Prisoner of the Horned Helmet (18 page)

THE WHITE DOLL

R
obin, kneeling beside the pond, slowly dipped her hands in the water, then splashed it over her face and scrubbed. She shook and wiped the drops off, then blinked at her reflection in the sparkling surface. Her reddish harvest-gold hair was rimmed with a white feathery halo where the sunlight filtered through.

Smiling at her vanity, she picked up an earthen pitcher resting on the ground beside her and scooped up a pitcherful of water, playfully taking it from the place where her reflection smiled back at her. She laughed lightly as her image came apart in glittering ripples, then stood and, propping the pitcher on left hip, started up the shaded slope toward the root house.

Reaching it, she paused to wave at Sharn and the she-wolf sunning themselves in the clear track, then entered and descended the stairs to the main room. Gath sat on his bed of furs, with his back against the hearth and his hand resting on the horned helmet which shared the furs. He wore his loincloth, and throbbing veins webbed his massive muscles. He was shaved, but there was a white pallor around his dark eyes, flakes of ashen callous on his forehead and cheekbones, and his dark hair was shorter, singed and burned at the ends. There was now a deep crease between his eyes, his mouth was stretched flatter, and his expression was of a man who had lived a hundred lifetimes.

Robin smiled brightly and crossed to the table saying, “You always wake up, don’t you? Every time I go out, or get up to put a log on the fire, or even turn over in my sleep.” She set the pitcher down and put her smile on him.

He said, “Habit.”

“Oh, I see. Well, it’s understandable. It must be frightening to live here alone.” She picked up a pair of shears from the table. “Are you going to let me trim your hair now?”

“I’ll do it,” he said quietly.

“I can do it better.”

He shook his head.

She poured fresh water into a waiting cup, kneeled beside him and extended the cup, looking directly into his eyes. He took it and, with lids closed, drank, then let the dripping cup dangle from a finger. Her eyes followed the drops thoughtfully. “Gath, why… why won’t you let me help you?”

He seemed not to hear her. His eyes wandered to the part down the middle of her hair. His empty hand reached curiously, then quickly withdrew. She shifted uneasily at the warmth of his nearness and size. Even in repose he was threatening. She blinked uncertainly, then boldly extended her hand for the cup. He put it in her hand and held it there, his massive grip enclosing her hand and wrist. His voice was a hoarse whisper, and his words were measured.

“Stay with me.”

“Of course,” she said lightly. “If I was acting like I was going to run off, I’m sorry. It’s just that I don’t understand what’s happened to you.” She tried to remove her hand, but he held on, and she stopped trying. “Aren’t you going to tell me?”

He let go of her hand, lifted a red-gold curl away from her cheek, and admitted quietly, “I need you.”

Confusion crowded behind her innocent eyes, and she blushed so intently she was unable to speak.

“I am sorry,” he said. “But you must stay here.”

“But… but for how long?” she stammered. “Even after you’re well?”

His eyes held an uncompromising yes, then filled with guilt, and he stood. Facing the anvil, he began to putter with a belt buckle; a horned death’s-head emblem had recently been hammered in it.

She watched him helplessly, her cheeks still florid, then her words poured out. “Gath, I’m glad you need me. I think that’s what I’ve wanted from the moment we met. But it’s all so confusing and mysterious. And I need you.” She began to sob. “Oh, Gath, I know you don’t want to talk about it, but I’ve got to. The Kitzakks came again. They attacked three villages and destroyed them.” Her head dropped, and she covered her face with her hands. “Oh, Gath, we’re all in such terrible trouble.”

He looked over her shoulder, asked, “You?”

“All of us,” she blurted. “But you most of all. Look!”

She hurried to her bedding, gathered up a cloth bundle, and hurried back. Kneeling, she unwrapped part of it and removed the black doll. He took it from her, grinned grimly while examining it, and tossed it into the fire. Its lacquer burst into flames and crackled hotly.

“Gath,” she pleaded, “you don’t understand! Brown John took it from a bounty hunter. A man the Kitzakks sent to kill you. And there are more, out there in the forest somewhere. Hunting you. Brown John says they strike from shadows. They’ll kill you before you see them.”

“I’ll see them,” he said quietly.

She watched his face darken strangely as he sat back down against the hearth. Boldly she crawled to him and placed a hand on his raised knee. Her eyes found his. “Please, listen. There is a plan, but it needs your help. Brown John has joined the Council of Chiefs, and they’re raising an army for you and Brown John to lead. You just have to. They need a champion.” Her voice pleaded. “That’s why I came. To tell you. You have an army now, just like Brown John said you would. All the tribes will fight, but only if you lead them.”

He did not reply, but an odd, shiny heat of excitement glittered behind his eyes.

“Oh, Gath, you’re our only chance.” Her voice broke, “You must understand that.”

Tears filled her eyes and he looked away, but asked, “If I help, you will stay here?”

“I could, but it wouldn’t make any difference. They’d still find me.” She unwrapped the rest of the cloth saying, “I don’t know why anyone would bother to take the trouble, but they did.”

She removed the white doll. Seeing the likeness, he sat forward, ripped the totem from her hand and held it buried within his thick, knotted fingers. His body pulsed, seeming to expand, and his heat made her flinch and crawl back.

“What is it?” she gasped.

His hand trembled and the doll dropped to the floor. Robin stood abruptly and backed against the wall staring at the image on the floor as Gath squatted over it.

A faint hot red glow appeared on the face of the white doll. It grew hot and brilliant, spreading over its body to spill on the floor.

Robin whimpered and retreated to the staircase. Her foot found the first step, the second, then stopped and she swayed faintly.

His black mane was lifting. When it looked at her, the eyes were glowing, filled with flames.

Robin screamed, bolted up the stairs and out.

He started after her, then stopped short. Turning with a slow ominous movement, he strode to the back of the fireplace where his chain mail was hanging from a peg. He put it on easily, belted it using his new death’s-head buckle, picked up his axe and slung it on his back.

He moved with slow deliberation to the horned helmet, took it in two hands and lifted it above his head. It was slow, hard work. His muscles fought against themselves.

Beads of steaming sweat broke out on his face. Only his eyes were fixed with resolve. His arm pulsed with constricting muscles, and the black metal dungeon grudgingly descended over his head, once more claimed its prisoner. It was an hour before he found her sign. A small footprint in the mud at the side of Smooth Pond. He found another and part of a third amid broken leaves. The three footprints were each a good stride apart, clear indication she was running wildly.

BIG HANDS

A
wagon, with a two-horse hitch and tall red wheels, rolled north along Summer Trail where it passed through the marsh at the southern end of the Shades. In winter the trail was impassable. Now the road was still marked by muddy potholes, but the trees were thinner here and the mud had begun to harden. Streaking low across the ground, the morning sun struck the spokes of the tall wheels and cast moving bars of shadow across the driver, across his light brown armor, and across his long bow which stood in a holster beside him. “Big Hands” Gazul.

Three leopards sprawled on straw spread over the open bed of the wagon. Shallow side boards cast a shadow over their sleek, spotted bodies turning them a cool yellow.

Beside Gazul, dangling from an iron hook, were two black cylindrical pouches he had been issued by the high priest of the Kitzakks, Dang-Ling.

The horses slowed as they began the climb up a grassy hill. A crack of the whip, and the animals bolted forward to the crest. There Gazul reined up.

The road moved down the opposite side of the hill and crossed an open spread of grassy ground, then vanished into a black hole of shadows cast by a foreboding rain forest. The dense growth stretched for miles, rising and dipping between mountains and hills, toward the horizon where white clouds filled the sky. Not a sign of a village or anything human, only the sound of wind playing in the grass, and the occasional hoot or roar of a predator looking for breakfast.

Gazul was without expression. His head was square, but he was not young anymore, and his flaccid flesh gave it a long look. His lids drooped over the outside corners of his eyes. His cheeks were sunken, and the muscles and skin hung down over the corners of his mouth. Thin strands of hair drooped from his upper lip and dangled in irregular patches from his jaw.

He felt among the clutter of tiny, colorful totem pouches dangling from his neck and selected a violet stone jar. He uncorked it and poured a thick, translucent glob of sticky, red fluid onto his tongue. Hashradda, an expensive stimulant favored by beastmen who trained animals for warfare. He sucked on his tongue until color blotched his loose flesh, and his eyes brightened, giving him a virile expression.

He looked again at the forest, then flicked the reins. The wagon made a half circle and started back. When it was about to descend behind the hill, the wagon bed lurched and he glanced back. The three cats, tails swishing, were standing with their paws resting on the raised tailgate. Gazul reined up sharply.

A figure had plunged out of the distant hole in the shadowy forest, a short staggering figure with light hair.

Gazul tongued the corner of his mouth thoughtfully, then tied off the reins, climbed down to the ground and removed his waterskin from a hook on the back of the driver’s box. He poured water into a shallow pail, then fed it to his leopards and two horses. By the time he had finished, the figure had reached the back of the wagon and stopped there. It was a disheveled and frightened young girl.

She studied Gazul a moment with wary eyes, then looked at the leopards and instinctively smiled, moved closer. The leopards snarled and purred threateningly.

“It’s all right,” she cooed. “We’re friends… aren’t we?”.

They lowered their small heads with their lithe muscular necks, and sniffed her face and hair. She crooned and scratched their furry jaws.

Gazul watched with puzzled eyes. With a show of mild indifference, he sauntered to the back of the wagon, and stopped at a harmless distance from the girl.

He said, “They’ve never let anyone touch ’em before. That’s weird. Real weird.”

“I like animals,” she said in a tone that explained everything. “And I guess they know it.”

He extended the waterskin. “Got a name?”

She nodded. “Robin.” She took the waterskin. “Thank you.”

“Pretty,” he said, careful to make his comment apply only to her name, not to the parts of her he was thinking about.

She drank deep, returned the waterskin and asked, “Could you tell me where we are? I… I got lost.”

“I’m new to these parts, but some folks back up the way said this road is called Summer Trail.”

She sighed. “Thank goodness.”

Gazul looked past her shoulder at the forest and said, “They told me there would be good hunting out this way, but I’m afraid I’m not good enough for this kind of country. Looks too wild.”

“It is,” Robin said quickly. “They shouldn’t have sent you out here.”

“Well, you know folks,” Gazul said in an easy tone. “Maybe I went farther than they meant me to.” He smiled. “Need a lift?”

“Thank you,” Robin said. “I’d be glad to ride in the back with your cats.”

“No,” Gazul said firmly. “Wouldn’t do. I don’t mind you petting ’em a bit, but, you know, I don’t want ’em gettin’ too friendly with people.” Gazul turned his back on her, moved to the front of the wagon, and climbed into the driver’s box. Staring ahead, he said, “Climb aboard if you’re coming.”

Robin hurried forward, climbed up and sat tiredly on the board seat beside Gazul. Gazul glanced back down the road and frowned. A huge wolf had bounded out of the forest and was plunging through the grass headed his way. A second wolf followed but was limping and falling behind fast. Gazul glanced suspiciously at Robin with the corner of an eye. She had closed her eyes and was catching her breath. He whipped the horses hard and the wagon bolted down the hill with a lunge. Robin grabbed the side boards and held on, gasping.

Gazul chuckled, “Might as well enjoy ourselves.”

He laughed a laughter which he was certain the innocent girl had never heard before. It was vicious, brutal. She shivered slightly and turned to the leopards. They were standing in the wagon bed with their heads right behind her. Their mouths were open, drinking the air as it whipped past.

She looked at Gazul. “They look hungry. Can I feed them?”

“Nope. Got nothing to feed them.”

“I’ve got some bread,” she lifted her satchel.

“Forget it,” he said easily. “They only get the best.”

She half smiled. “What’s that?”

“People,” he said. Then he laughed riotously and whipped the horses forward until the wagon was racing along the dirt road and bounding over rises, almost flying.

Robin, clinging to the wagon, shouted breathlessly, “Could you please slow down?”

“Could,” Gazul hollered. “But won’t. I paid heavy silver for those big wheels, so I use ’em every chance I get.” He chuckled, whipped the horses again, then dropped the reins and held up his big hands laughing. “Look! No hands.”

Robin moaned quietly, and hung on as the road raced past underneath her. Out of the corner of her eye she watched the colorful pouches bounce on his chest. Without looking at her he answered her unasked question, “Got to have a lot of totems in my trade. They’re mostly, you know, teeth and finger bones.” He nodded with the back of his head at the leopards. “Things they don’t eat.”

She frowned with annoyance. “Why are you trying to frighten me?”

“Just answering your questions,” he shouted.

“I didn’t ask you any question,” she shouted back.

“Yes, you did,” he said. Then he reached inside his leather chest armor, and came away with a large padded glove. He slipped it over his right hand, and worked his fingers into it carefully. Then, smiling at Robin, he held up the gloved hand. “Nice, huh?”

She did not reply, then shrugged. He laughed, and made a fist with the gloved hand as he hollered over the racket of the wheels. “Had it made special. I just love hitting women, but I can’t afford to break their skin. It lowers their price.” He laughed again, a wet throaty laughter.

Robin, with sudden panic in her eyes, looked around at the landscape flying past them as if she wanted to jump.

He hollered, “Want me to stop?”

She looked at him with big pleading eyes. He laughed uproariously, then suddenly stopped short, pulling hard on the reins. The wagon skidded to a stop. As it did, Gazul stood up abruptly, and glared with startled eyes past Robin. She turned sharply to see what he saw. Seeing only a clump of bushes, she turned back in time to see his gloved fist coming for her jaw.

It caught her flush on the side of the face, lifted her out of the seat, then dropped her. She landed on the ground like a sack of potatoes. Gazul dropped casually to the ground and toed her unconscious body. “You’re one dumb sugarhole, girl. That’s the oldest trick in the book.” He laughed some more. “But you are special. Real special.”

He picked her up, dumped her in the back of the wagon with his leopards, then climbed back into the driver’s box and glanced up, then down the road. The road ahead was empty. The back road was the same, but a turn in it blocked his view, so he drove rapidly down to a side trail. He turned down it, then parked behind a tangle of concealing thick brush and overhanging tree limbs, and scrambled onto the bed, squatted over Robin.

Using a dagger he slit her tunic at the middle of the square collar, then ripped it apart all the way to the hem. He pulled her arms out one at a time, then took hold of the tunic and yanked on it hard, rolling her over roughly and pulling the garment off. He tossed the tunic into the underbrush, then rolled her onto her back. A smirk squirmed its way through his flabby face as he stroked her nude stomach, and cupped a firm breast in a calloused hand. After some of this, he said aloud, “Enough of that,” and spanked the playing hand with his other one, laughing.

That was when the huge grey wolf erupted from the shrubs at a dead run and leapt for the wagon. The animal landed lightly on top of a side board, bounded over the surprised leopards, and caught the startled Gazul in the chest with his full weight. The impact drove man and wolf out of the wagon.

They landed with a crunch on powdery dirt, and rolled over in swirling dust onto all fours. Knowing this position favored the wolf, Gazul howled, but it only seemed to encourage the animal. It drove for Gazul’s throat, just missed, but tore off a strip of shoulder. The man screamed and scrambled back. The wolf whirled towards the wagon and the three leopards leaped at it. Gazul, recognizing their mistake, screamed a warning. Too late. The wolf leapt up into the body of the first cat and his jaws snapped hard.

Cat and wolf hit the ground, and broke apart. The cat’s throat was hanging from the wolf’s mouth. His fur was raked with claws.

The surviving leopards spun in place, and faced the wolf snarling as Gazul shouted, “Kill it! Kill it!”

In reply, the wolf drew his lips back behind bloody fangs and the cat’s meaty throat fell in the dirt.

This only increased the bounty hunter’s volume, and there was only one thing on his mind. “Kill it! Kill it! Kill it!”

The leopards hesitated, and Gazul sobbed knowing why. They loved the chase and hated the pit fight, while the wolf loved it. He charged the nearest cat, but it raised up, circling for the wolfs back with its claws slashing. The wolf let it slash, dove under it, found the soft underbelly, and his jaws snapped. His teeth went into the meat up to gums, and hung on as they whirled and rolled.

A fountain of blood spurted from the fight, and Gazul whimpered and went limp, unable to do anything but watch.

The wolf, with its teeth tearing cat flesh, had his muzzle drowned in hot blood, then his jaws came away leaving a hole in the cat’s belly. But his triumph was short as the third cat raked the wolf’s belly, then bore into the belly’s wound with its teeth.

Howling, the wolf spun, whirled, and finally tore himself free. In the process his jaws found a cat’s foreleg, broke it, and the cat backed away from the fight limping. The bleeding wolf followed relentlessly. The cat tripped and the wolf charged, burying his teeth in its neck. Under him the cat had all three good legs working on his underbelly, but the wolf kept his jaws clamped and stayed on his feet. The two animals worked in this position until the cat finally went limp.

Gazul, whimpering, watched the wolf back away from his third kill and turn on him. Transfixed with fear, Gazul looked around and discovered he was sitting on the ground with his back against a tree while his dagger was ten feet away. Cursing his luck, he watched the wolf advance slowly. All the middle of him was gone or hanging. The animal dropped just short of Gazul’s shaking boot, shuddered and died.

When Gazul’s legs steadied, he got back in the wagon, and squatted over Robin. She was still unconscious.

He whispered, “Well, pretty one, you have cost me my three treasures, but you will buy me six more.”

He took henna and umber from his satchel, and mixed a dye with water. Then he colored the hair on her head, under her arms and at her groin a dark chestnut. Using a sticky substance, he made a scar over her left eye, then removed a plain tunic from a bundle of clothing in the wagon bed. As he put it on her, she began to revive. He played with her a little then. She tried to stop him, but was helpless. With one hand he forced her mouth open and poured the contents of a red vial down her throat. By the time he had finished dressing her she was unconscious again.

He threw some straw over her, then climbed back into the driver’s box. There he picked up one of the black cylindrical pouches, removed the doll of Robin. He stroked it possessively, then glanced back at the sleeping form and grinned. “They’ll never know you, lass. Least not ’til you and I reach Bahaara and have a long hot bath.” He laughed, put the doll away, and drove off.