She spent the day in much the same way she had spent the night. She redressed Gath’s wounds, fed him, and exchanged smiles for frowns and twinkling eyes for hard glares. When he slept, she slept in a blanket near him. Once she woke up to find him watching her intently, as if she were about to perform some magical feat, and she sat up to ask what he saw. But he looked away, and she withheld the question.
When the forest again surrendered to the night, she prepared a vegetable stew. She filled a bowl, laced it generously with hops, then sat down to feed it to him. Waving her aside, he sat up and fed himself. She fetched herself a bowl, one without hops, then sat down facing him and showed him that she could also feed herself, and far more efficiently, as he dropped generous portions on chest and floor.
Finished, he tossed his bowl among the broken crockery with an air of independence and deliberation. He told her again that she was a fool, and his prisoner as well, then lay back down with an expression of satisfaction that was not the least satisfied.
She smiled at him playfully and replied quietly, “We will see.”
Robin finished her stew, cleaned their bowls, then wrapped herself in her furs. In moments both were sound asleep.
When the fire died down to an orange glow, Sharn also slept.
It was not until well into the darkest part of the night that the animal heard the warning sound of the yellow stone dropping to the floor. His mane bristled. His nostrils dilated. Abruptly, he stood and stared narrow eyed and growling up into the darkness of the staircase. Suddenly his tail dropped between his hind legs and his murderous growl faded to a whimper. He backed numbly down the stairs and into an alcove. His head wagged, and his gut sagged so low it spread out on the floor bringing the rest of him with it. His red tongue lolled out, then his body and head fell over, and he slept.
A moment later, Cobra emerged from the darkness of the stairwell, and her beautiful hypnotic eyes appraised the sleeping wolf. They glittered briefly with amusement, and she stepped out of the shadows, descended. The glow of the firelight played among the deep folds of her emerald robe, touched her metallic skullcap with flashes of red and silver.
Her gold eyes shifted under thin arched eyebrows, and came to rest on the sleeping figures in front of the fire. Kneeling between the Barbarian and Robin, she delicately lifted the furs away from Gath’s body and studied his bandaged wounds. She softly placed her palm across his forehead, held it there, and the corners of her plush red lips made sharp creases in creamy cheeks.
Robin’s eyes suddenly opened, and she sat up. She lunged for her knife, resting on the floor beside her, but Cobra snapped it up. Robin drew back in a crouch, breathing hard, and demanded, “Who are you?”
Cobra answered with her eyes, and their intensity forced Robin back against the hearth. As she stared at the glowing almond eyes, her own eyes took on the expression of clouded glass. She was unable to move.
The Queen of Serpents said almost tenderly, “Do not be afraid. I have no desire to harm him, or you.”
Cobra stood and crossed to the stairwell, then looked back with curiosity. Resentment touched her eyes, then a hand played at her queenly throat, rode down over the thrusting pressure of a full breast, and across her stomach to her hip. Her hot scarlet lips brightened against her cool skin. A dazzling, fleshy temple as proud and sensual as her voice. “He was not made for a mortal like you, child. Only I can give him what he needs.”
Cobra started up the stairwell, stopped, glanced over a supple shoulder at Robin. “You will go back to sleep now. Tomorrow, and during the days that follow, you are going to need all your powers. He must be healed completely. And quickly! Death hunts him now.”
She moved up the stairs and was gone. Robin yawned and slumped over, certain now she was dreaming. She just made it back under the blanket before falling asleep.
Sharn’s sleeping head rose slowly. He yawned, then stood and looked across the room at the stairwell with confused eyes. His head low to the floor, he sniffed about the room retracing his steps several times and growling quietly, then returned to his position on the steps. The frustration in his eyes was cruel. The hair at his neck was erect. At irregular intervals he shuddered.
Twenty-five
Bahaara, the capital city of the Kitzakk’s Desert Territory, was a blunt, massive rock mesa which rose off the flat, endless body of the desert like a jagged scab. It was the active center of all military, religious and commercial activity. Here all the caravans from the desert “skin camps” came to deliver their living merchandise. Its everyday sounds, along with the sounds common to all cities, were the rattling of chains and an incessant moaning punctuated by shrieks of terror. This clamor usually peaked at midday when the flesh markets opened. Yet now, as the midday sun baked the dirt-brown body of the city, there was silence except for the occasional bray of a camel or yap of a dog.
Earthen breastworks, manned by small brown men in glittering steel and enameled bamboo armor, formed an irregular circle around the city. Beyond that was an open clearing heaped with cages, and occupied by drill yards, stables and caravan camps. Beyond the clearing itself was the mesa, an eruption of jagged earth and stone. A maze of streets, alleys, footpaths and passageways twisted up, over and through its many levels. Mud buildings rose in stacks and clustered along the thoroughfares which rose to the flat plateau that dominated the city. At its eastern side were the red buildings of military headquarters. On the western side were the black and orchid buildings of the Temple of Dreams, the sacred brothel of the Butterfly Goddess. Between the two clusters of buildings was a mutual courtyard called the Court of Life.
Bahaara’s principal thoroughfare was the Street of Chains. It was named after its merchandise, as were the other streets which featured butchers, blacksmiths, bakers, soldiers, and all varieties of slaves. As the people went about their business, they did so silently. Every so often they would cast troubled glances up at the Court of Life.
Nine days had passed since the Kitzakk raid on Weaver. The remnant of the Skull raiders had made a three-day forced march to reach home. The next three days had been spent cleansing them of the contamination of defeat. During these three days a wave of panic spread throughout the city, and frenzied fanatics emerged making loud demands. A few called for total surrender to the demon Barbarian. The majority demanded that the warlord Klang cancel all plans for harvesting the forest flesh, and blockade all the passes to the Forest Basin to contain its contaminating magic.
Klang reacted decisively. He ordered the twenty-seven survivors of the raid, with the exception of the high priest Dang-Ling, to prepare a final offering to the Butterfly Goddess, in order to assure her help in the destruction of the Barbarian demon.
Today the Skull, soldiers were waiting in the Court of Life to make that offering. They formed three straight lines of nine each. Eyes to the front, they were perfect soldiers on parade, but each was kneeling with a red cord binding his hands at his back.
At the front of the formation, in a teak wood box, was a sword and a soft white towel. The sword’s steel was mirror bright. It was a conventional military model but heavier, with a straight back and slightly bowed cutting edge.
An audience of the generals of the regular army, the commanders of the personal regiments of the warlord, and a swordsmith stood at attention. Otherwise the yard was empty. The streets opening onto it were blocked off. The shutters on the windows of surrounding buildings were closed.
The red oval doors of the Temple of Dreams opened, and Dang-Ling ceremoniously appeared. He wore his orchid and black robes and scarlet skullcap.
The rims of his wet eyes were a florid pink brilliantly contrasting with the dark rings under them, the result of devout sexual excess heightened by drugs. Frothy ringlets of dark brown hair crowned his round milky face. Pink, flowerlike ears, nestled in the froth, twitched as hidden emotions agitated his flabby cheeks.