Rise of the Death Dealer

by James Silke

  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.

  Sixty-six

  BAHAARA

  The 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 fa
ce 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.

  Sixty-seven

  THE EXECUTION

  Gath set his legs apart as far as the chains allowed and braced his buttocks hard against the whipping post. With the muscles of his outstretched arms bunching against the steel links, he stared hungrily at Klang.

  The warlord’s arm bands, breast plate, and steel codpiece rose and fell on his heaving frame. Fumes drifted from under the steel-studded straps of his kilt. His right arm hung loosely; in its crusted fist was a short, black handle. A taut chain hung from the handle to a spiked steel ball.

  Gath leaned forward. The tips of the horns, as sensitive as fingertips, could feel danger of a size and strength they had never felt before. His breathing quickened, sucking in Klang’s rank body odor. It smelt of smoke and flaming lava, the acrid scents of the Master of Darkness.

  A dark thrill roared through Gath. His blood grew hot. He faced a demon spawn that was his equal, or better, and the blood hunger within him was becoming insatiable.

  Klang advanced a step, and the chained body flexed and swelled. With a roar, arms and torso surged forward, ripping free.

  The rabble screamed and stumbled back from the seats they had worked so diligently to obtain.

  Gath and Klang took no notice. They were rooted to the stage, the unholy scent of the Lord of Death swirling over them. Their blood boiled through their brains, melting reason into passion. Two churning, massive bodies ready to erupt. Animals. Demons. Men.

  Gath gathered the chains dangling from his arms into his fists. Klang grabbed his shield from an aide and lunged forward. Gath whipped a handful of chains at him. They clattered against the shield and looped around Klang’s legs.

  As he staggered to a stop, Gath slammed the warlord’s upraised shield with the remaining chains and drove him stumbling back, his chain flailing relentlessly.

  Klang, his face a smear of savage red meat, fended off each blow as he played his spiked ball out along the ground. As his attacker stepped closer, he whipped the ball out low with a vicious snap. The chain caught Gath’s ankle, and the ball spun back around it to plant its spikes in his calf.

  Stunned by the pain, Gath threw his head back, gasping. Klang pulled hard, ripping his legs out from under him. The ball ripped free, taking ropes of blood and flesh with it. Certain of victory, Klang swung at Gath’s face. The Barbarian caught the ball with his chains, pulled violently and threw Klang on his leering face. Gath rolled up and raced for the front of the stage. When Klang untangled himself, he glanced over his shield to find the Death Dealer facing him, his axe overhead.

  Sweat, pink with blood, trickled from the steaming interior of the horned helmet. Klang swung his ball in a wide horizontal arc. Ignoring it, Gath stepped forward, and the spikes ate into his chest, bounded off taking slivers of red meat. A great roar echoed from the helmet, and the axe raced down.

  The blade met Klang’s shield flush, and bent it back at a right angle. The scalloped edge caught Klang in the throat, and drove him stumbling backward, howling.

  The Death Dealer moved in for the kill.

  Klang, crouching, gagging, desperately whipped the spiked ball at the Barbarian’s feet. But Gath pinned the chain with one foot and severed the links with a blow. He picked up the ball in his fist and threw it. Klang lifted his shield instinctively, but it was shorter now. The ball caught him in the shoulder and ricocheted into the air over the crowd, and sank into howling pandemonium.

  Klang discarded his shield and held his axe in two hands as he circled away from the advancing Death Dealer. The warlord’s shoulder was a red sponge, stitched with splinters of white bone at the center and crusted with scales. They were pulsing, growing over the wound to close it. Scales had also grown up the backs of his arms, and the tip of reptilian tail had appeared below the skirt of his armor.

  The crowd hushed at the sight of the foul appendage and withdrew from the first two rows to stand in a crouch, openmouthed.

  The combatants studied each other, wary now.

  Gath’s eyes glowed red, and his heaving body had expanded. He waited, and Klang stepped in hard, took Gath’s blow with his armored chest and hammered Gath in the helmet. Seemingly content with this exchange, they repeated it, hammering each other like men in a dream. Mindlessly, they met blow with blow striking only each other’s steel. Klang’s armor began to look like a moving heap of scrap metal, and Gath reeled dizzily like a performing drunk. Blood streamed down his arms onto his hands and the axe handle flew out of his grip, leaving the horned helmet as his only defense. He lowered the horns in front of him and waited.

  Klang peppered it with short jabs and slashing blows, herding the Barbarian’s staggering body around the stage. Fighting to keep his feet, Gath caught each blow with helmet and horns. Blood began to fly from the helmet’s mouth and eye holes. Klang, excited by the sight and smell, licked his lips. His tongue was black and forked.

  Gath gaped, the crowd screamed, and Klang swung hard, caught the face of the helmet. The blow knocked Gath flat, but cracked the axe handle, and the weapon went spinning across the stage. Klang dove on top of Gath, and his helmet was knocked off, revealing weblike growth connecting his ears and scaled neck.

  They rolled and tangled, jabbing and kicking and cursing. Klang buried fanglike teeth in Gath’s shoulder. Gath’s hands found the scaled flesh of Klang’s neck and buried his fingers deep. Klang’s eyes bulged open. His lips crawled back over his fangs, bare to the gums. His forked tongue whipped out and wrapped around a thumb. Then, with a wrenching convulsion, his limbs serpentined around Gath’s chest and legs, suddenly boneless, pulsing muscles, and his scaled tail whipped from beneath his kilt, curled around a thigh.

  The crowd screamed in horror.

  Gath’s mouth gaped open, straining to suck up air. Klang’s reptilelike limbs kept crushing. Tighter. A rib snapped in the Barbarian chest.

  Hard scales were forming in Klang’s thick neck, resisting the Death Dealer’s fingers, and Klang snorted triumphantly. Smoke, then flames, flared from his nose and scorched the Death Dealer’s wrists. A growl of pain leapt from the helmet. The eye slits brightened and spat flames, scorching Klang’s metal and flesh. Like one huge pulsing (ire-breathing beast trying to devour itself, they held on.

  The shuddering crowd backed up, leaving blotches of steaming urine on the tiers. Bunches pushed through the exit tunnels in panic.

  Covered in blood and dust, Gath and Klang continued to thrash and roll in one piece. Blood poured from the eye and mouth slits of the horned helmet. It was on fire, and spilling over Klang’s scaled hands and arms, setting them ablaze. Klang hissed with pain, and scales emerged on his brow, nose and cheeks. As the flames reached his shoulders, the scales grew down over his eyes, nose and mouth, diminishing his sight and breath.

  Gath’s world, seen through flaming blood, had once more turned red. But this time it was the real world. He saw horror flash across the demon warlord’s eyes, as if he had suddenly recognized the foul thing he had become. Klang howled with human torment, and the greenish-grey crusts covered his eyes, blinding him.

  Their bodies ripped apart and rolled away from each other gasping, bleeding and flaming. Gath doused his flames with dirt and leapt up. Klang rose mindlessly, body aflame and jerking as a thick crust of scales formed on his back and chest to force off his confining armor. His fingers had turned to claws. Fangs descended below his jaw. His tail whipped about the ground as he groped blindly in front of him.

  The tips of the helmet felt the danger riding on the air, and Gath lowered the helmet in front of him, charged like a primeval bull. Thunder roared from the horned helmet. Tongues of flame spit from the eye slits, then cracking flashes of white lightning.

  Klang turned toward the s
ound and clawed the air blindly.

  The horns of the helmet caught him in the chest, driving through his thick crust of scales like they were soft bread, impaled the reptilian warlord, and lifted him off the ground. Klang hissed and howled, his arms, legs and tail flailing wildly.

  Gath threw his head back with a roar, and the warlord flew into the air. He turned over twice in midair, and landed with a moist thud in the empty front row.

  The remaining crowd screamed and pushed through the tunnels to escape, trampling on its own convulsing body.

  Brown John and Dirken finally fought free of the flowing crowd, raced back down the tiers, and raised their eyes to the stage. It was empty of life except for the victor.

  He held center stage, erect and alert, listening. Cries echoed through Bahaara as the Barbarian Army stormed through the streets chasing the Kitzakks as they fled out the gates into the desert. His knees slowly bent, and his monstrous smoking body cocked. He lifted his axe and held it across the bloody thighs. Liquid red dripped from its cutting edge.

  From within him rumbled a demonic thunder, like the blood lust of a sweeping fire. His attitude was plain. He wanted more.

  Brown John cried out in despair, “We’ve lost him!”

  The great helmet turned slowly toward the pair, then looked beyond them. As father and son watched stupefied, the huge body straightened. The red glow behind the eye slits began to fade. They twisted around to see what he saw.

  A group of Grillard warriors were spilling into the arena led by Bone and Robin Lakehair.

  Sixty-eight

  BURIAL

  On a shelf in a silent chamber deep under the noisy confusion in Bahaara’s streets stood a huge swallowtail butterfly carved from soft lead and enameled orange and black. Dang-Ling, old of eye and using both hands, plucked its heavy body from its perch and set it on a stone pedestal beneath the shelf. Slowly it began to sink into the floor.