A Kitzakk regiment. Filthy. Deadly. Nearing the end of a three-day march from Bahaara. It consisted of sixty-six men; two companies of light-horse Skull soldiers armed with crossbows and scimitars. Their faces were painted black to resemble skulls. They were raiders, not invaders, equipped to spread terror and take revenge.
Two commanders, mounted on heavy black stallions, led the regiment. Working soldiers. Metal clad. Cluttered with the totems of dead enemies. Wearing enough grime and sweat between them to fill a wine pitcher.
Two wagons followed the commanders. The first was lacquered black and had a cagelike carriage on which rode three hollow-cheeked, black-robed guards of the Temple of Dreams. The second was a supply wagon heaped with spare weapons, saddles, and food.
The first dim light of day tinted the night sky as the raiders reached the bend in the trail where their two scouts waited for them. Up ahead, still a half-day’s march away, the regiment could see the gorge which formed the natural border between the cataracts and the forest basin beyond.
The commanders dismounted, strode to the edge of the road and looked down at a length of the gorge where three natural bridges of earth and stone crossed it. The bridges were partially closed off by unfinished gates. Beyond the gates a village sprawled over a dirt hill, Weaver at Three Bridge Crossing.
The commanders’ names were Trang and Chornbott. They were experienced raiders, champions of the Kitzakk Horde. Trang was short and thick, with a jaw big enough to eat table legs. He wore battered pieces of armor and a red helmet with heavy steel bars caging his face. An axe rode on his back; it was big enough to be his brother. Chornbott was a head-and-a-half taller, encased in a suit of polished steel chain mail, and arrogantly bareheaded. He carried a sheathed sword in his right hand; it was as tall as Trang.
The two men studied the village, then returned to the lacquered black wagon. Two temple guards opened its side door and the commanders bowed to the shadowed opening.
A small, rounded man daintily emerged from a shadowy heap of red and orange pillows within the cagelike carriage, descended three iron steps to the ground and stretched without removing his arms from his garments. He wore a black robe over an orchid tunic with an allover pattern of tiny black and yellow butterflies. A red skullcap with long, pendulous earflaps covered his round head. He had a narrow neck, soft-boiled eyes, the milky flesh of the albino and pink baby lips. As the two commanders waited with the confidence of tombstones, he bowed with a servility that could only be matched by a throw rug.
The commanders shifted with embarrassment and uncertainty. They were obviously unaccustomed to being treated with such formal courtesy by a man who was their superior, the second highest ranking Kitzakk in the Desert Territory.
The man they faced knew this and privately enjoyed their discomfort. This was Dang-Ling, a high priest of the Butterfly Goddess’ Temple of Dreams and the secret servant of the Master of Darkness.
The high priest sauntered to the edge of the road and looked down at Weaver. When he spoke it was as if he were reading.
“The village is called Weaver. It holds approximately five hundred residents, among which are between one hundred-and-twenty and one hundred-and-forty able-bodied warriors. No more.” He turned to the two commanders. “Your regiment will steal its nine most beautiful maidens from the temple and burn the village to the ground. You two will kill this annoying Barbarian who is so partial to black.”
The commanders bowed low. When they looked up, Dang-Ling said, “Please forgive me, but I must ask you to remove your clothing.” His tone was soft, considerate, nevertheless commanding.
The two champions shed their metal and undergarments, stood expectantly in front of the high priest. Their bodies were sun dark, mostly callouses, with large patches of white scar tissue grown over old dirty wounds.
He removed a red earthenware jar carved in the shape of a butterfly from his robes. He uncorked it, extended it to the two commanders. “Apply it liberally. It is a very old and potent formula whose magical powers are assured. It is made from his own living totems. You will not even have to look for this dark Barbarian. He will find you.”
Trang and Chornbott dipped their fingers into the jar, came away with a grimy, pungent, green ointment, and eagerly applied it to their genitals. It went on easily. The fingernail clippings and pubic hairs which Cobra had stolen from Gath of Baal had been ground to a fine pulp along with his spittle and other ingredients. When they finished, the two large men whispered prayers to the Butterfly Goddess, and got dressed.
An amphora of temple wine called Bwong was then removed from the supply wagon and served by the temple guards. When the cups or helmets of the regiment were filled, all present raised their vessels, gave the required toast, then downed the Bwong in one gulp. They drank to murder.
Sixteen
The morning sun splashed over Calling Rock, flowed through its crevices and gullies, and spilled across the flat clearing at the crest to anoint Robin’s sleeping, tousled head with a cool gold light. She was not alone. A yellow-eyed, ten-foot python dangled out of the thorn tree. It was awake. Its tongue flickered inches from her face. She stirred, brushed a hand sleepily across her eyes and blinked at the warm touch of sunshine. She rolled up on an elbow. The python spread its jaws with a rasping hiss that did not exactly say good morning, and, to let her know what kind of day it was going to be, displayed glistening rows of sharp teeth and two cold, black eyes set in a green scaled head. Robin screamed.
The python gathered to strike, and the leaf-shaped blade of a spear drove into its skull with a sharp crack, nailed it to the trunk of the tree.
The body of the huge reptile dropped out of the tree and coiled violently around the offending spear, collapsed when the spear was pulled out. Its tangled weight hit Robin’s legs as she scrambled away and knocked her flat. She screamed again, kicking at the writhing, thrashing serpent, finally rolled free and sat up on her haunches still screaming.
A shadow moved over her body. She stopped, looked up, screamed again, and buried her face under arms and elbows.
A huge, dark Barbarian stood over her. The bloody, leaf-shaped spear dangled from his right hand. His face was flushed. His dark eyes gleamed intently under the threatening bulk of his forehead. His helmet, tied to his belt, bulged at his hip like an unnatural growth. His armor, glistening on his chest, rose and fell ominously. The movement made the black fur under the armor appear to be growing from his oak-brown flesh.
Robin peeked from under an elbow and saw an arm reach for her. Its hand looked big enough to send to school. She gasped and scrambled back.
He put a foot on the hem of her tunic and brought her to a sudden stop. Frantically, she hid behind her arms again as the hand advanced like a siege weapon. It hesitated, then parted her arms until it found her face. She watched its thumb hover in front of her mouth, a breath away from the trembling curve of her lower lip. Then it gently stroked the lip.
Paralyzed, she closed her eyes, felt the thumb work her lip, then opened her eyes to see the veins cording along a thick metal-clad arm, moving each nick and hair, and surging with the taut muscles of his shoulder and thick neck. Her lids fluttered, then her head tilted back, and she looked into his shadowed face. Dark stubble of beard. Bright hard white teeth. Eyes that hid under a shaggy brow. Grey animal eyes of the predator ruled by the laws of claw and fang, yet black wounds opening on to a haunted past, to the child long buried within. Eyes proud of their mysteries. Eyes that had hidden his feelings too well and long, but which could not hide from her.