Robert Hughes - The Prophet of Lamath

To this dungeon Flayh now headed, keeping his own quiet counsel as his fat nephew struggled to keep up with him. It was as they were descending a spiraling stone staircase in the darkness that Pezi observed a curious thing—his uncle seemed to glow with a weird, blue phosphorescence, and he left a trail of glowing dust wherever he stepped. Though Pezi felt little rapport with his uncle, and no eagerness for conversation, his curiosity overcame him.

“Uncle, you’re glowing!”

“I’d advise you to mind your own business.” Then Flayh laughed bitterly. “Had you minded your business, the plan would not be in such jeopardy.”

“What plan?”

“Mind your own business!” Flayh screamed, and Pezi jammed his jaws tight, resolving to say nothing save in answer to a question.

At the bottom of the staircase was a long dark corridor, low-ceilinged, lighted by nickering torches placed intermittently along the walls. “Guards!” Flayh called, and at the sound of that distinctive voice, completely unexpected in this dank, foul quarter, there was a great clatter of martial-sounding activity.

They turned a corner at the end of the hall, and a group of guards stood at attention. They were all unkempt, smelly denizens of the dungeon, made so by the cruel and callous nature of their assignment. Flayh looked with disgust at their blue-and-lime uniforms, caked with mud and the grease from a dozen dinners, and snorted. “Don’t you ever clean yourselves?” The leader of the detail cleared his throat and spoke nervously. “Had we known you were coming—I mean, we didn’t expect—”

“Always expect me, keeper,” Flayh said, yelling in the man’s face. “This is my castle, my dungeon, and I expect my fighting men to reflect my personality! Always expect me, or you may expect to find yourself the slave rather than the slavekeeper. Understood?”

“Yes, sir!” the keeper snapped, and saluted. “I may have need of you on the battlefield someday,” Flayh continued more quietly. “I don’t want you to smell so badly that other soldiers won’t stand beside you in line! Open that door.” The keeper rushed to comply. The door flew open, and the stench flew out. Pezi gagged, but Flayh seemed almost pleased by it. He expected the guards to behave like soldiers. His slaves, however, ought by simple reason to smell like pigs. It helped to cement into their heads the true nature of their condition, and prepared them for sale.

He stalked to the middle of the large room, then put his hands on his hips and looked around. “Torch!” he called, and a guard raced in with a blazing torch that shed some light on these miserable subjects most unused to it. Flayh scanned the groups of slaves as they huddled in various comers. There was no feeling here of Pelmen’s presence. “Take it around, put it in the face of each one.” The guard did as he was instructed. The last slave was finally viewed, and Flayh slowly turned to look at Pezi. The fat merchant was sure he was shedding a pound every passing second. His fear was so great that he was sweating like a horse after a hard ride. “Bring the torch over here,” Flayh murmured to the guard, “and hold it up to this fat fool’s face.” The guard, puzzled but obedient, came quickly to Pezi’s side. The fat merchant feared he was about to swallow his tongue whole. It felt like a dry wool sock rolled in the back of his throat.

Flayh gazed at him coldly, then spoke. “Where is he?” he asked.

“Where’s who? Ooooff!” Pezi grunted, as Flayh buried a fist in his gut.

“Where, Pezi?”

“Where is who, tell me who you—” This time his uncle slapped him. The look on Flayh’s face convinced Pezi that he had better start explaining. He began with a confession. “All right, you mean Pelmen.”

“I’m glad to see you’re not completely without sense. Tell me about Pelmen.”

“He—he got away.”

“Oh, really? Why, I never would have guessed. How on earth did he manage that?”

“He—it was he who confused the beast—convinced him to release the girl—started the riot in the pass that led to their escape.”

“Their escape is it now? And did you follow them?”

“I—I had no chance! I was risking my life as it was, trying to save the caravan!”

“I would have given ten caravans joyfully to the dragon to have that girl and Pelmen here, in this dungeon! That was the purpose of this whole enterprise, you fat swine!” Flayh punctuated this last with another backhanded slap. Pezi rubbed his jaw reflectively, watching Flayh’s hands, hoping to guess where and when they might strike again. “You’ve failed me, Pezi. Oh, you’ve done so before.

But never like this. Never to this degree.” Pezi’s face grew very, very pale, though in the torchlight the change could not be seen. “Shall I just have these guards strip you, and toss you into the corner over there?”

“Oh, uncle, please—no—” Pezi found no difficulty in bending both knees and draping himself around his uncle’s feet. “Please, don’t do that!”

“I could have them cut your tongue out for lying to me. How would that be?”

“No. Oh, please—”

“It would be a fitting punishment, wouldn’t it?”

“Oh, please—”

“Wouldn’t it?”

“Yes, I guess. Oh, please—” Pezi babbled incoherently, the horror of his situation growing clearer with every sentence Flayh spoke.

“Yes, you say? Then I should do it? Guard, a poniard.” Immediately Flayh had a knife in his hand; with the other hand gripping Pezi’s hair, he pulled the fat man’s head up to place the point on Pezi’s lips.

“No! Please!” That seemed to be enough. Flayh was a cruel man, a mean man. But he was not wasteful. He would misuse Pezi in whatever way necessary to insure his loyalty, but he needed Pezi’s talents to accomplish his purpose, and that of the Council of Elders. “Get up,” he growled. Pezi stood, trembling uncontrollably. “I want you to go to Lamath, Pezi. I want you to speak with the King of Lamath himself, and tell him that Talith of Chaomonous has accused him of stealing his daughter, and raises a great army against him. Tell him that the dragon is confused—and the pass is open. If he wishes to defend himself, he needs to make haste. Do you think that you can manage that, Pezi?”

“Yes. Oh, yes. Oh, thank you, sir—”

“Quiet.” Pezi shut his mouth and waited, as Flayh went on. “Then you are to go to the High Priest of the Unified Dragonfaith. Tell him the King of Lamath has blasphemed the dragon and sets an army against the beast. The new High Priest is a young lad, and should be easy to manipulate. Tell him the King has moved at last to crush the Dragonfaith’s power, and that he must do all he can to weaken the army’s morale, or his position will be forfeit. Is that clear?”

“Yes, sir,” Pezi sniveled.

“I want you on your way to Lamath tonight—no sleep, no midnight snack. Now! Take those lazy cousins of yours with you. Now!” He shouted again, and Pezi bolted from the room. Flayh looked around at the slaves who watched, amazed at this display, confused at the torrent of words completely unrelated to their situation. Flayh smiled at them humorlessly, and strode out of the room. Then the door clanked shut behind him, and they sat in darkness once again.

“I hate him,” Vicia whispered ferociously. This audible hostility echoed down the canyon walls of the pass, bereft of vegetation from repeated displays of dragon temper.

“I hate the Player—I hate him!” Heinox said in unanimity with his twin. The dragon had slept only fitfully for two days.

He had spent every waking moment since the encounter with Pelmen in chaotic dialogue between his two heads.

Neither head could admit the possibility of its twin being a separate entity. Each head struggled vainly to re-establish that total rapport so lately taken for granted. But each sought to re-establish that state under its own control.