Robert Hughes - The Power and the Prophet

Mar-Yilot caught his eye. He saw a fierce rage etched in her face too, but she only mouthed, “Later,” and nodded forward. They left the noise behind them as they turned another corner.

In minutes they’d reached the main thoroughfare of the city, the wide boulevard that ran from the top of the Down Road to the entrance of the High Fortress. Bonfires lighted up the night at every major intersection along it, and slavers were in evidence everywhere. The trio kept well to one side, hugging the shop fronts, warily watching the vigilant guards and paying particular attention to the closest alleyways, in case they needed to flee quickly. No one stopped them. No one seemed to notice them.

But when at last they could make out the entry point onto the Down Road, they all slowed to a halt and looked at one another in frustration. Twelve slavers stood abreast of the road, shoulder to shoulder, facing back toward the city, their weapons drawn and gleaming in the torchlight. They all looked extremely edgy. Mar-Yilot jerked her head toward an alley, and the three ducked into it.

Pelmen leaned back against a wall and closed his eyes. The walk had drained him. Rosha searched Mar-Yilot’s face for some suggestion. He waited for her to speak.

“Obviously, we can’t get past them,” she whispered fiercely. “They may not be able to see us but they can feel us. Flayh’s positioned them as he has for just that purpose—to feel us if we try to slide past.” She fumed for a few moments in silence. Pelmen had let the light fade away, so Rosha could no longer see her. He could hear her anger, though, in the way she breathed. He waited.

“It could work in our favor,” she whispered after a moment. “Rosha, you have your sword?”

Rosha winced. “I lost it. In Flayh’s tower.”

Mar-Yilot grunted. “You need a sword. Wait here while I borrow one.” She started to leave, then stepped back to whisper, “Stay in the shadows! While I’m gone you’re not being concealed!” Then she walked quietly away.

Rosha leaned back beside Pelmen and listened to the pounding of his own heart. Rarely had he ever felt so helpless. No longer did he feel the cocky confidence of a young warrior. He felt himself the plaything of wizards, an errand boy for the truly powerful. He fought to relax, earnestly hoping that no slaver would choose to wander down this alley.

Something touched his hand and he jerked in shock. For the second time tonight the sorceress apologized for startling him. Then she shoved a sword hilt into his hand, and his fingers closed on it gratefully. “Where’d you get it?” he whispered as his other hand felt for the blade.

“From a slaver who doesn’t need it any longer,” she answered. Rosha now felt the slick coating of wetness on the metal and understood. “Pelmen,” Mar-Yilot whispered, “can you go on?”

“Yes,” Pelmen muttered, but his voice was heavy with exhaustion. Rosha waited on Mar-Yilot’s decision.

“We can’t turn back now. I didn’t hide that slaver’s body, and they’ll find it soon enough. We go on. The two of you wait here, ready to move quickly. I’m going to go up the street and cause a distraction.

Maybe we can pull a few of those slavers out of line, but that doesn’t matter much, if we can get the rest of their friends looking in the other direction. When I’ve drawn a crowd I’ll quickly join you here, and cover us as we dash for that line of slavers. I’ll help Pelmen, Rosha. You concentrate on cutting down those twelve men. They’ll not see us coming, and they’ll never know what killed them. And Rosha,” she added cannily, “if it somehow doesn’t seem sporting—remember that group of bullies around the two girls.”

Rosha didn’t answer. He clenched his jaw and gripped the haft of the great sword with both hands.

“One other thing, Rosha. Make sure you get them all.”

He didn’t hear her go, so Rosha knew she’d left them in her altershape. At the moment, they were uncovered again, but he felt much better this time. A weapon made the difference. “Are you sure you can make it?” he whispered to Pelmen.

“Not sure I can make it, no,” Pelmen responded quietly, “but sure that I want to try.”

Rosha nodded and took a deep breath. Then they waited. A few moments later they heard a commotion in the street. They Heard laughter coming from some distance away, then running. Soon the slavers nearest them became interested, and several abandoned the warmth of their bonfire to run toward the site of the disturbance. Rosha chanced a peek around the corner. The human barrier still blocked their escape, but the slavers who had been keeping the line of men company had all disappeared toward the center of town. “Get ready,” Rosha murmured, and Pelmen straightened up and took a deep breath.

Two feet suddenly hit the pavement beside Rosha. “Let’s go,” Mar-Yilot muttered.

“What did you do down there?”

The woman glared at him. “I stripped,” she snapped. “Now move!”

The trio dashed out of the alleyway, all crouching in subconscious self-preservation. It was unnecessary. The slavers who blocked them never looked in their direction, so intently were they peering up the street. As he approached them, running lightly on his toes, Rosha lifted the sword above his head.

Then he was upon them, like a vengeful, invisible demon. He started at one end of the line and hacked down two before the others realized they were under attack. He pierced a third through the heart and wounded a fourth, and by that time there was enough room for Mar-Yilot and Pelmen to hurry past. The other slavers were shouting in panic, aware that something terrible was taking place but not knowing how to prevent it. Their swords were out and they were slashing wildly at the air. In the confusion, two more slavers were killed by their own men. Rosha had circled behind now, and skewered three more slavers from that direction. Then he stepped back to catch his breath and decide how best to dispatch the last three. They were cursing one another and the darkness and flailing their swords before them, but they’d had the good sense to put their backs together.

“Come on!” Mar-Yilot called urgently, and Rosha nodded. Then he noticed that the three of them were standing very near the precipice. He sheathed his bloody greatsword, ducked under a swiping blade, and shoved the closest slaver backward. He threw his arms wide, carrying the other two backward with him.

When Rosha stepped forward and shoved again, all three went over the cliff. Their screams faded away as Rosha raced down to join his friends, and the trio of the warrior, the witch, and the wounded disappeared down the road into the night.

A chill breeze swirled around the battlements of the Imperial House of Chaomonous, tousling Bronwynn’s curls. The young woman shoved her hair back out of her face, adding to its unkempt appearance. It didn’t matter how she looked. She was a queen. She didn’t have to impress anyone, and the only one she wanted to impress apparently didn’t care. Bronwynn scowled northward. Her thoughts vacillated between fantasies of tenderly embracing Rosha and of roasting him over a fire.

Try as she might she’d been unable to repeat the experience of dream-search. Had it really even happened that once? She couldn’t prove it had, certainly. Nevertheless, in all her life she’d had no dream so conscious or so real. She was convinced she had actually talked with Pelmen atop the Rock of Tombs.

If only her fool Prime Minister had let her sleep! Just as she’d been about to ask Pelmen for the key to repeating the spell, Kherda had wakened her! She’d railed at the man for hours after that. Indeed, she still hadn’t forgiven him, although she knew she should. He’d only been alerting her to a growing national crisis, related to the activities of sugar-clawsps, of all things. Bronwynn frowned to herself and scratched her head. “Sometimes this queen business is nothing but a bother,” she grumbled aloud.