Prisoner of the Horned Helmet (24 page)

ANSARIA MERALDA ROOTS

R
obin Lakehair sat naked and dry on the bottom of the mammoth flask in Dang-Ling’s secret underground laboratory. Around her the glass glittered with highlights cast by oil lamps, like a huge jewel with Robin’s warm, brown body as the living center.

She was calmly eating brown bread and cheese. When she finished she washed her throat with wine, then curled up against the curve of the bowl and closed her eyes. Sighing long and deep, she cast a suspicious eye through the glass wall and gasped, sat up.

The Queen of Serpents stood regally at the head of the staircase looking down at Robin. She wore full-length armor, a tunic of gold and silver plates that shimmered over her magnificent breasts and sinuous thighs. Her fingers spread over her hips like blood-tipped fangs.

A tiny diamond-and-silver hooded cobra with topaz eyes crowned her raven hair. Her face was polished ivory flushed with scarlet. Her dark eyes glittered with malevolent energy.

Robin sank in a helpless sprawl, her face buried in bare brown arms.

Dang-Ling’s obsequious, half-bowed figure crept around Cobra as he said guardedly, “I hope, your highness, that our procedures with this girl meet with your approval. We have worked diligently but she still holds her secret, that is, presuming she has one.”

Cobra avoided responding by looking around admiringly at the maze of tubes, bottles and vessels. “I am impressed. I have never seen equipment of such complexity.”

“It keeps me amused.” Dang-Ling bowed with an unconvincing show of humility.

Cobra humored him, “I would imagine,” then asked curtly, “What is your specialty?”

Her abruptness startled the priest. His confidence wavered and he stammered, “My specialty? Well,” he rubbed and squeezed his fatty pink hands, “it may not seem very spectacular… or even practical… but in deference to the Butterfly Goddess who is worshipped through the embraces of sacred prostitutes, my laboratory is dedicated to the pursuit of carnal pleasure.”

Amusement coiled in Cobra’s cheeks. She asked archly, “And the Barbarian girl, you have examined her only along these lines?”

Without waiting for an answer, Cobra turned back toward Robin. Dang-Ling qualified apologetically, “Well, no, as a matter of fact. It seemed hardly likely that such a child could have any real carnal power. My efforts have been directed more toward discovering her true nature.”

“And what have you found?”

“Actually nothing. She is merely what she appears to be… a young, exquisite, but inexperienced girl.”

Cobra eyed him condescendingly. “You may have misjudged her, priest. For instance, would you not agree that, for one so young and innocent, she wears her nudity quite naturally, even sensuously?”

Dang-Ling peered down at Robin. “Why… why yes,” he piped with a startled voice. “You’re quite right. That is a precocious quality.”

Cobra’s black-rimmed gold eyes were hard, intense, her voice more so.

“Listen carefully, priest. If the Dark One continues to outwit the helmet, he can turn its powers not only against you and me, but against our master, the Lord of Death himself.”

Dang-Ling staggered.

She pushed a trembling curl away from his round ear delicately. “You are right to tremble. A very sinister and deceptive enemy has revealed herself, the most deadly the Master of Darkness has ever faced, a sorceress who can not only counteract the power of the helmet, but remove it with her bare hands.”

“No! You can’t mean…”

“Yes.” Cobra directed a long finger to the prisoner. “You have caught an extraordinary prize, priest. Invaluable. She controls the Barbarian, and keeps him alive.”

“But I have examined her!” Dang-Ling stammered. “She… she has no magic.”

“Oh, but she has,” Cobra whispered. “You simply were looking for the wrong thing.” Her personality changed abruptly. The woman disappeared, and the dark sorceress took command. “Bring me powdered Ansaria and Meralda roots. And barrels of fresh milk. From cows, goats, cats! It does not matter. Hurry!”

A short time later Dazi and Hatta stood on ladders above the mouth of the giant flask holding a large glass tube steady as it spewed white fluid down the throat of the vessel over Robin’s body. Baak stood on the floor nearby pumping it out of an underground cistern into the glass tubes.

Cobra and Dang-Ling stood on the circular staircase watching Robin struggle against the torrent of milk. She tossed and flailed as her legs were repeatedly swept out from under her. Defiance animated her small face.

Cobra said, “I should have seen it the first time I saw her. She has extraordinary desire… and empathy. An extraordinary combination.”

Dang-Ling’s cheeks flushed with anticipation. “Her flesh is perfection.”

“It is not simply her flesh, priest,” Cobra retorted. “Look closer.”

Dang-Ling edged down the stairs to the bottom of the hole. He steadied his weight against the glass flask, leaned forward until his nose touched it.

Robin was thrashing wildly against the slosh and spill of the weighty fluid, but her movements had an erotic eloquence to them. It was as if her breasts, throat, arms and legs danced with the moving whiteness. Within her nut-brown body a white glow grew and spread under her smooth, firm flesh. It filled her with light, reaching to her toes and fingertips.

“I see it,” Dang-Ling squeaked. “I see it!”

Thin shafts of light began to radiate from Robin, then speared through the glass of the flask and flashed across the priest’s animated face. He staggered back against the wall of the hole, grimacing in terror. The light whipped over him with bright bars, holding him prisoner.

The Queen of Serpents watched the light play over the priest, then shivered. “We will all be well advised to remember this lesson, priest. With a girl such as this one, the flesh is merely an outward sign of what dwells within.”

Dang-Ling, as much as he now wanted to, could not avert his eyes from Robin.

“That’s it,” Cobra hissed. “Look at her. What you see is a body singularly untainted by any substance or idea that might impair its spirit. In short, priest, she is the ideal which drives off the brutal realities the horned helmet forces him to see.”

A last shower of milk spilled down and Robin rolled under its impact, then settled facedown as it sluiced out the drain. Exhausted. Half-drowned. Wet, white streaks trailed down her battered flesh. Before she recovered, the inner light was gone.

“There is nothing to fear from her at this moment as she will have no idea of what we saw, and will remain ignorant of her powers.”

“She must die.” Dang-Ling snapped indignantly. “Immediately.”

“No,” said Cobra. “Even though it would give me great pleasure to kill her with my own teeth, I can not. The Master has instructed me to use her to destroy the Barbarian and retrieve the horned helmet, and we need her. If she were to die, he might become enraged and do irreparable damage to our Master’s work. At the very least I am certain you and I would not survive his displeasure. But she will suffer, priest, that I promise you.”

Dang-Ling looked back and forth from Cobra to Robin helplessly. “How?” he pleaded as Robin stood and stretched tiredly, then lay down in a lovely puddle of brown limbs, giving them her back.

“How?” repeated Cobra. “Look at her. She is going to make a lovely serpent.”

LOGIC

B
rown John, his hands clenched behind him, plodded up the wide, sun-drenched ridge of rubble towards the heights of Chela Kong. At the summit he paused before the only tower still standing and fanned himself with a rag.

The tower had once commanded the corner of a great wall, but now, up to its throat in rubble, it looked like a common stone house. One wall had collapsed long ago exposing the flooring of the parapet. It lay about five feet above the rubble to roof a cavelike shelter under it. Gath’s black stallion was tethered beside the shadowed opening.

Throughout the surrounding rubble of the village, the Barbarian Army, now over seven thousand strong, was camped. It cooked, ate and sharpened weapons. Its many eyes lifted every so often to follow the Grillard leader’s pilgrimage to the tower.

A warm breeze swept over him. Brown John watched it swirl down the southern slope and roll onto the flat desert floor. There it picked up speed, became a wind, and swept across the yellowish earth toward a dark crescent-shaped formation a few miles off. Spires of smoke rose above the curve. The Kitzakk Army.

Brown John studied this distant adversary for a moment wondering. “Why do they so diligently follow, yet avoid a battle,” he muttered. “Ah, well, we can play the same game.” He felt his way into the cavelike shelter, and stopped short. Out of the pit of his gut an icy chill raced up his back into the base of his skull.

Gath’s body sprawled in a contorted heap against the rear wall. He was naked except for a fur loincloth and the horned helmet which rested against a rock. His new wounds were caked with sand and his body twitched involuntarily. His fist fumbled in the dirt for the axe handle lying beside his legs.

Brown John, crouching low, hurried inside and, squatting, peered at the eye slits. Smoke drifted from them veiling glowing red embers within.

“What’s happened? What’s it doing to you now?”

The black helmet rocked back and forth oddly. The eye slits shot forth flames driving him back.

“Ahhhh!” Brown John moaned. “This demon helmet is burning up your brain.”

The old man sighed and dropped back against the wall. He glanced out the opening of the shelter at the distant Kitzakks and sighed again. “And no wonder. There is enough evil out there to stoke its fire eternally. It is a wonder you did not explode in flames the moment they appeared.”

Gath straightened slightly and whispered weakly, “Who did you tell?”

“Not a soul! Your army still believes it is led by an invincible champion. And from the way the Kitzakk Army is cowering in the distance, I dare say it believes the same thing. I would be the last man to weaken those beliefs.” He forced a smile. “You may be heartened, if that is possible, in the knowledge that the hope you have given them is not a futile one. Our scouting parties have repeatedly challenged and driven off theirs.”

“What
did
you tell them?” The hollow voice insisted.

“I told them what they wanted to hear. That when you decided the time was right, you would lead the attack, march over their army and into Bahaara, free the rest of the captives, and make the Kitzakks crawl away bleeding into oblivion.”

The helmet uttered a bitter, brutal grunt.

Brown John continued anyway. “It is my firm conviction that no one be told what you have, to my great honor, confided in me. Not even the girl.”

Gath was not listening or watching. His breathing was a dry heave. His neck, straining to hold the helmet erect, streamed with sweat. Suddenly a chunk of the rock it rested against broke away, and the helmet fell sideways. Gath threw out a hand and caught the ground, and his falling body jerked to a stop. His head fell down between his arms, as if trying to fall off his shoulders. A cavernous moan ripped loose from the mouth hole. He heaved the weighty head up and slammed it back in place against the rock. His wounds began to bleed through their sandy crusts.

Brown John started in horror, then controlled himself and his voice hardened. “By Bled, I’m not going to let this happen. There is always an answer somewhere. If only I could think of some way to outwit this demonic metal! Perhaps if you lay down?”

“Worse.” It was a guttural grunt, more than a word. “The fire enters my veins.”

“Then I will help you stand,” he leaned forward onto his hands. “If you move around a bit it might…”

“I tried. The helmet is too heavy now.”

“Is that what happens? It grows heavier and heavier?”

A grunt of agreement.

“And… and then…” The words did not come.

“ It will rip my head off my shoulders.” There was a ring of insane anticipation in his words.

Brown John’s howl rent the stifling heat. He flailed his clenched fists at the ceiling, then quietly his determination returned. He crawled beside the dying man. He forced a smile into his wrinkled cheeks, and, with a jaunty, defiant air said scoldingly, “What you fail to appreciate, my dramatic friend, is that I am the
bukko here.
And I did not put you on stage to perform in a tragedy. Not today! And not tomorrow! Now try and get that clear!”

The eye slits of the horned helmet blazed hotly, as if it, not the man, were replying.

Brown John, wavering, sat back on his heels, then obstinately resumed his lecture. There was a hard edge of authority to it now. He said, “I have it.”

The helmet was unimpressed, but the old impresario had played to that kind of an audience before, and he did not falter. “Today,” he proclaimed standing as tall as the cave allowed, “despite our awkward situation, is like any other day. And no day, throughout the history of days, was ever ruled by mere gods or demons. No, sir! There are far more powerful forces which rule this protean play we call life. Lust, virtue, greed, passion, these are the ultimate players which daily alter our malleable lives. We can submit to them, and allow them to raise us up or throw us down. Or we can find some means of struggling through so that when tomorrow comes we can take hold of whatever new possibilities these supreme forces have created and use them to our advantage.”

The helmet replied to this philosophy by crushing through the rock that supported it and hauling Gath over sideways. He landed facedown. The flames from the eye slits singed the dirt and rock, raising smoke. Gath groaned, pushed himself up onto his knees and elbows, but could not lift the helmet off the ground. He struggled, gasping and sweating. Brown John, devoid of words, watched in terror. Before the old man could draw a breath, Gath collapsed.

With surprising strength, the old man heaved Gath over on his back dodging the helmet’s spitting flames. He hesitated, gasping, then forced himself to lean over the monstrous body and look down into the flaming face of the helmet.

Within the flames, faint at first, he saw writhing, tortured men and women of hideous deformity screaming with unnamable pain. Then he heard the whimpering of tortured children and maimed animals, and smelt the nauseating stench of death. From beyond and within it all came the malevolent melody of demonic laughter.

“So this is the way of it,” he murmured, awestruck with pity, “it feeds on the darkness of the world.” He sat back muttering. “Hold on, old man, hold on.”

Avoiding the flaming eye slits, Brown John arranged Gath’s body so that his back was raised and the helmet propped between two rocks. As he did he kept chattering, as much to divert his fears as to help his friend.

“I dare say that my old father would tell me that now is the time to call on a story of such artful magic that it would make the ugly reality which feeds these flames vanish like the rabbit in the wizard’s cape, and replace it with the kind of dreams which make children think of sailing ships and castles in the clouds. But, in all truth, I must admit that I have found soft fantasies of small use in hard times.” He smiled with resignation. “Besides, I seriously doubt you can even hear me now.”

He sat back against the opposite wall and sighed. For long minutes he watched Gath lie still, then the red glowing eyes dimmed a bit and the battered warrior stirred slightly, muttering unintelligibly.

“Ahhh!” whispered the old
bukko,
“so we still share, for the moment at least, the same stage. Good.” He drew a deep breath and then, with the light-winged clarity of sudden inspiration, volunteered, “Perhaps we should talk a little about this girl, Robin Lakehair?”

Brown John sat forward. Had there been a faint response, or had he
imagined
it? He sneered at his rash excitement, but could not keep it from doing optimistic things to his face. “My, my,” he chuckled, “that would be curious, if by the mere accidental mention of her name, if just… just the words…
Robin Lakehair…
could…” He waited.

The eye slits flickered, almost went out.

Brown John propelled himself forward on all fours and monitored the dying glow, like a boy discovering for the first time that girls were indeed made differently. An involuntary giggle spilled out of his open mouth. He threw his head back and laughed wildly.

“By gad, I should have thought of it immediately. Here we sit on a battlefield, the ideal setting for salacious talk of carefree girls and raucous fornication, to say nothing of wives and sweethearts! And I nearly forgot to mention her name.” He laughed again.

Gath, shifting slightly, pushed his helmeted head up an inch.

“Well, well, Gath, old man, perhaps you and I will play this scene out after all. Tell me, is their something you find particularly fascinating about her? For a man of my years, of course, it is always their legs and lovely bottoms. But as a youth like yourself it was always the breasts. There was never a question of it. Of course, when I was fortunate enough to be involved with a beauty approaching that of the Lakehair child, I admit the face ruled my heart.

“Come, come, tell me. Is it her small straight nose? Or those big feathery eyes. Or perhaps her soft golden-red hair? Come, come, coax your memory. Think of every part of her. Her voice, her laughter, her small perfect hands, her fresh warm scent, those plump soft red lips.”

Gath shifted and lifted the helmet another two inches. As he did, Brown John leaned down, uncertain if he had seen a trace of smile pass across Gath’s now white eyes. Then he laughed and said, “I admit it, I am partial to lips myself. At least in my more sentimental moments. But lips are, you must admit it, only the beginning of a whole set of extraordinary delights.” He paused remembering her more soberly. “There is such a natural loveliness to her, her joy in simple things, her love of just being alive. And her kindness, even to lizards and lecherous old men.”

Gath muttered unintelligibly, but more agreeably, the old man thought.

“By Day bog!” Brown John exclaimed, then he laughed again. “This is truly astounding. The fate of the greatest army ever to plague our land, and the fate of the Master of Darkness himself, all that lies in the balance, on whether you live or die.” He mused. “And that balance is now tipped by the weightless memory of a pair of soft red lips.” He clasped his hands together and wrung them in wonderment.

Late that night Bone returned to the campfire at the center of the square where Dirken and the Barbarian chiefs waited and made his report. He said, “They’re still talking about girls.”