Prisoner of the Horned Helmet by James Silke, Frank Frazetta Page A

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,