Skull Gate

by Robin W Bailey

  Onokratos turned up his nose and barked a short, contemptuous laugh.

  “You're forgetting the mathematics, woman.” Tras leaned his chin on a fist. “You've sworn for five of us. I'll go for Aki's sake. They, of course, for Kalynda's. But what about Kimon? If he should die or decide not to fight, what of that?"

  “If Kimon is able, he will fight. For me, if no other reason.” She looked to the demon. “And you will not let him die.” It was not a question.

  Gel blinked. “I can keep him alive, but I cannot animate his limbs."

  “He'll come around!” she cried. “If we must bear him to Skull Gate on our backs, he'll be ready when we need him. He must be.” She was startled by her own intensity and rued it for its obvious effect on her companions. She sought to lighten the mood somewhat. “Speaking of Skull Gate,” she said with a roll of the eyes, “who knows where it lies?"

  The evening passed in a wash of amethyst and mauve. Frost watched the last of the sun's rays as she scattered straw and soft blankets over the wagon bed. A low whinny drew her attention from the shading sky. Tras Sur'tian groomed and fed his horse and Kimon's. Gel worked beside him, readying Onokratos's big bay mare and the pair of matched ash-colored palfreys that would pull the wagon. She returned to her task, preparing the place where Kimon and the girls would ride, making it plush. Near the front behind the driver's seat she stored waterskins and salted rations. Everything had to be ready for the morning's departure.

  It was dark when they returned to the manor house with torches to light the way. Onokratos had excused himself earlier, they had not seen him since. Frost went straight to her room, and Tras Sur'tian followed. She lit candles and turned to face him. Her shadow engulfed him, swelled upon the wall.

  “Our work is not yet done.” She spoke softly, almost in a whisper.

  He made a face. “Food is packed, horses ready, weapons clean and sharp. What remains?"

  She put a finger to her lips, warning him to use a lower voice. “Metal weapons aren't enough.” She closed her eyes, dreading what she knew must be done. “We need more."

  He began to pace. “If you mean sorcery, say so. I'm not the ignorant One God worshiper I used to be."

  She nodded. “All right, then. Sorcery."

  He made a curt gesture. “Leave me out of it. That's work for our host and his pet."

  “No, it's not!” she hissed stridently. “Would you trust someone else to sharpen your sword?” She moved around the room's small desk and leaned on it. Her shadow hulked on the wall behind her. “We see to our own weapons, you and I. That's how we were trained. Then we know they're ready when we need them."

  He regarded her cagily. “You said you weren't a witch anymore, that you couldn't work magic."

  She tapped her temple. “My witchcraft is gone, but not my knowledge.” A sly wink. “Remember Mirashai and the Hand of Glory? Well, I instructed Oona in its making. Just as I'll instruct you."

  He sat up, interested. “Will the Hand affect Orchos's demons?” He steepled his fingers and touched them to his lips thoughtfully. “That would be a weapon indeed!"

  She shook her head; hair lashed her cheeks. “Unfortunately, no. Nor would there be time to create such a complex abomination. I also doubt you would have the stomach for that task."

  He frowned. “Then what?"

  “Something much simpler, but possibly just as effective for our purposes.” She allowed a small grin. “Your Korkyran priests would call it holy water."

  He arched his eyebrows in mild surprise. “Can you make this holy water?” he asked. “The priests say it is sacred, secret."

  “Fie on all priests.” She mimed spitting. “I can't, but you can with my instruction."

  He hooked thumbs in his sword belt, drew a breath. “If it will help Aki, when do we begin?"

  “As soon as we gain entrance to Onokratos's sanctum."

  “Won't he object?"

  She picked up the candle and opened the door to the darkened hall, peered both ways, and beckoned. “I don't even want him to know,” she whispered.

  Chapter Fourteen

  The bright morning sun caused her to blink as she stepped out of the gloomy manor and breathed the fresh clean air. Droplets of dew clung to the clumped, withered grass; the day's warmth would soon evaporate them.

  Onokratos waited by the wagon. Three horses stood tethered to one wheel. The wizard shielded his eyes and hailed her. “We have plenty of water already,” he said, pointing to the two waterskins that hung on straps from her shoulders.

  Frost feigned disinterest. “A little surplus never hurts,” she remarked, gazing around. “Where are the others?"

  She heard the scuffle of boots before he could answer. Gel carried Kalynda in his huge arms. Tras Sur'tian bore Aki. Both children appeared fast asleep. They were placed gingerly on the soft straw pallet in the wagon.

  Frost peered over the side at them, then laid a hand on Tras's shoulder. “They look too still,” she said.

  The demon answered. “A simple spell to keep them quiet and manageable on the journey. They could not be left behind untended."

  She admitted she hadn't thought of sedating them. It made things simpler. She studied the two small reclining forms. “It will be crowded with Kimon,” she said.

  “He says he will ride,” Tras Sur'tian informed her, grinning.

  She closed her eyes, uttered a short prayer of thanks to her Esgarian gods. “When did he awaken?"

  The Korkyran rubbed his bearded chin. “He was sitting up when I checked on him at first light."

  She leaned closer, whispered confidentially. “Is he all right?"

  Tras Sur'tian's answer was loud, meant for all ears. “Why not ask him?” His gaze flickered beyond her shoulder. She turned.

  “Samidar!” Kimon wore a weak grin as he came to her side. He appeared pale yet, and he'd lost weight during his three-day ordeal. Still, he bore himself proudly, lifted her hand and kissed it.

  A disturbing tightness gripped her chest. She realized, with some personal consternation, that she still hadn't sorted out her feelings about Kimon. In fact, she'd actively sought other matters to occupy her time. Not that she'd had to seek far.

  She looked up into those deep blue eyes, discovering again how easy it was to lose her heart in the warmth of his gaze.

  He started to speak, but her fingers stopped his lips. Her arms went around him, pulled his face down. Their cheeks brushed; the warmth of his flesh seemed to ignite her with tingling fire. Then she gave him a hasty kiss and backed away. “There are more important matters right now,” she told him, “but later, we must talk alone."

  “Excuse me for interrupting this tender moment.” There was a note of annoyance in the wizard's voice. “Everyone has a mount but you, woman. Do you intend to walk?"

  She gave Kimon a last sidelong glance, then turned away and put two fingers to the corners of her mouth. A long, high note whistled on the air.

  Onokratos sneered. “I'm impressed,” he said, “but I've never seen a whistle saddled before. Do you mount it on the left side or the right?"

  Tras Sur'tian came to her defense. “Shut your mouth and open your eyes, old man."

  Onokratos flushed and raised a furious fist to strike. Tras Sur'tian's cold expression silently dared. Then, as quickly as it had flared, the wizard's temper faded. Finally, he looked outward where the Korkyran directed him.

  A black speck appeared in the distance, taking recognizable shape as it raced toward them. Frost whistled a second time, a piercing note.

  “Ashur,” Tras Sur'tian informed the wizard. “Her mount."

  “How could it hear her that far away?” It was Kimon who spoke, awed.

  “He hears,” Tras Sur'tian answered. “He always hears."

  Frost smiled at her old friend. He was learning. He had performed without qualm or sqeamishness last night, the perfect apprentice, trusting her implicitly, obeying instructions no matter how they contradicted his old philosophies. He was not
the same man she had known in Mirashai.

  “Onokratos? With your abilities, have you the true-sight?"

  He shrugged, not bothering to answer her query. She assumed he didn't.

  She wondered about Tras Sur'tian. The Korkyran had learned much in the last weeks. How much had his understanding deepened? “Tras, look carefully. What do you see?"

  He squinted as he watched Ashur approach. “I'm not sure,” he answered. “I know your Ashur. I've groomed him myself. But sometimes there's a shadow of something more when I look at him.” He shaded his eyes against the sun's glare. “I keep remembering the hole in that soldier's chest outside Mirashai's gate. It's disconcerting, weird."

  She turned to the demon. “Gel, what do you see?"

  “I see what I see,” was his cryptic reply. But she noticed his gaze did not waver from her speeding steed, and his lips parted slightly, damp with moisture. So, even demons knew amazement.

  “Can you let them see, too?” she asked him, coming to his side.

  Those dark, penetrating orbs slid over her. Yet again she experienced a warm rush, now familiar when she stood near him. With some effort, she ignored the sensation and repeated her question.

  “It requires an expenditure of power,” he answered slowly.

  She considered carefully and reached a decision. “How much of an expenditure?"

  The demon shrugged. With a quickness that belied his great bulk, he touched Onokratos's eyes, then Tras Sur'tian's. But Kimon, misunderstanding, ducked lithely under Gel's reach and leaped back. His sword whisked out.

  “Kimon!” She stepped between them. He looked from her to the demon hesitantly. She laid a hand on the point of his blade and pushed it down. He didn't resist, realizing he'd embarrassed himself somehow. “Let him touch you,” Frost urged. He nodded. Gel gently placed thumb and forefinger over his lids. “Now, look at Ashur. Most of all, I wanted you to see."

  He gasped, stared, just as Tras Sur'tian and Onokratos stared, oblivious to all else. Ashur trotted to her side. The beast nuzzled against her, passing its great horn under her arm, pushing her playfully backward. She smacked him on the nose, a playful rebuke. “Behave!” she ordered. “Show-off!"

  “His eyes!” Onokratos exclaimed. “Are they really—"

  She waved him to silence. “I wanted you all to see,” she said, “and take hope. There are some small powers on our side. If we use them properly, perhaps we stand a chance against Orchos.” She stroked Ashur's withers. “For now, no more questions. Onokratos, show the way."

  The wizard swallowed, regained his composure. He pointed westward. “Skodulac is an island in the waters of Dyre Lake. There, you'll find Skull Gate.” He wiped a trace of spittle from his lips. “I'll tell you no more, but wait for you to see it.” His gaze snapped back to Ashur. “I think you took a special joy from this revelation."

  She gave no answer but swung up astride Ashur's bare back.

  “What happened to your saddle?” Tras Sur'tian wondered aloud. “And your bridle? He was wearing them last I recall. The cinch might have given way on the saddle. But how did he lose the bit?"

  She gave no thought to such things. It was enough to ride the unicorn, to call such a creature hers. She was a proficient rider. The lack of proper tack meant nothing to her. She scratched Ashur between the ears with one hand, tangled the other in his rich, wild mane.

  They rode the first part of the morning in silence. The withered fields of the ancient manor gave way to a rocky, blighted expanse and that, in turn, to a distant rise of rolling hillocks. There was no road; they made their own.

  A light wind arose, stirred her hair around her face. The steady fall of the horses’ hooves and the creaking of the wagon were the only sounds. She contrasted that with the first part of her journey, when she and Kimon had filled the air with song and verse. Privately, she wished Kimon would break out with a joyful tune now, but his attention seemed elsewhere; his gaze swept the far horizon left to right.

  When the sun reached its zenith they paused to rest the horses, allowing them to drink a little, not much, from a small stream that purled across their path. Tras Sur'tian assumed charge of the animals, taking care they did not overindulge, either on the water or the plush grass.

  Frost went to the wagon to fetch a drink from the stored skins and to check on the children. They slept unmoving under sweet enchantment, but the hot sun had turned their small, serene faces a tender pink. “Is there some way we can shade them?” she inquired of Onokratos.

  “I'll rig something,” he answered curtly, and he began to experiment with ways to drape his cloak tent-like over the wagon's sides.

  As she tipped the water-skin for a second cool drink, she noticed how Kimon stood off to one side away from the others. She carried the skin to him, offered it. When he turned, she saw how one hand rubbed his chest.

  Her brows knitted in concern. “Does the wound hurt?” she whispered. “I thought Gel healed it?"

  A tight frown. “It is healed,” he answered. “Yet, I feel something, not pain, but an awareness. The way a once-broken bone, though healed, tingles when the air is damp. You know?"

  She nodded and surprised herself by reaching out to touch the place where Demonfang had drunk his blood. Her finger traced a small circle on the rough material of his jerkin. Regret and shame stilled her tongue. Words would not come.

  “I had such visions,” he confessed suddenly. His eyes burned into hers. “Except they weren't visions.” He squeezed his eyes shut, trembled all over, the knuckles showing whitely through the taut skin of his clenched fists. “Terrible, dark things grabbing, clawing at me, dragging me down!” He ground those fists against his closed lids. “Fire! Fire everywhere! It seared!"

  She grabbed his wrists, pulled them down, then flung her arms around him. She pulled him close, pressing his face down onto her shoulder. His body shivered; she felt his heart beating swiftly so near that vicious wound. A desperate longing filled her. “I know!” she comforted him. “I saw it, too!” She smoothed his hair. Her hand trailed over the tight muscles of his neck.

  “There was blackness, an immense, unending void,” he hissed, his breath hot in her ear. “I didn't see or feel anything. I couldn't move.” His arms locked around her waist, nearly crushing her with the strength he exerted. “Then, I heard you calling. ‘Come back, Kimon,’ you said. ‘Come back.'” He released her suddenly and stepped away. Terrible storms raged in the clear blue of his eyes. “And I did come back,” he said furiously. “I heard you, and I came."

  She blinked, unable to find her voice.

  His trembling ceased; he was in control of himself again. He scooped up the water-skin she'd dropped. Fortunately, the stopper had held firm, preventing any spillage. He slung it over his shoulder in the manner of the two special skins she still wore.

  He regarded her evenly, the tempest gone from his gaze. “Samidar, I've done what I've had to do to get by in this world. Sometimes, I've murdered. I'm not ashamed of it."

  “You tried to kill me,” she reminded him. “How can I forget that?"

  He shook his head sadly. “I'm glad I failed,” he answered. “I've never failed before.” He cast a glance back toward the wagon. “I'm sorry Aki became involved."

  She drew a long breath. “You're not really to blame,” she admitted. “I see that now. Though Gel claims his power is diminishing, he must have been much stronger a month ago. I doubt I could have prevented him from stealing the child."

  He took a step closer; his fingers brushed her cheek. “I love you, Samidar. When I was...” He swallowed. “In hell I screamed your name over and over. I didn't want to leave you.” His hand wandered over her shoulder, down her arm. His fingers interlocked with hers. “I don't want to lose you,” he said fiercely. “I love you."

  She didn't let herself think, just flowed into his arms and kissed him, forgetting everything else. She clung to him with all her might, and there was no space between them.

  “You give me warmth,”
she whispered, pressing his face to hers, “and strength to fill me for the rest of my days. So often I've denied my feelings. I've passed down the streets of red candles, seen figures holding each other in the cold and the shadows; I've ridden by hovels and farm huts late at night and seen old wives clinging to their husbands in the fireglow. Always, I pulled my cloak tighter and rode on in silence.” She pulled back a little, trapped his head between her palms, stared into his eyes with intensity. “Never let me be cold again,” she said. “I will live and die by your side, Kimon. I don't care what you've done. I've done worse."

  His lips came down on hers. They stood for a long time holding each other.

  A loud crack! interrupted them. Reflexively, Frost jumped away from Kimon, whirled, left hand gripping her sword's hilt.

  Gel's dark shape leaned against the trunk of an old tree. He regarded them with a bemused smirk. In his hands he clutched a dead branch as long as his arm, nearly as thick. With startling ease he broke a piece of it and cast it aside. “She loves me.” Snap. He broke another piece. It fell at his feet. “She loves me not.” Snap. The crisp sound mocked the natural quiet of the forest. He destroyed the branch casually, a little at a time, an impressive display of muscular strength.

  Yet the demon was not as amused as he would have Frost believe. Fire smoldered in his eyes; a dark mood underlay his words. No matter how she tried to hide it, he frightened her. Worse, she suspected he knew that.

  “We've rested long enough,” she announced, cursing the quaver in her voice. She headed for the wagon. As she passed close to Gel she felt the heat radiating from his flesh, smelled his strange, musky odor. She set her gaze on the wagon and quickened her step.

  Onokratos had found a way to shade the sleeping girls with his cloak. They would not bum in the bright sun. She saw him with Tras Sur'tian and the horses near the stream's bank. The two were engaged in animated conversation. Ashur stood patiently nearby. She went to the unicorn. grabbed a handful of his mane, and swung up. “Let's go!” she called. “We've wasted too much time. Move!"