David Smith: Against the Prince of Hell

High in the southern mountains, where autumn comes on slicing winds with the dry clatter of dead leaves, rides a solitary traveler. She is a woman in armor, a tall, red-haired outlander with a sword at her hip and a blade in her riding boots. The road’s dust is caked upon her brow and her bright hair is drenched with sweat—for she burns with fever.

Seldom fatal in itself, the mountain-fever, she knows, nonetheless weakens and stultifies. Too weak to find food, she could starve to death; too ill to build shelter, she could fall victim to the freezing winds or the claws and fangs of predatory beasts. It is her fourth night on the mountain road.

The stars, high in a blue-black sky, wheel in a mad pattern, folding in and blossoming out. She hears herself breathing laboriously, and she rocks in the saddle as the horse plods on. She must find some place of safety—some little cave or delve, some place protected by rock or foliage. It takes all of her strength and concentration to keep from slipping from the saddle and down into oblivion. . . . Then she sees—

Dawn in the mist? No. Lights, distant lights glimmering in the darkness at the bottom of the mountain road. A city. Somehow, she must reach it.

But an hour before dawn she falls from the saddle at last and knows she has not the strength to climb up again. She crawls instead into a patch of shrubbery beside the road and, huddled against a tree, her worn woolen cape pulled about her shoulders, she gives in to the demands of sleep. Nightmares claim her.

Who are you, O Being—neither man nor woman? You glow with light; it is painful to my eyes. Put on your mask again!

I never wanted your curse—you should have left me to bleed to death. The sword you have given me is heavier than a mountain. Shall I put this burden down? And if I do, who then am I? I am no one. No one! Red Sonja they call me—red hair, white flesh, black heart. I am a woman cursed never to love. Cursed, I am cursed . . . And always alone . . .

“Is she still alive?” asked a deep voice.

“Aye, still alive, Lord Omeron. She’s babbling, I can’t make out the words. Hyrkanian, I believe, sir. She has a bad fever, I’m afraid—can’t tell how long she’s had it. Pulse is still strong—that’s a good sign.”

“That must be her mount over there, in that grass. Beautiful animal. Bring her along, you two. Carefully, now! Sponge her down with some cold water, that’ll help her fever. Try to get some food into her.”

“She wears strange armor, sir—nothing matches. She must be a mercenary. Zamoran boots, Kothian mail shirt, Hyrkanian sword—and she doesn’t have a helmet.”

“Just bring her along.”

“Sir, you don’t think she’s with—”

“With that monster Du-jum and his black crew? Hardly, Sadhur. Hardly. Look at her. She’s a traveler, though probably a hired sword, as you say. We can use her if she gets well. Tend her carefully, now.”

“A comely woman.”

“Aye, aye. But handy with her blade, I think. Look at the callous-pattern on her right hand; she’s wielded a sword often, I’ll swear! Take her along easy, now. We’ll send a man back for the horse when we reach camp. And post a double watch, too, for night’s coming down.”

“Du-jum won’t try anything tonight, surely, not while the looting’s still good in the city.”

“He’ll try anything he can, Sadhur, to find us and murder us. Trust to it. Easy, now, with that girl. We’ve got to get her fit if we can; we’ll need every sword we can muster.”

Shortly after sundown, Sonja awoke to voices discussing death, outrage, conquest. So she yet lived.

She tried to sit up, but could not; her muscles would not respond. As she became more aware of herself, more awake, she realized how heavy she felt.

There were bootsteps nearby. She opened her eyes more fully, shuddered as she saw looming above her a huge, armored man with scowling face and tumbling dark beard. Her instinct was to reach for her sword, spring to her feet.

Sonja tried to lurch forward, groaned, and coughed.

“Are you awake?” rumbled the big man. His dark eyes studied her carefully, then he turned his face away. “She’s awake, My Lord.”

Another pair of boots approached, another face appeared, this one fair-skinned, moustached, handsome—handsome beneath the metal brow of a notched war-helmet, handsome despite evident lines of ache and weariness.

“Are you awake, woman?”

Sonja shook her head to clear it, took several deep breaths, as if the aftereffects of fever could be gotten rid of as easily as a hangover.

“Here. . . .”

Strong hands gripped her upper arms to help her sit. Sonja pulled herself forward weakly, settled herself into a sitting position, and shook her head again. The world swam—a world of dusk, campfires, and torchlight. She saw crowds of armed men, and beyond them horses, supplies, more men, and more dusk.

“Where . . . ?”

“Just take it easy for a moment.” The handsome man turned and gestured. “Sadhur?”

The huge, scowling warrior nodded and proffered his waterskin; the other took it, opened it, placed it to Sonja’s bruised lips.

“Water. Take it down slowly. Not too much; you’ve been leaking sweat, you can’t force it.”

But she gulped down the cold water until the man took the skin from her. Then she sat back, and the two men helped her prop herself against a tree bole for support.

“Where . . . am I?”

“In the foothills just east of Thesrad.”

“Thesrad?”

“No, you’re not in Thesrad, you’re in hills just beyond it. It’s down there in the valley. My name is Omeron, and Thesrad is my city-state.”

“What happened? How did I—?”

“Rest easy. Do you think you can hold down some food? Yes? Sadhur, please.” As the large warrior walked off, Omeron continued, “You caught the mountain fever. You’re past the worst of it now, but you’re lucky you got this far. If you’d fallen in the mountains, you’d be dead by now.”

Sonja tried to recollect it. Stark and blurred memories of revolving stars, nausea, wheeling birds and moonlit trees cascaded in her mind. She looked at Omeron, focused as well as she could. He had deep blue eyes, clear and strong. Sonja liked his eyes, felt she could trust them now.

“How did you happen to find me?”

“We’re renegades.” His voice became touched with bitterness. “For the past week we’ve been fighting for the survival of Thesrad. We were forced out, so we’ve taken refuge in the mountains.”

“Thesrad—your city-state.”

“Yes. Here’s your food.”

Sadhur had returned with a cracked wooden bowl; he bent and handed it to Sonja. She tried to lift her hands, could not. Omeron took it, stirred the soup in the bowl with a big wooden spoon.