Skull Gate (10 page)

“You mean the witch!” someone answered, and the mob took up the cry, shouting, “Witch! Burn the witch!"

She reached for her sword, but Tras Sur'tian caught her hand. Then he threw back his cloak. Perhaps no one could recognize its scarlet color in the shadows of the night, but the firelight glittered resplendently on the emblem of the royal guard that emblazoned his coat. “Bring out this woman called Oona.” His voice boomed over their heads, crisp with authority. “You must surrender her to me. King Thogrin Sin'tell himself has ordered her arrest."

Frost raised an eyebrow at that. She'd never guessed lying was one of the old man's talents, but that one rolled off his tongue as glib as could be. Shouting gave way to a low mumbling and grumbling as the crowd wondered what to do.

One man, burly with hair and muscle, wearing a leather apron, stepped to the fore. Frost recognized the blacksmith she'd seen when she'd passed through Shadamas before.

“By all the nine hells we won't, bub!” he answered. “An' we're none impressed by yer pretty clothes, neither. A king's order is supposed to come on a fancy paper with a big seal on it. I seen ‘em before. An' yer not wavin' one o' them.” His voice was as deep and loud as Tras Sur'tian's, and its effect on the crowd was just as great. He turned to survey his friends and neighbors. When he looked back again his lips parted in a malicious smile. “So you better get outta here. We're not givin' up no child-murderin' witch!"

“We kin take care o' her ourselves!” someone shouted.

“Tell that to the king!” another added.

“Fire! That'll take care of her!"

The sound rose like a tumult, the mob spoon-feeding courage to themselves with jeers and threats and insults. The blacksmith led them, shaking his fists.

“Where's the boy's parents?” Frost called over it all, repeating until they grew quiet enough to hear.

The blacksmith came close to her knee. His eyes burned redly in the firelight when he looked up at her. “Mournin' for their dead son, where parents should be!” he answered.

She rose in her stirrups, slowly slung a leg over the saddle, and slid to the ground. Not an arm's length separated her from the huge blacksmith. His gaze bore into her. She met it dispassionately. “You count yourself a man among all these people?"

“Huh?” he grunted.

She echoed. “Huh? That's an animal sound, not a man's."

“Frost,” Tras Sur'tian tried to caution her. She silenced him with a casual wave.

“What'd'ya mean by that?” The blacksmith leaned forward, trying to intimidate her with his greater height.

She circled around him, showing him her back as she regarded the villagers one by one. “You don't sound like so much of a man to me,” she said over her shoulder. “You sound like an animal.” She imitated his grunt again, smiled for the gathering. When she turned back to the blacksmith the smile was gone. “In fact, you sound like an ass."

His face darkened, he puffed up his chest. “I'm more'n man enough for the likes o' you!” he roared.

She opened her arms invitingly, thrust her hips forward. “Prove it!"

His huge bearish arms reached out to engulf her, and that malicious grin returned. “I'll prove it all right, you gutter-slut, here before the gods and everybody!” He made a grab for her.

She tilted her head, batted her eyes provocatively, pouted her lips, and kicked him between his legs with all her strength. The big blacksmith fell screaming, clutching his groin with one hand, his kidney with the other.

“Maybe you were man enough
once
...” She clucked her tongue, pretended to brush dust from her hands. “Now I'll make the same fair offer to any other
men
among you."

But she had miscalculated. She'd grown too used to the
honorable
men of Korkyra's elite guard, men whom she could offer single combat in exchange for someone's life. These were field rabble and farmers, drunk at that. What did honor mean to them?

Hands reached for her; a cry went up for her blood.

She leaped back, sword hissing from the sheath. Tras Sur'tian spurred his horse, forcing the crowd back for fear of being trampled. But one brave soul grabbed for his reins; the horse reared, throwing the guard captain.

Clubs materialized as if by magic in the villagers' hands, rakes and hammers, knives, a few swords. Someone struck at her. She gave no notice to the kind of weapon, just blocked the blow and gutted the attacker. Blood spurted on her tunic.

Tras Sur'tian was up and fighting. Wooden weapons had little effect on his armored form, but his helmet was suspended on a thong on his saddle, leaving his head unprotected. For farmers and drunks, the villagers fought like demons, fearless of steel, and the old man was sorely pressed.

And she still had no idea where to find Oona.

A shrill scream rose behind her. She braved a quick glance that way, expecting to find Ashur's ebon horn bloodied. But no! A stranger's sword had saved her a clubbing. The firelight and shadows made his face impossible to see. He worked his way to her side.

“The old woman's in there!” she heard over the din. The stranger pointed to the inn. A rake descended toward his head. He caught it deftly in his free hand, gave a tug, and kicked the wielder. He cast the implement as if it were a lance, catching another man in the face with the pronged end. “Come on,” he urged.

“Tras!” she called, and the three made a bloody path down the street. Still, the mob resisted them with an insane fury. “Ashur!"

The unicorn reared; the flames of his eyes flared as bright as the bonfires around. He charged into the villagers, scattering men everywhere. They broke suddenly in all directions, screaming as the beast reared again, crushed a skull with flashing hooves.

“I'll get Oona!” she told her two companions when they reached the inn's door. “Keep them out.” But the two were rapt in the scene in the street, where Ashur pranced back and forth. Most of the mob had leapt for any door or window to avoid the black, snorting creature. Not all of them were so quick or lucky.

Frost kicked in the door, sword ready, but the inn was empty. Mugs and bottles sat on the tables, still half-full. Customers must have rushed into the street to join the melee.
Much to their regret
, she reflected. She mounted the stairs that led to a set of upper rooms. The first two were unoccupied. Oona was in the third.

Her hands were cruelly bound, and she was gagged and blindfolded, presumably to prevent her from weaving spells, speaking incantations, or giving the evil eye. Frost spat in disgust. Nothing so simplistic could have stopped a real witch. She recalled how her hateful brother had once bound her in a similar fashion. She'd nearly brought their father's castle down on him.

She tore away the blindfold and gasped. They'd beaten Oona! Black circles ringed both eyes, and her cheeks were puffed and bruised. The gag came away to reveal split and bleeding lips. Oona whimpered once when she saw her rescuer, then closed her eyes again. “Wake up!” Frost urged as she struggled with the intricate knots that bound the old woman's fingers. If she was careless, those aged fingers could snap like dry twigs, she feared. “Wake up!” But Oona did not move.

Frost shivered, fearing her friend had died. Quickly she reassured herself, pressing an ear to Oona's breast, finding a heartbeat. She cast off the last cords and strained as she lifted Oona's still form. With an effort, she made it to the door. She took the stairs slowly, one at a time, her burden seeming heavier with each breath. “Tras!” she called. “Tras! Give me a hand!"

Tras rushed in, sheathing his sword, and took the limp woman from her. “Hurry,” he said. “That beast of yours has damn well cleared the streets. Best get out of here before someone finds a bow and starts shooting from a window."

Outside the inn the stranger still kept guard. Ashur paced up and down, snorting, kicking up road dirt. He trotted over at Frost's call. “How did you ever train him to do that?” the stranger exclaimed in a tense whisper. “Never seen such a thing before."

Frost ignored him. “Once we're gone they'll find their courage again and come after us.” Her gaze swept around. “Unless they've something more important to think about."

Tras Sur'tian frowned. “Like what?"

She strode to the nearest bonfire, alert for anyone hiding in the darkened doorways. She seized a blazing brand in each hand, crossed to the nearest building, threw one through the open window, the other onto the roof.

The stranger ran to the far end of the street, grabbed brands from another fire, sent them hurtling into the blacksmith shop, into a stable. Two men and a woman ran shouting from the stable, dodged away from the stranger, saw Frost standing with two more firebrands, and ducked into another dwelling.

Tras Sur'tian watched it all, comforting Oona's head on his broad shoulder.

When seven buildings were burning. Frost rejoined him. The stranger was at his side. “They'll be too busy saving their town to worry about us,” she said grimly.

“A few belongings, maybe,” the stranger observed. “There'll be no saving the town.” He shrugged as he watched the crackling flames. “I guess that makes me as much a criminal as you, queen-killer."

He said it quietly, and his eyes bored into hers as he spoke the words. An icy sky blue, those eyes, she could tell in the swelling fireglow. “You saved my skull back there,” she remembered. “For bounty?"

He spat in the dust, then his gaze locked with hers again.

No time to pursue the matter now, she decided. Fire was rapidly spreading, people were rushing into the street, and Oona needed attention. “We'll talk later,” she told him. “You have a horse?"

He nodded, ran down the street, and disappeared between two structures where the fire had not yet reached.

“He seems to know you,” Tras said. “What do we do about him?"

She chewed her lip; then: “Nothing for now; Oona comes first. After that, we'll see what we can learn about him."

She mounted Ashur, and Tras Sur'tian passed her old friend up into her arms. Ashur could carry the weight of two better, she explained, and they had need of speed. Tras's own steed waited where he'd dropped the reins, undisturbed by the fire or shouting. The stranger galloped into view and beckoned.

They rode, leaving Shadamas to burn.

“Where?” the stranger called.

“My shack!” Oona responded, awakened by the rush of wind. Her voice faltered, and only Frost heard her first words, but she gathered strength. “There're some things I can't leave behind."

Frost nodded and turned Ashur in the proper direction. They arrived breathless, the horses panting and lathered. Oona slid to the ground. Apparently recovered from the shock of her beating, she moved with sure quickness.

“My garden!” she moaned. Frost dismounted and went to her side. The little plot was ruined. The villagers had trampled the tender shoots flat and raked over the earth. Oona threw up her hands with a sigh and went inside. “I'll need some light,” she said halfheartedly, and began rummaging in the dark, picking up things, squinting at them, casting them down with a clatter.

Frost went to the hearth, took Oona's apron from the nail where it always hung, wrapped it around a broken stool leg, and made her way through the rubble to thy rear door. The coals, all that remained of Oona's fire, still glowed with a dull heat. By blowing on them, she produced enough flame to ignite her makeshift torch.

The two men were standing in the front entrance when she returned, watching Oona sift the debris. Tras looked up, shook his head, and shrugged. Frost shrugged, too, but held the torch higher.

The villagers had been thorough. Not a piece of furniture remained intact, not a jar unbroken. “Over here,” Oona called. Frost moved closer with the light, tripped, nearly fell over part of the table. “Ouch, damnation!” she hissed, and scattered pieces of the poor board with a kick. Oona said nothing but took the torch and bent over the remains of her trunk. The lid was nearly ripped off; the hinges were badly twisted.

“I can't quite manage it,” Oona finally admitted. The stranger hurried to her side, lifted the trunk, and set it upright. The lid groaned and lurched suddenly, pinching his fingers. He snatched his hand back without an oath.

Oona felt along the underside of the lid. Frost heard a click, and a section of the felt-lined interior popped out. Oona extracted a flat, narrow drawer. “My few treasures,” she confessed.

There was the new dagger Frost had given the old woman. Oona slipped it carefully down the front of her dress. There was a bracelet of gold; that went on her wrist. A couple of tiny vials filled with colored powders followed the dagger. Only a jewel remained in the drawer, crimson and shimmering in the torchlight. Oona passed it to her young friend.

“Beautiful,” Frost said admiring. “Has it a name?"

Oona scoffed. “Korkyrans never adopted that custom of naming inanimate objects. More important is what it does, not what it's called.” The old healer rose, her knee joints creaking.

“What it does?” The stranger peered at the gem curiously. Even Tras Sur'tian leaned closer to view it.

Oona closed Frost's fingers around it, squeezing them into a tight fist. “Hold it so,” she instructed, “and it will protect you from the evil things of the elements, the creatures born of earth, air, fire, and water."

“A talisman,” Frost muttered.

“Magic!” Tras Sur'tian spat the word. “Get rid of it."

Oona kept hold of Frost's fist with the gem gripped inside. “Samidar, child, you've told me your suspicions about Aki's disappearance. Sorcery, you thought.” The old hand trembled around hers. “We turned the cards together. Remember the gate of destruction? That card means an evil place. And the three stars?"

Frost nodded. “Mysterious influences,” she interrupted, “and hidden enemies."

“And the demon,” Oona pressed. “Danger to the mortal soul! Keep this stone, I beg you. It's only a shield against evil, but sometimes a shield is enough.” She glared at Tras Sur'tian. “Tell this old fool to shut up. Keep the stone!"