James Silke: Prisoner of the Horned helmet

The rabble fled up the tiers of the seating area, and Brown John joined them. When he reached his seat, only Dirken was waiting for him. The old man dropped beside him exhausted, but his voice was elated. “Did you see her? She was superb. And she thought she would not know her part!” He laughed.

“I saw her,” Dirken answered. “Gath told her to go get the army, and Bone followed her.”

Brown John frowned thoughtfully, then his cheeks cracked a smile. “My, my, and she takes a cue as well!”

Dirken shot a tired but approving smile at his father. “What happened to the snake bitch?”

Brown John’s eyes twisted, and he patted his pouch possessively.

The Barbarian Army marched south across the moonlit desert in scattered pieces, each tribe following a separate trail, like the tentacles of some great sea monster reaching out of a dark body hidden in the inky depths of the ocean.

When a tribe, moving through a depression or passing behind a ridge, was swallowed by the enveloping darkness, the other tribes would falter and whispers heavy with rumors would spread through the ranks. Yet no tribe turned back. And each time the vanished tribe reappeared, the entire army would surge forward with new energy.

Occasionally one tribe would take the lead dramatically. They would parade ahead into a spill of moonlight so their armor would glitter, quicken their pace, and spur the other tribes to jealously pick up theirs. Inevitably all the tribes would surge forward until the army was again in line.

In this erratic but effective manner, the Barbarian Army, now nearly eight thousand strong, traveled through the night.

When the cool grey glow of dawn began to rise above the eastern horizon, the army saw remnants of the retreating Kitzakk’s regiments discarded in the desert: broken wagons, spears, pieces of heavy armor, and dead ponies, their lips crusted with caked foam.

As the grey light grew brighter, the mists floating above the flat landscape lifted to reveal the large, brown city of Bahaara lying directly south. A massive eruption of blunt rock articulated with a thousand windows, doors, streets, towers and tunnels, as if hand carved with spoons by gods.

The Barbarian Army, intimidated by its first sight of a great, civilized city, faltered. But the colorfully patched Grillards at the center of the march, bravely pressed forward, and the Dowats in their persimmon tunics and golden brown leather belts followed. The Kavens, in their triple-belted umber robes, came alongside, and the others moved up until there was again a single front.

They were two to three hours’ march from the city.

The cool glow of light at the eastern horizon gradually ignited with intense white, announcing the arrival of the great orb that ruled all deserts. At the first hour, the tip of the golden fire appeared, and spears of white-gold light slashed across the desert. They flew past rock, tumbleweed and thornbush, climbed the city’s walls, and splashed among its tangled buildings turning Bahaara into a city of gold. Magnificent. Brutal. As if the desert were an empty void for no other reason than to focus everything that was living, vital and exotic into one stone structure. The muscle of the desert.

The soft murmurs of morning prayers rose up out of Bahaara’s shadowed causeways and streets, and lifted above the thousand rooftops. They drifted across the sand to the ears of the advancing Barbarians. But they kept their pace, wiry, browned men and women glittering with metal and pride. Then drum beats and chanting pounded out of the walled citadel, and floated across the desert. Mighty cheers followed, rising to a roar. Bahaara was welcoming the strangers, in the manner the lion king welcomes its meat.

The Barbarian Army came to a clattering, stumbling stop, and stared in chilling wonder as the sunlight melted over this intimidating citadel of mysteries. A ripple ran through the front ranks of the army, and arms pointed up ahead.

Two tiny figures, racing alongside their long shadows, were moving toward the army.

The cheering, laughing crowd was drunk with wine, beer and expectation. They swayed, pushed, fell down and drank in the cool morning shade of the Theater of Death. The arena was packed. Bodies were still spilling through the tunnels fed by the crowd outside. They all waited for the morning sun to descend the wall behind the stage. At the third hour it would fill the stage and the entertainment would begin, blood would flow.

On the walls of the city, soldiers not privileged to attend the execution, paced and also watched the sun. Only a few bothered to glance at the desert where, in a distant line of glittering metal, the Barbarian Army advanced cautiously. Dang-Ling stood motionless in his orchid robe within the shadows of the black and orchid tunnel above the stage. Sweat dripped from his milk-white cheeks and chin. Cobra had vanished, leaving the horned helmet in place, but the high priest was telling himself that Klang, with the powers of the Lord of Death in his body, should easily be able to remove the Death Dealer’s head. He told himself this two more times, but it did not stop the sweating.

In the seating area of the Theater of Death, Brown John and Dirken sat in front row seats. The old man was binding a thong around a small earthenware jar with air holes and a wooden plug in it. He tied it off, and held it up to Dirken. “That will hold her. I put a bit of mandrake root in the jar. It should make her behave.”

He chuckled and secured the jar in his pouch. Dirken scowled skeptically, and Brown John winked cheerily at his youngest son.

“Put up your scowl, lad.” He lifted his arms, palms up, indicating the arena. “Look at this spectacle and enjoy it. It’s a splendid affair. A show, I tell you, like one you may never see again. And so exquisitely human. Look at them. The deadliest soldiers ever to hold swords, and here they sit waiting to be entertained while our amateurish troops approach. While the future of their empire, to say nothing of their lives, is in the gravest danger.” He chuckled with light-winged cynicism. “Even a dumb weaver would know to man the walls at such a time as this, but not these proud lads. They are too smart for that. Too civilized.” He laughed aloud. A perceptive ear would have heard the mockery in it, but on that day there were few perceptive ears in Bahaara.

Dirken muttered, “When they get a good look at the walls, they’ll turn tail.”

Brown John shook his head, “You underestimate them… and her.”

Dirken shrugged thoughtfully, and they looked back at the stage.

Gath, by twisting around within his chains, had noticed their presence earlier, but now did not look at them. He watched the sun advancing down the wall at the back of the stage. It was close to the stage, then it touched it. The third hour was at hand.

He looked down at his axe chained to the front of the stage, and the children touching it scattered off. Behind them the crowd suddenly held its breath. Gath looked sharply back at the stage.

Three Kitzakk officers had emerged from a tunnel and now marched up the ramp on the opposite side. They carried their warlord’s weapons, a large black-handled axe, a spiked bail-and-chain attached to a short handle, and a longsword and triangular shield. The commanders sat on stools at the landing of the ramp and waited. Their faces were as unperturbed as stones.

As the sun moved steadily across the stage, Temple priestesses, dressed only in silver jewelry, appeared and followed the sunshine sprinkling the dirt with perfumes, sandalwood and myrrh. Where they spilled too much, the puddles began to steam in the sun. When light filled the entire stage, the priestesses scattered out of sight as the crowd stood and roared.