James Silke - Prisoner of the Horned helmet

Dirken, profoundly offended, thinned his eyes at her. “Because filth, young woman, is the most convincing adornment in the theatrical profession. And this is the real thing.” He threw a hand at the tattered clothes. “Those slavers rubbed camel urine in them to drive off scorpions and evil spirits.”

“They’d drive off anything with a nose, that’s a fact,” she replied jauntily.

Brown John laughed. “Robin, I believe you will find these garments to be priceless. In Bahaara, we will not only be ignored, we will be avoided.” He winked at his sons. “Well done, lads. Good thinking.”

Exchanging I-told-you-so nudges, Bone and Dirken grinned broadly.

Brown John turned to Robin and, with deliberation, bowed. “Now child, as you have the principal role, you get first pick.”

Robin choked. “Me?”

“Of course,” said Brown John. “Rags are the only clothing the Kitzakk reptile hunters wear. With some simply made forked sticks, we can enter Bahaara without suspicion and move about freely. No Kitzakk willingly associates with such disgusting characters.”

Robin nodded. “I understand, but… but you know I’m not an actress. I won’t know what to say.”

“You, child, will not need to say.anything,” Brown said with flat confidence. “You are, for reasons I have sworn not to reveal, essential to him. If he can get a glimpse of you, we have a chance.”

“We… we can save him?”

“We can try.”

Robin hesitated, then bent over tentatively and picked up a rag. She considered it solemnly for a long moment, then said, “Well, if I cut my hair, I think I could look like a boy!”

They all chuckled, then laughed out loud in a warmth of companionship Robin had never shared before. It was as if she were one of them. A Grillard player about to take the stage.

Bahaara’s place of execution was an outdoor arena at the eastern extremity of the city. Its dirt stage was backed by a stone wall, and a red-carpeted staircase ascended the center of the wall to a landing with two tunnels. The one at stage right had a red arch, while the one at stage left had a black and orchid arch. At the sides of the stage were ground-level access passages linked to the stage by ramps. Facing the stage was a semicircle of empty, tiered seats.

Skull soldiers were dragging the Death Dealer’s weighty, unconscious body across the stage to a whipping post. He wore only a fur loincloth and the horned helmet. His flesh was shiny with sweat, and blotched with bruises. Several leaked thin trails of blood.

After chaining the dark Barbarian to the post, one soldier took hold of the horned helmet and pulled on it repeatedly without success. He cursed and moved back into the passage following the other soldier. Moments later he returned with a hammer and wedge and began to hammer the bottom rim of the helmet. Blood promptly started running down the Barbarian’s back and chest.

Dang-Ling emerged from the black and orchid arched tunnel and stopped on the landing. He clapped his hands, once, and the soldier looked up in embarrassment. Dang-Ling waved him off brusquely, and the soldier backed quickly down the ramp into the access tunnel. The high priest looked down smugly at the captive’s limp body, then turned and bowed as Klang’s black-robed figure emerged from the red arched tunnel.

“Why did you stop him?” Klang growled.

“I thought it best, my lord,” Dang-Ling replied in a carefully cordial tone, “that his distinctive helmet remain on his head so that when the people arrive tomorrow they will have no doubt that the man whose head you remove is the true Death Dealer. It, of course, will be taken off before the execution begins.”

A tense silence passed between them. Dang-Ling whispered, “I have made all the arrangements. Come tonight, at the midnight hour. You will have your request.”

Klang watched the high priest with the corners of his eyes. “There’s no need now. I have decided not to fight him, simply execute him.”

Dang-Ling bowed obediently. “The decision is yours, of course, I would not presume to direct you…”He paused artfully.

“Yes?” demanded Klang.

With a troubled tremor, Dang-Ling whispered, “This demon is very unpredictable, my lord. Nothing with him turns out to be simple. If you will allow me to advise you,” he hesitated, “I would take every precaution, and use the strongest weapon available.”

A look of contempt came over Klang’s face. He pushed the priest aside and moved halfway down the staircase, his eyes fixed on the prisoner. The whipping post began to shudder. The dark helmet raised and the Barbarian’s sinewy mass of bunched muscles and hot nerves thrashed powerfully against the wood and chains. It ceased suddenly, momentarily spent and pacified, but still menacing and upraised. A red glow burned at Klang behind the eye slits of the helmet.

Klang involuntarily stepped back. Self-consciously he stiffened and rolled his shoulders, flexing proudly. Then he turned away and slowly returned to Dang-Ling.

The high priest said quietly, “You will have reactions like quicksilver, and the strength of the Master of Darkness himself.”

“The price, priest, the price?”

Dang-Ling smiled innocently. “A trifle. In exchange, the sorceress merely asks for the horned helmet.”

“She’ll have it.” He strode through the red arch, and his cape swirled behind him blending with the shadows.

Dang-Ling held his breath as the warlord’s booted feet tramped down the tunnel. With a sigh of relief, he started to leave but paused at the sounds of excited voices, running feet. The sound grew and a filthy, babbling, scratching group of scavengers surged through an entrance tunnel on the opposite side of the arena and clambered down the tiers of seats.

Dang-Ling clapped his hands sharply.

Skull soldiers trotted up both ramps and spread out in a line around the edges of the stage. One carried the Death Dealer’s axe and chained it to the front edge of the stage. Seeing it, a group of the scavengers howled raucously and surged forward to stroke its awesome steel. Others sat down chattering in the front rows. They wore rags, and crude decorations on their naked parts; arrows, bolts of lightning and numerals were the most popular. Several were stark naked and stained bright vermilion or yellow. They all had a drugged glint to their eyes. There were several women, ragged, bangled and unwashed. The mongrel trash of Bahaara. Among them were numerous forked sticks.

Dang-Ling covered his nose and mouth with his cape and hurried under the black arch almost colliding with Cobra. Her cloak was clutched tightly about her, the hood pulled low. Her face was fraught with fear.

“Snake finders,” she rasped.

“Are you surprised?” Dang-Ling asked indifferently. “They’re everywhere these days, but usually only a minor irritation. I told Klang the helmet would be removed tomorrow at the third hour, just before the execution begins.”

She looked at him vindictively, but spoke respectfully. “I will gladly remove the helmet, but not in the daylight. I will not expose myself to that crowd of vultures.”

Dang-Ling frowned. “Then you will do it tonight, when the city sleeps. Only my guards will be on duty at that time. They will see you are left quite alone with him.”

She nodded agreement, and looked down at the Death Dealer’s chained body. “Klang must understand that he has fed on the helmet’s powers for many days now. Even without it he will be dangerous.”

“Klang has been informed, and is ready to accept your assistance.”

“What did you tell him,” she asked warily.

“As little as possible. Just make certain the magic potion you prepare is more than sufficient.”