Robert Hughes - The Power and the Prophet

“Tibb, varlet. And yours?” Tibb snarled.

“You call me varlet?”

“I do, indeed, and will again!”

“Perhaps you’d like to tumble off this cliff?” the cutthroat threatened.

“Perhaps you’d like your guts tickled by my blade?” Tibb spat back, his hand on the hilt of his battered sword.

This exchange of unpleasantries set the rest of the small cadre to cackling, and now one advised his belligerent friend, “Hold, Naph. I think he believes himself one of us!”

Naph sneered. “Is that true, squirrel?”

“It’s true enough,” Tibb acknowledged modestly.

“Then why don’t I know you?”

“I don’t know.” Tibb shrugged. “Because you’re as blind as a cavern slug?”

Someone caught Naph’s fist and shoved the angry man away while another outlaw squared around to face Tibb. “Here, then. If you be one of us, tell me where you’ve fought?”

Tibb’s eyes gleamed. Wickedness? Savagery? The other brigand couldn’t tell as Tibb grunted, “I wrestled in the darkness beneath the Imperial House.”

There were several grunts in response and a low whistle. “And escaped?” someone asked stupidly. “I’m here, aren’t I?”

Naph, cooler now, shook off the arm that held him and came back to stare at Tibb’s face. “Could be,”

he muttered. “One way to check,” somebody said. “Yes.” Naph nodded. “Let’s go talk to the chief.” So Tibb was escorted down the main street of Ngandib-Mar by a quartet of murderous blackguards. If he drew any pitying glances from the city’s cowed inhabitants, he didn’t notice. He strode along casually, at home with this roguish company. He felt no fear, nor any need for concern. He’d told no lie. He had fought in the treacherous battle beneath the royal castle of Chaomonous. And though he couldn’t be certain, he felt he knew who this chief scalawag would prove to be. He hoped he was right.

One could only enter the High Fortress from within. In the wall of rock a cavern had been cut, which served as the royal stables as well as the entryway into the castle. There was a wooden staircase that could be raised or lowered from the landing many feet above, but at the moment it was up. The only access was by way of a rope ladder, lowered through the gaping hole in the stable ceiling. Naph gestured roughly toward it, and Tibb quickly scaled it and climbed onto the landing.

He was greeted there by a stern-faced slaver he vaguely recognized. Naph and another joined Tibb and explained their business, and the slaver nodded curtly toward the top of another ladder some distance away. Then he went on about his work, making no secret of his belief that this was a waste of time and that Naph was a fool. Tibb strolled to the mouth of the new pit and started to descend.

He knew from the latrine stench that assaulted his nostrils that this was the dungeon. Then he heard a scream, the first of many he expected to hear today. It didn’t slow him. Tibb was at home with such. The place was dark as pitch. He knew he’d reached the floor when his foot slid in the slime. He backed away from the ladder quickly to avoid the downward plunge of Naph, who seemed disappointed he’d missed the chance to mash Tibb’s fingers. “This way,” Naph grunted, and they followed the sound of the shrieks.

They turned a corner. A candle burned in a small alcove

on the wall. Chained below it was the twisted figure of what had once been a man. Tibb saw only the back of the poor creature’s tormentor, but that was enough. Given his preference, he would rather not look the man in the face.

He had no choice. As Naph cleared his throat, Admon Faye turned to look at them. Even in the half-light, that horrid visage made Tibb’s stomach chum. Nevertheless, he forced himself to smile. Admon Faye smiled back, and the cruelty and cunning Tibb saw there caused him a new struggle with his intestines. Naph cleared his throat again. Obviously he had trouble facing the master himself.

“This—ah—fellow says you’ll know him,” Naph managed finally to mumble.

“I know you?” Admon Faye asked. His voice was open and friendly, as if they stood together in a sun-drenched city square instead of a fetid, black dungeon.

“I fought with you beneath the castle in Chaomonous,” Tibb said, struggling to keep every trace of bitterness out of the statement.

“Ah, yes.” Admon Faye nodded, looking down. “It went poorly for us, didn’t it?”

“Quite poorly.” Tibb still wasn’t sure he’d been remembered.

“Where’s your friend?” Now Tibb was sure. “Dead.”

“Ah,” Admon Faye said. “Pity.” He even made it sound as if he meant it. “So,” he went on brightly,

“you’ve come to join us!”

“Everyone else is here.”

“Seems that way, surely.” Admon Faye chuckled. “But there’s room for all. Our mysterious employer who lives upstairs has proved generous to us who’ve joined his service. I welcome you!” The hideous slaver grinned and offered Tibb the implement he’d been holding. Tibb saw now that it was a metal rod.

Its tip still glowed. “Go ahead.” Admon Faye nodded, gesturing to the gasping figure stretched upon the rock shelf.

Tibb realized that this was the real test. He passed it easily. The wizened body scarred with burns made no difference to him. His purpose had been to rejoin the band of Admon Faye and to take his revenge. If this was necessary, so be it. He plunged the hot poker down.

And the High Fortress of Ngandib, which was indeed both alive and malevolent, listened to the screams and cackled with sadistic glee.

The crisp wind cut through Dorlyth’s tunic, chilling his upper arms. It ruffled his wiry, golden gray hair.

He paid no heed to this breeze, nor to its promise of frost. He divided his attention between the small army that drilled in the glade below him and the blue of the Mari sky.

The glade of mod Carl was seventy miles west of Dorlyth’s castle, well within the westernmost spur of the Great South Fir. It was a convenient place of meeting, on the border between the Downlands and the Furrowmar, but easily accessible to the men of the Westmouth region as well. He’d used it as a staging ground before, during previous wars of confederation. It had served especially well this time, since Dorlyth’s major allies were from the furrows, Ngandib-Mar’s highland farms. He’d had no trouble assembling this force—they’d been called to arms in midsummer, after the rows had already been planted. But harvest time had come and he was starting to lose them. It wasn’t so much that they wished to be in the fields working— Mari men preferred fighting to fanning, and they knew their women could get in the crop as well as they could, if not better. The problem was that they’d been together almost two months and were yet to fight a battle.

“He’s not coming!” Belra spat, a phrase he’d repeated twenty times a day for the past two weeks. Belra sported a red handlebar mustache under his bulbous nose and had enormous green eyes that sparkled when he laughed and flashed when he grew angry. They were flashing now.

“He’ll come,” Dorlyth repeated absently, and Belra launched into yet another bad-tempered tirade.

Dorlyth didn’t bother to reply. He left that for his cousin.

“It’s hard on my warriors too, mod Belra,” Ferlyth said quietly. “A problem that worsens each day. But I’m with Dorlyth. I’ll not take us out unprotected.”

“But we don’t even know where he is!” Belra pleaded, waving his huge hands for emphasis.

Dorlyth shrugged. “I never know where he is, but he always comes when I need him. And we most definitely need Pelmen before we take the field in this war.”

“I’m not suggesting that we go into battle without some powershaper, but we all know that Joooms is available—”