Skull Gate

by Robin W Bailey

  Chaldee's body began to smoke and fume. The flesh cracked, split open. More of the pink froth poured out, engulfing the hideous bulk.

  “Get out of my head; lord of worms!” Her triumphant shout rang with defiance and pride. “I've the weapon to beat your children. I've had it all the time. I gambled on it!"

  Look again, daughter, Orchos warned.

  Nothing remained of Chaldee but a rapidly congealing ichor from which the hilt of Demonfang protruded. She seized it, drew it free, and cried out in despair. Half the blade was gone, dissolved with the monster's body. What remained was a misshapen ruin bearing no resemblance to the silver metal it had once been. Nor did she sense its familiar tingle, the aura of its magic. The screaming dagger remained silent. Dead, she despaired, though she had never before thought of it as living.

  “Damn you!” she raged. “Damn you! Damn you!"

  Daughter, the death god chastised, how can thee damn the lord of nine damnations?

  In a fury, she threw the useless scrap at him, more a gesture of angry contempt than of honest intent. It fell at his feet between the two enchanted children. Ashur trumpeted a long, eerie note and stamped the broken blade with his hooves.

  The contest is not yet ended, he reminded her. Attend thy comrades.

  A new outcry caught her attention. She whirled. Onokratos wrestled with a mighty serpent. Its coils wrapped around his throat and upper chest. Its fanged mouth sought his face. With one straining hand he held it off. It spat venom at his eyes, and he barely averted his face. Then Onokratos struck with the blade Tras Sur'tian had given him. The first blow bit deeply, and the second sent the serpent's head flying. The headless coils lashed him, constricted, whipped him. Yet he managed to shrug free.

  At his feet, Frost spied the corpse of another snake. The old man was holding his own, then. She felt a flash of pride for him.

  But she was weaponless in the midst of danger. She looked for her sword lying where Chaldee had cast it, ran, and snatched it up.

  Gel and Tras Sur'tian fought side by side against the creature called Dogon. The Korkyran's left sleeve was ripped away; blood streamed down that arm from a series of deep scratches that ran from shoulder to elbow. Nor had the once-demon gotten by unscathed. Dogon had raked flesh from his back and upper chest. Gel bled as redly as any human and wielded his mace with admirable determination. Unfortunately, he lacked skill and training. The brunt of combat fell to Tras Sur'tian.

  Dogon climbed the sky, let out a piercing screech, folded his bat-wings, and dived with claws extended. Tras dodged and thrust with his long sword, scoring a small rent in the creature's pinion, not enough to seriously slow it. Stupidly, Gel held his ground. His great mace arced high, catching the orange light. But before he could bring it down, Dogon's wings unfolded and the demon banked sharply, smashing Gel to the earth with the hard, leathery ridge.

  She started to their aid, then stopped. The sounds of battle had noticeably lessened. Yet there was no smell of decaying demon-flesh, no outcry of human victory. Suddenly, she missed Kimon.

  Kiowye's icy fingers were closed on his face, and he was bent backward like a child's cloth doll. His sword hung loosely in a limp grasp. The tide of fighting had carried them toward the northern wall. Even over that distance, she could see the hoary rime frosting his skin.

  Red rage pumped strength through her veins. She ran at the ice-demon, jumped, kicked with both feet, and spilled them all in the dust. She tumbled lithely and came up swinging. Her blade struck Kiowye at the base of the neck as he rose. The demon staggered; she spun and slammed the keen edge against his belly with all the strength and momentum she could muster. Her third blow came down on his shoulder, intended to cleave him. Kiowye fell, and the earth whitened with a fine mist around his body.

  Then he got up, unharmed. No more than a few deep chips marked the places where her blows had landed. She could not guess from his featureless face if she had even caused him pain.

  Kimon staggered to her side. Bluish, mottled marks showed where Kiowye had gripped him. She could smell her lover's sweat, hear his ragged breathing, but he held his sword firmly once more. “He just won't die!” he shouted harshly.

  “Fight!” was all she could say.

  Together, they began to hack at the demon. She put her back into every stroke, grunting, straining. Kiowye just stood there. I'll chip you to ice slivers, she swore, and attacked with renewed, unreasoning fury until her arms were half-numb from the reverberating impacts.

  Suddenly, Kiowye's hands shot out, caught both swords. A white wave rushed down the metal. Frost felt her hilt grow cold, the flesh of her palm start to freeze. Still, she clung to her weapon. She pulled, seeking to wrench it from the demon's grasp. Kimon tried the same, planting a booted foot in the monster's stomach for leverage.

  Kiowye gave a twist, and the steel, made brittle by his touch, snapped.

  She stared in anger and dismay at the broken half she held. First the water-skins, then Demonfang, now her sword: what was left for her to fight with?

  Kimon still had his short sword. Drawing it from his belt, he rushed Kiowye, stabbing downward with all his might. Straight through the eyeless face it plunged, and the point protruded from the back of its head.

  Too late, she saw his danger. The thrust was no matter to the demon. It reached out before Kimon's hands left the hilt. Again, its frigid grip closed around his face.

  His cry of pain froze the blood in her veins as surely as her lover's flesh began to freeze. She ran at the demon with the stub of her weapon.

  Before she could strike, something hissed through the air. Slick, dark coils looped around her throat; twin eyes gleamed, small and red before hers. An oily, reptilian smell filled her nostrils. A wide mouth opened, fangs dripped.

  Her hand darted. Fear-strengthened fingers locked around the ophidian horror close to its flat, scale-shimmering head. It writhed furiously in her grasp, and its coils squeezed. A throbbing drummed in her head. A red haze settled over her vision. The serpent hissed and spat. Frost snapped her eyes shut to avoid the shower of its venom. No matter; the strangely cold liquid splashed her skin, and moments later, it began to burn.

  An anguished scream bubbled on her blue-coloring lips, and she fell, tripping in the thick dust. The hilt of her broken sword tumbled from her grasp.

  A weird, warming calm wrapped around her then, and she knew she was dying. Fear lost meaning. Pain meant nothing even as more venom burned her cheeks and bare arms, as rippling muscles crushed her throat and the blood beat tempestuously in her brain. She was no longer aware of the arena. The world seemed to float around her. Only two tiny eyes remained fixed like crimson stars in a swirling cosmos.

  Her empty hand rose of its own volition and gripped the serpent just below her other hand. Her fingers squeezed. She twisted, and the scaly foe squirmed in sudden desperation. She twisted, and the muscles in her arms and shoulders and back bunched. She twisted, then jerked with a power she never knew she possessed, and her hands flew in opposite directions.

  A new fluid spurted over her arms, soothing the venom burns. The coils suddenly loosened around her neck and chest. She gasped as sweet, fresh air surged into her lungs, stared at the separated pieces of the monster that had tried to strangle her. Even in death, those tiny, malicious eyes gleamed.

  She cast the parts away and tried to stand, but her legs would not support her. She collapsed, lifted her head, striving to see around.

  Her heart sank.

  Kiowye bent over Kimon, the butt of the short sword jutting ridiculously from the demon's face. Both of its gelid hands were locked on her lover's head, and a glittering frost had turned his flesh a startling white. Forced to his knees, Kimon tore weakly at the creature's arms. A muffled, hopeless moan issued from his rimed lips.

  “No!” She tried to get up, failed. Tears of frustrated anger welled in her eyes. She crawled toward the demon. “Let him go. Orchos!"

  The death god was silent.

  Kimon sa
gged unconscious as she watched. Cursing, crying, she managed to get one foot under her, then the other. She stumbled forward, weaponless, thinking only of the man who had once tried to take her life.

  Kiowye batted her aside with a casual backhanded gesture. She landed hard, stunned, ears ringing. “Help him, somebody!” she sobbed. “Help him!"

  But she knew there was no help.

  Even as she called, Gel fell to Dogon's sweeping attack. The tip of one wing struck him at the base of his skull, and the boastful once-demon lay still.

  Tras Sur'tian braced himself, weaving a halfhearted defense with his sword, unable to take the attack to his opponent, who climbed back into the sky with a shrill, victorious screeching.

  Then, from the corner of her eye she saw the demoness Ouijah lift her bow. Straight for her Korkyran comrade the shaft flew. But strange transformation! In mid-flight the arrow elongated, thickened, took on a scaly sheen.

  With a superb effort, Tras Sur'tian clove the serpent still in the air. The pieces fell lifeless and bleeding in the dust. But in that instant of distraction, Dogon plunged. His shrill cry ululated as lion claws flashed. Frost knew her friend could not react in time.

  Then another sound answered the demon.

  Trumpeting his challenge, streaming eye-flame, Ashur thundered into the arena and knocked Tras Sur'tian out of harm's way with a massive shoulder. The old warrior fell hard as the unicorn reared. An ebon spike pierced the flying demon before it could alter the path of its flight.

  Dogon's inhuman cry of pain nearly split her ears. It rose into the night, spilling a dark substance from its belly.

  That small victory gave her strength to move again. She struggled against her own wounds and bruises to rise. The unicorn was magic, and he had hurt the demon. Holy water and Demonfang had hurt them. Magic, then, was the only effective weapon.

  And Kimon had something.

  She took three swift steps and leaped, feet first, repeating a move she had used once before to topple Kiowye. She kicked hard and fell hard, but the ice-demon went sprawling.

  She had only instants before the creature would be on her.

  Kimon lay unmoving. She scrambled to his side. His flesh felt so cold as she listened for his heartbeat. She couldn't be sure. Maybe it was there, or maybe it was her own wishful thinking. She called his name. She slapped him twice. But his eyes did not open and he didn't move.

  A hasty glance over her shoulder let her know time was up. Kiowye rose and took a step toward her, his hand reaching.

  She tore frantically at Kimon's tunic, ripping it open from the collar. The pouch was there, tied around his neck with her knots. She jerked, snapping the thongs, and the ruby talisman rolled into her palm.

  She made a fist around it and anxiously turned to confront the ice-demon. A crimson nimbus radiated around her hand; the jewel glowed with a light that revealed the delicate bones of her fingers. She raised it over her head, hoping its protective power could save her from Ouijah's arrows as well.

  Kiowye took another step and stopped.

  A voice spoke inside her head. Daughter, it is not enough to hold my servants at bay. Thee must win the contest.

  “Get out of my head, corpse-eater!"

  He ignored her shout. The odds are too much for thee. They always were. I have not even allowed Ouijah to unleash her full power. Frost didn't want to take her eyes from Kiowye, who stood motionless before her; yet she felt compelled to look to the wall where the demoness stood. Behold, Orchos said.

  Ouijah drew a shaft from her quiver, set it to the string, and released it straight at the earth.

  The ground erupted in a huge, rolling cloud of madness. Out of the dust rose a serpent of incredible size. Uncoiled, its length would have stretched from head to tip of tail completely around the arena. It showed fangs as long as war spears. The ring of hellfire that burned on the crater's rim glinted in a thousand places on the creature's squamous hide and in the scarlet beacons of its eyes.

  Those eyes sought hers, mesmerizing. She lifted her fist slowly in response. The jewel's glow intensified; its light cast shimmering rays between her fingers.

  Thy pitiful talisman cannot save thee. Orchos's voice was a pitted steel edge that sawed at her brain. The field shall be mine, and our pact settled as agreed. I shall cart your souls to the fiery lake.

  The serpent slithered out toward the center of the arena, its girth making a dry, raspy noise as it shifted the dust. Tras Sur'tian backed away uncertainly, on guard for another attack from Dogon, who still fluttered just beyond sword reach.

  The serpent undulated; its great, flat head rose; its mouth opened and venom dripped. It loomed over the Korkyran.

  Again, Ashur reared, bellowing, stomping the earth. The unicorn shook its wild and tangled mane, then charged.

  She screamed. “No! My beautiful! No!” With all her might she threw the ruby, praying its power would drive the serpent back and save her unicorn, who, she feared, had little chance against such a monster. It bounced off the oily scales with a red flash and lay in the dust.

  Then, the world tilted.

  Frost was thrown backward. The ground bucked and heaved beneath her. She threw her arms and legs wide in a spread-eagle, her fingers clawing, seeking purchase in the soft powder. But the earth rose and fell, wild as a raging ocean, alive with rolling, tempestuous waves of choking dirt and dust. She rode them helplessly, trying to catch glimpses about her.

  Ashur's four legs pawed the air, and he trumpeted fearfully, impotently. Tras Sur'tian bounced about like a child's ball. Kimon's and Gel's bodies were tossed about like broken driftwood. Even the serpent thrashed helplessly, its sinuous bulk no advantage as great waves of earth buffeted the monster.

  Suddenly, an explosion rocked the arena. On the crater rim a blinding prominence of flame leaped up from the ring of fire. It arced high across the sky and licked the earth, turning the giant snake to charred and smoking meat.

  Another tremor shook the ground, evoking a sharp cry from the arena wall. Ouijah lost her footing and fell, spilling her quiver. As each shaft touched the ground it transformed into a wriggling, angry snake.

  Another explosion and a second prominence. Ouijah and serpents vanished in a shimmer of flame and smoke.

  Dogon flapped around the arena like a trapped insect; leathery pinions frantically beat the air. He wailed his weird, shrill cry, a sound of purest terror. A third blast, and a scarlet tongue of flame ended his fear. He plummeted earthward, a sparkling cinder.

  An ominous quiet settled over the arena. Frost felt the heart pounding in her chest, felt the ground tensing, gathering itself for something more.

  An immense fissure suddenly opened in the arena floor, sending a column of dust racing upward. A deep rumbling drowned all other sound. New cracks split open, speeding every direction, turning the floor into an unpredictable lacework.

  She had forgotten Kiowye. She glanced over her shoulder, searching for the demon. He stood not far away, as he had when she'd used the ruby talisman against him. She wondered if he had ever lost his balance during all the turmoil. He stood, a frozen sculpture, while the world fragmented, making no effort to save himself. The earth parted beneath his feet; with a surreal complacency that was all the more horrifying for its silence, he tumbled in.

  Kimon's body was not far away. She feared that he might also be swallowed by the unnatural crevices that fractured the landscape. Choking on the dust that filled the air, she crawled toward him. If this was death, then she would go at his side, and Orchos be damned. She reached him, cradled his head in the crook of her arm, pressed her face to his, and waited for it to happen.

  Thunder rippled the sky. Great racking bolts streaked the night with crackling fury. Strange colors swam in the air, whirled in dizzying vortices, birthing winds that wailed and made stinging darts of the finest particles.

  An intense azure glow suffused the arena, and Frost looked up to seek its source. Her voice was a small, weak thing in the whistling g
ale as she called out in disbelief.

  “Onokratos!"

  Framed in Yahwei's mouth, the great Skull Gate, saffire-colored energy coruscated madly around and through him. Writhing lines of magical force whipped in all directions, warping weather, splitting the earth, bringing the arena's ancient walls crumbling down. On the crater's rim the ring of hellfire swelled and raged, launching impossible blazing streamers heavenward.

  “Onokratos!” she shouted again, uselessly. “Stop! It's over!"

  But he could not stop. She saw through the scintillant aura that surrounded him, watched him convulse in the arcane flow. His face was a mask of terror and pain; his mouth gaped in a noiseless scream.

  He had told her.

  Before Gel's enslavement made him a wizard, he had dabbled in sorcery, learned to tap into the natural magic of words and objects. He had never been very skilled, he said. Yet to save their lives he had tapped into the raw, wild power of Skodulac, magic so potent that she, too, stripped of her witch-powers, could feel it like an unrelenting itch.

  A movement caught her eye. Tras Sur'tian fought to keep his balance as he worked his way through the rubble that had been the wall. Winds blasted him, the heaving earth tried to topple him. Sword in hand, he fought to reach Onokratos.

  “Don't hurt him!” she cried, swallowing dust. “He can't control it!"

  She knew the Korkyran couldn't hear. He leaped a fissure that opened in his path, tripped, recovered. His gaze fixed on the wizard with determined intensity.

  Too late, she shouted a warning. Another section of the wall collapsed. Tras Sur'tian threw himself aside, but battle and fatigue had taken a toll, and he moved too slowly. Bone and mortar engulfed him, and he went down in a cloud of obscuring dust.

  She waited hopefully for something to stir in the ruins. The dust quickly dissipated. She spied an arm. It didn't move.

  She cursed bitterly, and fresh, angry tears scalded her cheeks. They had challenged hell and won. The dark contest was finished. Orchos and his servants were beaten.

  But her comrades were dead. And the last of their fellowship would soon join them, slain by the very same power that gave them victory.