Robert Hughes - The Power and the Prophet

“Why?” the queen asked.

“Oh. Just hoping.”

“Riders!” someone in the ranks shouted, and a trumpet sounded the alarm again, this time in earnest. The two leaders whirled toward the south.

Bronwynn glanced at Syth’s face and saw his disbelieving frown. She whipped out her sword and demanded, “Enemies?”

“I don’t know!” Syth shouted in honest dismay. “It’s either your husband returning far too soon or Admon Faye! Wait!” he called to his archers, who were nocking their arrows. “Wait until we know for certain who it is!”

The lead rider wore the colors of Dorlyth mod Karis. The rest were arrayed as freed men, in colors of their own choosing. They drew up some thirty yards distant, and the lead rider tore off his helmet and scowled at them. “What’s the matter with you, Syth? Haven’t we fought against one another enough for you to recognize me?”

Syth looked at Bronwynn in joyful surprise, but she was no longer beside him. She’d thrown her sword aside and was racing to greet her father-in-law with open arms. Dorlyth climbed painfully from his saddle, but he was still strong enough to grab her off her feet and swing her around like a child. The Golden Throng was perplexed beyond measure, but the army of the north greeted this sight with a loud huzzah.

As Bronwynn and Dorlyth strolled arm-in-arm back to the beaming Syth, the Throng, too, began cheering enthusiastically. They didn’t know what, but evidently something wonderful had happened.

“Dorlyth!” Syth shouted above the din. “I thought you were dead!”

“So did your wife, apparently,” Dorlyth said with a slight smile, and Syth covered his eyes in symbolic embarrassment.

“She was fooled,” he offered apologetically as he pulled his hand away. “She thought Pelmen had put a spell on me.”

“So she told us.” Dorlyth nodded. “But here you are, so I judge she learned of her error, and here am I, so it wasn’t quite as costly as you may have thought. And here you are as well!” Dorlyth grinned, hugging his daughter-in-law close.

Bronwynn smiled shyly, but didn’t pull away. She felt none of that need to establish independence that had marred her last meeting with Pelmen, nor did she project any of her current ill-will toward her husband on Rosha’s father. She’d not seen Dorlyth for years, but she’d loved him from a distance as a model of what her Rosha hoped to become, and as family. “Does Rosha know you’re here?”

Dorlyth frowned. “I don’t know the first thing about Rosha. Nor, for that matter, about you, or this army, or Syth, or what’s been happening. I’ve been back at my castle trying to recover from a fire ring and I’m still not able to get around as well as I’d like.”

“But how are you here at all?” Syth begged.

Dorlyth turned and pointed at his mount. “You see that horse? It used to be Pelmen’s, and—”

“Minaliss?” Bronwynn asked, twirling out of Dorlyth’s embrace and staring back at the horse. “It is!”

“Smart animal,” Dorlyth said. “Came around through the fire, somehow, and found me. I managed to get up across his back and he carried me to my castle. I’ve been recuperating ever since then, but I got word from one of my people that an army was coming through Dragonsgate.” Dorlyth propped his fists on his hips. “I am the Jorl of the Westmouth, you realize, sworn to defend the realm against intruders.” He looked at Bronwynn.

She met his eyes evenly. “Am I an intruder?” she asked frankly.

“My Lady,” Dorlyth said, “at this point I’m just glad there’s someone around who’s willing to come help us with this quarrel.” He looked at Syth. “The Mar’s been mustered on top of the High Plateau. Belra’s been destroyed. I hear rumors that I can’t make any sense of at all. I’m here to join you, although I can’t offer much.”

“You bring us a great deal, just by offering your presence,” Syth responded warmly. “As to whether it will be enough—shall we all go and find out?”

Minutes later the allied armies were marching together toward the High Fortress. They hadn’t a hope of conquering it—all of them knew that well. But if they didn’t make the effort, there would be nothing left worth hoping for. At least, in this, they found purpose, and when hope was gone, purpose was a worthwhile substitute.

With the fanatical courage that was sometimes born of terror, Terril drove his tiny body up the sheer face of the cliff. He had ridden the cold winter air currents all the way from Sythia and emotionally he was frozen. Suddenly he saw a window in the High Fortress looming up before him, and he shot through it with a triumphant buzz. His feet, human again at last, hit the floor.

Naturally, Flayh knew the moment Terril arrived. As the shivering wizard sat by a fire slurping soup straight from the bowl, a squat brigand tapped Terril on the shoulder. “The Lord Flayh wants to see you,”

he mumbled. “Follow me.”

Terril didn’t argue. He refilled his bowl from a steaming pot and followed the slaver down the hallway.

The man ushered him into a room, then left. Terril took another draught of his soup before looking around. He suddenly noticed he wasn’t alone. “Joooms?” he said, eyeing the hook-nosed man seated by the wall.

“Hello, Twin-killer,” Joooms responded.

The lizard’s superior tone of voice made Terril bristle. “What arc you doing here?” he snapped angrily, annoyed at how swiftly Joooms could make him feel incompetent.

Jooom shrugged. “The same thing you are, I assume.”

“Enlarging your treasury?” Terril sneered. Joooms’s greediness was legendary.

“A little.” The dark shaper nodded. “Though I’m more concerned with preserving the lives of my family. But of course, family ties don’t matter much to you, do they. Twin-killer?”

Weary or not, an affront was an affront and not to be tolerated. Terril hurled a ball of flame at Joooms’s head, only to have it bounce harmlessly away at a wave of the lizard’s hand. “Come, Terril. Can’t you be a little more creative?” Joooms stood and swivelled around to face his attacker. The two shapers would have begun then in earnest, had Flayh not appeared suddenly between them. They both leaped backward in shock. This was not an image, a projection thrown down by a shaper still above. This was the small sorcerer himself.

Flayh smiled gloatingly, and looked from one astonished wizard to the other. Then he shrugged, as if this feat were nothing. In fact, it was incredible.

“My Lord Flayh,” Joooms said, bowing graciously with one knee to the floor. “You’ve taken us completely by surprise.”

“Welcome, Lord Flayh,” Terril muttered, imitating Jooom’s polished charm.

“Hello, Terril. Welcome back. I hope you’ve brought me some usable information. I thought I’d pop down and hear it before you two kill each other.”

“A minor misunderstanding,” Joooms said smoothly, and Terril nodded vigorous agreement.

“I hope so. It matters little to me what you do to one another after the war is won; but until that time, try to stay out of each other’s way. Otherwise, one of you will doubtless destroy the other, and I’d be forced to kill the survivor. That would all be a terrible waste.”

“Surely you don’t actually need us,” Joooms suggested with a quiet smile. “With tugoliths to trample on the armies that

attack you, and your own remarkable powers to counter shaper assaults, what good can we do you?”

“You think my powers formidable?” Flayh asked. He appeared genuinely pleased.

“Of course,” Joooms answered, his dark eyes fixed unflinchingly on Flayh’s disfigured countenance, his voice oily with charm. “Never have I beheld such a feat as I’ve just witnessed. Have you, Twin-killer?”