James Silke: Prisoner of the Horned helmet

Hard scales were forming in Klang’s thick neck, resisting the Death Dealer’s fingers, and Klang snorted triumphantly. Smoke, then flames, flared from his nose and scorched the Death Dealer’s wrists. A growl of pain leapt from the helmet. The eye slits brightened and spat flames, scorching Klang’s metal and flesh. Like one huge pulsing (ire-breathing beast trying to devour itself, they held on.

The shuddering crowd backed up, leaving blotches of steaming urine on the tiers. Bunches pushed through the exit tunnels in panic.

Covered in blood and dust, Gath and Klang continued to thrash and roll in one piece. Blood poured from the eye and mouth slits of the horned helmet. It was on fire, and spilling over Klang’s scaled hands and arms, setting them ablaze. Klang hissed with pain, and scales emerged on his brow, nose and cheeks. As the flames reached his shoulders, the scales grew down over his eyes, nose and mouth, diminishing his sight and breath.

Gath’s world, seen through flaming blood, had once more turned red. But this time it was the real world. He saw horror flash across the demon warlord’s eyes, as if he had suddenly recognized the foul thing he had become. Klang howled with human torment, and the greenish-grey crusts covered his eyes, blinding him.

Their bodies ripped apart and rolled away from each other gasping, bleeding and flaming. Gath doused his flames with dirt and leapt up. Klang rose mindlessly, body aflame and jerking as a thick crust of scales formed on his back and chest to force off his confining armor. His fingers had turned to claws. Fangs descended below his jaw. His tail whipped about the ground as he groped blindly in front of him.

The tips of the helmet felt the danger riding on the air, and Gath lowered the helmet in front of him, charged like a primeval bull. Thunder roared from the horned helmet. Tongues of flame spit from the eye slits, then cracking flashes of white lightning.

Klang turned toward the sound and clawed the air blindly.

The horns of the helmet caught him in the chest, driving through his thick crust of scales like they were soft bread, impaled the reptilian warlord, and lifted him off the ground. Klang hissed and howled, his arms, legs and tail flailing wildly.

Gath threw his head back with a roar, and the warlord flew into the air. He turned over twice in midair, and landed with a moist thud in the empty front row.

The remaining crowd screamed and pushed through the tunnels to escape, trampling on its own convulsing body.

Brown John and Dirken finally fought free of the flowing crowd, raced back down the tiers, and raised their eyes to the stage. It was empty of life except for the victor.

He held center stage, erect and alert, listening. Cries echoed through Bahaara as the Barbarian Army stormed through the streets chasing the Kitzakks as they fled out the gates into the desert. His knees slowly bent, and his monstrous smoking body cocked. He lifted his axe and held it across the bloody thighs. Liquid red dripped from its cutting edge.

From within him rumbled a demonic thunder, like the blood lust of a sweeping fire. His attitude was plain. He wanted more.

Brown John cried out in despair, “We’ve lost him!”

The great helmet turned slowly toward the pair, then looked beyond them. As father and son watched stupefied, the huge body straightened. The red glow behind the eye slits began to fade. They twisted around to see what he saw.

A group of Grillard warriors were spilling into the arena led by Bone and Robin Lakehair.

On a shelf in a silent chamber deep under the noisy confusion in Bahaara’s streets stood a huge swallowtail butterfly carved from soft lead and enameled orange and black. Dang-Ling, old of eye and using both hands, plucked its heavy body from its perch and set it on a stone pedestal beneath the shelf. Slowly it began to sink into the floor.

His eyes avoided a door at the opposite side of the buried room. Heavy steel bars locked it shut. He could picture Baak, Dazi, Hatta, and Cobra’s servant waiting for him beyond that door in his hidden laboratory. But they would never see their priest again, or anyone else. He had no doubt that it was the Queen of Serpents’ fault, that her lust for the Death Dealer had been the cause for the current calamity. But what more could he have done, or what more could he do now than he was doing? He could not afford to trust anyone.

He pattered over to a side stairway and listened. Loud grating sounds came from within the surrounding walls where weighty stones began to shift and slide. A stone receded in the ceiling of his chamber releasing a stream of sand. It began to flood the room. Faint cries came from behind the locked door where the same thing was happening, then there was a heavy pounding on the door. His unfortunate servants had finally realized their fate.

Dang-Ling eased his ample body up through a dark hole at the top of the stairway. A large stone descended behind him and the rising sand piled up against it.

A short time later a wagon with tall red wheels rattled out a postern gate in Bahaara’s north wall, and rolled southeast into the desert hidden behind its own dust. “Big Hands” Gazul drove. Dang-Ling was ensconced comfortably on thick cushions in the wagon bed accompanied by six young leopards and several chests of jewels and gold. The road ahead was clear. A great deal of what he had cherished lay buried under Bahaara, but a promising future waited ahead, and he did not look back.

For five days the Barbarians looted Bahaara, and each night there was a great feast held in the Court of Life. At each feast, the meat and cooking were provided by a different tribe. Rumors said that one night they were served the roasted body of the warlord Klang. But the way in which the Kranik savages charred their meat left it unrecognizable, and since the rumors had started after the meat had been consumed, the impropriety could not be proven, and the after-meal belching was particularly loud and raucous. The Grillards provided songs and dances for each feast, and they all told the same story. But the hero had a plethora of names: The “Dark One who dwelled in The Shades,” the “Savior of Weaver,” the “Defender of the Trees,” and the “Lord of Forest.” But to each description was added “Death Dealer.”

On the sixth night there was no celebration. Instead, the Barbarian chiefs sat in council and, after much deliberation, came to a radical conclusion. Gath of Baal would be their king, the first king the tribes of the Forest Basin had ever set over themselves. The decision was unanimous, and Brown John sent Robin Lakehair to fetch him.

Delighted to be the carrier of such good news, she hurried to the altar room in the Temple of Dreams where Gath was quartered, but he wasn’t there. After searching the temple without success, she found him in a torchlit courtyard at the rear of the temple, but hesitated to approach, holding her little hand pressed against her heart.

The dark warrior was dressed in black chain mail. A curved Kitzakk sword hung from his belt by a glittering brass chain. His huge axe stood in the black stallion’s saddle holster. The horned helmet was tied to his belt. He was clean shaven, but his singed hair was crudely clipped so that it hung to his neck in wild disarray. His face was scabbed and burnished with callouses. He turned to her expectantly, and Robin, frightened and flustered, ran over to him.

“You can’t leave,” she gasped. “Not now, Gath. Please.”

His hand reached out to gently gather in her short red-gold hair flickering in the torchlight. “I must, little friend.”

“But why?” she pleaded. “Why? Where would you want to go? And… and the people love you. The tribes want you to be their king.”