Prisoner of the Horned helmet dd-1

by James Silke

  Dang-Ling covered his nose and mouth with his cape and hurried under the black arch almost colliding with Cobra. Her cloak was clutched tightly about her, the hood pulled low. Her face was fraught with fear.

  “Snake finders,” she rasped.

  “Are you surprised?” Dang-Ling asked indifferently. “They’re everywhere these days, but usually only a minor irritation. I told Klang the helmet would be removed tomorrow at the third hour, just before the execution begins.”

  She looked at him vindictively, but spoke respectfully. “I will gladly remove the helmet, but not in the daylight. I will not expose myself to that crowd of vultures.”

  Dang-Ling frowned. “Then you will do it tonight, when the city sleeps. Only my guards will be on duty at that time. They will see you are left quite alone with him.”

  She nodded agreement, and looked down at the Death Dealer’s chained body. “Klang must understand that he has fed on the helmet’s powers for many days now. Even without it he will be dangerous.”

  “Klang has been informed, and is ready to accept your assistance.”

  “What did you tell him,” she asked warily.

  “As little as possible. Just make certain the magic potion you prepare is more than sufficient.”

  She smiled disdainfully. “Nothing can withstand the strength of our Master, but it will only last a day and drain most of his own resources. After tomorrow he will be only the shell of the man he is now.”

  “That cannot concern us. All that matters is that the execution goes smoothly, and the helmet be returned.”

  She turned sharply so his milky face was within inches, and snapped, “No! That is not all. I will be revenged.” Her eyes were as wavering as arrows in flight.

  Dang-Ling blinked behind his wet lashes, then turned, and she followed him back down the tunnel.

  At the opposite side of the arena, four more Snake Finders huddled against the back wall watching the Skull soldiers drive off scavengers trying for a closer look at the chained prisoner. One of them was a young boy with short reddish hair, dressed in shapeless rags. There were tears in his eyes.

  Sixty-three

  COBRA’S BITE

  Baak conducted the striding warlord through the dimly lit corridors of the Temple of Dreams. Klang’s eyes were without light or warmth, as confident as tombstones. Reaching a heavy wooden door, Baak knocked, opened it, and Klang strode in.

  Dang-Ling, waiting just inside, bowed in welcome. A single torch in a silver embrasure lit the room. The shadows on the far walls expanded and shrank at the touch of the orange light.

  “Where is she?” Klang demanded.

  Dang-Ling bowed again. “We are alone, my lord. The sorceress says that the potion works more effectively without the presence of a female.”

  “Potion?” Klang asked abruptly. “If that is all there is to it, give it to me.”

  Dang-Ling spoke coolly. “It is not simply a potion.”

  “Then what?”

  “It is a fresh venom, my lord.”

  Klang went white. When he finally spoke, his voice was dry. “All right, priest, venom. Just so you are certain of what it will do!”

  “Absolutely.”

  Klang extended his hand, waited. Dang-Ling hesitated, looking at the empty palm, then up with professional candor into the warlord’s expectant eyes. “There is one more thing. It can not be swallowed. It must be… administered.”

  Klang said nothing for a moment, then, “How?”

  “Injected, my lord.”

  Again the warlord paused, and again asked the same question. Dang-Ling indicated the pool. Klang peered over the edge and jumped back, drawing his sword.

  The pool was drained but not empty. Lying on its bottom in a neat coil was a ten-foot, emerald-green cobra. Its head lifted, and the black balls at the centers of its yellow eyes stared at the warlord.

  Klang turned on the priest, growling, “Fool! How can you let filth like that creep in here? The Goddess’ own temple?”

  Dang-Ling replied calmly, “It is not an accident. The sorceress placed it there herself.”

  Klang looked down at the green serpent, and his breath came in harsh gasps.

  “The serpent’s fangs are the instruments which will inject the venom.”

  “No!” growled Klang. He turned on the priest. “That is madness! I can not, I will not submit my flesh to such filth. What kind of foreign practice is this?”

  “An extraordinary one,” said Dang-Ling quietly. “With the venom comes the strength of the Lord of Death himself. You cannot fail. With your people watching, you will destroy the Barbarian and regain their absolute confidence.”

  Klang looked down at the menacing snake, “All right!” he said quietly. “I will let it bite me. Once.” He started down the steps into the stone bath.

  “Wait,” Dang-Ling requested. He indicated the sword in Klang’s hand. “You must leave your sword behind, in case your natural instincts betray you and you attack as it strikes.”

  Klang shuddered, but set his sword and sheath down on the stone rim of the pool.

  “One more thing,” Dang-Ling said quietly. When Klang looked at him, he added, “The reptile is a very carefully cultured species, and while its venom is extraordinarily powerful, to obtain the best results, it should be injected as close as possible to the genitals.”

  Klang turned white again. He swayed, then brought himself erect. Defiantly, he struggled out of his armor and clothing, and tossed them aside. With a deep breath, he advanced steadily into the tub, white from forehead to toenails.

  Dang-Ling, impressed by his reckless bravery, clasped his hands in excitement and held his breath.

  Klang reached the floor of the stone bath, and stood, legs astride, at the center. The reptile uncoiled languidly in front of him, as high as his eyes. Its hood spread wide, a brilliant black and yellow-green. Its tongue darted. Its jaws parted displaying rows of sharp teeth, and two upper fangs of curving white porcelain. As Klang waited, the sweat drained off him and puddled at his feet.

  The snake dived for his genitals, and buried its fangs deep.

  Klang screamed and staggered back ripping the head away, and flung the snake across the hole. He dashed up the stairs and snatched up his sword.

  “No!” screamed Dang-Ling. “If you kill it, the magic will be turned against you.”

  Cupping his wound, Klang glared from the reptile to Dang-Ling, and back to the reptile. Its hooded head floated three feet above the ground. Suddenly Klang’s hands stiffened, his fingers trembled, and his sword dropped with a clatter.

  Dang-Ling retired quietly to a corner to watch.

  Klang looked down at his trembling hand in wonderment, as if it belonged to someone else. He squatted over his armor and clothes, and a tremor ripped through him, dropping him to his knees and fists. His body convulsed, rippled with growth, and blood trickled from his nose and ears. It was bright against his suddenly alabaster flesh. He shuddered again, then, defying the pain and blood, he Stood and dizzily picked up his things. Two inches of scaled tail protruded from his flesh just above his anus.

  Klang had grown a good five inches taller and six inches thicker. Like a man asleep he forced his massive arms through the sleeves of his tunic. The sounds of ripping cloth cut the silence. Oblivious, he continued to dress with similar results. Finally, he turned his dazed eyes to Dang-Ling.

  The high priest smiled. “Excellent. You are superb now.”

  Klang smiled back, as if not certain why. A dull acquiescence glazed his normally bright black eyes.

  Dang-Ling picked up Klang’s sword and sheath and guided him to the door, patting him soothingly on his hard rump. “Get some rest. I will see you tomorrow, at the third hour. You’ll be just fine.”

  Klang nodded, took his sword and sheath, and numbly shuffled out the door as Dang-Ling closed it behind him. The high priest threw back his head and laughed deliciously, then stopped himself short as Cobra’s voluptuous, armored body emerged slo
wly from the empty pool. She looked exhausted. Dang-Ling composed himself and hurried to help her, murmuring praise.

  In the corridor outside, Klang headed back the way he had come. The halls were empty, dark and silent except for some slight ripping/sounds. There were beads of sweat on his face, his eyes swam, and he felt sick to his stomach. It rumbled, and he passed gas with a sound like rolling thunder. He stopped, looked about, uncertain as to just what had happened, then moved on. As he stumbled out the temple door, he hiccupped and smoke drifted past his lips.

  Sixty-four

  DEAD YELLOW

  Torchlight 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.

  Sixty-five

  MARCHING ORDER

  The 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.