“If it consoles thee,” Orchos said amiably, “his moment of ecstasy expended the last of his power."
He knew of the rape! She cursed silently, then stopped, biting her lip. Her worst fear was now reality. Much as she loathed the demon, she had counted on his power. How would they fight Orchos now?
“Renegotiate,” she said, inadvertently speaking aloud.
The death god shook his head. “Thee has made a bargain.” His tone was chiding, almost fatherly. “Gel's corruption is complete, as I knew it would be.” He turned toward the cross, and his voice raised in volume. “Demons are not gods. Thee could not dwell indefinitely on this plane and remain unchanged. Thee were a fool, Gel. I elevated thee, made thee a captain over the hordes of hell. But thee rebelled. Now, thee are no more than human.” He nodded sadly. “Almost, I pity thee. But I do not forgive thee.” He turned back to Frost, and she shivered. There was no more mirth in the maker of widows. “Thee has already defeated my servant, Kahlis, with thy magic water. So, it shall be five of thee against four of my demons."
The air shimmered. “Let none flee,” the god declared.
A peculiar glow filled the arena. On the crater's lip a towering pillar of flame crackled up toward the heavens. Then, at astounding speed it began to widen. It raced around the rim until it met itself, forming a roaring wall of fire that sealed them from the outside world.
She glanced at her comrades in the strange orange-yellow brightness. Tras appeared outwardly unimpressed. Kimon, however, was not so unaffected. With Aki's weight shifted into one arm, he had bared his sword. Onokratos hugged Kalynda to his breast with both arms; his eyes reflected a hardness she could not fathom.
She turned back to the lord of death. “I don't see anybody running away."
“So, let it begin,” he proclaimed. He raised an arm to the sky and called, “Chaldee!"
Beside Orchos the earth heaved and split open. A terrible thrashing tossed dust and clouds. Up from the gaping fissure rose the demon named Chaldee. It drew itself erect, flexed muscles, and shrugged off a cascade of dirt. Twice a man's height, he stood on powerful, bovine legs; a massive bellows-chest glittered with serpentine scales, rising and falling with each blustering breath. It curled its three-fingered hands into fists, and scimitar-shaped talons unsheathed from slits between its knuckles. Shaggy hair hid most of its head and face, but Frost could see the crooked yellow teeth as it grinned and the single huge eye that shone with festering intelligence.
Orchos's voice boomed. “Kiowye!"
A thunderclap shattered the sky. A piece of the night sky itself appeared to melt and flow to earth. As it touched the arena floor it suddenly hardened, forming a column of faceted obsidian. Another thunderclap sounded, and a webwork of cracks raced down the column's length. A third burst of thunder followed, so loud that Frost covered her ears. As the sound rolled away, the column collapsed in an almost musical tinkling of black crystal.
Kiowye stepped from the ruins, a creature of shining ice. Man-sized, its fingers long, razor-edged shards. It had no features, not eyes or nose or mouth. Where it stood the ground began to whiten with a fine layer of icy mist.
“Feel the cold?” Tras Sur'tian whispered. She nodded, said nothing.
“Dogon!” The death god's cry rose like a wind on the night air.
A chorus of high-pitched whines suddenly drowned all other sound. Out of nothingness, streamers of vibrant colors appeared and bolted crazily around the arena as if possessed with a wild life of their own. Around and around the streamers darted, creating an ever-tightening spiral, a dazzling vortex of scintillant hues. Mad harmonies crescendoed and abruptly ceased. The vortex whirled only a heartbeat longer. The colors dissipated, unveiling a hideous bat-winged, bat-faced monster with a man's body and the claws of a lion. Wings fluttered; a mouth opened to emit a shrill, challenging note.
Orchos's eyes flickered with anticipatory fire. Clearly, he expected to enjoy this dark contest. “Thee has defeated the demon Kahlis,” he acknowledged. “That leaves but one more participant. She is not yet arrived. But she comes, she comes."
He turned his gaze to the sky; his lips curled back to speak a name. “Ouijah!"
Frost knew what to watch for. She gazed up at the sky. A shooting star, barely visible against the fiery barrier on the crater's rim, plummeted from the velvet night. She guessed its trajectory, followed its descent, and threw her arms up against the expected explosion.
Instead, the shooting star dissolved suddenly in a shower of resplendent droplets. The drops fell on the arena wall, and for a moment, nothing more happened. All was stillness. Then, Ouijah rose, dripping, born of that sparkling rain.
Orchos had called her “she.” Indeed, her femaleness was obvious. Golden-skinned, proud, and tall, Ouijah was beyond the measure of any human woman. Snow-white hair cascaded in heavy curls down her back and over full, perfectly formed breasts. Frost could distinguish few other features over the distance. The demoness stared haughtily down at them from her perch atop Skull Gate's wall. The bow and the quiver of arrows Ouijah wore only enhanced her wild, alien beauty.
“The bodies of your human children will be safe over there,” Orchos instructed. A throne carved from gleaming onyx stood on a low dais against the opposite wall. Two small altar-shaped slabs lay at the throne's foot. She was sure none of it had been there before.
Kimon carried Aki toward one of the slabs. Onokratos seemed reluctant. Taking notice, Tras Sur'tian whispered some words and gently pried Kalynda from the wizard's arms. He started after Kimon.
Frost kept a careful eye on their foes. It was a perfect time for an attack with Kimon and Tras on one side of the arena, she and Onokratos on the other. Her hands drifted to her weapons, rested on the hilts. The children were placed on the stones; her friends started back across the arena.
A black shape flitted on the edge of her vision, and she jerked her sword free. It was only Ashur. Somehow, she had forgotten the unicorn. He pranced around the wall, passing under Ouijah's steady gaze, and took up guard between the sleeping girls.
“Now, I believe they are safe,” she said with pointed satisfaction. She let out a slow breath and studied her opponents. It was almost a surprise to discover that fear had left her. She was resigned to what could not be avoided. “And I'm growing bored,” she added. “Allow Gel to join us, and let's get on with it."
Kimon whispered, “What good is he to us now?” His sword was in his hand. She had not heard him draw it. The short sword remained in his belt.
“Fodder, if nothing else,” she answered. To Orchos: “Since his magic is gone, will you give him a weapon?"
Orchos shrugged. The ropes that bound the powerless demon to the cross wondrously untied themselves. Gel tumbled to the ground in a heap. “Get up, rebel,” Orchos commanded.
Gel struggled to his feet.
“Pick up thy weapon.” The lord of hell pointed. “It is more than thee deserves."
Gel shook his head to clear it, bent, and lifted from the dust a huge, two-handed mace whose steel head was fashioned into eight razored edges. Had it been at the foot of the cross all the time? Frost doubted it. Orchos was taking an almost childish delight in these trivial displays of conjuration.
Gel moved sluggishly at first, then more boldly as he passed, not around, but through their opponents’ line. He took a place at Frost's left hand and glared from one demon to the next. “Such as these are not worthy of me,” he spat. He faced his former master. “Give me back my true form and see how quickly this farce ends."
Orchos's grim visage darkened. His anger radiated like a tangible force through the arena. “Nevermore shall thee wear thy raven form. Nevermore shall thee fly or ride the winds.” The death god shook a fist, and the earth itself trembled. “Thee rebelled, broke pact with me. Now, thee are justly rewarded.” He gestured to Chaldee, Kiowye, Dogon, and Ouijah. “Not worthy of thee? Foolish once-demon!” He spat, and a wisp of smoke curled up from the dust where the spittle fell. “True, t
hey have not the magic thee once commanded. But they keep their faith and serve well the master to whom they swore allegiance. So, they are greater in value than ever thee were.” A slender god-finger stabbed at Gel's heart. “Thee has forsaken much to become so little."
Gel scowled but said nothing.
Orchos turned to Frost. “Daughter, in fairness to thy frailty I have chosen warriors from the lower order of powers. These can be harmed and defeated if thee are skillful and clever. Yet, to be frank, I doubt thee can win. Still, thee made the bargain, and as thee must surely understand, I put much value in the keeping of oaths."
Frost drew herself proudly erect. The point of her sword rested on the ground; her hands rested, folded, on the pommel. “There was more to the bargain we made, corpse-eater,” she reminded him.
“I will fulfill the terms and challenge the chaos god if thee wins."
She nodded, trying her best to meet his gaze. “Then,” she said, “get out of the way."
He regarded her for an instant and the bare shadow of a smile turned up the corners of his mouth. With a curt nod, he turned, strode to his throne on the arena's far side. Ashur snorted a low warning and the flames that served him for eyes flared with brief violence as the god passed near the children.
Kimon waved toward Onokratos. “What about him?” he said to Frost. “Without his demon familiar, he'll be no help."
The wizard bristled. “But I have the demon back!"
Gel growled deep in his throat. “Go chew a bone, human! My powers are gone; I am bound by no oath and to no master now.” He swung his mace experimentally, getting the feel of it. “I fight only because the lord of the nine hells will destroy me if I do not. I fight for a chance to live.” He glanced sidelong at Frost and added, “A chance to see my son succeed where I have failed."
Frost felt her belly and the life within but refrained from any retort. Kimon did not yet know of the seed that grew in her womb, and this was not the time to worry him with that news.
“I am a man!” Onokratos insisted, balling his fists. “As much as you! I can fight!"
“You're a wizard,” Kimon corrected calmly. “You were a wizard."
Frost put aside her own problems to deal with the old man's anger and frustration. Yet what should she do? Onokratos had no weapon, and he was too old for her kind of combat. He had some skill at sorcery, he claimed, but by his admission, that was small and weak.
Tras Sur'tian took the decision out of her hands. He moved to the other man's side and touched his arm. “Stand by the gate, friend,” he said. Frost started at that. Had they, in fact, become friends? They had talked a great deal along the trail and had apparently come to an understanding of each other. Tras was not much younger than Onokratos. He was warrior-trained, though, and that made all the difference now.
Tras's voice conveyed sympathy and respect. He passed the older man his personal dagger. “If you see a way to help, do what you think best."
Onokratos hesitated, then wrapped his fingers around the blade's hilt. “My thanks, friend,” he acknowledged. He shot a withering look at Gel. “You've won nothing,” he said with quiet dignity to the once-demon. “You will win nothing.” He turned and took up position in Yahwei's very mouth.
Orchos's voice thundered across the arena. “It shall be one on one, human and demon in separate contests."
Frost did not bother to raise her voice. She knew the lord of death would hear. “Free-for-all. When I defeat my foe I help my nearest man."
Death acquiesced. “As you wish, daughter.” He raised a hand. “So, this fateful competition begins.” The hand came down to rest on the arm of the onyx throne.
Raising her sword, Frost crouched in a defensive posture. Chaldee yawned, grinned with wicked glee. He clenched his fists, exposing his claws as he tried to close with her. She leaped away, taking note of the soft, powdery ground.
The demon's single eye gleamed redly, similar to the eye of the creature named Kahlis who was already dispatched. That brought her hope. Orchos had said these demons could be hurt, and they had proved that.
Chaldee blinked, then struck with viper swiftness, lashing out with his right hand. Barely faster, she ducked, sidestepped, swung her weapon in a tight arc. The blade rattled uselessly off the monster's talons. She danced away to catch her breath. Her foe was fast, maybe too fast. She was formulating a plan, but would she get a chance to use it?
She risked a glance around to see how her comrades fared. Close by, Tras Sur'tian flailed the air with his sword, thwarting an aerial attack by the bat-winged Dogon. Where were Kimon and Gel? She had no time to find out.
Soundlessly, Chaldee charged. She stood her ground until the last possible moment, then dodged, brought her sword around with all her strength, and sliced deeply into the back of the demon's thigh. But her surge of triumph was quickly smothered. No blood, no fluid of any color stained her weapon. Chaldee spun around, grinned through his shaggy beard.
She cursed, cheated of victory. Not men, she reminded herself bitterly. Demons. But they still have weaknesses. She steeled herself for a protracted battle.
A piercing scream ripped through her concentration, but Chaldee moved before she could see the source. His right hand raked air, aimed for her face; his left swept upward to slash out her entrails. Her blade whistled, scoring twin gashes in her opponent's arms. Neither wound bled. Aside from diverting his attack, she had achieved nothing.
Sweat beaded on her forehead and arms. She sucked breath and licked her lips. The veins throbbed in her temples. Gripping her weapon with both hands, she swayed, crouched, waited for the next engagement. Dimly, she perceived sounds of the combat around her, but she dared not take her eyes from her foe.
Chaldee thrust twice with both sets of claws, driving her backward. The great reach of his hirsute arms prevented her from escaping left or right. He pushed her toward the wall. That lone orb shone with amusement and anticipation. He opened one fist, and a set of talons retracted. He reached for her.
With a fierce shout she rushed him, carving a trio of cuts on his ribs. He backstepped, taken off-balance. She lunged, seeking soft belly with her point. Too late, she saw one of his hooves flashing upward. Pain exploded in her chest; the wind whooshed from her lungs. She crashed to the earth, maintaining a weak grip on her weapon.
The hoof rose again to stomp her into the dirt. Desperately, she rolled. The ground reverberated where her head had been an instant before. Chaldee tried again, and again she rolled, choking on the fine dust that clouded the air. Her sword banged once on his ankle.
Suddenly, he stopped. His grin returned, and he unsheathed his claws. He bent over her, paused as if to savor the moment, then a fist plummeted, preceded by razor death.
With a cry, she forced muscles into action. Almost on its own, her sword came up, pommel braced against the ground at her side. A sickening rasp: her point slid up between the unsheathed talons, impaling Chaldee's fist.
She gasped, drenched in fear-sweat. An uncontrollable tremor racked her. Still, the demon's grin did not fade.
He leaned forward. Slowly, the pierced extremity forced its way down her blade. Chaldee was oblivious to pain. The claws descended, and she felt the strain of his weight bearing down. He would pin her like an insect. Her muscles bunched, arteries bulged in her neck. It was no use. Chaldee leaned upon the sword.
Gritting her teeth, she rolled again, abandoning her sword. She scrambled to her feet. Calmly, as if it were a splinter, the demon plucked the length of steel from his flesh and tossed it away. She noticed where it fell—too far away to hope of retrieving it.
He came for her then, scything the night with great, sweeping blows. She dodged, leaped, ran. It took all her skill and speed to avoid being carved like a holiday game fowl or stomped into the dirt like a worm on a wet day.
Her original plan was worthless. Chaldee kept her on the defensive. It was all she could do to stay alive. She had hoped to wound him badly enough to slow him down; then she coul
d take time to find his vital points. Though he did not bleed, there was a way to stop him. Orchos had said so. Now she had lost her sword. That left her but one weapon.
Demonfang.
She must allow Chaldee to close with her. A single quick thrust would be her only chance. She didn't know if this demon possessed Gel's ability to control the arcane dagger. He was supposed to be a weaker, lower order of power. She could not count on that. It must be swift.
She leaped, rolled on her shoulder to avoid the demon's lightning attack. She got to her feet and glanced down. Three rips showed in the poor tunic she wore. A red scratch appeared lividly through one tear. She panted for breath, ignored the mild stinging sensation and the thin line of blood that rose moments later.
She licked her lips, tasting the bitter dust that caked them. Her fingers curled around Demonfang's hilt. All or nothing, she resolved. She had known from the beginning it would be so, from the hour she had made her pact with the caller of souls.
She waited, tensed for Chaldee's next rush. He opened his arms to embrace her, talons glittering in the firelight from the crater's rim, red eye shining.
“For thee, good and faithful servant!” she shouted, imitating Orchos's archaic speech. In a single swift motion she drew and hurled the dagger. A short, ear-shattering wail shivered the air before Demonfang embedded itself in Chaldee's eye.
The monster stumbled backward and fell, clutching his face. A horrible mouth opened, twisted in mute shrieks of fear and agony. Rolling, thrashing up thick clouds of dust, he tried to dislodge the cruel needle. A pink froth began to bubble from the wound. It spilled over his scaly chest, oozed into the matted hair of his groin and legs. He struggled up, groped blindly, and fell again. Legs kicked the air; hands clenched and unclenched convulsively; claws sheathed and unsheathed.
She stared in relief and terror. No moan escaped the demon's lips, no word or curse or plea for help. His chest stopped heaving, fists suddenly relaxed, limbs spasmed once and no more.
Well done, daughter! Orchos's voice touched her mind. A pity thy comrades fare not so well.
Skull Gate Page 26
