Demon in the Mirror

by Andrew J. Offut

  It was the rightward cobra. The slash she had given it as she leaped over it had laid open its head, but merely knocked it temporarily senseless. And now all this noise had surely betrayed her position to the real enemy, the unscathed snake that had formed the left element of the formation.

  It must be near — very near! Panic rose and she fought it. With a jerk and snap of her arm, she sent the dead snake thumping noisily to the floor. Strike at that! she urged mentally, while she stepped silently back to the door. Had that been a rush of air, past her leg? Gooseflesh leaped up and made her shiver.

  If I miss, it won’t. I must strike quickly — and true! The snake’s keen sense of smell would soon penetrate the darkness to find her. Her mind boiled with self-reproach: fool to think the careless slash of a rapier’s edge might kill, vain fool to wear perfume!

  Yet there came no thought of regret at not having run for help. Her brain was busy elsewise, intensely busy.

  A plan crystallized. If she tapped her foot, the snake would certainly come. If she then aimed her rapier’s thrust parallel to the floor and a few inches above it, she need only guess the cobra’s direction, not its exact location. Despite the snake’s obvious uncanny intelligence, it must still be a creature of habit. It would approach along the left side of the corridor. Tiana chewed her lip. Her instincts cried out against betraying herself with sound in the protective darkness. Yet though her logic might well be faulty, better to try even a bad plan than wait in growing terror for certain death.

  Her foot tapped, and the sound was as of a hammer’s falling in the silent darkness.

  She waited, poised for her planned thrust. Sweat was like cold grease on her face and hands. She felt its trickle down her back. Her hand quivered, wanting to leap forth. A quiet voice in the back of her mind whispered Not yet, not yet, while eternity seemed to pass. I’m standing here, dying of old age, she thought, as if arguing with her own inner voice of counsel. Her heart thumped hard and fast and the veins in her temple stood out from the strain while sweat tickled its way down into the crease between her tensed buttocks — and the voice said Now!

  Tiana thrust — and felt her rapier’s point encounter flesh. She skewered, panting, shoving the point away from herself with all her strength. In the darkness, it was eerily as if the rapier itself was amove — something was impaled and writhing on her slender sword. There was a sudden wrench and she felt a sharp blow at the hilt, just beyond her knuckles. The blow was accompanied by a click-snapping sound. Then the weight on her rapier went dead.

  Tiana panted, sweat-drenched, trying to suck deep, slow breaths. Her legs quivered with the after-tingles of relief. All was quiet. Were all three snakes truly dead?

  Suppose there’s a fourth! Her imagination soared, flourished, filling the darkness with an army of huge-fanged cobras. She fought the fantasy; she dismissed it.

  “No!”

  Nonetheless her flesh crawled when she stepped away from the door. From the pouch at her belt she produced a piece of flint. She found the candle, lit it, held it high.

  All three reptiles lay dead where she’d slain them. The last she had impaled well behind the head, and she realised the snapping sound had been the breaking of a fang when the creature struck her sword-hilt, less than an inch from her hand. Tiana drew a deep breath, expelled it slowly — and stared at the door. Again she spoke aloud; questions and tension remained, and her voice was a comfort still.

  “Now, why? A ship guarded like a harem — and a door guarded by those. And… what else?” Not to mention, she mused, what’s behind this accursed door!

  With the door’s secret compartment open, she could see the inner workings of the other knob. As she’d suspected, a needle would be released by the turning of the snakehead knob — a needle well envenomed, naturally. Her dagger broke the mechanism. Nevertheless she exercised care as, with rapier ready, she opened the door of death.

  Tiana blinked. A hanging oil lantern illuminated the cabin beyond the door. The room was empty save for a small casket or chest and an unusually beautiful girl.

  She was nude but for the silver band about her waist, which was fastened behind to a silver chain, long and delicately slender. The chain was, in turn, secured to the floor — by bolts of silver. A rich tether indeed, Tiana mused, studying the girl’s face; it was a cameo of perfectly formed features, but showed no apparent emotion. With a lifted eyebrow, Tiana regarded a feminine form that was a dream of lust come true. Luscious limbs were as exquisitely formed as Tiana’s own, and the man-tantalizing, full, sculpted breasts were both firmer and of more size than her own.

  Hmp. The whore’s top-heavy.

  “Free me — oh, please, free me!”

  Tiana returned a cool gaze. “Why? You didn’t fight for your own freedom! There’s strength in those lovely limbs of yours, I can see that. You…”

  Tiana trailed off. Why hadn’t the girl twisted and worked and broken that so-slender chain, to break free? Why was she here in the first place, fettered so — and so guarded? True, she’d fetch a fine price on any market. But she could hardly be the treasure the Narokans had guarded so well. There was something wrong, Tiana realised. Her eyes shifted nervously to the little casket.

  Was that the prize? Then… the girl? …The cloud of suspicion in Tiana’s mind began to take form as she noted the captive was holding her hands oddly — the fingers could not be seen. Concealing her fingers? Why?

  The serpents had not been natural ones, but products of some dark sorcery…

  “Show me your hands.”

  At Tiana’s words, the girl leaped up and sprang at her as if launched from a catapult.

  Her intended victim was hardly a mere woman, hardly inexperienced, and already suspicious. Tiana stood her ground; her rapier darted forth to meet the fierce charge. Pierced through the brain, the girl fell. Her perfect brow was marred now by a wound like a blindly staring red eye.

  It was the hands that drew Tiana’s stare. The captive had not been hiding her fingers; she had none. Each hand sprouted razor-sharp claws that were the ghastlier for tipping the perfect arms of such a lovely creature. Aye, creature… Even worse than the claws was that revealed by the mouth that now gaped in death. The girl — the creature — possessed fangs, not like a tiger or a bear, but long, slender needles, slightly back-curved. They were obscenely hideous, marring that lovely face.

  And hollow, I’d make wager. The fangs of a cobra!

  Revelation brought relief; relief brought laughter. The “girl” was neither the prize nor a girl; she was a lamia, a monster set to guard the real treasure.

  “By the Sacred Cud — what sort of treasure needs a hundred marines, two death traps, and a monster to guard it?”

  One worth fleeing, one part of Tiana’s mind told her, but her more piratical side responded that it was one worth the taking, particularly after so much work and death-dealing. As she started toward the chest, she gave the lamia another glance of helpless fascination. Her eyes widened; was it imagination, or was the death-wound smaller?

  It was. Tiana froze, staring in awe as the red eye closed, then vanished to leave clear, unmarked skin. The beautiful monster’s real eyes flamed anew with life, and a heartbeat later, it was leaping at Tiana.

  Still dazed at this unholy resurrection, she only just evaded the rushing claws — and lost her rapier to one set. Even while it clattered on the cabin’s floor, Tiana was dodging, pouncing sidewise, twisting back. She grasped the silver chain, so close up to the thing’s back that it could not get at her. The monster bucked and lunged while Tiana clung with desperate tenacity to the chain. Daring to trust to a one-handed grip, she snatched out her dagger. She reached around to drive it deep into the inner surface of one breast, the left. Surely that reached the heart — but though the abominable creature screamed and staggered, it continued to struggle. When claws barely missed tearing open her arm, Tiana withdrew the dagger. Immediately the wound shrank, closed, vanished.

  Hanging onto the thing�
�s leash and swerving her body this way and that to avoid back-clawing talons, Tiana stabbed again and again in quest of a vital spot in a monster that seemed to have none. Each new wound closed with nauseating swiftness. Twisting about a head whose human beauty was rendered a ghastly mockery by the fangs, the lamia spat on Tiana’s arm.

  She groaned. The venom burned like a red-hot iron.

  Defensively, Tiana jerked up her dagger as the monster spat again. Venom splashed the blade and Tiana moaned at the tiny droplet that touched her finger. She plunged the dagger into the monster’s neck. Instantly the creature went rigid. Its face writhed, and its stiffness lurched into the increasingly violent activity of convulsions. Tiana released the dagger; her hand, gripping the chain, was drawn down as her inhuman foe slumped to the floor. It thrashed, twitched, made a hideous belching sound, and was still.

  Hurriedly spitting on her venom-splashed arm, Tiana rubbed it against the leg of her short breeks — hard. Twice more she did that, until the burning abated. She stood panting and dishevelled, staring down at that which had nigh slain her. I really should carve off that head — but I like the dagger just where it is. There’s always the one I took from the Narokan captain’s cabin. Let mine stay in her neck — its neck — with the venom that slew the monster.

  Tiana looked about, considering. Obviously the creature should have been able to break the chain. Silver, like its own venom then, must be its nemesis. The chain, Tiana the pirate reminded herself, was valuable for its metal. Well, I’ll promise it to the harbourmaster in Reme. Let him take it off! Meanwhile, just in case…

  Retrieving her sword, Tiana toed the chest to a point well beyond the reach of the silver chain. The casket was not so large as a helmet for that great head of Gunda’s. Surely it was too small to house a fabulous treasure, let alone both that and another death trap.

  Nevertheless, she exercised great care in examining the plain chest of red-brown hardwood. It seemed no more than a valuable, locked jewel-casket sufficient to hold, say, a large ale stein and little else. Or a hundred Atean pearls, perhaps, if there are so many in the world; the ransom of a half-score ships! That was an exciting thought and, once she had the chest braced against one wall, she was able to pick its lock with the needly tip of her rapier. Standing, she used that same tool to lift the lid.

  “Dung! RAT dung!”

  The chest contained three books of considerable age, a roll of parchment and a disgusting mummified hand. And naught else. Nor was “rat dung” sufficient for the occasion. A deaf ear three leagues distant could surely have heard Captain Tiana of Vixen cursing all the gods, the several Fates and all the idiot humans — men — who oversaw and conducted the affairs of the world. All this work! All this — nervousness, she told herself, not fear — and all her sweat. And to show for it: junk, junk that would not fill Gunda’s helmet!

  She, cursed by the gods, bright and dark, even invoking that formless nemesis, Drood of the Thousand Arms, and she swore by the Cow whose rumination created the world and by the Turtle on whose back the world rested and was sustained and — she caught herself. Even in her rage of disappointment Tiana would not swear the dread third oath, which was the Means That Shall Destroy the World. That final oath was seldom sworn, for its consequences were never pleasant.

  Given voice, Tiana’s rage subsided. Her commercial sense reasserted itself.

  This junk was better guarded than any king ever was. Surely someone will pay well for its return — a one-handed bibliophile, mayhap! And… he ‘ll pay the better when I know why these things are so valuable — and who else might buy them…

  When Tiana squatted beside the chest, she noted the patch of her breeks that had been eaten away. “And may Drood grasp the creature who raised up that lamia and its venom, too! The finest silk I — ahhhhh!” With a jerk of her head, she fell to examining that which the casket contained.

  The hand was just that, but made extraordinary by the fact that a plain iron ring had been left on each finger — or slipped onto them. Ah! And the rings were nailed to the bottom of the hardwood chest!

  With a jerk of her head, Tiana smilingly admonished the hand not to run away. She checked each book in turn. Each was written in a language she could neither read nor recognise, and if that rusty-brown ink was what she suspected… With a start and a most unpleasant twinge, she decided that it in all likelihood was indeed blood — the pages were human skin!

  The parchment was not. Breaking the seal without a qualm, she unrolled it. It was short, and so was its message, written in Narokan:

  To Lamarred, my Brother Sorcerer, a greeting:

  We both despise Pyre and must cooperate to complete our plans. Accordingly, I agree to your terms, and send that which you requested.

  - Ekron

  Tiana’s body betrayed her with an unworthy little shudder. The books were valuable, then… to any who wanted the vile secrets of black magic.

  As she aversely returned the letter and books to the chest of evil, Tiana’s heart nearly stopped. Very slowly, the fingers of the mummified hand were… moving.

  Tiana slammed the lid.

  2 Bargaining with the Devil

  On a dark street in Reme, chief port and capital of Ilan, there is an establishment called the Inn of the Smiling Skull. None remembers why it is so named. The wine on King Hower’s table is not half so rare of vintage or delicate of bouquet as the wine served there. The fat chef buys the finest prime beef and serves it cooked to perfection that all may partake of the descendants of the Cow. The other meats and fish, pastries and manifold delicacies are all of such quality that no honest traveller of the world’s back has claimed to have tasted better. Despite this veritable pinacothek of excellence, prices are higher in the poorest pigsty masquerading as inn. It is known that boys, clammers, are paid to apprise newcomers to Reme of the felicities of the Smiling Skull. Nevertheless the inn’s patrons remain few, for too many men and women therein have from time to time met their demise. Some have said ’twas coincidence; since the dead bore no mark of violence, no tinge of poison, no hint of foul play, these numerous passings must have been natural. Even those who have argued thus, however, dine not at the Smiling Skull.

  This night the inn’s patrons were three, and them together. A curtain of mauve king’s-cord draped one wall; seated at a table there were Tiana, Caranga, and Gunda, second mate of Vixen. With them, recently brought ashore from the ship on which it had been well guarded, was a large cloth bag. Within the bag was a smallish chest or casket, wound about with a delicate silver chain. Nor had Tiana opened it since slamming the lid while aboard the Narokan merchantman; nor had any touched it ere this night when she had carried it ashore. Nor in fact did her gaze long leave it.

  The trio, well got up as gentlefolk, awaited a most important appointment with a certain Lamarred.

  Caranga would have it not otherwise: he tasted Tiana’s wine, first the glass and then the bottle. With the tip of his tongue he touched her fork and each side of the knife. As he checked the roast beef, huge Gunda spoke.

  “Why look ye for poison? The king’s spies have proved there be none here.”

  Caranga growled, “And how did they accomplish that?”

  Between great mouthfuls of his own succulent beef, Gunda made reply: “King Hower was angered because of all those who died here, and so he sent two of his best spies. Neither ate nor drank aught. Both died. This proves it be not in poison that the trouble lies.”

  The black man but snorted — and continued to check the meat. Gunda shook his hairless head. “Now I know why you made end to retirement and returned to the sea,” he said, amid mastication hardly silent. “Ye’ve no happiness but when you’re afret over the cap’n.”

  On the point of making heated reply, Caranga paused. The second mate’s words were true. When a dozen years ago the black pirate had given shelter to a homeless white orphan, he had expected to keep the child a short time till a suitable home could be found. To his amazement, she took to him and the
piratical life Ike a fox to the chicken coop. In combat Tiana’s speed and agility bested the strongest of enemies, and that before she attained twoscore years. In leadership and strategy she soon surpassed her foster father. At length forced to admit that he was aging, Caranga retired his command in Tiana’s favour — nor could any criticize his choice (or so dare). Within a short time, though, the peace of retirement had palled. Too, he could not bear the thought of his beautiful daughter’s facing daily danger without him. Claiming that her curiosity would kill her and that only he was blessed with the good sense to turn his back on this and that, now and again, he rejoined the crew — as mate.

  Now he snapped, “Well, someone must fret over her. Look at the wench, here without her rapier and with her bosoms on display like a doxy clamming her wares.” Seeing those green eyes narrow and her lips draw tight, Caranga covered one of her long-fingered hands with his and hurried on in tone more fatherly. “Tiana, Tiana. Peddling this so-called treasure has us bargaining with Drood himself! The secrets of thaumaturgy and necromancy are evil. Books written in blood on human skin — gained by murder, for mere paper cannot hold such ireful knowledge. Such things are not objects of ordinary commerce. They change hands only by dark means; fraud and theft, murder — and conspiracy to perform monstrous acts.”

  “I’ve not heard such a speech from you in twelve years, Caranga. And are not fraud and theft and murder and fell conspiracy part of ordinary commerce?” Tiana responded, in high innocence.

  Caranga jerked back his hand and gusted a sigh. “Perhaps. But you’re involving your darling self in a war of wizards, girl. You’ll be sucked into a whirlpool of their sorcerous intrigues. Come, let’s be off before it’s too late.”

  “It is already too late.” The voice was passing quiet, almost a whisper.

  The trio whirled to stare at the speaker; the curtain at the wall had parted to reveal a small alcove, and a man. Robed he was, and tall, thin as though he dined but occasionally and then not well. Yet his colour was good, and strangely pale, almond-shaped eyes were bright with vigour.