Robert Hughes - The Prophet of Lamath

Heinox screamed too, for the pain was torture to him as well as to Vicia. “You have killed us!” Heinox roared, and he tried to toss Pelmen as Asher had been tossed. The Prophet-player clamped his blood-soaked blade between his teeth and clung desperately to the dragon’s head. He stayed on.

Serphimera screamed and Pelmen wept as both watched the fulfillment of the Priestess’ vision. Heinox gripped Asher’s free leg between his giant jaws, and Vicia-Heinox tore the General apart. Shreds of blue cloth fluttered to the ground, and Asher was gone.

Pelmen’s palms were wet with sweat, and the knobby ridges along the dragon’s skull were getting slippery. He would never withstand another attempted tossing. As Heinox screamed out a lament for his own lost life, Pelmen let go and jerked his sword from his mouth. He reversed its blade to stab downward, took a deep. breath, and plunged it home, this time in Heinox’ eye. Then he clung to its pommel with both hands, as the new spasm of pain rocketed through the monster. Vicia-Heinox shivered from his heads to his tail, and Pelmen was thrown from his seat.

It seemed then that everyone was screaming, except him. He was tossed from side to side and up and down, but the blade stayed fixed in the dragon’s eye and his hands stayed closed on the handle. Suddenly the wind around him increased to such a roar that he knew he must be blown off, but he clenched his eyes shut and held on. When he opened them again, he was hundreds of feet above the ground. The dragon had taken to the air.

The pass filled with swirling dust as the beating wings launched the dragon skyward. Bronwynn fell to her knees, trembling. The dragon cleared the top of the cliffs and disappeared from view, and she buried her face in her hands, fearing that if she watched she would see her master tumble to his death.

Vicia-Heinox twisted onto its back, and Pelmen shouted in anguish as he felt himself fly loose and begin to fall.

Though his left shoulder still burned with pain^ he ignored the feeling as he threw his arms wide apart and began to chant.

Whether he was in that moment the powershaper summoning the wind, or the anointed Prophet of the Power and beneficiary of its grace, not even Pelmen knew. But something wondrous happened. As the pass filled with screams, there was a sudden, deafening roll of thunder that threw everyone to the dirt. Those who managed to peer up through the choking dust saw a sight they would never forget. Pelmen’s swiftly falling figure suddenly floated upward—like a feather caught in a draft.

“Pelmen?” Pelmen chuckled. “Not again. You mean I’m still alive?” His eyes fluttered open. There was Bronwynn, looking anxiously down at him. “How?”

“Don’t you remember?” she asked, puzzled. “You did it!”

“Did I?” he said. His head was clearing, and he sat up. “The dragon?” Bronwynn waved her hand, and Pelmen rolled over to look in that direction. Fifty feet away lay a lifeless mountain of scales. Vicia-Heinox was dead. Pelmen could hear someone weeping. When the lady shouted, he recognized her voice. It was Serphimera.

“You killed him, you murderer!” Serphimera sobbed as she knelt beside one of the twisted necks and stroked the dragon’s hide. Pelmen got slowly to his feet.

“Yes, Serphimera—I killed him. He was never a god, my Lady. Can’t you see that now? He was always just an idol that stood between the people and the Power.”

“Yet we believed him—” she wailed.

“A religion, Serphimera—that’s all the Dragonfaith was. A religion—never a living faith.” Pelmen stood, and surveyed the pile of flesh, once so fearsome, grown so docile in death. “I didn’t kill this religion, Serphimera. The Power did.”

“I want nothing of your Power!” the priestess screamed at him. She gathered up her skirts and began to run. She ran to the northern mouth, toward Lamath, and disappeared down the defile.

The Prophet of. Lamath 353 “Shall I chase her. Prophet?” It was Erri, and Pelmen put his arm out to pat him on the shoulder.

“She won’t run far. But I fear you will be chasing her, for many years to come. She’ll not stop saying what she thinks, just because the beast has been silenced.”

“But—how would I deal with her? You’re the Proph—”

“Deal with her in love, Erri. Nothing else will pierce that cloud around her. Bronwynn?”

“Yes, Pelmen?”

“Bring me the book—I have some things I need to tell Erri before he goes.” Bronwynn jumped up obediently and trotted over with the volume. Pelmen took it and handled it fondly, feeling its cover and thumbing its pages. Then he thrust it out to Erri.

“Prophet,” he said. “Here is your book.” Erri was shocked. “But—you are the only real Prophet! That is your book, not mine—” Pelmen pushed the volume into Erri’s hands and closed the little man’s fingers over its edges. “Erri—you’ve found your calling. I’m still searching for mine.” Erri gulped hard. “Come, friend,” Pelmen continued. “Don’t deny your vocation.”

“But what about you? Lamath needs your—”

“Lamath fares better today than the other two lands, Erri.

Especially since it has you to restore it. I’ll be around, don’t worry. But this task is yours. And the book.”

“Yes, Prophet,” Erri said humbly.

“And Erri—”

“Yes, Prophet?”

“Call me Pelmen.” Erri smiled, and they embraced. Then the little Prophet began trudging down the hill. He had donned once again his sky-blue robe, and it flapped around his sandals as he walked.

Pelmen rejoined Bronwynn, and smiled at Rosha. The boy’s face was dark and hard with frustration.

“You think you failed, don’t you?” Pelmen said. The young warrior would not reply. “You didn’t fail. You tried. In fact, given a sword big enough, you would have split the beast in half by sheer savagery alone. Will you let a trip of the tongue rob you of your achievement?” Rosha looked up, still surly. “What achievement.”

“The winning of a name—Rosha, bear’s-bane. And of a woman.” Pelmen’s eyes flicked down to Rosha’s hand, twined in that of the young Princess of Lamath. Both Bronwynn and Rosha blushed, but Pelmen marked well that they didn’t unclasp their hands.

There were unexpected hoofbeats in the southern pass, and all three of them jumped in surprise. It was a small troop of golden-mailed warriors-led by General Joss. Rosha felt for his greatsword, then remembered. It was still embedded in the dragon’s eye. He felt naked.

Joss stopped his horse and dismounted. “When I spotted Admon Faye bolting from the pass below, I felt obliged to investigate. I’m glad I did.” He walked to Bronwynn, who stood frozen in place—and dropped to one knee. “My Queen,” he said, and the other golden warriors followed his example.

“Me?” Bronwynn replied quietly. “What of my father? My mother?”

“Ligne murdered your mother, my Lady. As for your father—I’m sorry—but he was slain on the west-mouth plain two weeks ago.” Bronwynn’s face stiffened. “By the dragon.”

“No,” Joss said evenly, and her eyes shot open.

“Then by whom?” The answer was so shocking the young couple had to lean on each other for support. “Dorlyth mod Karis.”

“My—father?” Rosha gasped, stunned.

“If your father is Dorlyth mod Karis,” Joss said, eyeing the young warrior as if intending to cut him down in reprisal.

“By Dorlyth,” Bronwynn sighed, and she pulled free of Rosha’s arms and smoothed down her golden garments. “Well then, General. What is—your next move?”

“I’d like to take you back to claim your rightful throne. An impostor sits in Chaomonous now—a lady you know well.”