Skull Gate by Robin W Bailey Page B

from the masonry. She had remembered those, too.
    If she stood on Ashur's back and jumped, she could just reach those posts. But first she reached into her saddlebag and took out a length of rope. A slender log was tied to one end. She slid the coil over her shoulders. It made a clumsy burden, but she would manage.
    She stood carefully on the saddle. It wouldn't require much of a jump. Her fingers were only inches from the post she'd chosen. She pushed off and grabbed.
    The weighted end of the rope began to slide. The fibers stung her bare neck as the rope rushed downward, tightening the coils around her. She grabbed for it, clinging to the post with one hand. That lasted all of two heartbeats before her grip gave way on the rough wood.
    Ashur sidestepped away. She landed hard, tangled in the rope, the log pressing painfully on her spine.
    â€œGods damn!” she muttered, and kicked the stupid length of wood before she picked it up again. She could have hooked a grappling iron in her belt if she'd had one, but it was cursed hard to stick a log in your pants! Instead of slinging it over her shoulder again and risking a repeated incident, she placed the log under her arm against her side and hastily wound the rope around herself, binding it in place. Uncomfortable, but she only had to tolerate it a few minutes.
    â€œGet over here!” she said to Ashur, who stood by watching. The unicorn meekly obeyed. “I think you're laughing at me! I ought to smack your nose!"
    She climbed the saddle again, and this time gained the post without difficulty. It was wide enough to stand on if she was careful. She undid her rope. The top of the wall was about fifteen feet higher. She prayed she could reach it. She'd taken Oona's only rope, a short one, not daring to purchase another in Shadamas. Enough time had passed for the smallest towns to know she was fugitive.
    She checked the knots to make sure the log was secure. It was stout enough to hold her weight if she could snag the parapets overhead. With a three- or four-pronged grapple, it would have been easy. With a log, she worried.
    She listened. No sound of any sentry above. She knew they patrolled the wall but had no idea of their schedule. Her first toss missed. The log was heavier than she thought. She threw again.
    Four attempts later, the log caught but made one hell of a clatter. She froze, expecting shouts and the rattle of weapons, soldiers bearing lances to appear over the wall, more soldiers to come charging through the gate below.
    Nothing happened.
    She'd stormed cities before amid the crash and clang of steel and the shouts of warriors and Gath's own chaos raging all around. Doing it silently was something quite different, and she cursed every little sound, every creak of the rope, every scrape of her boots on stone as she climbed. At last she gained the top, pulled herself over, and dropped in a deep crouch onto a broad walkway.
    She touched the pouch on her belt to make sure she hadn't lost it.
    Far down the walkway she spied a pair of torches. Sentries about their rounds, she guessed. She wasted no time but gathered up the log and the rope, coiled it tightly, and stashed it behind a rain barrel. In the darkness, she was sure no one would find it. The torches drew nearer. She heard voices but could distinguish none of the words. She moved quickly, found the stone stair that took her down to the street level, and dived for the nearest shadow.
    She cowered there for long minutes, unmoving, listening. Her heart pounded in her chest. Her breath came quick and shallow.
    Now, it was time.
    She reached into the pouch and extracted the Hand. The skin of it was dry and brittle to touch except for the fingers, which were slick with a fine oil. It exuded an awful odor of decaying meat and strange herbs. Even in the darkness, the bones and bloated veins showed. She shivered again, recalling the thing's making.
    Her hand dipped into the pouch again, and she brought out a small