David Smith - Against the Prince of Hell

But Du-jum was too crafty to torture the men consecutively and thereby allow each to anticipate and prepare. He turned from the second man, giving him a false and brief reprieve, slowly walked down the line of hanging prisoners, then turned arbitrarily upon the fourteenth man.

And when that man, too, would not answer, Du-jum ripped the flesh from his face in a surge of inhuman strength.

He turned back once more, paused before the seventh man, heard him gurgle with terror, then strode down the line to the nineteenth man, and inquired of him. And one by one they died—throats torn out, eyes gouged, necks snapped. One by one. . . .

And when it was done, none had spoken. Some had writhed, some had screamed, some had indeed begged for mercy or prayed aloud to this or that god. But none had told Du-jum what he wished to know.

Not one had spoken of the location of Lord Omeron, the numbers of resisters with him, or the location of other of his loyal followers throughout the city and the countryside. With an angry growl, Du-jum turned on his heel and hastened from the audience chamber, leaving Yarise alone on her throne with his soldiers and twenty gouged, broken, and mutilated corpses.

They hung in midair until Du-jum slammed the portals behind him; then, with a resounding clatter of chains, they fell heavily to the floor, awkward in their death postures.

At noon the sky began to cloud over. Omeron and his men, sitting at their cooking fires, eating and drinking, came to conclusions on a plan against Du-jum. The birds had not disappeared entirely, but still hung in a long, low line far out across the sky, between the mountains and the city. If the strange woman, Ilura, had been correct that they had been sent by Du-jum to discover Omeron’s whereabouts, they surely had succeeded; just as surely they would somehow report the news to the sorcerer. This made it more imperative that they decide on their plan and act on it.

“We are agreed, then,” Omeron said quietly, looking at his chief officers.

“Aye!” Sadhur was first to speak up—determined, angry yet disciplined, and eager to wield his sword in the cause of vengeance.

The others all responded likewise.

Omeron stood up, hitched his thumbs in his belt, and told his chiefs: “Go gather pebbles for a lottery, each of you—enough for the men in all of your squads. I’ll take ten men from each squad; no more. And if any man doesn’t want to go, then don’t force him.”

Sadhur’s brows knitted heavily. “What are you saying?

That there are cowards amongst us, My Lord?”

“Cowards? No . . . no . . . I dislike that word. These men were trained for battle, and I doubt any of them would shirk that responsibility. But we have been through Hell recently, Sadhur, and we must respect these men for their suffering. Some, despite what Ilura has done for them, may yet feel too wounded or weak. We must have the best men in the best condition. Some may have religious feelings; they have fought in Thesrad, and may now have doubts about jeopardizing their very souls fighting a sorcerer and his army. Some of us, if not all of us, who go into Thesrad on this expedition, will die by sorcery. You and I will go, and most of our men will agree to go also—but if any man out there doesn’t want to, whatever his reason, don’t force him. I want his reasons respected. We’re all battle-trained, we’ve all fought valiantly, and I want each man’s opinions honored.” Sadhur grunted an assent, and the others there nodded in understanding.

“Now, then,” Omeron continued, “after we’ve gone tonight, you, Ergas, will give us two days in which to return.

Two nights, two days. If we have not returned—or if, before then, you sense something evil occurring in the city—you are to send rider to Prince Sentharion in Ribeth and petition him for reinforcements. Understood? And I will leave it to your discretion whether to follow us into Thesrad then, or wait until Prince Sentharion shows up.”

“We will follow!” declared Ergas, gripping his sword pommel.

“Don’t decide now. Wait until the two days are up.”

Doubtfully, Ergas replied: “As My Lord commands. . . .

The chiefs parted, and each began to collect things from the ground or from the nearby forest edge to apportion his men. The soldiers of the camp assembled by squadron, talking among themselves, wondering.

Not one of them held back from going down into Thesrad to take up again the fight against the sorcerer who had turned the city into a Hell.

Sadhur rounded up Omeron’s loose troop and began picking up small flat stones. While this process went on, Omeron walked across the camp and approached Red Sonja, who was sitting, healthy and well, on a boulder by a small fire. Her sword was out, across her knees, and she was polishing it.

She did not look up as Omeron’s boots came into her field of vision. But when he paused, looking down at her, she said evenly: “I’m going, Commander.”

“Going?”

“Down into your city, when you fight this sorcerer who conquered it.”

“But I haven’t even offered you—”

She looked up at him then, her wild red hair tumbling back and framing her pale face, her startlingly clear eyes piercing Omeron’s. “I know what’s happened to you. I’ve been talking to your men.”

“And?”

“You saved my life. I owe you something for that, and I never leave any debt unpaid. Besides, I’m against sorcery on principle. It’s evil. My path has crossed the path of sorcery before. Once I saw it destroy an entire city such as yours, and its king—”

Sonja stopped abruptly, feeling she had said too much. Memories of a city called Suthad briefly flooded her mind, and of a king named Olin whom she could have loved deeply. Dark memories, bitter memories. . . . Omeron looked at her sharply. “Don’t condemn sorcery too quickly, Sonja.”

“What do you mean?” She sheathed her sword and stood up. Omeron saw that she was tall; her eyes were nearly level with his own.

“It was my men and I who found you, yes, and nursed you as best we could. But your fever was finally settled and your health returned to you, not by us, but by a sorceress.”

Sonja’s brows knit. Her eyes swam with a question; then she turned her gaze towards the strange woman who sat at the far edge of the camp. “Her?”

“Ilura, yes.”

“She’s a sorceress? And she cured me?”

“Yes. And not only you, but many of my men as well—all who were ill, wounded, feverish. . . .”

Sonja drew in a deep breath. “Yet I still owe you a debt, and I intend to repay it. I’ll fight with you for your city. You’re leaving tonight?”

“Aye, at moonrise.”

“Then I go with you. And—it looks like I owe Ilura thanks, as well.”

“You do, yes.” Omeron was pleased; this woman was surely as strong in temperament, in self-discipline and pride, as any of his finest soldiers.

Sonja turned from him, and crossed the camp toward Ilura. The sorceress, sensing her coming, arose and stood quietly, exhibiting no emotion and keeping her eyes levelly on the Hyrkanian. There was an attitude of careful watchfulness in her stance. Sonja, for her part, betrayed an instinctive distrust in the raising of her hand to her sword pommel, in the almost mannish stride that carried her forward.

She paused only a short distance from Ilura and, as was her habit, regarded the woman straight in the eyes. Strangely, she sensed no evil emanating from the sorceress. Something cold—something vaguely unhuman, yes—but nothing evil, nothing threatening.

“I’m told I owe you my life,” Sonja said evenly.

“That is not quite true.”

“You may be a sorceress, but you saved me from the mountain fever, and so I owe you my gratitude.”