Skull Gate

by Robin W Bailey

  The reception hall was ominous in the darkness. Even the light from the Hand seemed to cast only a tiny pool of amber, which was quickly swallowed by the chamber's vastness. She moved among the carven images of legend, suddenly feeling small and insignificant. Despite herself, she walked with a lighter tread, drew a softer breath.

  One by one, she climbed the ivory stairs to the throne. The emeralds encrusted in the royal seat glittered and gleamed as she approached, and the many jewels diffracted the Hand's light a thousand times. She moved past the throne to the tapestry that hung on the wall behind. Careful to keep the flames away from the ancient draperies, she pushed them aside and exposed the bare stone.

  There it was, the chipped one. Aki had shown it to her only days after choosing her for champion and guardian. Frost laid her palm against it and pressed.

  A section of the wall slid away. She stepped into the hidden tunnel, releasing the tapestries, and tripped the reversing mechanism that closed the secret door.

  The tunnels were as old as the palace itself and smelled it. They led to all major parts of the palace, including the kitchens and the stables. More important, they led to all the private chambers, including the spacious royal suite, which all the rulers before Aki had occupied for hundreds of years. After becoming queen, Aki had kept her own private quarters in the tower rather than sleep in the same bed where Aleppan spies had murdered her father.

  Frost gambled that Thogrin Sin'tell would have no such qualms about claiming the most luxurious rooms in Mirashai, indeed in all Korkyra.

  She knew the way and moved surely, silently along, holding the Hand out for light and using her sword to cleave the cobwebs that hung strewn across her path. Inside the tunnels, the doors whose outer sides were hidden, were easily identified. She paused at a couple of them and listened. Hearing nothing, she moved on.

  She kept track of their number. When she came to the fourteenth she stopped.

  She almost smiled at how easy it had been to get here. Yet the smile faded before it fully formed. Making the Hand had not been easy. It had exacted a great toll on her and a greater toll on Oona, who was no witch and had never dabbled in anything more dangerous than her own healing art. She would remember forever the look in the old woman's eyes when the making was over.

  But the Hand had done its work. Now she had only to get Thogrin's body out of the city and to a private place where she could question him. He'd wake in chains, and she'd make him talk if she had to strip every scrap of flesh from his living body.

  A small spy-hole was set conveniently in the door. Replacing her sword in its sheath, she placed her eye to it. The hole itself offered a very limited field of vision, but a dressing mirror of highly polished metal was cleverly mounted on the wall directly opposite the hole, providing a view of the suite's central chamber.

  She nearly gave a shout. Thogrin Sin'tell was awake! Candles and lamps burned brightly in the room. Thogrin himself sat at a great desk with documents piled high all around him. He set his seal to a paper, picked up another, and settled back to read.

  If she were careful, she wouldn't have to bear the burden of his fat carcass.

  She set the Hand of Glory carefully on the floor. The fingers were half-burned through. She might not be able to use it escaping the city. As the flesh was consumed, the power of the Hand began to wane. For now, though, it was still quite potent, and Thogrin must not be allowed to look on it. She turned away from it, satisfied there was nothing around that the flames might ignite.

  Her sword slid silently from the sheath again, and she pressed the mechanism that opened the door. Soundless gears moved the stone. She sprang through and over the carpeted floor. Quick as she moved, a draft of musty air from the tunnels moved quicker. Thogrin sniffed and turned to find the point of her sword hovering at his throat.

  His eyes went wide and bright with fear, but the warning finger she pressed to her lips and the hard look she gave him were enough to stifle any outcry. Half out of his seat, he sat back and trembled.

  The sword's point lightly touched his chest. Frost reached past him for a document and the quill pen. The tip was wet with ink, and she wrote at the top of the paper. You have guards—send them away. She gestured for him to move to the door that opened into the main corridor.

  He got up slowly, his eyes never leaving hers. His velvet-slippered feet made no sound on the thick carpets, and though in boots she moved as quietly. As he reached for the iron ring that opened the door, the blade jabbed him sharply in the ribs, not hard enough to wound. He understood her meaning, though. She flattened against the wall as he opened the door.

  The guards turned. She heard the clink of their armor and weaponry.

  “No, don't come in,” Thogrin said. “You may retire for the evening. Your service is unnecessary at this hour in such a secure city. Find some wine, share a woman, enjoy yourselves."

  Frost held her breath. When the sentries assented she allowed a tiny smile. Then she saw the way Thogrin rolled his eyes and the subtle gesture he made with his hand.

  A snarl parted her lips. She kicked Thogrin in the stomach and shouldered his folding bulk roughly away from the entrance. Then she jerked the door wide and her sword licked out twice. Two bodies fell, spilling blood on the floor-stones. She stepped over them to check the corridor. Only these two, no other witnesses.

  She dragged them into the royal chambers and shut the door again. Thogrin groaned on the carpet and clutched his belly. She watched him, disgusted, as he struggled to rise, then kicked him in the face, ruining his teeth.

  He looked up at her, blood and tears streaming on his chin. Her incarnadined blade hovered near his left eye. “They didn't have to die!” she hissed. “You sold their lives for nothing!"

  “S-soldiers...” he stuttered, spraying red foam and bits of teeth as he spoke. “Duty to their k-king!"

  “Damn their duty and damn you!” She seized a handful of his dark hair and wiped her weapon clean in it. Fear kept him from crying out against the pain. When the edge was bright again, she stood back and looked at the men she'd killed. She knew them both, good men who'd bought her drinks at the taverns when she'd been a common mercenary. The carpet drank up their life-fluids.

  She turned back to Thogrin and indicated the chair at the desk. “Get up,” she ordered. When he did not move fast enough she kicked him again—cracking ribs, she was certain. His face contorted, the breath rasped from him. “Move,” she said.

  With an effort he rose and struggled to the chair at the desk. He eased very gingerly into it. After a moment, the pain seemed to leave his features. A vague mockery of a grin twisted his torn lips. “Pretty little wench,” he managed. “You'll die very slowly."

  She raised an eyebrow. “You're hardly in a position to threaten."

  His chest swelled. He wheezed as he drew a deep breath. “I am High King of Korkyra."

  “You're a man at the wrong end of a sword."

  He thought about that. “I submit to your higher reason,” he said at last. “How much do you want?"

  Her hand twitched. How easy it would be to lean on her sword and end this insulting pig's life now. She sucked her lower lip. That would not get her what she wanted. “I want Aki,” she answered. “Where is she?"

  Thogrin's grin spread into a full smile. “You killed her; I have witnesses who will testify to that.” He regarded her in a slow, irritating manner, his gaze roaming up her blade, up her arm to her face, down her body. “We thought you'd escaped over the border or taken ship somewhere when we couldn't find you. We gave you a trial, though, and sentenced you to hang."

  She sat on the edge of the desk. The point of her sword drew a thin crimson line upon his collarbone. To his credit, he did not flinch this time. “No games, Thogrin Sin'tell.” She kept her voice calm, cold. “Look in my eyes.” He boldly complied. “I know you have Aki."

  He shook his head. “It's all a game,” he answered, “a game called Power. Aki had it, and I wanted it. Korkyra needs
a man on the throne, not a child."

  Her eyes narrowed. “Where is she?"

  Thogrin lost his smile. “Look for her in hell."

  His eyes taunted her, mocking, and the grin came back. She spat in his face, and his head jerked away as if he'd been hit again. He wiped the spittle with the back of his hand. His look was purest hatred.

  “You didn't kill her,” Frost said. “You haven't the guts. Your kind never has the guts."

  Thogrin Sin'tell shrugged. “Others have."

  She considered that, recalling suddenly the man in the black robes. “It was he who put you on the throne,” she said. “Wasn't it?"

  He shrugged again.

  “Who is he?"

  Thogrin stared at his feet. “I don't think I'll tell you."

  The flat of her blade cracked on his cheek. The impact reopened the cuts on his lips, which had just begun to clot. Blood poured down, spattering his gown. He dabbed it with a sleeve. “Bitch!” he mumbled. He tried to straighten in his chair, to draw himself up. A tongue licked out and collected the blood that threatened to run down. “I'll never tell you, no matter what you do!"

  “You'll tell,” she swore, “and eagerly. Get up.” She'd make him talk, all right, and she knew just how to do it. But not here. If Thogrin was awake, it was possible others were, too. Someone might notice the guards away from their posts and come to investigate. She went to one of the bodies and cut a strip from a bloodied tunic.

  “Turn around,” she ordered when Thogrin was on his feet. He obeyed and she tied the cloth over his eyes.

  “What good is this?” he asked. “I know every part of this castle. I've lusted for it long enough."

  “I've no doubt of that part,” she answered, taking his arm, “but you didn't know about the tunnels.” And there was another reason for the blindfold. She didn't want him falling under the spell of the Hand when she was this close to the answer she sought. She led him to the opening in the wall and into the tunnel, closing the secret door after her. The five-fingered candle still glowed brightly. She seized it and gave Thogrin Sin'tell a push.

  “I can't see!” he protested.

  “Feel with your hands,” she said. “I'll tell you when to turn.” The point of her sword prodded his ribs.

  “Please!” He was almost whimpering. “Let me see! I don't like the dark!"

  She nearly laughed at that. Some king, who feared the darkness like a child. “Tell me what you've done with Aki and the blindfold comes off.” That would suit her. Once she had an answer, she'd whip off his blind, let him look on the Hand, and leave him to waken in the tunnels where even in daytime no light penetrated. He deserved nothing better.

  But he reached out with his hands to feel the wall. “I'll tell you nothing,” he said. “Do what you will."

  “Then move, and quietly, too, or they'll find tunnel rats gnawing your flesh in the morning.” If anyone could find you in these tunnels at all, she silently added. “To your left."

  They made their way back along the tunnels to the reception hall. When she had opened the door, she took his arm again and led him to the throne. He sat slowly, in obvious pain, and tried to muster his dignity. On either side of the dais iron braziers stood empty of flame. She moved to each and touched the lighted Hand to the oil within them. Bright as they burned, she could still not see the far end of the hall. There was plenty of light around the throne, though. The emeralds glittered with reflected fire. She placed the Hand on the floor safely behind the throne where Thogrin would not see its light, then pulled the cloth from his eyes.

  He looked at her, his gaze unwavering, waiting.

  But she ignored him for a moment, remembering something else, something that might help Oona. The emeralds sparkled, hundreds of them encrusting Korkyra's royal seat. Gemstones were objects of power; every dabbler in the arts knew that. And emeralds, she knew, were especially potent, their color associated with the growth principle and the very life-essence of the earth from which they came. She considered, the germ of an idea growing. Kings and queens, rulers by divine right, were also said to have some healing ability. Then royal emeralds should be talismans indeed.

  Talismans enough, perhaps, to help Oona cure a young boy's root-fever if she showed the old woman how to use them. She dug a couple of the green stones free and dropped them in her pouch.

  “Thief,” Thogrin accused disgustedly.

  “With these I may save a life even as I take one,” she answered.

  He folded his arms. Seated on his throne with the warm glow of the braziers surrounding him, he seemed to find his courage. “Mine, I assume?” His voice was light, mocking.

  “Unless you tell me about Aki, your accomplices, everything I want to know."

  He said nothing, just looked askance, resolute.

  “I've no more time to play, Thogrin Sin'tell."

  She sheathed her sword. A look of relief flickered over her captive's face until he saw her reach for the dagger on her hip. She hesitated, fixed him with her gaze, and then yanked the smaller blade free.

  A screaming filled the reception hall, thousands of ghostly voices joined in torment and despair. The sound filled her ears, swelled and echoed in the immense chamber. No matter how many times she heard it, the unearthly din shook her, beat at her senses.

  The room spun dizzyingly. Demonfang trembled in her hand. Its shining blade shimmered in the braziers’ light.

  Thogrin stared wide-eyed in sudden terror, all color gone from his face as he cringed into a corner of his throne. His own screams added to the soul-twisting tumult even as he clapped hands over his ears in a futile effort to shut out the sounds.

  Frost felt a shivering creep up her arm. She fought the sensation, knowing its meaning, knowing there could be no turning back. “Listen—they're the voices of hell, Thogrin,” she shouted, straining to be heard, her face so close to his that she could smell the fear on his breath. “Count yours among them unless you answer my questions!"

  “No!” he cried, unable to tear his gaze from the arcane weapon.

  The wailing grew louder. The tingle in her arm grew more insistent. She had little time left. “Where's Aki?” she demanded. “Tell me, or embrace my blade!"

  Demonfang shivered like a living thing in her hand. The tingle turned to fire and spread raging up her arm, her veins, into her blood.

  “My crown!” Thogrin shrieked.

  Something flickered in the corner of her eye, a flame. No, many torches, she realized, racing into the hall. The night watch had heard the pandemonium. They raced to the dais.

  There was no more time for answers. “Die, Thogrin Sin'tell!” She raised Demonfang to strike. “You cursed dog!"

  “Onokratos has her!” He threw up his hands to stop the dagger's descent. He babbled, spittle drooling on his chin. “She may live yet! I don't know! Find Onokratos in Kephalenia, but spare me!"

  From the moment she drew Demonfang from its silver sheath she knew she could not spare him. The dagger's commanding power coursed irresistibly through her. Demonfang rose, plunged, and tasted his heart's blood.

  In that instant all screaming ceased. A pall of silence closed over the chamber. She drew a breath, her fingers still closed around the hilt as she waited expectantly. It was not finished yet.

  Thogrin gagged on his last breath. His chest heaved, then collapsed. A moment's pause, then bluing lips parted, and the screams began again, all the souls in hell wailing through one dead man's mouth.

  It lasted but a few heartbeats, then she tugged the dagger from his body. Thogrin's blood spurted on her fist, soaked his garments, and stained the royal emeralds as it trickled on the throne.

  It must taste blood—either your enemy's or your own. Once drawn, that was the power and the curse of Demonfang.

  Did even Thogrin Sin'tell deserve such an end?

  A rush of bootsteps and the clangor of steel snapped her alert. There was no more hell-noise to hold confused and faint-hearted soldiers back now. They had witnessed t
heir king's murder. In anger and shame they surged forward to avenge him.

  She sheathed the dagger before its power began to swell again, as it would in moments if left free of its scabbard. The soldiers reached the first of the ivory stairs, howling for her blood. Quickly she reached behind the throne for the Hand of Glory and raised it high.

  They froze in midrush, entranced by the five-fingered light. A spear clattered on the floor, then a sword. A shield fell, rolled on its rim in ever-smaller spirals until it became still. She looked down on them, a chill creeping along her spine. They stood, asleep on their feet, like statues, like the great pillars that supported the hall.

  She descended half the stairs, using the Hand as a torch. She searched their faces one by one. Tras Sur'tian at the forefront of his men gripped his sword, eyes closed in peaceful repose. She looked at him and the Hand, wishing she had not used magic against him. She had forsaken that path years ago, unwillingly at first, later gladly. Now she seemed set on that path again.

  “Join me, Tras,” she whispered in his ear, unsure if he could hear. “Aki lives."

  But was it true? Thogrin only told her a man named Onokratos had Aki. Was Onokratos that black-robe she had seen before with Thogrin the day after Aki's disappearance? Then he was surely a sorcerer, maybe a wizard. But what would a wizard want with a child? One answer dominated her thoughts, made her shiver with dread. She glanced back at Thogrin's sprawling form as it slipped from the throne to the floor of the dais.

  Be patient, she promised his spirit. If your Onokratos has harmed her, I'll soon send you company.

  She set the Hand upright on its wrist on the top stair, wanting nothing more to do with the abomination. It would burn out soon, then everyone would waken at dawn. She could make her way out of the city without it.

  Chapter Five

  The next day's noon sun hung swollen in a perfect sky. Frost sat cross-legged by a rippling stream, leaned, and dipped her hand in the cool water, wiped it across her sweaty brow and neck. A few drops trickled down inside her tunic; they felt good, refreshing.