James Silke - Prisoner of the Horned helmet

He climbed a zigzagging deserted street at the north side of the village until he was two tiers below the Heights. There he went up a staircase siding a building. It led to a flat roof where a ladder rose to a higher roof. From there he could see the battle unfolding at the south end of the village.

Cytherian warriors, in scattered, unorganized groups, were meeting the Kitzakks’ charge amid the rubble and streets. Their long spears, twice their height, splintered uselessly against the raiders’ steel. The Kitzakks closed with them, trampled them firing crossbows at point-blank range with brutal accuracy. Steel bolts impaled staring eyes, speared open mouths. Farther off, the main body of Cytherians, some forty strong, were gathering at Weaver Court to defend the temple and its sacred maidens.

The Kitzakks joined forces in the Market Square, dismounted and split up. A small detachment ranged through the now almost empty lower tiers of the village, mopping up stragglers. A few remained in the Market Square guarding their horses. The main body, led by the two commanders, charged up the twisting street connecting Market Square to Weaver Court. Huge dye vats stood like massive sentinels along the street’s high dirt walls. At the top of the street the Cytherian defenders met the raiders with swords and daggers, and demon war drank deep of blood.

All Gath could see was the back sides of the wooden buildings surrounding the court. From beyond them came the sounds of hysterical young girls and the clang of steel on iron. Gath leaped down to the lower roof, then into the empty street below. Up through twisting alleys he charged to the Heights.

He wound his way through ranks of drying yellow, gold and orange cloth, heading towards the bedlam of sound. Stepping out from behind a yellow cloth, Gath came across a Skull soldier who failed to notice his arrival. The soldier was preoccupied. He had a half-naked Cytherian maiden pinned under his kneeling body. Handfuls of her blonde hair were clenched in his sweating fists, and protruded between his fingers. Her big eyes were muddy pools bubbling with mindless terror as she stared past the soldier’s metal-clad shoulder. Her expression told the soldier he had company, and he turned to see who it was.

Being a civilized man, the soldier had removed his helmet in order to more fully enjoy his pleasure, but he had not bothered to remove his dagger from between his clenched teeth. It was a poor place to keep a dagger.

Gath kicked the soldier flush on the mouth. He flew off the woman in one grunting piece, landed with a metallic crunch, and rolled five feet clawing down orange bolts of cloth. When he stopped, his head was turned far enough around to look down at his buttocks. Three inches of dagger blade protruded from his left cheek.

Gath stepped over the girl, moved through the sheets of cloth, and stopped in the concealing shadows near the edge of the sheer bluff. Below him was Weaver Court.

The battle was over.

Brutal eruptions of lust, murder, torture and pillage were breaking out spasmodically about the white marble courtyard. The raiders were taking the payments due victors, rewards best collected when the blood was still hot with the kill and the mad terror of death was still fresh on the flesh.

Upended, spread-eagled Cytherian women were being raped both in the shadows and in the sunshine. Nails raked naked backs. Hands groped. Spines were bent over stairs and barrels. Mouths were gorging themselves on wine, cheese, fresh fruit and raw meat. Intransigent prisoners were being kicked to death slowly, while the reasonable were being drowned just as slowly in the well. The dead and dying, sprawled among the living, added to the hellish celebration by spewing fountains of blood and emptying their bowels into the slippery, stumbling chaos. The stench perfumed the rioting passions, and the large wooden temple provided appropriate music. There the screaming was a chorus.

Gath’s stomach bubbled and churned. His muscles throbbed, eager to throw his body into the Kitzakk hell. But he remained motionless.

A group of Skull soldiers burst out of the broken doors of the temple herding bruised and bloody young girls, many with their tunics torn away, clutching the shreds to their naked bodies.

Gath leaned forward, eyes steady and patient.

Robin was at the center of the group, framed by five of the smallest girls, young things from nine to thirteen. They clung to her tunic and arms, sobbing and hiding their faces against her. Robin held them close covering their eyes. Her legs wobbled, but the pressing weight of the girls kept her upright.

The soldiers prodded the girls across the yard toward a lacquered black wagon parked facing the main access street. When the girls reached the wagon, a small, fat priest emerged and greeted them with an unctuous, openmouthed smile. He probed their breasts, teeth, buttocks and flat stomachs with shameless fingers, mindless of their cringing and sobbing. Reaching Robin, he had the young girls driven away from her, and clapped his fat hands in relish.

Robin reeled back, as if confronted by a serpent. Two temple guards promptly seized her arms and held her in place. The priest took hold of her tunic, ripped it open exposing her breasts, then looked at them as if they were pretty peaches. With a lewd laugh, he turned to the guards and spoke to them, his voice lost amid the constant screaming.

Robin, struggling and sobbing, was forced into the wagon, and the priest proceeded through the whimpering, shuddering girls making additional selections.

Gath watched all this without showing any sign or taking action, then scanned the activity in the court, and again saw the two metal-clad commanders.

They sat on the steps of the temple consuming cheese and wine, aloof to the bedlam around them. Every so often one lifted his head, looked off at a shadow or alley as if he were expecting someone. Sitting beside their weapons, they looked like a party of four.

Gath’s world again filled with blood and light, and became devoid of sound and reality. But he shook the enchantment off and looked back at the lacquered wagon.

Robin sat in the front left corner. Her small fists trembled as they clung to the bars. Her head was down, and red-gold hair trembled in tangles over her face.

Past the wagon was the narrow street by which the vehicle must depart. High dirt walls cast deep shade on the street. The shade was filtered with steam which drifted down from huge dye vats positioned along the top of the walls.

Gath hesitated thoughtfully and stepped back into the concealing red cloth. He dodged through the bolts of cloth at a steady, quiet trot, circled around the bluff above the court, and emerged from the opposite side. In front of him were two of the massive steaming vats that lined the narrow road. They were wooden with iron bottoms heated by fire pits. Gath moved between them to the edge of the dirt wall. The narrow street below was empty. A racket of unholy pleasure and misery came from the upper end of the street, then the tramp of horses’ hooves moving slowly and the creak of wagon wheels joined the racket. He waited and a team of horses emerged around the sharp turn pulling the black lacquered wagon.

Gath settled in place. His armor heaved and glistened as his chest swelled with his racing breath. The thrill of battle slashed through his nerves and muscles. The time to abandon patience was at hand. He hefted his spear over his head, arm cocked and biceps throbbing.

The fat priest sat beside the driver of the wagon. The temple guards rode on seats built at the sides of the wagon.

When the wagon cleared the turn, the driver rose to whip the team of horses and a leaf-shaped spear blossomed on his chest, slammed him back into his seat. The whip and reins spilled from his hands, and he pitched forward, fell among the traces.