David Smith - Against the Prince of Hell

“Yet, it is true that we can ultimately trust nothing.”

“But Du-jum has become—unaligned. We came here searching for truths, and we followed the Path. Du-jum has come, too—and see what blood and screams he leaves in his wake. I feel he seeks only his own power.” Aspre did not respond.

“He is a master, yet blood and fear follow him,” Elath persisted.

“It may be his destiny. Perhaps it is necessary for his Other Soul to have done these things, for ultimate balance.”

Elath shook his head sadly in disagreement. “You make excuses, Aspre. I know why you wish to petition him, for if we do not, we may be in great jeopardy. So great a talent as Du-jum’s might well sense us out and smite us. Well, I have no wish to die by sorcery. But I have no mind, either, to abet a madman, one who has strayed from the Path. I have much yet to learn.”

“As do we all. Du-jum may help teach us.”

“Aye; but teach us what?”

Aspre made a sign before him. “Enough. You have guessed my reasoning; but is it not best for us young ones to trust the masters? After all, we bind only our talents to Du-jum, not our souls.”

“Du-jum may wish it otherwise.”

“Then, if it comes to that, we are seven against him. But I am sure he will welcome us as his pupils. It is the way of those who seek the Outside.”

“Welcome us, aye; but perhaps like the starving lion welcomes orphans.”

“Elath. ...”

“And there is one other quantity, Aspre, which you have not considered.”

“And that is?”

“Yarise, Du-jum’s lover—Prince Omeron’s wife. She fancies herself a witch.”

“Surely she is nothing.”

“She studies independently. Who can know her power? And to Du-jum, she may mean much. She may be wings for him, a lead weight for us.”

“Then,” said Aspre, “we must do as we have been taught to do: walk the Path guarding our front with our right, our rear with our left, and keeping our senses alert to the Falls of Fire to either side. Now let us find food, brother. Effessa.”

“Effessa, brother. But still—whom may we trust, if we have been taught to trust nothing in this world, and Du-jum wishes all the things of this world?”

Aspre needed time to think. “Effessa, brother; effessa. Let us go find sustenance and speak at length again, later.”

The whips carried by Du-jum’s soldiers were knotted with barbs of metal.

“Get along there, dogs! Into the palace! Beg from Du-jum before he steals the life from you!”

Their swords, sharp, poked the backs and sides of the prisoners.

“Get moving, damn you! I’ll shove this point up you if you dally!”

The chains, which held the twenty captives tight together in a crowded bunch, bit into flesh, hung heavily from neck and wrist.

“Get in there! In! Get up, you! Drag that one to his feet! Stick him, get him up!”

Though they bled, they did not whimper. Though they ached and were sore from their battle in the streets, they did not groan or give evidence of their agonies. Though the fear of impending death haunted them, they did not cringe or cry out to their gods, but stoically accepted the spear prods and sword pokes that took them, step by crowded, painful step, farther into the halls of Du-jum’s palace.

They were men. They had fought like men, and would die like men, even at the hands of a sorcerer. Their families were captured or had perished, their prince was gone or dead, and their last energies had been expended in hopes of vengeance. Though they were doomed, their pride still burned fiercely. It was late morning. The huge portals of the audience hall had been pulled open by guards, and now the crowded, chained men were pushed and pulled down the bloody carpet. Dried and drying blood and gore were everywhere; some bodies had not yet been removed, and these were piled in corners of the marble hall, lending an unclean stench to memories of gilt and topaz, velvet and perfumed incense. Du-jum was regal, sitting in Omeron’s throne high upon a basalt dais. He was dressed in somber gray and scarlet robes, his sleeves and hems fringed with gold. Upon his forehead he wore the heavy crown of Thesrad, yet it was not as it had been when Omeron had worn it. Somehow, Du-jum had mal-shaped the ornate headpiece: stretched, bent, lopsided, it perched on his head in a mockery of its true form.

Yarise sat boldly beside him. Where Du-jum was ostentatiously and redundantly garbed, Yarise, as though to provoke indignation, was daringly underdressed, flaunting herself as she had never dared do when Omeron sat to her right. She wore a silver crown atop her long black curls, and a silver pendant about her throat. Her breasts were bare, and they were full and ripe, the large nipples tinted with some red pigment. Her girdle was of green jade inset with diamonds, and from it hung a scanty gossamer skirt of yellow. High-strapped sandals of leather and cloth of gold rode nearly up to her knees.

She was sucking on thick, purple plums and her dark eyes laughed insolently at the prisoners brought in before her.

The resisters knew not what to expect, save that they would surely die for defending their homes. They wished only for a quick death.

Now they were herded before the throne, and some of the chains were undone so that, chained one to another, they stood in a long line facing the sorcerer. Heads high, feet braced wide, they waited silently. Some dripped blood upon the stone floor. Du-jum leaned forward, the great bird talisman on his chest swaying heavily. Then he rose, surveyed the prisoners coldly, and called out: “These are the insurgents taken this morning?”

One of his guards answered: “Aye, Lord Du-jum.”

Du-jum scowled down at the prisoners. “My ultimatum is simple: you men will tell me what you know of Prince Omeron, or you will die.”

So saying, he clapped his hands several times, then raised them and slowly intoned a series of sonorous, barbaric words.

Suddenly all twenty of the prisoners, still chained, felt their feet leaving the floor, felt themselves lifted a few inches into the air and tilted slightly forward. Some of them gasped, as did some of Du-jum’s own soldiers. The chains between the prisoners hung suspended in long U’s, from waist to waist; and when Du-jum descended the stairs of the dais, he was at the eye level of every one of them.

Long he studied those men who, hanging there, immobile and without support in the center of the audience hall, awaited their fate. From her throne, Yarise continued to suck and chew loudly on the plums, the sound absurd and cynical. Then Du-jum paused before the man at one end of the line, looked him squarely in the eyes, and asked softly: “Will you tell me what has become of Lord Omeron, or will you damn yourself and your friends to an eternity of torment?”

Carefully, so as not to reveal his terror, the man responded. “I do not know what has become of My Lord.”

“I will not ask you again.”

“I do not kn—”

Quickly Du-jum raised his hand to the man’s face, touched his fore and middle fingers to the man’s eyes. They rested there a moment; Yarise wondered if perhaps Du-jum were reading the soldier’s mind. Then, abruptly, the sorcerer dug his fingers into the man’s eyes. A hellish scream burst from the soldier.

Blood spurted out; a few drops struck Du-jum’s face, larger drops splashed upon his breast and upon his black bird. The victim writhed as much as he could in midair, weighed down by his chains, shrieking frantically.

Bone crunched as Du-jum dug his fingers in, in, until they were buried full length inside the man’s eye sockets. When he withdrew them, more blood poured out, but the screams had ceased.

Yarise had stopped sucking plums. Contemptuously, Du-jum waved his hand through the air, flicking off the blood; red drops spattered on the floor. He took one step and faced the second man hanging in midair. The man’s eyes went wide, his face grew ashen, and sweat broke out on him profusely.