The Anubis Gates

The sticks and boards spun away from him.

One by one three other men dragged themselves over to join the chain. The thwarted pieces of lumber—reinforced every moment by new boards, some of them afire, springing away from the burning hulk—skated and whirled toward the still unconnected Doyle. The smaller pieces moved faster, and as they found him and began to rap at his face, Burghard yelled,

“Reach him, one of you, quick!”

The man on the end of the chain strained, but couldn’t reach Doyle. The man glanced back and saw that the big, skull smasher sized boards were only a few yards away and closing in fast, and so with a hoarse curse he undid the leather restraining loop, drew his dagger, reached out and used the tip to pull Doyle’s foot close enough so that he could stab it right through and moor the point firmly in the ice underneath.

Heat spread from Doyle’s foot, relaxing his nearly petrified muscles, and finally reached his head, driving out of it the visions of huge, multiplying crystals that had been holding what minimal attention he was still capable of. He sat up on the ice, and as alertness washed hotly through him he became aware of the dagger transfixing his foot and the litter of lumber scuttling away from him to batter a couple of motionless human forms sprawled too far out to have been reached by the Antaeus chain.

“You!” Burghard was yelling. “With the beard! Don’t pull your foot free until you’ve got hold of Friedeman’s hand!”

Doyle nodded and inched his way back toward the man with the dagger. “Don’t worry,” he called to Burghard. “I’m not going to break the connection.” He reached Friedeman’s free hand and clasped it, and then the man levered the dagger blade loose and drew it out of Doyle’s foot. He sheathed it and reached behind himself to join hands with the man who had been gripping his boot chain. When Burghard said, “Up,” the five men rose shakily.

Doyle’s foot felt like the knife blade was still in it, and when the string of men began shuffling and limping carefully along the foot of the dock toward the ladder he looked back and saw that he was leaving steaming dark stains on the ice and that where his foot had originally been nailed down there was a large irregular dark blot, already iced over.

“Hang onto the man above you, and just use your feet on the ladder,” called Burghard, who now stood on the dock, his face visibly pale even in the orange firelight. “We’ll pull you up.”

In a couple of minutes Doyle and five members of the Antaeus Brotherhood sat or stood swaying unsteadily on the dock, catching their breath, basking in the heat from the burning boat and letting the healing strength spread upward through their boot chains like restoring slugs of brandy.

“He’s… moved on after swatting us,” Burghard panted as he knotted a handkerchief around his cut hand. “We’re lucky that he … underestimated the amount of time he had, and just shot the quick spell of Malign Animation at us. If he’d taken the time to chant the Deadly Air spell right away… “

A man was dashing across the ice toward them. “Ye sons of bitches!” screamed the portly owner of the destroyed boat. He gestured expressively at his unfortunate craft. “I’ll have ye all dragged before the magistrates!”

Burghard fumbled awkwardly in a pocket with his good but wrong side hand, yanked out a purse and tossed it. “Our apologies,” he shouted as the man caught it. “There is enough there for a new boat and to pay for your time while you find one.”

He turned to Doyle and the others. “We lost six men here,” he said quietly. “And some of you have sustained injuries that need immediate attention—your foot, sir, is a case in point—and our second greatest armor—ready cash—is gone. It would not be cowardly at this point to fall back to our rooms and… patch ourselves up, get some food and sleep, and pursue this matter on the morrow.”

Doyle, who had taken off his boot and knotted a section of his scarf around his foot and soaked it in brandy, pulled the boot back on, gritting his teeth against the pain, and then looked up at Burghard. “I’ve got to go on,” he said hoarsely, “if I’m ever to get home. But you’re right. You people have done… far more than I ever had a right to ask. And I’m terribly sorry about your six men.”

He stood up, glad now of the intense cold, for it acted as an anesthetic on his foot.

Longwell shook his head unhappily. “No,” he said. “On the north side of the river I’d have been most willing to forego the chase and return to our dinner. But now that McHugh and Kickham and the others are killed—I couldn’t savor the port, knowing that their slayer was at liberty… and probably boasting of his deed.”

“Aye,” said Stowell, still fingering his scarf mistrustfully. “Time enough for food and drink after we’ve sent this fellow to hell.”