Robert Hughes - The Power and the Prophet

But Mar-Yilot was already gone. And the flames kept advancing, raising the temperature on the ledge to an intolerable level. “Fly on,” Dorlyth urged. “Go now. Don’t fret about why. I’m sure you’ll unravel it eventually, and it’s meaningless to me anymore. Forget the coverage of the glade—it’s already broken, and that may be where she actually is at the moment.

Go find Rosha. Protect him, or help him, or whatever. Use your judgment. Don’t stay and watch me die.”

Pelmen fought to control both his rage at the woman and his terrible grief. “No!” he shouted. “I’m taking my altershape! Grab my legs!”

“A falcon can’t lift a man,” Dorlyth protested, but already the bird fluttered above him. He grabbed the yellow legs in resignation and waited as the falcon beat the air furiously. It was no good.

Pelmen stood beside him again, eyes wet. Dorlyth embraced him, pounded him on the back, and said,

“Thanks for all the joys, old friend!” Then he hugged Pelmen again, fiercely, and growled in his ear, “Care for my boy.” He released the wizard. “Now. Go on.”

Pelmen’s human eyes regarded Dorlyth quietly, still disbelieving that this could be happening, but forcing himself to face the truth of it. Then they were falcon eyes, wild and cold, and they were gone on a whisper of wind.

Dorlyth sighed and glanced around. He gazed challengingly at the advancing blaze, squared around to face it, and grasped his great sword firmly in both hands. “Come on then,” he whispered.

The fire advanced toward him, blistering his face. He held a hand out before him, guarding his eyes as he peered through the flames. The ground beyond them was black and smoking, but was already free of fire. If he could only get through this blazing wall—

But it was no use. To run through it was suicide—and a painful suicide at that. Better to go over the edge. Abruptly it occurred to him that there was a chance… He rushed to the edge and peered over it.

The face of the cliff was as sheer as glass—or so it appeared at first glance. But Dorlyth was desperate now. The fire was already roasting his back, and he reasoned that the slightest handhold was preferable to burning or falling. Three feet below the lip of the edge he spied a small crevice. Enough to wedge his dagger into? Once in, would it hold his weight? He spent little time analyzing. He dropped to his knees, fetched out his dagger, and lay along the edge, reaching as far down as he could in hopes of planting the knife point. He nearly fell in the process, but managed to wedge it in. Would it hold him?

He heard an equine scream behind him as his horse, on fire now, plunged wildly over the cliff. There was no more time. He clung to the hilt of his dagger with one hand and lowered himself over the ledge with the other. Then he released the edge completely and clung with both hands to his dagger, bracing his feet and knees against the cliff as best he could.

Fire swept the cliff above him. He closed his eyes against it and bowed his head. His knuckles were scorched. His muscles knotted. It took forever for the leaves along the cliff to burn.

But at last the crackling above him stopped. Dorlyth tilted his head back to scan the edge and saw blackened weeds and curling smoke above him. He knew the ground would still be so hot it would burn his hand, but he could endure no longer. With the last of his strength he hauled himself back up onto the cliff, and collapsed there, rolling onto his back. Heat rose through his tunic, and he thought that all his efforts had been wasted. He was still going to die. Then his mind became as black as the scorched earth that surrounded him.

By early afternoon Rosha had passed the last stand of bare, spindle-branched trees and was onto the plainlands of the Furrowmar. He had stopped looking over his shoulder, but his thoughts were still more behind him than before. The experience with the peasant woman plagued him. Why had he spoken so frankly to her? Why had he spoken at all? He never opened his thoughts to anyone! Even Bronwynn had to badger him for details about his feelings.

The certainty grew with every passing mile that magic had prompted that exchange, and the realization filled him with forboding. Of course, he was back in the Mar, and the woman could have been merely a local witcherwoman. But even that thought chilled him. If a miserable, hovel-dwelling herb gatherer could bend his will so effortlessly, what would he face within the fortress of the master shaper? “When you worry about the future,” he quoted Dorlyth to himself, “you’re prepared for neither it nor the present.” He willed his doubts from his mind and concentrated on choosing the best route across the plain.

He was crossing the edge of his cousin Ferlyth’s lands now, but would pass many miles east of his aristocratic relative’s grand castle. Ferlyth’s line of the family had been Jorls of the Furrowmar for centuries. As such, they owned vast holdings in this, the grain-growing heartland of the Mar. They had proved to be intelligent, benign rulers, and had built great loyalty among the peasants of the region. This had been a strong factor in keeping the jorldom in the family, for although the six jorldoms were theoretically hereditary, they were in fact subject largely to the results of war. In the aftermath of particularly bloody conflicts, vacant jorldoms had been distributed by the elected kings in the same capricious, politically motivated manner that the shurldoms were normally awarded. Dorlyth himself, for example, became Jorl of the Westmouth after his crucial victory over the invading Golden Throng. King Pahd had shown less wisdom in making his southern-dwelling cousin Janos the Jorl of the Nethermar region. The natural choice would have been the citylord of either of the two walled towns of the north.

His flagrant nepotism had united those cities against him, and was one cause of this current conflict.

Janos had not helped the situation. He was an arrogant, free-spending Furrowman, who disdained everything about the lowlanders of the north—everything, that is, save their great wealth. His agents made sure he got the jorl’s share out of every diamond mine in the region. Although he’d been only a lad when Janos was an aggressive teen, Rosha had known the Jorl of the Nethermar from childhood, and he’d learned early that Janos could not be trusted. The present king was older than his cousin, but even so, he’d allowed Janos to manipulate him. Rosha reflected that that wasn’t a great surprise. Pahd had made a career of being manipulated by others.

“But by no one so much as by Flayh,” Rosha muttered to himself, riding down a furrow between lines of dead stalks.

The corn had already been harvested. The brittle, yellow stalks leaned away from the westerly winds, waiting for either the sickle or the first snow to put them out of their misery. The chill in the air suggested it would probably be the snow.

Rosha felt no ill-will toward Pahd himself. In fact he rather liked the lazy, laughing king. But it was Pahd’s laziness that had permitted Flayh to absorb so much political power. That, combined with Flayh’s vile ambition and magical ability, made the powershaping merchant an awesome antagonist. Pahd had clearly failed his subjects. “Once Flayh has been defeated,” Rosha muttered, “Pahd must be replaced.”

But by whom? That was a matter Rosha had often considered. He would have scoffed at the suggestion if made by another, but in his secret fantasies it ever seemed the crown came finally to his own head. Were Rosha to be honest with himself, this whole adventure had been bom out of those fond fantasies. They had begun to gnaw upon his mind as he sat in bored silence through interminable sessions in his wife’s court. If he were but king of the Mar! There would be a match for his lovely little queen!