James Silke: Prisoner of the Horned helmet

Klang had emerged from the red tunnel, and stood at the top of the red staircase. He was noticeably taller, wider and thicker. His dark brown, hairless flesh glistened with oil. Black lacquered armor heaved on his throbbing body. It was barely able to contain it. His wide cheekbones were wider and blunter within his narrow skull. His eyes were angled black cuts. His hair, lank and thick, lay flat against his skull. It fell below his shoulders when yesterday it had only reached his neck. The backs of his hands and elbows were scaled crusts.

The crowd hushed with a collective gasp as it saw the alterations in his body, and a wild blood lust swept over the sea of faces. They murmured prayers, then began to chant their warlord’s name over and over, faster and faster.

The three commanders rose and echoed the crowd.

Brown John and Dirken shared a nervous glance, then joined in spiritedly.

Klang started down the red staircase holding his helmet proudly in the crook of his arm. Greaves of black steel guarded his shins. His feet were booted in black leather and fur. Not knowing their new strength, they crushed the steps, breaking bits of rock off the edges. At the fourth step from the bottom they came to a hard stop.

Klang’s cheeks were aflame, his eyes wild.

The horned helmet was still in place. The eye slits flickered with the same red glow of consuming rage. Something had gone wrong. Where was Dang-Ling? As the warlord glanced around, his face snarled with confusion. To hide it he put on his helmet.

It was black and polished, with a round bowl, long cheek guards and a wide convex brim. There were no corners, or flat edges and surfaces. It was awesome. Intoxicated by the crowd chanting his name. He strode onto the stage.

Gath set his legs apart as far as the chains allowed and braced his buttocks hard against the whipping post. With the muscles of his outstretched arms bunching against the steel links, he stared hungrily at Klang.

The warlord’s arm bands, breast plate, and steel codpiece rose and fell on his heaving frame. Fumes drifted from under the steel-studded straps of his kilt. His right arm hung loosely; in its crusted fist was a short, black handle. A taut chain hung from the handle to a spiked steel ball.

Gath leaned forward. The tips of the horns, as sensitive as fingertips, could feel danger of a size and strength they had never felt before. His breathing quickened, sucking in Klang’s rank body odor. It smelt of smoke and flaming lava, the acrid scents of the Master of Darkness.

A dark thrill roared through Gath. His blood grew hot. He faced a demon spawn that was his equal, or better, and the blood hunger within him was becoming insatiable.

Klang advanced a step, and the chained body flexed and swelled. With a roar, arms and torso surged forward, ripping free.

The rabble screamed and stumbled back from the seats they had worked so diligently to obtain.

Gath and Klang took no notice. They were rooted to the stage, the unholy scent of the Lord of Death swirling over them. Their blood boiled through their brains, melting reason into passion. Two churning, massive bodies ready to erupt. Animals. Demons. Men.

Gath gathered the chains dangling from his arms into his fists. Klang grabbed his shield from an aide and lunged forward. Gath whipped a handful of chains at him. They clattered against the shield and looped around Klang’s legs.

As he staggered to a stop, Gath slammed the warlord’s upraised shield with the remaining chains and drove him stumbling back, his chain flailing relentlessly.

Klang, his face a smear of savage red meat, fended off each blow as he played his spiked ball out along the ground. As his attacker stepped closer, he whipped the ball out low with a vicious snap. The chain caught Gath’s ankle, and the ball spun back around it to plant its spikes in his calf.

Stunned by the pain, Gath threw his head back, gasping. Klang pulled hard, ripping his legs out from under him. The ball ripped free, taking ropes of blood and flesh with it. Certain of victory, Klang swung at Gath’s face. The Barbarian caught the ball with his chains, pulled violently and threw Klang on his leering face. Gath rolled up and raced for the front of the stage. When Klang untangled himself, he glanced over his shield to find the Death Dealer facing him, his axe overhead.

Sweat, pink with blood, trickled from the steaming interior of the horned helmet. Klang swung his ball in a wide horizontal arc. Ignoring it, Gath stepped forward, and the spikes ate into his chest, bounded off taking slivers of red meat. A great roar echoed from the helmet, and the axe raced down.

The blade met Klang’s shield flush, and bent it back at a right angle. The scalloped edge caught Klang in the throat, and drove him stumbling backward, howling.

The Death Dealer moved in for the kill.

Klang, crouching, gagging, desperately whipped the spiked ball at the Barbarian’s feet. But Gath pinned the chain with one foot and severed the links with a blow. He picked up the ball in his fist and threw it. Klang lifted his shield instinctively, but it was shorter now. The ball caught him in the shoulder and ricocheted into the air over the crowd, and sank into howling pandemonium.

Klang discarded his shield and held his axe in two hands as he circled away from the advancing Death Dealer. The warlord’s shoulder was a red sponge, stitched with splinters of white bone at the center and crusted with scales. They were pulsing, growing over the wound to close it. Scales had also grown up the backs of his arms, and the tip of reptilian tail had appeared below the skirt of his armor.

The crowd hushed at the sight of the foul appendage and withdrew from the first two rows to stand in a crouch, openmouthed.

The combatants studied each other, wary now.

Gath’s eyes glowed red, and his heaving body had expanded. He waited, and Klang stepped in hard, took Gath’s blow with his armored chest and hammered Gath in the helmet. Seemingly content with this exchange, they repeated it, hammering each other like men in a dream. Mindlessly, they met blow with blow striking only each other’s steel. Klang’s armor began to look like a moving heap of scrap metal, and Gath reeled dizzily like a performing drunk. Blood streamed down his arms onto his hands and the axe handle flew out of his grip, leaving the horned helmet as his only defense. He lowered the horns in front of him and waited.

Klang peppered it with short jabs and slashing blows, herding the Barbarian’s staggering body around the stage. Fighting to keep his feet, Gath caught each blow with helmet and horns. Blood began to fly from the helmet’s mouth and eye holes. Klang, excited by the sight and smell, licked his lips. His tongue was black and forked.

Gath gaped, the crowd screamed, and Klang swung hard, caught the face of the helmet. The blow knocked Gath flat, but cracked the axe handle, and the weapon went spinning across the stage. Klang dove on top of Gath, and his helmet was knocked off, revealing weblike growth connecting his ears and scaled neck.

They rolled and tangled, jabbing and kicking and cursing. Klang buried fanglike teeth in Gath’s shoulder. Gath’s hands found the scaled flesh of Klang’s neck and buried his fingers deep. Klang’s eyes bulged open. His lips crawled back over his fangs, bare to the gums. His forked tongue whipped out and wrapped around a thumb. Then, with a wrenching convulsion, his limbs serpentined around Gath’s chest and legs, suddenly boneless, pulsing muscles, and his scaled tail whipped from beneath his kilt, curled around a thigh.

The crowd screamed in horror.

Gath’s mouth gaped open, straining to suck up air. Klang’s reptilelike limbs kept crushing. Tighter. A rib snapped in the Barbarian chest.