David Smith - Against the Prince of Hell

Yarise buried her head in her pillow, shivering and laughing. Du-jum stroked her hair. “You are tired, my queen. Go to sleep. Dream of me. Dream of achievements. ...”

Eventually, she slept, her shuddering relaxing into the quiet shallow breathing of slumber. A sorceress asleep.

And Du-jum, too, fell asleep, with the incense of darkness in his nostrils, with magic in his being, with dreams of ultimate power in his soul.

She came in the morning, after the first full light of dawn, alarming and disturbing Omeron’s already worn and fatigued men.

The soldiers were busy about the camp. Some were carting off and burying the corpses of those who had died in the night, others were cooking breakfast, while still others tended to the horses. Water had been brought from a spring discovered a short distance into the woods, and so skins were being replenished and some of the troops were washing themselves free of the grime and the dried blood of battle. Weapons were being honed; the incessant scraping of whetstones against steel rasped through the camp.

Omeron had just finished a bowl of soup and turned his attention to Red Sonja, who was yet sleeping deeply. He was bending over the warrior-woman, listening to her breathing, applying cool water to her wrists, temples, and forehead. She was still hot, flushed, but her fever was nowhere near what it had been yesterday; it had broken in the night.

Sonja had not awoken, and Omeron was just removing his hand from her forehead, when one of his men said in a low, guarded tone: “My Lord. ...”

He looked up. All his men were facing toward the far edge of the encampment, where rocks and saplings and scrub fringed the forest proper.

Slowly, anticipating he knew not what, Omeron drew himself to his full height. His men whispered uneasily; a few hands fell to sword-hilts; boots shuffled. Omeron stepped ahead.

She came out of the forest slowly, cautiously, yet with a determined, almost regal air to her, steadily approaching the camp of armed warriors. Her gaze was neither defensive nor fearless, merely objective. She had keen eyes—yellow eyes, it seemed, like the eyes of a cat or some other animal. They betrayed no emotion, but seemed only to watch, focus, gaze and move on.

When they rested on Omeron a chill passed through him and he could not conquer it. But the feeling was gone in a moment, and he was left only with the impression of a tall, strikingly beautiful young woman with strange eyes advancing into his camp. Omeron strode to meet her, and his men moved forward as one, forming a corridor down which Omeron and the woman approached one another.

The woman paused, and Omeron did also.

Silence reigned, as all eyes studied her intently, as her gaze rested upon Omeron unwaveringly.

The wind caught the woman’s long black hair and fanned it out, so that it rippled, opened like a bird’s wing. Tall and slim, she was dusky dark and moved with a gracefulness that was feline—or was it, rather, serpentine? She wore a simple white linen shift, held in place by brooches at the shoulders and a thin gold chain belt at her waist, and slippers that seemed to be of lizard hide. A plain ring adorned the middle finger of her right hand, a simple pendant hung at her throat.

It was, thought Omeron, ridiculous to assume that the woman had come very far in these mountains in that useless attire. Was she some refugee from Thesrad? But he knew the people of Thesrad, even the lowest and commonest, and this woman was not one of them.

“You are the commander of this camp?” she said, regarding Omeron steadily. Her voice was as severe, as dark and calm and cool as her posture, her beauty and her eyes.

He cleared his throat, then answered. “I am. Lord Prince Omeron, of Thesrad. And who are you?”

“My name is Ilura. I have come here seeking you, Prince Omeron. I regret that it must be under these circumstances.”

“These circumstances?”

She spread her arms slightly, indicating the campsite. “You have been driven from your city, have you not? By Du-jum, the wizard?”

The chill returned to Omeron’s belly. He heard his men grunting nervously. “And how do you know all this, Ilura?”

“Harken, Omeron.” She blinked very slowly. “I am a servitor to the serpent-goddess Sithra, whose temple is very far from here. I have been sent by my mistresses to search out Du-jum.”

“Why?” demanded Omeron, suspicious.

“Because it is the time,” said Ilura cryptically. “Long ago he stole a sacred object from our temple, and now I have come to recover it.”

“What object? Was it a weapon of magic? For I sense sorcery in you, woman!”

“It was the Rod of Ixcatl,” answered Ilura calmly. “The serpent scepter, from which Du-jum hoped to gain more power.”

Silence, again, for a long moment. Then Omeron asked: “You mean to confront Du-jum? He’s a powerful sorcerer, priestess. You—you’ve traveled all this way, alone, from—”

“From the south, for more leagues than you would believe, Lord Omeron. But I am of the Temple of Sithra; do not question my presence or my ability. I have journeyed far in solitude, and I have come prepared to do what I must. I am—possessed of unusual powers, but be not alarmed, for if you will let me I may aid you and your men. If you choose to drive me away, however, it will be your loss, for I cannot aid you against your will.”

Omeron stared at her a long time. Was this woman insane, or was she really what she said?

Sadhur, coming up beside his prince, grunted heavily and made to say something; but Omeron cut him short with a gesture and turned again to the woman.

“We have fought sorcery, Ilura, and have been defeated by it. Temporarily. My men are nervous.”

“As is inevitable. Yet, will you welcome me into your camp, Lord Omeron? Please, do not be so foolish as to drive me away. I intend you no harm.”

Still Omeron gave it much thought.

Ilura said to him: “There is illness in your camp. You need every life, every sword you can muster to your side. I am trained in ways to cure illness. Allow me.”

Slowly, Omeron nodded. Men stepped away from her. She came towards Omeron, then paused when she reached Sonja, still asleep in her blanket. Ilura looked to right and left, as if making sure that no one would lift a sword against her, then bent to the Hyrkanian. She passed a hand over Sonja’s head and chest but did not touch her.

“Fever.” She spoke mildly. “The worst is over, but she will yet need three or four days to recover fully, although she is a strong woman. Watch, Lord Omeron.”

Ilura placed her hand on Sonja’s forehead, pressed down. Sonja’s body jerked once, twice, spasmodically; then she let out a long gasp, a sigh, and settled still. Ilura removed her hand, stood up.

Boots shuffled on the earth; chains and metal jangled.

Omeron looked sharply to his men.

Said Ilura to Omeron: “You may judge for yourself in a few hours’ time. I have removed the last of the disease from her, and have given her the strength to recover. Shortly she will awaken, fresh and whole. Now, let me tend to the rest of your sick and wounded likewise. You will see that I mean you no harm, Lord Omeron. We had best help one another, you and your men and I, or else Du-jum will continue to cause us all harm. Trust me.”

He stared into her eyes—her strangely yellow eyes—and thought of the forest last night.

“Trust me, Lord Prince Omeron.”

But his silent deliberation was interrupted by sounds from the sky. Heads craned backward, and as Omeron looked he saw a large flock of birds wheeling and flying up from the city of Thesrad—up toward the mountain, circling, wheeling, then slowly dispersing.

Turning his eyes away, Omeron looked again at Ilura. She regarded him steadily.