Robert Hughes - The Power and the Prophet

“Whose—” Syth gasped, horrified, but words failed him. He knew the face. It belonged to one of Tuckad’s foremost supporters. His head reeled. This was no Man practice. “Look,” Tuckad grunted and he pointed.

Syth pulled his gaze from the grotesque vision and looked beyond it. Blocking the road were three armor-clad warriors, backed by a horde of grinning retainers. Three standards fluttered on the breeze, and Syth read their symbols at a glance. On one were the diagonal blue stripes of Belra, Citylord of Garnabel. The second flag held the spreading oak of Ferlyth mod Kerlyth, Lord Carlog and Jorl of the vast Furrowmar. And on the golden background of the third was the green cross of Dorlyth mod Karis, hero of Westmouth.

Syth’s mouth gaped wide in shock. “Dorlyth? Here? How did he come to be here?”

“He’s an enemy, isn’t he?” Tuckad rasped, his face contorted with rage. “He’s got a shaper to protect him, doesn’t he?” The warrior glared at Syth; then his scream exploded and he gouged his mount’s flanks with his spurs. As his greatsword flashed into view, a hail of arrows began dropping from the rocks above. The army of the north surged forward to follow Tuckad.

As warriors poured around him Syth shook his head, stunned by what had happened. “Then Pelmen has penetrated my lady’s veil,” he gasped, the sound of his words disappearing in the swelling thunder of roared war cries. “But why against us? Why not against the dog! And this,” he added, pointing at the grisly object at his horse’s feet. “When did Dorlyth stoop to severing heads?”

For the first time today, Bainer wasn’t talking. He’d removed his right gauntlet and was meticulously untying the thong that bound his mace to his saddle horn.

The battle was going poorly, but it could not have gone otherwise. Their flanking scouts had been beheaded, so there was no horn of warning. Their magic cloak had been penetrated, and there was no shaper there to shield them. The enemy was above them, ahead of them, and behind them, and the river waited silently to their right, ready to swallow quietly any who fled its way. Tuckad had been right.

They’d been ambushed in the ravines. There was no hope.

Still, the army of the north fought valiantly. Syth and Bainer joined the fray together, hard on the heels of their maddened comrade. Tuckad was driving wildly for the standard-bearers and cut one down before the ambushers closed around him. He was shrieking, “Show me the pig!” over and over, and Syth broke off and sought to fight through the crowd to succor him.

Bainer stayed behind, wordlessly hammering helmets.

A swordstroke knocked the Lord of Drabeld from his mount just as Syth slashed down the last man between them. Syth engaged the attacker and beat him off, then wheeled his war horse and grabbed Tuckad’s forearm. “Come up!” he shouted. The wounded warrior clenched Syth’s wrist and swung up onto Syth’s charger. Syth had spotted a peasant’s hovel leaning, against the base of the cliff and now he rode for it, trying to hold Tuckad on behind him with one hand as he guidexMiis horse and parried swordstrokes with the other. At last they broke free of the melee and thundered toward the lean-to. Syth dropped from the saddle in time to catch his moaning friend as he fell and half-dragged, half-carried Tuckad into the dim interior. He noticed five pairs of eyes gazing at him from a comer of the room where the peasant and his family cowered in terror. He ignored them, ripping away Tuckad’s armor and trying to stanch the flow of blood with his hand. The only light was that from the small doorway. Suddenly the room was filled with shadow, and Syth glanced up to see who blocked the door. “I wanted to show him,” the figure grunted, jerking off his brightly painted cuirass. “I wear Belra’s armor by my king’s command, but tell that snivelling cur it was the roaring boar

who slew him!”

The bright sun behind Chanos’s head kept Syth from making out the man’s features, but Syth knew the voice well enough. He looked back at his dying friend, then sighed with grief. Tuckad was already dead.

“He was right,” Syth growled at the warrior who gloated over them. “You really are a screaming Pig”

“And a fool,” someone beyond the doorway snarled, and

Syth heard a thud. Chanos grunted, and his head snapped back into the light so that Syth could see his grimace. Then Chanos tumbled forward, falling across the body of his boyhood foe.

Syth craned his neck to see through the doorway and immediately wished he hadn’t. What he saw made him sick. The armor was Dorlyth’s but the face came straight from his night-mares. He’d never met the man, but he recognized him instantly—by reputation. “Admon Faye?”

The slaver nodded curtly. “And you’re Syth mod Syth-el, Lord of Seriliath.”

“Why do you wear Dorlyth’s armor?” Syth asked flatly. “Isn’t it obvious?” the hideous slaver replied.

Syth nodded solemnly. Then he glanced down at the dagger hilt protruding from the back of the slain Chanos. “I thought you were the king’s man. Wasn’t this pig the king’s, too?”

“I’m Flayh’s man, not Pahd’s. If you want the truth, I’m no man’s but my own. I just know how to cooperate. This fool apparently did not. I told him he must stifle his grudge and remain disguised for ihe sake of the grand design. He didn’t. Now he’s dead.”

“Did you really think you had tricked us?” Syth asked bitterly. “Dorlyth doesn’t sever heads! But that’s only one of the many acts you’re famous for!”

The slaver shrugged and smiled sarcastically. “Of course, we couldn’t hope to deceive such a clever man as yourself, mod Syth-el,” he goaded. “But then, you’ll not be able to reveal us. As for this dead fool, we’ll drag his body off and dump it in the river. Your hot-tempered lady will be left to figure it out by herself. I wonder, will she take the time to reason through the ruse?”

Syth watched Admon Faye’s eyes. “She might,” he said quietly, but Admon Faye knew he was lying and chuckled softly. Syth knew his woman well. Of course she would believe Pelmen and Dorlyth had done this. She wanted to believe such. He had to survive to get the truth back to Mar-Yilot! He was still on his knees and his sword was behind him, but it would be difficult for Admon Faye to get through that small door and to him before he could get the dagger, out of Chanos’s back. He waited for the slaver to charge.

Admon Faye chuckled again. “Planning your escape? Sorry, Syth. You must realize I can’t allow that.”

He pulled the shield off his shoulder and tossed it through the doorway. Syth dodged it, then looked back at the slaver in surprise. “Dorlyth’s, you know. We want to be sure your lady knows who’s responsible.

As for you, I didn’t come to kill you. Lord Flayh just wanted me to deliver this.” Admon Faye suddenly tossed the contents of a small bag into the hovel and wheeled outward to hide his eyes.

At the flash of green light, Syth screamed. Then he toppled onto his back, his body as rigid as that of a statue. His eyes,

wide and staring, no longer saw this world. He wasn’t dead,

but he beheld the sights of hell all the same.

The family of peasants, already terrified, found their terror multiplied a thousandfold. Witnesses, too, of the green flash, they visited hell beside him. This was a common tool of the magic wars, generally termed

“the dread.” As far as anyone knew, the spell was irrevocable.

Cold blue moonlight reflected off Syth’s armor as the column hurried northward through the night.

Bainer rode beside the wagon that bore Syth’s body, unaware that it bore another passenger as well; a butterfly rode astride the stricken man’s helmet. Mar-Yilot had joined the retreat.