She twirled slowly around the first fire, and the bukko’s drum picked up the tempo. Faster she twirled, and her skirt lifted, exposing long curved legs. The men grunted with pleasure, and she spun wildly over the fire, lowering her dark crotch toward the flames in the cleansing ritual of the whore. The fire licked at her, and its light probed among the holes of her rent garment, illuminating the underside of a full breast, the curve of hip, arched throat and crooning lips.
Cobra danced over all three fires, inspecting each member of the audience, including the five bald riders. None of them showed any overt sign of being demon spawn, and her stomach churned nervously. There was only one way left for her to search deeper, and despite her shame, she decided to use it.
She picked out one of the largest louts, a big heavy-set brute missing one ear and wearing the cocky snarl of the braggart soldier. She extended her booted foot toward him, implying that he could undress it. The lout did not understand, but his friends quickly explained it to him. Profoundly flattered, he laughed with bravado and took hold of the boot lovingly. Hand over hand, he slowly forced it off and, with his leering eyes held captive by Cobra’s wicked smile, caressed her naked foot.
The men around him suddenly howled and cursed, drawing away and touching their totems and groins and stomachs with superstitious gestures. The big lout looked at them, again not understanding what was happening, and they pointed at the foot he held, shouting incoherently. He chuckled, and not looking at what he was doing, bent over and kissed the hideous emerald-green and ice-blue scales.
At their touch, he dropped her foot, pulled away howling and fled stumbling and staggering through the laughing, hooting men.
Cobra, beating wildly on her tambourine and flashing her leg invitingly, twirled among the laughing men, testing them to see who might be unafraid. But they all drew away, wanting no contact with her blighted foot. She laughed at them, bowing, then passed among them as they cheered and tossed coins into a helmet she removed from one of them. Then the music of tambourine and drum began again, and they turned toward it.
Robin now stood behind the main fire. A short twisted rope of dark kamala leaves dangled from the corner of her mouth, its tip glowing and emitting a trail of smoke that angled skyward across rouged cheek and buzzard feathers dangling from dark red oiled hair. Her legs were spread wide, with hips aggressively cocked. With a fist propped on hipbone, she tapped her tambourine against a snapping bottom.
The men chuckled hotly and, taking her cue, began to clap in time.
Robin’s skirt barely reached her thighs, faded black rags and strings and crow feathers, and a short-sleeved leopard-skin halter held her breasts snugly. She was barefoot and brown and oiled, and glowed in the flickering firelight, the smoke drifting across her face, the perfect cosmetic for her smile. Savage. Animal. Hot.
The audience hooted and whistled approval, and Cobra, now moving silently behind the back rows, watched it with hunting eyes.
The outlaws and freebooters chuckled and poked each other, but their eyes never left the girl. The five bald riders behaved no differently, but got up and moved closer, scratching their rashes nervously.
Cobra followed them, staying in the shadows, and her breathing quickened. Nausea spilled into her stomach. She looked at Gath, saw he had edged closer to Robin, and then spotted Jakar: he now squatted on the roof of the wagon and held something out of sight in his hands, his loaded crossbow. She put her eyes back on the girl.
Robin had discarded her twist of leaves, and was twirling over the long, low campfire with her legs spread and banging her tambourine wildly. The low flames stirred, and seemed to reach for her thighs and groin. She slowly lowered her hips, her bent legs driving, and threw back her head gasping at the heat.
Drawing her knife, Cobra stopped within reach of the backs of the bald riders. They were bouncing in place, scratching furiously and clapping all at once.
Robin spun faster and faster along the campfire, losing herself to the sensual stroking of the flames, then abandoned herself to them. Sweat broke out on her upper lip. Her red mouth parted; her breasts heaved. Her hips snapped and pumped, and the flames, unable to resist her invitation, shot up around her legs booming and crackling. She danced further along the low fire, and the flames followed, striking at the sky as she passed by.
Her thighs and buttocks were marked with lightning bolts, scarabs, claw marks and numerals, 3, 9 and 33. They were cruel on her soft, smooth flesh, and the hard-bitten outlaws and freebooters stared with open mouths, transfixed. The distance between their eyes and her body had become a sacred place. Inviolate. Magic.
Cobra shot a glance at Brown John. His smile was satanic with raw joy and power, and his hands were thumping his drum, raising a sensual racket. She glanced to the side of the wagon, and her stomach knotted, her body flinched.
A red glow now showed in Gath’s eyes. Did it come from the firelight, or from within?
Cobra, trembling with fear, abruptly lifted her nose, scenting a suddenly strong odor of burning stone on the night air. She sniffed about, found the odor did not come from the bald riders and, gasping in sudden panic, raced around the audience toward the wagon as the smell grew stronger and stronger.
Reaching Gath, she whispered harshly, “They’re close now, but I can’t see them. You’ve got to…” She cut herself off with a sharp gasp, and pointed up.
The dark silhouettes of the overhanging pines were swaying fitfully, thrashing as if weighted down with something. Suddenly a small, dark object fell out of the darkness and hit the side of the wagon with a wet smack. They both jumped back, startled. Gath wiped the black smudge off the wagon with fingertips and sniffed them. His eyes became confused, and he put his fingers under Cobra’s nose. She sniffed them and drew back abruptly.
“Bats!” she gasped, then screamed.
A huge black object soared out of the night into the firelight directly above Robin. A bat the size of a well-fed border dog, and wearing gold loop earrings. The audience howled, and the bat dove, hit Robin in the shoulder and knocked her staggering back through the flames. She screamed, fell and rolled away from the fire. Her flesh was singed, and her hair and rags were smoking. She covered her head with her bare arms, and the bat raked them with its claws as it swept over her again.
Gath bolted forward, a sweeping shadow.
Outlaws and freebooters rose as a body and scrambled for their horses and wagons, knocking each other down and cursing.
The giant bat caromed into the night, squealing.
Robin half rose, looking up, and screamed again.
Three dark shapes were falling through the firelight toward her. They had small, thick bodies with long arms, hairy shoulders and pointed ears protruding from dark leather armor and helmets. Their mouths were wide with lust-mad smiles, revealing needle-sharp fangs.
Gath planted a foot and threw his spear.
It caught the first bat soldier in mid-air, and the impact drove him back the way he had come. He squealed and windmilled in the air as if climbing an invisible wall.
Simultaneously, Jakar fired.
His bolt took a bat soldier in the shoulder, but did not stop him.
The two falling bodies hit Robin with thudding blows and drove her to the ground, facedown. For a moment they seemed confused, rolling her about, uncertain whether to maul her or savage her. She kicked and flailed, and they drew serrated knives, their snarling mixing with her screaming. Then Gath arrived.
His sword removed a furry arm just beneath the shoulder. The owner howled and rolled off Robin as his arm fell to the ground beside him, its hand dropping a knife. Simultaneously, the remaining bat soldier was removed by the crunching blow of Gath’s body. The pair hit the ground tangled together, and the Barbarian gathered the furry body in his hands, rolled upright and threw it down on its back. Straddling the cringing figure, he drew back a bent arm and lunged down with a howl. Gath’s elbow drove the bat soldier’s head three inches into the dirt and pulped its sk
ull.
Robin screamed and rolled away, covering her face with her hands. The backs of her legs and arms were splattered with blood as if she had a pox. She screamed again as two more bat soldiers, swords in hand, landed beside her, small eyes lewd and violent above hollow cheeks. She shuddered helplessly, and Gath came off the ground, grabbed both men by a shoulder before they could react and slammed them together headfirst. They dropped their weapons, staggered dizzily, and Gath gathered them in his arms, lifting them off the ground. They screamed and flailed to no avail. Gath’s arms corded and bulged as he increased the pressure, and there was a series of dull snaps deep inside their meaty chests, then a splintering crack, and each let out a screech cut short because their mouths had filled with blood.
Gath threw them aside, his body cocked and eyes hunting for the large bat.
Jakar, still on the wagon’s roof, crouched with his crossbow aimed at the dark sky.
Brown John, sword in hand, stood in front of the wagon staring with dazed eyes at the carnage. Everything had happened so fast he had missed the fight entirely.
Only Cobra, shielding Robin with her body, saw the huge bat swoosh out from under the wagon. She screamed a warning, and it knocked her down, buried its claws in the leopard-skin halter covering Robin’s shoulder.
Screaming with pain, Robin twisted violently, and the bat’s slashing fangs missed her neck, got tangled in her hair. She flailed at it with her arms as its weight bore her down, then Cobra came off the ground and threw herself heedlessly against it. Her body collided with the bat’s chest and drove the creature off of Robin onto the ground. It thrashed and squealed, clawing and biting the woman’s hands, and quickly flew off.
Gath dove at it, but it escaped under the wagon.
Cobra jumped up screaming, “Kill it! Kill it!”
Gath, Jakar and Brown John spread out around the wagon, but there was no sign of the creature. It had vanished into the enveloping darkness.
Robin hid behind Gath, her hands braced against his shoulder. It pulsed and dripped blood, and she backed away from him, shuddering and whimpering, eyes wide with terror. The bat dove out of the sky into the firelight, its hurtling body aimed at her, and she screamed, turned and ran.
Gath broke for Robin as she tripped on one of the small fires and fell, twenty feet away.
Jakar, his eyes as cold as death, followed the bat’s flight with his crossbow and fired.
The bolt caught the bat in the gut. It squealed, flapped wildly off course for a brief moment, then dove again, fangs aimed at the back of Robin’s neck as she rose onto hands and knees.
Cobra turned as white as a glacier: the impact would break the girl’s neck.
Gath, his eyes now red fire, screamed a harsh guttural howl and launched his body into the air. Robin turned in terror at the sound, presenting her terrified face to the descending fangs of the bat. They came within a foot of her shuddering cheeks, and Gath’s fingers tore into the creature, ripping it off course.
Gath and the huge bat hit the dirt and rolled into one of the fires. With his back squirming against the coals, Gath fought for a better grip on the screaming, clawing demon spawn. The fire spit sparks and embers, and smoke billowed up around him, concealing his actions.
Cobra raced up, shielding Robin behind her, and Jakar and Brown John joined them.
There was a long squeal from within the smoke, then it was cut short, and the bat’s head tumbled out, torn off the body at the neck. Its furry pointed ears still wore the large loop earrings, and they clanged together musically before the head came to rest, propped between them. The eyes were wide open, and told a tale of terror far greater than any the creature itself could have inspired.
Then the source of that terror emerged from the smoke, eyes hot, body singed and smoking, and wearing blood like a blanket.
Robin turned away, crushing herself into Jakar’s protective arms, pleading, “Hold me. Hold me.”
He held her close, speaking quietly and comfortingly. “It’s all right now, fluff, it’s all right.” His eyes were on Gath, and they were hard with respect.
Gath looked at Cobra, questioning her with his eyes, and she said breathlessly, “It’s over. There’re no more. I’m sure of it.”
Gath nodded, looked at Robin and saw blood trickling from a cut in her scalp, and the dark bruised slashes across the backs of her arms. He growled, whipped around like a wounded animal and struck Cobra across the face.
She went down on her back, and her body arched with pain, her mind went dark.
Brown John leapt between her and Gath, shouting, “No, Gath! Leave her alone! It’s my fault. I knew what the risks were, and I agreed to let Robin take them. And she wanted to, because she had to. It was the only way.”
The two men’s eyes locked, and held for a long moment, then Gath looked at Robin and she nodded, agreeing with the bukko.
Gath hesitated, then turned back to the bukko and whispered harshly, “Watch yourself, old man. If Robin is hurt again, you will pay as well.”
He glared at Cobra as Brown John helped her up, then turned and strode into the darkness.
Brown John sighed with relief and turned to Robin. “Are you all right, lass?”
“It’s nothing,” she said. “I can take care of it.” Brown John nodded, and put his eyes on Jakar. “Stay with her. Don’t let her out of your sight from now on, and see she washes those signs off.”
Jakar led Robin to the wagon as Brown John turned to Cobra. Her bruised cheek throbbed, and tears welled in her eyes, but she did not let them fall. She smiled helplessly at the bukko, sighing softly, “Thank you, bukko… but you do not have to lie for me.”
“It was no trouble,” he said lightly. “Lying is my trade.”
She smiled at that, because she knew he expected it. “I think we should get away from here as fast as possible. So, if you’ll excuse me, I think I better attend to myself.”
“Of course,” he said, “and I apologize for Gath.”
“There’s no need. 1 expected his reaction.”
“Then I apologize for myself, because I didn’t.” He smiled. “Next time I’ll be ready.”
She dipped her head in gratitude, suddenly disturbed by his probing eyes, and hurried unsteadily toward the wagon to find her rouges and mirror.
Twenty-One
GROTTO OF THE
BALD VESHTA
At dawn Brown John, sitting alone in the driver’s box, turned the lumbering, squealing wagon off of Hog-Scald Road onto Boot Trail, and raced it through the thinning trees into the foothills of the Barrier Mountain Range.
They were covered with tall brown grass, and clusters of boulders were scattered about like the droppings of some constipated god. In the distance rose the jagged peaks of the bald desert mountains that separated the forest basin from the endless sand dunes beyond, and the known world from the unknown.
The wagon’s destination was deep within that mysterious world, at the crossroads of Boot Trail and the Way of Chains where Cobra had told the bukko the map was hidden.
Simultaneously trying to hold the reins and eat his morning porridge from a bowl with one hand, Brown John whipped the horses with the pole whip with the other, and shouted encouragement at them. He was delighted. His players were finally taking the stage and, being a performer, he had to let it show even though no one was watching.
Two hours later, as the wagon rolled through the hot high desert, he was doing the same thing, but without the bowl and with Cobra sharing the driver’s box.
She sat in regal repose, her voluptuous body gracefully turned in the seat, and one leg tucked under her. Her hands were folded in her lap, and her black hair flagged behind the clean-cut oval of her face as she let the wind cool her.
Brown John’s smiling cheeks were flushed and he was bare-chested, with the upper portion of his tunic folded down under his belt, and his pudgy belly, despite his best efforts to restrain it, tending to hang over it.
Robin and Jakar ro
de inside the wagon, and Gath rode well ahead of it. A massive cut of meat and bone sweating in the sunshine, his chestnut flesh was naked except for leather loincloth, sword and dagger belts, glistening brass armbands and boots. Three times he had circled back through the foothills and searched their back trail, and each time he had returned to give Brown John the same report. He had seen no travelers on the road, and no animal among the rocks or bird in the sky that could have been following them.
Their disguise was complete, and their plot at play.
The bukko whipped the horses energetically, backhanded the sweat from his cheeks and glanced out of the corner of his eye at Cobra.
She now wore a plain sand-colored tunic. It was worn and patched, with short sleeves and skirt consisting of wide scallops and stringy threads which flapped about her bare legs and arms. The garment was of soft cotton and belted with a faded gold sash. Its collar was square, with a deep V cut between her swelling breasts and laced with leather thongs, as were the openings in the sides of the skirt, allowing more than pleasing glimpses of her curvaceous beauty as well as ventilation.
He looked back at the road and smiled to himself. For a former Queen of Serpents whose nature was undoubtedly still tainted by demon seed, if not corrupted by it, she looked not only surprisingly human and womanly but tempting. He rolled his head and shoulders to get the kinks out, thus allowing himself another peak at her bosom, and watched her breasts tussle and bounce. He had seen thousands of lovely bosoms, and not casually, but as a professional. He had examined them with care, measured and dressed and undressed them, and handled them on stage when the scene called for it. He had seen larger, higher, firmer breasts, but none so amazing to him. They seemed to have lives of their own. They continually tried to squeeze past the restraining leather thongs, or spill over the top of her bodice, and his palms itched to catch them.
Her head turned slowly, and her eyes looked at him, as a corner of her mouth lifted with a reserved smile. It said she understood his thoughts and did not mind. This sent a tremor of pleasure through the bukko that was tenfold greater than that which his hands had hoped to hold.
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