Prisoner of the Horned Helmet (4 page)

BAUBLES & BONES

A
new sound came from Rag Camp. The daily jangle of tambourines, thumping drums, singing flutes and children’s laughter now mixed with the music of tinkling silver. The Grillards, whose specialty was low farce, had been thrust into the high drama of good fortune.

The camp was situated at the northeastern edge of the valley where the river called Whitewater formed the natural border between the territories of the lawfully established Barbarian tribes and the Valley of Miracles. Outlaw territory. A massive grey rock, Stone Crossing, straddled the river which passed through a natural tunnel at its base. The trail called the Way of the Outlaw passed over Stone Crossing then came to an end in a spread of bald dusty ground which formed the center of Rag Camp, a name derived from the Grillard dependence on and preference for rag patches.

A scatter of women, children, big young country louts, itinerant peddlers, traveling merchants and charlatans were coming down the trail. Their pace was anxious. Their manner was both excited and furtive. They were doing something that was at least suspect, if not downright punishable, and were having a fine time doing it.

Wagons and horses, belonging to strangers as well as recognized members of various nearby tribes, were already parked at the edge of the clearing. The occupants were moving about the camp excitedly. No lords or nobles were among them. They were common folk with tight pockets and tight minds. But their normally country-sharp and forest-wise faces reflected no suspicion. Instead they were giddy and gullible. Eager to be amazed.

With
oohs
and
aahs,
they shopped along a row of homespun blankets spread in front of eleven house-wagons which formed the body of a camp. Displayed on the blankets were the carefully butchered and brightly painted bones of the dead Kitzakk scouts: totems which were assured to make the child safe and the sword arm strong. They were arranged according to anatomy and size. Wrists and anklebones began the line, and boiled and scraped skulls mounted on poles and painted with macabre blacks, indigos and blues, ended it.

The buying was active, and, as the Grillards had been instructed by their
bukko
to take nothing but silver, the sound of it was loud and constant.

Dowats, being the largest tribe of the forest, were the most numerous and outstanding in their traditional bright persimmon tunics. A careful people, they bought quickly and left immediately, avoiding the main trail over Stone Crossing. Savage Kraniks from the north were numerous. They were still ruled by women, and wore loincloths, white clay markings and had wide dazzled eyes. They had arrived the day before, showed no sign of leaving, and haggled over the relative strength of each totem they examined. There were also Cytherians from Weaver in white tunics, and small groups of outlaws in bushy furs and as many weapons as their belts and chests could display. Also among the crowd were traveling vendors and charlatans selling rejuvenating waters, painkillers for toothaches, racy jokes and love philters.

At the end of the village the Wowell witches from Bone Camp offered their talents as surgeons, cut hair, pulled teeth and appraised totems for a price. They had done the butchering for Brown John and were proud of it. They had not washed since doing the work so everyone would know it. Old blood clotted their dark bony arms up to their elbows. As payment for their work they had been given Sergeant Yat’s body, and had carefully reconstructed his bones. Displayed on their wagon bed were two complete hands, feet, legs, arms, and a pelvic region, chest and skull. Expensive totems, but capable of spreading their magic throughout an entire household or small outlaw band.

At the middle of the clearing, children battled with swords made from twigs and branches. The largest wore tattered black furs and swung an axelike stick with a ball of rags tied around its working end. The smaller children, boys and girls alike, fed their small bodies to this weapon with abandon and went reeling about to roll in the dirt and die in spectacular fashion, with terrible gagging, prolonged choking, and howling screams.

The music for this occasion was provided by tambourines and flutes of Grillard players who sat or squatted at the front of the large stage at the opposite side of the clearing from the wagons. Behind the stage was a two-story, red house-wagon which served as a backdrop for the stage as well as being home to the
bukko.
At the sides of the stage were two yellow wagons which were used as stage wings, dressing rooms and homes for the dancing girls. They also made convenient brothels during the cold season.

At midday the players put down their flutes and tambourines, gathered up drums and beat out a strident drumroll to announce the main entertainment.

A small crowd gathered in front of the stage, and Brown John stepped out of the red wagon to greet them with open arms. He bowed with great respect to their scattered ovation and, with sonorous voice and elaborate gestures, informed them they were about to see a tale performed that was so daring and realistically portrayed that it was only for the stouthearted. This increased the size of the crowd substantially, especially with children. He stepped aside, the performers arranged themselves on the stage, and a young boy with a soaring tenor voice delivered the song with which the Grillard minstrels had been attracting customers to Rag Camp.

The ballad sang the praises of Gath of Baal, his axe, his strength, his black furs, his hot blood, and his brave heart and magic powers while telling the blow-by-blow story of his defense of Lemontrail Crossing. The refrain was lyrically even less modest. It sang of a great Lord of the Forest, a Defender of the Trees, a mighty one named Gath of Baal who had arisen from The Shades to strike down the evil invaders and defend the forest tribes.

As the boy sang, the players performed in the same spirit of modesty.

Bone, in the role of Gath, wore a black fur cloak and black helmet, and stood at one end of a shallow bridge defending it with a wooden axe as the Kitzakk scouts attacked. Dirken, in the role of Sergeant Yat, looking as dark and sinister as possible, led the Kitzakks. Bone wheeled about, slashed and hacked. The Kitzakks, upon being hit, spit up mouthfuls of red syrup, then rose up shuddering terribly and announced their impending deaths with prolonged screaming. Then they pitched off the bridge and died acrobatically.

Brown John, who had staged this drama, had, of course, embellished it. There were now sixteen scouts instead of eight. Among them were two clowns and a barking dog, who managed to get mixed up and do each other more damage than they did Bone. In addition a large cage had been erected at one end of the bridge. Inside the cage five dancing girls clung to the bars and screamed almost musically for the Dark One to save them.

At the climax of the story, Bone broke open the cage, and the girls leaped alluringly around the stage. As they did, they managed to lose most of their clothing to artfully placed protrusions of the cage and bridge. What was left was pillaged from their tawny, oiled bodies by the clutching fists of the dying Kitzakks. Naked, the girls circled the bridge as Bone hammered it down. He was helped in this effort by a mechanical lever which made the bridge collapse in two. Dirken, of course, was standing at its center v/hen this happened and plunged three feet to a howling ignoble death which he would have prolonged indefinitely if the impatient dancing girls had not run over him to swarm around, the proud, magnificent Bone and drop at his feet in prone adoration.

The audience cheered, howled, clapped.

Bone, grinning widely, was bowing for the fifth time when Brown John strode abruptly on stage, raised his arm and shouted for silence. The players and audience, startled and suddenly afraid, looked around, then off at Stone Crossing, and went silent.

Six armed riders on large groomed stallions were coming ever the crest of the crossing in a steady, determined pace towards the camp.

The main body of the crowd stepped aside, making way for the riders, while others fled with their precious totems clutched to their breasts. The Grillards gathered up the blankets and carried them out of sight.

The performers edged back to the yellow wagons, their eyes moving back and forth from the riders to Brown John. Bone and Dirken, who remained at the front of the stage with their father, now held real swords in their hands.

The riders reined up in front of the stage. Their large, chesty horses pummeled the ground with their hooves, raising clouds of dust which billowed around them, and swirled over Brown John and his sons as they bowed slightly in recognition.

The three lead riders were powerful Barbarian lords. The following trio were their men-at-arms. One of these held the lead rope of a pack horse with a wicker cage mounted on its back. It held a large, smokey-grey she-wolf.

Golfon of Weaver, chief of the Cytherians, had the middle position. He was a wine-flushed, fatty piece of meat in a scarlet tunic and too much brass armor for a man with a weight problem. Vitmar, lord of the Barhacha woodmen, rode at Golfon’s right. He wore fur and hides, had lots of muscular sunburned flesh, and displayed the mild expression of a man who killed without emotion. Sharatz of Coin, Lord Master of the Kaven moneylenders, was the third chief. He wore a violet tunic and jewels. His narrow face was as pious as a religious relic.

Brown John let the dust clear, then bowed again in greeting and in a generous tone said, “Welcome, mighty lords of the forest. How may I…”

“Shut up, clown!” Golfon spat the words. “Tell your bastards to drop their weapons, then get down off that stage. We’re not going to sit here looking up at the likes of you.”

“Ah,” murmured Brown John, “your business is serious.” He glanced at his sons. They dropped their weapons, and the three carefully climbed down to the ground to face the riders.

Golfon glared down at Brown John. “We want Gath of Baal, and you will tell us where he is… understand?” To make their relationship perfectly clear to everyone watching, he spit on Brown John’s shoulder.

Brown John flinched, but answered politely. “I do not understand. No one knows where he lives, so how can you expect me to know?”

Golfon darkened. Vitmar leaned forward and said levelly, “Because everyone knows you and your bastards have traded with him for years, because your minstrels sing of him, because your miserable tribe grows rich on the totems of the dead Kitzakks… and because we know you helped him murder them.”

“Lord Vitmar, you tell a splendid tale,” Brown John said. “So splendid that I can assure you that we, being the poor powerless characters we are, are not even the smallest part of it.”

Vitmar nodded without a trace of agreement, said quietly, “Be reasonable,
bukko
.” He glanced at the sons, then back at Brown John. “You are a proud family-I understand that-and as outlaws obliged to lie. But we cannot allow it now. Any day the Kitzakks are going to come seeking the bones of their dead scouts so they can give them a proper burial… and in the process they will seek revenge. But we do not intend to suffer for your foolishness and greed… so show us his hiding place. Now! It is a small price to pay for bringing the wrath of the Kitzakks down on all of us.”

“I see,” said Brown John with a ring of alarm in his voice. “You… you intend to negotiate with the Kitzakks?”

“Exactly. And you should be grateful for it. It is much better for you if we give them the head of the man who killed their scouts… rather than the heads of all those who stole their bones.”

“But, my lords, surely you know that the last nation to attempt to negotiate with Kitzakks concluded its discussions from the interior of Kitzakk cages.”

“Tell us where he is, you Grillard scum!” Golfon blurted. “And tell it quick, or we’ll gut the lot of you!” This time he made his point with the butt end of his spear and knocked Brown John to the ground.

Bone and Dirken started to go for their swords, but held their places as Vitmar edged his horse forward. He looked contemptuously at Brown John as he slowly got back up, and said again, “Be reasonable,
bukko
.”

Brown John nodded. “To see the Kaven, the Cytherian and the Barhacha in the same riding party inspires nothing if it does not inspire reason, but I cannot help you.”

“Lying outlaw filth!” Golfon struck Brown John with the butt end of his spear, drove him back to the ground.-Dirken and Bone moved for Golfon. But Vitmar spurred his horse into them, and they went down ducking and rolling away from the animal’s hooves.

Brown John motioned for his sons to stay put, then, holding his collarbone, rose onto an elbow, and addressing Vitmar from that less than lofty position, said, “I am afraid, Lord Vitmar, that the Lord Golfon has a poor opinion of reasonable discussion.”

By way of agreement, Golfon spit on Brown John again.

“Give us directions, old man,” Vitmar demanded.

Brown John, looking from Golfon to Sharatz, said, “I do not know where he is. Mere chance led my bastards and me to the sight of the massacre. Due to its amazing proportions, it was not difficult to determine that a spirit bordering on the magical had been the cause.” He looked at Vitmar. “Consequently, we choose to share, for a small price, given our efforts, that spirit with all the tribes of the forest. And, I dare say, we have done a decent job of it.”

“You were there! You helped him!”

“We were not. We only saw the results of his work, and I will tell you, I have never seen better work done by man and axe.”

“And just how,
bukko
,” demanded Vitmar, “did you know it was the Dark One’s work?”

Brown John squinted up and muttered, “I… ah…1 see things. In entrails. Clouds. That sort of thing. He… he was one of the things I saw.”

Golfon grunted with foul disgust, lifted his spear.

“Wait!” Sharatz intoned in a devout register. The Kaven waited until every head turned toward him, then dismounted with regal solemnity. He leveled a long finger at Golfon and Vitmar, and said, “If you choose to soil your weapons by killing this trash, you will ride without my company.”