Robert Hughes - The Power and the Prophet

Rosha waited, but the expected slash never came. The blade lay across his neck, and the slaver’s obscene smile remained fixed upon that loathsome face above him, but Admon Faye didn’t kill him. Instead, the slaver toppled over.

Rosha wrestled himself away, grabbing for his dagger. By the time he got it out, he realized he didn’t need it. He glanced up at the slaver’s killer, his jaw sagging open in surprise.

“He’s dead,” Tibb explained, waving toward the body.

Rosha stared at Tibb in shock.

“I’ve been planning to kill him a long time, but this was my first chance. You see, he let my best friend die. My only friend.” Rosha closed his mouth, but kept on staring. “He’s right. Life gives you the opportunity for vengeance at the most unexpected times. And mine was double, because I got to rob him of his.” Tibb looked up at Rosha and smiled slightly. “You remember me?”

“No,” Rosha murmured.

“You kicked a sword out of my hand once. In Dragonsgate. Nah, you wouldn’t remember. I know your wife, though. Nice lady.”

Rosha stayed in his place, clutching his knife and watching Tibb’s movements. Tibb gazed back at the slaver’s body. “It went too fast, though. I wish I’d had time to make him suffer. I wish he’d died a little slower, so I could say, ‘Remember Pinter? Well, this is little Tibb’s revenge!’ That’s how I had it planned out in my mind. But then, if I’d done that, you wouldn’t be alive now, would you?”

“No,” Rosha murmured, still watching the weapon in Tibb’s hand.

Tibb glanced back at him and suddenly understood. “Oh, no! Look, I’m not getting in your way. I know you’re after the little wizard at the top of the stairs. I wish you luck— you’re going to need it. I’m just standing here trying to figure out how you can work and plan and scheme for something so long, and then it’s over so fast. It’s not fair…”

Rosha didn’t hear Tibb’s ruminations. He had already scooped up his sword and bounded up the last stairway.

Syth pointed. Although dawn was still several hours away, the top of the High Plateau could be seen for miles, lighted as it was by huge bonfires.

“Is the city burning?” Joss asked.

“No,” Dorlyth explained. “It’s an old custom—burning the bonfires after victory. Only in this case, they’re so certain of triumph that they’re celebrating the night before.”

“A psychological ploy?” the general suggested, and Syth snorted with grim amusement.

“Hardly. You don’t realize yet, General, what a task we face.”

“Perhaps that is true. I realize enough, however, to suggest once more that we withdraw.” Joss leaned forward. “If there’s no chance to win, why not fight another day?”

“Let’s ride on,” Bronwynn growled to Syth, ignoring her general yet again.

“One moment,” Syth said, and he turned to look at Dorlyth. “You’re hurting, my friend. I can tell by the way you sit in your saddle.”

“You scald your backside and see how well you ride!” Dorlyth joked, but Syth would not return the smile. He kept his eyes on Dorlyth until the old warrior was forced to admit, “All right, so it hurts. You think that will keep me from this battle?”

“No,” Syth murmured, “but I think it ought to slow your getting there. We must hurry, Dorlyth, if we’re to reach the base of the plateau by dawn. You can’t keep pace. Why not slacken your speed and lead our reinforcements?”

Dorlyth paused then nodded. “I’ll not argue, although I’d like to.”

Syth barked instructions to his allies, and a Mari contingent broke off from the main force to join Dorlyth. Then the united armies were off again, hastening toward the brightly lighted plateau.

They made good progress, reaching the High Plateau as dawn seeped slowly through the snow-laden clouds. The chill, somber light befitted the grim scene as Syth, Bronwynn and Joss rode through the wreckage of Kam’s castle. Syth had thought himself prepared for the worst. He discovered that he wasn’t. “Gone,” he groaned in disbelief. “All of it! Everything’s completely gone!”

Joss ventured no comment. His counsel had been rejected regularly. He doubted anyone cared to hear his opinion this time.

Bronwynn, too, held her peace. She gazed up the enormous walls of the plateau, trying to make out the High Fortress itself. There, somewhere, was Rosha. It was there she needed to go.

“Suicidal,” Syth whispered softly.

Joss couldn’t hold his tongue. “I believe I’ve made use of the same word,” he muttered under his breath.

“What kind of evil beasts do such a thing?” the Lord Seriliath pleaded to the gray heavens.

“The beasts aren’t evil. Their keepers are,” Bronwynn said flatly. She felt nothing for this place nor for the grand family that had called it home. To her they were only names. But Syth felt much, and her passionless statement sparked his temper.

“You’re an expert on these tugoliths?” he snapped.

Bronwynn looked at him. “I’ve offended you. I’m sorry. Pardon my callous manner, but I only stated a fact.”

Syth ignored her apology and issued a brisk order. “Joss, prepare your people to flee at the first sign of these beasts. I’ll go ready mine to do the same.”

“I thought we had planned this frontal assault to distract Flayh’s attention from his own fortress,” the queen said quietly.

“When he has beasts who can do this to send against us? Look at this! There’s not a wall standing! Not a single bone in sight! Consumed. The House of Kam has been consumed! You wish that fate upon your Golden Throng?”

“I thought you knew what we were facing, Syth.”

“I thought I did, too,” he mumbled. “In any case, we’ve done what we could. If we succeed in drawing Flayh’s army out, perhaps that’s something. I don’t see how sacrificing our people to these monsters can lend any further aid.”

“If by our standing we can win Rosha another—”

“Look!” Joss shouted, and his finger stabbed upward toward the top of the Down Road.

The beasts had begun their descent. They moved ponderously, as befitted animals of such enormous size. That was deceptive, however, for their strides were of tremendous length. Before any of the three could shake off the shock, the column was halfway down the mountain.

“Fly!” Syth cried, spurring his steed and wheeling toward his warriors.

Joss flicked his gaze to his queen. Despite Syth’s order, he had not forgotten who commanded him. “Do it,” Bronwynn grunted. Then she dug her heels into the flanks of her own war horse and rode hard—directly for the foot of the Down Road.

“Bronwynn!” Joss bellowed and, for the first time in his memory, he disobeyed his sworn ruler. He whipped his steed and galloped after her.

They raced across the plain, the tails of their horses streaming in the wind. Less than a hundred yards short of the road, Joss drew alongside Bronwynn and made a grab for her bridle. She reined in and whirled around to face him, her eyes wide with outrage. “What are you doing?” she demanded.

“What are you doing?” he shouted back.

“I gave you a command! Obey me!”

“My first duty is to save my queen! These beasts are going to eat you!”

“No, they’re not!” she spat, and she spurred her horse forward, flicking her reins from his grasp.

“How do you know?” Joss cried, aghast.

“Because I’m going to talk them out of it!”

Joss sat stiffly in his saddle, watching helplessly as Bronwynn turned onto the Down Road and drew up face-to-face with the leading tugolith. He shook his head in grief. “Just like your father,” he murmured mournfully.