Skull Gate

by Robin W Bailey

  They crawled behind it and sat quietly, bow at the ready. Kimon stuck the other shafts point first in the ground near at hand, easy to reach. They had a fairly unobstructed view of the place where the tracks were found.

  Time crept by. Her legs began to stiffen and cramp. Worse, the sound of water so near made her thirsty. She licked her lips. An ant crawled on her hand; she slapped it off. Flies buzzed her nose. She tried to keep still, but all the annoyances! She leaned back, trying to relieve the incessant tingling in her calves. A twig snapped as she shifted her weight.

  “Quiet!” Kimon whispered.

  She stood up. “I've had enough,” she announced. “This is boring. We came to hunt, and so far all we've caught are flies. Not my idea of a tasty meal, nor Tras's either, I'll warrant. I'm hot and dirty and thirsty, and I'll not spend another instant crouched in these dusty bushes.” She pushed through the thicket, headed for the stream. The cool sweet water would quench her thirst.

  “Just a little longer,” he called.

  “Forget it."

  She kneeled and touched her lips to the water, drank deeply, washing the dust from her parched throat. If she didn't get anything to eat, the water would stop her stomach's grumbling. Kimon dropped beside her and drank, too. She sat up and watched him.

  He bent far over, his tail high as any bitch dog's. Suddenly she recalled an earlier impulse. A small, tight smile flickered on her face. The bow lay between them on the ground, the arrows, too. She picked one up and felt the point with a finger. Wonderfully sharp.

  Kimon gave a choked yelp, grabbed his backside, tried to leap up, but lost his balance on the slick bank, fell headfirst into the stream. She roared with laughter and clapped her hands gleefully.

  Kimon sputtered, glowered at her, waist deep in the drink. “What was that for?” he shouted.

  “Because you're so smug,” she answered exultantly. “And because you needed a bath. The only thing worse than the flies in that thicket was sitting so close to your stink. You must have been on the road for days before we met you!"

  “You're no rose from the queen's garden, either!” He launched a barrage of water, drenching her.

  She got up, dripping. “You're right; we both need a bath.” She unfastened her sword belt, then the belt that held Demonfang's silver sheath. She placed them carefully on the grass. Kimon tossed his own weapon belt on the bank, then peeled off his soaked tunic, wadded it, and threw. She ducked barely in time.

  Her garments came off. Her bare breasts shone, small and palely piquant in the daylight. Other women would have wished for bigger ones, she knew, but she was satisfied, even glad at those times when she needed to pass for a man. She tugged off her boots and breeches and jumped in. The cool water sent an immediate tingle through her. She shivered, but it felt so good!

  Kimon turned at the sound of her splash. He had waded out into the middle of the stream. Stream? It was really a small river. The water that rose to the tops of her shoulders lapped gently at the brown nipples on his chest. His arms treaded water, though she was sure he was touching bottom. She wrapped her own arms about herself for warmth and met his gaze. Another shiver passed through her, though not caused by the water's chill. He came closer. She backed away.

  “Frost,” he said softly. The breeze stirred the branches overhead. A ray of sunlight fell on him, igniting his face with a shining luster, making the drops in his dark hair gleam. The water diamond-dazzled around him. She caught her breath, bit down on her lip.

  She had never wanted a man before! There hadn't been time, going from city to city, looking for food or a place to sleep, just trying to keep alive. Other men had sought her favors, but she'd scorned them or fought them off.

  She knew that look in Kimon's eye; she'd invited it by her brazenness. No matter that the water came to her shoulders. He knew she was naked, had seen her strip on the shore. She felt fires rise in her cheeks. Her muscles tensed, ready to fight or flee.

  Yet, by all the nine hells, she wanted Kimon! Whatever the confusion she felt, she wanted to touch him.

  His sky-blue gaze was soothing as he wrapped her in his arms. She trembled, no matter how hard she tried not to. He pressed her close; she could feel his strength, the heat of his body next to hers. She gave a little, laid her head against his chest. “I'm afraid,” she admitted softly, almost to herself.

  It was true. She thought she'd conquered fear, squeezed it out little by little and replaced it with a kind of fatalism that said nothing worse than death could happen to her.

  But this was different; she knew it, and was afraid.

  She was supposed to be cold, distant, detached from everything and everyone. People believed she was that; the songs about her sang of it. Frost, that was her name. But lately, people were getting through her walls, penetrating all the defenses she'd so carefully erected and maintained over the years. Aki, Tras Sur'tian, Oona, they'd all touched her somehow, sparked some dormant part of her she'd tried to shut away. Now, there was Kimon. She felt his lips in her hair, his bare chest against her breasts.

  A sudden anger smoldered in a corner of her mind. She opened herself to these people, and they were all demanding things! Aki demanded rescue or vengeance; Tras Sur'tian demanded the bargain that meant her life if Aki couldn't be found. Oona had also demanded rescue. Not by word, of course, not one of them, but by the strengths of the bonds she had allowed to form. And now, if she permitted this new bond, what would Kimon demand?

  She moaned with resignation and desire. It didn't matter; she didn't care. His lips came down against hers. She kissed him back clumsily, fiercely, begging, daring, challenging herself to do less, knowing she could not.

  He lifted her and carried her to shore, placed her gently on the pile of her garments, and rose to remove the rest of his own. She had seen naked men before; it was impossible not to on the battlefield. But she remembered none so beautiful as Kimon seemed, with sunshine pouring through the swaying tree limbs, weaving patterns of shadow and light on his rampant form. He bent over, embraced her, showered kisses on her until she quivered and burned. At the first touch of his maleness, though, she nearly stopped. Her hands clenched his hips. Again, fear rose strong in her, and she wondered: If she shared this with Kimon, what else would he require of her? Then she forced the thought away. That fear was born of her nightmares, not of this moment. She closed her eyes and arched her body to take all Kimon had to offer.

  Afterward, Kimon returned to the stream to wash himself. A strange, rare warmth flooded him, but his brow furrowed. He turned away from the woman who sat watching him on the bank.

  He thought about a fat purse of gold coins, Rholarothan klugats, back in his saddlebags. Payment, he reminded himself. He was an assassin, and the woman was his mark. He'd missed her once in Mirashai and then she'd vanished. Instinct alone had led him to follow the tracks of the palace's guard captain the morning after Thogrin Sin'tell was murdered.

  There had been opportunities to complete his task. Yet there was something about the woman that fascinated—no, excited—him. He'd never known a female who could handle a sword, let alone face him down in a dark, private chamber. What a stroke of genius, he'd thought when he'd come to her aid during that trouble in Shadamas and had thus won her confidence. How easy, he'd reasoned then, it would be to befriend and kill her at his leisure.

  But he had tricked himself. What had seemed a clever plan was becoming something else. He had won her trust all right. And her friendship and more.

  He laved water over his chest absently, staring into the distance, seeing nothing and everything, reflecting.

  He had known whores before, but they had never loved him so fiercely. He might have strangled her in the middle of their lovemaking and earned Rholf's pay, and yet passion was all that had fired his thoughts. Even now, he felt his body stirring again.

  Trust, friendship, love.

  When had he known such things before? When had anyone ever offered him so much? He shook his head; it didn't mak
e sense!

  What was Rholf to him, anyway? An employer, certainly nothing more. A user and a coward who hired others to dig the dirt. Well, what if he chose not to dig for once?

  He looked back at the woman on the shore, watched as she dressed and smiled at him. Could all the water in the stream ever wash his hands clean?

  Gods, she made his blood burn!

  As they made their way back to where they'd left Tras Sur'tian, Frost noticed a decidedly pleasant odor in the air. Her mouth began to water, and her pace quickened. Kimon hurried along beside her. Neither spoke of what had transpired.

  They found Tras curled up against a tree trunk. A fire at his feet sizzled as grease drippings fell into the flames. He wore a contented expression, and his hands were folded across his stomach. Half a rabbit had made him jovial.

  “Have some.” He indicated the remains on a spit. “It's getting a little bit overdone, though, so hurry."

  Frost looked at Kimon. Kimon looked at Frost. They both looked at the bow and arrows they carried, then at Tras's catch. They'd brought back nothing at all.

  “Some hunters.” The old soldier grinned. “I waited until my gut threatened to break out and go hunting on its own, then I took some rope and made a snare.” He nodded to Kimon, who had gone to his saddlebags and was rummaging. “You'll find some of that dried fruit missing. I used it for bait.” He waved a hand encouragingly. “Go on, help yourselves. Fattest rabbit I ever saw."

  Frost moved toward the fire, but suddenly Kimon stood up and threw something deep into the woods. There were several brief dashes among the branches, as of sunlight on metal.

  “What was that?"

  Kimon shrugged and moved toward the rabbit, tying a nearly empty pouch to his belt. “Nothing,” he answered. “Something I no longer wanted."

  Chapter Seven

  The sun slipped toward late afternoon. Frost threw a last handful of dirt on the embers; a wisp of smoke rose, dissipated. They'd wasted too much time in this glade, and she chided herself. That meant riding late into the night to make it up. Yet, was it really time wasted? She felt more at peace with herself than she could ever remember. She stood slowly and stretched.

  Kimon had removed the bowstring from the makeshift weapon. He carried it to her, made a loop of it, and placed it around her neck, tucked it inside her tunic. “Never know when you might need it again,” he said. His hands lingered on her shoulders, saying more. They caressed with their gazes.

  “Never know when I might need it again,” she echoed softly.

  His smile was answer enough. She longed to throw her arms around him, to feel his strength and warmth again. All the walls were down, now. Whatever the price, she was willing to pay. How had she lived in solitude so long, shutting herself away from the joys and passions that others allowed themselves? Kimon brushed her cheek. She pressed his hand more firmly to her face, kissed his palm.

  Then she noticed Tras Sur'tian. He stood watching, looking over his saddle as he prepared to mount. She released Kimon's hand and took a hasty step back. Don't look at me like that, she pleaded silently. I've done nothing wrong, don't accuse me. But she could see the doubt in her old friend's eyes, the sudden suspicion, and the subtle flare of anger that glinted there. Kimon saw, too; defiantly, he reached out to touch her again.

  She caught his hand and took another step away. Maybe all the walls weren't gone after all. Did it matter what Tras Sur'tian thought? She knew that answer before the thought was even completed. Tras was her friend; they had shared much together. Nothing was more important than friendship.

  But she and Kimon had shared much as well. That was important, too.

  Tras said nothing, but climbed into the saddle. His eyes never left her, those eyes that said more than words. Then he turned his horse and rode slowly off. She stared disbelieving at his back.

  Kimon touched her shoulders. “Forget him,” he whispered close. “Let's go someplace together, someplace away from Korkyra and dead queens and kings and meaningless quests. We're good together, and we can be better."

  She shook her head, went to Ashur, and gathered his reins. “I can't,” she said simply, sadly.

  “Why not, what's that old man to you?” He came behind her and caught her shoulders again. For a moment she allowed herself to lean on his chest. Then she straightened.

  “A friend.” There was a note of pain in her voice as she spoke. “I made a promise to him, and I won't break it."

  “Just a friend?” The cold edge of his scorn was an icicle in her heart. “Well, what am I?"

  She turned before he could continue; her hand covered his lips. “A friend,” she answered quickly. “Be my friend. Lovers are a thing of the moment. We were lovers by the river, and maybe we'll be lovers again. I hope so, with all my heart. But I won't desert Tras Sur'tian now, and I won't desert Aki. She's my friend, too. I owe them for that friendship. Don't you know there's a price on everything?"

  He stared, saying nothing. There was hurt in his eyes, laced with anger or bitterness or both. She looked away. Tras Sur'tian was still visible in the distance.

  “They're my friends!” she pleaded.

  Kimon rubbed a hand along his cheek, collecting a bead of sweat that trickled there. His lips drew in a tight line. Then he said, “Guess we'd better mount up before he gets too much of a start."

  She threw her arms around his neck. “Thank you,” she whispered urgently in his ear. “Thank you, friend!” She kissed him long and hard as he'd only recently taught her to kiss.

  He pulled back suddenly. “Hey, do you want to follow him or not?” He was grinning again, that grin she was coming to love so much.

  She leaped, caught a stirrup, swung a leg over, and mounted Ashur before Kimon even moved. “For someone who moves so fast you're awfully slow,” she said, laughing. “Last one there...” Ashur sped off, raising dust.

  Tras Sur'tian kept his gaze straight ahead as she rode up beside him. She could hear Kimon's hoofbeats close behind. Moments later he joined them, taking position at her left hand. “We're still with you, old dog,” she told the Korkyran. He said nothing but nodded and pursed his lips.

  Kimon began to sing.

  Night found them deep in the hill country of the Dah'labba region. They'd made better time than Frost dared hope, but now they were forced to stop and rest. The treacherous terrain shifted and dipped underfoot. If they continued without light to show the way, it would only be a matter of time before a horse broke a leg.

  Kimon dismounted first and rubbed his backside. Tras Sur'tian followed, his armor creaking. Frost rose in her stirrups, stretched, but gave no indication of getting down.

  “Need some help?” Kimon offered his hand.

  She shook her head. “No, I'm not too tired, yet. Think I'll scout ahead just a way."

  Tras Sur'tian cast down his cloak. “We're a long way from Kephalenia,” he said. “These hills go on for miles with nothing in them but animals and insects and a hermit woodsman or two."

  “Don't go,” Kimon asked, soft-voiced. “It's too dark.”

  “I'll be all right,” she assured him. But his concern sent a rush of warmth surging through her.

  “I was thinking of your horse. He could get injured.” She smiled at his lie. If Kimon only knew: Ashur could take care of himself. Darkness meant nothing to his bizarre eyes. “I'll be fine.” She bent to touch his cheek. “Don't worry. Tras, take care of him. I'm growing fond of his black, curly head."

  “I've noticed,” the Korkyran answered with a smirk. “But I doubt that's all you're fond of.”

  Kimon grasped her hand. “I'm coming with you, then.”

  She put a foot on his chest. The gesture said more than words. She was used to doing things on her own. However she felt about Kimon, she didn't need his protection. Right now, what she needed was some time alone to think about things.

  “Just make a fire so I can find my way back,” she instructed. Not that she needed that. Ashur wouldn't get lost. But maybe Kimon w
ould feel better if he thought there was a beacon to guide her. She looked for the moon, but trees and hills hid much of the sky.

  Tras touched Kimon's shoulder. “You have a lot to learn about women,” he said, “especially this one.” To Frost: “Go on, I know your moods. You've put up with ours enough to earn a respite from our company."

  “Make a fire,” she said. “I won't be gone long."

  She rode into the night, down a long slope, into a small valley. Trees rose on either side of her. The grass sparkled with dew. Despite a light chill, she left her cloak tossed back from her shoulders, enjoying the breeze that kissed her throat and face. Insects chirruped in the branches; a night owl flew across her path. Ashur moved surefooted, avoiding the ruts and holes and loose rocks. The pools of flame that served him for eyes flickered, cast an amber glow on the earth.

  There was no path; she rode where she pleased. The ground began to steepen. She climbed a hill. At its summit no trees grew. She gazed back the way she'd come and thought she could just make out a small fire in the far distance. The wind blew hair in her eyes.

  She dismounted, started to walk. Ashur followed on her heels, the huge ebony spike that sprouted from his forelock bobbing near her back. So quiet, she reflected. Kimon's songs were a joy on the road, but there is pleasure in silence, too.

  She spied the moon low in the eastern sky. It hung over the peak of a hill, a pale teardrop striving toward fullness. She recalled another night when she'd regarded the moon. Aki had disappeared that night.

  Let her be alive, she prayed to her gods. Tak, patron of witches, let her live! Skraal, whose name means vengeance, deliver me her murderer if she is dead!

  She closed her eyes, let the anger ebb from her. If only it were that easy, to pray to the gods and have your prayers answered. But gods did nothing for men who did nothing for themselves. And if you did for yourself, then there was no need for gods and praying was a waste of time.