Prisoner of the Horned helmet dd-1

by James Silke

  The tower had once commanded the corner of a great wall, but now, up to its throat in rubble, it looked like a common stone house. One wall had collapsed long ago exposing the flooring of the parapet. It lay about five feet above the rubble to roof a cavelike shelter under it. Gath’s black stallion was tethered beside the shadowed opening.

  Throughout the surrounding rubble of the village, the Barbarian Army, now over seven thousand strong, was camped. It cooked, ate and sharpened weapons. Its many eyes lifted every so often to follow the Grillard leader’s pilgrimage to the tower.

  A warm breeze swept over him. Brown John watched it swirl down the southern slope and roll onto the flat desert floor. There it picked up speed, became a wind, and swept across the yellowish earth toward a dark crescent-shaped formation a few miles off. Spires of smoke rose above the curve. The Kitzakk Army.

  Brown John studied this distant adversary for a moment wondering. “Why do they so diligently follow, yet avoid a battle,” he muttered. “Ah, well, we can play the same game.” He felt his way into the cavelike shelter, and stopped short. Out of the pit of his gut an icy chill raced up his back into the base of his skull.

  Gath’s body sprawled in a contorted heap against the rear wall. He was naked except for a fur loincloth and the horned helmet which rested against a rock. His new wounds were caked with sand and his body twitched involuntarily. His fist fumbled in the dirt for the axe handle lying beside his legs.

  Brown John, crouching low, hurried inside and, squatting, peered at the eye slits. Smoke drifted from them veiling glowing red embers within.

  “What’s happened? What’s it doing to you now?”

  The black helmet rocked back and forth oddly. The eye slits shot forth flames driving him back.

  “Ahhhh!” Brown John moaned. “This demon helmet is burning up your brain.”

  The old man sighed and dropped back against the wall. He glanced out the opening of the shelter at the distant Kitzakks and sighed again. “And no wonder. There is enough evil out there to stoke its fire eternally. It is a wonder you did not explode in flames the moment they appeared.”

  Gath straightened slightly and whispered weakly, “Who did you tell?”

  “Not a soul! Your army still believes it is led by an invincible champion. And from the way the Kitzakk Army is cowering in the distance, I dare say it believes the same thing. I would be the last man to weaken those beliefs.” He forced a smile. “You may be heartened, if that is possible, in the knowledge that the hope you have given them is not a futile one. Our scouting parties have repeatedly challenged and driven off theirs.”

  “What did you tell them?” The hollow voice insisted.

  “I told them what they wanted to hear. That when you decided the time was right, you would lead the attack, march over their army and into Bahaara, free the rest of the captives, and make the Kitzakks crawl away bleeding into oblivion.”

  The helmet uttered a bitter, brutal grunt.

  Brown John continued anyway. “It is my firm conviction that no one be told what you have, to my great honor, confided in me. Not even the girl.”

  Gath was not listening or watching. His breathing was a dry heave. His neck, straining to hold the helmet erect, streamed with sweat. Suddenly a chunk of the rock it rested against broke away, and the helmet fell sideways. Gath threw out a hand and caught the ground, and his falling body jerked to a stop. His head fell down between his arms, as if trying to fall off his shoulders. A cavernous moan ripped loose from the mouth hole. He heaved the weighty head up and slammed it back in place against the rock. His wounds began to bleed through their sandy crusts.

  Brown John started in horror, then controlled himself and his voice hardened. “By Bled, I’m not going to let this happen. There is always an answer somewhere. If only I could think of some way to outwit this demonic metal! Perhaps if you lay down?”

  “Worse.” It was a guttural grunt, more than a word. “The fire enters my veins.”

  “Then I will help you stand,” he leaned forward onto his hands. “If you move around a bit it might…”

  “I tried. The helmet is too heavy now.”

  “Is that what happens? It grows heavier and heavier?”

  A grunt of agreement.

  “And… and then…” The words did not come.

  “ It will rip my head off my shoulders.” There was a ring of insane anticipation in his words.

  Brown John’s howl rent the stifling heat. He flailed his clenched fists at the ceiling, then quietly his determination returned. He crawled beside the dying man. He forced a smile into his wrinkled cheeks, and, with a jaunty, defiant air said scoldingly, “What you fail to appreciate, my dramatic friend, is that I am the bukko here. And I did not put you on stage to perform in a tragedy. Not today! And not tomorrow! Now try and get that clear!”

  The eye slits of the horned helmet blazed hotly, as if it, not the man, were replying.

  Brown John, wavering, sat back on his heels, then obstinately resumed his lecture. There was a hard edge of authority to it now. He said, “I have it.”

  The helmet was unimpressed, but the old impresario had played to that kind of an audience before, and he did not falter. “Today,” he proclaimed standing as tall as the cave allowed, “despite our awkward situation, is like any other day. And no day, throughout the history of days, was ever ruled by mere gods or demons. No, sir! There are far more powerful forces which rule this protean play we call life. Lust, virtue, greed, passion, these are the ultimate players which daily alter our malleable lives. We can submit to them, and allow them to raise us up or throw us down. Or we can find some means of struggling through so that when tomorrow comes we can take hold of whatever new possibilities these supreme forces have created and use them to our advantage.”

  The helmet replied to this philosophy by crushing through the rock that supported it and hauling Gath over sideways. He landed facedown. The flames from the eye slits singed the dirt and rock, raising smoke. Gath groaned, pushed himself up onto his knees and elbows, but could not lift the helmet off the ground. He struggled, gasping and sweating. Brown John, devoid of words, watched in terror. Before the old man could draw a breath, Gath collapsed.

  With surprising strength, the old man heaved Gath over on his back dodging the helmet’s spitting flames. He hesitated, gasping, then forced himself to lean over the monstrous body and look down into the flaming face of the helmet.

  Within the flames, faint at first, he saw writhing, tortured men and women of hideous deformity screaming with unnamable pain. Then he heard the whimpering of tortured children and maimed animals, and smelt the nauseating stench of death. From beyond and within it all came the malevolent melody of demonic laughter.

  “So this is the way of it,” he murmured, awestruck with pity, “it feeds on the darkness of the world.” He sat back muttering. “Hold on, old man, hold on.”

  Avoiding the flaming eye slits, Brown John arranged Gath’s body so that his back was raised and the helmet propped between two rocks. As he did he kept chattering, as much to divert his fears as to help his friend.

  “I dare say that my old father would tell me that now is the time to call on a story of such artful magic that it would make the ugly reality which feeds these flames vanish like the rabbit in the wizard’s cape, and replace it with the kind of dreams which make children think of sailing ships and castles in the clouds. But, in all truth, I must admit that I have found soft fantasies of small use in hard times.” He smiled with resignation. “Besides, I seriously doubt you can even hear me now.”

  He sat back against the opposite wall and sighed. For long minutes he watched Gath lie still, then the red glowing eyes dimmed a bit and the battered warrior stirred slightly, muttering unintelligibly.

  “Ahhh!” whispered the old bukko, “so we still share, for the moment at least, the same stage. Good.” He drew a deep breath and then, with the light-winged clarity of sudden inspiration, volunteered, “Perhaps we should talk a
little about this girl, Robin Lakehair?”

  Brown John sat forward. Had there been a faint response, or had he imagined it? He sneered at his rash excitement, but could not keep it from doing optimistic things to his face. “My, my,” he chuckled, “that would be curious, if by the mere accidental mention of her name, if just… just the words… Robin Lakehair… could…” He waited.

  The eye slits flickered, almost went out.

  Brown John propelled himself forward on all fours and monitored the dying glow, like a boy discovering for the first time that girls were indeed made differently. An involuntary giggle spilled out of his open mouth. He threw his head back and laughed wildly.

  “By gad, I should have thought of it immediately. Here we sit on a battlefield, the ideal setting for salacious talk of carefree girls and raucous fornication, to say nothing of wives and sweethearts! And I nearly forgot to mention her name.” He laughed again.

  Gath, shifting slightly, pushed his helmeted head up an inch.

  “Well, well, Gath, old man, perhaps you and I will play this scene out after all. Tell me, is their something you find particularly fascinating about her? For a man of my years, of course, it is always their legs and lovely bottoms. But as a youth like yourself it was always the breasts. There was never a question of it. Of course, when I was fortunate enough to be involved with a beauty approaching that of the Lakehair child, I admit the face ruled my heart.

  “Come, come, tell me. Is it her small straight nose? Or those big feathery eyes. Or perhaps her soft golden-red hair? Come, come, coax your memory. Think of every part of her. Her voice, her laughter, her small perfect hands, her fresh warm scent, those plump soft red lips.”

  Gath shifted and lifted the helmet another two inches. As he did, Brown John leaned down, uncertain if he had seen a trace of smile pass across Gath’s now white eyes. Then he laughed and said, “I admit it, I am partial to lips myself. At least in my more sentimental moments. But lips are, you must admit it, only the beginning of a whole set of extraordinary delights.” He paused remembering her more soberly. “There is such a natural loveliness to her, her joy in simple things, her love of just being alive. And her kindness, even to lizards and lecherous old men.”

  Gath muttered unintelligibly, but more agreeably, the old man thought.

  “By Day bog!” Brown John exclaimed, then he laughed again. “This is truly astounding. The fate of the greatest army ever to plague our land, and the fate of the Master of Darkness himself, all that lies in the balance, on whether you live or die.” He mused. “And that balance is now tipped by the weightless memory of a pair of soft red lips.” He clasped his hands together and wrung them in wonderment.

  Late that night Bone returned to the campfire at the center of the square where Dirken and the Barbarian chiefs waited and made his report. He said, “They’re still talking about girls.”

  Fifty-eight

  SNAKE FINDERS

  A wagon carrying five wooden barrels rolled quietly through the shadows cast by the torches lighting Bahaara’s Street of Cats. The shops were shuttered and abandoned. Refuse cluttered the ground. The panting and whine of caged animals somewhere within were punctuated by an occasional screech. The wagon wound up through the mesa forming the body of the city toward the back of the Temple of Dreams.

  It carried the serpent priest, Schraak, and his assistants disguised as nomad traders. They had left the Land of Smoking Skies shortly after Cobra, but their passage had been impeded. The flickering light illuminated the white-eyed panic on their faces.

  The reason was the small crowd of ragged, filthy beggars trailing them. Their eyes were distended by cheap stimulants, and they carried torches, poked long, forked sticks at the wagon. They were Snake Finders, and they were gaining on the wagon.

  The priests knew that the Cult of the Butterfly Goddess outlawed all reptiles, and that fanatic Snake Finders were licensed to carry out the low, repugnant and dangerous work of destroying reptiles. They were abundant in Bahaara, particularly in times of unrest. So the priests had taken great pains to scent themselves with camel dung. But just as the light revealed their features, their rising fear brought forth the fetid scent of the reptile.

  They shuddered as the fanatics broke into a run, wailing and chanting incantations.

  Schraak hissed at the other two. “The barrels must be delivered. Give them your bodies! Now!”

  His assistants sickened as they looked back at the ragged pack swarming towards them. But when Schraak slowed the wagon, they obediently jumped off. Schraak whipped the horses smartly, and the wagon lurched into the shadows ahead as the two serpent men drew their swords and faced their plunging tormentors.

  Seeing the priests’ metal, the Snake Finders pulled up short. Their forked sticks trembled as if alive, then pulled them forward, magnetizing their drug mad eyes. Their victims took one step back, then panicked and fled. The Snake Finders, howling, scampered after them, leaping walls, and easily cornering them. They threw them to the ground and stripped their flailing bodies. At the first sight of scales, they squealed with triumph and crushed their skulls with rocks. Then they skinned them.

  With their scaly prizes spread on poles, several of the fanatics paraded through the mostly deserted city while the rest resumed the chase, hunting the wagon. They found it parked in a dark secluded alcove behind the Temple of Dreams. It was empty. The driver was gone and so were the barrels.

  Deep under the ground, just slightly east of where the empty wagon was parked, the five barrels were lined up on a stone balcony. They were open, and the dark fluids within them bubbled and steamed, with a strong fishy odor that clung to the walls of Dang-Ling’s laboratory. Schraak and Baak were shoveling red-hot rocks from a huge fire and dropping them into the bubbling concoction of snake venom, snake blood, and the entrails of tiny mollusks.

  Fifty-nine

  TRANSFUSION

  Robin and the five maidens abducted from Weaver were strapped naked to inclined benches lined up below the row of barrels. Thin glass tubes had been inserted in their necks and attached to spigots at the base of a wide trough positioned under the barrels. Similar tubes descended from their ankles to a gutter hole in the floor. The girls were drugged, only semiconscious.

  Cobra moved along the line of girls tracing the signs and marks drawn on their foreheads and murmuring incantations. Reaching Dang-Ling, who stood diligently beside Robin, she bestowed a condescending smile on him. “I commend you. The addition of the five maidens will increase our chances of success greatly. It is fortunate I brought enough blood.”

  “Your highness has demonstrated again her foresight and leadership.” Dang-Ling bowed low. “I am honored to assist the Queen of Serpents.”

  “If you enjoy watching as much as you appear to,” she winked, “you are quite welcome to continue.” Ignoring the high priest’s reaction, she appraised Robin’s sleeping body, and her eyes hardened. “She sleeps very deeply.”

  “A mild drug,” Dang-Ling purred, petting Robin possessively. “Her little body has been overtaxed these last few days. I thought she should look as fresh as possible when he sees her.” His lips were prim, but his eyes glimmered.

  Cobra addressed his eyes. “You are a weak fool, priest. We must revive her!” Her arm and hand uncoiled, and she struck Robin hard across the face, bringing a moan. “Wake the others! Screaming is absolutely essential!”

  Dang-Ling paled, and his eyes narrowed. “First I must inquire about the necessity of screaming in this particular experiment. Is it essential to the process or to you?”

  Cobra glared at him, her fury rising. “To both, you simpering lecher.”

  The high priest’s smile returned with the slightest trace of mockery. His eyes met Cobra’s, and held them with surprising ease. Cobra glanced warily about the laboratory, then hissed sarcastically, “If you have anymore professional comments, ask them now, priest. Once we begin there will be no interruptions.”

  “Actually, I do have one question,�
�� Dang-Ling said flatly. “Would it not be easier to simply enslave each of them with the bite of the Pawder snake?”

  “An excellent suggestion.” With regal grace Cobra reached inside her emerald robe, and brought forth a small rose-pink snake. Dang-Ling flushed.

  Bestowing a tender kiss on the snake’s head, she said, “The Pawder’s bite is an essential part of the procedure. But merely to enslave their wills would not suffice. Their nature itself must be transformed, and the transfusion and signs will accomplish that. Not completely. Just enough to allow them to develop a very strong venom which no human can withstand, not even the Dark One.”

  “Of course,” Dang-Ling said hurriedly. “But if you will excuse my impertinence, I think we must consider the possibility that this particular girl,” he stroked Robin’s thigh, “might serve our Master more effectively without alteration.”

  Cobra’s high cheeks turned crimson. Her fist unclenched and the Pawder snake wound its way up her arm. She said archly, “Your interruptions tire me, priest. Pay attention, and you will understand. All the Barbarian has to do is see this girl. That alone will relax his guard and allow her, or one of the others, to strike. And only one bite will leave him helpless. Now do you understand?”

  “Perfectly.” Dang-Ling’s inflection was so florid it would have humbled an orchid. “Your jealousy and arrogance have blinded you! And it is apparent, if the Master is to be served as he deserves to be, that I must conduct this procedure myself.”

  Before Cobra, snarling with outrage, could reply, the harsh sounds of scraping rocks filled the room. Four huge stones were receding from the wall; four temple guards appeared in the openings pointing loaded crossbows at the Queen of Serpents.

  Cobra whirled on Dang-Ling. “You go too far, priest!”

  Dang-Ling said soothingly, “Do not be offended. I have not betrayed you. These four are devoted servants of the Master of Darkness, and will do you no harm unless it is necessary. So do not tempt them. Being Kitzakks, they are unusually fond of killing reptiles.”