Robert Hughes - The Power and the Prophet

Whenever he caught himself in this line of thought he had to laugh at his own foolishness. True, he was a jorl’s son, as well as a bear’s-bane and an acknowledged hero. But he was hardly kingly material.

Besides, there was still Flayh to contend with—and Pahd and Lord Janos, whose lands he would soon be entering. If he didn’t start concentrating on the present instead of plotting his triumphant rise to the throne, he might never live to see the following dawn!

The lands of Janos bordered the family estates of the Pahd mod Pahd-el. Together they ringed the southern rim of the High Plateau of Ngandib. They were divided by the river, which ran past the western edge of the plateau on its way northward to the coast. Most visitors northbound for the High City would take the road around to the eastern face of the plateau and up the Down Road which climbed the sheer cliffs there. Rosha intended to cross the river at the Carlog Bridge, but then to leave the road and follow the riverline northward to the plateau’s backside. He hoped his daring approach would serve him well.

Surely the absentee Jorl of the Nethermar would not expect a solitary enemy to come riding through his property.

Besides, it would be nightfall before Rosha reached the bridge. The darkness would cover him.

He reached the bridge a few minutes after dusk. There was no traffic, but he waited until the sun was wholly gone, just in case. Then he rode quickly across it. Without hesitation, he turned his horse off the road and started up the Riverline. No one stopped him. He saw no villages, nor even a single dwelling standing alone. By midnight, he’d reached his destination. There he dismounted and bade good night to his weary horse. He ate a good meal, then wrapped himself in a layer of furs and lay down. Despite the long day’s ride, it was difficult to sleep. Lying on his back, he gazed upward along the route he planned to take in the morning. Sleep took him at last, and he dreamed.

When he was seven, Rosha had been brought to a feast at what was now Janos Castle. The fortress backed up against the base of the High Plateau less than a mile from this spot. There was a vast green field before the castle’s gates, a lovely place for the children to romp and play. Rosha remembered throwing himself down its gentle slopes, laughing gleefully as he rolled. At the end of one of his rolls, as he’d giggled in the grass, waiting for the dizziness to pass, he’d suddenly spied a huge snake climbing up the cliff face toward the plateau. Startled, he’d raced to find Dorlyth and reported it. It took a moment for Dorlyth to identify the object his son described, but he did at last and he named it. Rosha remembered grimly how the other warriors at that rough oaken table had laughed at him. But Dorlyth hadn’t. Instead, he’d looked his young son in the eye and told him a tale of the ancients. Once, long before the huge reservoir was carved into the plateau above, the people living upon the high plain had been surrounded by enemies. They had at last run out of water—a desperate circumstance, and all the more frustrating because they could watch the mighty river flowing by the plateau’s western base on its way to the Nethermar and the North Coast. They would have surrendered then, but for the urging of a local powershaper, who had enlisted the aid of every potter in Ngandib.

Rosha could still recall his father’s words of long ago: “Together they made a tube of clay, full seven-hundred feet in length, and baked it in the burning summer sun. Then, by magic, that great pipe rose, then descended over the plateau’s western edge, down, down, until its bottom touched the river and went into it. Then, as you sometimes suck fruit punch through a piece of straw, the shaper sucked up the water until it flowed into buckets on the top of the cliff, and the land and people were saved! That great, baked-clay straw—that is what you see climbing the cliff face. Of course, a later shaper carved the reservoir, and the springtime rains have long since come and filled it up so it’s never wholly dry. Still, one can never tell, and so the clay pipe remains. When you’re a warrior, son, remember. To kill a man you cut the jugular—to kill a castle, cut its water.”

Rosha had left the table that day oblivious to the condescending smiles of the other adults and had returned to stand in the midst of the field. He no longer ran and rolled—instead he’d stood silently, regarding that distant pipeline with awe.

Morning came, and Rosha woke to survey the task before him. No direct sunlight reached this place, nor would any until the noontime sun peaked over the cliff high overhead. He was glad of that. By the time the sunlight bathed him, he hoped to be well on his way to his goal. It was a frosty morning, and the shadows made it colder. Nevertheless, he peeled off layers of clothing. His bare arms and shoulders quickly grew goose-flesh, and his teeth chattered together, but he ignored his discomfort. A hundred feet up, when he’d worked up a sweat, this chill would seem a pleasant memory.

He sorted out those things he needed to take from those he could leave behind. The necessities he settled upon were his great sword, tied into its scabbard and slung over his back, a flask of water, his lunch, a dagger, a few gold coins tied in a pouch and hung from his belt, his trousers, rolled and tied at the knee, and his mail shirt—a gift from his father when he’d first ridden off to war. The rest of his possessions he wrapped in a bundle and stuffed behind the bottommost joint of the pipe. He stripped his horse and set it free. There was good grazing round about and water nearby, so the beast would be cared for if he didn’t return. Indeed, Rosha did not expect to be returning—not this way, at least. He wondered, sighting up the tube, if he really could make it to the top. He doubted he could come back down. But then, how would he get down? He shoved the thought out of his mind. One step at a time! He consumed a quick but heavy breakfast, and turned to his task.

It was clear now that Dorlyth’s story had been embellished

by time. Rosha had been to the technologically advanced cities of Chaomonous and Lamath. He’d seen a pump before, though he really didn’t know how one worked. There had obviously been a pump here once, although it was gone now. Rosha was a bit disappointed. The sucking ability of the ancient powershaper had made a much more romantic story. He was also puzzled, and a little of his awe returned when he realized he’d never before heard of a pump that could raise water such an enormous height. But there was no more time for thinking. It was time to climb. The tube had been made of ceramic cylinders each two feet long, jointed with seals of baked clay. It looked as if it would be easy to climb the joints, and he wondered why no one had tried it before. He took a last glance around him, wrapped his arms around the pipe, and started shinnying up.

There was an island in the Border Straits that had long served as a haven for pirates. The pirates were gone now—perhaps because they’d followed the rest of the world’s brigands to join Admon Faye in the High Fortress. For whatever reason, the island and its primitive dwellings were abandoned—or had been, until Erri arrived.

There was much confusion the first few days, as Erri’s initiates struggled to accommodate themselves to their new environment. Few of those who’d followed him had ever developed survival skills. Fewer still knew anything about the sea. Yet events had cast them adrift upon an uncertain future, and they had to learn to fend for themselves. Many of them suffered severe depression. Just days before, they’d been the lords of Lamath. Some began to whisper that they wished they’d stayed behind. It was inevitable that the whisperings would turn into mutterings, then to open declarations of dissatisfaction. Those closest to Erri worried and wrung their hands. Yet the prophet himself didn’t seem disturbed at all, not did he voice any personal bitterness at his abrupt fall from power. In fact, he appeared to be smiling more than usual. It was hard to gauge his mood. He said little to anyone besides the Power.