Skull Gate

by Robin W Bailey

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!"

  Frost met Tras's gaze defiantly and slipped the ruby talisman into her belt pouch. The Korkyran captain scowled, turned on his heel, and strode from the shack into the night air.

  “I'd better keep him company,” the stranger said as he departed also.

  Oona spotted the shawl Frost had brought back from Kord'Ala. It lay in a corner. She picked it up, shook the splinters and fragments of earthen pottery from the garment, and draped it around her shoulders. “Nothing more for me here,” she announced, and headed for the door.

  Frost caught her arm. “I'm sorry about the child,” she said. “I know you did what you could, but root-fever...” Her voice dropped.

  Oona's head dropped, a tremor racked her aged frame. When she turned, the gleam of a tear hung in one eye. “You've got a child to save, too, Samidar, if you can.” An old hand reached out to caress her cheek, then Oona grabbed her in a fierce hug as she had the first day Frost had arrived. This time, though, Frost felt no embarrassment and returned the embrace whole-heartedly.

  “Go now,” Oona said finally, stepping back. “Your friends are waiting."

  Frost straightened. “But you're coming with us,” she said. “We'll find you a safe town along the way."

  Oona shook her head. “Avoid the towns. Ride straight and hard until you find your child. I hope she lives."

  Frost protested, “But what about you?"

  “I've got a secret place in the hills,” she confided, “and a few stores to hold me over until I've rested a bit. Then I'll head east toward the Chondite border until I find someplace to make a new home. There's always need for a healer. Not everybody is as foolish and backward as that bunch in Shadamas.” She shrugged. “I knew years ago it was a mistake to settle here."

  Frost remembered the emeralds in her pouch. “Take these,” she said. “You'll have expenses."

  Oona declined. “I've everything I need in my secret place. I've always known I'd have to leave someday, and I've prepared for it.” Then, frowning and biting her lip, she reached out and took the jewels. “On the other hand, I haven't prepared that well."

  Frost smiled. “And I have your ruby gem in exchange."

  They went outside arm in arm. Oona pulled Frost's face close and kissed the younger woman. “Take care, child, and remember I love you.” She turned, then, skirts aswirl, and walked toward the looming hills.

  Frost watched, trembling, silent, until the night swallowed the old woman. Tears threatened to spill on her cheeks. She held herself stiffly, every muscle tense. Why did Oona say that? Why?

  She had memories of a mother who had named her Samidar, who had hugged and kissed and said those words to her, who had consoled and protected her from the night, memories of when she was younger. But she also had memories of what had followed, dark memories. She choked back a sob for fear the men would hear it. Her mother was dead now with the rest of her family, murdered. And with her dying breath her mother had cursed her.

  Frost squeezed her eyes tightly shut and forced the memory away. It would return, she knew. It always returned in her dreams and nightmares.

  She exhaled slowly, then climbed into the saddle.

  “She called you Samidar,” Tras Sur'tian remarked when she had mounted. “Why?"

  More than a hint of ice tinged her answer. “My name is Frost.” She said no more, and her heels encouraged Ashur to a swift run.

  Chapter Six

  “You haven't told us your name."

  Frost sat near the edge of the scarp staring at the midnight moon, chewing a piece of dried fruit from the stranger's saddlebag. Her back ached from long riding, and she felt bone-tired, though not ready for sleep. A horse nickered, probably Tras Sur'tian's. The Korkyran had gone to hobble his mount and not yet returned. Ashur and the stranger's horse wandered free.

  “Kimon,” he answered, and bit into his own ration.

  She leaned back on her saddle and regarded the slender man. He sat with one leg drawn up, a lanky figure in comfortable repose. She had yet to see him in decent light, but he had that air of self-confidence and arrogant indifference that usually bespoke a seasoned warrior. Certainly he'd handled himself skillfully enough in Shadamas. “You're not Korkyran.” She knew it by his accent, though she couldn't guess his true homeland.

  “I'm from a lot of places,” he admitted. “Trafyban, Keled-Zaram, Shagea, Emmidar—"

  “Which do you call home?” she interrupted.

  He chewed lazily and swallowed a bite before answering. “How much stock we put in that silly word,” he said. “Home is where my horse is.” He tapped the sword that leaned beside him against his saddle. “Where this is."

  Tras Sur'tian strode out of the darkness with an armload of dead wood and kindling. No wonder he'd been gone so long. He dropped his burden, arranged it neatly, and produced a flint box from the pouch on his belt.

  Frost sat stiffly up. “No,” she snapped. “No fire. From this high point even a little blaze will be visible far off."

  “No one followed us,” Tras Sur'tian grumbled. He took the flint in one hand, steel in the other.


  “We've nothing to cook,” she protested, “and the night air is warm. Why risk it?"

  A bright spark illumined his face, gleamed on his armor, on the gold threads of his coat. His eyes shone momentarily. But the spark failed to take hold in the small dry nest he'd assembled. “The Shadamites are too busy burying their dead to worry about us.” He prepared to strike tinder again.

  “Did you wait to bury Thogrin Sin'tell?” she answered pointedly.

  He shot her an angry look that even the darkness could not mask, and for a moment she feared she'd dared too much. Too often in the past her mouth had gotten her into trouble. But Tras Sur'tian rose finally, put the flint box away, and crawled to his own saddle. He stretched out on the hard ground, folded his hands under his head, and stared fixedly at the stars.

  “Why don't you remove your armor?” she suggested, hoping to assuage him. “You'll be more comfortable."

  He ignored her.

  Kimon smacked loudly on his last bite as if to remind them he was present. “What did you say his name was?” he asked, putting on a broad smile of feigned innocence. She hadn't said, nor had Tras told him, though as long as the stubborn old soldier insisted on living in his uniform, it was no secret that he commanded the palace guard. The device emblazoned on his tunic proclaimed it to the world as surely as his scarlet cloak. She told him.

  Kimon nodded in recognition and glanced casually at Tras's unmoving form. Apparently, the captain had fallen asleep at once. “I heard a minstrel sing about him once in a tavern back in Mirashai. Some adventure or other; the verses were endless.” He rubbed his chin, leaned back. “He must have been formidable in his day."

  Frost undid the tie that held her long hair back. It spilled around her shoulders as she shook her head. “He's formidable now,” she answered. “Those aren't wrinkles in his face, but notches for the men who crossed his path and didn't live to regret it. Time carved them to warn away the foolish."

  Kimon crossed his ankles and regarded her over the toes of his boots. “You should have been a minstrel yourself."