Prisoner of the Horned Helmet (28 page)

THE EXECUTION

G
ath 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 sound 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.

BURIAL

O
n 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.

His eyes avoided a door at the opposite side of the buried room. Heavy steel bars locked it shut. He could picture Baak, Dazi, Hatta, and Cobra’s servant waiting for him beyond that door in his hidden laboratory. But they would never see their priest again, or anyone else. He had no doubt that it was the Queen of Serpents’ fault, that her lust for the Death Dealer had been the cause for the current calamity. But what more could he have done, or what more could he do now than he was doing? He could not afford to trust anyone.

He pattered over to a side stairway and listened. Loud grating sounds came from within the surrounding walls where weighty stones began to shift and slide. A stone receded in the ceiling of his chamber releasing a stream of sand. It began to flood the room. Faint cries came from behind the locked door where the same thing was happening, then there was a heavy pounding on the door. His unfortunate servants had finally realized their fate.

Dang-Ling eased his ample body up through a dark hole at the top of the stairway. A large stone descended behind him and the rising sand piled up against it.

A short time later a wagon with tall red wheels rattled out a postern gate in Bahaara’s north wall, and rolled southeast into the desert hidden behind its own dust. “Big Hands” Gazul drove. Dang-Ling was ensconced comfortably on thick cushions in the wagon bed accompanied by six young leopards and several chests of jewels and gold. The road ahead was clear. A great deal of what he had cherished lay buried under Bahaara, but a promising future waited ahead, and he did not look back.

MIDNIGHT STAR

F
or five days the Barbarians looted Bahaara, and each night there was a great feast held in the Court of Life. At each feast, the meat and cooking were provided by a different tribe. Rumors said that one night they were served the roasted body of the warlord Klang. But the way in which the Kranik savages charred their meat left it unrecognizable, and since the rumors had started after the meat had been consumed, the impropriety could not be proven, and the after-meal belching was particularly loud and raucous. The Grillards provided songs and dances for each feast, and they all told the same story. But the hero had a plethora of names: The “Dark One who dwelled in The Shades,” the “Savior of Weaver,” the “Defender of the Trees,” and the “Lord of Forest.” But to each description was added “Death Dealer.”

On the sixth night there was no celebration. Instead, the Barbarian chiefs sat in council and, after much deliberation, came to a radical conclusion. Gath of Baal would be their king, the first king the tribes of the Forest Basin had ever set over themselves. The decision was unanimous, and Brown John sent Robin Lakehair to fetch him.

Delighted to be the carrier of such good news, she hurried to the altar room in the Temple of Dreams where Gath was quartered, but he wasn’t there. After searching the temple without success, she found him in a torchlit courtyard at the rear of the temple, but hesitated to approach, holding her little hand pressed against her heart.

The dark warrior was dressed in black chain mail. A curved Kitzakk sword hung from his belt by a glittering brass chain. His huge axe stood in the black stallion’s saddle holster. The horned helmet was tied to his belt. He was clean shaven, but his singed hair was crudely clipped so that it hung to his neck in wild disarray. His face was scabbed and burnished with callouses. He turned to her expectantly, and Robin, frightened and flustered, ran over to him.

“You can’t leave,” she gasped. “Not now, Gath. Please.”

His hand reached out to gently gather in her short red-gold hair flickering in the torchlight. “I must, little friend.”

“But why?” she pleaded. “Why? Where would you want to go? And… and the people love you. The tribes want you to be their king.”

Gath shook his head. “I am not a king, and I have been too long among men.”

She trembled at the uncompromising tone of his voice, then, breathless, she gazed up into his eyes. “Let me go with you then?”

He shook his head, swung up onto his saddle.

“Please,” she begged.

He leaned down, took hold of her under the arms and lifted her to face him, holding her as easily as a flower. A rush of hope burst through her, and she smiled. He kissed her smile where it moved her cheek, then pressed her lips against his, and she melted, moaning blissfully.

He held her away. “I will come see you, in your village, but I can not take you with me. Stay with your friends where it’s safe.”

“But it’s you I feel safe with.” He set her down, but her eyes still begged. “Gath, please, don’t you still need me a little?”

His eyes turned towards the distant northwest. “Where I go, I must go alone.”

“Then I’ll be waiting! I don’t care if it’s a year or ten years. I’ll be waiting for you. I… I belong to you.”

He shook his head, saying quietly, “People do not own people, Robin.”

His eyes were warm and tender but resolute, and something hid behind them, a new wound that was deep and active. Her head dropped. It was a wound she could not heal, because, even though she could see it and fee! the terrible pain it brought him, she could not imagine its nature.

“If ever you are in danger,” he said softly, “look for me. I will come.”

Her face lifted, a beautiful mask hiding all that was inside. “And you, if you are ever hurt or in need, you will let me find you, and come to you. Promise me that, at least that.”

He looked away in silence.

“Then good-bye, Gath of Baal,” she whispered. “I won’t watch you go.”

She headed for the door of the temple. Gath watched her figure disappear, then he and the stallion moved across the yard and under the shadowed gate.

At the rear door of the temple, Robin met Brown John coming out and fell into his arms, sobbing, “He’s gone. He doesn’t want us.”

Brown John patted her head. “Now, now, child, we’ll see about that. You wait here.”

She slumped to the door stoop and sank back against the jamb as the old man hurried off.

Brown John found him riding slowly down the road that twisted along the western side of the mesa. In the distance was the northern gate, and beyond it, the desert: empty, silent and dark. The old man, wheezing from his short run, looked up accusingly. “This is not a very civilized way to bid good-bye!”

Gath smiled ruefully. “Have you been trying to civilize me, old man?”

“Never mind that. I told you they would make you king. Surely you’ll at least stay the night to consider it!” Getting no reply he sighed. “All right, all right. But tell me what it is that you think you’re up to?”

“The Master of Darkness hunted me. Now I hunt him.”

“That’s madness, and you know it!” Getting only silence he grunted. “I suppose then, you’re not going to give up that headpiece?”

“Never.” It was low and deep, from another world.

“But the Master of Darkness! It’s impossible to…” he stopped himself and sighed with resignation. “Oh, what’s the use. You’ll try this thing regardless of what I say.”

Gath smiled, and the old man laughed at his own defeat. “Well, I will tell you this, my friend, there has never been such a futile quest, never one of such size and nobility, and never one so reckless.” A familiar twinkle flashed across his eyes. “However, if you were to become king, even if only for a short while, you could build up your resources for the hunt. And there would be no chains to bind you to your throne. You might appoint me as your minister. I would attend to all the routine nonsense, and leave you to live however you wished to live. You’d be loved and respected. You could even return to your forest if you wished, come and go undisturbed and unchallenged!”

Brown John stopped short. Flushed with embarrassment, he confronted Gath’s stony countenance. “Built my own trap, didn’t I? And blundered right into it. Well, I’m me, I guess, and you surely are you. There’s no changing that. Go to your challenge, Gath. But whether you want it or not, the gratitude and respect of the forest tribes go with you.”

Gath didn’t appear to hear him. He said, “Look after her,
bukko.
We will meet again.”

“Yes,” Brown John’s voice cracked. He paused and cleared his throat. “But one moment, I have something for you. A gift.” He reached inside his pouch and brought out the small earthenware jar with the tiny air holes, handed it to Gath. “This may be a useful too! of barter, or a toy. That’s up to you. It houses the Serpent Queen.”

A rare look of surprise and delight lit up Gath of Baal’s solemn features. He put the jar to his cheek feeling the imprisoned reptile’s movement, and his eyes smiled at Brown John.

“You did this?”

Brown John, swelling with pride, nodded several times.

“Well now, I expected you to say and do many things, Brown, all of them quite out of the ordinary. But never this.”

Brown John laughed uproariously at the mimicry of his own dialogue. Gath put the jar in his saddlebag, squeezed the old man’s raised hand, and moved on down the road.

He trotted across the moonlit clearing just inside the northern gate, and galloped out into the waiting desert shadows. The moonlight gleamed on his broad shoulders for a long time, then he became part of the darkness.

Brown John found Robin sitting on a stone watching, and gathered her in his arms. “I’m sorry, little one,” he murmured. “I could not talk him out of it.”

She looked off at the spreading desert. The dark night sky was wearing one radiating white jewel, the midnight star. After a moment, she said softly, “Brown John, someday, somehow, I will find a way to be with him. I will, I swear it by the midnight star.”

“I think you might, Robin. I think you just might.” She gazed up at him, comforted, and saw the reflection of the star twinkling in his eyes.