Robert Hughes - The Prophet of Lamath

At last Bronwynn called softly, “I’m here.”

“Good.” His mind raced.

“What are you going to do?” Her voice sounded so far away! Could it be that far back to that last turn? “I’m thinking.”

He took a cautious step back. No response from the bear. Another step, and an answering growl. “Bronwynn,” he called anxiously.

“I’m here…” Her voice was calming. She had labored to make it sound so.

“Are there… depressions, holes in that wall behind you?”

“Yes,” she murmured back after a moment. She sounded dreamy, almost drunk.

“Good. Step back to the left…”

“But…”

“Turn the comer, Bronwynn!”

“And leave you…”

“Now!” Suddenly he was running toward her, and she leapt out of the way. The bear was after him with a gut-shaking roar, and Rosha bolted ahead more quickly. He was panting loudly, then beginning to moan faintly as he ran blindly on, sure he would misjudge the corner and yet sure he knew just where to turn. Bronwynn marked the comer for him precisely when she screamed.

“Rosha!” Her voice told him where to turn, and Rosha danced lightly around the bend of the tunnel. As he spun, he whipped his greatsword up over his head and jammed its pommel into the far wall. It caught in one of those depressions, and momentum drove it in solidly, to hang with its point facing out. That same momentum bounced Rosha off a wall, and he sprawled beside Bronwynn, who crouched there. The rock had torn his shoulder open, but he felt nothing as he listened beyond the reverberations of Bronwynn’s scream for a sound that arrived right on schedule.

The ruse worked. The bear nearly spitted himself on the blade as he went crashing heavily into the wall.

Rosha scrambled backward, pushing Bronwynn behind him, then hushed her to listen as the unseen beast snarled in pain. He could hear the scratch of claws on stone as the cavern bear struggled to right itself. He could also hear a scraping noise that thrilled him—his sword had lodged in the bear, and now the angry animal dragged it with him. Rosha waited, crouching on his hands and knees, as the bear turned the comer and began to push its way toward him, marking each step with a scrape and a growl. Bronwynn clasped her hands first over her mouth, to keep from screaming, then over her ears to shut out the awful evidence of the bear’s approach. But Rosha waited eagerly. The bear was wounded. There was a chance.

But not without his greatsword. Though it was valuable as an indicator of the bear’s whereabouts, he couldn’t kill the beast without it. His only chance was to leap toward the sound of it, pull it free, and plunge it home again before being ripped apart. It wasn’t a good chance, but he had no alternative. “Rosha, do some—”

“Shh!” he hissed, then tensed his body to spring, fearing a charge. It didn’t come. Only the continued scrape-scrape-scrape of a wounded bear moving closer. Rosha’s muscles were knotting under the tension, but he didn’t notice. He waited… waited… jumped.

Boy and bear crashed heads before Rosha’s fingers closed on the hilt, and the blow threw Rosha to one side. The bear roared and leapt forward, but Rosha clung to the handle of the sword, causing the animal to flip over the end of it. The blade came free, and Rosha shouted in dismay. The beast was now between him and Bronwynn! “Run!” he screamed.

Then he rammed the sword forward into the darkness. It struck flesh, and at that same moment he heard small feet scuttling away down the corridor. His spirits soared. He hadn’t hit Bronwynn, so he must have hit the bear. He jerked his weapon free, slashed out again, and grinned at the answering yelp of pain. He stabbed again, twice more, then listened. The beast was silent, and the floor was slick beneath his feet. He took a running step in a direction he hoped was toward Bronwynn, and skidded down in the puddle of blood, landing on the bear’s hairy back. He jerked away in revulsion, then .reached out to touch the sticky, matted fur, and to listen for a sign of life. There was none. He had done it! He was a bearsbane! Bronwynn called out of the darkness. “Rosha! Rosha, are you all right?” In the black she misjudged the distance and she, too, stumbled over the bear. Rosha caught her in his arms, and hugged her, hard. He took a deep breath.

“I th-think we have safely established that there are b-b-bears in this cavern.” Bronwynn convulsed into a fit of the giggles, and Rosha joined her in the aftermath of tension. They stroked one another as they giggled some more. At last they snickered into silence.

“What are we going to do now?” Bronwynn asked soberly.

“It m-makes no sense to g-go on,” he said finally. “We’ve lost our light. We have n-no assurance that we c-can find a way out. We know there are b-b-bears ahead of us.”

“But Admon Faye is behind us!” Bronwynn moaned.

“Then let him c-c-come!” Rosha fiercely challenged the dark. His fingers found the pommel of his blade. The grip was slippery so he dropped to one knee and wiped it clean on the long hem of his initiate’s gown. Then he stood proudly, and announced, “I’m p-pprepared.”

“Prepared for what?” Bronwynn’s tone was bitter. The gravity of their predicament had stolen her hope.

“P-prepared to face Admon Faye!” he shouted in the direction of her face. “I am the treasure of Dorlyth mod Karis! I will not die in a gopher hole!” He started down the passage, but she resisted, pulling down on his arm.

“Wait! Which way are we going!”

“We’re going b-b-back, my Lady! B-back to where we came. I know n-now, we never should have run!” They started off together, he clutching his sword and she clutching her book, and each gripping the other by the hand. As they walked, Rosha reflected on what he had just said, and realized it wasn’t quite true. He had fled into this cavern a frightened fugitive. He was walking out a bona fide bear’s-bane. And with a witness!

“Congratulations on your victory. Prophet.” Asher smiled sardonically. “I am sorry our discussion at the wharf was so rushed, but perhaps you noticed the crowd was of a divided opinion on you.”

“I did notice,” Pelmen acknowledged.

He stood before Asher in the general’s office, flanked by the same pair of burly guards who had escorted him from the King’s Dock. His wrists were manacled together—hardly the reception one would expect for a victorious Lamathian Prophet. But Pelmen was not surprised. His only concern was for the safety of Rosha and Bronwynn. He reminded himself that they needed to learn life sometime. He had dismissed all regard for his own safety the day Serphimera pronounced her doom upon him. Deceived though she was about the dragon, and blind to the real nature of the Power, Pelmen still was experienced enough in the things of magic to know her visions could well come true. If she were convinced it was really his death she saw… who could alter visions? “My Seachief modestly gave all credit for the victory to you, Prophet.”

“The credit belongs to the Power,”

“What Power?” Asher said sharply. “You talk like a magician! If you mean the Lord Dragon, then say so!”

“I don’t mean the Lord Dragon.”

“Then you are a magician?”

Asher’s eyes sparkled with excitement. If this Prophet confessed to sorcery he could be dealt with quickly, for the law stated clearly the penalty for such heresy. The drawing blocks in the heart of the city had not been used in generations. But unless the termites had chewed out their insides, they would certainly still perform their function.

“It isn’t sorcery I speak of, General. But neither is it the dragon. The dragon was made and will pass. The Power has been and will be.” Asher studied this false Prophet a moment. Then, in a burst of temper that surprised even himself, he spat into Pelmen’s face. “Maximum cage. .Now!” The two guards lifted Pelmen from the ground by his armpits and carried him from the room. As the tail of the flopping blue robe disappeared into the hallway, Asher fought the nausea that rose in his throat. Such national decay. And so quickly, too. Through the folds of his tunic, he fingered the carved Dragon talisman that had long hung around his neck and thought of Serphimera. Then he stripped himself of his ceremonial clothing and donned his battle gear. He gave his office a last glance before he closed the heavy door.