Skull Gate (17 page)

Kimon called suddenly. “Look!"

A new light climbed rapidly from the horizon, a bright red star, splendid and mysterious as the emerald star. It sailed in a great arc, hesitated, descended.

“It's coming straight at us!” Tras Sur'tian shouted. His mount began to panic. He caught his reins tightly in both hands as the beast reared, stamped earth, whinnied pitifully. Kimon's horse behaved just as wildly. Even Ashur began to snort and tear at the ground. The flames that lit his eyes raged, flashed, crackled with energy.

A crimson glow suffused the land. Frost whipped out her sword, denying the fear that gnawed at her gut. Kimon and Tras Sur'tian let go their reins, freeing their mounts, drew their weapons, too. Gone were the shadows of night; the earth blazed with the color of shimmering effulgent blood. She gritted her teeth, braced herself as she stared into the thing's burning core. A memory triggered. She grabbed for the strings of her purse.

A white flash tinged scarlet lanced from the fireball, blinding her. The screams of her comrades filled her ears, mercifully brief. She heard them fall. She alone remained to fight, but barely. One knee gave way, and she collapsed. The sword fell from her grip. Her other hand was thrust halfway into her small leather purse.

Her fingers just brushed Oona's jewel.

Another flash stabbed her; she cried out in agony. Needles seemed to prick every part of her flesh. Her bones smoldered with some strange, inner fire. Yet it did not consume her. Her dazzled vision began to clear. The sky was one huge fireball of sizzling radiance. She sensed its conscious, malignant force, all directed at her. If she could not make her fingers move, that force would smash her down.

She pushed her hand deeper inside her purse. So many coins! She closed her fist on the contents and jerked it out. Bits of gold and silver scattered, but she had the jewel!

Her hand began to shine with its own crimson light. The bones and veins within the flesh showed plainly through. For a fearful moment she thought it the work of the fireball, but there was no pain, no fire in her body.

Another flash speared toward her. She raised her hand instinctively to ward it off. To her great surprise, the beam shattered, splintered, dissipated before it touched her. The fireball attacked again, then a third time, with the same results.

She held her fist like a shield before her. “Begone!” she commanded, and her throat went raw with the force of her shout. “Back to hell, and leave us alone!” She looked around for her friends. They lay side by side, appeared dead, though she prayed not. Keeping her fist between herself and the fireball, she crawled to them. Kimon was physically the slighter of the two. She grabbed his arm with her free hand, dragged him closer to Tras Sur'tian. Their faces were twisted with pain; eyes open, they stared at some terror beyond this life. She threw herself across them, raised her fist higher. “Gods take you straight to damnation!” she screamed. “Begone!"

Slowly, the fireball climbed in the sky. It paused, hovered uncertainly, and then sped off the direction it had come, discharging a final, ineffectual bolt. She watched, on guard, until it disappeared from sight.

The crimson umbra that surrounded her fist paled, faded.

She bent over Kimon. The night was once again a pattern of blacks and grays, but she could see his ghastly face. She tried to close his eyes, but the lids would not budge. His flesh was cold, unnaturally rigid. Tras Sur'tian was the same. Never again would the Korkyran greet his beloved little queen, unless it was in the netherworld.

She wrapped her arms around Kimon's still form, hugged him to her, suddenly filled with a vast emptiness. Alone again, after such brief, sweet closeness.
Sing to me
, she urged, running a finger over his icy lips.
I need to hear you sing
. But there was no music, no merriment dancing in his eyes, just terror.
Hold me,
she begged,
please hold me
. But his arms were still, stiff.

She stretched out beside him, put her lips on his. Hot tears scalded her cheeks, fell streaming onto Kimon's marble face.
Don't cry
, she told herself,
never cry
. But her grief would not be checked.

Then, Kimon's lip twitched. She blinked, disbelieving. His flesh was still cold, glassy eyes still stared blankly. Yet his lips twitched again; the tip of his tongue protruded slightly and collected one of her tears. A hand gripped her thigh. He saw her, then, and a weak, confused smile blossomed where a mask of fear had been.

She trembled and jumped away from him. Kimon was dead, she knew it. What could this thing in Kimon's body be but some demon come to renew the attack? Yet it didn't threaten, just lay there, too feeble to rise. But the eyes followed her. Did she know those eyes?

“Kimon?"

He nodded, too weak to form words. She knelt quickly beside him, felt his face. The cold ebbed from his skin. She lifted his head from the dirt, kissed his eyes, hugged his head to her breast, and gave fervent thanks to all her gods.

She remembered Tras Sur'tian. The old Korkyran was unmoving, silent. What was different? Kimon lived and Tras was dead. Why? The gods owed her no favors. She thought back over all she had done.

Kimon's lips had moved first, lips moistened by her tears. His tongue had sought out the salty fluid. Could that be the cure? Magic killed her friends, but she knew of no special power in human tears to counter potent sorcery.

Still, there was no time to question. She was no longer crying; Kimon's resurrection had startled the grief from her. She touched her cheeks gingerly. They were still damp. She gathered moisture on her fingertips, pressed them to Tras Sur'tian's lips.

Moments dragged by; she feared she'd guessed wrong. She lifted Kimon, cradled him in her lap. He seemed drained of all strength. Rocking him, childlike, she watched her other friend, prayed, and waited.

Ashur plodded softly to her side; the other mounts were nowhere to be seen. She spied her sword, leaned over to claim it. Though it had been of little use against the fireball, she laid it protectively on Kimon's chest.

Tras Sur'tian gave no warning when he awoke, just turned his head, met her gaze. He said nothing. Like Kimon, he seemed drained of strength. She shifted position so she could hold both men, wishing she could pour her own strength into them.

She sat with them like that all through the night. When dawn trickled over the horizon they began to speak a little, as if the sun gave them the vitality she could not. As the light grew stronger so did they. By the time the sun cleared the distant low hills they were able to stand on shaky legs.

Frost embraced Kimon tenderly, laid her head on his shoulder, and closed her eyes. The empty feeling was gone with his arms tight around her. Tears threatened, but she held them back. This was a happy time, not a time for crying.

“I think I was dead,” he whispered strangely. “I was dead. I don't understand.” He gazed into her eyes, seeking answers.

“Never mind,” she urged him with gentleness. “Don't think about it.” She extracted herself from the embrace and went to Tras Sur'tian, touched his sleeve. “Tras, are you all right?"

He pulled away, found his sword on the grass, and sheathed it. Suddenly, he shivered all over. “I don't ... I can't...” He hid his face in his hands. “I was ... in hell!"

She wrapped her arms around him. “It's all right,” she assured him. “You don't have to talk about it."

“But I want to!” Kimon exclaimed. His face was a twisted mask of confusion and fear. “I was dead, but I'm alive!"

She cut him off with a gesture. “No!” she insisted. “Say no more! It may all have been some magical illusion. Tras doesn't want to talk about it, and I don't, either. If it wasn't an illusion, if it was really hell you saw, then keep the vision to yourself. No man needs a description before his time. We'll all see it soon enough."

Tras Sur'tian shrugged free when she tried to grip his hand. She could read the disturbance in his soul. His One Korkyran God preached of no hell, but of a paradise for all good men, oblivion for all others. His faith was deeply shaken. “I'll try to find the horses,” he said. “That beast of yours didn't run off.” He indicated Ashur. “Wish ours were as steadfast."

Kimon laid hands on her shoulders as the old captain trudged away. She sank back against him, glad for his warmth. “Sorry I snapped at you,” she murmured. He nuzzled her ear, his breath soft on her neck. She gazed at the far horizon, at the blue morning sky, at the huge golden fireball that was the sun.

She stiffened.

They didn't know where to find Onokratos.
But Onokratos had found them
. It couldn't have been the wizard himself who attacked them; she wouldn't believe a mortal could possess such power. One of his agents, then, a powerful demon at his command. It boded ill for them if he could conjure such a creature.

“What's this?” Kimon's fingers curled around her right fist and lifted it. She'd clung to the jewel all night until it seemed a part of her hand and she'd forgotten it. She opened her fingers and showed him the stone. “Oona's parting gift,” he said, recognizing it. “She said it would protect you.” His face darkened. “I was dead. I don't understand."

She drew a breath and bit her lip. She didn't understand, either. She'd been a witch once. She'd had experience with the arcane. Yet this brush had shaken her badly, more than she wanted to admit.

“You don't have to continue.” Her own voice sounded distant, alien. “Aki isn't your responsibility."

His hand tangled in her hair, pulled her head back. His lips came down on hers. When the kiss ended, he held her out to arm's length, looked her over with astonishing tenderness on his face. Then he drew her close again. “I'll never desert you, Samidar. I love you."

She laid her head against the hollow of his shoulder, a place that was becoming familiar, comfortable. She knew she should answer, but she couldn't speak. Her mouth wouldn't form words. She hugged him instead, letting her body answer. Maybe he would know without saying.

“Frost!"

She pushed free of Kimon. She'd not even heard Tras Sur'tian's approach. “What is that creature of yours?” He ignored their embarrassment and pointed to the unicorn. Ashur followed behind him, leading the missing horses. “I couldn't find hide nor hair of those worthless fleabags. Then he came along herding them like a four-legged shepherd!"

Ashur whinnied a high, unnatural note.

She couldn't help but smile. Even the unicorn's cry sounded natural to her friends. “He's special,” she said proudly. She brushed back a few strands of hair from her face, righted the circlet that held it all back. The longer locks had come loose from the thong she'd once tied it all back with. “This place has lost its charm,” she decided with a last glance around. “Let's get out of here."

They didn't ride far. Noon found them on a high, barren ridge. The green grasses had turned brown and scraggly. Once dark, spongy earth took on a sandy texture. A few withered trees grew stark, leafless, bent, and knotty on either side of the rutted road they followed.

Far below sprawled an ancient manor estate. The fields lay fallow, untended, dotted here and there with ramshackle sheds once used for the storage of grains. The roofs had fallen; the walls were worm-rotted. Surrounded by its fields was the manor house, bleak and gray-toned, squat with two stories and wings that wandered designless, without apparent planning.

Frost started Ashur down the long slope, alert for signs of life about the old place. Kimon and Tras Sur'tian rode to either side, guiding their mounts carefully down the eroded terrain. Tras clutched nervously at the hilt of his sword. His gaze swept all around.

They passed the ruins of a log fence hidden in the high, dusty grass. The rails were rotted and fell off rusted nails as they rode by, causing them to stop, their hearts to quicken, until they were sure it was only a rotten log that had startled them. The road led up through the fields straight to the manor's main gate. A wall of smooth, unmortared stones surrounded the manor. Moss and lichen dripped from cracks, and bees buzzed around the wider fissures where they had made their homes. The gates hung open on rusted hinges, oaken surfaces split and pitted from time and weather.

They rode through and stopped. Frost dismounted.

“Looks deserted to me,” Tras Sur'tian said, sounding more hopeful than sure.

She didn't answer. Something about the place, perhaps its age, weighed on her, demanded silence. She crept forward.
Crept, so
that her footsteps would not crunch too loudly on the graveled way. The green star had shown them the road, she told herself, and the road led here to this very door. She couldn't banish that thought. Yet there was no sign of life, no indication that anyone had lived here for years.

The main doors were tall, wooden, intricately carved and once beautifully painted. A few flakes were all that remained of the paint. She reached for the knocker, a tarnished brass bull's head with a heavy ring through its nose. She hesitated, looked back to her companions. Kimon remained by the gate. Tras Sur'tian rode up to a shuttered window, tried to peer in through the cracks.

She lifted the knocker, slammed it once, twice. The sound reverberated hollowly. She waited, knocked again. Was that a scuffle she heard so swift and faint? Rats, maybe. A place like this, abandoned, surrounded by old fields, would be infested with the rodents. She gripped the brass ring with both hands and strained. The doors gave reluctantly outward.

A shriek ripped from the darkness within. A shadow flew out, struck her in the middle, bore her down to the earth. Claws raked at her eyes, and she threw up an arm to defend her sight. Multiple blows pummeled her face and body. Her flesh tore, began to bleed. Frost rolled frantically, but the thing clung to her, biting, scratching, pulling her hay until a scream bubbled in her own throat.

Suddenly the blows stopped; she was free of the creature, though its wails still echoed in her ears. Kimon bent over her worriedly, using the edge of his cloak to dab blood from an oozing cut on her cheek. She sat up painfully, dazed, angry, heart racing. Her clothing had protected her from the worst of the scratches, but her bones and muscles ached from a terrific beating.