James Silke - Prisoner of the Horned helmet

Billowing smoke obscured the center of its large courtyard, but he could make out a second gate at the far side. It was open, and a section of the palisade beside it had been torn down to widen if. Beyond it the flat bone-brown body of the desert spread toward a distant horizon where golden dust clouds tumbled in the fading sunlight. Former residents leaving in a hurry.

Apart from a few vultures perched on the walls, the fort appeared deserted and barren. The corrals, stalls and shops built under the palisade ramparts appeared empty, as did scattered piles of cages. Abandoned sacks of grains, baskets of eggs, dried meat, hay and wine jars spilled from the storehouses. Here and there were hastily discarded saddles, harnesses and wagons. Fires had been started under racks of spears and a wagon full of crossbows and bolts in an attempt to destroy them. But they had been built too hastily and gone out. Only the one at the center of the fort smouldered with dense smoke.

Gath waited until the pressure in his head abated, then jumped into the yard and entered a storehouse. He poured a half-dozen raw eggs into his mouth, smearing the sticky mess over the face of the helmet. He pushed in two handfuls of dry meat while emptying a wine vessel. Gorged and sated, he looked around uncertainly for a cistern to wash off the mess, but saw none. Unnerved by the silence and lack of movement, he lumbered impatiently toward the smoke-filled center. A wind swept in through the desert gate and, with a swish, lifted the cloud of smoke like a curtain to reveal a muscular black stallion standing on a dirt mound at the precise center of the yard.

The animal was huge and thick chested, with legs the size of knotty tree trunks. A powerful, rounded neck supported the short-nosed, blunt head. Its eyes were intelligent but wild. Its forelegs straddled a dead Kitzakk officer clasping a pole mounted with two red horsetails.

In a row beside the dead man were four more bodies, Kitzakk officers uniformed in the bright reds of various regiments. They were facedown except for one who kneeled as if praying. Sprawled half off the front of the mound was a soldier of the Skulls. He held the hilt of a bloody dagger in his right fist. The blade was buried in his chest.

Gath recognized the style of spear used for the executions. It was a Fangko, a spear designed with heavy barbs to pull out the rib bones and heart muscle. The spear, thick with the gore of human organs, lay beside the soldier. A ritual killing performed by their own.

The animal snorted and stomped the ground as Gath approached, obviously not caring for his messy appearance and smell. Or was it audaciously and foolishly defending its fallen master?

Gath kept coming.

The stallion reared. Its neck corded with muscle; its distended nostrils blew. Its hooves beat up the sky and plunged down, hammering the earth between the officer and Gath.

Gath halted three strides short of the stallion and looked it dead in the eye. “It’s useless to argue. I need your help.”

The horse bolted forward, snorting and kicking up dust. Gath stepped in and drove a fist into the side of its head, like a hammer. The resounding impact made the stallion concede no more than an inch of ground. It charged and butted Gath in the chest with its head. Gath conceded no more than the horse had, and grabbed two fistfuls of mane. The stallion lifted its head bringing Gath off the ground, kept charging and drove Gath into a wooden railing. It splintered, and Gath dropped to the ground. Not liking it there, he leapt up and circled the horse’s neck with his massive arms, taking a firm hold on its mane. The stallion snorted and whinnied. Gath, with his legs driving and arms twisting, forced the animal backward, then with a growling surge of strength, threw it down on its side beside the dead officer and held it against the ground.

Thrashing and kicking, the stallion tried to rid itself of the man, then suddenly surrendered. The red glowing eyes of the horned helmet looked directly into the stallion’s wild eyes. Slowly they quieted, then Gath let go and they stood facing each other. Heat mingled between them until they smelt the same, a pungent but binding aura.

The horse snorted, then lowered its head to the man. Gath pressed his face against the horse’s nostrils, and they breathed each other’s breath. The stallion neighed softly, pushed its cheek against the rough chain mail.

“You are mine,” Gath whispered. He glanced down at the dead officer, looked off at the vultures, then said to the horse, “I will put him in the ground for you.”

The stallion slowly lowered its broad-necked head to the body of its former master, then backed away.

It was turning dark when Brown John’s wagon pulled up in front of the fort. The gate stood open, like a giant mute mouth. Its silence was chilling, unnatural. Bone flicked the reins resolutely, and the wagon proceeded into the fort.

Inside he reined up, and Brown John and the strongmen stared openmouthed at the scene being played at center stage.

Gath of Baal stood in the middle of the yard currying a magnificent black stallion. A black enamel saddle with gold inlay was propped against a pile of rocks from which a horsetail standard protruded. It appeared to be a fresh grave.

Brown John ordered Bone and his men to secure all food and weapons, then drove the wagon slowly toward his champion as he glanced warily at the dead bodies, the empty fort, the stallion.

As the old man reined up, Gath turned and, with an uncharacteristic lift in his voice, asked, “What do you think of him? He’s a fine one, isn’t he?”

“Fine,” exclaimed Brown John, “is not the word. He is superb! And he suits you.” He glanced pointedly at the grave. “I presume there is no need to ask how you acquired him?”

Gath laughed roughly, and its hollow ring startled the old man, made the horse bolt. “Hey! Settle down, friend,” Gath crooned. “Settle down.”

To Brown John’s amazement, the stallion returned to Gath, lowered its head and nuzzled the arm of his intimidating new master. Looking at the horse, Gath said to Brown John, “I did not acquire him, bukko. These men were dead when I got here. We simply met and made an arrangement.”

Brown John looked down and saw the Fangko spear. “Ah, I see,” he said, then grinned and shook his head. “You never cease to amaze me. Everything you do seems to have an aura of the miraculous about it, particularly today.”

Gath glanced up at him.

“Our ranks grow by the hour. There has never been such unity. You have led our forest tribes to undreamed of success! Now they are not only hungry to free their women and children, but are ready, eager to take revenge.” He hesitated thoughtfully. “But what of you? Is Gath of Baal pleased with his new role?”

With the light tone gone, Gath replied, “I will be pleased when it gets me what I must have.” His eyes met Brown John’s. “She is not here. The fort was empty when I arrived.”

Measuring his words the old man argued, “But this is the butterfly fort the bounty hunter told the Wowells about, and we both knew there was small chance she would be kept here.” He glanced around. “Nevertheless, I am surprised you found it deserted. Perhaps your reputation now does your conquering for you?”

Gath shrugged and picked up the saddle, set it gently on the steed and began to adjust the cinch. “I saw dust to the south and started to follow it, but then it vanished, and I could find no tracks in the sand.”

The old wizard nodded. “They’re there, if you know what to look for. It’s three days to Bahaara, maybe longer, depending on the winds. So there is still a chance for two riders moving at a strong, steady pace to overtake them. If she’s with them, you’ll soon have her back.” He smiled at the stallion admiringly. “You’ve provided superbly for the chase.”