Robert Hughes - The Prophet of Lamath

Pelmen woke from his reverie when the sword came spinning into the clearing and landed with a clatter. “Rosha?” he called. “Bronwynn?” There was no answer, and a memory flashed through his mind—remembrance of the night he and Doriyth had been ambushed in a forest, and their lives irrevocably altered by bondage. “Rosha!” he called, running for the spot where the sword had appeared. He crashed through the wall of cold into darkness.

The wall had effectively silenced his voice. The slavers hadn’t heard him, and they continued to whisper among themselves as they wrestled their catch across the forest floor to the spot where their horses waited. Pelmen could hear Bronwynn screaming for him, and he pulled himself to his full height, flung his cloak around his shoulders, and began to chant.

Then he stopped, his body shaking. “No!” he groaned violently. “No, please! Not now—” His face twisted into a grimace as he pleaded, but the one whom he entreated wouldn’t listen. The Power had possessed him. Pelmen the Prophet sprawled trancelike beside the log.

By MORNING, Bronwynn had given up hope that Pelmen would rescue them. While they remained in the forest she clung tenaciously to the knowledge that it was here that Pelmen had gained his ability, and that surely he knew this forest as well as anyone alive. But she soon realized that the slaver, dull-witted as he seemed at first to be, was no fool.

They came upon a low outcropping of rocks just as dawn began to turn the treetops from black to green. Tied as she was, belly down across a saddle, Bronwynn could see little, but she did catch a glimpse of an opening at the base of the pile of rocks. When she was finally untied and allowed to stand, wobbly-legged, beside her horse, she understood with dismay that it was the mouth of a cavern. Without a word, a slaver grabbed her and thrust her toward the cave.

When she would have turned to run he whacked her across the shoulders with a staff. She stumbled and fell into the dirt, but the man just dragged her up again and booted her forward, saying, “Get in there, lad, or your back’ll make unpleasant acquaintance with my stick.” As feeling came slowly back into legs that had been fully numb for hours, Bronwynn waddled forward, thanking Pelmen for having had the foresight to clothe her as a boy. As long as the slavers didn’t know the truth, she would try to keep that knowledge hidden from them. Her shoulder began to ache where the slaver had clouted her, but she bit her lip and put on a brave face as she ducked to enter the cavern.

Rosha was already inside. At the sight of him Bronwynn forgot her own troubles. He was being pushed along in front of her, his hands tied behind him. His head sagged to his chest, so dejected was he, and Bronwynn could see from the shape of his bare back that he had felt that stick already—and much more severely than she. His bare back! They had taken his father’s precious mail shirt from him! The narrow cave opened out into a wide cavern, where torches along the wall guttered for lack of oxygen, and breathing became a chore. The floor was littered with fir needles and people.

A couple of harsh shoves, and Rosha and Bronwynn had joined them. None of the other captives met their eyes, and Bronwynn was sure one man, at least, was dead.

“Now, lads,” the man with the stick began, “two rules to know, that’s all. No talking. No getting up.” He glanced meaningfully down at his club. “Or I’ll whack you again.” Then he ducked back outside, and Bronwynn could hear him talking with the other ruffians. There was a sound of farewells being offered, and the stirring of horses.

“I’m beginning to get tired of being kidnapped,” she whispered to Rosha, trying to make her tone joking. It didn’t really come out that way, and he said nothing. He didn’t even look at her. “You could at least grunt so I know you’re alive,”

she whispered again, but again there was no response. She realized then that he wouldn’t look at her because he couldn’t look at her—that the weight of his shame burdened him as nothing had ever done before. “It wasn’t your fault—”

“Ho there, someone breaking a rule already?” the man growled as he ducked back into the cavern. “Which one of you, hunh? Hunh?”

“I s-s-spoke!” Rosha snarled, jerking his head up to look at the slaver, who brought his staff crashing down across Rosha’s shins. Bronwynn yelped at the impact, but the young man’s only reaction was a narrowing of the eyes. The slaver stepped back and looked at him, then shook his head.

“You’re going to give me trouble all the way to Lamath,” he said. “I can tell already.” The man ambled over to a bag he had tossed onto the cave floor and opened it up. Then he sat, his back against the rock wall nearest the exit, and pulled out a garment that glistened in the torchlight—Dorlyth’s mail shirt. Bronwynn glanced back at Rosha, but he’d dropped his eyes again and gazed listlessly at the dried-up needles. “Nice piece, this,” the slaver muttered as be fingered the finely wrought links. “Must come from Chaomonous. I’ve never seen such fine work in Lamath.” He tossed it in the air and caught it. “Light, too. Must have been expensive, hunh, lad? Only a hero would wear a mail shirt this fine.” He looked up at Rosha and sneered. “So what hero did you murder to get it?” Bronwynn snorted angrily, and looked at Rosha. The boy was gazing at the man again, but saying nothing. If there was rage behind his quiet look, Bronwynn couldn’t detect it. He just lay calmly in the prickly needles, and looked up at the slaver.

“Because you’re no hero,” the man scoffed, holding the mail shirt up to his chest to see if it would fit him. “No hero would sit in the middle of the Great North Fir after dark and talk like he sat in a castle. Come on, tell me, boy. You stab him in his sleep? Poison him?” Rosha continued to stare at the raider, and it seemed to Bronwynn that he almost smiled. She decided he had more sense than she had given him credit for. At least he knew enough not to get his legs beaten bloody. The man gave up trying to bait him into talking again and settled down against the wall to wait. He pulled a knife from his belt and a chunk of cheese from his bag. He didn’t offer to share.

How do we get away? Bronwynn wondered to herself. But no ideas came. Then she recalled Pelmen’s words of the nature of the Great North Fir. He had said she might have the ability, and he was a powershaper—sometimes. She lay back on the floor of the cave, thankful that her own hands were tied in front of her rather than behind, and began to focus her attention on summoning some aid through the use of the powers.

She strained the muscles of her body, pushing her head out above her as if that were the key to making things happen.

She succeeded only in making herself very dizzy, and had to quit. She sighed, and gave in to the feeling of despair and hopelessness that had nagged at her throughout the night. Then she thought of Sharki, and that depressed her even more.

As if cued by her thought, there was a powerful beating of wings; suddenly the cavern seemed filled with the presence of a flying creature. Bats? Bronwynn wondered. A small dragon? “Sharki!” she cried, and tears of joy exploded onto her cheeks. The slaver leapt to his feet, swinging his staff to try to knock the bird from the air, but he was no match for the aroused falcon.

“Ow!” he yelped as the bird darted between his hands and pecked at an eye. The man stumbled backward, and the falcon came at him again. He squealed in pain and clapped his hands over his head. His stick clattered to the ground.

Rosha finally got Bronwynn’s attention.

“The knife,” he said quietly, as the bird continued to swoop around the small cavern, dropping to peck the man again at every pass. Bronwynn saw now that the slaver had dropped his knife in the confusion and she lunged across the room to scoop it up in her bound hands. She was back cutting through Rosha’s ropes before the slaver even realized she had it.