by James Silke
Once more Gath felt death’s cold bite.
Thirty-nine
BOOTED FEET
The giant alligator, after thousands of years of service to the Lord of Death, was dead. It floated belly-up at the eastern edge of the Noga Swamp. Its massive head was moored in mud. It had obviously been used as a raft.
Beside the body were footprints through the mud, and into a stand of tall reeds, some parted and crushed by booted feet.
Rage distorted Cobra’s face under the glittering, silver magnificence of her skullcap. She swore bitterly, curses that her attendants noted as substantially more colorful than usual. They stood warily beside her on the road, fearing to comment on the disaster before them. Beyond the group, within the thousand shadows of the swamp, small reptilian eyes glittered and bodies trembled.
Cobra shuddered and hugged herself, muttering, “He will wish he had died here in the swamp. I promise it.”
She stepped off the road and followed the footprints toward the reeds. “You will wait here until I return.”
They bowed low in reply.
The footprints marked a path through the reeds and around the skulls marking Trail’s End, then vanished on hard earth. Instinctively she reached for her Glyder Snake, then remembered her pocket was empty and scowled. Down the trail she found shrubs and brush recently crushed by some bulky creature. Beyond them was a new trail of crushed undergrowth. Whoever made it had no fear of being tracked. She followed it anyway.
Forty
LIVING METAL
Deep within The Shades, Gath of Baal stood alone beside Smooth Pond, a familiar mirror-surfaced puddle of water as wide as he was tall. It was formed by the creek which twisted and curved through the rain forest just west of his root house. His sun-darkened chest was naked. The hair had been rubbed off by the chain mail which dangled from his hips. He rubbed his back against a tree dislodging the leeches still feeding there. Then he stretched, and a low sigh came from the helmet, as natural as the wind speaking as it passes through a cave hollow.
It was time to challenge the helmet again. He tried levering it off using the handle of his axe, then tried hammering its edges to widen the opening. Each attempt to remove it failed. But he kept at it until his body rebelled, and he sagged in defeat.
After a moment he crawled back to the mirrorlike pond, and looked reluctantly down at the reflection shimmering on its smooth surface.
The horned helmet, eerily elongated, looked up at him with red glowing eyes. A breeze brushed the surface, and the eyes moved in haunted ripples. When the water quieted, the red glow had faded. Made of metal and bone, with a hundred nicks and scrapes from sword, mace and axe, the helmet itself looked proud and triumphant. But there was no triumph in the eyes, and they seemed to belong to a stranger.
He touched the dark metal tentatively. Then he dipped a fingertip into a hole and felt the familiar skin beneath. His fingers explored the curved horns and his hand came away trembling. He spoke to the reflection, in an involuntary whisper, “Gath of Baal?”
The reflection did not reply.
He gathered up the heavy chain mail around his waist, slid his arms into its scalloped sleeves, buckled it. Something rustled in the verdant shrubbery on the opposite side of the pool. He turned slowly, sensing an evil presence.
Cobra stepped boldly out of the shaded greenery and posed arrogantly at the edge of the calm pool. The reflection of her emerald and silver presence shimmered ominously on its cold blue face.
Ignoring her, he kneeled beside the pond and once more looked down at his reflection. He took hold of the lower edge of the helmet with both hands and tried again to force it off.
Cobra laughed. “Do not exhaust yourself pointlessly, Dark One. The helmet belongs to the Lord of Death. And it responds only to him… or to me, his most beloved and precious servant.”
He looked up at her, his contempt defying her own. “If I can steal it, I can remove it.”
“Fool!” she snarled, the word reverberating across the water. “You are the helmet’s prisoner. Your own greed has trapped you. Forever. You have no power to match my Lord’s. Nor magic to threaten me… not anymore.”
She smiled without humor, then used a tone as resonant as a temple bell, and her words echoed through the trees before fading off.
“You are trapped. The horned helmet cannot be removed. And even if you did, by some miracle, remove it, you could not escape it. It has released your true nature… addicted you to its powers. Now you can not live without it…and you will not live with it.”
“Magic?”
In reply a bitter grin danced in her creamy cheeks. “You’ve made an irreparable blunder. You should have honored your bargain… and understood when I told you the metal was alive. Now you are going to pay for what you have done to me.”
He bolted upright plucking his axe from the ground, and turned from side to side again sensing something.
She watched him as she would a caged animal. “Is there danger approaching? Or is it your own evil that frightens you?”
He turned toward her, and took a quick step back.
She smiled with resplendent malevolence and purred, “That is one of the helmet’s powers. It can sense danger and evil no matter where it hides. And what it senses and feels and sees, you will sense and feel and see. Nothing that is deadly can you ignore or escape. No poisonous flower, no stinging beetle beneath the leaf, no vermin, no cat, no hound or demon, will be concealed from you. Not even what is base and vile within yourself. You will see the world as we know it truly is. Until you submit to my Lord, you will not have a single moment of rest.”
He shook his head, whispered darkly, “Nothing, no man or demon, ever has been or ever will be my master.”
“Oh yes,” she replied. “You have the power to master and destroy all creatures born of nature. You have found that out already. But you can not master or defeat the helmet. Never. Only I know the magic that can remove it.”
The muscles in his back swelled and rippled, and the helmet shifted slightly of its own accord.
“It already grows heavy, doesn’t it?” She smiled, then added, “You would like to rest, wouldn’t you? But you won’t. It will grow heavier and heavier. It will take control of your brain as well as your body, until you understand there is no hope. Then, when you are totally mad, it will rip your insolent head from your shoulders.”
She turned, moved back through the greenery, and merged with the shadows beyond.
Forty-one
THEATER OF ILLUSION
Robin Lakehair was running, almost dancing. In the leafy shade of the late day she looked like a dappled fawn. A wild rose was tucked in her red-gold hair which rollicked about her shoulders. Sharn and the she-wolf followed her. Hearing a sound, all three stopped and lifted their heads.
It resounded again, the clang of metal on wood, then stopped.
Robin and the wolves moved down through the trees, then she stopped short, holding her breath.
Beyond the trees at the base of the rise, a huge warrior stood in Smooth Pond splashing water over himself. He was naked except for boots, a loincloth and a horned helmet, and his flesh glistened. He strode out of the water and kneeled facing two birch trees.
Robin, ignoring Sharn’s warning growl, moved so she could get a closer look at the stranger.
He forced the two trunks apart, placed his head through them, then released the trunks so they were wedged under the collar of the helmet. He gathered himself, then thrust savagely against the trees while pulling his head back. His massive arms corded like the necks of young bulls. He pushed and pulled until blood trickled between his fingers and ran down the white bark, then sagged in place.
Robin, holding her lower lip between her teeth, looked around the clearing and gasped quietly. The trunks of half-a-dozen trees were hammered raw by the helmet and gouged by its horns. She looked back at the kneeling stranger.
Three more times the warrior tried to force the helmet off and faile
d, then, gasping and sweating, he tried to stand. But the helmet did not rise with him, and he dropped to the ground with a painful grunt to hang by the helmet. He wrenched and twisted until he finally righted himself, only to discover his head was gripped even tighter by the trunks.
Gasping, he gathered his body in a low crouch. He took a deep breath then tried to force the trees apart with his arms and lift his head free all at once. For a long moment the two birch trees played with him like he was their pet beast, then suddenly they snapped apart and his helmeted head ripped loose with a woody screech. He staggered backward across the clearing, tripped on a fallen branch, and went reeling forward. His helmet maimed a large blunt rock, but the rock appeared to hardly even know it was in a fight and knocked him flat. He rolled over twice, then lay facedown in a crowd of brown and gold leaves.
Robin whimpered with fear, tiptoed forward, and dropped to her knees beside the man.
His muscles rippled under her fingertips. Suddenly the powerful body rose abruptly on its elbows, driving her aside, and crawled in a zigzag manner toward the cool water. Reaching the pond, his fist closed around the haft of the axe which stood beside it.
Robin gasped. She knew the weapon. Wide-eyed, she crawled back against a tree trunk as the helmet turned toward her. The cruel eyes within its shadows could not be Gath’s. Seeming not to see her, he dropped the axe, crawled halfway into the pond, and dipped the helmet beneath the water.
While the man-animal continued to drink, Robin rose quietly and braced herself against the tree. He lifted his metal head and glanced about as if she weren’t there, then dropped himself in the water, rolling and splashing. When he stood, his dark brown body was steaming.
Robin eased back around the tree, concealing herself, ready to flee. But her feet held and, hardly daring to breathe, she peered from behind the trunk. “Gath.” It was only a whisper, but he turned as if to the sound of music.
She stared in disbelief, openmouthed, then resolutely came back around the tree. Reaching him, she hesitated again, trying to reconcile this intimidating giant with the man she knew. Seemingly incapable of anything else, he only looked at her. She blushed, and slipped her hands around the collar of the helmet saying, “Let me help.”
He took hold of her slim wrists and held them softly for a long moment. She started to speak but he stopped her. His eyes were studying the surrounding forest.
“What do you see?” she asked. “What’s wrong?”
She followed his gaze, saw the wolves beyond the trees high on the rise, and turned back to him. “It’s Sharn, and the she-wolf. Don’t you recognize them? They’re your friends.”
He looked at her and the expression in his eyes made her shudder. It said he had no friends. Robin started to protest, but gave up and smiled helplessly.
Robin’s smile was the most eloquent argument Gath had ever beheld. He gazed at it, forgetting all about finding answers to why he had not sensed her presence and allowed her to get close enough to put a dagger in his back.
Her nut-brown face with its cheeks the color of budding roses was a theater of soft illusions saying something to him. Or was it the helmet playing tricks on his mind? He could not be sure. What he was certain of was that the two little red dancers were only pretending to perform as lips while actually being much, much more. Tiny mountains of color, the tissue of dreams.
“What is it?” she asked again.
He did not answer. He could not. She would not understand, but now he could see the answer to his questions. There was no deceit within her. She was without his greed. Without Cobra’s dark lust. Devoid of evil.
She took her hands back gently. “Please, let me get that helmet off. You need some sleep.”
Instinctively he lifted his hands to the helmet to remove it, then hesitated remembering it was useless. She smiled brightly, placed her hands over his, pushed and it rose easily off his head.
Forty-two
NAKED
Cobra was alone in her chambers. Her face was as white as an albino’s ghost.
The room had been cleared and the pillars replaced. Behind her a wooden tub of hot water steamed with soapy bubbles. Puddles of water glimmered on the silver floor beside bare pink toes protruding from the hem of her jeweled robe. It enveloped her body completely, glittering obsidian petals decorated with large silver eyes. Her blue-black hair, parted at the center of her head, fell to the sides in a flat shimmering shower past her throat, to cascade over her delicate shoulders.
On an ebony stand a leaden vial waited. Beside it a small open jar held a scarlet paste of female cochineal insects. A tiny brush of horse hairs and a silver mirror rested beside the jar. She let an arm escape her robe, picked up the mirror, and looked worriedly at her reflection. Her heavily kohled eyes were dull and sick. She dipped the brush in the red paste and applied it to her full lips. The color looked garish against her cold, chalky complexion.
Wearily, she set the brush down and picked up the leaden vial. Her hand and arm trembled, as she removed the lead plug. A beam of black light shot forth from the mouth. She stared at it vacantly, then with both hands brought the vial to her lips and drank its smoking contents.
She gagged and staggered back. Smoke drifted past her bright parted lips. Her body convulsed voluptuously. The swell of a breast heaved into view above her clutched hands. A sliver of naked thigh showed through the slit skirt of the robe. She clutched at the mirror anxiously, and peered into it as the glorious creamy color returned to her cheeks, then their rose tint.
She faced the interior stairway. Black smoke beckoned out of it, demanding her presence before the underworld altar of her Master. With a languid pace she crossed the room and dissolved into the dark vapors.
At the center of the mountain, black smoke filled the living cone. It swirled and rumbled angrily. Fires glowed within the dark center of its body. The floor of the cone had become one massive lava pool except for a thin path of hard basalt which curved through the vaporous black atmosphere, then vanished. The lava bubbled and spit, sending flames up and around the sides of the path. Cobra clutched her robe around her, and solemnly advanced through them and into the blackness.
She could barely make out the giant saurian skull. The bridge which had risen like a tongue into its spreading jaws was gone. Pieces of skull bone and teeth were broken away. But the brain cavity still boiled with fire. The flaming eye sockets glared down at her.
Cobra bowed once, then parted her robe, letting its weight carry it down off her body to gather in submissive silver and black folds at her feet, a perfect pedestal for an offering of perfect naked flesh. Her creamy translucent skin blushed exquisitely at cheeks and breasts. The thin diamond patch of curling hair glittered at the center of the fleshy setting, a black living jewel.
The devil rumbled. His smoke billowed up around her, stroking her thighs and breasts, arousing her until she trembled. Then without warning he shook the narrow stone path, throwing her down to her quivering knees, and lashed her with stinging flames until her skin was welted and the tips of her hair smoked.
She buried her face behind red lacquered nails. Her black hair cascaded over her wounded breasts. She sobbed, “Oh, Master! Forgive me. I know I have failed you. Scourge me. Degrade me. But I’ll make it up to you. Don’t… don’t cast me away! I beg you.”
The cone rumbled, spewing smoke over her, and she prostrated herself on the scorching stones, fingers clasped prayerfully.
“At this moment the Barbarian is dying,” she pleaded. “I swear it. The helmet will be yours again.”
She pressed her face to the floor, flinching as its heat scorched her breasts and stomach. The cone rumbled, shot flames to the ceiling. “No! No!” she whimpered. “It’s not possible! It’s been three days. The helmet has destroyed his mind by now.”
The altar rumbled again violently, bringing dust down on her bare arms and shoulders. She looked up with startled eyes, gasped, “The girl! No! How could she prevail against the helmet?”
Sheets of flame rose up on all sides of her, walled her in as the altar roared and shook bringing down parts of the skull. Then the flames sank away, and the room became quiet.
Cobra, sweating and oozing blood, rose tentatively, her large dark eyes dilated and rigid with shock. “Is… is it possible? He… he could live with the helmet? Turn it against me? Against you? Oh, Master, what have I done?”
Her head dropped silently, shuddered. Then she lifted her eyes to the altar as her body wilted with total surrender. “Take me, my Lord. Destroy me. I am ready.”
The flames flickered and diminished, and a rush of hope straightened her. She cautiously tilted her head, listened intently to the rhythmic drumming rumble rising out of the depths of the mountain as her Master instructed her. She sank to one knee, touched groin, breast and forehead, and whispered reverently, “My adored, my most worshipful Master, I will not fail you this time. I will go to Bahaara immediately. With the high priest there, I will create demons such as there have never been before to send against him and destroy him.”
She stood proud and magnificent, her hard full breasts thrusting. Ambition sparkled in her eyes. Her voice was clear and certain. “Your will shall be done. I will not only bring you your helmet, but his head, and the head of the miserable interfering girl as well.”
She swayed voluptuously and bowed her head bending gracefully until her streaming, black, silky hair caressed the floor in passionate homage. Swaying and undulating, she retreated in this position dragging her hair the length of the narrow stone path, then vanished in the shadows of the tunnel.