James Silke - Prisoner of the Horned helmet

“I dare say that my old father would tell me that now is the time to call on a story of such artful magic that it would make the ugly reality which feeds these flames vanish like the rabbit in the wizard’s cape, and replace it with the kind of dreams which make children think of sailing ships and castles in the clouds. But, in all truth, I must admit that I have found soft fantasies of small use in hard times.” He smiled with resignation. “Besides, I seriously doubt you can even hear me now.”

He sat back against the opposite wall and sighed. For long minutes he watched Gath lie still, then the red glowing eyes dimmed a bit and the battered warrior stirred slightly, muttering unintelligibly.

“Ahhh!” whispered the old bukko, “so we still share, for the moment at least, the same stage. Good.” He drew a deep breath and then, with the light-winged clarity of sudden inspiration, volunteered, “Perhaps we should talk a little about this girl, Robin Lakehair?”

Brown John sat forward. Had there been a faint response, or had he imagined it? He sneered at his rash excitement, but could not keep it from doing optimistic things to his face. “My, my,” he chuckled, “that would be curious, if by the mere accidental mention of her name, if just… just the words… Robin Lakehair… could…” He waited.

The eye slits flickered, almost went out.

Brown John propelled himself forward on all fours and monitored the dying glow, like a boy discovering for the first time that girls were indeed made differently. An involuntary giggle spilled out of his open mouth. He threw his head back and laughed wildly.

“By gad, I should have thought of it immediately. Here we sit on a battlefield, the ideal setting for salacious talk of carefree girls and raucous fornication, to say nothing of wives and sweethearts! And I nearly forgot to mention her name.” He laughed again.

Gath, shifting slightly, pushed his helmeted head up an inch.

“Well, well, Gath, old man, perhaps you and I will play this scene out after all. Tell me, is their something you find particularly fascinating about her? For a man of my years, of course, it is always their legs and lovely bottoms. But as a youth like yourself it was always the breasts. There was never a question of it. Of course, when I was fortunate enough to be involved with a beauty approaching that of the Lakehair child, I admit the face ruled my heart.

“Come, come, tell me. Is it her small straight nose? Or those big feathery eyes. Or perhaps her soft golden-red hair? Come, come, coax your memory. Think of every part of her. Her voice, her laughter, her small perfect hands, her fresh warm scent, those plump soft red lips.”

Gath shifted and lifted the helmet another two inches. As he did, Brown John leaned down, uncertain if he had seen a trace of smile pass across Gath’s now white eyes. Then he laughed and said, “I admit it, I am partial to lips myself. At least in my more sentimental moments. But lips are, you must admit it, only the beginning of a whole set of extraordinary delights.” He paused remembering her more soberly. “There is such a natural loveliness to her, her joy in simple things, her love of just being alive. And her kindness, even to lizards and lecherous old men.”

Gath muttered unintelligibly, but more agreeably, the old man thought.

“By Day bog!” Brown John exclaimed, then he laughed again. “This is truly astounding. The fate of the greatest army ever to plague our land, and the fate of the Master of Darkness himself, all that lies in the balance, on whether you live or die.” He mused. “And that balance is now tipped by the weightless memory of a pair of soft red lips.” He clasped his hands together and wrung them in wonderment.

Late that night Bone returned to the campfire at the center of the square where Dirken and the Barbarian chiefs waited and made his report. He said, “They’re still talking about girls.”

A wagon carrying five wooden barrels rolled quietly through the shadows cast by the torches lighting Bahaara’s Street of Cats. The shops were shuttered and abandoned. Refuse cluttered the ground. The panting and whine of caged animals somewhere within were punctuated by an occasional screech. The wagon wound up through the mesa forming the body of the city toward the back of the Temple of Dreams.

It carried the serpent priest, Schraak, and his assistants disguised as nomad traders. They had left the Land of Smoking Skies shortly after Cobra, but their passage had been impeded. The flickering light illuminated the white-eyed panic on their faces.

The reason was the small crowd of ragged, filthy beggars trailing them. Their eyes were distended by cheap stimulants, and they carried torches, poked long, forked sticks at the wagon. They were Snake Finders, and they were gaining on the wagon.

The priests knew that the Cult of the Butterfly Goddess outlawed all reptiles, and that fanatic Snake Finders were licensed to carry out the low, repugnant and dangerous work of destroying reptiles. They were abundant in Bahaara, particularly in times of unrest. So the priests had taken great pains to scent themselves with camel dung. But just as the light revealed their features, their rising fear brought forth the fetid scent of the reptile.

They shuddered as the fanatics broke into a run, wailing and chanting incantations.

Schraak hissed at the other two. “The barrels must be delivered. Give them your bodies! Now!”

His assistants sickened as they looked back at the ragged pack swarming towards them. But when Schraak slowed the wagon, they obediently jumped off. Schraak whipped the horses smartly, and the wagon lurched into the shadows ahead as the two serpent men drew their swords and faced their plunging tormentors.

Seeing the priests’ metal, the Snake Finders pulled up short. Their forked sticks trembled as if alive, then pulled them forward, magnetizing their drug mad eyes. Their victims took one step back, then panicked and fled. The Snake Finders, howling, scampered after them, leaping walls, and easily cornering them. They threw them to the ground and stripped their flailing bodies. At the first sight of scales, they squealed with triumph and crushed their skulls with rocks. Then they skinned them.

With their scaly prizes spread on poles, several of the fanatics paraded through the mostly deserted city while the rest resumed the chase, hunting the wagon. They found it parked in a dark secluded alcove behind the Temple of Dreams. It was empty. The driver was gone and so were the barrels.

Deep under the ground, just slightly east of where the empty wagon was parked, the five barrels were lined up on a stone balcony. They were open, and the dark fluids within them bubbled and steamed, with a strong fishy odor that clung to the walls of Dang-Ling’s laboratory. Schraak and Baak were shoveling red-hot rocks from a huge fire and dropping them into the bubbling concoction of snake venom, snake blood, and the entrails of tiny mollusks.

Robin and the five maidens abducted from Weaver were strapped naked to inclined benches lined up below the row of barrels. Thin glass tubes had been inserted in their necks and attached to spigots at the base of a wide trough positioned under the barrels. Similar tubes descended from their ankles to a gutter hole in the floor. The girls were drugged, only semiconscious.

Cobra moved along the line of girls tracing the signs and marks drawn on their foreheads and murmuring incantations. Reaching Dang-Ling, who stood diligently beside Robin, she bestowed a condescending smile on him. “I commend you. The addition of the five maidens will increase our chances of success greatly. It is fortunate I brought enough blood.”