David Smith - Against the Prince of Hell

She stood up, examined herself in her full-length mirror and was pleased with herself. Tall, slim, but generously full-breasted, she had always been attractive to men and had always found pleasure in that power. Dark-haired, dark-eyed, full-lipped, she knew that her beauty had not dimmed one portion with the passing years. Like her temperament, her beauty was volatile, enigmatic.

She had not yet seen Du-jum since he had, with his army, cut a swath through the city; but she knew that when the screams finally died for the night, her dark lover would come to her and they would celebrate his conquest. Then she would pleasure a master she could truly love and respect.

For Du-jum was a great sorcerer, long-practiced; and Yarise—once the daughter of a ruler who governed a kingdom no longer in existence, once a prostitute in a Stygian brothel, once a captive in a Turanian governor’s harem, and now for seven years the wife of Prince Omeron—Yarise supposed herself something of a sorceress, and had tried to teach herself magic. With some success.

She recalled that time nine months ago when, as Omeron had raised a cup of wine in toast to Du-jum’s sleight-of-hand antics, she had looked into the black sorcerer’s eyes, and he had looked into hers, and a promise had been made between two seekers of the transmundane.

Yarise clapped her hands. A young blond girl, the only maidservant in the chamber, hurried to her and adjusted the tiara on Yarise’s head as the princess demanded.

“I am beautiful, am I not?” Yarise asked.

“Very beautiful, my lady.”

“Tonight is an historic night, Endi. Do you realize that?”

“Yes, my lady.”

“You are trembling.”

More screams rose, frantic and distant, through the window. Endi trembled acutely.

“You fear the slaughter?” Yarise turned and looked deeply into her maidservant’s eyes.

Endi said nothing; all was in her frightened gaze.

Yarise smiled tolerantly. “You have nothing to fear, child. I am your mistress. I will protect you. You are fortunate, for you will be servant and handmaiden to a new generation of mighty wizards and rulers. Doesn’t that please you?”

Nervously, Endi replied, “Y-yes . . . yes, of course. ...”

“Doesn’t it, Endi?”

“Whatever I may do . . . to serve you, my lady. . . . You know that.”

“Du-jum will arrive soon. Here, Endi.”

“My lady?”

“Kiss me, Endi. Am I not beautiful? My kiss will protect you. Come here.”

Uncertain, trembling with agitation, Endi took a step forward. Yarise placed her hands on the girl’s shoulders and smiled widely. “Kiss me,” she whispered. “I will protect you.”

Very cautiously, Endi tilted her head back and leaned forward, closed her eyes and parted her lips slightly. Sweat had sprung out on her forehead and cheeks, shimmering.

She felt a soft push from her mistress’s lips, a lingering pressure. Endi, breathing nervously, smelled the scents of Yarise’s perfumes and oils. . . .

And just as the soft kiss should have ended, just as Endi began to draw her face away, Yarise suddenly dug her fingers into the girl’s shoulders, pulled her roughly forward, took Endi’s lower lip between her teeth and bit.

Endi coughed and screamed, threw herself back, her eyes wide open with horror. Yarise, again smiling widely, licked her white teeth. A spot of crimson gleamed on her lower lip.

Pain pulsed in Endi’s mouth. She wiped her fingers frantically upon her lips, staring first at the thin streak of blood on her hand, then at her mistress, again at her fingers.

. . . She mewed softly with pain.

“A blood-kiss,” Yarise purred. “I have tasted your blood, child. That is strong magic. Now you are protected.”

Endi began to weep; the pain was intense and throbbing. She wanted to run away, but long discipline held her where she stood, a mistreated servant awaiting whatever else her mistress demanded of her.

Yarise’s tone mellowed, her eyes softened. “Go, now, Endi. Clean yourself up. You are protected, now.”

Endi coughed, shook her head once and ran from the chamber, choking back sobs. Yarise returned to her mirror, studied herself in the light of the oil lamps, and with one finger began to rub the spot of blood into her lips, darkening and moistening them so that they looked very red, adding to her beauty.

Guarded by his soldiers—black-skinned mercenaries, outcasts, wastrels in armor—Du-jum stood as a dark, glistening shadow in the fiery dusk. He was tall, muscular, with burning white eyes full of hatred. He had scars on his forehead and cheeks and neck, scars remaining even from those long-ago days’ when he was not a sorcerer, not a general or a conquerer, but only another man’s slave, the pawn of another man’s wishes and actions.

“Today the world bows to my wishes,” he muttered darkly, “to my actions!”

He listened to the city’s screams, and knew he was responsible for them. The screams were as a lusty woman’s love-groans to him. High around his dark form, flames leaped and twisted skyward from the tops of apartments and temples, and billows of black smoke funneled upward to blot the stars. Bodies surrounded him, armored piles of them, torn and twisted: the bodies of Thesrad’s last defenders. Women shrieked, children wailed. The fires glowed, and Du-jum’s sullen-faced soldiers trooped through the streets.

“I am my own deed,” he growled to the night. “I, Du-jum!”

He had suffered; now he would make others suffer. He had wanted; now he would make others want. He had known violence; now others would know blood, fire, and steel. Revenge was sweet, and though long ago he had had his revenge for the scars on his back and forehead, cheeks and throat, he had not lost his taste for it.

Besides, there was power, achievement, conquest—these mattered even more. Small men dream but remind themselves that, after all, they only dream. Great men dream and forge those dreams into their own futures.

Du-jum breathed it in, his Destiny. His armor was not bloody; he carried a sword, but it was ceremonial, decorative. His deadliness lay in things of greater strength than physical weapons; his yellow-burning eyes betrayed the sorcery that was in his very nerves and veins. His dark robe, his sword and iron breastplate all bore symbols of necromantic import, and his gleaming cranium was shaven as completely as any Stygian priest’s. An ugly carved bird dangled on a golden cord about his neck, and his long-fingered right hand gripped a tall scepter carved from greenish stone. It was a serpent scepter, decorated with glyphs and cartouches, topped with a jewel-inlaid serpent’s head opened in a rigid hiss, fangs showing, tongue protruding. The bird was Du-jum’s, for he was a worshipper of Urmu, the Vulture God; the scepter, he had stolen.

The rioting quieted, and as Du-jum waited, the fires began to die down. His soldiers, those not on patrol, collected about him. All bore his mark on their foreheads—a deep “v” which he had made himself with sharp, long fingernails.

Then, his waiting done, Du-jum turned and raised his arms. He stood upon the front portico of an old, long-ignored building of dark stone, in a quarter of Thesrad taken over long ago by prostitutes, pimps, thieves, and murderers. The building was once a temple, but for many years had been used only as a combination of whorehouse, flophouse, tavern, and dive.

“The blasphemers inside have been routed and slain!” Du-jum thundered. “Now let their blood flow from their carcasses in the name of Urmu, the Vulture. Let his altars drink anew!”

His yellow eyes glared up at the temple’s cornices where, ignored by the passing generations of Thesrad, huge stone vultures hunched, wings spread, overlooking the city, which, long ago, had been controlled by priests and sorcerers of the Vulture. Du-jum raised his long arms again; he clenched his fists. His soldiers quieted; the city beyond still moaned.