Prisoner of the Horned Helmet (27 page)

DEAD YELLOW

T
orchlight greeted the temple guards as they moved swiftly onto the stage to relieve the Skulls. Casual words were exchanged, and the Skulls strolled away chatting amicably. Their crude laughter echoed out of the tunnel, then silence rejoined the night.

In the front row of the tiered seats a small group slept entwined in ragged blankets and each other, fanatics, idlers and veteran soldiers more than willing to relinquish their own flea-ridden cots in order to obtain the best seats for tomorrow’s entertainment, or perhaps turn a nice profit for those seats in the morning.

The temple guards frowned with distaste at the crowd and at the chained man sharing the stage. He slumped in his chains. Blood was gathering at the end of his right thumb. It glistened brightly, then dropped, hitting the dirt stage with a silent splash. Another drop began to form.

Four shadowed figures on the highest row of seats also watched the chained man. A tear glistened within their darkness, then fell and splashed as silently as his blood. It belonged to Robin. She rubbed her wet eyes with the butt of her hand, whispering, “Can’t we bring him some water?”

Brown John hushed her. “Shhhh. We can not risk being discovered.”

Robin choked back the tears. “But he’s dying.”

“Shhh!” The old man lifted a finger to his lips. “Wait! Just wait!”

“But what are we waiting for? What’s supposed to happen?”

Brown John took her small hand in his and patted it. “Trust me, small one. Our chance will come.”

The torches suddenly went out, and darkness swallowed the arena. Robin buried her face against Brown John’s chest, and he gathered her close. When their eyes adjusted to the darkness, they could see the doused torches smoking in their iron crucibles at the corners of the stage. The temple guards had vanished.

Brown John whispered, “Something’s up. Listen.”

They heard a faint rustling at the back of the stage. A phantom figure was descending the red staircase. Moving with supple grace, it glided like a living shadow to the stage and started toward the chained prisoner.

Brown John pressed a hand over Robin’s mouth.

Reaching the sagging body, the dark slender figure pushed back the hood of its black cape.

Robin reeled, mumbling through the old man’s fingers, “That’s her. The snake woman! She… she was there in the laboratory… with their high priest.”

“The Queen of Serpents,” Brown John muttered.

He motioned to his sons, and the group crept silently down the steps until they could hear Cobra’s soft, mocking voice.

“Do not disdain me, Dark One. I have come to save you.”

Cobra stroked a red nail sharply across Gath’s chest, letting it linger playfully in a wound, then ran it across the steel of the helmet, making a nerve-splitting sound. The eye slits began to glow with heat, but he did not move.

Muttering ancient incantations, Cobra drew obscure signs on the helmet. Then she gripped the horns with her fingers and thrust her thumbs into the eye slits. The helmet jerked away from her. She held on and began to lift it humming softly.

Robin shuddered, and Brown John began to sweat. Suddenly he reached down and brought up his forked stick. He commanded Robin, “Stay here.”

She nodded, hugged her knees to her chest, and rocked silently as the
bukko
turned to his sons. They held their sticks in hand. Brown John whispered, “Dirken, you sneak around behind her. Bone, you take the right corner. I’ll take the left. Wait until I give the sign before you show yourselves.”

The brothers nodded, then the three moved down through the shadows towards the stage.

Cobra smiled as a grunt of pain escaped the helmet. She pulled harder, straining, and her eyes glazed slightly, turned dead yellow. Torchlight splashed across the helmet. She jerked around toward the light and shuddered, dropping her hold on the helmet. It sank back into place.

The torch at the far corner of the stage had been relit and a figure stood in its light, a ragged old man waving a forked stick. The stick lifted as if with its own life, and aimed itself at Cobra as the old man’s resonant voice chanted, “By fang and by venom. By the days of nine and the nights of ten, deliver the reptile, great goddess, to thy servant.”

A torch burst into flames at the opposite side and another forked stick emerged from the night, aiming itself at the Queen of Serpents. Cobra recoiled hissing to reveal needlelike fangs.

More torches blazed to life in the hands of the front row fanatics. They rushed forward rubbing their sleepy eyes as Brown John continued his chant, then saw Cobra, shrieked and charged onto the stage poking their forked sticks.

Cobra whirled for the red staircase. Dirken cut her off. The fanatics swarmed at her and struck her to the ground. She twisted, slithered, hissed. A forked stick pinned her ankle, another her wrist. She convulsed, snapped and spewed hot venom that drove them off with rags and flesh smoking. Amazed, they watched as her entire body opened up, emitting a gush of yellowish smoke; they backed away coughing, their eyes confounded. One screamed out fanatically, and they plunged into the concealing smoke pounding and prodding with their sticks.

Brown John stood at the corner of the stage waiting. His eyes darted around until he saw it. At the feathered edge of the yellow smoke, probably no more than two inches under the earthen stage, something was wriggling towards the ramp. Brown John jumped off the stage into the shadows.

The slight bulge of earth reached the edge of the stage, and the head of a small Skink snake emerged, looked around, then slithered down to the ramp. For a moment torchlight revealed its shovel-shaped head, enamel-like scales, and muscular tail. Then it vanished into the shadowy ramp toward the access tunnel. Out of the darkness a forked stick descended over its neck and pinned it to the ground. The Skink’s shovel-like head dug into the ground. Half of its body was under the earth when a hand grabbed the tail, pulled it out of the earth and deposited it in a leather pouch. The hand tied the pouch securely with a thong, then picked up its stick, and the owner, Brown John, returned to the stage.

The Snake Finders were still floundering in the dissipating smoke, scratching the ground and each other with their sticks. When the smoke was gone, they saw no sign of Cobra. No wet stain. No shed skin. They grunted and cursed appropriately, then turned to the chained prisoner, leering. They peered around, saw no sign of guards, and, taking courage, advanced excitedly on the helpless Death Dealer. They circled him in stumbling confusion, then timidly cursed him, and spit on his legs. Then a bold one stepped in close and poked him with his stick.

No response came. But as more sticks flayed him, the helmet lifted and the attackers jumped back. The shadowed eyes were on a small dirty-faced boy standing empty-handed directly in front of him.

Gath rose within his chains. His eyes cleared, and he turned on the fanatics. Obviously shamed by the small boy’s courage, they were advancing again. Suddenly the Death Dealer thrashed against his chains. The fanatics, trampling and tripping over each other, fled the stage.

The Death Dealer turned back to the boy, the red glow died, and a voice, low and far away, demanded, “Come closer.”

The small figure marched boldly forward wiping off a damp smudge on its face. The massive pawlike hand of the chained arm opened, and his voice whispered, “Robin.”

She placed her small hand in his, and the strong bloody fingers wrapped around it, held it as she looked searchingly into the eye slits for the man she knew.

“I won’t leave you,” she moaned, “never again.”

He straightened, pulling his head erect, and let go of her hand. “The army? Where is the army?”

Hearing the weakness in his voice, she trembled. “It… it’s camped to the north, outside the city.”

“Bring it,” he gasped. “Tomorrow, at the third hour. I will give it this city.”

Her eyes widened with the shock of comprehension. “But you’re chained!”

“I will be all right now. Hurry!”

She nodded stepping backward, feathery eyes welling with tears. Then she turned and ran off the stage into the shadows.

Brown John started after her, but backed off the stage at the sight of the Temple Guards trotting up the opposite ramp with whips cracking.

The rabble fled up the tiers of the seating area, and Brown John joined them. When he reached his seat, only Dirken was waiting for him. The old man dropped beside him exhausted, but his voice was elated. “Did you see her? She was superb. And she thought she would not know her part!” He laughed.

“I saw her,” Dirken answered. “Gath told her to go get the army, and Bone followed her.”

Brown John frowned thoughtfully, then his cheeks cracked a smile. “My, my, and she takes a cue as well!”

Dirken shot a tired but approving smile at his father. “What happened to the snake bitch?”

Brown John’s eyes twisted, and he patted his pouch possessively.

MARCHING ORDER

T
he Barbarian Army marched south across the moonlit desert in scattered pieces, each tribe following a separate trail, like the tentacles of some great sea monster reaching out of a dark body hidden in the inky depths of the ocean.

When a tribe, moving through a depression or passing behind a ridge, was swallowed by the enveloping darkness, the other tribes would falter and whispers heavy with rumors would spread through the ranks. Yet no tribe turned back. And each time the vanished tribe reappeared, the entire army would surge forward with new energy.

Occasionally one tribe would take the lead dramatically. They would parade ahead into a spill of moonlight so their armor would glitter, quicken their pace, and spur the other tribes to jealously pick up theirs. Inevitably all the tribes would surge forward until the army was again in line.

In this erratic but effective manner, the Barbarian Army, now nearly eight thousand strong, traveled through the night.

When the cool grey glow of dawn began to rise above the eastern horizon, the army saw remnants of the retreating Kitzakk’s regiments discarded in the desert: broken wagons, spears, pieces of heavy armor, and dead ponies, their lips crusted with caked foam.

As the grey light grew brighter, the mists floating above the flat landscape lifted to reveal the large, brown city of Bahaara lying directly south. A massive eruption of blunt rock articulated with a thousand windows, doors, streets, towers and tunnels, as if hand carved with spoons by gods.

The Barbarian Army, intimidated by its first sight of a great, civilized city, faltered. But the colorfully patched Grillards at the center of the march, bravely pressed forward, and the Dowats in their persimmon tunics and golden brown leather belts followed. The Kavens, in their triple-belted umber robes, came alongside, and the others moved up until there was again a single front.

They were two to three hours’ march from the city.

The cool glow of light at the eastern horizon gradually ignited with intense white, announcing the arrival of the great orb that ruled all deserts. At the first hour, the tip of the golden fire appeared, and spears of white-gold light slashed across the desert. They flew past rock, tumbleweed and thornbush, climbed the city’s walls, and splashed among its tangled buildings turning Bahaara into a city of gold. Magnificent. Brutal. As if the desert were an empty void for no other reason than to focus everything that was living, vital and exotic into one stone structure. The muscle of the desert.

The soft murmurs of morning prayers rose up out of Bahaara’s shadowed causeways and streets, and lifted above the thousand rooftops. They drifted across the sand to the ears of the advancing Barbarians. But they kept their pace, wiry, browned men and women glittering with metal and pride. Then drum beats and chanting pounded out of the walled citadel, and floated across the desert. Mighty cheers followed, rising to a roar. Bahaara was welcoming the strangers, in the manner the lion king welcomes its meat.

The Barbarian Army came to a clattering, stumbling stop, and stared in chilling wonder as the sunlight melted over this intimidating citadel of mysteries. A ripple ran through the front ranks of the army, and arms pointed up ahead.

Two tiny figures, racing alongside their long shadows, were moving toward the army.

BAHAARA

T
he cheering, laughing crowd was drunk with wine, beer and expectation. They swayed, pushed, fell down and drank in the cool morning shade of the Theater of Death. The arena was packed. Bodies were still spilling through the tunnels fed by the crowd outside. They all waited for the morning sun to descend the wall behind the stage. At the third hour it would fill the stage and the entertainment would begin, blood would flow.

On the walls of the city, soldiers not privileged to attend the execution, paced and also watched the sun. Only a few bothered to glance at the desert where, in a distant line of glittering metal, the Barbarian Army advanced cautiously. Dang-Ling stood motionless in his orchid robe within the shadows of the black and orchid tunnel above the stage. Sweat dripped from his milk-white cheeks and chin. Cobra had vanished, leaving the horned helmet in place, but the high priest was telling himself that Klang, with the powers of the Lord of Death in his body, should easily be able to remove the Death Dealer’s head. He told himself this two more times, but it did not stop the sweating.

In the seating area of the Theater of Death, Brown John and Dirken sat in front row seats. The old man was binding a thong around a small earthenware jar with air holes and a wooden plug in it. He tied it off, and held it up to Dirken. “That will hold her. I put a bit of mandrake root in the jar. It should make her behave.”

He chuckled and secured the jar in his pouch. Dirken scowled skeptically, and Brown John winked cheerily at his youngest son.

“Put up your scowl, lad.” He lifted his arms, palms up, indicating the arena. “Look at this spectacle and enjoy it. It’s a splendid affair. A show, I tell you, like one you may never see again. And so exquisitely human. Look at them. The deadliest soldiers ever to hold swords, and here they sit waiting to be entertained while our amateurish troops approach. While the future of their empire, to say nothing of their lives, is in the gravest danger.” He chuckled with light-winged cynicism. “Even a dumb weaver would know to man the walls at such a time as this, but not these proud lads. They are too smart for that. Too civilized.” He laughed aloud. A perceptive ear would have heard the mockery in it, but on that day there were few perceptive ears in Bahaara.

Dirken muttered, “When they get a good look at the walls, they’ll turn tail.”

Brown John shook his head, “You underestimate them… and her.”

Dirken shrugged thoughtfully, and they looked back at the stage.

Gath, by twisting around within his chains, had noticed their presence earlier, but now did not look at them. He watched the sun advancing down the wall at the back of the stage. It was close to the stage, then it touched it. The third hour was at hand.

He looked down at his axe chained to the front of the stage, and the children touching it scattered off. Behind them the crowd suddenly held its breath. Gath looked sharply back at the stage.

Three Kitzakk officers had emerged from a tunnel and now marched up the ramp on the opposite side. They carried their warlord’s weapons, a large black-handled axe, a spiked bail-and-chain attached to a short handle, and a longsword and triangular shield. The commanders sat on stools at the landing of the ramp and waited. Their faces were as unperturbed as stones.

As the sun moved steadily across the stage, Temple priestesses, dressed only in silver jewelry, appeared and followed the sunshine sprinkling the dirt with perfumes, sandalwood and myrrh. Where they spilled too much, the puddles began to steam in the sun. When light filled the entire stage, the priestesses scattered out of sight as the crowd stood and roared.

Klang had emerged from the red tunnel, and stood at the top of the red staircase. He was noticeably taller, wider and thicker. His dark brown, hairless flesh glistened with oil. Black lacquered armor heaved on his throbbing body. It was barely able to contain it. His wide cheekbones were wider and blunter within his narrow skull. His eyes were angled black cuts. His hair, lank and thick, lay flat against his skull. It fell below his shoulders when yesterday it had only reached his neck. The backs of his hands and elbows were scaled crusts.

The crowd hushed with a collective gasp as it saw the alterations in his body, and a wild blood lust swept over the sea of faces. They murmured prayers, then began to chant their warlord’s name over and over, faster and faster.

The three commanders rose and echoed the crowd.

Brown John and Dirken shared a nervous glance, then joined in spiritedly.

Klang started down the red staircase holding his helmet proudly in the crook of his arm. Greaves of black steel guarded his shins. His feet were booted in black leather and fur. Not knowing their new strength, they crushed the steps, breaking bits of rock off the edges. At the fourth step from the bottom they came to a hard stop.

Klang’s cheeks were aflame, his eyes wild.

The horned helmet was still in place. The eye slits flickered with the same red glow of consuming rage. Something had gone wrong. Where was Dang-Ling? As the warlord glanced around, his face snarled with confusion. To hide it he put on his helmet.

It was black and polished, with a round bowl, long cheek guards and a wide convex brim. There were no corners, or flat edges and surfaces. It was awesome. Intoxicated by the crowd chanting his name. He strode onto the stage.