James Silke - Prisoner of the Horned helmet

He removed a red earthenware jar carved in the shape of a butterfly from his robes. He uncorked it, extended it to the two commanders. “Apply it liberally. It is a very old and potent formula whose magical powers are assured. It is made from his own living totems. You will not even have to look for this dark Barbarian. He will find you.”

Trang and Chornbott dipped their fingers into the jar, came away with a grimy, pungent, green ointment, and eagerly applied it to their genitals. It went on easily. The fingernail clippings and pubic hairs which Cobra had stolen from Gath of Baal had been ground to a fine pulp along with his spittle and other ingredients. When they finished, the two large men whispered prayers to the Butterfly Goddess, and got dressed.

An amphora of temple wine called Bwong was then removed from the supply wagon and served by the temple guards. When the cups or helmets of the regiment were filled, all present raised their vessels, gave the required toast, then downed the Bwong in one gulp. They drank to murder.

The morning sun splashed over Calling Rock, flowed through its crevices and gullies, and spilled across the flat clearing at the crest to anoint Robin’s sleeping, tousled head with a cool gold light. She was not alone. A yellow-eyed, ten-foot python dangled out of the thorn tree. It was awake. Its tongue flickered inches from her face. She stirred, brushed a hand sleepily across her eyes and blinked at the warm touch of sunshine. She rolled up on an elbow. The python spread its jaws with a rasping hiss that did not exactly say good morning, and, to let her know what kind of day it was going to be, displayed glistening rows of sharp teeth and two cold, black eyes set in a green scaled head. Robin screamed.

The python gathered to strike, and the leaf-shaped blade of a spear drove into its skull with a sharp crack, nailed it to the trunk of the tree.

The body of the huge reptile dropped out of the tree and coiled violently around the offending spear, collapsed when the spear was pulled out. Its tangled weight hit Robin’s legs as she scrambled away and knocked her flat. She screamed again, kicking at the writhing, thrashing serpent, finally rolled free and sat up on her haunches still screaming.

A shadow moved over her body. She stopped, looked up, screamed again, and buried her face under arms and elbows.

A huge, dark Barbarian stood over her. The bloody, leaf-shaped spear dangled from his right hand. His face was flushed. His dark eyes gleamed intently under the threatening bulk of his forehead. His helmet, tied to his belt, bulged at his hip like an unnatural growth. His armor, glistening on his chest, rose and fell ominously. The movement made the black fur under the armor appear to be growing from his oak-brown flesh.

Robin peeked from under an elbow and saw an arm reach for her. Its hand looked big enough to send to school. She gasped and scrambled back.

He put a foot on the hem of her tunic and brought her to a sudden stop. Frantically, she hid behind her arms again as the hand advanced like a siege weapon. It hesitated, then parted her arms until it found her face. She watched its thumb hover in front of her mouth, a breath away from the trembling curve of her lower lip. Then it gently stroked the lip.

Paralyzed, she closed her eyes, felt the thumb work her lip, then opened her eyes to see the veins cording along a thick metal-clad arm, moving each nick and hair, and surging with the taut muscles of his shoulder and thick neck. Her lids fluttered, then her head tilted back, and she looked into his shadowed face. Dark stubble of beard. Bright hard white teeth. Eyes that hid under a shaggy brow. Grey animal eyes of the predator ruled by the laws of claw and fang, yet black wounds opening on to a haunted past, to the child long buried within. Eyes proud of their mysteries. Eyes that had hidden his feelings too well and long, but which could not hide from her.

A rush of empathy pulsed through her, bringing color to her cheeks. Her smile was not far behind.

He touched her curved cheek, then studied her smile so intently it seemed he thought it had a life of its own.

Boldly she asked, “Are… are you Gath of Baal?”

His dark brow lifted as if he had never heard his name before.

She tried again. “You are?”

His eyes moved to her eyes and quickly withdrew. He turned to the tree, kicked the shuddering python aside, picked up her things and handed them to her. She took her belt with its dangling pouches, slid her knife into its sheath. She tied her cloak and blanket into a bundle and hung it on the end of her walking stick. She did all this with her eyes on Gath and speaking rapidly, in short breaths.

“I… I’m sorry,” she said. “I was wrong to scream. I should have thanked you… and I do thank you. You saved my life.”

“Go,” he said quietly. “You should not be here.”

She nodded, pleaded, “But… if you are… Gath of Baal, I must talk to you.”

He took hold of her elbow, guided her toward the trail at the north rim.

“Go! You do not belong here.”

With a willful strength she yanked free and confronted him bravely. “I will not go! Not yet! I have a message.”

“I have no use for messages,” he said curtly and pushed her forward.

She staggered, then stood her ground. “It’s important! Brown John sent me.”

“Go!”

“But I can’t.” Tears choked her words. “Not until… oh, please listen.”

Tears welled in her eyes; the corners of his mouth drew down hard. Gath’s eyes lost all expression, and he started back toward the eastern rim leaving her behind. She stared in disbelief, watched him stride casually past a massive grey timber wolf that was staring at her as if she were a disobedient pup. The wolf barked. Robin gasped, and hollered at the man.

“Wait!”

Gath kept moving, vanished among the boulders.

Robin started after him, then at the wolf and sank with defeat. A large cat howled somewhere nearby. She looked around wildly, the color gone from her cheeks. Warily she started for the trail at the north rim. After five steps she was trotting, then running.

She tore through shrubs and boulders, reached a crevice filled with loose rubble, and dashed down. She did nicely for ten strides, then slipped on the loose earth, pitched forward, hit the ground and rolled and slid for thirty feet raising a cloud of dust. The decision to stop was made by a flat wall, a painful decision to which Robin replied with a thud and a groan. When she opened her eyes, she was bruised and bloody, smothered with dust, sweat and sunshine. The crevice now angled west, and she was looking directly into the blazing ball of white gold still low in the morning sky.

The light, streaming through billowing dust, blinded her. Shading her eyes with a hand she started forward, blinking, trying to see the ground. Suddenly a rubble of rocks came loose under her feet. She staggered forward trying to keep her balance. The loose ground was not of a mind to help her. It abruptly dropped away at a steep incline, and she went racing down, arms flailing, into the dusty golden light.

This time she came to a sudden standing halt, arms spread, and bounced; but snapped back. Her body was stuck flat against a wall of light. All except one leg. It dangled helplessly, like a noodle just before it is swallowed.

Dazed and astounded, she wrenched wildly at whatever held her, but could not get free. She pulled her head back, looked down, and a spasm of horror tore through her. Just below her chin was a hairy, thick rope, coated with a sticky wet substance which glistened in the golden sunlight. Her hands, arms, and body were glued to a huge spider web. It spread like a target to the sides of the crevice. Her right leg, from the knee down, hung loosely over the open center of the web.