Prisoner of the Horned Helmet (12 page)

ALDER, HOPS, IRIS

S
harn hesitated short of the open track. Robin’s torch was only a flicker now, but the moon was high in the sky. Its pale light filled the clearing between walls of lofty trees.

Robin stared awestruck at the cathedral-like corridor. The clear track stretched as far as she could see, with cool, blue moonlight gracing the smooth floor. It was as if large gods had marched this way in single file.

At the opposite side of the clearing, the giant roots of spruce and hemlock trees clustered, making shadowed passageways between their massive, gnarled bodies. Entrances to the underworld.

Robin trembled, took a deep breath, and followed the wolf across the track leading the horse and wagon. Sharn hesitated and eyed her over a bristling grey shoulder, then dipped between two thick roots and vanished. Robin stopped short in dismay, but promptly scolded herself and led her little caravan into the shadowy passageway.

Pulling the skittish horse and following the occasional padding sounds of the wolfs paws, Robin moved through a corridor of roots. Soon the air lost its wet grassy odor, and they moved into a large, dry dirt tunnel. It twisted through thick, buried roots to a crossroads joining three narrower, shallower tunnels. The wolf had vanished.

Robin dropped the reins and entered the largest tunnel. It ended a short way off in an underground room which could be closed by a low door made of logs. The back of the door had thick iron rings to hold a locking beam. There was hay scattered about the floor of the room, a water trough to one side, and rings buried in the dirt floor to which animals, or perhaps people, could be chained.

Robin hurried back to the crossroads. The wolf had not returned. She groaned and looked about frantically. A grating sound came from within the underground room. She pushed herself back against the dirt wall, held still. It came again. She shivered, edged sideways along the wall and peered into the room.

A semicircular outline of dim orange light emanated from a corner of the roof. It widened, throwing a faint glow on a ladder leaning against the dirt wall below. A trapdoor. It slid away from the hole, and a shaft of glowing firelight melted down into the darkness. Out of it appeared Sharn’s head.

Robin smiled with relief and dragged the horse and wagon into the room, closed and bolted its door. She looked up at the trapdoor. The opening was not big enough for Gath even if she could have carried him. She turned to Gath, touched his forehead and frowned. He was burning hot. She replaced her torch and hurried to the ladder, but hesitated. Sharn’s whiskered face was a threatening black silhouette against the orange glow. He backed out of sight, and Robin climbed the ladder.

She emerged in a narrow tunnel of tangled roots, and followed the wolf through a maze of tunnels to the entrance foyer of a root house, then down a staircase lit by a faint orange glow. At the bottom of the steps the wolf waited in the hot glow of a dying fire. Reaching the animal, she smiled in wonder, like a child.

Embers in a large fireplace of living roots illuminated a large room. It held meager furnishings, broken wine jars on the floor, and weapons and armor mounted on the root walls and heaped beside an anvil.

She moved about touching things thoughtfully. If this was Gath’s home, then how strange that the fire had not died. Did someone else live here? There were no answers in the room.

She stirred the embers in the fireplace, added logs, and light quickly filled the room. A dragging sound came from the staircase, and Robin looked up, gasped.

Gath was standing in the hollow of the staircase, filling it with his dark sweating bulk. His eyes were tight and hot. He smelt of dirt and blood and pride, reeked of it. Suddenly he sagged against the wall of the staircase, bleeding again from thigh and shoulder, and glared at Robin and Sharn. His voice was a dead echo.

“Fools.”

Robin smiled bravely and said, “You are probably right. But that should not make you angry. You would be dead now if it wasn’t for us.”

Gath watched her with the corners of his eyes, as if remembering vaguely what had happened, but it did not change his tone. “You are still a fool,” he growled. “Sharn may have led you here, but he will never let you leave.” He slipped lower and muttered darkly, “And neither will I.”

He pushed himself away from the wall and stood with legs spread in the middle of the staircase blocking it. He looked impressive, but starting down the stairs was a bad decision. His first step dropped him to his knees and he pitched forward, descended with all the control of a baby emptying its bowels. He finished facedown at Robin’s feet.

Undaunted, Robin fetched furs from the alcove and spread them in front of the fireplace. She helped Gath to his feet, guided him to the furs, and he sprawled there gasping.

Robin placed her knife in the fire, and removed her many vials from her satchel in preparation for a long night’s work. After cleaning and closing his wounds again, she made him chew on the inner bark of a birch tree, then cooked him a broth using meat and vegetables from his larder.

Gath, between short, fitful periods of sleep, spent the night glaring at her, eating, and passing out.

Sharn’s night was spent on the fourth step of the stairwell where he sat like a sentry. He ignored Robin’s attempts at friendship, but did not decline the food she served him.

When morning came, Gath was sleeping soundly. Robin had the room clean and orderly, and was heating water in a brass pot over the fire. As the water simmered, she found a partially concealed alcove, stripped and sponged herself off with a pan of water, then got dressed again, tied back her hair and rouged her lips. She added some herbs and a pale violet powder to the simmering pot, approached the wolf, and spoke in an uncompromising tone.

“I am going out. I need alder and iris roots to clean his wounds. I need clover to keep his spirit strong, roses to clean his blood, and more birch bark to ease his pain. And I need hops to make his sleep peaceful. I will come back, but if you do not believe that, come with me. Now please get out of my way.”

The wolf snarled at her in the manner belligerent men reserve for bossy women. When she started to mount the stairs, he made an extremely unpleasant expression, but got out of her way.

Robin unlocked the front door and went out into the dawn light. Her tenseness melted as the green glory of the primeval forest greeted her. She breathed deeply of its clean, sweet air, then descended a path through the roots and began her search with renewed strength.

She did not have to look far. The forest was a storehouse of magical supplies. A short time later, when she reentered the dwelling, she not only carried the needed medicines in her many pouches, but a skirt full of berries, mushrooms and vegetables. Her expression was buoyant.

She spent the day in much the same way she had spent the night. She redressed Gath’s wounds, fed him, and exchanged smiles for frowns and twinkling eyes for hard glares. When he slept, she slept in a blanket near him. Once she woke up to find him watching her intently, as if she were about to perform some magical feat, and she sat up to ask what he saw. But he looked away, and she withheld the question.

When the forest again surrendered to the night, she prepared a vegetable stew. She filled a bowl, laced it generously with hops, then sat down to feed it to him. Waving her aside, he sat up and fed himself. She fetched herself a bowl, one without hops, then sat down facing him and showed him that she could also feed herself, and far more efficiently, as he dropped generous portions on chest and floor.

Finished, he tossed his bowl among the broken crockery with an air of independence and deliberation. He told her again that she was a fool, and his prisoner as well, then lay back down with an expression of satisfaction that was not the least satisfied.

She smiled at him playfully and replied quietly, “We will see.”

Robin finished her stew, cleaned their bowls, then wrapped herself in her furs. In moments both were sound asleep.

When the fire died down to an orange glow, Sharn also slept.

It was not until well into the darkest part of the night that the animal heard the warning sound of the yellow stone dropping to the floor. His mane bristled. His nostrils dilated. Abruptly, he stood and stared narrow eyed and growling up into the darkness of the staircase. Suddenly his tail dropped between his hind legs and his murderous growl faded to a whimper. He backed numbly down the stairs and into an alcove. His head wagged, and his gut sagged so low it spread out on the floor bringing the rest of him with it. His red tongue lolled out, then his body and head fell over, and he slept.

A moment later, Cobra emerged from the darkness of the stairwell, and her beautiful hypnotic eyes appraised the sleeping wolf. They glittered briefly with amusement, and she stepped out of the shadows, descended. The glow of the firelight played among the deep folds of her emerald robe, touched her metallic skullcap with flashes of red and silver.

Her gold eyes shifted under thin arched eyebrows, and came to rest on the sleeping figures in front of the fire. Kneeling between the Barbarian and Robin, she delicately lifted the furs away from Gath’s body and studied his bandaged wounds. She softly placed her palm across his forehead, held it there, and the corners of her plush red lips made sharp creases in creamy cheeks.

Robin’s eyes suddenly opened, and she sat up. She lunged for her knife, resting on the floor beside her, but Cobra snapped it up. Robin drew back in a crouch, breathing hard, and demanded, “Who are you?”

Cobra answered with her eyes, and their intensity forced Robin back against the hearth. As she stared at the glowing almond eyes, her own eyes took on the expression of clouded glass. She was unable to move.

The Queen of Serpents said almost tenderly, “Do not be afraid. I have no desire to harm him, or you.”

Cobra stood and crossed to the stairwell, then looked back with curiosity. Resentment touched her eyes, then a hand played at her queenly throat, rode down over the thrusting pressure of a full breast, and across her stomach to her hip. Her hot scarlet lips brightened against her cool skin. A dazzling, fleshy temple as proud and sensual as her voice. “He was not made for a mortal like you, child. Only I can give him what he needs.”

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.

THE DOLL

B
ahaara, 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.