Skull Gate

by Robin W Bailey

  Her mouth opened then. She screamed and screamed until blackness swallowed everything.

  Chapter Thirteen

  From every side the demons attacked. She whipped out her sword, too late. It melted magically; molten metal seared her hands. Claws rent her flesh. Fangs dripping with ichorous saliva sank into her throat. The hordes of hell bore her helplessly down. The tattered end of her soul-thread lashed the scorching air. Her screams turned to frantic gurgles as they pushed her head beneath the steaming, boiling surface of the lake of fire. The skin dissolved from her skull.

  Suddenly, they released her. She gasped for breath, looked up as the demons fell away, and gave a little cry of joyous relief. Orchos filled the sky with his presence; his laughter filled her ears. She lifted her arms suppliantly, thinking herself saved. But laughter ceased; his smile turned to a leer. His huge foot rose over her. She screamed as it came squashing down, down, down...

  She sat up suddenly, drenched in sweat, shivering. Her hair hung in ropes about her face; the blanket that covered her nakedness was clammy and damp. Nightmare images still burned in her brain. She rubbed her hands nervously, sucked deep breaths.

  Something moved in the shadows at the foot of her bed. She threw up her arms in a defensive posture; a sharp, raspy noise rattled in her throat. Then the figure shambled into the dim amber glow of the room's lonely candle, and she recognized the grizzled white beard.

  Tras Sur'tian leaned over her. She flung her arms around his neck, dragged him down beside her on the hard bed, and buried her face in his chest to hide her sudden tears.

  “Tras!” she cried. “I've made such a fearful, stupid bargain! I tried to be brave!” The words gushed out, uncontrolled. “But when I felt the soul-thread's pull, I panicked. I didn't think!” She pushed him back abruptly. “Tras, we should have made a plan! You can't imagine what it was like there!” She pounded her eyes with fists. “I can't get it out of my mind, Tras! I see it everywhere!"

  He caught her fists, drew her close once more, pressed her cheek to his, and rocked her consolingly. “It's over now,” he soothed. “It's done."

  Their shadows rippled over the floor, climbed up the wall, brushed the low ceiling. She stared at the flickering, shifting shapes, so seemingly blessed or cursed with peculiar, independent movement, and bit her lip. “It's not over,” she whispered tersely. “It's just begun."

  Tears ran their course. When her eyes were dry she disentangled herself from him. “I want light,” she said firmly. “As much light as possible. I can't bear this darkness right now."

  Tras got up and opened the only shutter. The sky bled crimson and indigo on the spears of approaching night. Already, a pale wisp of a moon rode the horizon. The old soldier lit two more candles from the burning taper. “There are more on that shelf,” she told him, recalling where Onokratos's store of candles lay.

  She bugged the blanket around her shoulders while he set fire to three fresh wicks, but the light brought no cheer. She felt shamed. She thought she had toughened herself, hammered out all the womanish instincts, forged herself into a soldier, a mercenary to whom fighting and struggle and death were the natural way. Never before had she acknowledged fear, never surrendered to its sickening, sweet fever.

  Yet now she was afraid, no denying it, and the sense of it crept up her spine like an itch she could not scratch. “More candles,” she urged, hating the strained sound of her voice. “Lamps, anything! Get some light!” But there were no more candles in the room, and when Tras hurried for the door a new dread stole upon her. “No!” she shouted. “Tras, enough light. Just stay with me, please."

  Deep furrows creased his brow as he returned and sat down by her side. He brushed the hair back from her face with fatherly concern. But his eyes avoided hers.

  “Please,” she begged. “I just don't want to be alone yet.” She laid her head on his shoulder, but his arms remained limp at his sides. She couldn't help but notice.

  Abruptly uncomfortable, she changed the subject. “How's Kimon?"

  He shook his head. “He lost a lot of blood. Probably would have died, but Onokratos's hell-spawned pet somehow found strength to repair the wound."

  She tried to catch his eye and failed. “Then, he's well?"

  He said nothing for a long moment, then breath hissed slowly between his pursed lips. “He's unconscious,” he answered wearily. “Hasn't stirred, not even twitched.” He got up and paced to the room's far side with arms folded over his chest and head hanging. Finally, he crossed to the open window, stared out. “I tried to hate him,” he confessed after a while. “I did hate him. For his part in Aki's kidnapping I should still hate him."

  “But you don't?” she ventured when he hesitated.

  “How can I, after the way he tried to sacrifice himself on that demon blade of yours?” He turned on her suddenly, his face burning with anger. “Now you repay his devotion by whining and bellowing and putting on these cowardly airs!"

  The force of his accusations struck her like a physical blow.

  “Any other man might dismiss it as the womanly part of you!” he railed, shaking a fist. “But I know you better!"

  “You know nothing!” she shouted defensively. “You still don't know the terrible deal I've made with Orchos."

  “I don't need to know!” he answered crisply. In three quick strides he loomed over her. “Woman, I've had my share of frights on this journey. I've seen and done things that would damn my soul if I still believed in Korkyra's One God.” He stabbed a finger at her. “You showed me how to keep my courage in the face of the unknown. Now show me you can do the same!"

  “B-but you don't—” she stammered.

  “Don't tell me I don't understand,” he interrupted. “You've shaken the very roots of my soul, shattered the faith of my ancestors, the beliefs that sustained me, with the wonders and terrors you've led me to see. You were inside the circle but a short moment—"

  “A moment!” she shrieked.

  “A few heartbeats,” he continued, “before Gel lost control of your dagger. Next, you're screaming your lungs out, Kimon's bleeding nearly to death, and that big, black devil is out colder than last week's cheese.” He paused, swallowed. “All right, maybe you've suffered some terrible fright. But panic and self-pity are unaffordable luxuries now. We've got to pull together and get on with it."

  “But you don't know,” she whispered dejectedly.

  He was unrelenting. “All I know,” he insisted, “is that you're the only one with experience and skill to lead us through this. I don't trust our host or his vile pet. If you've lost your nerve now, then we've all suffered for nothing, and Aki is lost to us for the rest of time."

  His words stung. She looked to him for some comfort, but his demeanor was unbending steel. Tears welled again in her eyes, yet under his withering gaze she fought them back. Slowly, she rose from the bed, hugging the blanket around her shoulders.

  “Where are my clothes?” she said finally.

  Tras Sur'tian let out a long sigh. Then a grin spread over his features; he cocked his head sheepishly. “Wet,” he answered. “I washed them. You”—he paused, licked his lips thoughtfully, embarrassed—“befouled yourself in your sleep."

  She blushed, feeling the warmth in her cheeks. “What about my weapons?"

  He pointed to the table. “Your sword is there. That other thing, too.” She knew he meant Demonfang. “Onokratos wanted to examine it after you fainted. I nearly had to break his arm to get it away from him. Without the demon to back him up, he's not much."

  She buckled on Demonfang's silver belt, then her sword belt over that. The metal was cool on her skin, the leather rough. She wore the blanket like a cloak. “Don't underestimate him,” she warned. “He's not just a wizard. He has sorcerous powers.” She gathered back her hair. Her moonstone circlet also lay on the table. She set it on her head to hold back her tangled mane. “Now, I'm thoroughly hungry. Let's find something to eat; then I want to see Kimon.” She gripped her old frie
nd's shoulder. A stray beam of moonlight made her ivory flesh shine where the blanket gaped open. The hilt of her sword glittered. “But first,” she said gently, “there's something I'd better show you. I think, now, you can handle the truth."

  She took one of the candles and motioned for him to do the same. With her small light in hand, she led him out the door, into the maze of corridors, and down through the murky darkness to the cell where the High Queen of Korkyra squatted on her haunches and pawed through the straw-littered floor searching for insects to squash and eat.

  Frost entered Kimon's room quietly, and Tras followed. Gel, completely recovered from his part in the ordeal, stood over the bed in apparent study of the slumbering human. He nodded a stiff greeting.

  “White beard,” the demon addressed the Korkyran. “Thee looks pale as a slug's belly."

  Tras didn't answer. He hadn't spoken at all since leaving Aki's cell. But he met the demon's mocking gaze coldly, and to Frost's surprise it was Gel who turned away.

  She went to Kimon's bedside. It was a bare frame like her own, but someone had cushioned his head with extra blankets. “How is he?"

  Gel shrugged. “I do not know. The wound is healed. The human should be well.” His black eyes roamed over her slowly as he answered. “What of thee?"

  She ignored the question and, taking Kimon's hand, sat on the bed. His hand was warm, at least. She raised each eyelid as she had seen the chirurgeons do on the battlefields. Then she pulled back the coverlet to examine his chest. No trace of a wound, not the smallest scar where the dagger had entered.

  “It was a mortal wound."

  She turned at the new voice. Onokratos pushed the door shut behind him. “If Gel had not recovered in time, your young friend would be quite dead.” He pointed to the dagger on her hip. In her carelessness the blanket she wore had slipped open. She tugged it tighter around herself. “If I understand the nature of that weapon, it sucks the souls of its victims straight to the ninth level of hell, regardless of whether or not they deserve that severest of punishments.” He struck a scholarly pose with expression to match. “I suspect in that brief moment between life and death, Kimon glimpsed that fate. Unable to accept what he saw, his mind has shut down."

  She shuddered, visions suddenly rushing upon her of the lake of fire and the creatures condemned to dwell there. Yet on her journey she had been insulated by the knowledge that she could leave, that she wasn't dead, and that the soul-thread would pull her back to the world of the living when she wished.

  Had Kimon faced hell without that assurance? She shuddered again and laid a hand on his cheek. “Come back to us,” she urged in a tense whisper. “It's all right. Come back."

  She got up, cursing the blade Demonfang, swearing as she had so many times in the past to destroy it at the first opportunity. “Is it safe to leave him alone?” she asked Onokratos when her anger abated.

  He cocked his head at an angle. “Why not? We can do nothing to help him. He'll have to climb out of this darkness by himself."

  She headed for the door. “We've got to talk,” she said. “All of us. Now.” After a brief hesitation, she added, “It's time you learned what lies ahead.” She stepped into the passage and stopped. Frowning, she peered in either direction. Though she was beginning to learn some of the corridors, the manor was still a confusing maze of halls that never seemed to lead to the same place twice. She threw up her hands in disgust. “Would someone please lead the way out of here?"

  Onokratos guided them to the dining chamber. She remembered suddenly how hungry she was and rubbed her stomach. A broken stool, evidence of the earlier struggle, blocked her path. She kicked it away, righted the overturned benches, and sat down at the table. She leaned forward on her elbows and regarded them as they each took a place. She looked at her host. “Anything in the cupboard?"

  Onokratos crooked a finger and nodded to Gel. The demon went back through the large double doors and vanished up the passage. He returned moments later bearing a platter of cold meats and a tightly rolled bundle.

  “What is that?” Onokratos inquired, pointing.

  The demon placed the platter on the smoothly worn tabletop and set the bundle in front of Frost. His eyes met hers. “Nudity offends her,” he answered with a twinkle. It was the closest thing to humor she'd heard him attempt.

  “No, it doesn't.” With a brazen toss she threw off her blanket cloak and took her time unrolling the package. She nodded appreciatively. The garments were of the finest black leather: tunic, trousers, belt, the softest boots imaginable. When she held them up, though, she feared they were too large. No matter, she decided. Oversized clothing was better than none. She unbuckled her weapons.

  To her surprise, everything fit. “They're perfect!” she exclaimed. Tras Sur'tian ran a finger down one sleeve with an approving smile.

  “That was stupid."

  The sharpness in the wizard's voice startled her, but it was Gel he addressed. Onokratos's face contorted with another of those rages that seemed to possess him without warning. She reached cautiously for her sword belt and fastened it in place.

  The demon turned a cold gaze on his master. Frost thought he actually grew bigger as he bent over the old man. She blinked, and the illusion passed. Then Gel turned up his nose, gave his back to Onokratos, and smiled a strange, twisted leer at her.

  But Onokratos would not be ignored. “Cursed beast of the pit!” he stormed, coming around, planting himself in the demon's path, wagging a finger chidingly in the air. “We cannot afford that kind of useless waste. Mark what I say!"

  Frost's brow furrowed. What waste did he rail about? She felt her own wrath rising, and she drew deep breaths to calm herself. Yet, clearly Onokratos was still keeping secrets.

  She picked up Demonfang, fastened the belt's silver clasp, and rested her hand on its pommel. She strode up to the demon, practically shouldering the wizard aside. “He's hiding something,” she said, carefully measuring her boldness. “What?"

  “Be silent!” Onokratos shouted, and stamped his foot.

  Gel studied her for a long moment, rubbing his chin. Then he gave the wizard a sidelong glance and answered. “I am gradually—"

  His master was livid. “Shut up!” he raged.

  The demon ignored him. “—losing my powers.” He said it without batting an eyelash.

  She caught her breath. “Oh, gods!"

  Onokratos snatched a cup from the table near his hand and flung it with all his force. It bounced harmlessly off Gel's shoulder. “Disobedience! Our pact..."

  Gel fixed him with a passionless stare. “Requires that I aid thee in regaining the Kalynda-child. No more."

  Onokratos's voice dropped to a barely audible pitch. “You're like a pitcher, now, that contains only so much water! Every time you use your powers they get weaker. Conjuring nourishment is one thing, but providing clothing when she has garments..."

  “Those are her garments.” The demon turned a gleaming eye on her, and she felt that weird flush of heat once more. “I have only transformed them to a more flattering material and style. Is she not pleasing dressed thus?” He made a short nod and grinned. “I can see that she is pleased."

  Onokratos would have continued the argument, but she broke in. “Explain why your powers are failing."

  Gel's face darkened; wrinkles lined his brow, and he looked pensive. “I believe thee are corrupting me,” he answered thickly. “The longer I walk this mortal plane, the more I experience human emotion.” His gaze did not waver from hers. “I lust for thee,” he admitted, then pointed to Onokratos, “and I am learning disgust for this one.” The wizard raised a threatening fist, but the demon ignored him. “The more I feel these emotions, and the stronger they grow, the weaker my powers become."

  Tras Sur'tian crept closer. “Is that why you collapsed in the sanctum?"

  Gel nodded. “The effect seems cumulative. Each passing day I am weaker, and if I use my magic, I grow weaker still. The Kimon-human nearly died before I f
ound strength to heal his wound."

  Frost sagged against the table's edge and hung her head. “Nothing can be done to stop it?"

  He shrugged. “I am infected already. The longer I am around thee, the more I share human emotion, and the weaker I grow."

  She pondered her options while Tras Sur'tian questioned Gel nearly to distraction. Onokratos slumped onto a bench and spoke no more, but glared sullenly at all three.

  Finally, she drew erect. “We've got to move fast.” She pointed to the meats. “Eat while I explain. You won't like what you hear, but don't interrupt.” When Onokratos didn't move, she snapped, “That means you. No telling when you'll feed again. You're going to need your strength."

  When she finished her tale they stared, aghast.

  Onokratos spat out a mouthful and shouted, “You mean the five of us must fight an equal number of Orchos's demons?” He slammed a fist on the board. “Was that the best bargain you could drive?"

  Tras Sur'tian kept his voice calm, yet could not hide his doubt. “If we win, Death himself will fight for the children's souls.” He pursed his lips, jerked a thumb at Gel. “Even weakened, he may have some chance”—he looked around—“but what weapons have you and I against champions from hell?"

  “My powers are fast diminishing,” Gel insisted.

  “But not yet gone,” Frost answered quickly. “And we've got this”—she clapped Demonfang's hilt—“and this.” She removed the jewel talisman Oona had given her.

  Onokratos sneered at the jewel. “That offers you some protection, but you need an offensive weapon. A draw will not be good enough. You have to win the contest."

  “You're a sorcerer as well as a wizard,” she countered. “You must have some skills to call on.” She returned to Tras. “And we also have these.” She gripped the hilt of her sword. “Orchos's demons must take solid form to harm us, and whatever is solid can be harmed in kind."