Skull Gate

by Robin W Bailey

  She examined the sword, weighed it in her hand. It was keen-edged, balanced to perfection, a professional's weapon. Kimon could be a professional. She'd observed his technique in Shadamas. But was he an assassin? She kicked at the blanket on the floor. That was certainly Kimon's. But was the blade? Onokratos could be lying for some purpose. He could have planted it in the bedroll. But why? To create doubt, dissension? Again, why? Aki's chamber had been dark that night. She recalled her attacker. He'd been little more than a shadow, but she tried to focus on her impressions. The size and height could be right, but...

  A shout ripped from her, as she flung the sword. It hurtled across the room. The point bit deeply into the wall. For a moment, the haft was a vibrating blur that made a soft, short humming.

  Hot tears streaked her face. She hugged herself and sank down on the bed frame. It creaked with the intensity of her sobbing.

  After a while, when there were no tears left, she tried, prayed, to slip into the blissful oblivion of sleep. It wouldn't come. Numb with misery and uncertainty, she finally sat up.

  Onokratos's book lay forgotten on the floor. There was enough light to read by, though most of the candles had burned to stubs. She opened the tome, scanned a few pages, and barked a short laugh. A grimoire, very basic, full of inaccuracies and ineffective spells. She'd read it as a child at her mother's knee, or a copy of it. More likely, this very book.

  She sank back in the room's only chair and sighed. Sorcerer and wizard. Onokratos had learned too much too fast. He possessed power, but no wisdom; courage, but not good judgment. To strike a bargain with chaos...

  She sighed again.

  What was she going to do about Kimon?

  Chapter Ten

  A gentle shaking woke her. Her neck throbbed with a dull pain; her back felt stiff. One arm tingled from loss of feeling where her head rested on it. She opened her eyes slowly ... to gaze directly into Onokratos's eyes.

  She didn't flinch or look away. She'd had time to think; sleep had calmed her. Eyes are windows to the soul, her mother had taught her. She peered long and deeply, seeking for his soul, if he had one, searching for some insight into this strange old man, unable to ignore the expression of almost fatherly tenderness as he leaned over her. What she saw brought only confusion.

  “I don't believe what you said about Kimon,” she said.

  “I spoke out of anger last night,” he answered. “It's not important.” He turned to the table; he must have set it upright while she'd slept. There was a bottle of wine and two earthen cups. He poured careful measures. “That chair wasn't very comfortable, was it?” He smiled, passed her one of the vessels. “I should apologize for the lack of luxuries. I've never entertained guests here before."

  She rose slowly from the hard chair and stretched, feeling joints pop, cramped muscles ease, sensation return gradually to her limbs. If only the ache in her neck would fade...

  “I'd like to see my friends."

  “Kimon and the old soldier?” He regarded her over the rim of his cup. “Of course. They're waiting for us at breakfast.” That smile flashed briefly again. “You're not prisoners here."

  She sipped the cup of wine he offered her. It was sweet and very good, not a Korkyran vintage, though she couldn't place its origin. Mention of breakfast made her realize how hungry she was. But her host seemed in no hurry; he held the bottle to refill her cup.

  “What are we, if not prisoners?"

  “Guests, as I said,” he responded, setting the bottle aside. “I only acted at the gate to defend myself. You were understandably irate.” He winked. “That's behind us now I hope. We have business to discuss."

  She arched an eyebrow. “Oh?"

  He nodded. “I want to save Kalynda, and you want to rescue Aki. I think I can assume she's no good to you or her people in her present condition. So, let's work together for both children."

  She felt her temper surge and forced it back down with another sip of wine. “You're responsible for Aki's condition,” she reminded him pointedly.

  He dismissed that with a wave of his arm. “To help my daughter I'd sacrifice ten like Aki, or a hundred. I'll not pretend otherwise. I love my daughter that much. I nearly sacrificed you."

  She set her cup aside and covered it with her hand when he offered again to replenish it. “Two nights ago on the forest edge,” she said. “The fireball. That was you?"

  “Gel,” he answered bluntly, “acting on my orders. You were able to negate his power, and you knew how to waken your friends from the doom-sleep into which he cast them. That demonstrates to me that you have some small measure of power and knowledge yourself. So, we may be able to help each other."

  She digested that. Gel, then, was the demon that had attacked them, and Onokratos's familiar. How powerful could the old man's sorcery be? Powerful enough to breach hell and bind one of its denizens. Powerful enough to make himself a wizard.

  “Why should I help you?” She sat back down in the chair.

  He sat on the edge of the table and folded his arms. “Because Aki means as much to you as Kalynda does to me. The only reason you're not at my throat right now is because you harbor the slight hope that what I've done I can undo."

  She drew a deep breath. “Can you?"

  He met her gaze evenly. A moment's silence passed, then he finished off his wine and turned the cup upside down. “I don't know,” he answered. “Not without help."

  “I'm not the kind of help you need,” she snapped suddenly. “The chaos god is a first-order deity; there are lesser gods who pray to him."

  Onokratos came and took her arm, urged her to her feet with a gentle but firm tug. “We'll discuss it over breakfast. I'm hungry, and I'm sure you are, too. Your friends are waiting for us.” He grinned disarmingly. “There hasn't been such a meal prepared in this place since the previous landlords lived here. I don't know when that was."

  She hesitated, turned, and her gaze fell on the short sword where it sprouted from the wall. She hadn't touched it or looked at it all night.

  “I could send him away, if you want."

  She shivered suddenly, aware of all the things that could mean to a man of Onokratos's abilities. “I told you, I don't believe what you said about Kimon.” But she crossed the room, seized the haft, and worked the blade free.

  Her host leaned over her shoulder, rubbed a finger across the splintered woodwork, and shrugged. “Ah, well,” he said with a sigh, “gives it character.” Then he turned back toward the door. “Coming?"

  She scooped Kimon's blanket from the floor, crumpled it into an untidy bundle, and thrust the sword deep into its folds. She put it all snugly under one arm.

  “Since we're not prisoners, may we have our weapons?"

  He closed the door behind as they stepped over the threshold. “Of course, I'll have them brought to the dining hall."

  He led the way through a series of corridors. All the shutters had been thrown wide. Morning sunlight poured in. The air still smelled musty and old, but a mild draft blowing through the halls promised to change that.

  The last passage made her stop and catch her breath. At an earlier time it must have been beautiful indeed. Even now it was awesome. Dusty busts of forgotten heroes stood mutely in niches carved in the walls. Larger niches housed whole sculptures, stone figures now draped in lacy cobwebs and blackened with sulfate. Ornate frescoes rivaling those in Mirashai's great reception hall decorated the ceiling. Beneath a thick carpet of grime, the floor was plainly of fine marble.

  A large set of oaken doors loomed at the corridor's end. Onokratos leaned on them. They flung back with surprising ease.

  The dining hall was as lavish as the corridor, with an important difference: it was clean. A long table ran the length of the chamber with board seating for perhaps fifty guests. The far end of the table was piled with fruits and raw vegetables. She smelled roast meat, and fresh bread too, and her mouth watered.

  Tras Sur'tian and Kimon sat in secret conversation, heads clos
e, ignoring the platters and bottles of wine and water. They wore glum expressions that brightened when they saw her.

  “Samidar!” Kimon leaped to his feet and ran to her, and he swept her up in an eager hug. She returned his embrace, and their lips met with sweet brevity. “I worried about you,” he breathed.

  She answered softly, glad for his warmth even as she felt a chill at the edge of her heart. “It's all right, now.” She looked beyond him. Tras Sur'tian watched, too gracious to interrupt, but his face told her that he was relieved to see her. She detached herself from Kimon and went to him. He clasped her forearm as he would any other Korkyran soldier. “We've grown past that,” she whispered, raised on tiptoe, and kissed his cheek.

  “We didn't know what had happened to you,” he said, pitching his voice low, eyeing Onokratos suspiciously.

  Frost wondered how much to tell him: nothing about Aki, yet. But he'd have to know sooner or later. She repressed a shudder. Coming up behind her, Kimon's hands settled on her shoulders. They stood close together. “Relax,” she assured them. “There's so much you don't know."

  “We can jump him,” the Korkyran suggested.

  She thumped a finger on his chest. “I said relax.” She read the questions in her old friend's eyes, but now wasn't the time to answer them. “We'll talk later. Right now”—she gestured to the table—“I'm starved. This looks great."

  Onokratos had kept a polite distance during their brief talk. Now he came forward, smiling, indicating the benches. “Please, be seated and help yourself. I think you'll find everything to your taste."

  “Our weapons,” Frost reminded him.

  He nodded. “Right after breakfast. First, let's eat while everything is still hot.” He took a place at her right side. Tras Sur'tian gave her a peculiar glance, then sat opposite the wizard; plainly, none of his suspicions had been averted. Kimon sat close by her left.

  They lifted chunks of steaming pork onto trenchers made of hardened slices of bread hollowed to contain the victuals. Mixed with the meat was some kind of cooked grain she couldn't identify, salty but very appealing. She took an apple from a bowl of fresh fruit, filled her cup with water instead of wine. It occurred to her to wonder where all the food came from. She'd seen neither livestock nor orchards on their approach, and the fields were fallow.

  “Gel provides,” Onokratos answered, “whatever I need."

  Frost hesitated, a bite of meat slipped from her fingers. Was it real food or some substance magically conjured? Tras and Kimon looked strangely at her. The Korkyran had eaten only sparingly at first, as if suspecting poison, then with relish when nobody dropped dead. “Is anything wrong?” he asked her, taking note of her reaction.

  She forced a smile. Whatever its source, the food was tasty and filling. No telling when she and her friends might eat again if they refused this fare. She scooped up the bite she'd dropped on the table and swallowed it. “Just a bit of gristle,” she lied, “nearly went down wrong."

  Kimon turned to their host. “Who is Gel?” he said.

  A deep, booming voice answered. “I am Gel."

  They all turned at the sound. For the briefest instant, Frost had the impression of a huge, fire-eyed crow perched in the entrance. She blinked, clearing her vision, and stared at the largest man she had ever seen. Nearly a head taller than Tras Sur'tian, Gel's gleaming black body rippled with sinewy muscle; midnight-colored hair flowed over neck and shoulders; eyes dark and hard as onyx glistened with an unwavering gaze. Frost felt a warm flush as their eyes met.

  Kimon leaned forward, insouciant, and grinned. “Tell me, Gel,” he said, “don't they wear clothes where you come from?” Frost nudged him in the ribs. Clearly, Onokratos had told her comrades nothing of the demon.

  Gel strode forward. In one huge hand he grasped all their weapons. “Your concept of morals means nothing to me,” the creature rumbled. “If nudity offends thee, then be offended. I am unconcerned.” He deposited their possessions at the table's opposite end, sat, and rested his hand on them.

  Tras Sur'tian was obviously intrigued by Onokratos's servant. “What is your homeland?” he asked not unpolitely. “I've not seen your like before."

  The demon barked a short answer.

  Tras reddened. “Hell, indeed. You repay civility with insult, like a dog that nips a poor wanderer's heels. Then back to hell with you, I say.” He returned his attention to eating and looked no more at Gel.

  Yet Frost could not help but look at him. Her gaze roamed the stern angles of his features, the marble smoothness of his throat, the broad expanse of his heaving chest. Again she experienced a rush of heat. The demon was not at all what she'd expected. Beautiful. He was beautiful.

  She glanced at Kimon. He was beautiful, too. On the bench between Onokratos and herself lay the bundle she had brought with her. She'd hidden it behind her back when she'd seen Kimon and had thrust it out of sight when she'd sat down.

  She swallowed a draft of water from her cup. “Sorry you decided to ride with us?” she said to her lover.

  “Not at all,” he answered, regarding the demon over a meaty morsel. “It's been ... most unusual."

  Onokratos leaned forward, wearing a crooked smile. “But all this hardly compares to the pleasures you found in Mirashai, eh?"

  Kimon swallowed his food. “I was only there a short time. Didn't see much of the city.” He drank his wine.

  Her hands trembled ever so slightly. She hid them in her lap. “But you did see the rose garden. You told me so."

  Kimon sat his cup aside. She could feel his eyes on her. “Yes,” he answered finally. “I glimpsed it over the wall as I rode near the palace one afternoon."

  “But it's a very high wall.” She bit her lip. Why was she playing this game? There was no purpose to these questions. She should concentrate on finding help for Aki. She looked up, found Tras regarding her strangely. Her trembling grew. The Korkyran knew the events of the night Aki disappeared. Had her questions awakened suspicion in the old guard captain?

  Kimon gave her knee a squeeze beneath the table. “I confess,” he said, winking, “I stood on my saddle to see. I'd heard of its beauty and of the little queen.” His fingers found her chin, and he turned her head so she had to look at him. He smiled broadly. “And of the queen's guardian."

  But his flattery was no reassurance. She reached for her cup, drank deeply, and set it aside, wished she'd filled it with wine after all. But Kimon saw how her hand faltered and caught it between his own. Her flesh felt cold next to his. His features creased with sudden concern.

  “Samidar?"

  She pulled away, no longer able to hide her shivering. A numbness settled over her, a chill that penetrated her bones. Her hand fell on the bundle at her side. She didn't believe Onokratos, she didn't! She dug among the blanket's folds. Her fingers curled around the haft of the short sword. She squeezed her eyes shut, unable to deny what she felt: doubt that rose like a wall between her and Kimon.

  She placed the blade on the table. Light shimmered on its keen edge. Tras Sur'tian stared questions at her, but she ignored them. “Is this yours?"

  A range of emotions danced over Kimon's face. Then he went as impassive as stone, as if the life had drained from him. His hand hovered near the hilt, then retreated to his lap.

  Onokratos rose from his seat. “Give them their weapons,” he said to Gel. The demon stood. The swords and belts clattered as he gathered them.

  “I love you, Samidar,” Kimon said weakly, forlorn.

  “Frost?” Tras Sur'tian looked from one to the other, aware something had passed he was not part of. Yet, he suspected. A darkness clouded his features; his eyes bored into her.

  A massive arm reached over her shoulder. Her sword belt fell on the board with her pouch, then the silver-link belt from which hung the scabbarded Demonfang. Another hand caught hers before she could claim them.

  “Assassin!” Tras Sur'tian leaped to his feet, kicking back his bench seat. With a hoarse shout he reached across
the table and seized Kimon by his tunic. The hand that had trapped Frost's wrist opened. It closed again on the hilt of the arcane dagger.

  Kimon flailed, off-balance, as Tras Sur'tian dragged him through the scattering meats, vegetables, cups. “Murdering bastard! You're the one who came skulking like a cur in darkness to Aki's bedchamber!” He jerked the blade free of its sheath.

  Demonfang's high-pitched wail filled the hall. Too late, Frost shouted a warning. Kimon stared wide-eyed at the shining blade and redoubled his effort to free himself from the crushing grip that pinned him by the throat to the table.

  Tras Sur'tian also stared in horror at the thing he held. He groaned, unable to relax his ringers and let it fall. His hand began its plunge, but he caught it with his other hand, releasing his intended victim. The dagger shrilled a higher, urgent note.

  Frost witnessed the battle Tras Sur'tian waged within himself, one hand fighting the other. It was a war fought in the span of heartbeats. Tras's will began to fade as the unholy screams assailed his ears. No man was strong enough to resist: once drawn, Demonfang had to taste blood.

  Yet she couldn't stand by and let either friend die on that hell-whetted point. In a bound, she cleared the table and caught her old friend's arm. Her momentum sent them crashing to the floor. Tras fell on top of her, his weight crushing the breath from her. Demonfang, still clutched tight in his fist, descended toward her heart. Desperately, she trapped his wrist in both her hands and strained against his formidable strength.

  Then Kimon was behind him, grabbing the Korkyran by the neck, dragging him off her. She gulped air as she lashed out with a foot. Tras Sur'tian went sprawling. Kimon, moving lithely, pulled her to her feet. They whirled as one, crouched to fight.

  The expected attack never came. Tras Sur'tian stared. blank-eyed, at Demonfang, the point aimed at his own heart. It must taste blood, a voice roared in Frost's brain, either your enemy's—or your own. She leaped again, moving without thinking.