Skull Gate (31 page)

Ashur nickered in sympathy. The unicorn paced worried circles, encouraging her to rise. Something else succeeded where he could not.

Another shooting star blazed a path across the firmament and disappeared below the western horizon.

Realization crawled through the fog that filled her head. “I know you,” she muttered with growing coherence. “I know who and what you are. Are you waiting for me?” She half expected an answer, but none came. Languidly, she eased onto her side, then to her knees. Ashur stopped his pacing and came close. She grabbed a handful of the creature's long, tangled mane and pulled herself to her feet. For long, painful moments she just leaned on the unicorn, fighting down sickness until she found strength to climb astride him. She bit her lip until the trembling that seized her subsided. Then she looked at the point on the horizon where the shooting star had fallen. “I'm coming,” she promised.

Ashur carried her down the hill, through the woods, going where he would. She made no attempt to guide him. She had no idea where she was or how she would find camp and her friends. The unicorn had found her as he always did when she needed him. Let him find the way back. She rode, slouched forward, sliding in and out of consciousness, insensitive to the branches and brambles that scratched her naked flesh.

Yet as she rode, her heart began to harden. A good thing Ashur hadn't killed Gel, she reflected. She still required him at Skull Gate. She didn't wonder if the demon was already back at camp. Onokratos had only to speak his name and he was constrained by pact to answer the summons. She grinned bitterly to herself. Gel wasn't free, yet. He was still a slave to the humans he detested.

The rose of morning was blossoming through the leafy foliage when she arrived in camp. Onokratos saw her first and called to the others. Tras Sur'tian and Kimon rushed to meet her. The strain showed on their faces, told they'd been awake long enough to miss her and feared the worst.

Kimon reached up to help her dismount. She hesitated an instant, struggling between logic and the revulsion she felt at his nearness. She looked into the deep blue sea of his eyes, and read the concern and confusion there. She sighed. After all, it was no
man
who had hurt her.

His arms encircled her waist, and he eased her down. He removed the cloak he wore against the morning chill and draped it around her shoulders. Someone had built up the fire. They seated her next to it.

“Your face!” Kimon exclaimed suddenly. “Gods, what happened?"

She touched her right cheek gingerly and winced. It must be horribly bruised from Gel's blow. There would be other bruises, too. She began to take stock of her injuries. How could she explain?

She decided she could not. She pushed through them and went to her bedroll. Her few belongings lay where she had left them. She bent and picked up her sword, unsheathed the blade, and hugged it to her breast. She kissed the hilt, closed her eyes, shutting out everything.

Tras Sur'tian tapped her shoulder. She gratefully accepted the water-skin he offered. The liquid tasted clean, good, and when her thirst was quenched she raised it higher and squirted a stream over her face.

Onokratos asked the next question.

She gave the skin back to Tras. “Call him,” she answered the wizard. “He's bound to your service. He must appear."

“I've tried that,” he replied sharply, “but he doesn't obey. Something's happened."

She lacked the energy to make a show of concern. But the news disturbed her. Gel was an essential part of her bargain with Orchos. Would the master of worms accept another arrangement if the demon did not return? She gave a mental shrug. No point in worrying about it until they reached Skull Gate. If necessary, someone would fight twice, and she would be that someone.

“Get ready to move out,” she told them. There was an edge to her voice that startled them. She read its effect on their faces and softened her tone. “Gel will join us when he's able.” But to herself, she added,
if he's able
.

Onokratos's brows knitted together. He folded his arms stubbornly. “Something has happened to him. I think you know what."

“He...” She started to snap at him, then thought better of it. It wasn't his fault—at least, not all his fault. She considered her words carefully. “He expended a goodly amount of power last night. It may be that he's too weak to answer your summons right now.” That sounded good to her. She added hopefully, “It may take him some time to regain his strength."

They all had the same questions. “What in your nine hells happened last night?” Tras Sur'tian pressed. “Where are your clothes?"

Again, she walked away from them. “We'll talk no more of it,” she said with finality. “Get the wagon ready and saddle the horses. We've got a way to go."

Tras Sur'tian and Onokratos gave up and departed. Only Kimon lingered. When the others were out of earshot he came up behind and touched her shoulders.

“I'll ask no more,” he whispered. “Not about your nakedness, not about the bruises and scratches, not about where you've been or what transpired.” He paused. When she didn't speak, he continued. “Tell me in your own time if you wish. Or don't tell me. But I've been around, Samidar, enough to guess some of the answers.” The hands drifted up her shoulders, massaged the soreness of her neck. “I'm glad you're safe."

He started to go.

“Kimon, wait!” She sheathed her blade. The sword belt dangled, and on the belt hung her pouch of coins. She loosened the strings and extracted Oona's ruby talisman.

She balanced the stone on her palm, regarded it with a sense of sad irony. Sunlight touched it, spilled diffracted fire over her hand. It alone of all her weapons might have spared her Gel's embrace. Too late now, she told herself. But, the demon had scorned Kimon and threatened him, even spoken of him as a rival.

She pressed the jewel into his hand. “Keep this with you,” she implored him, “and always in easy reach. You know how it works. Just close your fingers around it like this.” She curled his fingers into a fist.

He urged it back upon her. “It was the old woman's gift to you. She said it would protect you."

Frost refused to take it back. “I want it to protect you!"

“But I've no place to carry it."

She gave him the pouch. “Take this, then,” she said. “But don't wear it on your belt.” She opened it again and scattered the few coins inside to the woods. “We'll tie the strings around your neck.” She tied the ends for him. “Now wear it inside your jerkin."

He traced the outline of the pouch next to his heart. His eyes were full of questions, and more. Unease and worry threatened to carve permanent niches in his face.

She squeezed his hand. “I'm glad I'm back."

He managed a faint smile and nodded. “I'd better help with the horses."

She wouldn't let him go. “They can do it,” she said. “You can help me, instead. I seem to be in need of something to wear.” She grabbed up her blanket. “Nothing stylish. Just cut a hole for my head and trim the length so I can ride and fight. I'll belt it with a strip."

He grinned and drew his dagger.

It was quickly done. She threw it over her shoulders, tied a length of the material around her waist, and belted on her sword. She held out her arms and turned for approval.

“I wouldn't go to court in it,” Kimon said with a smirk.

“Neither would I,” she agreed. She turned once more, then stiffened suddenly and clutched her belly.

Kimon was beside her at once, catching her elbow. “What's wrong?” he said. “Samidar, what is it?"

She waited for the wave of nausea to subside and sidled away. “Nothing,” she lied, putting on a false smile.

“I'm afraid for you."

She touched his cheek tenderly.
So am I
, she admitted secretly, careful not to let it show. “Go see if you can hurry Tras along. We should be on our way.” He frowned but did as she asked.

Alone, she ran a hand over her abdomen, probing for another sign of the hated life within.
I won't let you out
, she swore.
I won't let you out. I'll find a way
.

The three men had their mounts ready, the wagon hitched. Tras Sur'tian stole over to her. “I went into the woods for some privacy,” he said delicately. “I found this caught in the branches of a tree.” He slipped something from his tunic. There was a tinkle of metallic links, and Demonfang swung like a pendulum from its silver belt.

There were no more questions in Tras Sur'tian's eyes. “Apparently, you didn't get a chance to use it. Too bad, I say. Will the demon return?"

She hesitated, thinking how often she had wished to be rid of the dagger. Then she remembered the battle ahead and the powers aligned against her. She strapped the arcane blade over her left hip. She was beginning to feel herself again.

“Return?” she said with a malicious smile. “It's my most fervent prayer."

Kimon called out from the wagon's side. “What about the bay?"

She had forgotten about Gel's mount. “Put the saddle on Ashur,” she decided, “and try to find something to lash him to the back of the wagon. If you can't”—she looked at Onokratos, thought of the demon, and shrugged—“set him free."

 

 

 

 

Chapter Sixteen

 

Skodulac. Hump-shaped, looking like the back of an ominous, scaly beast, the island rose out of the murky water of Dyre Lake. The sun squatted on the harsh, jutting isle, tinting the sky and the rocky beach a bloody cochineal. No tree or blade of grass showed along the shoreline. A flock of geese veered around the southern tip, but did not land.

“Even the birds avoid it,” Tras Sur'tian said reverently.

Frost wrinkled her nose. Two days and a good night's sleep had eased her aches and pains, but the stench of the lake threatened to make her sick again. The water was stagnant; the stream that once fed it had long ago dried up. She looked with disdain at the slime that lapped the bank near her bare feet.

A hot breeze stirred her limp hair. An insect lighted on her neck; she swatted it, wiped the rich, red smear on her makeshift garment. “Well, we've made it this far,” she said, shielding her eyes against the glare of the setting sun. “Now, how do we get across?"

Kimon made a wry face. “I wouldn't like to swim in that muck."

“What about the children?” Onokratos reminded them. “They can't swim."

Frost was too tired to think. She turned to Tras Sur'tian. “This is your country. You knew the way here. Tell us what to do."

Frowning, the Korkyran looked up and down the bank. “I only know from hearsay,” he said apologetically. “Troops stationed in the nearby provinces used to tell tales. There used to be a ferry. I don't know what condition it's in. People generally avoid this place."

She gazed out at Skodulac again. Not a difficult swim, she figured. But she was so weary. And there were weapons to think of; they should not get wet. They had to take the girls, too.

“All right, let's ride around the shore,” she decided, “and keep a watch out for the ferry. If we don't find it, we'll camp on this side for the night and seek another way in the morning."

“We could split up,” Onokratos suggested. “You and Kimon go that way. Tras and I will ride north."

She shook her head. “We stay together."

The wizard opened his mouth to protest, but she cut him off. “We take no chances,” she said firmly. “We've come this far together. Why change our luck?” She looked to the others for support. Kimon agreed wholeheartedly; Tras Sur'tian kept quiet but didn't challenge her judgment. “There's still some sunlight,” she continued. “We should make it around the shoreline before dark. If there's a ferry, we'll find it."

Only a quarter of the way around the lake the land turned into a quagmire. A vulgar assortment of reeds and swamp grasses thrived in the stinking morass that blocked their way. Flies buzzed in thick clouds; a water viper swam a crooked course among a crop of tiger-tail reeds and vanished.

But Frost's attention was drawn to a tall and rotund tree that grew in the very heart of the bog, its trunk and lower branches dripping with slick moss. Just under the lowest limb a vine-twisted rope as thick as her wrist stretched out over the water and disappeared. Somewhere on Skodulac, she knew, the other end was anchored.

“Some ferry,” Onokratos sneered. “The boat must be on the far side. Nor do I see a bell to summon it."

It was her turn to sneer. “What ghost would you expect to pole it? Look how far the swamp extends; it's had some time to grow. No ferry's operated here for quite a long time."

“We can still use the rope to get across,” Tras Sur'tian insisted.

“With the children?” Onokratos looked doubtful.

Frost allowed a slight smile and wiped sweat from her brow. The moonstone circlet that held most of her hair back from her face was beginning to chafe. She removed it, rubbed the skin with thumb and forefinger. “It'll be hard work,” she admitted. “But I see no other way. Let's get to it."

Kimon and Tras Sur'tian unloaded the wagon. They placed the sleeping children on the spongy earth, unhitched the pair of palfreys, and removed the wheels. With concerted effort, they kicked loose the three upright sides, managed without tools to unbolt and discard the hitching shaft.

Onokratos, as instructed, gathered the blankets and cloaks, cut them into thick strips, and tied the ends securely together.

Frost waited for Onokratos to finish his task, then gathered the makeshift line over her shoulder. Mounting Ashur, she rode into the bog. The mud gurgled and churned, rising sometimes to the unicorn's knees. She rode slowly, cautiously, alert for hidden quicksand. When the ferry rope was directly above her, she stopped.

The rope was higher than she thought.

She pursed her lips, considering how best to accomplish her part. Carefully, she removed her feet from the stirrups and stood precariously on her saddle. She drew her sword, made a few experimental swings at the rope. The tip of the blade made contact but not sufficiently to cut. She cursed her luck and her gods as she sheathed her sword.