Free Skull Gate by Robin W Bailey Page B

her captive's face until he saw her reach for the dagger on her hip. She hesitated, fixed him with her gaze, and then yanked the smaller blade free.
    A screaming filled the reception hall, thousands of ghostly voices joined in torment and despair. The sound filled her ears, swelled and echoed in the immense chamber. No matter how many times she heard it, the unearthly din shook her, beat at her senses.
    The room spun dizzyingly. Demonfang trembled in her hand. Its shining blade shimmered in the braziers’ light.
    Thogrin stared wide-eyed in sudden terror, all color gone from his face as he cringed into a corner of his throne. His own screams added to the soul-twisting tumult even as he clapped hands over his ears in a futile effort to shut out the sounds.
    Frost felt a shivering creep up her arm. She fought the sensation, knowing its meaning, knowing there could be no turning back. “Listen—they're the voices of hell, Thogrin,” she shouted, straining to be heard, her face so close to his that she could smell the fear on his breath. “Count yours among them unless you answer my questions!"
    â€œNo!” he cried, unable to tear his gaze from the arcane weapon.
    The wailing grew louder. The tingle in her arm grew more insistent. She had little time left. “Where's Aki?” she demanded. “Tell me, or embrace my blade!"
    Demonfang shivered like a living thing in her hand. The tingle turned to fire and spread raging up her arm, her veins, into her blood.
    â€œMy crown!” Thogrin shrieked.
    Something flickered in the corner of her eye, a flame. No, many torches, she realized, racing into the hall. The night watch had heard the pandemonium. They raced to the dais.
    There was no more time for answers. “Die, Thogrin Sin'tell!” She raised Demonfang to strike. “You cursed dog!"
    â€œOnokratos has her!” He threw up his hands to stop the dagger's descent. He babbled, spittle drooling on his chin. “She may live yet! I don't know! Find Onokratos in Kephalenia, but spare me!"
    From the moment she drew Demonfang from its silver sheath she knew she could not spare him. The dagger's commanding power coursed irresistibly through her. Demonfang rose, plunged, and tasted his heart's blood.
    In that instant all screaming ceased. A pall of silence closed over the chamber. She drew a breath, her fingers still closed around the hilt as she waited expectantly. It was not finished yet.
    Thogrin gagged on his last breath. His chest heaved, then collapsed. A moment's pause, then bluing lips parted, and the screams began again, all the souls in hell wailing through one dead man's mouth.
    It lasted but a few heartbeats, then she tugged the dagger from his body. Thogrin's blood spurted on her fist, soaked his garments, and stained the royal emeralds as it trickled on the throne.
    It must taste blood—either your enemy ' s or your own . Once drawn, that was the power and the curse of Demonfang.
    Did even Thogrin Sin'tell deserve such an end?
    A rush of bootsteps and the clangor of steel snapped her alert. There was no more hell-noise to hold confused and faint-hearted soldiers back now. They had witnessed their king's murder. In anger and shame they surged forward to avenge him.
    She sheathed the dagger before its power began to swell again, as it would in moments if left free of its scabbard. The soldiers reached the first of the ivory stairs, howling for her blood. Quickly she reached behind the throne for the Hand of Glory and raised it high.
    They froze in midrush, entranced by the five-fingered light. A spear clattered on the floor, then a sword. A shield fell, rolled on its rim in ever-smaller spirals until it became still. She looked down on them, a chill creeping along her spine. They stood, asleep on their feet, like statues, like the great pillars that supported the hall.
    She descended half the stairs, using the Hand as a torch. She searched their faces one by one. Tras