Robert Hughes - The Power and the Prophet

Wrapping himself in rare bear furs and donning a cap of the same precious pelt, Rosha started out after the lord of the island. The snow crunched under his boots and the hairs in his nostrils froze, but he kept up his quick pace and soon topped the hill. He saw Syth then, standing stiffly with his back to the wind, looking toward the gray skies of the north. The man must have heard him, but didn’t turn around. “Syth?”

Rosha called softly. In that still place his words seemed like a shout.

Syth didn’t appear to be startled. He slowly turned to Rosha,

TO LORD SERILIATH AND THE FELL LADY OF FALL-GREETINGS AND ADIEU. THE DOG UPON THE MOUNTAIN HAS SENT HIS BEASTS TO EAT ME—AND THEY WILL.

MOMENTS AGO I WATCHED A HERD OF ENORMOUS HORNED MONSTERS UTTERLY DESTROY THE HOST OF BELRA. LORD GARNABEL, UPON THE PLAIN TO THE SOUTH.

NOT ONE WARRIOR WHO STOOD TO FIGHT SURVIVED THESE BEASTS CONSUMED THE CORPSES. THEY ARE GUIDED BY ADMON RAYE. AND THEY NOW SURROUND MY KEEP MY WALLS ARE BREACHED I GO TO DEFEND MY CHILDREN—AND TO FAIL SO PASSES THE HOUSE OF KAM

Rosha’s eyes misted over as he read the last lines. He turned his angry, puzzled gaze up to Syth, whose face was hard. “I… I don’t…”

“Magic beasts, do you think?” Syth asked sharply, though with no expectation that Rosha might know.

“Mar-Yilot has been in her tower all morning—or rather her body has. She’s abroad, seeking the answer to that question and the counterspell to these monsters. If such exists,” Syth finished bitterly.

Rosha reread the message, still in shock from the incomprehensible savagery it described. “I… there were some huge horned beasts in Lamath, but—”

“What? Where?” Syth demanded.

“In Lamath. But I’d understood they were normally docile—”

“The dog rules Lamath now,” Syth spat. “Any beast with half a brain can be pushed to hostility if the force applied is wicked enough. And Flayh is certainly that. Come on!” he barked, and he started for the palace.

“Where are we going?” Rosha shouted.

Syth wheeled swiftly to face him. “To war, lad. To war!”

The Lord of Seriliath spent the remainder of the morning sending messages to those few barons still living who stood with him. They were to rally to his side at dead Tuckad’s keep—he would lead them to battle from there. He wrote swiftly, but took care to include every detail of his own recent experience and of Kam’s end. The grim news would circulate quickly enough. It was best that his people hear it from him.

Like ripples rolling outward from the palace, the news spread to other parts of the island. Business on Sythia came to a halt. Cobblers, farmers, blacksmiths, and jewelers laid down the tools of their trades and took up those more ancient tools of combat. This was no longer a war for professionals. The life of their island had been threatened. They would march even against monsters to defend it.

Rosha sat in his apartment, struggling to control his thoughts. He was not afraid of his own death, and he’d caused the deaths of too many others to shrink from the coming battle. Two things, however, plagued his thoughts. The first was that he wished things were resolved between himself and Bronwynn.

The second was that he didn’t want to die wastefully. He heard the clamor all around him—men preparing to go to war out of loyalty to their lord. He liked Syth. He honored and respected Syth. But his loyalties were to others. Could this be his last summons to arms? To ride to a fruitless demise in the company of strangers, at the side of one of his father’s old rivals?

There was a knock on his door. “Come in.” It clacked open. He was surprised to see Syth himself step into the room. “You? My Lord, you have much to prepare—”

“And this is a part of those preparations,” Syth answered quietly. He bore a shield and sword. The shield was angled away so that Rosha couldn’t see the device on its face. The sword Syth laid upon Rosha’s bed. “I understand your blade was ‘borrowed’ from a slaver. I can’t judge its quality, but I can vouch for the temper of this weapon. It was forged for me—one of a pair. I can only carry one greatsword at a time. Will you bear its twin?”

Rosha grasped the sword and tested its balance. It was

beautifully made. Its blade gleamed, smiling with a bright ferocity. Its hilt was a work of art. Threads of gold, silver, and scarlet intertwined to form its grip, and its pommel was a brilliant diamond the size of a goose egg. Rosha gazed at it in wonder.

“A bit ostentatious, I realize.” Syth smiled apologetically. “But I can assure you all that finery won’t interfere with its effectiveness.”

“It’s beautiful,” Rosha whispered, and Syth nodded in mute agreement. “What do these say?” the young warrior asked, running his fingers across a series of runes engraved on the blade and inlaid with gold.

“You’ll have to ask the woman who gave them to me,” Syth said; as Rosha met his gaze, he went on meaningfully, “They were a present from my wife.”

“Powers?” Rosha asked soberly.

Syth shook his head. “I’ve never wanted to know.” Then he looked down at the shield he still held. “My friend, you owe me nothing. While I have arms I’d be honored for you to wear, I see you as an ally, not a vassal. It would be inappropriate for you to wear my livery into the coming battle—if indeed that’s where you choose to go. This shield… is false. It was carried by the ugliest man in the three lands as he impersonated one of the finest. It was taken from the hut where he discarded it—where my spellbound body lay in dread. False as it is, however, its colors are true. They’re your father’s, Rosha. Yours, now.”

Syth turned the shield around.

It was larger than his father’s own battle shield, and much finer looking. The paint was new. Dorlyth had never worried much about that. But the colors were right—a field of tan, or “wheat-colored,” as his father had always said, crossed by a single bar of forest green. Not flashy, but simple, and it was striking enough to be quickly recognizable on a battlefield, which was its primary purpose. Rosha took the shield proudly, and gazed down at it.

Syth paced the room and spoke. “We were warriors, your father and I. Ranged across the field or around the banquet table, we understood one another. You’re just like me, so you’ll understand, too.

Ours are not the concerns of the shapers. They’ll mold the events we’ll only play a part in. They’ll shape history, and thereby become legends. But those are things they’ll do in solitary places. They’ll do them to men, or for men, but they’ll do them alone. Weak as we are, powerless as we are, it is our lot to lead the men they struggle in solitude to damn or to save. I find romance no longer in this task of war. What I once thought glorious I now find was only grim. But we do what we do because our puny weight might somehow tip the scales and because the people we lead must be involved, somehow, in their own redemption if it’s to mean anything to them. I don’t say war is the best way of involving them. I do say it’s all I know. And now—today—it’s necessary.” Syth stopped walking and looked at his young guest. “Will you ride with me to Tuckad Castle?”

Rosha thought seriously before answering. He nodded finally. “To Tuckad Castle, yes. Beyond that, I don’t know. You may have judged me wrongly, Syth. It’s my wife who leads men, not I. As for my father—he was a leader, yes. But first he was a hero. He used to say that was a disease and that he feared I’d caught it from him. I did catch it. I believe, somehow, that a single individual can make a difference, and I want to be where I must be to make a difference in this conflict. Where that is, I don’t know. Yes, I’ll carry the twin of your sword, and I hope to do honor to it. And I thank you for this shield.