Robert Hughes - The Prophet of Lamath

Self-consciousness had robbed 50 Vicia-Heinox of his coordination, his personal unity, and his peace. It would seem only natural that in his frustration the dragon would come to hate that one who had driven a wedge between himselves. And the dragon was frustrated. As a unit or as a pair, Vicia-Heinox was the largest concentrated living mass of frustration in existence at that moment, and the inevitable explosion of that frustration into human injury and property damage only awaited some marginal agreement as to where he should begin.

“I’ll destroy Chaomonous. Burn the city to cinders.

Turn it into a wasteland.”

“Why should I choose Chaomonous?”

“That’s where the Player came from, isn’t it?”

“I don’t know where he came from. I only know he went to Ngandib-Mar, and I think I ought to lay waste to every castle and eat every villager in the whole of the highlands! Surely I would manage to come across that Player in the process!”

“And when I get him—oh, what I’ll do to him!” Heinox rasped maliciously, his eyes glittering in evil anticipation.

“Yes—this is what I’ll do!” said Vicia, and he began to catalogue once more all the terrible torments he would inflict on Pelmen, once he had the Player in delicious captivity.

“I already said what I would do to him,” Heinox interrupted. He had no wish to precipitate another quarrel, but why did this other head take such delight in aggravating him? “I know I have already said what I would do to the annoying human! I’m just reviewing it for my entertainment! Do I mind?”

“Yes I mind! I’m not entertained!”

“I am, I said!” Vicia spoke with great deliberation, exhibiting super-dragon patience with this vexatious appendage who seemed to consider himself the true seat of dragon control. He raised above Heinox and looked down at his rival threateningly.

Then he shook with rage as he heard Heinox repeating yet another time the question that had for days been stealing every fragment of the dragon’s once-fabled intrapersonal tranquility.

“Why is it that I can’t just say a thing without my having to echo it? Why is it that I can’t just agree to cooperate anymore? Why this constant internal bickering? Can’t I see I am making myself very sick?” Heinox had risen to Vicia’s level, and was now eyeball to eyeball with him. Vicia boiled.

“Am I implying that this is my fault?”

“I certainly am!” Vicia roared. Surely no dragon, ever, anywhere, had been forced to take this kind of obnoxious nonsense from himself. It had gone beyond the limits of his endurance. With a scream so fierce that it would certainly have brought tears to the eyes of even the most insensitive of ogres, Vicia jetted to his fullest extension, then plummeted, jaws agape, to seize the armored neck of Heinox just behind the ears and shake it savagely. Of course, he immediately let go, for the pain registered throughout the whole dragon body. In short, Vicia-Heinox bit himself, and it hurt terribly. It even bled a gallon or two. The dragon left his feet, fluttering a few hundred yards above the ground, waiting for the pain to pass and howling pitifully. It was the first pain the dragon could remember feeling since—since he could remember feeling! No mere weapon could break through the mail-like armor of his reptilian skin. But dragonteeth! What substance could withstand the native keenness of such powerful incisors? The dragon settled back to earth, and Heinox turned to his more reckless companion. “I hope I won’t be so stupid as to try that again,” he said acidly.

“I hope I won’t either,” agreed the chastened Vicia. “Why did I do it?”

“I suppose I just got sick of myself. I’m not really surprised, though I didn’t think I was quite so stupid.” Vicia whipped angrily around and pushed himself into Heinox’ pouting face. “And I never realized I was so obnoxious!” Heinox chose not to reply, fearing another attack from this lunatic who seemed to share his body. Though the pain was subsiding by this time, Vicia bent to lick the wound he had inflicted.

“I wish I wouldn’t do that,” Heinox complained. “That rough tongue is not the slightest bit soothing.”

“Why don’t I go stick myself in a hole in the ground?” Vicia shouted back. They glowered at one another for a full minute. Then, tiring, both sank down to rest in the dust, and to think bad thoughts about the other.

“I hate Pelmen,” Vicia whispered. There was silence for half an hour or so.

“I feel a little sorry for the people in the next caravan,” Heinox observed finally.

“Why?”

“Because I’m going to eat every last one of them just for spite.” The afternoon shadows lengthened, and the pass darkened as the line of the sun retreated up the face of the eastern cliff. But even when the sun was completely gone, the darkness at the bottom of that canyon was no match for the black bile in the depths of the angry dragon’s seething soul.

“I WISH I could read their minds,” Pelmen sighed. He stood before a large window in the greater tower of Doriyth Castle, gazing east across green fields wet with morning dew. Though it was nearing midmorning there was still little light; it was a gray day, and a chill hung in the air. A draft blew into the room, causing Doriyth to shiver.

“You can’t, though,” he rumbled in his thick, hoarse bass. “So why don’t you close that drape before I catch pneumonia?” Doriyth took another sip of a steaming fruit drink that was his morning addiction and waved Pelmen toward a chair.

Pelmen smiled, shook his head, and let the heavy tapestry drapes fall shut to block the wind. The flames that struggled to bring light to this dark interior nickered, then burned up again brightly. Pelmen wrapped his purple robe around him and settled back into a feather-stuffed chair. If anyplace was home to the traveling player, this place was. He felt very content and relaxed, for he loved the company of this friend. At the same time he felt a keen responsibility to move swiftly on. He had no wish to involve Doriyth in his problems. Certainly the merchant houses were trailing him by this time. When they arrived, he and the girl should be long gone. The question was, to where? What kind of plan had he upset by confusing the dragon? Who was behind it, and what did they intend to gain? “You’re thinking again,”

Doriyth growled good naturedly. “Haven’t I told you I forbid that in my house?” Doriyth took another long, hot sip.

He was comfortably wrapped in a rug of thickest bear fur, and he lay stretched out on the padded couch he had slept on. He was a big man, much in character and appearance like that very bear whose skin now warmed him. His face was broad, his nose flat, his eyes very large and very brown. The rest of his face seemed shrouded in fur, for he was a very hairy man. His hair was bushy, almost kinky, of the shining honey-blond color so characteristic of Ngandib-Mar. His beard matched his hair in every detail but for a tuft of gray right under his lower lip. Pelmen enjoyed teasing him about that gray streak, but Doriyth rather liked the distinctive little tuft. He said it lent some human dignity to his otherwise animal-like appearance.

He was smiling at Pelmen, but his eyebrows reflected the weight of his concern for his friend. Pelmen had entangled himself in another potentially catastrophic situation; as always, he seemed to be enjoying it a little too much. The man was a magnet of curious and fateful events. Long though he had tried, Doriyth had never been able to convince Pelmen that his abilities were most needed here, in Ngandib-Mar. Instead, the man seemed to wander the earth, actively seeking new entanglements. Invariably he found them.