Robert Hughes - The Power and the Prophet

Pelmen sighed, turning the crystal before his eyes. “Somebody must. The point of this thing must be plunged into my—”

“I said I can’t!” Serphimera flared, and a mournful howl arose from the distant dogs. She ignored them.

“I love you, Pelmen Dragonsbane! I’ll not be the one to take your life!”

Pelmen glanced up at her hopefully. “You know this?” he asked.

It took her a moment to understand what he was asking. When she did, she slumped against the cave wall. “Not by vision, no. I’ve seen nothing but our coming up here.”

“Then it still could be,” Pelmen said dreamily. “Must be.”

“No!”

“There’s no other way, Serphimera,” he began, but she had slumped down into the dirt and turned her face to the rock wall. “Serphimera,” he called, but she wouldn’t speak. Pelmen went to crouch beside her and slipped his hands around her waist. “Later,” he whispered. “We’ll do it later.”

She turned her tear-streaked face back to look at him and nodded. “Maybe, then—I’ll be able. But there’s time, still. There’s still some time…”

The dogs, Flayh thought to himself. Those hellish dogs had been his undoing. They’d betrayed him!

They’d used him to achieve fleshly form, all the while making him believe he was using them! But now they’d betrayed their own cause. Who could mistake that infernal racket!

Somehow, they’d managed to get the six pieces of the ancient weapons of Sheth reassembled. How?

Flayh raged. Half of those pieces had been lost for a millennium! The thought of their reconstruction made him shiver. All powers fled! Flayh snarled a curse.

“Now they’ve actually found a shaper fool enough to reassemble it for them,” he muttered. “Fool! What senseless dolt would not only sacrifice all his personal power, but his very life as well?” Of course, he knew the answer. Among the active shapers, only Pelmen had the peculiar turn of mind that would render martyrdom attractive. “Too long with those Lamathian dragon lovers. But where is he now?” Flayh demanded, pacing his tower cell. “If only these cursed hounds would quit their all-pervasive howling, perhaps I could—”

“In faith I plead that six be one, if so be the will of the Power.”

The words stunned Flayh, setting him reeling. They were only a distant whisper, yet they echoed through his apartment. “Close!” he cried. “This Pelmen has to be nearby! Walls, did you hear?”

—of course! the High Fortress moaned. Humans may cover their ears, but this fortress has none! It must hear everything! “Where does the sound come from?” Flayh demanded.

—Everywhere! the High Fortress wailed. Flayh cursed the castle savagely and fetched out his atlas. While he hadn’t traveled widely beyond the secured roads of the three lands, he was familiar with every feature of their topography. Like all merchants, he had excellent maps, and now he thumbed through the multicolored pages, studying the details of the Mar’s physical features. No clues came from his search, however, and he slammed the book shut.

“Dogs, dogs,” he muttered, walking toward a window. He flung aside a drape and stepped out onto a balcony, discovering with surprise that it was night. The sky above him was pitch black, overcast by clouds pregnant with snow, but the city below was alight with bonfires. The warriors of the Mar had congregated in its streets and were celebrating tomorrow’s victory in advance.

“Meaningless,” Flayh muttered to himself. That certain victory would be fruitless unless he could—

He heard something, something besides the agony of a castle or the moaning of excited dogs. Snatches of some private conversation echoed through his mind. Annoyed by the distracting laughter of the celebrants below, Flayh shouted, “Silence!” Then he ducked back into his castle.

He closed out the city sounds and bent his attention to listening. After a moment, he smiled quietly at the darkness. He could hear it clearly. He recognized one voice as that of Pelmen, and judged the other to be that of the shaper’s woman by the nature of the intimate words they exchanged. They had remade the weapon, obviously, but had not yet put it to use. Flayh sat cross-legged upon his floor and propped his head in his hands. He would listen. Something they would say would give him the key to their whereabouts. Once given, he would be there, and they would experience a most unpleasant interruption of their intimacy!

If, that is, Flayh could hear them over that incessent baying! “Silence!” he shouted again, this time to the host of howling dogs. They were unlikely, however, to listen. Their baying was every bit as impatient as Flayh’s—and every bit as ineffective.

Rosha shivered by an open window. The night was nearly gone, yet the Autumn Lady had still not made their appointed rendezvous. He glanced across the room to where the poor couple who owned this house huddled together under a quilt. Mar-Yilot had hidden Pelmen and himself in this same dwelling the night of their escape off of the High Plateau, and Rosha felt sure the couple had not been pleased to see him again. This, however, was where Mar-Yilot had sent him, and here he would remain until she came.

“Shut that thing,” Mar-Yilot snapped, and Rosha grunted with shock and whirled around to face her. Once he controlled the pounding of his heart, he reached up and closed the window. “I didn’t see you fly in,” he whispered. “Let’s hope Flayh didn’t, either,” the shaper murmured. “Thank you, friends,” she said to the city dwellers who peered up at her from under their blanket. “You’ll be well rewarded. Come on!” she barked to Rosha as she unbolted the door.

Mar-Yilot had kept Rosha cloaked until he got into Ngandib, even as she’d ridden toward the city herself. Once he was hidden, she’d taken wing to join him. Now she covered them both as they glided down the alleyways. “Doesn’t anybody here sleep?” she whispered as they encountered a rollicking outdoor party.

“It’s been like this all night,” Rosha muttered.

“Why not?” Mar-Yilot snarled. “They won’t be fighting in the morning. They’ll leave that to the tugoliths.”

She stopped suddenly and pointed.

Rosha looked up. The spires of the High Fortress loomed above them, glowing with the ruddy orange reflection of hundreds of bonfires. Dread came upon Rosha like a huge spider, slowly eating its way up through his stomach. He felt his gorge rising. He was sick with terror. Despite the frozen air, he was sweating heavily, and his heart squirmed within his chest as if frantic to escape.

They turned a corner and ran into yet another street party. A table had been moved out of one of the taverns, and a fat drunkard danced on top of it as it wobbled and rocked on the cobblestones. Mar-Yilot turned to move away, but Rosha reached out to grab her hand and hold her. She jerked around and glowered at him, then leaned up to his ear and snapped an inquiry in a fierce whisper.

Rosha pointed at the frolicking slob and sneered one word. “Pezi.” The name meant nothing to the sorceress, but it obviously meant much to the young warrior, for she saw him grab for his dagger.

“No!” Mar-Yilot snorted, and she grabbed, too—not for a dagger but for two fistfuls of his wiry black hair. He nearly yelped aloud, but restrained himself as she pulled him swiftly back down the alleyway and jerked his head down to her mouth. “That’s right,” she spat savagely in his ear, “butcher the little pig.

Announce to the whole city that we’re here. Destroy Syth’s plan with a wave of your blade. Nothing could please me more. Because then I could leave you here in good conscience and get myself back to Syth. Go ahead.” She released him then, and he jumped back to stare at her, his eyes wide and white.