David Smith - Against the Prince of Hell

“They are Du-jum’s, Lord Commander. Be warned. Now the sorcerer will soon learn of your location. Those birds are his servants. Long ago he learned to control the evil spirits that are reborn in wild birds.”

Late after dawn, Yarise awoke. Beside her in the large bed, Du-jum slept on, tired from his late vigil and needing rest after his conquests of the day before.

Yarise’s eyelids fluttered, but her sorcery-sharpened mind sensed something, so she did not yawn or stretch or sit up suddenly. Half-opening her lids, she looked out into the room from behind Du-jum’s broad shoulder.

The window shutters were closed and no lamps or torches were lit, so the chamber, despite the daylight, was dim. The door to an antechamber was ajar, and a line of light seeped along its edge. In front of that line of light a tall, slim shadow wavered, rocked, and steadily edged closer.

As the tall shadow came closer, step by careful, slow and steady step, Yarise recognized it as one of the many manservants employed by the palace. She could not recall the youth’s name, but that was not important. His intention was what mattered. Yarise did not breathe. She did not move. Frozen, she lay with eyes half-open, half-seeing behind the resting bulk of the city’s new lord and conqueror. She saw the faint gleam of a knife blade.

The youth came on; faint light, seeping through the boards of the window shutters, brought him into clearer relief. His footfalls were very close now, quiet, quiet with stealth, hushed as hushed breaths.

Yarise could feel, sensationally and intuitively, the hot tension from him, the keen anger, the anguish and the hate, and the maniacal need to slay, to stab, to bring blood.

Yarise calmed herself, gathering her forces. The man was hunched forward, crouching, raising his knife, his muscles shivering for a wild leap. Slowly Yarise took in a deep, silent breath. Suddenly she sat up straight in the bed, threw out an arm and stared directly into the man’s eyes, transfixing him.

“Yourself!” she screamed.

For an instant the servant glared into Yarise’s eyes. Then in one swift, controlled movement he brought down the dagger, dug it into his own heart, and shrieked fitfully.

Du-jum was awake in an instant; he sat up, swung his legs to the floor, leaned forward, stared.

Yarise threw her hands to his shoulders, pushed her body against his back.

“It is done, Du-jum! It is done!”

Eyes wide, arms twitching, tongue lolling, the youth listed to one side; his knees buckled and he dropped slowly to the floor, then slammed forward, driving the knife deeper into his chest.

“It is done, Du-jum!”

“Yarise?”

“An assassin!” she hissed. “But he slew himself!”

Du-jum sat, muscles rippling and tensed, staring at the fresh, twitching corpse on the floor. And he understood. Yarise, too, knew sorcery. One hand snaked up and touched one of Yarise’s hands on his shoulder, and he smiled, and understood.

“Fools,” murmured Yarise. “Never shall they touch us—never.”

They had come from far places, the seven of them—young sorcerers, hoping to learn, communicating with one another from their distances by a correspondence of mirrors, dreams, and vassal demon-ghosts. And they had agreed upon Thesrad, an ancient city built on foundations of prehuman stonework and the labors of countless long lost generations. They had met with one another at a low tavern in the city. They were dressed variously, some in armor, some in the motley of the student or the minstrel, but each dark-robed and with the secret sign in their eyes and in their bearing. They had agreed upon a plan to learn what they could in ancient Thesrad and then move on. Then the hour of Du-jum had fallen upon them, and they were forced to go into hiding from his soldiers’ swords. Now, with the lifting of the dawn, they were hidden in a dirty back room of an abandoned old building. As the alley lightened outside the barred window, signaling daybreak, they discussed their situation, knowing they must decide upon a course.

Aspre, the eldest among them, an aging novice of thirty-two, was respected by the rest for his years of travel and his insights. “We must,” he said, studying the way the sunlight grew on the dusty floor, “we must face Du-jum openly.”

Three of the others disagreed, principally Elath, a roust-about. “We must be gone. Blood is in the streets, the killing has only begun. When night falls again, we can guard ourselves with our sorceries and leave safely. This is no place for us. We are no match for Du-jum’s strength, and our sorcery will not abet us much against his four thousand swords.”

“Yet, think,” Aspre urged mellowly. “Think back to the story of the Duke and the two thieves. The Duke knew they were in his house, both in hiding. The one came forth and begged forgiveness, and in answer the Duke showed him lenience, fed him a meal, and gave him gold. The other, when discovered, was beheaded. It was not the want nor the deed which the Duke punished, but the attitude of the man in need.”

“A fine fable,” countered Elath, “but it little serves us in the face of so powerful a sorcerer as Du-jum.”

“No,” said Menth, the youngest, a blond Corinthian. “I agree with Aspre. We are of the Brotherhood of the Borderland, and Du-jum will respect us for that.”

“He will not. He will see us as threats,” said Elath.

“We will seem threats only if we give him cause to think so,” Aspre countered. “If we come forth and present ourselves honestly, he will have no cause to suspect anything. We are all of one kind, Elath, whether you worship the serpent-star and I the dragon of the Moon and Du-jum, Urmu. All of a kind. He will respect that, and he will respect us. But we must go to him as to any other master of the arts: not proudly, not insolently, but willing to serve and to learn, as we would wish apprentices to come to us one day when we are masters.”

They all gave this serious consideration.

“We must vote,” Aspre told them all. “Men linger, Time does not. All who agree with me, slap the floor.”

Six clouds of dust lifted in a dry fog.

Aspre studied Elath. “And you?”

Elath said nothing.

“We must ask you, brother, to be gone on your own path, if you do not agree with us. We must have solidarity; such is the way with our community.”

Menth looked at him. “Elath?”

Elath made a face; his thin moustache quivered, but at last he slapped his hand to the dusty floor.

“Agreed, then,” Aspre said, rising up and slapping the dirt from his garments. “Let us have breakfast, then. I think we can find something out there to settle our stomachs before going to the palace.”

They went off, to search throughout the old building for any wine bottles ancient enough to be refilled sorcerously, or any stale crust of bread sufficiently moon-ripened that its wheat might be induced by magic to grow into a fresh hot loaf.

Only Elath paused, waiting to speak with Aspre.

“What is it, Elath?”

The acolyte spoke in a grim tone. “I disagreed, not because I doubt the truth of your words, brother, but because I doubt the truth of Du-jum.”

“In what way? He is a master.”

“A master, aye. But I believe him to be insane.”

“What reason can you give for believing that?”

“It is an aura I feel. It is a sense I sense.”

“I have not perceived it.”

Elath shrugged. “You and I may use the same tools, Aspre, but we are different men. None of the others can sense it, either. But I feel it.”

Aspre nodded. “Aye, the second sight. It is a gift. What do you sense, then? Doom?”

“Perhaps. I feel that we cannot trust Du-jum.”