Prisoner of the Horned Helmet (5 page)

“You have a better idea?” grunted Golfon.

“Naturally,” Sharatz said with quiet disdain. He advanced to Brown John, smiled down at him so pompously he was in danger of falling over backward. Then, ceremoniously, he unbuckled his leather codpiece and urinated on Brown John’s hip.

The Grillards gasped. Vitmar, Golfon and the men-at-arms grinned, then laughed out loud. Here and there suppressed titters erupted from the crowd.

Sharatz buckled up, then said to Brown John, “We do not need your help, clown. We have the Dark One’s wolf.” He indicated the caged wolf on the back of the pack horse. “With the beast’s quite involuntary cooperation I can guarantee you that your benefactor, Gath of Baal, will be dead before sundown. That, of course, means your totems will then be totally useless.”

The Grillards, shocked, made signs on their bodies while the customers looked at the totems they had purchased with distrust.

The three chiefs chuckled, remounted and rode out the southern end of Rag Camp in a whirl of stifling dust. They were headed in the direction of The Shades.

Brown John, the red flush on his cheeks spreading as low as the backs of his hands, rose onto all fours. He stared after the departing Barbarian chiefs, muttering, “Idiots!”

Bone and Dirken jumped up and, with the aid of some Grillards, helped their father up. Over the babble of the outraged, humiliated, sympathetic clan, Dirken spoke to Brown John. “You know what they’re going to do! They’ll make his wolf howl like the lord god of Pain himself. And when it does, Gath will come fast. He’ll be wearing their spears before he even sees them.”

Brown John, still staring at the departing riders, said flatly, “It’s not his wolf.”

The Grillards grinned with relief.

Brown John turned to them. He wasn’t smiling. “But it will make no difference. He’ll go to it anyway.” He turned to Dirken and Bone. “But this will all take time, perhaps time enough to warn him. Get the horses. Quickly!” The reckless twinkle was suddenly back in the old man’s eyes.

As the two bastards hurried off, the Grillards crowded around their
bukko
and gaped at him with astonished eyes.

Brown John was standing in the sunshine. The dark wet spot at his hips steamed. He smelled of urine. And he was laughing.

CALLING ROCK

B
rown John, Bone and Dirken rode south through the spare trees and green glades of the Valley of Miracles. Two miles from Rag Camp they reached Summer Trail and headed west. It was a wide dusty avenue between the trees, filled with summer sun. An hour later they entered The Shades. Here the trail narrowed, and the soil became dark, moist. Shadows populated the dense foliage of the rain forest, and the undulating ground rose and fell as the trail twisted between massive firs, hemlock and spruce. The three men had not seen the six riders, nor any sign of them.

They plunged on, leaping over fallen trees, ignoring the pain as their suntanned faces whipped through overhanging ferns.

Summer Trail became muddy; small creeks cut across it, murky ponds hid it. It almost vanished altogether within clusters of elderberry before it widened again and rose toward Calling Rock, a massive stack of house-sized boulders which stood several hundred feet above the tops of the trees. Creepers and shrubs crowded the base of the rock at the eastern end. Gulleys and cracks cut up into the rock, twisted under overhanging rocks and over fallen boulders as they thrust towards the heights.

The three Grillards rode across the wide clearing of bald earth at the southern side of the rock, then left the trail moving north along the western side. They turned up a wide, open gulley which rose almost two-thirds of the way to the top of the rocks. They whipped their horses up into the gulley until their mounts bogged down in loose earth, then dismounted and scrambled forward on foot. They cut their way through rope-thick cobwebs, reached a turn in the gulley and bulled up it through a tangle of fallen boulders five times their size.

Reaching the heights of the rock they stood gasping for a moment. There, boulders, shrubs, and trees surrounded an open flat shelf of rock. At its far edge stood a naked, black thorn tree. Its branches, burnt to sharp points, thrust like giant spears at the belly of the pink-gold sky. The three men hurried across the clearing to the base of the tree. There was an oval opening in its charred shell.

Brown John muttered, “Hurry! Hurry!”

Bone poked around inside the tree with his club. Satisfied that no spider or snake lay in wait, he reached in and came away with a bullhorn as thick as his thigh. Hurriedly he dropped his club against the tree, took the horn in two hands and, taking a deep breath, blew. Two long, resonant, shrill blasts, one short. Bone waited as Dirken counted to one hundred, then repeated this short performance.

They sat down to wait.

Time passed.

No sounds of breaking branches or rustling leaves. No flurry of birds to indicate someone approaching silently, and no sounds of the six riders in the distance. Only the quiet steady drip of dew and the wind singing through the trees.

More time passed, then a sudden terror-fed howl of pain pierced the peaceful murmur of the rain forest, then again and again.

Brown John, Bone and Dirken jumped to their feet, raging.

The howl came once more, terrible and prolonged. From the south.

Brown John led the way back across the clearing. Reaching their horses, they mounted on the run and bolted down the gulley kicking up dust and rubble. They headed south, following no trail. They plunged through openings in the forest, rode down ferns and shrubs, twisted through thick fallen trees, jumped others. The distant sounds of battle, cursing men, the clang of metal, spurred their reckless charge.

Their mounts faltered, but they drove them on through thornbushes and across vaporous ponds tangled with creepers and possibly quicksand. Then the clamor stopped as abruptly as it had started.

Brown John reined up hard. His sons found their way through the thick undergrowth to his side and consulted him silently.

“Wait here.” It was a whispered command.

Brown John prodded his horse forward, cautiously picking his way through the rain forest.

FOURTEEN PIECES

R
eaching a sun-drenched clearing, Brown John rose in his stirrups, astounded.

Gath stood at the center, his axe in one hand, the door of Sharatz’s cage in the other. The cage rested on the ground in front of him. Inside it the wounded she-wolf trembled and bled. Her left foreleg was broken. There were cuts about her eyes, hide hanging in strips from her throat, and mangled bloody clumps of fur on her rump.

Suddenly the she-wolf leapt out of the cage, stumbled, rolled fitfully and struggled upright on three legs. She circled wildly, spinning with her wounds bubbling red. Abandoned to her agony, she lurched in one direction, then in a second. Fear still hard in her, she picked a third direction and dashed on three legs past Sharn into the surrounding dense shadows.

Sharn, sitting on his haunches, watched the she-wolf without moving, then looked back at the new intruder. Head erect. Steam furling from his mouth. A thin strip of pale violet cloth which had obviously belonged to Sharatz’s violet cape hung from a fang.

Brown John sighed in relief, dismounted and started towards Gath. The whites of his eyes bulged under brows climbing for the top of his head.

“Holy Zard!” he gasped. This was appropriate as it was in reference to the God of Blood.

What had been six hard, angry riders that morning now lay about in the shade at the edges of the clearing in peaceful silence. The scatter of gore and limbs was so spectacular Brown John could not refrain from measuring it. He estimated ten pieces.

Golfon accounted for five. The severed stump of his right hand still clutched his spear, which was stuck at an angle in the acid green grass. Beyond that lay his body. It had wandered into a tangle of exposed hemlock roots and tripped on one. He had lost his way because his head was fourteen feet further off. He had bitten off his tongue, which lolled on the ground beside one of his teeth.

Vitmar had lost only an ear and thumb. He was facedown in the grass, limbs spread wide, still brown and warm in the sunshine. The three men-at-arms had died intact, except for one who had lost a chunk of shoulder.

Brown John wagged his silver head, toddled over on shaky bowlegs to a rock rising out of matted green grass, sat down and counted again. The total this time was twelve.

Sharn rose, held the strip of cloth stuck on his fang to the ground with a paw, then pulled his head back, ripped it loose.

Brown John’s eyes were puzzled. Where was the owner of the violet cloth? He stood, edged towards Gath to ask, and a drop of hot blood splattered on the back of his hand.

“Holy Zard!” he gasped again, and looked up.

Sharatz was stuck among the high branches of a fir tree. Both pieces of him. They were approximately of the same size and weight. That made fourteen pieces.

Brown John stumbled out from under the dripping corpse, looked at Gath.

The sharp frenzy of battle was still as fresh as budding thorns in his young eyes. He spit his words, “You sent them.”

Brown John started to deny it passionately, but stopped himself, and instead spoke in a slow, thoughtful tone. “No, I did not send them. But in a way I am responsible. My sons and I took the bodies of the Kitzakks you killed and had them butchered into totems. These chiefs,” he indicated the dismembered bodies, “in their fear and cowardice, had hoped to appease the Kitzakks by returning the bodies for proper burial. As they were not able to do this with the parts now spread throughout the forest, they rode into Rag Camp and demanded that I tell them where you live. They foolishly hoped to negotiate with the Kitzakks by offering them your head. I, of course, did not help them. I have not the faintest idea of where you live. Nor do I wish to find out. And, believe me, if I had known, I would not have been so shortsighted as to tell them and earn your anger.”

Gath waited, then deliberately tossed the cage door aside. It landed with a brittle crack, and Brown John jerked nervously. Some play appeared behind Gath’s shadowed eyes. He moved to Brown John, lifted the bloody blade of his axe, wiped it on the tunic covering the old man’s trembling belly. As he did, his low, coarse voice demanded, “What else?”

Brown John answered anxiously. “I, and my sons as well, tried to stop them and they beat us brutally.” He indicated his wounds.

Gath ignored them and moved to Vitmar, squatted over him with his back to Brown John. As he unbuckled the dead man’s dagger belt, he asked indifferently, “And?”

Brown John shuffled uneasily. “Only this. I regret that they found you before I could warn you. You did hear the horn?”

Gath slung Vitmar’s belt over his shoulder and stood, turning slowly to Brown John. The axe rode his fist as easily as the eagle rides the sky. The veins on his chest and arms stood out as if gorged with fluid stone. Dappled sunlight and shadows played about his face, adding mystery and a shimmering savage light to his brawny menace. His wide, flat lips, spread in a sardonic smile, allowed a low mocking laugh to escape. When he spoke all the play in his eyes and voice was gone.

“You are right. You are responsible. Your minstrels sent them.”

Brown John flushed. “Yes,” he said weakly. “That is a fair conclusion, but I assure you, that even without our vulgar songs and antics, the tale of your heroics would have soon spread throughout the forest.”

“No, you bandy-legged
bukko
!” His tone was a threatening whisper. “You took a great risk making me the clown of your stories. If I were not so fond of your wine, my axe would have talked to you about it long ago. Now your foolishness brings these arrogant chiefs who want my head and hurt my friends… while you sell what you call my magic to weak and gullible fools.”

“I assure you,” Brown John pleaded, “there is no mockery in our tales, nor the least desire to cause you displeasure or discomfort. Only praise. Glory. I…”

“Do not flatter me,
bukko
,” Gath interrupted with an ugly whisper.

“Forgive me.” Brown John dipped his head in a slight bow. “I am accustomed to dealing with dancing girls and jugglers who require an excess of praise and protection from hard truths. From now on I will attempt to keep my language simpler and to the point.”

He moved gingerly around the blood dripping from Sharatz’s stumps, parked himself on a rock and spoke with a semblance of confidence. “How may I call you?”

“By my name.”

“Of course. Then let me tell you, Gath of Baal, why I have involved myself, my family and the Grillards in your business.” He paused, wet his fingers, slicked his hair away from his eyes. “I have created the totems and sold them for a more serious reason than even you, with your keen sense of observation, might suspect.”

Gath’s eyes hardened in warning, and he scratched his kneecap with the flat of his axe blade.

“Ah yes, forgive me, the words of flattery come habitually. But allow me to continue, please. The silver I have collected is to be used to employ a war master, a champion, to defend Rag Camp… to keep my people from having to sing their songs and tell their jokes from behind the bars of Kitzakk cages. To put it as plainly as I can, I am offering you a job.”

Not waiting for a response, Brown John untied a heavy pouch from his belt and tossed it to Gath. The Barbarian did not bother to catch it; it dropped in the tall grass at his feet, breaking open to spill silver on the bloody ground.

Taken aback, Brown John, not daring yet to meet Gath’s gaze, peered at the coins saying, “I intend, of course, to hire other mercenaries from the Soldier’s Market in Coin to serve under you. The best in the forest.”

Gath said in his low thick tone, “We in The Shades do not use silver… or mercenaries.”

Brown John looked up, smiled lightly, then said just as lightly, “That, then, will change. With the Kitzakks riding this way, you will need better weapons, stronger armor, and the strongest men fighting beside you.”

“I have what I need.”

“Yes,” said the Grillard quickly, “I can see you seriously believe that.” He hesitated, then stood facing Gath. “But there must be something I can offer you? More wine? Women?” Gath did not reply. Brown John edged forward hopefully. “If it is women, I dare say, I can supply the most beautiful and eager girls ever to lie on a blanket.”

Gath eyed him with disgust and slung his axe on his back.

Defeat washed across Brown John’s flushed face, but he forced a warm smile. “Then… then all I can do is ask you to help us… my people… out of friendship.”

“Friendship!” Gath grunted with a harsh thick growl. “I have no friends who stand on two legs.” He moved across the glade, stopped and picked up the strip of violet cloth then looked back. “But I will still buy your wine.”

Brown John smiled lamely.

Gath studied the Grillard a moment, then marched into the forest, Sharn at his side.

Brown John started to follow, but gave up. He mumbled unpleasantly, then shouted recklessly, “Barbarian, if you think your pride and arrogance will protect you from the Kitzakks, you are sadly mistaken.” Defying the humiliation which had turned his bumptuous cheeks apple red, Brown John advanced to the edge of the clearing, propped a fist on his hip, raised the other over his head and shook it with the bravado of a commander standing at the head of forty regiments of foot and ten of horse. “Do you hear me? Your pride is not enough. You, the tribes, none of you can survive alone.”

The sounds of undergrowth being crushed by booted feet were the only response he got.

Brown John had an answer for it. He shook a scolding finger and shouted louder, “And do not think I will quit! Not for a moment. Just because I have been beaten, peed upon and rudely rejected, do not think I am unable to see past these trifling humiliations to the greater truth. I may not have your animal power, Gath of Baal, but I have a different gift. I see things coming. Yes! And I can assure you I have not failed to measure the import of the fact that today, for the first time, the Kaven, the Cytherian and the Barhacha rode together. Don’t for a minute think that I am blind to that miracle, or that I fail to recognize it for what it truly is, a portentious omen of an even greater unity to come! Perhaps even a triumphant one!”

Brown John stared at the forest shadows. Only silence answered him now. He muttered to himself, then the bravado went out of him. It shortened him by half a foot. He glanced about at the scene of slaughter, moved to the spilled silver, got down on his knees and began to pick up the coins.

A short time later, when he rejoined his waiting sons, he was leading his horse and deep in thought. When the bastards started to inquire as to what had happened, he silenced them with a lifted hand and thought some more.

After a long while he looked up, said, “You will find some bodies, six to be exact, in a clearing about fifty yards up ahead.” He pointed it out. “Bury them, so that no man or animal will find them. Ever. Bury their armor with them, and make sure you find all their parts. There are, I think, twelve or fourteen, perhaps more. I do not remember clearly.”

Bone and Dirken gave each other a sober glance, then mounted and rode off leaving their father alone.

Brown John stood silently, thinking again. As he did, he smoothed his hair with a hand and tucked it back over an ear with a thumbnail, but this failed to groom his troubled mind. The furrow of wrinkles creasing his forehead dug so deep they grew dark. His brow drooped so low that his bushy white eyebrows tickled his cheeks. Feeling their touch his scowl grew even deeper. Then the words came to him.

It was a line of dialogue from
A Fig for the Ice Queen,
a line he had delivered on countless occasions on countless stages. But now, as he said them aloud to no one, there was no trace of fiction in the words, no trace of the actor in his tone or in his suddenly boyish smile.

He said, “I’ve got it. I’ll get the girl.”