Gates of Hell Read online

  She gave him a saw-toothed smile. “Good hunting for us both,” she said, radiating blood-lust and anticipation.

  Pyr’s eyes met Pilsane’s as the navigator looked up briefly from his solitary game, then he shoved the girl ahead of him toward the door.

  Kacina waited before the entrance, blocking his way. The big woman looked guilty. She held out a nearly full bottle of Rust as he approached. “Lord Pyr,” she said humbly. “I want to return these to you. It is unholy to hide from death.” She glanced covertly at the priestess. “Even for an outcast.”

  Lita gave Kacina an approving nod. Pyr’s hand clenched even tighter on the girl’s frail arm. Her only reaction to the pain was a mildly romantic sigh.

  “Please, Lord Pyr,” Kacina pleaded. “Take back your gift.”

  “Demons! I have no time for this nonsense.” He used his free hand to push Kacina aside. “You’ll be glad of the medicine once the madwoman is out of sight.” He noticed for the first time how warm Lita’s skin was. Warm, with a faint film of sweat on this winter night. Early signs of the plague. The brightness of her eyes wasn’t just madness, then. No happy death at the hands of the torturer for her. He wondered if he should pity her. It was a good thing he hadn’t decided to wait another two hours for his own hit of the drug.

  Kacina insistently pressed the bottle into his hand. He took it, tossed it over his shoulder. “Linch.” He didn’t have to look to know the pilot had caught the bottle.

  “Captain?”

  “Have a short and specific discussion about matters of life and death with the ladies after I’m gone.”

  “As you wish, Captain.”

  “Thank you.”

  He glared at Kacina, and the repentant Orlinian lumbered hurriedly out of his way. As he pushed Lita before him into the cold darkness, he grumbled, “Women.”

  Chapter Two

  “Demons,” Pyr muttered as he strode down the center of the brick-paved street.

  The lumpy paving was slippery beneath his boots. The natives barred their doors at sunset, leaving the night to heretics, outcasts, the Saved, and well-armed outworlders. The small spaceport had its own lighting but, once in the streets of the primitive city, a torch, or good night vision, was necessary. Pyr had better-than-average hearing, but average sight. And no torch tonight. Even with both small moons at full, it was difficult to find his way in the post-midnight quiet.

  Lita wriggled out of his grasp soon after they left Kacina’s. She flitted ahead of him, her draperies doing a ghost-dance. Her insane laughter made the night seem colder as he threaded carefully after her. Every now and then he could hear the howling of the prowling Initiates. Once he heard the screams of one of the suicides who’d decided it was better to be a sacrifice to the Hunter than the plague. So far, he hadn’t seen anyone but his guide.

  Pyr balled his hands into fists inside his deep coat pockets and bit his tongue to keep from shouting at her. It was bad enough that his boots rang hollowly against the old stones with every step, and his leather coat creaked quietly as it swung around his legs. No use adding voice to the sounds that already filled the darkness. He glanced up between overhanging roofs of old buildings to see both moons staring down, like blind eyes turned on the dying. The Hunter’s Eyes, he’d heard Kacina call them—and guiltily make the outcast’s sign against death. The worst thing about Orlin’s death cult, he decided, was that since the Bucons built a port on this backward world, Orlinian missionaries were spreading their religion to other border cultures.

  He abandoned watching the moons as the girl came dancing out of a side street just a few feet ahead of him. She beckoned him on, then bounded ahead to explore the deep shadows of doorways. Pyr paused long enough to check on the emptiness of the street crossing his path, then stomped after Lita.

  He knew someone was following him within a half dozen steps into deeper silence. Not at street level, but above, gliding along the walls of the brick and wooden buildings just a few feet over his head. Noiseless—but for the nearly undetectable hum of anti-grav pads sliding along the natural materials of the houses. Not a native killer, then. No Orlinian would use anything but blessed steel on a night like this. And no native cutthroat would venture out of the port neighborhoods to risk an encounter with blessed steel. Guild assassin, then. Persey had probably complained to the authorities.

  Pyr turned his head, listening carefully as a pack of Initiates began shrieking and baying no more than a block away. There were shouts of joy and sounds of pleading. Pyr could just barely make out the slap of bare feet and thud of boots on the cobblestones. Lita ran back to him and grabbed his hand, trying to pull him forward. Her skin had gone from hot to chilled and clammy. The moonlight stripped her paleness down to corpse white.

  “I’ve made no kill.” She tugged hard, pleading, “Let us join the hunt. There’s time to bring blood to Idel.”

  “Not now, girl.”

  “Please!” she wheedled as a man came running into view.

  The hunt’s intended victim came pelting toward them, a big man in a fringed suede jacket, his long hair flying wildly behind him. He was followed closely by a trio of white-robed wraiths. Pyr saw knives washed by moonlight in their upraised hands.

  Pyr shook his head, and threw the girl off. He heard the assassin drop to the ground behind him, sensibly taking advantage of the activity in the street. The Guild operative thought he’d have time to . make his kill, then jump out of the hunt’s way.

  Very good strategy, Pyr agreed.

  Pyr projected the thought so loudly that his would-be murderer was clutching his temples in surprised pain by the time Pyr turned to face him, weapon in hand.

  Being a telepath, Pyr whispered into the Bucon assassin’s stunned mind, has proved to have many uses.

  His was a talent strangers found out about as they died. But instead of killing the assassin, Pyr stunned him as he started to scream, then shoved the falling body against a wall as the hunt surrounded him.

  Pyr whirled, shouting, “Mik!”

  He relaxed as he saw the engineer banging a pair of Orlinian heads together. Bones crunched as Mik laughed, and kicked out at the third attacker. The third native danced agilely away, brandishing the knife like the madman he was.

  The Initiate was a boy about Lita’s age, and just as scarred. He saw Pyr, and lunged forward, knife aimed at Pyr’s chest. Lita screeched, throwing herself between Pyr and the blade. Pyr grabbed the girl around the waist and fired his weapon, thumbing the setting to maximum. The boy glowed blue-white briefly, then died.

  Pyr kept his arm around the girl while he looked at his engineer. “Well?”

  Mik jerked a thumb at the unconscious assassin. “I spotted the crawler a few blocks back and figured you could use a diversion. Wasn’t hard to get the kids to follow me.” Mik grinned. “Want me to question the Guilder?”

  Pyr nodded. “Pilsane at the temple by now?” Mik nodded. “Linch?”

  “Onboard the Raptor.”

  “Good.”

  The girl was humming quietly to herself, her eyes shining worshipfully up at him. “It was a beautiful death,” she told him. “Full of diamonds.”

  Mik hefted the assassin over his broad shoulder. I used to like this planet.

  I can’t think why, Pyr answered the thought. Meet you at the ship.

  As you say, Mik responded as he disappeared around a dark corner.

  Pyr tightened his telepathic shields, making himself alone with the girl once more. He took a deep breath of the cold air, but it didn’t help much. It was the rotting minds on this world that stank. He focused his consciousness, his concentration. An Assassin’s Guild contract was one more piece of trouble he didn’t need. He would have to send them a warning that their games were over in the border for now. Things were not business as usual for anybody in his territory until he said so.

  He released his hold on the girl, but she continued to cling to him. She grasped his left hand tightly in both of hers, and raised it to her c
heek. He resisted the urge to shake her off, and tried glaring at her instead. Her response was to bare her fangs in a parody of a smile—and swiftly turn her head to bury her sharpened teeth in the soft skin just below his thumb.

  Pyr bellowed, and felt blood spurt into the girl’s mouth while she continued to gnaw on him. Her filed fangs went through muscle and down to bone.

  “Bitch!”

  He brought his right hand up, cuffing her below the ear. She stumbled backward, her mouth and cheeks covered in dark blood. Her shoulders hit the wall of the building behind them and she slid slowly to her knees. She stayed on the ground, giggling drunkenly to herself.

  Pyr kept his gaze on her while he dug into several coat pockets with his right hand. He held his injured hand to his chest, fist tightly clenched, but blood oozed out between his fingers to wet the leather of his coat. He eventually found the length of white silk he’d worn as a headband earlier in the day. He pulled out the cloth and wrapped it around the wound several times. The torn flesh throbbed painfully and was still bleeding heavily. Once he’d arranged the makeshift bandage, he grabbed Lita by the hair and pulled her to her feet.

  “Why?” He shook her angrily. She giggled. Pyr loosed his hold on the madwoman, denying her the pleasure of fear and pain. “Why?” he asked again, hoping he wouldn’t have to touch the twisted mind behind her actions.

  “You give beautiful death,” she answered. Once again her eyes looked worshipfully into his. “I have given you death in exchange for mine. A gift of the Hunting. You are my victim. I will be yours.” She dropped her head and scuffed her bare feet on the cobbles. In the dim light from the full moons the horrible scars were invisible. She seemed no more than a naughty child as she said, “Idel will not be pleased.” Her head came back up. “You taste of metal.” She licked her stained lips. “Is bitter blood different than ours? Will the poison work slower or faster, I wonder?”

  Pyr did not remember grabbing the girl’s shoulders, but he seemed to have them between his hands, at least one collarbone broken before he controlled the rage. “What poison?” His voice was ragged with controlled fear. The pain in his hand was growing worse. He wished it was imagination, and knew it wasn’t.

  “Stralisare,” she answered readily, without even the decency to wince as he broke her other clavicle. “It is the goddess’s own poison. Stralisare,” Lita repeated, turning the word into a snake’s hiss.

  She’d painted her teeth with Stralisare? He wanted to scream—not with fear or pain. He wanted to howl from sheer frustration. With the galaxy crumbling around him and him trying to pick up as many pieces as he could, he had made no contingency for this. How typically, arrogantly, stupid of him to have ignored the possibility of his own death. Stralisare. Painful. Fatal. No cure. Slow, but not slow enough. The effects worked differently with each type of humanoid, but work they did. It could be a few days, or a few weeks.

  Too much to do in too little time as it was—and this damn fool girl killed him on a whim.

  “Death isn’t beautiful,” He assured Lita. “Death just is.” Inconvenient and mindless and impossible to avoid. “Don’t run to it as if it held your answers.” Too late for philosophy. Too late for pity. He grabbed her arm, and pushed her up the street before him. He had no intention of letting her slip away before they reached the temple. Hunting cries and screams from the prey sounded occasionally around them as she directed him to the center of the city.

  ———

  “Square’s empty, Captain. Has been since I got here.”

  Pilsane peeled himself from the deepest shadow of the temple courtyard. He’d been waiting beneath the great statue of the goddess, directly in front of the arched entrance to the windowless, marble building. The torches which normally lit the grisly, blackened visage of the goddess were extinguished for the night. None of her devotees were keeping vigil under her skeletal image during Hunters’ Moon. The stench of old blood and rotting flesh from the constant sacrifices of every other day of the year lingered in the chilled air. No flowers or incense for the death goddess of Orlin.

  “What happened to your hand?” Pilsane asked as he walked toward the entrance beside Pyr. He leaned against a pillar as they reached the doorway, and added, “Your little walk was to give me time to check out the temple, not get you into trouble.”

  Pyr pulled his hand from Lita’s frail shoulder. She hunched forward, finally showing some reaction to the broken bones. “The bitch needs a muzzle. Mik reported yet?”

  Pilsane shook his head. “Sensors don’t indicate any activity inside or out of the temple that is in any way out of the ordinary for the locals. Bioscan reads that everyone inside the temple is Orlinian. You going in?”

  Pyr thought of the brooch in his pocket. “Do I have a choice?” His whole hand was hurting now.

  “Watch yourself, Captain.”

  Pyr nodded. Pilsane pushed himself away from the pillar and faded back into the darkness beneath the statue. Pyr grimaced, flexed his aching hand, then pushed the priestess ahead of him through the door.

  ———

  “Pyr of the Raptor, join me.” Lord Idel smiled down from a skull-shaped throne.

  An image identical to the statue in the courtyard loomed over the rounded back of Idel’s throne, her bald head circled by a ring of fire.

  A ring of torches circled the long room as well, throwing out light and heat. Smoke curled up to the soot-blackened ceiling high overhead. Pyr welcomed the warmth, even though the acrid air irritated his lungs. Black and red mosaics tiled the floor of the huge room. Their texture was almost as rough as the cobblestone streets of the town. The wall paintings were vivid depictions of ritual mutilations and sacrifices. One wall featured a freshly-painted mural showing the death of worlds; the spiral of the galaxy painted as a fall of glowing ashes. It was a modern addition to the native belief in the necessary destruction of all life.

  Idel was alone in the room. The high priest looked casually relaxed as he leaned back on his throne, legs crossed, a silver goblet of something Pyr hoped was wine in one hand. The young high priest was imitating more than Bucon attitudes. Instead of traditional white robes, he was dressed in tight black leather boots and trousers. His chest was bare, except for a heavy pectoral collar. The design was of gold snakes twined with silver whips and jeweled chains. He smiled again, and Pyr noted a glint of impatience in the boy’s pale eyes. Idel’s skin was white, contrasting sharply with his leather clothes and heavy black hair. No scars.

  Priests were sacred beings, raised to make sacrifices, not to be sacrifices. Idel was probably the only person on the whole planet who had never known a moment of pain. Or a moment without any wish fulfilled. A spoiled brat reared to unnatural whims. A smart brat, from what Pyr had heard about him. One with a hint of eagerness shining in his eyes.

  Pyr waited. He held Lita still between his hands when she would rather have been groveling at her lord’s feet. As the silence grew, Idel’s welcoming smile turned into a sneer. Pyr did not believe in spoiling children, and had no intention of stepping into the fire for the boy’s entertainment until he was ready. Fire was what waited between the door and the foot of the dais. Pyr had noticed the thin silver line of a personal security system that circled the walls beneath the ring of torches. Idel was in control of a toy that could be set from a warning tingle to instant death. It would be one of the in-between settings the high priest used on his guest; a little test, and minor entertainment before getting down to business. The controls were on the arm of the skull throne, where Idel’s right hand rested languidly on the curved surface.

  Pyr was not really interested in proving his stoic imperviousness to the world at large. Having to prove it to his own men was inconvenient enough. Warrior codes were a lot of nonsense. Pain hurt. Nothing wrong with screaming and writhing in agony if it didn’t get in the way of business. But of course, screaming and writhing wouldn’t get him what he needed from the boy. Pyr permitted himself an exasperated sigh.

  �
��My thanks for the guide, Lord Idel.”

  The boy inclined his head. “My servant is yours for the taking, Raptor.”

  Since the plague will take her in a few days, anyway, Pyr added silently. Here was another game he’d rather not play, even though the girl had forfeited her life with the bite. Pity it had to be done as entertainment for Idel.

  Pyr bent his head and whispered in the girl’s ear. “May you find a better world.” She was in shock from broken bones, and starting to feel the fever. When he snapped her neck she hardly noticed dying. Pyr felt it as an easing of pressure on his shields. One less mad mind to keep out. “No diamonds for you, Lita.”

  Pyr dropped the body and stepped forward, hands buried deep in his pockets. The boy leaned forward in his chair, expression eager, eyes hungry. Having a wonderful time.

  The space between them was immediately blanketed by a web of greenish light. Pyr walked into it as if he didn’t notice the flickering ribbons of energy he had to wade through to get to Idel. About one third strength, he estimated. How flattering. He set an unhurried pace, though it felt like heated metal melting through leather and silk and flesh. The lightweb died as he reached the foot of the dais, leaving only torch light to illuminate the room. The pain died with the light. Pyr nodded slightly to Idel, who tossed away his goblet. It bounced off the statue of the goddess with a loud, grating clang.

  Pyr drew the brooch out of his pocket, showed it to Idel, then put it away. “Another gift, Lord Idel?”

  “It is known that you search for a traitor who deserted your ship. You hunt for him through the border worlds and into the chaos of the Bucon Empire. The traitor wore your colors on a piece of jewelry. That piece of jewelry.”

  “It’s not so much the traitor I’m interested in,” Pyr replied. “I want to find who he sold his services to.”