Argon’s Other Eye 1 – Prisoner of the Horned Helmet!

As the title of this blog suggests, this particular story is our lord and master and we must sacrifice opaque nosed harlots (with stringy orchid hair) to it as often as circumstances permit. Alternatively, sacrifice it to opaque nosed harlots; if the card  Madam Flaybuttock has in the telephone box reads ‘All CCs and Eye of Argon accepted’, then rejoice, rejoice, for a whole new world of excruciating delights is now YOURS.

Anyway, if you’re sitting comfortably (probably not, if Madam has been doing her job properly), I’ll begin.

Prisoner of The Horned Helmet (or to give it its full title, Frank Frazetta’s Death Dealer Book 1: Prisoner of the Horned Helmet) is a novel by James Silke, with the picture of the same name (also a Molly Hatchett album cover and something to do with the US Army’s 4^th Infantry Division as well) on the back cover. Extensive and painstaking research on my part appears to suggest that James Silke is a comic/pinup artist (i.e. typing his name into Google brings up a slew of pictures of semi-clad women, which is better than bad. I would quite like to read ‘Bettie Page: Queen of the Nile’, as well). Like the fantastic Gardner F. Fox, who also worked in comics, I think this lends a certain flavour to his work.

Overall, Prisoner... has all the classic elements - a hulking great barbarian hero (Gath), evil cultists, sexy sorceresses and so on. The baddies are Kitzakks, unstoppable fantasy-Mongol slavers (boo!) and problem solvers in the service of the Butterfly Goddess (as in the old WW1 marching song, ‘Pack Up Your Troubles In Your Old Kitzakk). Not the most intimidating of deities, on the face of it, but luckily, there’s a Lord of Death as well, who the sexy sorceress works for. There’s also a Wheel of Time style gleeman and a 17 year old trainee complementary medicine practioner (Robin), who acts as the female love interest, when the barbarian can tear himself away from the sorceress. And (not that I want to give up too much plot specific info, but...) yes, there is a horned helmet, and yes, someone does end up as its prisoner, as you might reasonably expect.

The names are odd. A warlord called Klang? A priest called Dang-Ling of Bahaara? Two champions called Trang and Chornbott? Klang, at least, passes the ‘Kneel Before’ test (You are dragged, your hands bound and your recently-inflicted wounds still dripping blood, into the fetish-festooned yurt of the Nomad King. Your guards shove you forward, laughing and cursing as you stumble across the floor, then swing their spear-shafts into the back of your knees, knocking you to the ground while yelling ‘KNEEL BEFORE...’). ‘Kneel Before Klang’ works; ‘Kneel Before Keith’ wouldn’t, unless you’re writing a different sort of story entirely. Overall, the effect is somewhat like being trapped on a world where everyone names themselves using filler words in doo-wop songs (Rama-lama Klang Dang Ling of Bahaara!). Plus the three gleemen – Brown John and his sons Bone and Dirken, who sound like actors in a hopefully illegal 70s gay porn film.

Speaking of which, this is one of those books where, if you’re female, you will end up with no clothes on at least twice per chapter. We learn, fairly early on, that the sorceress has breasts like soft prisoners, yearning to break free. Robin, on the other hand, has breasts as smooth and warm and plump as river washed pebbles. I have never seen a plump pebble; then again, I’ve never seen a soft prisoner either. I can’t imagine whispering ‘Oh darling, you have tits like pebbles’ in your beloved’s ear would be terribly popular, but I’m willing to put that to the test. Watch this space. There is also pubic hair based alchemy, which gives rise (snigger) to a fairly extraordinary passage where, having anointed their genitals with a magic paste to attract Gath to them (?!) Trang and Chornbott charge into battle radiating streaking spears of white light from an eerie glow at their groins. That rather puts me in mind of Old Gregg, which is probably not the effect that the author was after.

Also, this bit needs quoting in full (Tor books missed a trick by not adding italics and caps to the last sentence, so I’ve done it myself)

‘Gath stepped out of the enveloping darkness, like a sword drawn from a scabbard. He was darker than she remembered. More brutal. Hard dry scabs were turning into scar tissue. His fur loincloth bristled slightly in the breeze. A new suit of chain mail, his belt and a Kitzaak helmet were slung over his shoulder. A bright steel axe rode his right fist. His chiselled features were mottled with dark shadows, and wore an expression of dark invitation. To a bed of MURDER!!!!’

If you’re not paying attention, it’s all too easy to mistake Gath’s slightly bristly loincloth for your front doormat, say, but for goodness’ sake don’t go carelessly wiping your feet on a barbarian’s crotch, as it really isn’t safe.

Right. Public safety announcement out of the way. All in all, what with beds of murder, soft prisoners, glowing crotches and Brown Johns, I’m pleasantly exhausted, and there are four more books to go! Yippee!

Next time, either Kothar or an Andrew J. Offutt omnibus. We’ll see.