James Silke: Prisoner of the Horned helmet

The temple guards frowned with distaste at the crowd and at the chained man sharing the stage. He slumped in his chains. Blood was gathering at the end of his right thumb. It glistened brightly, then dropped, hitting the dirt stage with a silent splash. Another drop began to form.

Four shadowed figures on the highest row of seats also watched the chained man. A tear glistened within their darkness, then fell and splashed as silently as his blood. It belonged to Robin. She rubbed her wet eyes with the butt of her hand, whispering, “Can’t we bring him some water?”

Brown John hushed her. “Shhhh. We can not risk being discovered.”

Robin choked back the tears. “But he’s dying.”

“Shhh!” The old man lifted a finger to his lips. “Wait! Just wait!”

“But what are we waiting for? What’s supposed to happen?”

Brown John took her small hand in his and patted it. “Trust me, small one. Our chance will come.”

The torches suddenly went out, and darkness swallowed the arena. Robin buried her face against Brown John’s chest, and he gathered her close. When their eyes adjusted to the darkness, they could see the doused torches smoking in their iron crucibles at the corners of the stage. The temple guards had vanished.

Brown John whispered, “Something’s up. Listen.”

They heard a faint rustling at the back of the stage. A phantom figure was descending the red staircase. Moving with supple grace, it glided like a living shadow to the stage and started toward the chained prisoner.

Brown John pressed a hand over Robin’s mouth.

Reaching the sagging body, the dark slender figure pushed back the hood of its black cape.

Robin reeled, mumbling through the old man’s fingers, “That’s her. The snake woman! She… she was there in the laboratory… with their high priest.”

“The Queen of Serpents,” Brown John muttered.

He motioned to his sons, and the group crept silently down the steps until they could hear Cobra’s soft, mocking voice.

“Do not disdain me, Dark One. I have come to save you.”

Cobra stroked a red nail sharply across Gath’s chest, letting it linger playfully in a wound, then ran it across the steel of the helmet, making a nerve-splitting sound. The eye slits began to glow with heat, but he did not move.

Muttering ancient incantations, Cobra drew obscure signs on the helmet. Then she gripped the horns with her fingers and thrust her thumbs into the eye slits. The helmet jerked away from her. She held on and began to lift it humming softly.

Robin shuddered, and Brown John began to sweat. Suddenly he reached down and brought up his forked stick. He commanded Robin, “Stay here.”

She nodded, hugged her knees to her chest, and rocked silently as the bukko turned to his sons. They held their sticks in hand. Brown John whispered, “Dirken, you sneak around behind her. Bone, you take the right corner. I’ll take the left. Wait until I give the sign before you show yourselves.”

The brothers nodded, then the three moved down through the shadows towards the stage.

Cobra smiled as a grunt of pain escaped the helmet. She pulled harder, straining, and her eyes glazed slightly, turned dead yellow. Torchlight splashed across the helmet. She jerked around toward the light and shuddered, dropping her hold on the helmet. It sank back into place.

The torch at the far corner of the stage had been relit and a figure stood in its light, a ragged old man waving a forked stick. The stick lifted as if with its own life, and aimed itself at Cobra as the old man’s resonant voice chanted, “By fang and by venom. By the days of nine and the nights of ten, deliver the reptile, great goddess, to thy servant.”

A torch burst into flames at the opposite side and another forked stick emerged from the night, aiming itself at the Queen of Serpents. Cobra recoiled hissing to reveal needlelike fangs.

More torches blazed to life in the hands of the front row fanatics. They rushed forward rubbing their sleepy eyes as Brown John continued his chant, then saw Cobra, shrieked and charged onto the stage poking their forked sticks.

Cobra whirled for the red staircase. Dirken cut her off. The fanatics swarmed at her and struck her to the ground. She twisted, slithered, hissed. A forked stick pinned her ankle, another her wrist. She convulsed, snapped and spewed hot venom that drove them off with rags and flesh smoking. Amazed, they watched as her entire body opened up, emitting a gush of yellowish smoke; they backed away coughing, their eyes confounded. One screamed out fanatically, and they plunged into the concealing smoke pounding and prodding with their sticks.

Brown John stood at the corner of the stage waiting. His eyes darted around until he saw it. At the feathered edge of the yellow smoke, probably no more than two inches under the earthen stage, something was wriggling towards the ramp. Brown John jumped off the stage into the shadows.

The slight bulge of earth reached the edge of the stage, and the head of a small Skink snake emerged, looked around, then slithered down to the ramp. For a moment torchlight revealed its shovel-shaped head, enamel-like scales, and muscular tail. Then it vanished into the shadowy ramp toward the access tunnel. Out of the darkness a forked stick descended over its neck and pinned it to the ground. The Skink’s shovel-like head dug into the ground. Half of its body was under the earth when a hand grabbed the tail, pulled it out of the earth and deposited it in a leather pouch. The hand tied the pouch securely with a thong, then picked up its stick, and the owner, Brown John, returned to the stage.

The Snake Finders were still floundering in the dissipating smoke, scratching the ground and each other with their sticks. When the smoke was gone, they saw no sign of Cobra. No wet stain. No shed skin. They grunted and cursed appropriately, then turned to the chained prisoner, leering. They peered around, saw no sign of guards, and, taking courage, advanced excitedly on the helpless Death Dealer. They circled him in stumbling confusion, then timidly cursed him, and spit on his legs. Then a bold one stepped in close and poked him with his stick.

No response came. But as more sticks flayed him, the helmet lifted and the attackers jumped back. The shadowed eyes were on a small dirty-faced boy standing empty-handed directly in front of him.

Gath rose within his chains. His eyes cleared, and he turned on the fanatics. Obviously shamed by the small boy’s courage, they were advancing again. Suddenly the Death Dealer thrashed against his chains. The fanatics, trampling and tripping over each other, fled the stage.

The Death Dealer turned back to the boy, the red glow died, and a voice, low and far away, demanded, “Come closer.”

The small figure marched boldly forward wiping off a damp smudge on its face. The massive pawlike hand of the chained arm opened, and his voice whispered, “Robin.”

She placed her small hand in his, and the strong bloody fingers wrapped around it, held it as she looked searchingly into the eye slits for the man she knew.

“I won’t leave you,” she moaned, “never again.”

He straightened, pulling his head erect, and let go of her hand. “The army? Where is the army?”

Hearing the weakness in his voice, she trembled. “It… it’s camped to the north, outside the city.”

“Bring it,” he gasped. “Tomorrow, at the third hour. I will give it this city.”

Her eyes widened with the shock of comprehension. “But you’re chained!”

“I will be all right now. Hurry!”

She nodded stepping backward, feathery eyes welling with tears. Then she turned and ran off the stage into the shadows.

Brown John started after her, but backed off the stage at the sight of the Temple Guards trotting up the opposite ramp with whips cracking.