Robert Hughes - The Power and the Prophet

As he slipped into an empty corridor, he was jabbed again by a splinter of doubt. Was he forgetting something important? As he’d done several times in the past two days, he performed a mental exercise that alleviated his stress; he referred the question to the Power and forgot about it. He knew there was something false in this. After all, he wasn’t even sure he believed in the Power. Certainly his father didn’t, and Dorlyth was his model. Nevertheless, he’d heard Pelmen talk of faith and of yielding up one’s failings.

Rosha had come to view this Power as a safety net—there to catch you if you fell, but otherwise not worth worrying about. Religion was the concern of prophets and missionaries. Heroes had to concentrate on victory. Therefore he would devote his attention to disposing of this substandard power shaper. If he got into trouble somehow, it was the Power’s responsibility to get him out of it.

As he passed near the barracks, he overheard loud, boisterous laughter. Slavers! Where were the proud, principled warriors who had once guarded this ancient keep? Gone, Rosha thought, abandoning the sloth king to join the armies that would overthrow him. Were these belligerent cutthroats the best Flayh could do for replacements? The man sank even lower in Rosha’s estimation.

They weren’t even guarding Flayh’s own tower! The spiral staircase was open to him! Rosha danced upward, unseen, unheard, unchallenged. His sword was out, and he was ready. Here was Flayh’s door.

He crouched and listened at the keyhole. He heard shuffling footsteps and indistinct mutterings,’ and Rosha’s lips curled in a disdainful smile. This was the new terror that had been loosed upon the land? This mumbling merchant hiding away in a tower like a royal madman? Some powershaper! Rosha thought. He threw his body toward the door and let out a piercing battle scream.

His shoulder never touched the wood. The door flew open before him, and he landed on the floor with a clatter. He bounded to his knees and looked up; his stomach plummeted as he suddenly recognized his own stupidity. Flayh sat quietly facing the door in an ornately carved chair. He was cackling with satisfaction.

After several tension-packed hours of listening, Pelmen clearly heard the High Fortress speak:

—The intruder you permitted to penetrate these walls is now among the towers. He had been waiting for just such a word. All the same, it came as a shock, and he reeled back against a door jamb. He’d been discovered! The castle was Finally revealing his presence!

—No, the High Fortress went on, obviously answering a question.

Flayh’s question, no doubt. Pelmen wished he could hear the powershaper’s end of the conversation.

—Evidently he still believes his success is due to his own stealth, the High Fortress snorted derisively.

Pelmen huddled against the door, certain that in the next moment either a squad of slavers would burst down the hallway to arrest him or a stone in the ceiling directly above him would dislodge and drop to crush him. He prepared to respond—but neither happened. Instead, the castle spoke once more.

—He’s at the top of your stairs. Now he’s at your door. He’s drawn his great sword. Why did you not allow this fortress to dispose of the vermin while he climbed the outer wall?

Before the pops and breezes that formed these phrases faded away, Pelmen was pounding down the steps of the royal tower en route to the tower of Flayh. The castle hadn’t noticed him at all, and the reason was now apparent. It had been busy tracking Rosha.

—Very well, master. Deal with the fool as you choose. He is, after all, your plaything.

Somewhere between the bottom step of the royal staircase and the corridor floor, Pelmen turned into a bird. He didn’t realize he’d changed until he heard the fortress scream.

—There’s a shaper! Another shaper is within this house! That was all it managed to explain before breaking off into an agonized grumbling of foundation stones.

Pelmen darted down a hallway and swooped around a corner. He suddenly found himself in a thicket of pike staves and greatswords. Slavers clogged the corridor, all facing toward Flayh’s tower entrance.

He flashed over them. “A falcon!” one of the slavers shouted.

Another voice grunted, “What? Where!”

Pelmen knew the voice well and had long loathed it. He and Admon Faye were lifelong enemies.

“That’s no falcon, it’s a powershaper! Strike it down!”

Pikes and swords chopped the air, and Pelmen lost a feather or two as he dodged and glided through this moving thicket of steel. Admon Faye himself stood on the first stair, fanning the air above him with his blade and shouting curses at his men. Pelmen ducked past the flashing sword, dipping his talons intothe flesh of the slaver’s face in passing. Then he was wheeling up the stairwell toward Flayh’s door with powerful strokes of his wings. He was aware of Admon Faye’s scream of pain as well as the sobs of the castle, but he was intent solely on getting through the door above him before it slammed shut.

“Close that door!” Flayh was shouting at the castle, but so great was its agony that it was a fraction late in complying. Pelmen shot through it and swooped toward Flayh’s face. He threw his talons out before him and screamed, and Flayh was forced to take his dog-shape in self-defense. Pelmen hit the floor beside Rosha as a man once again and jerked the bewildered youth to his feet. He stabbed his finger toward a heavily curtained window and commanded, “Jump through that!” Then he whirled to face Flayh, his arms up in the stance of a shaper ready for war. The dog metamorphized back into human form and took the same position.

They had battled each other through,the pyramids, but this was the first time they had met face to face.

Pelmen recoiled from the grotesque sight. Flayh’s face had been tattooed a pale powder blue, the same shade as Tahli-Damen’s eyes. In this darkened room that blue tint was more noticeable; like the pyramids themselves, Flayh’s face glowed. His eyes had been protected from the magical blast by the quick reflexes of his hands, but the marks they had left behind added to the bizarre picture. It was as if two white starfish clung to Flayh’s face, each outlining a beady, red-rimmed eye. Now Pelmen gazed into those eyes, and what he saw there chilled him further. Flayh looked like a cornered rat, frightened, insecure, savage. There was none of the quiet confidence and almost sporting rivalry he’d grown accustomed to seeing in the faces of the Man shapers he had battled. But then, Flayh was not a Mari magician, bred to enjoy fighting for fighting’s sake. He knew none of the unwritten rules of the game. His eyes tipped his hand; Pelmen knew what spell to expect and anticipated it. “Don’t watch!” he shouted at Rosha. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the young swordsman bury his head in his hands. As Flayh threw his spell of dread, Pelmen fashioned a kind of magical mirror to reflect Flayh’s terror back. The spells neutralized one another. The only effect of this enormous outpouring of shaper power was a heightened urgency in the castle’s shrieks.

For Pelmen, however, this was a shocking setback. He’d outguessed his opponent! By all rights Flayh should now be helpless, suffering self-inflicted dread! This was yet another testimony to Flayh’s enormous resources. It was as if the hosts of the powers had rallied to Flayh’s standard. Pelmen was momentarily stunned. Fortunately Flayh was too. The thunder of iron-shod feet on the stairway and a heavy pounding on the door jolted them both back to action.

“The door!” Flayh shouted at the High Fortress. “Open the door!”

Despite its pain, the castle tried to do so.

Rosha came out of hiding and raced over to slam the bolt back in place. Pelmen saw him go and shouted, “Rosha! Get out!” Then he tossed a fireball at Flayh’s head.