James Silke - Prisoner of the Horned helmet

On the upper tiers were rows of steaming wooden vats of dye the size of small houses. Workers, male and female, stirred the fabrics in the vats with long, heavy, wooden paddles. Golds, yellows and mustards made from safflower and fustic stained their naked bodies and loincloths, as did reds, rusts and oranges made from madder, and the roots of Teima, Arrashad and Fantell berries which had been harvested and dried in spring. The Cytherians dyed the huge squares of finished cloth rather than the spools of thread. Consequently, there was considerable spillage and the heights of the village, as well as many of the residents, tended to change colors with the seasons. Even the supervising priests in their formal tunics of spun gold and silver sported red and yellow stains.

Above the steaming vats was a level space, circled by unpainted wooden buildings, and a wooden temple. Weaver Court. In its sunny yard the children of Weaver were taught the village trade by the elders. Within the temple the virgin maidens of Weaver spun cloth to the music of their own voices.

Weaver Court was surrounded on three sides by sheer bluffs called the Heights. They rose twenty feet above the roofs of the temple and formed a large, irregular spread of flat ground fed by many footpaths. Here the wet dyed cloth was spread to dry on poles. The resulting effect was a single multicolored patchwork flag of yellows, oranges and reds, the gigantic banner of a fairy-tale village.

Robin picked herself up and half-skipped toward the village. Nearing it she drank in the familiar scents of the hot, moist steaming dyes that mixed with the pungent odors of lye, lime and the fresh urine used in the washing. Reaching the clearing she heard footsteps behind her and turned around to see Gath coming down the road. The wolf waited behind at the edge of the forest. Neither looked at her.

Gain’s eyes were fixed on the frantic activity at the bridges. Groups of men, half-hidden by dust, were noisily working on the gates with hammers, nails, saws and curses. When he neared Robin, he looked up at Weaver Pass and tilted his head slightly, listening to something she could not hear.

“What are you doing here?” she asked.

He looked at her as if he had not realized she was there, and said, “Nothing.” He glanced at the village. “Is this your home?”

“Yes,” she replied proudly.

He looked at her warily and said accusingly, “You are a sorceress. You brought me here?”

“What?” she exclaimed. “Me? A sorceress!” She almost giggled. But, seeing he was deadly serious, she stopped herself and spoke evenly. “I didn’t bring you, honestly. I’m not magic, not at all! I only weave cloth.”

He scratched his shin with the shaft of his spear, then growled, “Tell me your name.”

She blushed, averted her head slightly and watched his eyes with the corners of her own. “Robin… Robin Lakehair.”

She waited, but no other question came. With artless sincerity, she said, “I want to thank you again. I owe you my life, and I won’t forget it. If there’s anything I…”

“We are finished now,” he said abruptly.

She hesitated and her lips curved up slightly. “Then why did you follow me?”

He said, “You healed the she-wolf,” as if it explained everything.

She nodded solemnly, then tried again to communicate. “Can… would you let me explain now? I’ll only take a…”

He shook his head.

She dropped her eyes, turned without speaking and headed directly across the clearing toward the Forest Gate. But her feet betrayed her, and dragged. She felt, for the first time in her life, as if she were doing something absolutely and terribly wrong. But there was no explanation for it.

At that moment Dirken and Bone emerged from Border Road behind Gath. They were wheezing and grumbling. Robin, then Gath, turned and saw them, and they, humiliated, edged back out of sight into the forest.

Robin hesitated thoughtfully, then turned back toward the gate and wandered directionless through women herding goats and spinning wool not seeing their welcoming smiles. She passed through a crowd of boys battling with stick swords, reached the gate and suddenly stopped, looked off at the cataracts.

A distant thundering was coming out of the massive shelves of grey rock. It grew louder by the heartbeat.

Spellbound, Robin looked back across the clearing at Gath.

He stood facing the cataracts, head lowered. He unbuckled his helmet from his belt, lifted it above his head and lowered it into place, waited. A predator scenting blood.

Robin shuddered, looked back at the cataracts.

Dust billowed up out of the pass, and mounted Kitzakk raiders erupted from its mouth, plunged toward the three bridges screeching.

An alarm gong clanged inside the village. The women in the clearing screamed as they drove the children and animals toward the forest. In the village women cried out and raced to find their children, scurrying through men who scrambled for their weapons.

Robin, shuddering, looked back at Gath as he slipped his axe off his back, then turned sharply, hearing the sharp cries of children coming from Weaver Court. She plunged into the flow of bodies spilling out the gate, fought her way through them and ran into the village.

Gath started after Robin, then stopped short and turned toward the charging raiders, slowly, like a nail being bent by a crowbar.

Two metal-clad commanders led the screaming, skull-faced raiders. The pair carried huge weapons that glittered, and they themselves radiated streaking spears of white light from an eerie glow at their groins.

Gath blinked. His breathing became deep, racking and noisy. A vast heat filled his world. Light obliterated sound. Nothing moved for him except the two illuminated, metallic champions. They seemed to plunge slowly as if galloping through a sky of blood. He started for the raiders in a slow steady march, his feet plodding like those of a condemned man. The piercing screech of women cut through his enchanted world, brought him back to the real world of dirt, panic and the smell of fear.

He looked back at the Forest Gate. Animals, men, women and children were spewing out, heading for the safety of the trees in wagons and on foot. Gath’s face became hard and expressionless behind the mask of his helmet, then he again turned back to the raiders, as if held in the grip of an invisible demon.

The Kitzakks had split up into two groups and were plunging across the two closest bridges. The structures shuddered and shook under the pounding hooves dislodging heavy chunks of their earthen bodies into the gorge.

Cytherian defenders, spears in hand and snarling, met the charge at the bridges. Neither their weapons nor attitudes were sufficient. All but two panicked and ran before the steel-shod avalanche reached them. The two remaining took crossbow bolts in their foreheads and dropped in place. Their fleeing comrades died soon after, catching flying steel bolts with their backs and necks.

Hefting his spear and axe, Gath forced himself to turn away and march to the Forest Gate, pushing through the thin remnant of fleeing bodies. Inside, panic had sucked the life out of the village. He could hear sounds of clanging steel and cursing at the opposite end of the village where Cytherian warriors were fighting the raiders. Ignoring the inviting noise, he passed a wagonload of unshaven, leather-clad mercenaries who apparently considered fighting Kitzakks not part of their contract to protect Weaver. He continued through deserted wagons jammed at a crossroads, passed a man holding his dislocated jaw with both hands, and saw another with straw held against the bleeding stump of his wrist. The incessant clanging of the alarm stopped abruptly. He hesitated, listened, then strode on passing open windows and open doors. From the shadows beyond them came the silence of empty rooms, empty beds and empty chairs.