Prisoner of the Horned helmet dd-1

by James Silke

  Cobra started up the stairwell, stopped, glanced over a supple shoulder at Robin. “You will go back to sleep now. Tomorrow, and during the days that follow, you are going to need all your powers. He must be healed completely. And quickly! Death hunts him now.”

  She moved up the stairs and was gone. Robin yawned and slumped over, certain now she was dreaming. She just made it back under the blanket before falling asleep.

  Sharn’s sleeping head rose slowly. He yawned, then stood and looked across the room at the stairwell with confused eyes. His head low to the floor, he sniffed about the room retracing his steps several times and growling quietly, then returned to his position on the steps. The frustration in his eyes was cruel. The hair at his neck was erect. At irregular intervals he shuddered.

  Twenty-five

  THE DOLL

  Bahaara, the capital city of the Kitzakk’s Desert Territory, was a blunt, massive rock mesa which rose off the flat, endless body of the desert like a jagged scab. It was the active center of all military, religious and commercial activity. Here all the caravans from the desert “skin camps” came to deliver their living merchandise. Its everyday sounds, along with the sounds common to all cities, were the rattling of chains and an incessant moaning punctuated by shrieks of terror. This clamor usually peaked at midday when the flesh markets opened. Yet now, as the midday sun baked the dirt-brown body of the city, there was silence except for the occasional bray of a camel or yap of a dog.

  Earthen breastworks, manned by small brown men in glittering steel and enameled bamboo armor, formed an irregular circle around the city. Beyond that was an open clearing heaped with cages, and occupied by drill yards, stables and caravan camps. Beyond the clearing itself was the mesa, an eruption of jagged earth and stone. A maze of streets, alleys, footpaths and passageways twisted up, over and through its many levels. Mud buildings rose in stacks and clustered along the thoroughfares which rose to the flat plateau that dominated the city. At its eastern side were the red buildings of military headquarters. On the western side were the black and orchid buildings of the Temple of Dreams, the sacred brothel of the Butterfly Goddess. Between the two clusters of buildings was a mutual courtyard called the Court of Life.

  Bahaara’s principal thoroughfare was the Street of Chains. It was named after its merchandise, as were the other streets which featured butchers, blacksmiths, bakers, soldiers, and all varieties of slaves. As the people went about their business, they did so silently. Every so often they would cast troubled glances up at the Court of Life.

  Nine days had passed since the Kitzakk raid on Weaver. The remnant of the Skull raiders had made a three-day forced march to reach home. The next three days had been spent cleansing them of the contamination of defeat. During these three days a wave of panic spread throughout the city, and frenzied fanatics emerged making loud demands. A few called for total surrender to the demon Barbarian. The majority demanded that the warlord Klang cancel all plans for harvesting the forest flesh, and blockade all the passes to the Forest Basin to contain its contaminating magic.

  Klang reacted decisively. He ordered the twenty-seven survivors of the raid, with the exception of the high priest Dang-Ling, to prepare a final offering to the Butterfly Goddess, in order to assure her help in the destruction of the Barbarian demon.

  Today the Skull, soldiers were waiting in the Court of Life to make that offering. They formed three straight lines of nine each. Eyes to the front, they were perfect soldiers on parade, but each was kneeling with a red cord binding his hands at his back.

  At the front of the formation, in a teak wood box, was a sword and a soft white towel. The sword’s steel was mirror bright. It was a conventional military model but heavier, with a straight back and slightly bowed cutting edge.

  An audience of the generals of the regular army, the commanders of the personal regiments of the warlord, and a swordsmith stood at attention. Otherwise the yard was empty. The streets opening onto it were blocked off. The shutters on the windows of surrounding buildings were closed.

  The red oval doors of the Temple of Dreams opened, and Dang-Ling ceremoniously appeared. He wore his orchid and black robes and scarlet skullcap.

  The rims of his wet eyes were a florid pink brilliantly contrasting with the dark rings under them, the result of devout sexual excess heightened by drugs. Frothy ringlets of dark brown hair crowned his round milky face. Pink, flowerlike ears, nestled in the froth, twitched as hidden emotions agitated his flabby cheeks.

  A gong struck three times, and Dang-Ling flinched with each ringing note as he watched Klang stride through the iron gate of the red buildings and march directly to the teakwood box.

  He was naked except for black leather loincloth and black calf-length leather boots polished to a glasslike finish. A cool, sorrel-skinned, handsome animal with massive, sharply cut muscles. The sweat from his warm-up exercises formed glistening beads on his oiled skin. He toweled off his hands with the cloth, and dropped it in the dirt.

  His expression said clearly that he was not a man who was stopped by military setbacks, inadequate magic or frenzied fanatics. He was the muscle of the Kitzakk Empire. If cold, calculated murder had a face, it was Klang’s. And it was imposing. Compelling.

  Drums began a steady cadence somewhere within the military buildings. As their reverberations spread throughout the city, people dropped to their knees in the streets, in their homes and on the battlements.

  The drums stopped. Klang removed the sword from the teakwood box. He stroked the cutting edge, and bowed to the swordsmith.

  Approaching the head of the first kneeling Skull, he shook out his shoulder muscles, looked down at the naked neck. He set himself, then whipped the sword up and brought it down, striking off the head with a single cut. He stepped around the spurting blood and addressed the next head. He went through the first two lines without pausing. Then he rubbed his sore fingers and forearms and appraised the last line. Big, thick-necked brutes, they were rank with fear. Klang growled, and angrily proceeded with the execution, deliberately missing their necks and striking heads and shoulder blades. Only partially decapitated, the soldiers died slowly and painfully.

  The drums rolled again. A squad of soldiers assigned to cleanup duty raced into the Court of Life with baskets, wooden carts and buckets of sand. The officers were excused, and the city returned to its normal noise and activities.

  Klang joined Dang-Ling on the steps to the Temple of Dreams, and the priest bowed deferentially. Klang’s thin, flaring eyes studied him suspiciously before he spoke.

  “You failed me, priest. Your magic was inadequate.” His whisper was rich with foreboding.

  Dang-Ling dipped his head and said respectfully, “I regret this terrible misfortune as much as you, my lord. But I must differ with you. The formula was not designated to harm him, only to draw him out, and it did that. It was your commanders who were inadequate.”

  Klang darkened angrily. “Do you think I have forgotten it was you who suggested Trang and Chornbott?”

  “No, my lord, but I only did so because I believed they were the strongest.”

  Klang nodded, but his anger did not abate. “Listen carefully, priest. In eighteen days the regiments will attack the forest village and the harvest will begin. Before that time I will have the head of this irritating Barbarian nailed to the northern gate.”

  “Then I am certain it will be,” Dang-Ling said with exaggerated servility.

  The warlord continued. “I have employed bounty hunters to fetch it for me.” Dang-Ling’s smile became wary. Klang nodded. “I realize they will be no match for him, so they must be armed with magic that will assure they can find and strike at him without being seen.”

  Dang-Ling spoke carefully. “There would be no greater honor for me than to be able to assist you in this murder, but, regrettably, there is no formula for such magic.”

  “Find one!”

  “But…”

  “Make this magic,” Klang interrupted
with a harsh whisper, “or I will find the weakest one-armed man in Bahaara and order him to saw off your head with a bamboo sword.”

  Dang-Ling hesitated, then bowed low and said, “My humblest apologies, my lord, for failing to measure the extreme importance of his death. Rest assured, your bounty hunters will have the required magic or… I will cut off my own head with the same sword.”

  Klang smiled darkly and strode across the yard toward the red buildings. Dang-Ling watched him for a moment, then entered his temple, closing the doors behind him.

  He passed through a maze of enameled black corridors and stairways, moving casually, acknowledging the bows of priests and inhaling the scents of burning incense and jasmine mixed with the strong smell of heated female flesh which flowed out of the sanctuaries. Once in his private quarters, he locked his door. At one side was an altar featuring a marvelous swallowtail butterfly of gold and teakwood; it was perched on a dying serpent with its wings spread. Dang-Ling pushed the wings together and a stone rose at an angle out of the floor revealing a secret staircase lit by oil lamps. He descended the staircase, and the stone lowered back into place, the wings of the butterfly again spread wide.

  He stood in a small room deep in the heart of the mesa, one of several hidden chambers he had secretly built under the Temple of Dreams. It was paved with dark red tile. Black plush divans framed three sides; a drowsy lynx on a gilt chain lay among red pillows on one of them. The fourth side was a cluttered workbench and a door. Incense oil lamps provided a deep orange light and the heavy aroma of sandalwood. Smoke clung to the ceiling. The only sound was the purring of the cat.

  Dang-Ling sat at the workbench for an hour downing drafts from a bottle of clear amber Harashiid. The lamps burned low and the room got dark. Numb and wobbly, he locked the bottle away in a drawer under the bench, then sat still. Suddenly he erupted wildly, screaming, and swept flasks and bottles off the bench. They crashed to the floor. Breathing hard, flushed and momentarily appeased, he sat back down at the bench. With trembling fingers he carefully cleared away the clutter of knives, carving tools and shavings of stone. Then he set his elbows on the bench and held his white face with white fingers and thumbs. Their trembling made his oily ringlets flutter.

  His florid mind conjured forth the vivid image of death by bamboo sword, then judged its relative merits against some unnatural torment which the Lord of Death would administer if he did help Klang’s bounty hunters find and destroy the “chosen one.” He scolded himself for letting fear make him foolish. He had no choice but to fulfill his warlord’s request, and do it diligently. If he failed, his position within the Kitzakk Empire, a position which was of invaluable service to the Master of Darkness, would be wasted.

  He sighed and reached to open a small cabinet at the back of the bench. He withdrew a small totem doll carved from a black stone called Kaitang. It was a crude, blunt likeness of the Dark One. He knew its magic would serve the bounty hunters well.

  Knowing the bounty hunters also could be of service to him as well as Klang, he opened a second cabinet, withdrew a doll carved out of Paitang, a white stone. It was the figure of a girl and sculpted with immaculate artistry, by hands inspired by desire for the living model. The hands belonged to Dang-Ling. The doll was an extraordinary likeness of the Weaver maiden the Dark One had rescued.

  Twenty-six

  ROSEBUDS

  Robin and Sharn stood in the shade of the forest at the edge of the clear track. Sunlight filled the track, and touched the petals and leaves of a wild rosebush at the forest edge.

  Cutting a rose just short of the branch, she lifted the bud to her face. Its scent made her smile the way the sun smiles at break of day. She added it to her pile, folded a cloth around the bouquet and picked it up.

  The wolf watched each move, then followed her back into the root house. Reaching the main room, Robin’s straight brow lowered.

  Gath stood over the anvil, naked except for a fur and hide loincloth. His wounds had scabbed over, but several cracked open as he hammered a piece of Kitzakk metal which glowed red within exploding sparks. He stopped, looked at the face of his hammer and growled with disgust. The edges were being mangled by the hard steel.

  Robin said quietly, “Maybe you can do some of your work outside today, in the fresh air and sunshine.”

  She moved to the side table, and arranged the roses in a wine jar. Gath frowned at her. Feeling it, she tilted her head playfully.

  “There,” she said. “Fifteen roses, one for each of the fifteen days I’ve been here. So you won’t forget me.” Her smile had some fun romping about her cheeks. “At least not right away.” •.

  Gath did not comment, but his expression softened.

  Robin turned from his eyes and began to move about the room touching the armor, furs and root walls. She moved slowly. His eyes followed her like leashed pets. When she reached him, she looked up solemnly. “I’ll never forget being here. It’s like something in a minstrel’s tale. So full of hiding places and tunnels and…” her wistful eyes locked with his, “and mysteries.”

  Still no reply.

  She grinned, lifted a hand and touched the scabs on his jaw as her voice scolded. “You know, if you’re going to keep getting in fights, you really should wear a helmet.”

  He grabbed her hand as if to throw it aside, but instead cradled it in his pawlike hand. Lifting it, he breathed in her fresh warm scent, a bouquet of roses and leaves and air and Robin. When he looked at her, there was wonder in his eyes.

  Robin trembled slightly with a rush of uncertainty, and looked away in confusion. He let her hand drop, and turned back to the anvil. Robin glanced over a shoulder at him and his head turned slightly toward her. The glowing metal cast deep shadows in the sockets of his eyes. They were intense and alert, yet strangely young, like a child grown old and hard before his time, before enjoying the years of laughter and the thousand nights of dreaming. She could not tell if he had lived thirty summers or twenty.

  After a moment, Robin said quietly, “I will be going soon, but there are some things I must tell you first.” He turned away again and she moved to his shoulder. “Will you listen now, please? It’s very important.”

  Without turning he said, “Because you saved my life does not mean I have to listen to your jabber.” He positioned the glowing metal, raised his hammer, then suddenly gave up, shoved the metal back into the fire and set his hammer down.

  “Thank you,” she said primly. She fetched a wine jar and gave it to him, then gathered a fur and sat down. He took a long drink and sat down facing her, his back against the hearth.

  Robin repeated her message carefully. “I came to Calling Rock to tell you what you now know better than anyone, that the Kitzakks are coming, in great strength. And to… to ask for your help.”

  “Why? The forest tribes have hidden from raiders before.”

  “This isn’t the same. There are thousands of them, and they’ll come again and again, and keep coming. It’s the truth. Brown John knows them. He lived among them. They’re organized and relentless. They will march through each village one by one, kill the men who resist, and carry off the women and children in chains and cages. No one will be spared. And Brown John sent me to tell you…”

  “To do what? Conquer this horde?” He grunted brutally. “Does he think I am a magician?”

  “He thinks… he knows you are strong.”

  He nodded. “Strong enough to take care of myself.”

  He lifted the wine jar to drink, but did not. He stared over the lip at her, watching her enthusiasm and confidence waver. She did not avoid his eyes, but her voice became quiet.

  “How can you hide when you know what I say is true? When you know we need you?”

  “It suits me.”

  “But you can’t ignore them forever. They’ll come here too.”

  “Let them,” he whispered, and drank deep.

  “Gath,” she begged, “you must believe me. No one can hide from them. Particularly
you. You’ve defeated them twice now. Shamed them. They won’t rest until you’re dead.”

  “My trail is set,” he blurted harshly. “I have taken an oath. I work alone.”

  “But surely the god of these trees,” she pointed at the root walls, “or whatever god you swear by, will understand?”

  “I did not swear to a god. I swore to myself.” His tone had the finality of a driven nail.

  She sat back defeated. “Then you leave us to die… or live in cages.”

  He studied her, his eyes impenetrable. “What do you… no… what does Brown John think I can do?”

  “Oh, Gath!” She sat forward with a sudden rush of renewed hope. “You can unite us! Be our champion! If we have hope, everything is possible. And with you and Brown John working together, we’ll have it.”

  He smiled mockingly.

  “Don’t look down on him,” Robin begged. “I know you think he’s only an entertainer, but entertainers can be smart, and they can inspire. Look at what he’s done already!”

  “I will tell you what he has done, small girl of the Weavers. He has pestered and annoyed everyone, particularly the Kitzakks. He is a foolish troublemaker! An actor and maker of lies who trades for silver, things which are not his.”

  She started to argue, but stopped as he stood up and hovered over her. His voice was hollow.

  “Look at yourself. He tricked you with his fancy talk and tall tales, compelled you, a helpless girl who weaves cloth, to come here and feed yourself to the dangers of The Shades, to find and enter this house which no other mortal has left alive.”

  The sudden sharp truths made her falter. They were different, new, but unalterably true and she swayed beneath the understanding of them.