close as his own breath. “What unknowable mercy has spared us this day? What clemency of the divine has turned the enemy’s spear one handbreadth from our throat and driven it fatally into the breast of the beloved comrade at our side? Why are we still here above the earth, we who are no better, no braver, who reverenced heaven no more than these our brothers whom the gods have dispatched to hell? “When a man joins the two pieces of his ticket and sees them weld in union together, he feels that part of him, the part that knows love and mercy and compassion, come flooding back over him. This is what unstrings his knees. “What else can a man feel at that moment than the most grave and profound thanksgiving to the gods who, for reasons unknowable, have spared his life this day? Tomorrow their whim may alter. Next week, next year. But this day the sun still shines upon him, he feels its warmth upon his shoulders, he beholds about him the faces of his comrades whom he loves and he rejoices in their deliverance and his own.” Leonidas paused now, in the center of the space left open for him by the troops. “I have ordered pursuit of the foe ceased. I have commanded an end to the slaughter of these whom today we called our enemies. Let them return to their homes. Let them embrace their wives and children. Let them, like us, weep tears of salvation and burn thank-offerings to the gods. “Let no one of us forget or misapprehend the reason we fought other Greeks here today. Not to conquer or enslave them, our brothers, but to make them allies against a greater enemy. By persuasion, we hoped. By coercion, in the event. But no matter, they are our allies now and we will treat them as such from this moment. “The Persian!

All I can offer is this (without a single remembrance or image, or even incoherent wisp of correspondence), even so I knew, in those eradicated moments, and I know still: That there, there outside the gates of any physical state or world we may inhabit, something is—which, being so unlike, so beautiful and radiant and eternal—can never be transported into living life, not even by a word. Brighter than fires, more soft than fur, better than the best—nameless, non-communicable, absolute. And, without a bookmark in our hearts or brains to enable us to find it while here, yet there—there it nevertheless is, and will be ever. There is nothing to fear or to regret. There is no end. Only always a Beginning—that not even the most lucid scripture, or most transcendent art (even that of the Scarlet Lily, Cremisia Ranaldi) can recreate. We touch upon it, yes, I believe we do, in our greatest poets (which is why, if only as a ghost, she could undo the door). In the best of love or joy, that too—but all of this is a shadow. The shadow of the Nothing which is Everything.

It’s like lifting—when you’re deep in a set, your arms are shaking and you’re a melting candle of pain that’s burned down to zero; you got nothing left to give. And in that darkest moment you cry out, ‘Lord, I can’t!’ and a voice comes out of the darkness and says, ‘But I can.’ That’s the still, small voice that comes in the night. That’s the sound of something bigger than yourself. That’s God talking. And he says, ‘You are not alone,’ and enfolds you in wings of the eagle, and he carries you up. But first you have to burn away everything that doesn’t matter. You have to burn away leg warmers and New Age crystals, and Madonna, and aerobics, and New Kids on the Block, and the boy you’re sweet on in school. You burn away your parents, and your friends, and everything you ever cared about, and you burn away personal safety, conventional morality. And when all that is gone, when everything is swept away in the fire and everything around you is ash, what you have left is just a tiny nugget, a little kernel of something that is good, and pure, and true. And you pick that pebble up, and you throw it at the fortress this demon has built in your friend’s soul, this leviathan of hatred and fear and oppression, and you throw this tiny pebble and it hits that wall and it goes ping . . . and nothing happens. That’s when you’ll have the hardest doubts you ever had in your life. But never doubt the truth. Never underestimate it. Because a second later, if you’ve been through the fire, you’ll hear the cracks start to spread, and all those mighty walls and iron gates will collapse like a house of cards because you have harrowed yourself until all that’s left is truth. That’s what that pebble is, Abby. It’s our core.

At last I said good-night and stepped into the corridor, startled to find London waiting for me. “I was told you were here,” he said, by way of explanation. “It’s late, and you’re off duty,” I pointed out, bewildered. “I’m sure I can make it to my quarters unharmed.” “Nonetheless, I’ll accompany you.” There was no humor in his tone, no desire to engage me, and my apprehension grew. When we arrived at my quarters, he followed me into the parlor, and I wondered why everyone was behaving so strangely tonight, for despite how well London and I knew each other, he would normally have waited for an invitation before entering. “London, what are you--” He cut me off, closing the door. “Alera, you must know that this war is far from over.” “What are you talking about?” He considered me for a moment, then approached to lay his hands on my shoulders, gazing into my uneasy brown eyes. “I realize that since Narian came into our lives, you and I have not always been on the best of terms. You have not always agreed with me, and you have not always trusted me. But I beg of you to do so now.” I took a deep breath to steady my nerves, for his intensity was disconcerting. “Please, London. Just tell me what’s going on.” “I know that you and Narian are betrothed,” he said, confirming my suspicion. “This increases the difficulty of your position, but it is imperative that you do as I say.” He released me and untied a small pouch from his belt, then took my hand, pressing it into my palm. “Pour this into a goblet of wine and give it to Narian when he comes to you tonight.” “Why?” I choked, feeling faint. “Because he is the only one who can stop us. And because you are the only one he won’t suspect. Please, Alera, you must do this for me. For Hytanica.” “But what are you going to do?” I demanded. “What exactly is it I’m doing for Hytanica?” He strode to the window, gazing out at the last streaks of light cast by the setting sun before turning around, his face in shadow. “Tonight, we will take back our kingdom. Halias and his men are positioned to take care of the Cokyrian sentries on the city wall. Once that’s done, we’ll lock down the gate.” His voice was calm, but forceful. “We’re ready for them, Alera--do you realize we outnumber them? We’ve been planning this for months, but Narian can thwart us. The magic the Overlord taught him is too great. He is unnaturally strong, as quiet as the mist, can conjure fire, cause pain with a wave of his hand and has an array of potions at his disposal. You are our only hope of success.” I bristled at his assumption that our goals were the same. “Why would I do this?” I angrily demanded. “People will die. My people, Narian’s people. You’re setting them up to die, and for what? An attempt that will fail! Let me talk to Narian, negotiate for more freedoms. I love Hytanica as much as you do, but this is foolish--no, this is reckless.” “This is going to happen. Just think of how many people will die if Narian is unleashed.” “Narian is not a monster.” “Narian is a weapon.” We glared at each other until it seemed time had stopped altogether, then London stepped toward me. “Sides aren’t easy to pick. But you know which one needs you the most.” “And what if Narian doesn’t come to me tonight? What then?” “He will.

Lady Meliara?” There was a tap outside the door, and Oria’s mother, Julen, lifted the tapestry. Oria and I both stared in surprise at the three long sticks she carried so carefully. “More Fire Sticks?” I asked. “In midwinter?” “Just found them outside the gate.” Julen laid them down, looked from one of us to the other, and went out. Oria grinned at me. “Maybe they’re a present. You did save the Covenant last year, and the Hill Folk know it.” “I didn’t do it,” I muttered. “All I did was make mistakes.” Oria crossed her arms. “Not mistakes. Misunderstandings. Those, at least, can be fixed. Which is all the more reason to go to Court--” “And what?” I asked sharply. “Get myself into trouble again?” Oria stood silently, and suddenly I was aware of the social gulf between us, and I knew she was as well. It happened like that sometimes. We’d be working side by side, cleaning or scraping or carrying, and then a liveried equerry would dash up the road with a letter, and suddenly I was the countess and she the servant who waited respectfully for me to read my letter and discuss it or not as I saw fit. “I’m sorry,” I said immediately, stuffing the Marquise’s letter into the pocket of my faded, worn old gown. “You know how I feel about Court, even if Bran has changed his mind.” “I promise not to jaw on about it again, but let me say it this once. You need to make your peace,” Oria said quietly. “You left your brother and the Marquis without so much as a by-your-leave, and I think it’s gnawing at you. Because you keep watching that road.” I felt my temper flare, but I didn’t say anything because I knew she was right. Or half right. And I wasn’t angry with her. I tried my best to dismiss my anger and force myself to smile. “Perhaps you may be right, and I’ll write to Bran by and by. But here, listen to this!” And I picked up the book I’d been reading before the letter came. “This is one of the ones I got just before the snows closed the roads: ‘And in several places throughout the world there are caves with ancient paintings and Iyon Daiyin glyphs.’” I looked up from the book. “Doesn’t that make you want to jump on the back of the nearest horse and ride and ride until you find these places?” Oria shuddered. “Not me. I like it fine right here at home.” “Use your imagination!” I read on. “‘Some of the caves depict constellations never seen in our skies--’” I stopped when we heard the pealing of bells. Not the melodic pattern of the time changes, but the clang of warning bells at the guardhouse just down the road. “Someone’s coming!” I exclaimed. Oria nodded, brows arched above her fine, dark eyes. “And the Hill Folk saw them.” She pointed at the Fire Sticks. “‘Them?’” I repeated, then glanced at the Fire Sticks and nodded. “Means a crowd, true enough.” Julen reappeared then, and tapped at the door. “Countess, I believe we have company on the road.” She looked in, and I said, “I hadn’t expected anyone.” Then my heart thumped, and I added, “It could be the fine weather has melted the snows down-mountain--d’you think it might be Branaric at last? I don’t see how it could be anyone else!” “Branaric needs three Fire Sticks?” Oria asked. “Maybe he’s brought lots of servants?” I suggested doubtfully. “Perhaps his half year at Court has given him elaborate tastes, ones that only a lot of servants can see to. Or he’s hired artisans from the capital to help forward our work on the castle. I hope it’s artisans,” I added. “Either way, we’ll be wanted to find space for these newcomers,” Julen said to her daughter. She picked up the Fire Sticks again and looked over her shoulder at me. “You ought to put on one of those gowns of your mother’s that we remade, my lady.” “For my brother?” I laughed, pulling my blanket closer about me as we slipped out of my room. “I don’t need to impress him, even if he has gotten used to Court ways!

Poem of the Phalanx (Perception as Visual Personal Art) Memories, shard, intersect and twitch, Create images anew as they inter and switch. Amid blackness eternal, the ground breaks the day And the shape which cuts the ground— Phalanx in time—reapers way. 5 Thoughts as geometric planes galley the night mind, Images thoughted, float raging ever by. Comets to the mind–bolt outta the black they mortise and fly– Disappear they do–into their midnighted cry. (Yea, evil is wrought from the want of the want of Love’s lost ought. 10 Goodness wrights of the abundance of Love in blood ’twas bought. —Live the moment within God’s Mind too, For once missed she will pass by you. But He alone shall remember thy days, For in His Heart He will hold thy ways. 15 (. . . Surmount untold; reproaching its summits hidden self face, Can’t make for a daydrop of lost opportunity and regret’s disgrace. Yes, eternities of regrets can never create The day’s bested instance that was forsaked). Fleets of illusion harbor and snag, 20 Bristled spears impale with emotive jags. Willish anvil beaten and enhammored in bers red embs, Guards the hellgates unhinged in forged remembered contems. (Aye, the anvil of will beaten and wrought Sentinels the gate ripped in forged oughts). 25 Phalanx of dreams penetrate they deep, Guard thy soul they do lest the enemy storms thy keep. They rancor and barb thyself under penalty of arms, And kill the dragons that would do thee most harm. Yea, in the Belly of the Beast thy wounds do feel pierced, 30 For Love Eternal must cut darkness as the Spirit is so fierce. The hour of shadows exalt—! ’Gainst the Christ in His plain splin‴try array– Yet curshed in a moment on that ill-fated day. The way of caution doth forbear to tread beyond the mire In those bleak hours when the ‘Powers that Be’ seek to solace thee in thy soulish desires. 35 Mercy travails deep upon the Fires of His Winds To heal by His cut; His own everlasting His– Is to die to Love Eternal with He, –as He now does and is . . . Hell for others, heaven for some, His work ’tis finished all given and in all thrust done. 40 As Love rejoices His shed blood run red for thee—, —Things Divined and precioius for you and for me forever in He (The spear that killed Him gave Him life –the enemy’s travesty). Phalanx comes, phalanx goes, Wither are thou—dost thousest know? 45 Are ye pierced through and through out within? Seek his face so life may begin Sharp keys to hell the warriors doth say, Yet unlock they the gate to heaven’s pathway. End

If brute force wouldn't suffice, however, there was always the famous Viking cunning. The fleet was put to anchor and under a flag of truce some Vikings approached the gate. Their leader, they claimed, was dying and wished to be baptized as a Christian. As proof, they had brought along the ailing Hastein on a litter, groaning and sweating.  The request presented a moral dilemma for the Italians. As Christians they could hardly turn away a dying penitent, but they didn't trust the Vikings and expected a trick. The local count, in consultation with the bishop, warily decided to admit Hastein, but made sure that he was heavily guarded. A detachment of soldiers was sent to collect Hastein and a small retinue while the rest of the Vikings waited outside.  Despite the misgivings, the people of Luna flocked to see the curiosity of a dreaded barbarian peacefully inside their city. The Vikings were on their best behavior as they were escorted to the cathedral, remaining silent and respectful. Throughout the service, which probably lasted a few hours, Hastein was a picture of reverence and weakness, a dying man who had finally seen the light. The bishop performed the baptism, and the count stood in as godfather, christening Hastein with a new name. When the rite had concluded, the Vikings respectfully picked up the litter and carried their stricken leader back to the ships.  That night, a Viking messenger reappeared at the gates, and after thanking the count for allowing the baptism, sadly informed him that Hastein had died. Before he expired, however, he had asked to be given a funeral mass and to be buried in the holy ground of the cathedral cemetery.  The next day a solemn procession of fifty Vikings, each dressed in long robes of mourning, entered the city carrying Hastein's corpse on a bier. Virtually all the inhabitants of the city had turned out to witness the event, joining the cavalcade all the way to the cathedral. The bishop, surrounded by a crowd of monks and priests bearing candles, blessed the coffin with holy water, and led the entire procession inside.  As the bishop launched into the funerary Mass, reminding all good Christians to look forward to the day of resurrection, the coffin lid was abruptly thrown to the ground and a very much alive Hastein leapt out. As he cut down the bishop, his men threw off their cloaks and drew their weapons. A few ran to bar the doors, the rest set about slaughtering the congregation.  At the same time – perhaps alerted by the tolling bell – Bjorn Ironside led the remaining Vikings into the city and they fanned out, looking for treasure. The plundering lasted for the entire day. Portable goods were loaded onto the ships, the younger citizens were spared to be sold as slaves, and the rest were killed. Finally, when night began to fall, Hastein called off the attack. Since nothing more could fit on their ships, they set fire to the city and sailed away.97 For the next two years, the Norsemen criss-crossed the Mediterranean, raiding both the African and European coasts. There are even rumors that they tried to sack Alexandria in Egypt, but were apparently unable to take it by force or stealth.