Skull Gate

by Robin W Bailey

  She expected the fingers to squeeze, crush out her life. Instead, they began to glow. Tiny flames sprang up, swelled, licked at her. She felt the heat, though her astral Body seemed immune to pain. She heard a scream, then more screams, long and protracted shrieks of despair that grew louder and more anguished as the moments passed.

  Demonfang was in another world, she realized. She knew where these sounds originated.

  Something solid materialized beneath her feet. Through the fire images began to form. Sulfurous rocks near at hand; in the distance, black mountains reared rebelliously against a burning sky. All she could hear was screaming. It rose around her like a wave of despondency. She couldn't shut it out. It bombarded her senses. She stared frantically left and right, trying to penetrate the fiery veil that blurred her vision.

  When her sight cleared, she clapped a hand to her mouth to stifle the cry that bubbled in her throat. The mountains she glimpsed were twisted, fantastic shapes, unearthly. Far worse sights assailed her eyes.

  She stood on a narrow, stony path. On either side stretched vast shallows of liquid flame, dotted by small islands and stalagmite formations. Horrible, malformed creatures splashed and thrashed. Dark smoke whirled in eddies over the surface, choking them. Fumaroles erupted with sudden, explosive power, spewing steam and lava.

  They saw her, those execrable souls of once living men. They began to lurch, wade, swim toward her, arms outstretched and begging, blackened fingers grasping and dripping, eyes imploring.

  The eyes were unbearable, filled with suffering, haunting and ghastly, reflecting things and visions she could not dream of or imagine. She tried to avoid them, but wherever she turned she met those eyes.

  She ran, following the only path, a low and treacherous ridge made more dangerous by streams and puddles of fire. She leaped each obstacle as she encountered it and ran. Everywhere, the creatures looked up and saw her and followed, screaming, tears of fire burning their charred faces. She heard the sloughing of the scalding lake as they pursued, the scrape and rasp of scorched and crusted meat as they dragged themselves over incandescent rock, around steaming boulders, always reaching for her. She grabbed for a sword that wasn't there, bit her lip, and ran.

  In frustration, some of the creatures seized the shining thread of her lifeline. They pulled, trying to break it; when that failed they chewed it.

  She felt no pain. Yet, could she take the chance they might damage the cord and doom her to this place forever? Though swordless, she was not without skills. They repulsed her, and she feared to touch them, but fear of spending eternity among them drove her. She spun, determined to combat.

  Turn not away.

  She whirled again at the sound of another voice. She knew him at once. Orchos, death god, huntsman, lord of the nine hells. He stood on the path, blocking her way. His green eyes flickered with hints of fire. They held her with hypnotic power.

  Welcome, daughter.

  His lips did not move when he spoke, yet she heard him. He gestured to the creatures closing around. My minions work to no avail. They would sever thy soul-thread and keep thee here to share their suffering.

  She found herself in control of her body once more. “Can they break it?"

  The closing of yon portal may snap it. Naught else.

  She swallowed, recalling her reason for traveling here, searching for words to win a god to her cause. “Lord Orchos—"

  He interrupted. The athame thee calls Demonfang brought thee to this lowest, most vile of all hells. Thee need not remain where only the worst of man must dwell.

  From his eyes a thick mist exuded, swirling around her. The lake of fire and its miserable denizens vanished. Streaming damp fog, cold and cloying, obscured everything. She checked the soul-thread. She could no longer see its end or the portal to her world.

  Orchos stepped out of the mist. No longer did flames twinkle in the green of his eyes. They were smoky jade.

  “Lord of worms, where are we?"

  His thoughts were gentle in her head, so unlike what she'd expected from the dread deity. Thee numbers it hell's third level. Above are the levels of reward. Below, of punishment. To this plane only I occasionally hold court for selected souls from other regions of my kingdom. He bowed deeply; mist eddied around his arm as he made a grandiose gesture. And daughter, thee has done me such honor, heaped souls on my altar of steel, that I am bound to honor thee with pageantry!

  At Orchos's beckoning, another figure emerged from the mist. She peered as the newcomer drew nearer. Suddenly, she cried out.

  “Burdrak!” She flung her arms wide to embrace her friend and weapons master.

  Daughter, nay! Thunder in her brain. Her muscles locked; she couldn't move. Thee are yet living, but they are dead. They may not answer thy speech; thee may not touch them. Her body was her own again.

  Burdrak's shade bowed, moved on, disappearing in the mist as another took his place.

  Her heart broke. Astral tears spilled from astral eyes. “Oh, gods, my father!” A trembling seized her as she gazed on those familiar, grizzled features and the sword wound that still gaped in his chest. She clenched her hands tightly against her sides, yearning to feel those arms holding her once more, to kiss those lips that used to smile and tell her stories. “Father, forgive me!” she implored him. Like Burdrak, he bowed and stepped wordlessly past her, vanished.

  The shrouding mist parted for a third time. She knew even before she saw the face. “What game is this, corpse-maker?” she called bitterly as she regarded her brother's spirit. A sword wound also scarred his chest. She'd carved it there.

  No game, daughter. Orchos's voice was a soft whisper, a distant echo of a dying wind. Thee it was dispatched these souls to hell. Their greatest torment is to see thee lives after. Only a small part; not all suffer alike.

  “What of my suffering?” she shot back. “To see but not touch them?"

  The god shrugged.

  She met her brother's gaze. Her heart was ice, unrepentant. “I pray you suffer most of all,” she said.

  Orchos bent a finger. Her brother bowed stiffly and the mist swallowed him up.

  “How great were the sins of my father,” she demanded, “and Burdrak?"

  His eyes crackled with lightning. He moved, and his shadow fell over her. She shivered in the umbra of his power and remembered a day when, as a child, she'd stood on the cliffs of Esgaria and watched a storm approach over the Calendi Sea, wondering with that tingling, innocent thrill if it would blow her away. Orchos was such a storm, beautiful and awesome.

  Thy father came unbidden, a suicide, to my kingdom, he said sternly. Thee needs no more answer. As for Burdrak ... His countenance softened somewhat. Not all hells are for suffering.

  She bit her lip. If her father suffered, it was her fault. Fresh tears filled her eyes. If only she had not come to this dismal place.

  “I journeyed here to seek your help.” She brushed the wetness from her face. “I've found your cruelty."

  Orchos nodded, and the parade continued. She stiffened her spine, prepared to endure it, determined to show no more weakness.

  Some faces she remembered: Than and Chavi, the sons of Lord Rholf, who dwelled in Rholaroth. In a tavern brawl she'd killed one, wounded the other. Apparently, he had died later. For that, Rholf had sent Kimon to exact vengeance. There were few others she recognized. Men slain in battle, she guessed. Each performed the ritual bow and passed on.

  The number surprised her. Still they came. Surprise turned to unease. So much done with a mere length of steel. When a small boy stepped from the fog, she protested angrily.

  “I never harmed a child!"

  Daughter, but thee harmed many children! The pride in his voice filled her with loathing. Thee slew fathers aplenty in thy wars. Wives and little ones starved with no one to provide for them.

  “Carrion-eater! They would have slain me!” She flushed with rage and shame. The little boy bowed, departed.

  Thee are my true daughter, my angel, so
wing doom, cutting a crimson wake where thee wanders. Transported by thy sword these souls were, or by orders thee gave, plans thee made, or by consequences of thy actions. His eyes gleamed; he folded arms over his massive chest. Thee makes me proud.

  She waited stiffly, silently, for the last shade to pass into the infinite mist. Then an odd thing struck her. An icy chill raised the hairs on her neck. She turned sharply to the lord of the nine hells.

  “Where is my mother?"

  Orchos blinked, said nothing.

  “She died by her own hand,” she pressed, “after my father!"

  His tone was chiding. A witch of such power as thee once possessed knows that to a great sorceress death is but another experience, a new source of knowledge, a wellspring of eldritch vigor.

  She clenched her fists to still their trembling. “She lives?"

  His face was an impassive mask. Thee came seeking help, he said, abruptly changing the subject. But thee has seriously failed me in an enterprise.

  “What?” He was rejecting her plea before she made it. That wasn't fair. She had traveled too far, seen too much to be refused without a hearing. “To judge by this court of yours—held in my honor, as you put it—I have failed you in nothing!"

  The demon, Gel, he answered. The mist suddenly swirled around him like a maelstrom. In the guise of a green star I guided thee to his conjurer, expecting you to dispatch the misbegotten human. Thee knows it not, but the wizard has made a pact to set the demon free upon the earth.

  She was barely interested, shaken by the twin ideas that her mother still lived and that Orchos was refusing to aid her in Aki's salvation. “So slay him yourself,” she snapped, then scornfully: “Are you not the true lord of hell and death's master?"

  Yet I am bound by cosmic law, and this was lawful conjuration. I granted that Gel should serve the human.

  She shook her head, not understanding. “But if Onokratos entered into a pact with you, then he is bound by those same magical laws."

  Thunder crackled in his voice. The fool is human! He has broken our pact by making a new one with Gel.

  “If the pact is broken, then why keep your part of it?” she argued sensibly. “Do what you will. Kill Onokratos and reclaim your demon."

  His speech was no longer gentle; it throbbed in her skull, causing pain. I am Orchos! he raged. I am Death! My word is bond and must be kept, even to the mortal spawn that seeks to cheat me, even to a rebel demon that plots to escape the very bounds of my eternal realm. He thrust a finger at her. Again, she remembered that storm she'd witnessed on the Calendi cliffs. It had blown inland, ravaging crops and homes, taking lives. Thee must slay the wizard for me. Only then will Gel be mine to reclaim.

  “I can't!” she shouted, clapping hands to her aching head. “I need him!” Hastily, she explained about Aki and Kalynda, how the chaos-bringer held their souls in bondage, how she hoped to rescue them.

  “For one reason of itself you should help us,” she pleaded. “Gath has stolen two souls that rightfully are yours."

  Only one, daughter, the death lord answered. Spiders are sacred to Gath. The Kalynda-child died from the venom of those creatures; her soul is rightfully his. As for the Aki-child: I will not war with chaos for the possession of one soul. He waved a hand. Speak no more of this matter.

  She felt a tingle in the soul-thread. She looked behind in alarm, but the cord soon disappeared in the fog. She could not see the portal. Desperation gripped her. Time was short.

  “Would you risk it for five?” she challenged. “And for the return of your demon?"

  The god's eyebrows shot upward, a curiously human sight. Explain what thee proposes.

  That echoed softly, painlessly in her head. She knew she'd caught his interest. But the soul-thread jangled now, sending shocks through her astral form.

  “A contest!” she shouted. “If you win, you claim our souls instantly to punish as you will..."

  And if thee wins? He was scoffing, mocking her. His amusement was a tangible sensation in her brain.

  The soul-thread vibrated insistently. She rushed to spit the words out. “You agree to fight Gath for the girls’ souls! To free them to live the natural span of their lives!"

  His laughter nearly overwhelmed her. Her senses whirled, and for a moment the jangling of the soul-thread was forgotten. She covered her ears uselessly.

  But who will fight? he inquired through his laughter.

  “I will fight!” she answered fiercely through her disorientation. “And Tras Sur'tian and Kimon, Onokratos, and Gel!” She felt the soul-thread again, stronger, insistent. “I must go!"

  He waved his hand again. The mists of hell's third level faded. The fires of the ninth and lowest hell licked harmlessly at her silvery flesh. The cries of the tormented assailed her. Far above, she spied the portal, a yawning hole in the blazing sky. She leaped, feeling the soul-thread contract, pulling her toward home.

  Whom shall I send against thee? Orchos's mocking laughter resounded in her skull.

  The portal grew rapidly as she sped toward it. The jangling in her lifeline did not ease; it spread through her. She flew as swiftly as she could, terror-stricken that the portal might close before she reached it. Would her soulless body become like Aki's, then, animalistic?

  Whom? The question echoed again.

  “All your hordes of hell!” she screamed. “Or anybody!"

  Heat and fire dissolved. She raced through inky blackness, the same void she had traversed before, following the shining, glistening soul-thread.

  Death's vast, leering face suddenly blocked her path; he extended his arms as if to catch her, and those limbs seemed to stretch to the four corners of infinity. Daughter, he hailed her. Such audacity rivals the gods'. It deserves opportunity, which I grant. His immense brow furrowed. But be warned—thy sins have been great and many.

  The threat was not lost on her. Not all hells were for punishment, the god had told her. But most were. She pushed the thought away and flew faster. The warning of her soul-thread was more immediate, demanding her attention.

  I am proud of thee, he proclaimed with a sage nod. We will meet again at Skull Gate.

  The image faded, leaving her way to the portal clear.

  It was a dim light in the void. Drawing near it, she could see, as if through a window, the room where her body stood entranced. Gel loomed over it. The dagger—Orchos had called it an athame—trembled in her outstretched hands.

  She achieved the portal, passed through, went straight to her body, and merged with it.

  A scream ripped from her lips. Demonfang's energy rippled through her mind, gripping her will with undeniable strength. She screamed again. Gel's control over the dagger was nearly gone. She could feel its hunger. Too long had it gone unsated. It would feed soon, feast on her heart. Through blurred vision she could barely see Tras Sur'tian. Didn't he know she was back in her body? She gathered what little strength she had left.

  “Help...” she croaked unintelligibly. Could they have heard that pitiful sound? Hadn't they heard her screams?

  Then Kimon's face was next to hers. His hands closed around hers. He nearly jumped on the blade as he jerked it toward his chest. “No!” she cried, though no word came out.

  Desperately, she pushed against Demonfang's power, resisted, and managed to divert the blade ever so slightly. The point missed his heart, sank half to the hilt through the muscle of his chest. His mouth twisted in a noiseless shriek, eyes widened with sudden terror, and he fell.

  Blood fountained on his tunic. He stared upward, seeking her gaze; his face convulsed with pain. Frost fell to her knees beside him and wrenched the dagger free. He gripped her sleeve. His features clouded over, and his head lolled abruptly to the side. Then, his lids closed.

  “He loves thee greatly, daughter...."

  Frost clapped a hand to her mouth and recoiled. Kimon's lips moved with speech, but the voice belonged to the lord of the nine hells.

  “His sins are blackest of all, yet
he braves this death for thee. Remember thee in thy songs, then, how his father spurned him as a bastard son and his mother reviled him for the shame of his birth, how that father trained and used him as murderer and assassin, and how he walked all his days on the rivers of blood.” The voice of Orchos paused, and a crimson froth boiled from Kimon's lips.

  Death's master continued. “Thee alone, daughter, of all that he has ever known showed him trust and freely gave him heart-love. He saw the caring thee shared with comrades and thought to share it, too. Once, he might have killed thee for a coin. Instead, he fled his past and reached for greater treasure."

  Again, Orchos paused. Frost trembled, despairing, unable to move. Kimon's lips stirred. “I may have him this time,” the god said. “I see his soul approaching. Like thee, he has served me well, and I am proud of him. Remember, daughter, in thy songs."

  There was no more. Frost rose slowly, numb. The silent, sated dagger clattered on the floor. Her hand, bright and sticky with Kimon's life-fluid, shook uncontrollably. She stared at it, deep in horror, unable to accept that the red, flexing fingers were hers.

  There was a noise barely perceived, a heavy thud as Gel collapsed, exhausted. Onokratos leaped inside the triangle of silver dust and swiftly snatched up Demonfang.

  “No!” she shrilled, kicking it from his grasp.

  Hands grabbed her gently but firmly by the shoulders. She felt breath warm on her neck; soft words, calming words whispered in her ear.

  “Tras!” she cried, turning in his arms. Her thoughts rushed in chaotic, disjointed fragments. “Help me!” she begged. But then she pushed him away. “No, don't touch me!” She stared at her incarnadined hand, at Demonfang on the chamber floor, at Kimon, at the candles and braziers that smoked and glowed, reminding her of the fires of hell. “Tras?” Gel curled up weakly at her feet, and the demon glared at her. “Tras!"

  The Korkyran reached out again to soothe and hold her, but she backed away from them all until the wall pressed against her spine. Her shoulder brushed the shutter of the western window. She whirled and flung off the latch, threw it wide. The sun, a fat and dusky ruby, squatted on the purpling horizon, tugged on the first strings of night.