Skull Gate

by Robin W Bailey

  Kimon reached up to help her dismount. She hesitated an instant, struggling between logic and the revulsion she felt at his nearness. She looked into the deep blue sea of his eyes, and read the concern and confusion there. She sighed. After all, it was no man who had hurt her.

  His arms encircled her waist, and he eased her down. He removed the cloak he wore against the morning chill and draped it around her shoulders. Someone had built up the fire. They seated her next to it.

  “Your face!” Kimon exclaimed suddenly. “Gods, what happened?"

  She touched her right cheek gingerly and winced. It must be horribly bruised from Gel's blow. There would be other bruises, too. She began to take stock of her injuries. How could she explain?

  She decided she could not. She pushed through them and went to her bedroll. Her few belongings lay where she had left them. She bent and picked up her sword, unsheathed the blade, and hugged it to her breast. She kissed the hilt, closed her eyes, shutting out everything.

  Tras Sur'tian tapped her shoulder. She gratefully accepted the water-skin he offered. The liquid tasted clean, good, and when her thirst was quenched she raised it higher and squirted a stream over her face.

  Onokratos asked the next question.

  She gave the skin back to Tras. “Call him,” she answered the wizard. “He's bound to your service. He must appear."

  “I've tried that,” he replied sharply, “but he doesn't obey. Something's happened."

  She lacked the energy to make a show of concern. But the news disturbed her. Gel was an essential part of her bargain with Orchos. Would the master of worms accept another arrangement if the demon did not return? She gave a mental shrug. No point in worrying about it until they reached Skull Gate. If necessary, someone would fight twice, and she would be that someone.

  “Get ready to move out,” she told them. There was an edge to her voice that startled them. She read its effect on their faces and softened her tone. “Gel will join us when he's able.” But to herself, she added, if he's able.

  Onokratos's brows knitted together. He folded his arms stubbornly. “Something has happened to him. I think you know what."

  “He...” She started to snap at him, then thought better of it. It wasn't his fault—at least, not all his fault. She considered her words carefully. “He expended a goodly amount of power last night. It may be that he's too weak to answer your summons right now.” That sounded good to her. She added hopefully, “It may take him some time to regain his strength."

  They all had the same questions. “What in your nine hells happened last night?” Tras Sur'tian pressed. “Where are your clothes?"

  Again, she walked away from them. “We'll talk no more of it,” she said with finality. “Get the wagon ready and saddle the horses. We've got a way to go."

  Tras Sur'tian and Onokratos gave up and departed. Only Kimon lingered. When the others were out of earshot he came up behind and touched her shoulders.

  “I'll ask no more,” he whispered. “Not about your nakedness, not about the bruises and scratches, not about where you've been or what transpired.” He paused. When she didn't speak, he continued. “Tell me in your own time if you wish. Or don't tell me. But I've been around, Samidar, enough to guess some of the answers.” The hands drifted up her shoulders, massaged the soreness of her neck. “I'm glad you're safe."

  He started to go.

  “Kimon, wait!” She sheathed her blade. The sword belt dangled, and on the belt hung her pouch of coins. She loosened the strings and extracted Oona's ruby talisman.

  She balanced the stone on her palm, regarded it with a sense of sad irony. Sunlight touched it, spilled diffracted fire over her hand. It alone of all her weapons might have spared her Gel's embrace. Too late now, she told herself. But, the demon had scorned Kimon and threatened him, even spoken of him as a rival.

  She pressed the jewel into his hand. “Keep this with you,” she implored him, “and always in easy reach. You know how it works. Just close your fingers around it like this.” She curled his fingers into a fist.

  He urged it back upon her. “It was the old woman's gift to you. She said it would protect you."

  Frost refused to take it back. “I want it to protect you!"

  “But I've no place to carry it."

  She gave him the pouch. “Take this, then,” she said. “But don't wear it on your belt.” She opened it again and scattered the few coins inside to the woods. “We'll tie the strings around your neck.” She tied the ends for him. “Now wear it inside your jerkin."

  He traced the outline of the pouch next to his heart. His eyes were full of questions, and more. Unease and worry threatened to carve permanent niches in his face.

  She squeezed his hand. “I'm glad I'm back."

  He managed a faint smile and nodded. “I'd better help with the horses."

  She wouldn't let him go. “They can do it,” she said. “You can help me, instead. I seem to be in need of something to wear.” She grabbed up her blanket. “Nothing stylish. Just cut a hole for my head and trim the length so I can ride and fight. I'll belt it with a strip."

  He grinned and drew his dagger.

  It was quickly done. She threw it over her shoulders, tied a length of the material around her waist, and belted on her sword. She held out her arms and turned for approval.

  “I wouldn't go to court in it,” Kimon said with a smirk.

  “Neither would I,” she agreed. She turned once more, then stiffened suddenly and clutched her belly.

  Kimon was beside her at once, catching her elbow. “What's wrong?” he said. “Samidar, what is it?"

  She waited for the wave of nausea to subside and sidled away. “Nothing,” she lied, putting on a false smile.

  “I'm afraid for you."

  She touched his cheek tenderly. So am I, she admitted secretly, careful not to let it show. “Go see if you can hurry Tras along. We should be on our way.” He frowned but did as she asked.

  Alone, she ran a hand over her abdomen, probing for another sign of the hated life within. I won't let you out, she swore. I won't let you out. I'll find a way.

  The three men had their mounts ready, the wagon hitched. Tras Sur'tian stole over to her. “I went into the woods for some privacy,” he said delicately. “I found this caught in the branches of a tree.” He slipped something from his tunic. There was a tinkle of metallic links, and Demonfang swung like a pendulum from its silver belt.

  There were no more questions in Tras Sur'tian's eyes. “Apparently, you didn't get a chance to use it. Too bad, I say. Will the demon return?"

  She hesitated, thinking how often she had wished to be rid of the dagger. Then she remembered the battle ahead and the powers aligned against her. She strapped the arcane blade over her left hip. She was beginning to feel herself again.

  “Return?” she said with a malicious smile. “It's my most fervent prayer."

  Kimon called out from the wagon's side. “What about the bay?"

  She had forgotten about Gel's mount. “Put the saddle on Ashur,” she decided, “and try to find something to lash him to the back of the wagon. If you can't”—she looked at Onokratos, thought of the demon, and shrugged—“set him free."

  Chapter Sixteen

  Skodulac. Hump-shaped, looking like the back of an ominous, scaly beast, the island rose out of the murky water of Dyre Lake. The sun squatted on the harsh, jutting isle, tinting the sky and the rocky beach a bloody cochineal. No tree or blade of grass showed along the shoreline. A flock of geese veered around the southern tip, but did not land.

  “Even the birds avoid it,” Tras Sur'tian said reverently.

  Frost wrinkled her nose. Two days and a good night's sleep had eased her aches and pains, but the stench of the lake threatened to make her sick again. The water was stagnant; the stream that once fed it had long ago dried up. She looked with disdain at the slime that lapped the bank near her bare feet.

  A hot breeze stirred her limp hair. An insect lighted on he
r neck; she swatted it, wiped the rich, red smear on her makeshift garment. “Well, we've made it this far,” she said, shielding her eyes against the glare of the setting sun. “Now, how do we get across?"

  Kimon made a wry face. “I wouldn't like to swim in that muck."

  “What about the children?” Onokratos reminded them. “They can't swim."

  Frost was too tired to think. She turned to Tras Sur'tian. “This is your country. You knew the way here. Tell us what to do."

  Frowning, the Korkyran looked up and down the bank. “I only know from hearsay,” he said apologetically. “Troops stationed in the nearby provinces used to tell tales. There used to be a ferry. I don't know what condition it's in. People generally avoid this place."

  She gazed out at Skodulac again. Not a difficult swim, she figured. But she was so weary. And there were weapons to think of; they should not get wet. They had to take the girls, too.

  “All right, let's ride around the shore,” she decided, “and keep a watch out for the ferry. If we don't find it, we'll camp on this side for the night and seek another way in the morning."

  “We could split up,” Onokratos suggested. “You and Kimon go that way. Tras and I will ride north."

  She shook her head. “We stay together."

  The wizard opened his mouth to protest, but she cut him off. “We take no chances,” she said firmly. “We've come this far together. Why change our luck?” She looked to the others for support. Kimon agreed wholeheartedly; Tras Sur'tian kept quiet but didn't challenge her judgment. “There's still some sunlight,” she continued. “We should make it around the shoreline before dark. If there's a ferry, we'll find it."

  Only a quarter of the way around the lake the land turned into a quagmire. A vulgar assortment of reeds and swamp grasses thrived in the stinking morass that blocked their way. Flies buzzed in thick clouds; a water viper swam a crooked course among a crop of tiger-tail reeds and vanished.

  But Frost's attention was drawn to a tall and rotund tree that grew in the very heart of the bog, its trunk and lower branches dripping with slick moss. Just under the lowest limb a vine-twisted rope as thick as her wrist stretched out over the water and disappeared. Somewhere on Skodulac, she knew, the other end was anchored.

  “Some ferry,” Onokratos sneered. “The boat must be on the far side. Nor do I see a bell to summon it."

  It was her turn to sneer. “What ghost would you expect to pole it? Look how far the swamp extends; it's had some time to grow. No ferry's operated here for quite a long time."

  “We can still use the rope to get across,” Tras Sur'tian insisted.

  “With the children?” Onokratos looked doubtful.

  Frost allowed a slight smile and wiped sweat from her brow. The moonstone circlet that held most of her hair back from her face was beginning to chafe. She removed it, rubbed the skin with thumb and forefinger. “It'll be hard work,” she admitted. “But I see no other way. Let's get to it."

  Kimon and Tras Sur'tian unloaded the wagon. They placed the sleeping children on the spongy earth, unhitched the pair of palfreys, and removed the wheels. With concerted effort, they kicked loose the three upright sides, managed without tools to unbolt and discard the hitching shaft.

  Onokratos, as instructed, gathered the blankets and cloaks, cut them into thick strips, and tied the ends securely together.

  Frost waited for Onokratos to finish his task, then gathered the makeshift line over her shoulder. Mounting Ashur, she rode into the bog. The mud gurgled and churned, rising sometimes to the unicorn's knees. She rode slowly, cautiously, alert for hidden quicksand. When the ferry rope was directly above her, she stopped.

  The rope was higher than she thought.

  She pursed her lips, considering how best to accomplish her part. Carefully, she removed her feet from the stirrups and stood precariously on her saddle. She drew her sword, made a few experimental swings at the rope. The tip of the blade made contact but not sufficiently to cut. She cursed her luck and her gods as she sheathed her sword.

  To the unicorn, she said: “If you twitch or make a sudden move...” She let the threat hang. Then, flexing her knees, she leaped.

  Both hands locked around the old rope. She swung her feet up, crossed her ankles over the rough, scratchy line. For a frantic moment Onokratos's hand-twisted cord began to slip from her shoulder, but she trapped it with her chin.

  Like a fly with its wings pinched off, she thought of herself, suspended in her peculiar position. A splashing caught her attention; Ashur slogged back to firmer land. She glanced at the mire below and frowned. And this is the pleasant part.

  She inched up the rope until she touched the huge, complicated knots that anchored it to the tree. They would afford her a perch from which to do her work. She tightened her thighs and wrenched herself into a sitting posture on the rope, crawled forward until she straddled the knotted section. It was uncomfortable, clumsy, but allowed the best possible seat. She leaned back against the trunk of the tree.

  “Are you all right?"

  She looked down on Kimon as he rode out toward her. “So far,” she answered, and tossed him the end of Onokratos's line. “But this damn thing is made of thin, braided vines, and they've gotten kind of coarse with age.” She adjusted her seat ever so delicately. “And you know how little I'm wearing."

  “Afraid of splinters?” he teased.

  “With all the time we've spent in the saddle?” she replied. “I doubt if I'd feel them.” She tied her end of the cloth line securely around the larger ferry rope, hoping her knots would hold. “Make sure you don't lose your end,” she called to Kimon. “There's a lot of tension on this thing. When I cut it free, it's going to snap out into the water. If you let go, or my knots aren't good enough”—she made a face—“then it's going to be a long and messy swim for everyone."

  “Tras Sur'tian is just about finished with the raft,” he informed her. “But the sun's nearly gone. Think we'll make it?"

  She studied the sky. The sun's fading rays cast a shimmering path of liquid fire over the water, pointing the way to Skodulac. “We'll make it."

  Her blade hissed free of the sheath, and she began hacking at the rope. The vibrations her blows caused nearly unseated her. She gripped tighter with her thighs, placed one hand on the tree trunk to steady herself, and chopped away.

  Kimon backed off a bit. “This is going to be so funny!” he called up to her, grinning.

  Tras Sur'tian and Onokratos were watching as well. She spied them safe and dry on the solid land. The raft they had made from the wagon's bed lay near the edge of the murky swamp water. She could see the smirks they wore on their faces.

  “One laugh out of any of you!” she warned. Hack, hack, hack. “And I'll cut your tongues out, I swear—Oh!"

  The old rope parted more easily than she'd expected. Down she fell, splash! in the mire. She scrambled to get her footing, sputtering and spitting mud, soaked with filth and slime.

  All three men doubled with laughter. She cursed them, brandishing the sword she had remembered to keep hold of. The guffaws only increased; they clapped each other on the backs.

  She waded toward them, wiping the muck from her arms, face, and chest. “I'll get even!” she promised.

  “Not too close!” Tras Sur'tian shouted, pinching his nose. “By the One God, you smell like a charnel pit!"

  She snapped at Kimon, “Did you hang on to that line?"

  He held it up to show he had.

  “Then get Aki and Kalynda before we lose the sun.” She squeezed water and mud from her long hair.

  Kimon and Onokratos hurried back for the children while Frost and Tras Sur'tian lifted the raft, which was really no more than the bottom of the wagon, and set it gently into the water among the reeds. They stepped onto it. Water seeped up through the boards.

  “Tras?” she cried, feigning alarm. The Korkyran noted the seepage and took a hasty step back toward shore. She hooked his foot with hers. With an awkward shout, he plu
nged headlong into the clammy brink. He clambered out, flecked with slime, mouthing Korkyran expletives, ready to drink her blood.

  She put on a mask of innocence. “Now, how could that have happened?” Her eyelashes fluttered, head tilted, lips pouted sweetly. She stepped lightly ashore. “You have to be so careful on these things,” she advised. Then she gave a look of smug satisfaction. Laugh now, old hyena, she thought.

  The other two returned with the children in their arms. Kimon took note of Tras Sur'tian's condition and clucked. “No time for a swim, sir,” he said smartly.

  Frost interrupted the Korkyran's sharp retort. “You're going to take a swim yourself, sir. Our combined weight proves too much for these few boards."

  Onokratos frowned. “Then what good is all our work?"

  “I never really expected us all to ride across,” she assured him. “The raft was necessary for Aki and Kalynda. You'll ride it, too."

  His frown deepened. “I see."

  She took notice of his dour expression. “You object?"

  He drew his shoulders back, straightened his spine. “Do you think I'm too old to swim? Why should I stay safe and dry? You're a woman; you ride with the children!"

  She laid a hand on his arm. “No insult was meant.” In fact, she doubted he could make the swim, but best to hide that thought. “You'll have the tough job of hauling the raft over on the rope.” She indicated the other two. “But we're warriors, and we're stiff and sore from too much time in the saddle. A swim, even in this malodorous brine, will loosen us up for the contest ahead."

  His old temper flickered briefly, then subsided. He mocked her habit of biting her lip, then said: “You're quite a liar, my dear.” He hesitated, and his features darkened with an unvoiced fear. “Gel could carry us over on a whirlwind,” he added wistfully.

  She clucked her tongue. “At what expense of power?” She turned back to the raft. “We're doing fine on our own. When we reach Skull Gate, then you can summon him."

  “What if he doesn't come?"

  She gazed out toward Skodulac, feeling a chill dread close around her heart. Like Onokratos, she had kept that fear under guard for the past few days. “I made the first bargain, didn't I?” she answered with false bravado. “If he doesn't come, I'll just have to strike another."