James Silke - Prisoner of the Horned helmet

Dang-Ling looked back and forth from Cobra to Robin helplessly. “How?” he pleaded as Robin stood and stretched tiredly, then lay down in a lovely puddle of brown limbs, giving them her back.

“How?” repeated Cobra. “Look at her. She is going to make a lovely serpent.”

Brown John, his hands clenched behind him, plodded up the wide, sun-drenched ridge of rubble towards the heights of Chela Kong. At the summit he paused before the only tower still standing and fanned himself with a rag.

The tower had once commanded the corner of a great wall, but now, up to its throat in rubble, it looked like a common stone house. One wall had collapsed long ago exposing the flooring of the parapet. It lay about five feet above the rubble to roof a cavelike shelter under it. Gath’s black stallion was tethered beside the shadowed opening.

Throughout the surrounding rubble of the village, the Barbarian Army, now over seven thousand strong, was camped. It cooked, ate and sharpened weapons. Its many eyes lifted every so often to follow the Grillard leader’s pilgrimage to the tower.

A warm breeze swept over him. Brown John watched it swirl down the southern slope and roll onto the flat desert floor. There it picked up speed, became a wind, and swept across the yellowish earth toward a dark crescent-shaped formation a few miles off. Spires of smoke rose above the curve. The Kitzakk Army.

Brown John studied this distant adversary for a moment wondering. “Why do they so diligently follow, yet avoid a battle,” he muttered. “Ah, well, we can play the same game.” He felt his way into the cavelike shelter, and stopped short. Out of the pit of his gut an icy chill raced up his back into the base of his skull.

Gath’s body sprawled in a contorted heap against the rear wall. He was naked except for a fur loincloth and the horned helmet which rested against a rock. His new wounds were caked with sand and his body twitched involuntarily. His fist fumbled in the dirt for the axe handle lying beside his legs.

Brown John, crouching low, hurried inside and, squatting, peered at the eye slits. Smoke drifted from them veiling glowing red embers within.

“What’s happened? What’s it doing to you now?”

The black helmet rocked back and forth oddly. The eye slits shot forth flames driving him back.

“Ahhhh!” Brown John moaned. “This demon helmet is burning up your brain.”

The old man sighed and dropped back against the wall. He glanced out the opening of the shelter at the distant Kitzakks and sighed again. “And no wonder. There is enough evil out there to stoke its fire eternally. It is a wonder you did not explode in flames the moment they appeared.”

Gath straightened slightly and whispered weakly, “Who did you tell?”

“Not a soul! Your army still believes it is led by an invincible champion. And from the way the Kitzakk Army is cowering in the distance, I dare say it believes the same thing. I would be the last man to weaken those beliefs.” He forced a smile. “You may be heartened, if that is possible, in the knowledge that the hope you have given them is not a futile one. Our scouting parties have repeatedly challenged and driven off theirs.”

“What did you tell them?” The hollow voice insisted.

“I told them what they wanted to hear. That when you decided the time was right, you would lead the attack, march over their army and into Bahaara, free the rest of the captives, and make the Kitzakks crawl away bleeding into oblivion.”

The helmet uttered a bitter, brutal grunt.

Brown John continued anyway. “It is my firm conviction that no one be told what you have, to my great honor, confided in me. Not even the girl.”

Gath was not listening or watching. His breathing was a dry heave. His neck, straining to hold the helmet erect, streamed with sweat. Suddenly a chunk of the rock it rested against broke away, and the helmet fell sideways. Gath threw out a hand and caught the ground, and his falling body jerked to a stop. His head fell down between his arms, as if trying to fall off his shoulders. A cavernous moan ripped loose from the mouth hole. He heaved the weighty head up and slammed it back in place against the rock. His wounds began to bleed through their sandy crusts.

Brown John started in horror, then controlled himself and his voice hardened. “By Bled, I’m not going to let this happen. There is always an answer somewhere. If only I could think of some way to outwit this demonic metal! Perhaps if you lay down?”

“Worse.” It was a guttural grunt, more than a word. “The fire enters my veins.”

“Then I will help you stand,” he leaned forward onto his hands. “If you move around a bit it might…”

“I tried. The helmet is too heavy now.”

“Is that what happens? It grows heavier and heavier?”

A grunt of agreement.

“And… and then…” The words did not come.

“ It will rip my head off my shoulders.” There was a ring of insane anticipation in his words.

Brown John’s howl rent the stifling heat. He flailed his clenched fists at the ceiling, then quietly his determination returned. He crawled beside the dying man. He forced a smile into his wrinkled cheeks, and, with a jaunty, defiant air said scoldingly, “What you fail to appreciate, my dramatic friend, is that I am the bukko here. And I did not put you on stage to perform in a tragedy. Not today! And not tomorrow! Now try and get that clear!”

The eye slits of the horned helmet blazed hotly, as if it, not the man, were replying.

Brown John, wavering, sat back on his heels, then obstinately resumed his lecture. There was a hard edge of authority to it now. He said, “I have it.”

The helmet was unimpressed, but the old impresario had played to that kind of an audience before, and he did not falter. “Today,” he proclaimed standing as tall as the cave allowed, “despite our awkward situation, is like any other day. And no day, throughout the history of days, was ever ruled by mere gods or demons. No, sir! There are far more powerful forces which rule this protean play we call life. Lust, virtue, greed, passion, these are the ultimate players which daily alter our malleable lives. We can submit to them, and allow them to raise us up or throw us down. Or we can find some means of struggling through so that when tomorrow comes we can take hold of whatever new possibilities these supreme forces have created and use them to our advantage.”

The helmet replied to this philosophy by crushing through the rock that supported it and hauling Gath over sideways. He landed facedown. The flames from the eye slits singed the dirt and rock, raising smoke. Gath groaned, pushed himself up onto his knees and elbows, but could not lift the helmet off the ground. He struggled, gasping and sweating. Brown John, devoid of words, watched in terror. Before the old man could draw a breath, Gath collapsed.

With surprising strength, the old man heaved Gath over on his back dodging the helmet’s spitting flames. He hesitated, gasping, then forced himself to lean over the monstrous body and look down into the flaming face of the helmet.

Within the flames, faint at first, he saw writhing, tortured men and women of hideous deformity screaming with unnamable pain. Then he heard the whimpering of tortured children and maimed animals, and smelt the nauseating stench of death. From beyond and within it all came the malevolent melody of demonic laughter.

“So this is the way of it,” he murmured, awestruck with pity, “it feeds on the darkness of the world.” He sat back muttering. “Hold on, old man, hold on.”

Avoiding the flaming eye slits, Brown John arranged Gath’s body so that his back was raised and the helmet propped between two rocks. As he did he kept chattering, as much to divert his fears as to help his friend.