Prisoner of the Horned Helmet

INVADERS

T
hey came out of the sunblasted desert. Tiny dark specks wagging a tail of billowing yellow dust at the yellow sky. Occasionally they glittered metallically; otherwise they were shaggy, the color of dirt when it was in a mood to be filthy. All of which meant they looked their best, like tarantulas with their hair combed.

It was a mounted detachment. Nine riders with crossbows in their saddle holsters and sheathed swords, quivers and daggers riding their belts. Scouts. Probing fingertips of the nomadic empire which dominated the southern lands from the Dark Continent in the west, all the way across the lands of Yellow Faces to the Islands of the Rising Sun in the east. The Kitzakk Horde.

Their horses were small, scarred, with braided manes and tails. Durable. The riders were more so, leather-skinned veterans of the desert campaigns. They were Hunters, members of one of the three Chel Regiments under the personal command of the warlord, Klang.

Helmets, arm bands and breastplates were black-lacquered bamboo striped with steel bands. Skirts were wide leather thongs mounted with steel studs. Crescent moons of precious silver glittered on the tops of wide-brimmed helmets shaped like overturned shallow bowls. Their weapons were carved with the figures of butterflies and inlaid with a patina of gore and grime gathered from uncounted battlefields. There were the inevitable dents and stains, but each carried a story of violent, painful victory.

Their flat brown faces carried similar stories, stories of themselves. Men wearing steel and death.

They rode north to the dry cataracts where Sergeant Yat reined up and halted his command. He was short, thick and sun dark. His squad numbered seven veterans and one rookie, a boy they called Young Hands, who brought up the rear. They stared down at the cataracts like performers about to step onto a stage they had not played before, a dangerous one.

The massive shelves of rock, splintered by bottomless gorges, descended in almost regular steps then vanished amid low-lying clouds. Like a staircase for the gods, the large variety who use trees for toothpicks and urinate lightning.

Soong, the wrinkled one, said, “Not a regulation border, is it?”

Akar nodded agreement. “The regiments will be one large target crossing this, and so will we.”

Sergeant Yat grunted as if the cataracts were of no more concern than an unpolished belt buckle and moved his squad forward with a circular motion of his hand.

They turned west, rode until they came to a steep trail descending into the cataracts. Soong put up a trail marker, a red flag embroidered with a rising sun, the sign of their Butterfly Goddess. Akar removed a map, bamboo pen and ink from a metal cylinder and noted the trail on the map. This done, Yat led them down the trail into the uncharted, savage wilderness.

As the scouts descended, the iron chains and slave collars dangling from their saddles echoed pleasantly among the stone chasms. These instruments were beautifully made, hand carved with images of entwined flowers. The soldiers made no attempt to mute their metallic song.

It brought terror to their enemies, was music to their ears. A proud reminder that they no longer used barbaric ropes or crude leather collars, but hard steel. They were civilized. They even drank their blood from a cup.

COBRA

B
eyond the cataracts, deep within the Great Forest Basin, the tiny Glyder Snake slithered under dense ground cover, came to a stop at a wild scarlet rose graced with flickering sunlight. The reptile was in a section of the forest called The Shades. Vast. Uninhabited. Primeval. Dense with fir, spruce and hemlock rising from the embrace of creepers and sword ferns, and carpeted with needles, leaves and moss. A land with a roof of leaves penetrated by a few scattered shafts of gold light. A world of shadows. The perfect place for a snake at work.

The reptile’s gold eyes hunted and came to rest on a black cavelike opening amid the exposed roots of a massive spruce. Its nostrils widened. Its black tongue tasted the air. It had found what it hunted.

It slipped out of the concealing ground cover, wound its way up onto a dead fir tree lying on the ground, and slithered into a pool of flickering sunlight. The slim olive green body, the length of a forearm, coiled, then lifted in an elegant arc and pointed its stabbing tongue at a shadowed cave at the base of an outcropping of overgrown rock. Within seconds, sunshine turned its body yellow and its tiny scales began to radiate golden light, like a glowing trail marker.

There was the sound of something large shifting its weight within the shadows of the cave, then silence.

A spread of man-high sword ferns swayed behind the reptile, then parted, held by two hooded faceless spearmen crowded in the shadows. An opulent female figure emerged robed in emerald velvet. Small pearl-white hands clutched the heavy garment about her, their red nails hot, sharp. She stepped into the pool of light beside the glowing Glyder Snake. For a brief moment her draped body shimmered, reflecting the colors of the sunlight and the scarlet rose, then it flickered brightly and turned to scales of glittering gold. She slowly pushed her hood back and gazed intently at the shadowed cave.

Her grey-and-gold, almond-shaped eyes were heavily rimmed with kohl, and glistened in the deep alcoves of her finely wrought skull. Thin arched eyebrows. Wide full cheekbones. Lips narrow but fleshy above her finely pointed chin. Her skin was flawless, translucent, cream tinted with rose madder. Her hair was hidden beneath a shoulder length skullcap of metallic scales crusted with tiny jewels and cut like a serpent’s hood. It glittered with wealthy abandon. This was the sorceress called Cobra, Queen of Serpents.

The shadow within the root cave shifted.

Cobra’s cheeks rose with the trace of a confident smile. She parted her robe to reveal a lush body ripe with curves. Wide hips. Narrow waist. Full breasts swelling above the restraining gold cloth of her garment like soft prisoners. She spoke in a tone that was playful, in the manner of fingers stroking a naked thigh.

She said, “I bear a message, Dark One.”

A voice from within the cave said, “I have no use for messages.” It echoed softly, as if the speaker were imprisoned in a hole at the center of the earth. Yet strong, holding back thunder.

“You will have use for this one,” she said, abruptly changing her tone. “It carries a warning. Great and terrible events are traveling towards the Forest Basin. Events more horrible than even you can imagine. The armies of the great Outland empire in the south are coming, Dark One, and they wear armor and bear weapons stronger than the earth has ever known before.”

A grunt escaped the shadowed cave.

A smile spread across her mouth then died at the corners. “Contempt will not blunt their weapons. These Outlander champions are stronger than any you have faced. No fire you stoke can soften their metal, no weapon you hold can penetrate it. You will not be able to stand against them, unless you arm yourself properly.”

She waited, got no response, and continued coaxingly. “I do not insult you, Dark One. I am certain that you will die grandly, in a manner that will be spoken of with praise around the campfires for many years. But if you are of a mind to remain Lord of the Shades a little longer, hear me out.”

Silence.

“Listen to me! Go to the bridge called Lemontrail Crossing. Today! There you will find armor and weapons of hard metal, tools which can be yours if you have the will to take them.”

She waited again for a response, got none, and her smile coiled restlessly in the cool beauty of her face. For a moment it was naked, then suddenly flashed hotly, all rouge and painted lips.

She said, “Understand, Cobra seeks no payment for her words. Not of you. What I will have of you is far more than a mere tuft of your fur or a cup of your urine could provide.”

She turned, moved back through the parted ferns with the Glyder Snake following at a respectful distance, then the ferns closed, and they were gone.

LEMONTRAIL CROSSING

I
t was midday before Sergeant Yat’s squad reached the lowest cataract and descended a twisting, shadow-filled gully out of which blew a welcome cool breeze. Its walls were as pockmarked with caves as the skull of the nine-eyed crab. A perfect place for an ambush. They rode on, not breaking stride.

They were confident with reason. The Kitzakk Horde had not known failure in one hundred years, and the scouts had helped enslave tribes, nations and continents with the routine indifference of camels dropping manure cakes. As members of a Chel Regiment they were among the Kitzakk elite, handpicked by the Warlord Klang who commanded the armies, tent camps and skintowns of the Great Desert which formed the western third of the Kitzakk empire.

For the last nine years Yat’s squad had found and mapped the trails and villages of the desert tribes so the Invader Regiments and commercial Companies of Chainmen could follow with ease and efficiency. But now the deserts were mapped, and the merchants in the skintowns were complaining because their customers were becoming bored with desert merchandise, with dusky-skinned women and lean, truculent men. They wanted new produce, and the high priest of the Temple of Dreams had said the time was right. It was summer, the Time of Harvest. So the first year of a nine-year campaign against the barbaric forest tribes had begun.

Emerging from the gully, the scouts reined up. In front of them was the last bridge, a crude, sun-bleached wooden structure spanning the wide, deep gorge which separated the steep cataracts from the edge of the forest. Flayed ropes and sagging timbers barely held it upright, and it swayed in the light breeze, showing a definite inclination toward falling down. This was Lemontrail Crossing. But the scouts were looking beyond it, their eyes transfixed by a seemingly endless sea of green which spread in all directions behind a stand of mist-filled trees. This was the Great Forest Basin. The Land of the Barbarians.

Only the sun and moon can remember now how it looked then. Lush, rich, tangled. Savage. Shadowed. A world populated by demons and serpents, by wild men and proud, sensual women. A world of mystery. Magic. Music. Murder. Here and there in the distance beyond their vision, islands of rock rose like massive citadels out of the verdant green, islands which would one day be called Malta, Sicily, Majorca.

Beyond the sea of forest was the land mass which would become the continent of Europe, its northern half now buried under blue ice. In time, a long time, the ice would melt and the oceans would rise, break past the massive pillars of rock far to the west, and drown this fabled land of legends. But that is a story of another time, another age.

Now, warring, laughing, lusty tribes lived here. Independent men and women given to changing their chiefs with the season. Bickering, fighting people who could not agree on laws or borders, or raise an army larger than a marauding outlaw band.

Even though facing the land of the enemy for the first time, the faces of the scouts showed little concern. They knew that in the coming campaign there would be no organized defense. No armies to overwhelm. No citadels to storm. The work should be easy, like scraping flesh from boiled skulls.

Soong said, “The companies are going to be short on cages, I’m thinking. There are as many people out there as there are leaves on the trees.”

Akar, the second in command, nodded. “Not enough cages or time. Nine years won’t do it this time.”

“Fine by me,” Yat said. “There’s nothing like steady work to keep the regiment sharp.”

They dismounted, watered their horses and themselves, stretched in the sunshine, remounted and walked their horses forward. Reaching the bridge, they suddenly reined up, and their eyes darted furtively, hunting, bodies cocked. What did they hear, sense? They plucked crossbows from saddle holsters, mounted finely pointed steel bolts and waited.

Beyond the bridge a wide dirt trail ran east and west alongside the deep gorge. Another trail joined it at the intersection with the bridge. It ran north through a scattered stand of lemon trees, then into the forest. A thick grey mist covered the ground at the edge of the forest. Suddenly a huge grey timber wolf emerged from it and studied the scouts with narrow yellow eyes. Then it casually strolled back inside the mists as if the scouts were meatless creatures not worth his trouble.

The scouts glanced at Sergeant Yat uncertainly, then turned sharply as a screeching flock of sparrows erupted from one treetop, a hawk from another. The scouts watched the birds. As they did, they made magic signs on their groins and foreheads. Then they started forward again. Suddenly a wind blew up out of the trees, gathered the clinging gray mist in its embrace, and swept it through the lemon trees and across the bridge.

It was as if some silent, unseen Lord of Nature had sneezed. The scouts quickly covered their faces with their neck cloths and the fog swirled over them. When it passed, they looked back at the bridge and relaxed. This they understood.

The wide, ragged, black shape of a helmeted man carrying a shield and axe was advancing through the mist still swirling on the bridge. When it drifted off, the sun revealed a thick body layered with slabs of muscle which rippled under burnished flesh, glistening as if only he had the right to wear the sunshine. A massive Barbarian as confident as a continent, but seemingly without reason to be.

His armor consisted of stained black hides. Dark bits of fur were strapped to his feet and waist with hide thongs. His axe was the kind called elephant killer, too heavy headed and long handled for close combat, despite its size. His masked helmet, like his small circular shield, was of wood belted by metal bars. The axe blade and belts were of crude iron.

The Barbarian stopped a third of the way across the bridge and waited. His eyes, deep within his helmet, blinked as shafts of sunlight ricocheted off the Kitzakks’ armor and splashed across his body.

The scouts, moving with disciplined habit, spread out in three units and studied the Barbarian as if he were dead game to be skinned and boned.

Soong spoke first. He said thoughtfully, “I think he thinks he’s defending the bridge… maybe even the whole forest.”

Yat said, “Maybe, maybe not. But he surely wants a fight.”

“The fool,” Akar cackled. “He’s meat now.”

“Perhaps more than meat,” Soong said. “In that forest some still mate with serpents and cats. Even demons.”

Yat nodded. “Akar, let’s look at the color of his blood.”

Akar, still cackling, edged his mount forward, leveled his crossbow casually, fired from the hip.

The dark figure settled slightly. A flick of white heat showed within the eye slits of his helmet as he watched the steel bolt drive towards him cutting the air with a faint whistle only the coyote or owl could hear.

At the last moment, the dark Barbarian lifted his shield and caught the flying bolt with the corner, just above his heart. The impact made a loud clang as the bolt imbedded itself in one of the metal belts and shoved him back two steps.

The scouts shared wary glances, then Yat barked, “Ching! Wei! Clear the bridge! Boy, you watch the horses.”

Ching and Wei holstered their crossbows, dismounted, giving Young Hands their reins, and stepped forward rolling their shoulders. They were agile, sober soldiers. They drew their swords, holding the grips of the slightly curved blades with both hands, then, with their weight centered on the balls of their feet, advanced in scattering side to side movements.

The Barbarian watched thoughtfully.

Suddenly the two scouts stopped and, moving like dancers, positioned their swords behind them, tips down, nearly touching the ground, as if in surrender. It was a mocking stance. There was no sign of any real concern on their faces. No sweat on temples or under the eyes. No movement at all. They just waited, cold as stone.

The Barbarian trembled with outrage, and without warning erupted like a flung rock. With sudden quick steps the scouts shifted their weight forward, and their swords flew off the ground, came at him in measured strokes from opposite sides. The Barbarian did not break stride. He fed one sword a bite out of the handle of his axe, let the other cleave the top off his helmet, then was between them. They stepped back to make room for second blows. Too late. The Barbarian jabbed Wei ten feet back with the butt end of his axe handle, pivoted and swung the flat of his axe at Ching’s chest.

The Kitzakk’s grip on his sword went wet in his hands as he saw the flat axe head swinging for him, its metal spitting light back at the sun. Then his mind went foolish and he covered up with his arms, like a schoolboy. The flat axe head crashed through his arms, hammered him to the floor of the bridge, crushed him against it with such force that the air in his lungs and the blood in his veins exploded, ripped him apart inside so that he ballooned at his shoulders and neck.

Sergeant Yat and his scouts sat motionless, momentarily stunned before they opened fire with crossbows. But the Barbarian had planned wisely. He had turned to face Wei so that his shield faced the scouts and now caught their bolts. Wei, with his estimate of the Barbarian’s threat dramatically altered, had backed away. He now waited, sword dancing in front of him.

The Barbarian charged. Wei struck. His sword took off a piece of the wooden shield as the Barbarian swung his axe head in an arching Uppercut. It caught Wei under the chin and took off his head.

Wei’s headless body stood motionless for a moment, as if it were about to object. But his head betrayed him and tumbled to the bridge where it looked up dumbly while spewing blood on the bare calves of the scouts charging past. Then the body fell, and hit the head which rolled off gathering splinters.

The scouts, with swords and shields working in front of them, surrounded the Barbarian. He did not appear to mind. Turning quickly from side to side, he watched them from behind his shield with the eyes of a man who had worked crowds before.

He choked up his axe handle, as if expecting the scouts to work cautiously in order to avoid striking each other. But they showed no hesitation and attacked in a bunch. They cut up his shield, nicked his axe and cracked his helmet. In the process, bridge posts were hacked apart, floor beams splintered, and supporting ropes severed to fly skyward, their tension released.

The dark Barbarian’s blows clanged majestically against steel breastplates and helmets drawing blood from panting lips and removing one of Yat’s ears. But his success was limited. The scouts deliberately allowed him to attack their steel armor, and it resisted his blows. No matter how great his effort and cunning, his axe could not reach their vital parts. Finally his axe head tangled in Yat’s fringe skirt, and the Sergeant threw himself down, using his body weight to yank the axe from the Barbarian’s grip.

Instinctively, the Barbarian swung around, hammering with the flat of his shield, and bought himself a little room. As he did, the bridge sagged under him. He leaped back and the planks splintered. His legs and body crashed through them, then came to a sudden stop as his shield, too wide for the hole, caught against the floor of the bridge.

He dangled under the bridge, hanging desperately to the shield’s handle. Below him the jaws of the gorge, a thousand feet below, waited. Above him his shield concealed him from the scouts.

Sergeant Yat, the area of his missing ear spitting blood, moved over the Barbarian’s shield and began hacking at it as he shouted, “Crossbows! Crossbows!”

The scouts, limping and trailing blood, retrieved their crossbows and loaded them, then struggled back onto the bridge and peered over the side. They could not see the Barbarian, so they joined Yat as his blade splintered the shield. It crumpled apart, tumbled through the hole in the bridge, and dropped into the gorge. But it was making the trip alone.

The Barbarian, by swinging back and forth on his shield’s handle, had been able to propel his gasping body onto a supporting beam. He now straddled it as he looked up through the hole at Yat.

The Sergeant, snarling and spurting blood, drew a dagger from his belt. He flipped it once, caught it by the blade, and raised it to throw. Abruptly, the fountain of blood spurting from his ear lost force, sputtered, and became a dribble that spidered down his chin. It was the only color on his face. His expression was even less communicative. His knees buckled, and he folded up like a rope, pitched forward, crashed through the hole, and dived for rocks far below still holding his dagger.

The Barbarian did not watch him fall. He scrambled over the cross beams toward a cliffside ledge from which the bridge’s main support beam protruded.

The scouts dropped to their knees above the hole just in time to see Yat hit the rocks and explode like a flung tomato. They winced audibly, immobilized for a moment, then leaned into the hole aiming their crossbows. But they held their fire. The Barbarian was out of sight.

Akar growled, “Mother of Death!” He squirmed over the hole, shouted, “Hold my legs!”

The scouts took hold of his knees and feet and lowered him into the hole.

When Akar saw the Barbarian, he was sitting on a cliffside ledge beside the main support beam. His legs were raised and he was leaning back against the cliff. The rocks were cutting into his meaty back, tearing his flesh, but he did not appear to notice. Suddenly he kicked with both feet, hammered the main support beam and splintered it.

Akar was still leveling his crossbow when he heard the loud crunch of tearing wood. He looked up, white eyed. The entire bridge sagged, groaned, then crumbled apart and fell into the gorge taking Akar and the scouts with it. They fell like soldiers, with faces snarling, and arms and legs flailing against the air. As silent as the timbers and splinters which fell beside them.

Young Hands, who had remained at the south end of the bridge with the horses, trembled in his saddle as he watched, then looked across the gorge.

The Barbarian was gasping with relief, then a falling timber caught him in the back and another across the shoulders to knock him off the ledge. He dropped five feet, hit a piece of protruding cliff, slipped another ten feet, then clawed his way onto another ledge and lay there gasping. He lifted slightly, as if he would have liked to turn and watch the scouts hit the ground, but collapsed instead. His eyes were glazed, as if thunder had taken up residence in his brain.