Robert Hughes - The Power and the Prophet

As usual, Tuckad ignored Bainer. “Why doesn’t she ride with us?” he growled at Syth, who studied the road ahead calmly. Tuckad mod Pak was the Lord of Drabeld, the other major fortified city of the north.

A quick-thinking man with a mercurial smile and the shoulders and strength of a woodsman, he was Syth’s foremost ally in this conflict. He was tenacious and wouldn’t be put off.

Syth didn’t even try. “Frankly, she chose not to.”

“Can’t you control your woman?” Tuckad demanded, and Bainer gritted his teeth at the sudden hostility.

Syth diffused it with a low chuckle. “I can hardly control myself,” he muttered and he winked at his comrades. Bainer cackled in relief. Tuckad smiled at the mane of his horse and waited for Syth to be serious. “She’s Mar-Yilot,” Syth said soberly. “She does as she chooses. And I… well, I do too.” Syth shrugged and gazed down the road.

“And has she chosen to cloak us?” Tuckad asked, his eyes grim.

“Why, of course she has!” Bainer grunted. “You think Syth would lead us out if she hadn’t?”

“Has she, Syth?” Tuckad continued.

“She’s covering us,” their leader told them confidently, and Tuckad sat back in his saddle, satisfied.

Syth’s eyes returned to the road, their studied calm hiding the uncertainty that still seethed inside him. He’d made a statement of faith, not of fact. He had no skill at shaping, to perceive whether that glowing aura of protection arched over them as he hoped. His faith was not groundless, however. Of one thing he could be forever certain: Mar-Yilot loved him. As long as he was with this army, so in spirit was she. She would never willingly expose him to any danger. But shapers were so easily distracted….

He had tuned out Bainer’s meaningless chatter. When Tuckad spoke again, he paid attention. “Where do the Hannis join us—

Gamabel Bridge?”

Syth nodded. “Just north of the High Plateau. Kam joins

us there too.”

“Kam is a very small fish. I’m far more concerned about our merchant allies—and a bit distrustful as well. Merchants don’t usually fight anybody but other merchants. What quarrel does the House of Hann have with our lazy King Pahd?”

“No quarrel with the king. Plenty with Flayh, however. For all the fact that this Flayh now shapes, remember, he was once the prince of the merchant house of Ognadzu. It’s a recent grudge, I gather, but fiercely held. Hann is the second trading house in the Mar these days. With Flayh always at the king’s ear, how can they hope for any better? As always, it’s merchant versus merchant over markets.”

“If that’s the case, why haven’t the other traders joined us? Blez—we pass through their lands this morning—and Uda, Wina and the others? They’ve not declared for any side that I’ve heard.”

“Nor will they, until the first battle’s won by someone. Then they’ll make the most profitable commitment.

They’re traders,

remember?”

Tuckad nodded. “Well. Cerdeb meets us at the bridge as

well?”

“No, Cerdeb has circled south of the High City, not north. We’ll meet him at Kam’s castle. And much as you might think Kam an insignificant friend, you can’t deny he’s well located.”

“Very well indeed!” Bainer cackled, finding a spot where he could break back into the conversation. “He sits on the very doorstep of Ngandib!” He proclaimed this as if it were a priceless pearl of new information, instead of a basic factor in all of their calculations. Bainer was a bore. He could fight, however, and that was why, despite being boring, he was a baron.

He wielded a wicked mace. Besides, on the battlefield, Bainer rarely said a word, and that was when his friends liked him most. For the moment they tolerated him, thinking their private thoughts as he rambled on.

They met no one. That was curious, for it was the harvest season, and they’d expected to encounter an occasional hay-wagon, at least. As the autumn sun passed its peak and started its descent, Tuckad voiced his reservations. “Something’s wrong. There’s no traffic.”

“It’s wartime, Tuckad. The peasants are keeping their heads

down.”

“No peasant I know cares a fig about war if his crop is in the field rotting. No. It’s too unusual.

Someone’s stopping traffic up ahead of us. They’re waiting to ambush us in the ravines.” There was no alarm in the Lord of Drabeld’s voice, but he did say it with conviction. “How do you know?” Syth asked.

“I can smell it,” Tuckad grunted. “And I smell the screaming pig behind it.”

Tuckad’s words drew unexpected laughter from the other two men. He’d once again revealed his obsession. “We’re far from the lands of Chanos,” Bainer scoffed.

“Not far enough for me,” Tuckad snapped. “We can never be far enough for me.”

“Bainer’s right,” Syth said. “The lands of the roaring boar are miles from the River Road. You’ve battled Chanos so long his stench is always in your nostrils.”

This was true. Tuckad’s lands abutted those of Chanos, and they had fought about that border since the day they met as boys. They’d warred over everything else as well, most especially family problems. The two clans were linked by a half dozen marital bonds, each relationship as stormy as the next. In times of peace, they hated one another cordially, trading insults across the banquet tables and storing up bile for the next conflict. When at last the standards were raised again, all the Mar could be certain that the green bow of Tuckad and Chanos’s roaring boar’s head would be on opposite sides of the field.

Tuckad was adamant. “You mock my intelligence, son of Syth. Would the city of Drabeld elect a fool? I smell the pig because he’s there, because he’s always there, wherever I am. I claim no shaper powers, nor does he, yet we can track one

another as unerringly as any wizard. Mark me well. You say your lady’s cloaking us, and I believe you or I’d not be here. But if for some reason she’s not—if she’s busy at her spell-book or battling some shaper elsewhere—they’ll take us in the

ravines.”

“I hope they do await us in the ravines. I’ve told the Hannis if we don’t meet them at the bridge to turn north and follow the road. We’ll trap them between us in the very gorge they seek to use against us.” Syth said this coolly, not daring to look at Tuckad. He feared his keen companion might penetrate his bravado.

“Nonetheless, may I suggest we send out a dozen riders to

watch our eastern flank?”

“Always a good idea, my friend. Will you see to it?” Tuckad and Syth exchanged a quick glance, Tuckad smiling appreciatively at this opportunity for a respite from Bainer’s’ incessant prattle. Moments later, when they reached the beginning of the lengthy gorge called the ravines, a small troop of riders pounded up the gentle slope to their left. The main column kept to the road, which followed the riverline.

In another hour, the slope had become a sheer cliff. With this wall to one side and the swift-moving river to the other, the small army was obviously vulnerable to attack. The ravines were famous for ambushes—although usually the attackers were slavers, descending on unsuspecting caravans carrying goods to the north or gemstones southward. Rarely had major battles been fought here. Man chieftains preferred honorable combat in open spaces. Even so, no Man lord would dare to travel the riverline without coverage. The danger was obvious, but no enemy could attack what couldn’t be seen.

Syth was drowsing in his saddle when Bainer suddenly interrupted himself. “What’s that?” Syth’s eyes fluttered open. “What?”

“There!” Bainer pointed. They spurred their mounts forward to examine the object that had just come bouncing off the cliff when another fell, striking the ground near enough to them to be instantly recognizable. It was a severed head.