Prisoner of the Horned Helmet (22 page)

THE FANGKO SPEAR

G
ath stood motionless in the deep shade. He was several hundred feet from the heights of the cataracts. Here the trail no longer followed the gorge. It zigzagged up through rock walls to an opening about twenty feet wide and thirty feet high at the top of the pass. The mouth of The Narrows. It was closed by a wooden palisade and gate that glowed with the orange-gold light of the evening sun.

The helmet sagged heavily in front of his heaving body so that he looked like a bull ready to charge. His chain mail steamed. His eyes, hard slices of white within the shadows of the metal, were active and wary. Sensing danger, yet not seeing it.

A wall-walk formed the top of the gate. It was crenellated, as were the palisades running along the tops of the cliffs on both sides of him. No soldiers stood on the ramparts. No glitter of steel betrayed any hiding behind them. Above the gate and along the palisades poles stood at regular intervals. Dangling from them were smouldering shreds of cloth; charred, stringy remnants of Kitzakk regimental flags. They fluttered timidly on the light breeze. Their modest flapping gave the silence size and weight.

Beyond the gate spires of smoke rose against the yellow sky, caught the breeze and were carried down the pass. Gath sniffed at the familiar cedar aroma, then his eyes focused on the top of the signal tower rising beyond the gate. It was only a small open-topped wooden box standing on a single tall wooden pole, and there was no sign of anyone there, either.

He looked back down the pass at an identical signal tower where the gorge turned away from the road. He had seen no sign of life in it before, and there was none now.

The prospect of having no one to fight maddened his blood, and his muscles convulsed as smoke drifted from the helmet’s eye slits. Then his head began to throb with pressure, and he strode recklessly to the gate with his axe slightly to the front, eager for blood. He pushed at the gate, but it was locked. Frustrated, he hammered it with the blunt end of his axe, then kicked it. No one responded. He slung his axe on his back, and drew two daggers. Holding them overhead, he jumped up and drove one into the wood. With that dagger bearing his weight, he lurched higher, driving in the second with his other hand. He pulled the first dagger free, stabbed it higher into the wall. The muscles of his back bunched; the tendons of his arms corded with power. The chain mail shirt kicked up like metallic wings around his hips as he lurched and swung. Reaching the crenellations above the gate, he hauled himself onto the wall-walk. Panting, with sweat dripping from the edges of his chain mail, and smoke drifting from the helmet, he studied the interior of the fort.

Billowing smoke obscured the center of its large courtyard, but he could make out a second gate at the far side. It was open, and a section of the palisade beside it had been torn down to widen if. Beyond it the flat bone-brown body of the desert spread toward a distant horizon where golden dust clouds tumbled in the fading sunlight. Former residents leaving in a hurry.

Apart from a few vultures perched on the walls, the fort appeared deserted and barren. The corrals, stalls and shops built under the palisade ramparts appeared empty, as did scattered piles of cages. Abandoned sacks of grains, baskets of eggs, dried meat, hay and wine jars spilled from the storehouses. Here and there were hastily discarded saddles, harnesses and wagons. Fires had been started under racks of spears and a wagon full of crossbows and bolts in an attempt to destroy them. But they had been built too hastily and gone out. Only the one at the center of the fort smouldered with dense smoke.

Gath waited until the pressure in his head abated, then jumped into the yard and entered a storehouse. He poured a half-dozen raw eggs into his mouth, smearing the sticky mess over the face of the helmet. He pushed in two handfuls of dry meat while emptying a wine vessel. Gorged and sated, he looked around uncertainly for a cistern to wash off the mess, but saw none. Unnerved by the silence and lack of movement, he lumbered impatiently toward the smoke-filled center. A wind swept in through the desert gate and, with a swish, lifted the cloud of smoke like a curtain to reveal a muscular black stallion standing on a dirt mound at the precise center of the yard.

The animal was huge and thick chested, with legs the size of knotty tree trunks. A powerful, rounded neck supported the short-nosed, blunt head. Its eyes were intelligent but wild. Its forelegs straddled a dead Kitzakk officer clasping a pole mounted with two red horsetails.

In a row beside the dead man were four more bodies, Kitzakk officers uniformed in the bright reds of various regiments. They were facedown except for one who kneeled as if praying. Sprawled half off the front of the mound was a soldier of the Skulls. He held the hilt of a bloody dagger in his right fist. The blade was buried in his chest.

Gath recognized the style of spear used for the executions. It was a Fangko, a spear designed with heavy barbs to pull out the rib bones and heart muscle. The spear, thick with the gore of human organs, lay beside the soldier. A ritual killing performed by their own.

The animal snorted and stomped the ground as Gath approached, obviously not caring for his messy appearance and smell. Or was it audaciously and foolishly defending its fallen master?

Gath kept coming.

The stallion reared. Its neck corded with muscle; its distended nostrils blew. Its hooves beat up the sky and plunged down, hammering the earth between the officer and Gath.

Gath halted three strides short of the stallion and looked it dead in the eye. “It’s useless to argue. I need your help.”

The horse bolted forward, snorting and kicking up dust. Gath stepped in and drove a fist into the side of its head, like a hammer. The resounding impact made the stallion concede no more than an inch of ground. It charged and butted Gath in the chest with its head. Gath conceded no more than the horse had, and grabbed two fistfuls of mane. The stallion lifted its head bringing Gath off the ground, kept charging and drove Gath into a wooden railing. It splintered, and Gath dropped to the ground. Not liking it there, he leapt up and circled the horse’s neck with his massive arms, taking a firm hold on its mane. The stallion snorted and whinnied. Gath, with his legs driving and arms twisting, forced the animal backward, then with a growling surge of strength, threw it down on its side beside the dead officer and held it against the ground.

Thrashing and kicking, the stallion tried to rid itself of the man, then suddenly surrendered. The red glowing eyes of the horned helmet looked directly into the stallion’s wild eyes. Slowly they quieted, then Gath let go and they stood facing each other. Heat mingled between them until they smelt the same, a pungent but binding aura.

The horse snorted, then lowered its head to the man. Gath pressed his face against the horse’s nostrils, and they breathed each other’s breath. The stallion neighed softly, pushed its cheek against the rough chain mail.

“You are mine,” Gath whispered. He glanced down at the dead officer, looked off at the vultures, then said to the horse, “I will put him in the ground for you.”

The stallion slowly lowered its broad-necked head to the body of its former master, then backed away.

TWO DRAGON TAILS

I
t was turning dark when Brown John’s wagon pulled up in front of the fort. The gate stood open, like a giant mute mouth. Its silence was chilling, unnatural. Bone flicked the reins resolutely, and the wagon proceeded into the fort.

Inside he reined up, and Brown John and the strongmen stared openmouthed at the scene being played at center stage.

Gath of Baal stood in the middle of the yard currying a magnificent black stallion. A black enamel saddle with gold inlay was propped against a pile of rocks from which a horsetail standard protruded. It appeared to be a fresh grave.

Brown John ordered Bone and his men to secure all food and weapons, then drove the wagon slowly toward his champion as he glanced warily at the dead bodies, the empty fort, the stallion.

As the old man reined up, Gath turned and, with an uncharacteristic lift in his voice, asked, “What do you think of him? He’s a fine one, isn’t he?”

“Fine,” exclaimed Brown John, “is not the word. He is superb! And he suits you.” He glanced pointedly at the grave. “I presume there is no need to ask how you acquired him?”

Gath laughed roughly, and its hollow ring startled the old man, made the horse bolt. “Hey! Settle down, friend,” Gath crooned. “Settle down.”

To Brown John’s amazement, the stallion returned to Gath, lowered its head and nuzzled the arm of his intimidating new master. Looking at the horse, Gath said to Brown John, “I did not acquire him,
bukko.
These men were dead when I got here. We simply met and made an arrangement.”

Brown John looked down and saw the Fangko spear. “Ah, I see,” he said, then grinned and shook his head. “You never cease to amaze me. Everything you do seems to have an aura of the miraculous about it, particularly today.”

Gath glanced up at him.

“Our ranks grow by the hour. There has never been such unity. You have led our forest tribes to undreamed of success! Now they are not only hungry to free their women and children, but are ready, eager to take revenge.” He hesitated thoughtfully. “But what of you? Is Gath of Baal pleased with his new role?”

With the light tone gone, Gath replied, “I will be pleased when it gets me what I must have.” His eyes met Brown John’s. “She is not here. The fort was empty when I arrived.”

Measuring his words the old man argued, “But this is the butterfly fort the bounty hunter told the Wowells about, and we both knew there was small chance she would be kept here.” He glanced around. “Nevertheless, I am surprised you found it deserted. Perhaps your reputation now does your conquering for you?”

Gath shrugged and picked up the saddle, set it gently on the steed and began to adjust the cinch. “I saw dust to the south and started to follow it, but then it vanished, and I could find no tracks in the sand.”

The old wizard nodded. “They’re there, if you know what to look for. It’s three days to Bahaara, maybe longer, depending on the winds. So there is still a chance for two riders moving at a strong, steady pace to overtake them. If she’s with them, you’ll soon have her back.” He smiled at the stallion admiringly. “You’ve provided superbly for the chase.”

Gath picked up his axe, slung it over his back and mounted carefully. The stallion shifted sideways, adjusting to the heavy weight. Gath rested an arm on the animal’s mane and looked down at Brown John expectantly.

“Oh yes,” Brown John said. “I will accompany you and point out the trail. By all means. There are dangers in the sands a forester like yourself will not even see. But first you must understand what has happened here.” He pointed at the horsetail standard over Yat-Feng’s grave. “The man buried here was not merely a general, but the commander of the Kitzakk Desert Army. The man second in command only to their warlord, Klang. He was no doubt executed because he had been irredeemably disgraced by today’s defeat. To avoid a similar fate, Klang will now have to send not only regiments against you, but magicians as well. You will need my skills.”

“Just find me their trail.”

“Oh no,” Brown John protested, “I can be of far more assistance than that. If we find they have already carried Robin to Bahaara, then I will be as invaluable to you as that spectacular helmet. I am familiar with the ways of the cult of the Butterfly Goddess. And I know Bahaara’s shadows.”

The helmet was silent, but the stallion’s hooves pattered restlessly.

“Good,” said Brown John. “I am glad to know there is some room within that headpiece for reasonable thought. Because I must also know why you are so desperate to rescue this girl. If they are already devising some method of turning her magic against you, I can not help you unless I know what it is.”

“We have no time for that now.”

“Come, come, my old friend,” the old man coaxed. “It is far past the season for mysteries and shadows.”

Gath turned and trotted toward the desert gate. Without looking back, he muttered brusquely, “If you are coming, come.”

Brown John tossed his hands up helplessly, then hurried off and found a saddle. With Bone’s help he unhitched and saddled his strongest horse, then ordered Bone to wait for Dirken and the army, telling him that, after the army had watered and eaten, he and his brother were to supply every tenth man with a torch and proceed into the desert following the trail he would mark. Brown John then mounted nimbly and galloped swiftly out the desert gate to join Gath. In the night shadows he looked twenty years younger.

THE BATH

D
ang-Ling glided across the floor through the dense steam, opened the hall door and smiled effervescently under his glossy pink lids. His voice swooshed, “Come in. Thank you for coming. We are bathing her now.”

Klang stood impatiently outside the door in the polished black corridor of Bahaara’s Temple of Dreams. The commanders of the Guards and Executioners stood behind him. All three wore combat armor. The warlord glanced at the high priest with disgust, as if he were an overly sweet desert, and entered.

Dang-Ling closed the door firmly in the faces of the two commanders, and plucked a large bamboo fan from a hook in the stone wall. Waving the steam aside, he proceeded into it. “This way. She is in the bath now. But watch your step. Before we drugged her she had a terrible fit, splashed water about everywhere.”

He guided Klang through the steam to a large, circular, vaporous pool set in the center of the stone floor.

A huge black mute, Baak, stood waist deep in the water holding Robin’s limp body under one hairless arm as he lathered her dyed hair with soapy bubbles. A dark stain swirled in the water around her head.

Klang looked intently at the young, unblemished girl.

Robin’s lips were parted. She was breathing in rapid erratic gasps. Her eyelids trembled, sometimes fluttering open to reveal glazed unfocused eyes.

“An absolutely exquisite subject, don’t you think?” Dang-Ling asked. “Gazul brought her, and was paid quite we’ll. He is a true professional, that man. He had dyed her hair and dressed her in rags. But I, of course, recognized her immediately.”

Dang-Ling motioned with a limp hand, and Baak lifted Robin out of the water with his huge hands. He turned her slowly so that her glistening smooth body could be seen from every angle: slender arrowlike legs, flat brown tummy, high firm breasts with their nipples pinkened by the heat, and luxuriously dripping red-gold hair. As submissive as a glove. Klang was visibly impressed.

Noticing this, Dang-Ling’s milky face turned florid, and a tremor ran through his voice. “Have you ever seen such a fabulous creation?”

“She’s still a child.” Klang snapped turning on the high priest. “What possible power can a child have over this savage killer?”

Contempt curled Dang-Ling’s lips, but he disguised it with unctuous words. “My lord, it is a puzzle to me as well, but I am certain she has some magic which will be the key to his destruction.”

“Then find its nature, priest. Quickly!”

Dang-Ling bowed stiffly, unable to conceal his bruised feelings. “If you will permit me to proceed, I will take her to my laboratory and begin the examination now.”

“Not yet, I am not finished.” Klang’s suspicious eyes riveted on the black man.

Dang-Ling bowed, saying petulantly, “He can not hear you. Baak is deaf and mute.”

Silence was between them, then the warlord said, “I have ordered the army to maintain a position between the Barbarian Army and this city, and delay its advance, but not engage it.”

A strained tenseness entered the high priest’s eyes.

“I am going to delay the battle until you, Dang-Ling, place in my hands the magic that will destroy their leader. Do you understand? The Fangko spear is not going to rip my heart out. I am going to kill him in personal combat.”

The high priest sputtered, “Whatever my lord commands, but… but personal combat! There are such risks! Unaccountable risks. An accidental fall, a spill of blood in the wrong place! There are just no guarantees, and your safety is the safety of us all.”

Klang placed a hand on the high priest’s shoulder, and squeezed it painfully as he drew the soft albino closer. “There will be guarantees, priest. You will see to them. In addition to whatever this child has to offer, you are going to find me an invincible weapon. Do you understand?” There were a hundred nefarious, even sacrilegious, meanings in his tone.

Dang-Ling, understanding the one he meant, suddenly relaxed, but was careful not to make it apparent. “I understand, my Lord,” he said evenly. “And fortunately your demand comes at an opportune time. My informants tell me that the unholy Master of Darkness himself wants this demon destroyed.”

“Informants?”

“Acquaintances, professional magicians. One in particular, a sorceress, is sometimes able to arrange for his help.”

“Then deal with her. Get me the strongest weapon he has.”

“Everything will have to be done in total secrecy.”

“Of course.”

Dang-Ling bowed slightly. “I will inquire as soon as she arrives, which should be shortly. I am sure she will be eager to help, as will he. The Lord of Death will be honored to assist a great and powerful leader such as yourself. But his price can be terribly high.”

“Do not instruct me, priest,” Klang snapped. “I am fully aware of the nature of his transactions.”

Dang-Ling bowed, and Klang strode through the steam, went out slamming the door behind him.

Dang-Ling grinned, rushed to the side of the pool and clapped his hands. The huge mute carried Robin’s dripping body up the sunken steps and through the steam to the far corner of the room. Dang-Ling pulled a lever hidden in the wall, and a huge stone lifted up off the floor. Flame-tinted clouds of smoke billowed up, encircling them, and they descended into it. Firelight ran riot in Robin’s wet, red-gold hair, then they were gone, and the stone lowered back into place.