by James Silke
“They would not dare. I am the Master’s ‘chosen one’.”
“They will dare, sorceress, whatever I dare. Because they understand that what I do, I do in our holy Master’s best interest. Now, I must ask you to remember what you have forgotten in your jealousy. If the girl’s nature is altered, if she is tainted in the slightest way, the power of the horned helmet will discover it… and the Death Dealer will destroy her before she is even close enough for him to smell the enticing fragrance of her flesh.”
The bones in the Queen of Serpent’s face seemed to pulsate under her creamy flesh.
The high priest delicately removed the glass tube from Robin’s throat. A drop of blood splashed on her breast and trickled down the curved slope. He wiped it off fastidiously, saying, “It is only in her perfection that she will be able to subdue the helmet’s power and distract him long enough for these maidens, transformed by your formula, to strike.”
Cobra’s body vibrated under the gold and silver plates, and began to shimmer with opalescent light, fusing her voluptuous flesh and translucent metal. Her breasts were smooth heaving globes of soft gold, her stomach a silver slope of carnal invitation. Her pupils were pools of black magnetism rimmed by irises of radiating gold. The rose cheeks drew in and hollowed. As her scarlet lips parted, they revealed a single drop of glistening blood trickling freely down her alabaster chin.
The temple guards trembled, eyes white with terror.
Dang-Ling observed all this with surprising equanimity, then, bowing to the Queen of Serpents, he responded, “Thank you for this spectacular display of the generous and unequaled gifts our Master of Darkness has bestowed upon you. It is an eloquent reminder of the sacrifices we all owe him.”
He fastidiously removed the rose-pink snake from her arm and stroked it. “Now, if you will restore your appearance so my aides can function, we will begin the work.”
Cobra’s magnificent body wavered. Then, like a tide receding into the ocean, her body drew into itself, ebbing and flowing back to a less intimidating though still impressive presence that glared impotently at the high priest, as if she had had her fangs pulled.
The guards carried Robin out of the laboratory as the maidens were revived. Then Dang-Ling himself applied the enslaving snakebite to each girl’s foot, and the screaming began.
The process proceeded at a slow dripping pace for several hours. Then, distressingly, a blood clot formed in the neck of one girl. Before they could remove the tube, her skin ballooned and exploded, splattering the room with flesh and blood, and she was dead. After that there were no more delays.
Sixty
ESCAPE
The wagon, racing across the flat desert, sent up a tail of dust that boiled with bright golds and yellows in the midday sunshine. Half a mile behind and barely visible through the dust, a crowd of mounted soldiers chased it. Far off to the right, miragelike in the wavering heat, was a thin crescent of reds, the Kitzakk Army. Ahead were the ruins of Chela Kong.
A Cytherian temple maiden drove. Three others sprawled on the bed, clutching the side boards desperately as the wagon bounced and rattled. Robin, still unconscious, tumbled about on a layer of hay between them. A large stack of hay was piled in a corner.
One of the girls, a small, chubby old friend of Robin, crawled over to her. She uncorked a tiny blue jar, and, pressing it against Robin’s teeth, poured a clear amber liquid into her mouth. She threw the jar away, then waited anxiously. Robin coughed and sat up abruptly. Her eyes were wide but her body, still weak, was trembling.
“Where am I?”
“We’ve escaped!” As she spoke, she pounded small fists together excitedly. “Robin, we’ve escaped!”
“Escaped!” Robin gasped. She rolled onto her hands and knees and through the tumbling dust saw the riders chasing them. She pivoted to the front. A dark collection of black boulders lay ahead.
The chubby girl pointed a plump finger at the rocks shouting, “Our people are there! There in the rocks!”
Robin gasped incredulously, “But how… how did we…”
The girl hugged her as her words spilled out. “They were taking us somewhere. They didn’t tell us why. They thought we were all drugged, like you were. But two of us woke up, and when the soldiers guarding us fell behind, that gave us our chance. We killed the driver and ran.” She uncovered the stack of hay revealing the large body of a man crumpled under it. His neck was slit.
Robin recoiled in horror.
“We used his own knife.” The girl picked a knife out of the hay. It was wet and red.
Robin, still wobbly, turned to the other girls. They nodded happily. The chubby girl, pressing close to Robin, placed her lips next to her ear. “Don’t worry. We’ll make it. The Death Dealer will save us.”
Realization, then hope, nourished Robin’s shaken body. She smiled tentatively, and the girl, staying close, said, “It’s true! He’s in those rocks.”
She pointed ahead at Chela Kong. Robin, fighting for balance, shuffled to the front of the wagon, and stood there holding onto the driver’s shoulders. The wind whipped her hair like a red-gold flag. Feeling the pressure of Robin’s hands, the girl’s lips parted slightly, enough to expose the tips of her tiny fangs.
A raven-haired girl at the rear of the wagon took hold of an iron bar hidden under the hay, and fed it out a hole in the side board. She gathered her weight behind it, and shoved hard.
The iron bar plunged between the spokes of the rear wheel. Spokes snapped with rapid cracks, and the wheel caved in. The wagon banged on the ground and spun, girls screaming and floundering. The horses reared and halted, throwing the driver back into the wagon bed among the other girls. The living pile thrashed about hysterically as its pursuers descended fast.
Terrified, Robin fought free and looked ahead at the dark rocks. A startled joy shone on her tear-stained face.
A horse and rider were charging down Chela Kong toward them. The rider was big and powerful, and wore a horned helmet.
Robin and the girls tumbled out of the crippled wagon, and raced toward him.
The Skulls thundered up to the wagon, and, finding it empty, plunged after the girls. But, when it was clear that the Barbarian would reach them first, they slowed down and held their distance, watching the girls scatter toward the Death Dealer.
He reined up and dropped to the ground lightly, strode toward Robin. Robin, her face glowing, stumbled and raced ahead of the other girls. Undaunted, as if she were unaware of the dark massive figure of brutal destruction which was the Death Dealer, and could see only Gath. She leapt into his arms. His pawlike hands clasped her like a small soft ball and held her against his chest.
A wagon load of jubilant Grillards arrived with Bone driving and Brown John sitting beside him. Dirken and ten Grillard strongmen were crowded in the bed. They scrambled out as Brown John hollered joyously, “My dear child, you’ll never know… there are simply no words…” He was laughing before he finished.
The maidens hesitated five feet short of their target, realizing it was covered with metal except for its arms and lower legs.
Robin lifted her head off Gath’s shoulder, and gazed into his eyes. “I’m all right,” she whispered. “It’s all right now.”
A glint of light showed behind his eyes, a gentle warmth. She smiled and slid to the ground, still within his embrace. Turning to the maidens, she beckoned them forward. “Come on. Don’t be afraid.”
They giggled, and, as they approached Gath smiling, their mouths came open slightly.
Brown John and his group were still ten feet off when the old man saw their fangs and bolted forward. “Look out, Gath!”
Too late. The freshly fashioned servants of the Lord of Death crowded around Gath and Robin, lunging at his arms and legs. His axe came up. It caught the chubby one in the chest, stopping her fangs inches short of his arm. The impact lifted her three feet off the ground, and she screamed, spitting blood, as the others buried their fangs in his forearms and ankles.
Robin shrieked. Gath jerked around toward her, ignoring the girls. They still had their fangs in him when Bone and Dirken arrived. They ripped them off, threw them on the ground, cut their throats, then stepped back in revulsion.
The girls were hissing, coiling and writhing on the bloody sand as if their bodies had only spines, their legs and arms no bones.
With a gasp, Robin folded up and dropped unconscious into Gath’s arms. He touched her hair gently, then he and the Grillards looked up.
A half circle of eighteen Skulls, two squads, were forty feet off and closing on them slowly.
Gath placed Robin in Brown John’s arms, “Take care of her.”
He swung up into his saddle and bolted toward the Skulls’ line.
Brown John shouted, “No! It’s a trap!”
Gath kept riding, and Brown John, groaning, turned on Bone. “Hurry! Get the army!”
Bone started running, waving his arms and shouting, toward the rocks, as Brown John carried Robin onto the wagon. Dirken and the Grillards, already moving to aid their leader, suddenly stopped.
Gath of Baal sat on his horse strangely motionless in the their leader, suddenly stopped.
Gath of Baal sat on his horse strangely motionless in the middle of the circling Skulls. They made no move to attack.
Brown John, holding the unconscious Robin in his arms, watched uncertainly, then glanced down at the fangs on the dead girls and slumped, groaning with dismay. Slowly his eyes lifted and reluctantly watched.
Gath sank wearily in his saddle, then looked down at his hand holding his axe. His fingers trembled, involuntarily released the handle, and it fell to the ground.
Brown John and the Grillards shuddered.
Gath looked down at his weapon as if it were a long, long distance away. He leaned slowly out of his saddle until he fell and joined it on the ground.
Sixty-one
COSTUME CHANGE
The light of a standing torch flickered over the silhouettes of two figures on the heights of Chela Kong. Below them, on the southern slope, the Barbarian Army was gathered in small groups staring south. In the distance, tiny specks of light grew fainter and fainter as the Kitzakk Army withdrew, then vanished and were replaced by the star-filled night.
“Are they retreating?” Robin whispered to Brown John.
“No,” he answered tiredly, “I’m afraid they’re just moving back to a far more favorable position, Bahaara. There they will ignore our badly equipped army and celebrate their success. Public execution is their favorite amusement.”
“Oh, Brown John, what have I done?”
Brown John patted her shoulder and whispered firmly, “Do not despair, small one. Look around you. Not a single man has fled. See!” He lifted her chin with a finger. “The army is more determined than ever now and so am I.”
A rush of hope lifted her eyes and voice. “What are you going to do?”
“We are going to do precisely what we Grillards do best. Pit our particular skills against theirs, and change our costumes.”
“You’re going to Bahaara!” she gasped.
“Of course! Bahaara is now the stage, so we are duty bound to use it.” He turned towards two figures moving up towards them and chuckled. “Here is our wardrobe now.”
The bukko gestured with dancing fingers, and Bone and Dirken stepped into the glow of torchlight. In their arms were heaps of filthy tattered clothes. They tossed them in front of their father with a flourish surpassing his own.
Bone, holding his nose, pronounced, “There has never been, nor will there ever be, a filthier bunch of rags. You can count on it.”
“Whew!” Robin wrinkled her tiny nose. “How can you call them costumes. They’re disgusting!”
Dirken, profoundly offended, thinned his eyes at her. “Because filth, young woman, is the most convincing adornment in the theatrical profession. And this is the real thing.” He threw a hand at the tattered clothes. “Those slavers rubbed camel urine in them to drive off scorpions and evil spirits.”
“They’d drive off anything with a nose, that’s a fact,” she replied jauntily.
Brown John laughed. “Robin, I believe you will find these garments to be priceless. In Bahaara, we will not only be ignored, we will be avoided.” He winked at his sons. “Well done, lads. Good thinking.”
Exchanging I-told-you-so nudges, Bone and Dirken grinned broadly.
Brown John turned to Robin and, with deliberation, bowed. “Now child, as you have the principal role, you get first pick.”
Robin choked. “Me?”
“Of course,” said Brown John. “Rags are the only clothing the Kitzakk reptile hunters wear. With some simply made forked sticks, we can enter Bahaara without suspicion and move about freely. No Kitzakk willingly associates with such disgusting characters.”
Robin nodded. “I understand, but… but you know I’m not an actress. I won’t know what to say.”
“You, child, will not need to say.anything,” Brown said with flat confidence. “You are, for reasons I have sworn not to reveal, essential to him. If he can get a glimpse of you, we have a chance.”
“We… we can save him?”
“We can try.”
Robin hesitated, then bent over tentatively and picked up a rag. She considered it solemnly for a long moment, then said, “Well, if I cut my hair, I think I could look like a boy!”
They all chuckled, then laughed out loud in a warmth of companionship Robin had never shared before. It was as if she were one of them. A Grillard player about to take the stage.
Sixty-two
THEATER OF DEATH
Bahaara’s place of execution was an outdoor arena at the eastern extremity of the city. Its dirt stage was backed by a stone wall, and a red-carpeted staircase ascended the center of the wall to a landing with two tunnels. The one at stage right had a red arch, while the one at stage left had a black and orchid arch. At the sides of the stage were ground-level access passages linked to the stage by ramps. Facing the stage was a semicircle of empty, tiered seats.
Skull soldiers were dragging the Death Dealer’s weighty, unconscious body across the stage to a whipping post. He wore only a fur loincloth and the horned helmet. His flesh was shiny with sweat, and blotched with bruises. Several leaked thin trails of blood.
After chaining the dark Barbarian to the post, one soldier took hold of the horned helmet and pulled on it repeatedly without success. He cursed and moved back into the passage following the other soldier. Moments later he returned with a hammer and wedge and began to hammer the bottom rim of the helmet. Blood promptly started running down the Barbarian’s back and chest.
Dang-Ling emerged from the black and orchid arched tunnel and stopped on the landing. He clapped his hands, once, and the soldier looked up in embarrassment. Dang-Ling waved him off brusquely, and the soldier backed quickly down the ramp into the access tunnel. The high priest looked down smugly at the captive’s limp body, then turned and bowed as Klang’s black-robed figure emerged from the red arched tunnel.
“Why did you stop him?” Klang growled.
“I thought it best, my lord,” Dang-Ling replied in a carefully cordial tone, “that his distinctive helmet remain on his head so that when the people arrive tomorrow they will have no doubt that the man whose head you remove is the true Death Dealer. It, of course, will be taken off before the execution begins.”
A tense silence passed between them. Dang-Ling whispered, “I have made all the arrangements. Come tonight, at the midnight hour. You will have your request.”
Klang watched the high priest with the corners of his eyes. “There’s no need now. I have decided not to fight him, simply execute him.”
Dang-Ling bowed obediently. “The decision is yours, of course, I would not presume to direct you…”He paused artfully.
“Yes?” demanded Klang.
With a troubled tremor, Dang-Ling whispered, “This demon is very unpredictable, my lord. Nothing with him turns out to
be simple. If you will allow me to advise you,” he hesitated, “I would take every precaution, and use the strongest weapon available.”
A look of contempt came over Klang’s face. He pushed the priest aside and moved halfway down the staircase, his eyes fixed on the prisoner. The whipping post began to shudder. The dark helmet raised and the Barbarian’s sinewy mass of bunched muscles and hot nerves thrashed powerfully against the wood and chains. It ceased suddenly, momentarily spent and pacified, but still menacing and upraised. A red glow burned at Klang behind the eye slits of the helmet.
Klang involuntarily stepped back. Self-consciously he stiffened and rolled his shoulders, flexing proudly. Then he turned away and slowly returned to Dang-Ling.
The high priest said quietly, “You will have reactions like quicksilver, and the strength of the Master of Darkness himself.”
“The price, priest, the price?”
Dang-Ling smiled innocently. “A trifle. In exchange, the sorceress merely asks for the horned helmet.”
“She’ll have it.” He strode through the red arch, and his cape swirled behind him blending with the shadows.
Dang-Ling held his breath as the warlord’s booted feet tramped down the tunnel. With a sigh of relief, he started to leave but paused at the sounds of excited voices, running feet. The sound grew and a filthy, babbling, scratching group of scavengers surged through an entrance tunnel on the opposite side of the arena and clambered down the tiers of seats.
Dang-Ling clapped his hands sharply.
Skull soldiers trotted up both ramps and spread out in a line around the edges of the stage. One carried the Death Dealer’s axe and chained it to the front edge of the stage. Seeing it, a group of the scavengers howled raucously and surged forward to stroke its awesome steel. Others sat down chattering in the front rows. They wore rags, and crude decorations on their naked parts; arrows, bolts of lightning and numerals were the most popular. Several were stark naked and stained bright vermilion or yellow. They all had a drugged glint to their eyes. There were several women, ragged, bangled and unwashed. The mongrel trash of Bahaara. Among them were numerous forked sticks.