Rise of the Death Dealer (27 page)

COSTUME CHANGE

T
he light of a standing torch flickered over the silhouettes of two figures on the heights of Chela Kong. Below them, on the southern slope, the Barbarian Army was gathered in small groups staring south. In the distance, tiny specks of light grew fainter and fainter as the Kitzakk Army withdrew, then vanished and were replaced by the star-filled night.

“Are they retreating?” Robin whispered to Brown John.

“No,” he answered tiredly, “I’m afraid they’re just moving back to a far more favorable position, Bahaara. There they will ignore our badly equipped army and celebrate their success. Public execution is their favorite amusement.”

“Oh, Brown John, what have I done?”

Brown John patted her shoulder and whispered firmly, “Do not despair, small one. Look around you. Not a single man has fled. See!” He lifted her chin with a finger. “The army is more determined than ever now and so am I.”

A rush of hope lifted her eyes and voice. “What are you going to do?”

“We are going to do precisely what we Grillards do best. Pit our particular skills against theirs, and change our costumes.”

“You’re going to Bahaara!” she gasped.

“Of course! Bahaara is now the stage, so we are duty bound to use it.” He turned towards two figures moving up towards them and chuckled. “Here is our wardrobe now.”

The
bukko
gestured with dancing fingers, and Bone and Dirken stepped into the glow of torchlight. In their arms were heaps of filthy tattered clothes. They tossed them in front of their father with a flourish surpassing his own.

Bone, holding his nose, pronounced, “There has never been, nor will there ever be, a filthier bunch of rags. You can count on it.”

“Whew!” Robin wrinkled her tiny nose. “How can you call them costumes. They’re disgusting!”

Dirken, profoundly offended, thinned his eyes at her. “Because filth, young woman, is the most convincing adornment in the theatrical profession. And this is the real thing.” He threw a hand at the tattered clothes. “Those slavers rubbed camel urine in them to drive off scorpions and evil spirits.”

“They’d drive off anything with a nose, that’s a fact,” she replied jauntily.

Brown John laughed. “Robin, I believe you will find these garments to be priceless. In Bahaara, we will not only be ignored, we will be avoided.” He winked at his sons. “Well done, lads. Good thinking.”

Exchanging I-told-you-so nudges, Bone and Dirken grinned broadly.

Brown John turned to Robin and, with deliberation, bowed. “Now child, as you have the principal role, you get first pick.”

Robin choked. “Me?”

“Of course,” said Brown John. “Rags are the only clothing the Kitzakk reptile hunters wear. With some simply made forked sticks, we can enter Bahaara without suspicion and move about freely. No Kitzakk willingly associates with such disgusting characters.”

Robin nodded. “I understand, but… but you know I’m not an actress. I won’t know what to say.”

“You, child, will not need to say.anything,” Brown said with flat confidence. “You are, for reasons I have sworn not to reveal, essential to him. If he can get a glimpse of you, we have a chance.”

“We… we can save him?”

“We can try.”

Robin hesitated, then bent over tentatively and picked up a rag. She considered it solemnly for a long moment, then said, “Well, if I cut my hair, I think I could look like a boy!”

They all chuckled, then laughed out loud in a warmth of companionship Robin had never shared before. It was as if she were one of them. A Grillard player about to take the stage.

THEATER OF DEATH

B
ahaara’s place of execution was an outdoor arena at the eastern extremity of the city. Its dirt stage was backed by a stone wall, and a red-carpeted staircase ascended the center of the wall to a landing with two tunnels. The one at stage right had a red arch, while the one at stage left had a black and orchid arch. At the sides of the stage were ground-level access passages linked to the stage by ramps. Facing the stage was a semicircle of empty, tiered seats.

Skull soldiers were dragging the Death Dealer’s weighty, unconscious body across the stage to a whipping post. He wore only a fur loincloth and the horned helmet. His flesh was shiny with sweat, and blotched with bruises. Several leaked thin trails of blood.

After chaining the dark Barbarian to the post, one soldier took hold of the horned helmet and pulled on it repeatedly without success. He cursed and moved back into the passage following the other soldier. Moments later he returned with a hammer and wedge and began to hammer the bottom rim of the helmet. Blood promptly started running down the Barbarian’s back and chest.

Dang-Ling emerged from the black and orchid arched tunnel and stopped on the landing. He clapped his hands, once, and the soldier looked up in embarrassment. Dang-Ling waved him off brusquely, and the soldier backed quickly down the ramp into the access tunnel. The high priest looked down smugly at the captive’s limp body, then turned and bowed as Klang’s black-robed figure emerged from the red arched tunnel.

“Why did you stop him?” Klang growled.

“I thought it best, my lord,” Dang-Ling replied in a carefully cordial tone, “that his distinctive helmet remain on his head so that when the people arrive tomorrow they will have no doubt that the man whose head you remove is the true Death Dealer. It, of course, will be taken off before the execution begins.”

A tense silence passed between them. Dang-Ling whispered, “I have made all the arrangements. Come tonight, at the midnight hour. You will have your request.”

Klang watched the high priest with the corners of his eyes. “There’s no need now. I have decided not to fight him, simply execute him.”

Dang-Ling bowed obediently. “The decision is yours, of course, I would not presume to direct you…”He paused artfully.

“Yes?” demanded Klang.

With a troubled tremor, Dang-Ling whispered, “This demon is very unpredictable, my lord. Nothing with him turns out to be simple. If you will allow me to advise you,” he hesitated, “I would take every precaution, and use the strongest weapon available.”

A look of contempt came over Klang’s face. He pushed the priest aside and moved halfway down the staircase, his eyes fixed on the prisoner. The whipping post began to shudder. The dark helmet raised and the Barbarian’s sinewy mass of bunched muscles and hot nerves thrashed powerfully against the wood and chains. It ceased suddenly, momentarily spent and pacified, but still menacing and upraised. A red glow burned at Klang behind the eye slits of the helmet.

Klang involuntarily stepped back. Self-consciously he stiffened and rolled his shoulders, flexing proudly. Then he turned away and slowly returned to Dang-Ling.

The high priest said quietly, “You will have reactions like quicksilver, and the strength of the Master of Darkness himself.”

“The price, priest, the price?”

Dang-Ling smiled innocently. “A trifle. In exchange, the sorceress merely asks for the horned helmet.”

“She’ll have it.” He strode through the red arch, and his cape swirled behind him blending with the shadows.

Dang-Ling held his breath as the warlord’s booted feet tramped down the tunnel. With a sigh of relief, he started to leave but paused at the sounds of excited voices, running feet. The sound grew and a filthy, babbling, scratching group of scavengers surged through an entrance tunnel on the opposite side of the arena and clambered down the tiers of seats.

Dang-Ling clapped his hands sharply.

Skull soldiers trotted up both ramps and spread out in a line around the edges of the stage. One carried the Death Dealer’s axe and chained it to the front edge of the stage. Seeing it, a group of the scavengers howled raucously and surged forward to stroke its awesome steel. Others sat down chattering in the front rows. They wore rags, and crude decorations on their naked parts; arrows, bolts of lightning and numerals were the most popular. Several were stark naked and stained bright vermilion or yellow. They all had a drugged glint to their eyes. There were several women, ragged, bangled and unwashed. The mongrel trash of Bahaara. Among them were numerous forked sticks.

Dang-Ling covered his nose and mouth with his cape and hurried under the black arch almost colliding with Cobra. Her cloak was clutched tightly about her, the hood pulled low. Her face was fraught with fear.

“Snake finders,” she rasped.

“Are you surprised?” Dang-Ling asked indifferently. “They’re everywhere these days, but usually only a minor irritation. I told Klang the helmet would be removed tomorrow at the third hour, just before the execution begins.”

She looked at him vindictively, but spoke respectfully. “I will gladly remove the helmet, but not in the daylight. I will not expose myself to that crowd of vultures.”

Dang-Ling frowned. “Then you will do it tonight, when the city sleeps. Only my guards will be on duty at that time. They will see you are left quite alone with him.”

She nodded agreement, and looked down at the Death Dealer’s chained body. “Klang must understand that he has fed on the helmet’s powers for many days now. Even without it he will be dangerous.”

“Klang has been informed, and is ready to accept your assistance.”

“What did you tell him,” she asked warily.

“As little as possible. Just make certain the magic potion you prepare is more than sufficient.”

She smiled disdainfully. “Nothing can withstand the strength of our Master, but it will only last a day and drain most of his own resources. After tomorrow he will be only the shell of the man he is now.”

“That cannot concern us. All that matters is that the execution goes smoothly, and the helmet be returned.”

She turned sharply so his milky face was within inches, and snapped, “No! That is not all. I will be revenged.” Her eyes were as wavering as arrows in flight.

Dang-Ling blinked behind his wet lashes, then turned, and she followed him back down the tunnel.

At the opposite side of the arena, four more Snake Finders huddled against the back wall watching the Skull soldiers drive off scavengers trying for a closer look at the chained prisoner. One of them was a young boy with short reddish hair, dressed in shapeless rags. There were tears in his eyes.

COBRA’S BITE

B
aak conducted the striding warlord through the dimly lit corridors of the Temple of Dreams. Klang’s eyes were without light or warmth, as confident as tombstones. Reaching a heavy wooden door, Baak knocked, opened it, and Klang strode in.

Dang-Ling, waiting just inside, bowed in welcome. A single torch in a silver embrasure lit the room. The shadows on the far walls expanded and shrank at the touch of the orange light.

“Where is she?” Klang demanded.

Dang-Ling bowed again. “We are alone, my lord. The sorceress says that the potion works more effectively without the presence of a female.”

“Potion?” Klang asked abruptly. “If that is all there is to it, give it to me.”

Dang-Ling spoke coolly. “It is not simply a potion.”

“Then what?”

“It is a fresh venom, my lord.”

Klang went white. When he finally spoke, his voice was dry. “All right, priest, venom. Just so you are certain of what it will do!”

“Absolutely.”

Klang extended his hand, waited. Dang-Ling hesitated, looking at the empty palm, then up with professional candor into the warlord’s expectant eyes. “There is one more thing. It can not be swallowed. It must be… administered.”

Klang said nothing for a moment, then, “How?”

“Injected, my lord.”

Again the warlord paused, and again asked the same question. Dang-Ling indicated the pool. Klang peered over the edge and jumped back, drawing his sword.

The pool was drained but not empty. Lying on its bottom in a neat coil was a ten-foot, emerald-green cobra. Its head lifted, and the black balls at the centers of its yellow eyes stared at the warlord.

Klang turned on the priest, growling, “Fool! How can you let filth like that creep in here? The Goddess’ own temple?”

Dang-Ling replied calmly, “It is not an accident. The sorceress placed it there herself.”

Klang looked down at the green serpent, and his breath came in harsh gasps.

“The serpent’s fangs are the instruments which will inject the venom.”

“No!” growled Klang. He turned on the priest. “That is madness! I can not, I will not submit my flesh to such filth. What kind of foreign practice is this?”

“An extraordinary one,” said Dang-Ling quietly. “With the venom comes the strength of the Lord of Death himself. You cannot fail. With your people watching, you will destroy the Barbarian and regain their absolute confidence.”

Klang looked down at the menacing snake, “All right!” he said quietly. “I will let it bite me. Once.” He started down the steps into the stone bath.

“Wait,” Dang-Ling requested. He indicated the sword in Klang’s hand. “You must leave your sword behind, in case your natural instincts betray you and you attack as it strikes.”

Klang shuddered, but set his sword and sheath down on the stone rim of the pool.

“One more thing,” Dang-Ling said quietly. When Klang looked at him, he added, “The reptile is a very carefully cultured species, and while its venom is extraordinarily powerful, to obtain the best results, it should be injected as close as possible to the genitals.”

Klang turned white again. He swayed, then brought himself erect. Defiantly, he struggled out of his armor and clothing, and tossed them aside. With a deep breath, he advanced steadily into the tub, white from forehead to toenails.

Dang-Ling, impressed by his reckless bravery, clasped his hands in excitement and held his breath.

Klang reached the floor of the stone bath, and stood, legs astride, at the center. The reptile uncoiled languidly in front of him, as high as his eyes. Its hood spread wide, a brilliant black and yellow-green. Its tongue darted. Its jaws parted displaying rows of sharp teeth, and two upper fangs of curving white porcelain. As Klang waited, the sweat drained off him and puddled at his feet.

The snake dived for his genitals, and buried its fangs deep.

Klang screamed and staggered back ripping the head away, and flung the snake across the hole. He dashed up the stairs and snatched up his sword.

“No!” screamed Dang-Ling. “If you kill it, the magic will be turned against you.”

Cupping his wound, Klang glared from the reptile to Dang-Ling, and back to the reptile. Its hooded head floated three feet above the ground. Suddenly Klang’s hands stiffened, his fingers trembled, and his sword dropped with a clatter.

Dang-Ling retired quietly to a corner to watch.

Klang looked down at his trembling hand in wonderment, as if it belonged to someone else. He squatted over his armor and clothes, and a tremor ripped through him, dropping him to his knees and fists. His body convulsed, rippled with growth, and blood trickled from his nose and ears. It was bright against his suddenly alabaster flesh. He shuddered again, then, defying the pain and blood, he Stood and dizzily picked up his things. Two inches of scaled tail protruded from his flesh just above his anus.

Klang had grown a good five inches taller and six inches thicker. Like a man asleep he forced his massive arms through the sleeves of his tunic. The sounds of ripping cloth cut the silence. Oblivious, he continued to dress with similar results. Finally, he turned his dazed eyes to Dang-Ling.

The high priest smiled. “Excellent. You are superb now.”

Klang smiled back, as if not certain why. A dull acquiescence glazed his normally bright black eyes.

Dang-Ling picked up Klang’s sword and sheath and guided him to the door, patting him soothingly on his hard rump. “Get some rest. I will see you tomorrow, at the third hour. You’ll be just fine.”

Klang nodded, took his sword and sheath, and numbly shuffled out the door as Dang-Ling closed it behind him. The high priest threw back his head and laughed deliciously, then stopped himself short as Cobra’s voluptuous, armored body emerged slowly from the empty pool. She looked exhausted. Dang-Ling composed himself and hurried to help her, murmuring praise.

In the corridor outside, Klang headed back the way he had come. The halls were empty, dark and silent except for some slight ripping/sounds. There were beads of sweat on his face, his eyes swam, and he felt sick to his stomach. It rumbled, and he passed gas with a sound like rolling thunder. He stopped, looked about, uncertain as to just what had happened, then moved on. As he stumbled out the temple door, he hiccupped and smoke drifted past his lips.