Robert Hughes - The Prophet of Lamath

Pelmen estimated that they were now fifty miles southeast of Lamath. Then he recognized a small harbor to starboard, and knew exactly where they were. It was a shallow little bay that he recalled from his travels along the coast—so full of treacherous shoals no Lamathian vessel ventured near it. He glanced to the east and the open sea and either saw or imagined a small cloud on that distant horizon. Suddenly an idea came, and he climbed a series of narrow steps to join the Seachief at the helm.

The commander of the fleet was a capable leader, but even he was distressed at the sight of that glistening armada. He smiled thinly at Pelmen, and muttered, “Any ideas. Prophet?”

“One small one. Veer toward the bay.” The Seachief started, then chuckled. “Let the sailors do the sailing, Prophet. You concentrate on getting some wind behind us! They have the advantage of a southwester behind them.”

“I’ll do my best—but you would do well to follow my suggestion.”

“That shallow little bay would sink my fleet!”

“I didn’t say move into the bay. I suggested only that you veer toward it.” The Seachief looked Pelmen over suspiciously, then gave a slight nod to the helmsman, and went to inform his signaler.

The Admiral of Chaomonous watched with interest as the smaller Lamathian fleet turned to make for a sheltered bay.

“Is that an inlet? Are they running? What?” He shouted at the captain who stood beside him, a merchant seaman who had been pressed into service by Talith, and liked it not a bit.

“I have no idea, my Lord,” he grumbled. “It appears their commander wants to run his whole navy onto the rocks.”

“Ridiculous! He just doesn’t want to engage me in the open sea. He wants to shelter in that little harbor and take us a few at a time.”

“My Lord Admiral, that’? a shallows you see, not a—”

“Wouldn’t the Lamathian commander know his own coastline?” the Admiral bellowed. He disliked this merchant. The fellow always found some reason why the Admiral’s orders were foolhardy. He would not allow this merchant’s overcautious nature to rob him of a total victory.

“Helmsman, to port and make for that harbor. With the wind behind us, we’ll beat him there.” The eastern cloud grew larger, and Pelmen concentrated his. attention on it. There was no sensation of making it grow, no feeling of shaping the powers of nature as he had in the past. It was only that he wished so for it to come… and it was coming.

“The Chaon fleet moves west to meet us!” cried a watchman hanging in the rigging.

The Seachief looked at Pelmen and asked, “Was that your aim?” The Prophet nodded, and the Chieftain rushed on,

“Then can we change this course and make for safety?” He sounded annoyed. The man chafed at being directed by a Prophet.

“We’re not in danger yet, are we? Why not ship your oars and just wait until he beats you to the bay?” The Seachief considered that, then nodded, and gave the order to ship oars. The vessel coasted through the water, slowing steadily, even as the golden fleet made more swiftly for the shallows. Pelmen turned back to look east.

“Now,” he said at length. “Turn hard to port…

and row for that storm.” So intent had he been on the course of the enemy flagship, the Seachief had not noticed until that moment the sudden eastern squall. The southwester was dying away. Abruptly he realized what Pelmen had planned, and shouted with joy.

“You’ve done it! A Prophet in wartime does belong on the sea! Helmsmen, hard to port! Oarmaster?”

“Here, sir!” came the cry from below.

“Hard to port and full speed, now!” The ship shuddered and creaked, then began pulling slowly around to the east.

Signals flashed from ship to ship throughout the Lamathian fleet, and all made the same slow turn. Some distance away, the Chaon war boats struggled to respond to this new movement of the enemy, but their wind was gone and already the innermost battleships were floundering in the shoals. The squall hit the golden fleet broadside, driving ship after ship into the rocks.

The Lamathians fought hard against the wind, oars working madly to meet its force. Sea warriors went below to spell tired slaves at the benches, and to keep from being blown into the swirling sea. The waves grew, and at times the ship seemed to run across a washboard, not an ocean. But the storm was brief. It passed swiftly over them and into the Lamathian coastal plains, where it dumped much-needed rain on some very thirsty crops. The Lamathian fleet rejoiced.

But the men of Chaomonous found nothing to cheer. Broken vessels littered the beach alongside the bodies of drowned sailors and slaves. How fitting it would have been had the Admiral’s body been among them, but his ship had weathered the storm, and now led the flight for home.

Pelmen stood on the deck, leaning against the mizzenmast. Something dropped onto the boards beside him, making him jump. It was Erri.

“What is it you think I’m afraid of?” Erri demanded, and it took Pelmen a moment to realize that, once again, the sailor had resumed their conversation without thought to the interruption.

“Not of storms, evidently.”

“Storms are part of life. This religion business, though. That’s something else.”

“Yes,”

Pelmen agreed with a smile. “Most of the tune, I’m afraid it is!” Bronwynn and Rosha didn’t speak as they walked back through the cavern to the ladder. They had haggled incessantly since Pelmen had left them, and had just left a terrible argument behind them in the alcove. Rosha stamped along pouting, so angry with Bronwynn that he had forgotten to pull his sword from his scabbard. But as they neared the ladder, he slowed. Something seemed very wrong. He reached out to grab Bronwynn by the arm to stop her.

“Let go, you stubborn buffalo!” she managed to snap before he clapped a hand over her mouth.

“Look,” he whispered, after she realized he wasn’t trying to tease her into forgiving him. She turned her eyes upward where he pointed and drew a surprised gasp. The hole through the floor was closed. The stone slab that concealed this underground cavern had been put in place for some reason. Rosha drew his sword quietly and mounted the ladder. Bronwynn mouthed Careful to him, and he nodded. He climbed to the slab and tilted his head to listen, ear pressed to its underside. He looked down at Bronwynn and saw her mouth Anything? He nodded, and she covered her mouth with both hands. He heard voices above. Then there was a scuffle, and his eyes jerked wide open. He would have thrown all his weight against the stone and pushed his way up into the library, but Bronwynn caught his eye.

Her face was fierce, and she shook her head violently from side to side. He nodded, and she panted for breath, her tension heightened by her inability to give expression to it. Rosha’s muscles ached for action as well, due to his cramped position on the ladder. Suddenly something fell onto the slab, nearly knocking the ladder loose from its tenuous perch against the lip of the hole. Then there was silence.

Rosha waited a long time, it seemed; then he nodded and sheathed his sword. He thrust both palms upward against the heavy slab, grunting as he struggled to push it up. At last it began to budge, then abruptly felt much lighter as something heavy rolled off of it.

Rosha peeked cautiously into the library and saw nothing. He pushed all the way through and started to shove the slab backward when he saw a hand dangle over the edge of the stone, and he started with horror. He recognized that hand.

He was out of the hole in a minute and had lifted the form of the Elder from the floor, then scampered back down the ladder and stretched the little man’s body on the cavern floor. Bronwynn gasped in hurt surprise and bent to examine him as Rosha rushed back up the ladder to reseat the concealing slab. He had not been in the library more than a minute, but that was long enough to see what had taken place. Serphimera’s army had come—and from the sounds that came through the library windows, they were still at work. .