Prisoner of the Horned Helmet (29 page)

COUNCIL OF CHIEFS

T
he Barbarian tribes were angered by Gath of Baal’s refusal to be their king, but it did not blunt their resolve to become organized and possess a champion whose magic was contagious for times of emergency. To resolve the problem, the Council of Chiefs argued and consulted throughout the night.

The next day the council announced their decision. As the
bukko,
Brown John, with his foresight and possible magic, had compelled the Death Dealer to act as their champion during this last, great emergency, and as his Grillards had organized and supplied the Barbarian Army, they invited Brown John to sit permanently with the Council of Chiefs. In addition, for the duration of any emergency, the
bukko
would serve as their leader. It was assumed by all, of course, that the old stage master still had the power to compel Gath of Baal to serve as their champion, and Brown John did not offer to confuse them with the facts. As no one considered Robin Lakehair to be more than a momentary romantic distraction for Gath, her name was not brought up at all.

Brown John formally accepted the offer, and made no mention of her either.

After hearty congratulations all-around, the tribes packed up and moved out the northern gate heading for the Great Forest Basin. They left Bahaara in flames. It burned brilliantly for hours, then the flames died leaving a blackened, smoking skeleton city to be ravaged by the sands and time.

The Barbarians were no longer an army. They were tribes again, and traveled on separate trails. All, that is, except for the Grillards. They accompanied the Cytherians. They followed them across the desert, down through The Narrows and across Foot Bridge. There they said their sentimental good-byes, and Robin turned east for Weaver. The Grillards continued north on Amber Road back to the Valley of Miracles.

WEAVER

R
eaching home, Robin and the Cytherian warriors were greeted warmly and with great honor and celebration. Robin was given a place of honor at the feast, anointed with incense and garlands of flowers, and, even though she was wan, pale and stood out vulgarly in her short hair, was praised as a daring and courageous girl of virtue and beauty. During the following weeks, the children came flocking to hear her tell of her adventures. Their adoration, along with a steady diet of milk, hardy bread and fresh fruit, quickly nourished her back to health and lifted her spirits so that once more she began to echo the melodies of the birds and the laughter in the ripple of the brook.

But when the wounded veterans of the campaign dragged their crippled limbs back into the taverns to tell their version of the war, things began to change. The soldiers relieved their aches and pains with quantities of hard wine and wildly exaggerated tales of their battles, laying dark emphasis on all that was unnatural, mysterious and brutal: the satanic appearance of the Queen of Serpents, the devil fire within the horned helmet, the horrible transformation of the warlord into a hideous reptile, and the long, unexplained and intimate visits Robin Lakehair had paid the Dark One in his secret home in The Shades, a place where strong men feared to travel, yet a place from which she always returned unhurt and in remarkable health.

As these tales, along with those of the unholy carnage done by the Death Dealer and his axe, circulated, they grew uglier and more sinister according to the appetites of both the tellers and listeners. Consequently, many of the villagers who had suffered loss of loved ones during the conflict, were uncomfortably reminded of their unhappiness, and disturbed by unnatural fears. The stories, after becoming old and revolting, stopped. But Robin was an ever-present reminder of times best forgotten. And, as she herself had suffered no ill effects from her very questionable adventures, rumors began that she was in some way tainted by them.

If she was, of course, she could contaminate the holy work and spoil the cloth, so her spindle was taken away and given to another girl. Robin tried to bear up under the hurtful insult, believing that time would eventually restore her tribe’s belief in her.

But it was the gossip that was fed by time, and Robin, who could not comprehend these attacks against her, did not know how to argue against them. The situation compounded. She was shunned at the well, and the children were led from her presence. She spent much time in the forest, but too much time alone brought on a deep melancholy, and it became more and more difficult for her to return to her room in the evening.

Then one night she dreamed of the children themselves reviling her. She woke up drenched in sweat and sobbing. Panic made her heart pound and showed in her eyes. She jumped out of bed, threw on her bone-white tunic and slipped into her soft leather boots. With her belongings packed in a bedroll, and tied to her back, she dashed out of Weaver before first light. Her sacred whorl was held tight in her fist. But there were shadows under her eyes, and no lilt in her stride. There was no longer a friend to whom she dared say good-bye.

When she arrived at Pinwheel Crossing, the morning sun was beating down on her hair and shoulders. She studied the many signs marking the roads: Amber Road which would take her she did not know where, the road to Coin and the Kavens, then the road to Dowat territory. But they only made tears well in her eyes. She glanced back down Weaver Road, and looked at the sacred whorl in her fist. Defiantly she flung the whorl into the surrounding foliage and started down the Way of the Outlaw.

She had no other choice. She was an outcast.

RAG CAMP

R
obin reached Stone Crossing when the sun was low in the western sky. She climbed to its heights and paused there, gazing down at the camp spread out among the apple trees in the clearing beyond the river. A tentative smile lifted the corners of her small pert mouth, but before she was halfway down the slope, the smile was moving with abandon into her cheeks.

There were children playing on the ground under the trees. Seeing her approach, they stopped their game, and crowded around her, bombarding her with questions.

“Who are you?”

“What’s your name?”

“Did you come to see the show?”

“Are you going to stay?”

Robin listened with delight, then covered her ears playfully and they laughed, quieted. She considered them for a moment with warning eyes, then asked, “Are you going to let me say something, or aren’t strangers allowed to talk in Rag Camp?”

They smiled shyly, and nodded.

“All right,” she said, then squatted facing their small active faces. “Now, I am looking for a man called Brown John, is he here?”

“Oh yes,” they squealed.

They took her hands and led her across the clearing toward the stage where the three colorful wagons served as backdrops.

“He’s over here.”

“In the red wagon.”

“That’s his house.”

“Really?” Robin gasped admiringly, “I thought it was just part of the stage.”

“Oh no! It’s his wagon.”

“The best in the whole camp.”

“He’s real important.”

“And bossy.”

“But don’t be frightened.”

“He’ll like you.”

“Because you’re pretty,” put in the littlest one.

Robin laughed, picked her up with a squeeze. They all hurried to the raised stage, and the children pushed Robin up onto it. They began to shout at the upstairs window; Brown John stuck his frowsy head out and shouted right back, “What is it now? I told you not to bother me during my nap. Do I have to…”

He stopped abruptly seeing Robin’s face smiling up at him, then said quietly, “My, my.” He turned on the children shouting, “Let her in, you noisy imps. She’s late, very, very late!”

After the evening meal, Brown John held court on the stage to determine Robin’s status with the Grillards. He sat on a large thronelike chair facing Robin. Gathered around them, sitting on stools and the floor, were the tribe’s principal players: Mother Drab, Krell the Rubber Man, Bone, Dirken, Nose the Fool, and Belle and Zail, the lead dancing girls.

From his prominent position, he listened patiently to the speeches, all of which were rich with opinion and style, and lengthy. Then he presented briefly his conclusion. Robin Lakehair would be accepted into the camp and given a bed, a blanket and an equal share of wine and food. Then the arguments began as to which craft she would pursue. But, as these entertainers and thieves had no experience with such an abundance of virtue and beauty, they had no idea what trade Robin was suited for, and their disagreements became loud and hot. By tradition Brown John was only to speak when the group was out of words. But knowing that rarely happened, he interrupted firmly, “That’s enough. The discussion is ended. Robin will train as a dancing girl.”

Mother Drab, Belle and Zail laughed riotously, then Mother Drab arched a wicked eye at Brown John and said with a wry chuckle, “Her! A dancing girl! Why she’s got nothing up front and less behind, and even if she did she wouldn’t know how to toss it, or who to toss it at!”

Brown John waited until they all ran out of laughter, then fixed an eye fiercely on the troop.

“She will dance,” he said conclusively, “because she has other attractions which are suitable to the dance. And the stick and hoop will not be her teachers, but the white water splashing over the rocks of the stream, and the swallow in flight, the tree in the wind, the shooting star dashing across the night sky.” He raised an acknowledging hand to Mother Drab, Zail and Belie. “Do not misunderstand. I do not underestimate the extravagant wealth of your bouncing breasts and thundering hips. These are profound and sacred contributions to the dance, and I respect them as profoundly necessary and highly inspiring. But… I have a different vision for Robin. She will not dance as you dance. She will not perform ‘The Pregnant Virgin’ or even ‘The Wicked Wife’.”

He leaned forward, gathered Robin’s hands as light glinted in his warm eyes. “No, child, your dances will tell the tales the animals and elves tell, and speak of far pavilions, and of gods and goddesses riding the wind, bathing in the sky, and building castles out of cobwebs and clouds.”

He paused and directed her eyes to the floor of the stage as if it were the whole of ail the earth. He whispered, “You think now, Robin Lakehair, that you are an outcast, but you are not.” He looked into her moist eyes. “You have come home.”

A month later, when many visitors from the forest tribes had gathered in Rag Camp to celebrate midsummer, Robin Lakehair performed for the first time. It was the opening number, a dance designed to distract the little children so the main entertainment could begin. It was titled, “Tails Up.” She performed as a dragonfly, and wore pea green tights, small yellow wings and a long red tail. Some of the adults had no idea what her dance was about, while others imagined it meant strange and significant things. But their children howled and rolled about with delight, and the tiny ones kissed her nose and petted her tail, so the parents applauded appreciatively.

A massive armored figure standing in the night shadows at the edge of the forest also watched Robin’s debut. As she moved among the children laughing and hugging them, his body shifted in place as if he would approach her, but he did not. Instead he turned and strode back into the forest night.

THE QUEST

T
hat night Gath of Baal rode slowly up a narrow gulley toward the top of Calling Rock. About him the darkness held an eerie hollowness and echoed with the soft plodding of the horse’s hooves. At the summit, he dismounted and led the animal through the shrubs and boulders into the clearing beside the naked thorn tree. A lonely silence oppressed the area. Not even the wind spoke among the leaves.

Within the circle of small blackened rocks that Robin had once gathered for her fire, he placed a few logs and dry leaves. They lit easily. He spread his blankets below an outcropping of rock, and removed his armor. After feeding the stallion, he ate some bread and cold meat, and drank some wine. A breeze moved softly through the rocks, but its faint whistle only enhanced the magnitude of the silence and solitude.

He lay down on his blankets using his saddle as a pillow, and picked up his helmet, studied it for a long time, fascinated with every detail of its powerful construction and the pulsing life in its steel. Tomorrow he would head for the Land of Smoking Skies to begin the hunt. But not tonight. He set the helmet down and looked at the fire.

Demons and ogres began to take shape within the red and orange dancing tongues. All the spawn of darkness that the Master of Darkness could send against him seemed to writhe in the red heat to the sounds of night predators creeping and slithering in time with the noisy flames. For a moment he glimpsed an old frowsy wrinkled
bukko
with laughter in his eyes fighting at his side, and he smiled. He peered past the flames at a small huddled shape sleeping in the embrace of the exposed roots at the base of the thorn tree. When it moved, he could see the long red-gold hair of a girl, and when she turned her face to the firelight he could see her soft, plump lips, stretching and sighing like little red dancers.

Later, during the darkest hours of the night, when the fire had turned to glowing embers, his sleeping body shifted slightly and he muttered contentedly, like a man in the middle of a dream.