Robert Hughes - The Power and the Prophet

Tibb made no response. He just leaned casually against the castle wall, fingering the hilt of his dagger.

Rosha had never grown accustomed to waiting. He paced the alley, looking at the stable door frequently, working mentally to stifle his fears while preparing himself for victory.

“Can’t you relax?” Mar-Yilot complained. “I’ve been working night and day trying to get us both right here and I’d like some rest before we go charging toward that door.”

“You’re charging in with me?”

“Of course. This way the castle will discover us both at once. If I can work fast enough, perhaps I can make the place too miserable for it to give a proper alarm.”

“I don’t understand. If the castle is conscious of magic all around it, why can’t it sense your coverage of us?”

“Because I’m not covering us,” Mar-Yilot said matter-of-factly. Rosha gasped in shock. “Why do you think I told you to get back when those slavers appeared? It’s best that you understand this now: Once we get inside, you’ll be on your own. Don’t rely on me—I’ll be busy. Hush—the tugoliths.”

They heard the great beasts snorting and grumbling as Pezi and Chimolitha led them out of the stable.

They sat motionless until the column was past; then they jumped up and ran for the stable door. The heavy, sweet scent of tugolith hide filled their nostrils as they burst inside. Rosha’s gift sword flashed above his head, but he gave no other battle cry. No one blocked them.

The pair of slavers who had been assigned to guard this entrance had counted the task meaningless.

They sat on the bottom step of the staircase, exchanging jokes, and were in the midst of a laugh as Rosha’s blade scythed cleanly through both of them at one stroke. Before they toppled into each other’s arms, he had bounded to the top of the staircase.

Mar-Yilot Filled the vast room with fire. Everything combustible—stalls, straw, stairway, and bodies—burst into flame. She hoped this would prevent anyone outside from getting in to reinforce the castle garrison. Of course, it also cut off Rosha’s escape, but she shrugged that off. If he lived that long, they would work something out.

Instantly she was a butterfly, winging her way up and out of the inferno she had created and trying to block out the anguished howling of the High Fortress. Reaching the stone corridor she transformed herself again, and murmured, “You sure complain a lot,” to the wailing walls. Then she was off after Rosha, flinging fireballs in every direction and chuckling to herself. There was no question about it. She enjoyed this exercise of power.

Rosha moved faster than the shouts of alarm. He raced through intersecting corridors, stopping to do battle only if necessary. As a result, he gathered behind him a steadily growing train of startled slavers, buzzing like an aroused swarm of angry sugar-clawsps. He paid them no mind. Let the sorceress dispose of them. He had a more important task.

He whirled around a corner, intending to charge quickly up a staircase. He couldn’t reach it, though, for he faced his first real obstacle. His path was blocked by the most formidable swordsman in all the Mar—King Pahd mod Pahd-el had decided not to venture from his castle.

Pahd’s flesh was a chill, ghastly white. Grief had drained him of every appearance of life. He looked bloodless and dead—but he wasn’t. That same grief had charged him with a rage that demanded venting, and this onrushing warrior seemed the perfect target. Pahd’s weapon was out. He was ready to fight. But Rosha suddenly wasn’t. “Stand aside, Pahd,” Rosha said. “I’ve no quarrel with you.”

“But I have with you!” Pahd seethed. “This is my fortress! My home! You invade it and ask me to stand aside?”

“I’ve come after Flayh! Step aside!” The buzzing swarm was growing louder.

“After Flayh?” Pahd shrilled. “So that he can charge me with deserting him and torture her forever? Oh no!” Pahd whistled his weapon up and out. Only Rosha’s quick leap backward saved his head from being severed from his neck. “Or maybe you want my Sarie to suffer?” Pahd screamed, and his sword sliced outward again.

“Mad,” Rosha muttered as he danced aside again. It was too late. The murderous swarm was upon him.

The bellowing mob of slavers rounded the corner, howling obscenities and violent promises. Rosha hadn’t time to raise his blade in self-defense. To his astonishment, he didn’t need to. They raced right past him, and soon turned a corner at the other end of the gallery. Mar-Yilot! He wasn’t entirely on his own.

The mob had passed between Rosha and Pahd. Now the crazed king squinted his eyes, searching for his disappeared foe. “Mod Dorlyth?” he grunted.

Rosha dodged to the side, hoping still to get up the staircase without battling Pahd. But although he couldn’t be seen, he could be heard, and Pahd responded to the sound of his shuffling feet by jumping onto the staircase himself. “Cloaked, are you?” Pahd snarled. “Very well, then, come and slaughter me!

I’ve no shaper to give me aid. I’m sick to death of shapers! And I’m tired, Rosha. Come on, boy, we used to be friends! Put me to bed at last! You know how I long for it!”

“Pahd, back off! Give us a chance and perhaps we can save her!”

“Save her?” Pahd moaned. “Only by death! Hack me down, Rosha, but promise me First you’ll go slay her as well!”

“Pahd, will you please—”

Rosha again had to dive aside, for Pahd’s eyes had suddenly caught sight of him and launched a savage strike. The cloak was gone. Mar-Yilot was otherwise engaged.

Pahd jumped down from the stairs and Rosha scooted back out of his way. The king’s expression had changed. He no longer wore his grimace of grief. He smiled playfully instead, and beckoned at Rosha.

“Fight, lad. Make it interesting.”

There was no help for it. Rosha fought.

The hallway filled with the clang of sword on sword and the grunts and growls of men at exercise. In the manner of a master with his pupil, Pahd kept up a running critique: “Excellent. A little too late. Follow through, lad. Watch yourself.” Despite the friendly words, the king’s strokes whistled in with awesome wickedness, and Rosha was driven back to the wall. He battled not only with Pahd but with himself as well. He had no wish to harm this man. King Pahd was his own liege.

Time convinced him. It occurred to him abruptly just how much time he was wasting here. Hundreds, perhaps thousands would die today, sacrificing themselves to make his mission possible. Pahd would just have to join them.

Once the decision was made, it was over. Pahd had lost none of his excellence as a swordsman. Rosha was simply better. And with a parry, a slight feint and a dancing step to the side, Rosha freed himself and ran his sovereign through.

The king froze. Blood stained his tunic, then began to flow freely from the gash. “I’m sorry,” Rosha whispered.

“I’m not,” Pahd responded, and he crumbled slowly to the floor. “My pillow…” he murmured. Then he was gone.

Rosha was already on the next landing of the staircase.

Mar-Yilot worked quickly, and the howls of the High Fortress multiplied. But her attack had been expected. Terril and Joooms were lying in wait; as soon as the fires began in the stable, they were asking the walls for her whereabouts. They found her standing in the hallway twenty feet behind Rosha, overseeing his encounter with Pahd. They launched their first strike.

She felt a lizard scuttle across the top of her shoes at the same instant that a horrible burning struck the back of her neck and she knew the shaper battle had been joined. She took her altershape and glided frantically up the corridor, searching for a spot to stand and fight. She found an arrow slit which would be a convenient vent to the outside and took her human form beside it. Then she threw a wall of fire across the hallway, just in time to singe the wings of the onrushing sugar-clawsp slightly. Terril transformed himself and skidded along the floor of the corridor on his human bottom. He had the foresight to dodge aside immediately or he would have been engulfed by another gout of fire from the hand of the sorceress.