by James Silke
Two overfed Kitzakk slave merchants, owners of the company which employed the nomads as guides and chainmen, squatted over a small fire in the clearing. They wore expensively embroidered yellow tunics and heavy jewelry. Untouched wine and fresh fruit rested in brass pitchers and bowls at their feet. Every so often the pair glanced at the darkness filling the surrounding desert as if they expected it to rush over and hit them.
Behind the two merchants, better than twenty forest boys shivered in cages stacked on wagons. Their chained sisters and mothers did the same on the ground. At the edges of the torchlit clearing oxen grazed noisily.
The two merchants huddled together until their stomachs touched. Using the ancient Kitzakk dream language, they repeated what they had already told each other a dozen times. That the Kitzakk Army was surely somewhere between them and the Barbarian Army, and that the two riders they had seen far behind them on the trail were nothing more than mercenaries headed for Bahaara. Not the dreaded Death Dealer. Then they glanced at their nomad chainmen, their only protection, and saw again what they could not ignore. Their horns, fins, tails and dog faces had enlarged, and even though there was no sign or sound of an enemy, the savages were preparing for battle, as if their desert-trained senses had heard and seen what the merchants could not.
The moon slowly slipped down the side of the blue-black sky, then sank below the flat endless horizon. Silence and darkness took command of the night.
It began with a soft thunk somewhere along the rubble of the northern wall. The sound was followed by the sudden appearance of a flying rope of blood which glittered against the black sky as it caught the firelight, then disintegrated into red wet jewels before vanishing in the blackness.
The nomads jumped up, spears in hand, as the headless body of the guard at the north wall staggered into view and fell to the ground. Bodies crouched, the nomads nervously jabbed their spears in front of them as if they could draw blood from the body of the night.
Behind their wagons, the merchants found a shadow big enough to hide in, and glanced about trembling. The Barbarian boys rattled their cages, and the girls and women wrestled their chains, then gasped and became silent.
Out of the bowels of the night appeared a menacing living darkness, a warrior mounted on a black stallion. His horse picked its way through the rubble easily, as if it had always grazed on the short, hard growth of destruction. The rider carried an axe decorated with streaming blood that glittered in the slashing firelight. A masked and homed helmet crowned his wide shoulders. The eye slits, like windows to his nature, glowed red, as if his bones and brain were ablaze.
The Kitzakk merchants began to sweat and whimper. The Barbarian captives stared openmouthed. The shouting nomads converged behind their main fire with their spears protruding like the quills of a porcupine.
The intruder dismounted, and strode into the firelight seemingly oblivious to the obstructions blocking his path. He kicked over a low wall as if it were a pile of brush. His shoulder took out a section of still-standing doorway. He pushed a second wall aside with the flat of a hand, and it obligingly fell on its back, kicking up dust which swirled reverently around his tramping feet. He marched up a pile rubble, looked down at the nomads, and raised his axe with two hands over his head. His muscles bunched, and he charged, an avalanche of steel.
A stride short of the waiting spear tips, he planted his foot and, pivoting on it, swung his axe in a wide sweeping arc. The blade carved a half moon out of the spears. The power of the blow propelled his heavy body into the blunted poles. Wood splintered and snapped. Spear tips caught in the Barbarian’s chain mail; others gouged his legs and slashed his forearm. He did not appear to notice. His axe was back over his head, coming down fast. This time it fed itself on meat and bone. Slavers fell spouting blood from necks, chests and arms. Blue-grey bodies writhed in wet red fountains. The axe kept at its task as a howl of savage pleasure rang out from the horned helmet.
The Kitzakk merchants watched with spellbound terror, then covered their eyes as the horror took on a new dimension. The black-clad warrior was slowly rising on a growing mountain of the dead and dying. Terror gave way to panic, and the merchants fled.
They raced down a footpath and into the shadow-filled southern desert beyond. They stumbled blindly past Brown John as he was hurrying up the footpath. He stared at them uncertainly, then dashed along the rubble of a wall, reached a rise behind the cages and stopped short. His eyes widened with shock, and he sat down before he realized he had to.
Gath of Baal stood on a pile of dead bodies working his axe. The surviving nomads surrounded him. Splattered with blood, they mindlessly charged up the bodies of the fallen into the Barbarian’s slashing axe. Bodies and pieces of bodies tumbled in the air, tossed on fountains of blood, and still they charged. Gath was knee-deep in carnage, slipping on bloody chests and heads. Dying men clung to his legs, bit them, struggled with the last of their strength to pull him down into their mire of gore.
Brown John did not see Bone and Dirken arrive until they, and the group of volunteers they led, reached the clearing. The same thing that made them stop short made the old man relax enough to notice their arrival.
The battle was over, and Gath had disappeared. Nothing remained but bodies stacked as high and wide as a haystack. Shuddering feet protruded from it, and bleeding faces and twitching hands.
There was a slight movement at the top of the pile. A severed tail fell away, tumbled down indifferently to dangle for a moment against a sword, then rolled to the ground and twitched fitfully until it finished bleeding.
No one breathed.
Slowly the stacked gore parted at the top and horns arose, bringing large pieces of carnage with it. The black steel mask appeared with its eye slits flaming. Shaking off bodies, Gath of Baal climbed out of the pile, axe in hand. He ripped spears out of his chain mail, then staggered toward the Barbarian captives.
He searched through the chained women mindless of the fact that he was bleeding on their trembling faces. His blood mixed freely with their flowing tears and splattered against the hair of their bowed heads. Not finding whom he hunted, he growled with frustration, severed the women’s chains with his axe, then ripped the cages apart and moved into the night.
The boys fought clear of the wreckage of their cages and fled into the waiting arms of their mothers and sisters as the volunteers broke rank and hurried to them.
Brown John greeted his sons and they pointed with pride at the desert. To the north a line of flickering torches had appeared across the horizon. The Barbarian Army.
The old man smiled with rare pleasure, then saw a dark, horned silhouette moving up a wide path of rubble. Reaching the top, the figure stood against the night sky at the heights of Chela Kong staring south. Whiffs of vapor swirled about his legs. The vapors thickened until they enveloped his body, as if the rocks themselves were breathing. Brown John trembled with a sudden chill. It was not any man he had ever known, but a demon.
Brown John rubbed his arms until the chill was gone, then bravely marched himself toward Gath. When he reached the heights, he found the dark man slumping against a piece of wall. He did not look at Brown John or greet him. The helmet’s eye slits still glowed as they stared south.
Anguish and disgust rushed through the old man, but he made himself squat, then asked warily, “What’s happened to you?”
“I must see her,” Gath said. His voice was a distant, desperate rumble. “I must look on her face and touch her.”
A vague expression of recognition crept through Brown John’s wrinkles as he watched the red glow die behind the eye slits. He said, “I think I begin to understand, but not nearly enough to help. What is the nature of this magic that possesses you?”
The great metal headpiece dropped forward, and Gath caught it with his hands, held it with his elbows resting on his knees.
Brown John edged closer until his eyes could discern the dark figure, then sat down beside it. He reached to lay a comf
orting hand on Gath’s shoulder but hesitated. He suddenly felt unequal to the task confronting him, unable to draw forth the energy, skill and friendship the night demanded. His wrinkles fell slack, and he felt a thousand years old. It was a long moment before he spoke.
“My friend, we have two choices. Advance with the army and battle the Kitzakks until you are dead of exhaustion… or try to find her ourselves, secretly enter Bahaara and take our chances. Your helmet will be difficult to disguise, or perhaps it will not even permit such an adventure, but I believe it’s our best chance. What do you think?”
The shadow made no reply.
“I think we must face the fact that if you die, then she surely will.”
The shadowed figure shifted restlessly.
Brown John waited, then grunted mockingly at himself. “What an arrogant fool I’ve been. Two days ago, I asked you to confide in me because I thought that if I knew what the pieces of this puzzle were, I might fit them together. But I had no conception then of the magnitude of the players in this game. This whole affair has gone far past my poor powers of understanding, and if you are as aware of the presence of evil as I suspect you are, there is no way I could expect you to give me your trust. There is simply far too much darkness within me, even a man with only a particle of your powers could see it.”
Gath did not move or speak.
Brown John chuckled mockingly. “From the very first day at Lemontrail Crossing I have been conspiring to use you for my own dreams, to make certain my Grillards remained free to practice their frivolous magic. And what happens? I am usurped by a girl of my own choosing. A mere child who will not have the slightest idea of which necks to feed your axe, to say nothing of which nation to have you bring down. I am utterly defeated. And unable to help you… the one I would help the most. Yet I will tell you, Gath, whether you trust me or not, I would not trade places with any man. But, if you wish it, I will leave you alone now.”
It was a long time before the shadow replied. When it did, its voice came from the depths of a tortured soul. “Stay, old man, and listen.”
Fifty-six
ANSARIA MERALDA ROOTS
Robin Lakehair sat naked and dry on the bottom of the mammoth flask in Dang-Ling’s secret underground laboratory. Around her the glass glittered with highlights cast by oil lamps, like a huge jewel with Robin’s warm, brown body as the living center.
She was calmly eating brown bread and cheese. When she finished she washed her throat with wine, then curled up against the curve of the bowl and closed her eyes. Sighing long and deep, she cast a suspicious eye through the glass wall and gasped, sat up.
The Queen of Serpents stood regally at the head of the staircase looking down at Robin. She wore full-length armor, a tunic of gold and silver plates that shimmered over her magnificent breasts and sinuous thighs. Her fingers spread over her hips like blood-tipped fangs.
A tiny diamond-and-silver hooded cobra with topaz eyes crowned her raven hair. Her face was polished ivory flushed with scarlet. Her dark eyes glittered with malevolent energy.
Robin sank in a helpless sprawl, her face buried in bare brown arms.
Dang-Ling’s obsequious, half-bowed figure crept around Cobra as he said guardedly, “I hope, your highness, that our procedures with this girl meet with your approval. We have worked diligently but she still holds her secret, that is, presuming she has one.”
Cobra avoided responding by looking around admiringly at the maze of tubes, bottles and vessels. “I am impressed. I have never seen equipment of such complexity.”
“It keeps me amused.” Dang-Ling bowed with an unconvincing show of humility.
Cobra humored him, “I would imagine,” then asked curtly, “What is your specialty?”
Her abruptness startled the priest. His confidence wavered and he stammered, “My specialty? Well,” he rubbed and squeezed his fatty pink hands, “it may not seem very spectacular… or even practical… but in deference to the Butterfly Goddess who is worshipped through the embraces of sacred prostitutes, my laboratory is dedicated to the pursuit of carnal pleasure.”
Amusement coiled in Cobra’s cheeks. She asked archly, “And the Barbarian girl, you have examined her only along these lines?”
Without waiting for an answer, Cobra turned back toward Robin. Dang-Ling qualified apologetically, “Well, no, as a matter of fact. It seemed hardly likely that such a child could have any real carnal power. My efforts have been directed more toward discovering her true nature.”
“And what have you found?”
“Actually nothing. She is merely what she appears to be… a young, exquisite, but inexperienced girl.”
Cobra eyed him condescendingly. “You may have misjudged her, priest. For instance, would you not agree that, for one so young and innocent, she wears her nudity quite naturally, even sensuously?”
Dang-Ling peered down at Robin. “Why… why yes,” he piped with a startled voice. “You’re quite right. That is a precocious quality.”
Cobra’s black-rimmed gold eyes were hard, intense, her voice more so.
“Listen carefully, priest. If the Dark One continues to outwit the helmet, he can turn its powers not only against you and me, but against our master, the Lord of Death himself.”
Dang-Ling staggered.
She pushed a trembling curl away from his round ear delicately. “You are right to tremble. A very sinister and deceptive enemy has revealed herself, the most deadly the Master of Darkness has ever faced, a sorceress who can not only counteract the power of the helmet, but remove it with her bare hands.”
“No! You can’t mean…”
“Yes.” Cobra directed a long finger to the prisoner. “You have caught an extraordinary prize, priest. Invaluable. She controls the Barbarian, and keeps him alive.”
“But I have examined her!” Dang-Ling stammered. “She… she has no magic.”
“Oh, but she has,” Cobra whispered. “You simply were looking for the wrong thing.” Her personality changed abruptly. The woman disappeared, and the dark sorceress took command. “Bring me powdered Ansaria and Meralda roots. And barrels of fresh milk. From cows, goats, cats! It does not matter. Hurry!”
A short time later Dazi and Hatta stood on ladders above the mouth of the giant flask holding a large glass tube steady as it spewed white fluid down the throat of the vessel over Robin’s body. Baak stood on the floor nearby pumping it out of an underground cistern into the glass tubes.
Cobra and Dang-Ling stood on the circular staircase watching Robin struggle against the torrent of milk. She tossed and flailed as her legs were repeatedly swept out from under her. Defiance animated her small face.
Cobra said, “I should have seen it the first time I saw her. She has extraordinary desire… and empathy. An extraordinary combination.”
Dang-Ling’s cheeks flushed with anticipation. “Her flesh is perfection.”
“It is not simply her flesh, priest,” Cobra retorted. “Look closer.”
Dang-Ling edged down the stairs to the bottom of the hole. He steadied his weight against the glass flask, leaned forward until his nose touched it.
Robin was thrashing wildly against the slosh and spill of the weighty fluid, but her movements had an erotic eloquence to them. It was as if her breasts, throat, arms and legs danced with the moving whiteness. Within her nut-brown body a white glow grew and spread under her smooth, firm flesh. It filled her with light, reaching to her toes and fingertips.
“I see it,” Dang-Ling squeaked. “I see it!”
Thin shafts of light began to radiate from Robin, then speared through the glass of the flask and flashed across the priest’s animated face. He staggered back against the wall of the hole, grimacing in terror. The light whipped over him with bright bars, holding him prisoner.
The Queen of Serpents watched the light play over the priest, then shivered. “We will all be well advised to remember this lesson, priest. With a girl such as this one, the flesh is merely an outward sign of wha
t dwells within.”
Dang-Ling, as much as he now wanted to, could not avert his eyes from Robin.
“That’s it,” Cobra hissed. “Look at her. What you see is a body singularly untainted by any substance or idea that might impair its spirit. In short, priest, she is the ideal which drives off the brutal realities the horned helmet forces him to see.”
A last shower of milk spilled down and Robin rolled under its impact, then settled facedown as it sluiced out the drain. Exhausted. Half-drowned. Wet, white streaks trailed down her battered flesh. Before she recovered, the inner light was gone.
“There is nothing to fear from her at this moment as she will have no idea of what we saw, and will remain ignorant of her powers.”
“She must die.” Dang-Ling snapped indignantly. “Immediately.”
“No,” said Cobra. “Even though it would give me great pleasure to kill her with my own teeth, I can not. The Master has instructed me to use her to destroy the Barbarian and retrieve the horned helmet, and we need her. If she were to die, he might become enraged and do irreparable damage to our Master’s work. At the very least I am certain you and I would not survive his displeasure. But she will suffer, priest, that I promise you.”
Dang-Ling looked back and forth from Cobra to Robin helplessly. “How?” he pleaded as Robin stood and stretched tiredly, then lay down in a lovely puddle of brown limbs, giving them her back.
“How?” repeated Cobra. “Look at her. She is going to make a lovely serpent.”
Fifty-seven
LOGIC
Brown John, his hands clenched behind him, plodded up the wide, sun-drenched ridge of rubble towards the heights of Chela Kong. At the summit he paused before the only tower still standing and fanned himself with a rag.
