The sky was a dark blue, but was growing lighter much more quickly now. Bronwynn listened intently, her eyes squeezed shut as if that would help her hearing. All she heard at first was the beating of Pelman's heart, and the heavy breathing of the tired horse. But then the sound came. Riders, still some distance away but quickly coming toward them. She felt herself begin to tremble quite involuntarily, and Pelman turned again to hold her head against him. The sound grew louder and then there they were-a troop of riders clothed in their nighttime camouflage uniforms of gray and brown. Their leader was the ugliest man Bronwynn had ever seen. His eyes were small slits, and his face was furrowed with a frown so chilling that it forced its reflection on the faces of all who beheld him. Though the early-morning air was cold, Bronwynn shivered not at the chill, but at the sight of that face. Then they were gone, moving swiftly to the south, riding hard into the cover of the Great South Fir.
"They're late," Pelman observed quietly after they were well past.
"Who was that?" Bronwynn shuddered. Pelman craned around to look her in the face, a caustic smile playing around the edges of his mouth.
"You don't know?" he asked. She looked back at him blankly. "It's Admon Faye-your father's personal recruiter of domestic talent." He spoke to the horse, and they were once again on the way. It took a moment for Bronwynn to make sense of his statement.
"That man is my father's slave master?" "I'm not surprised that you've never seen him. He and your father both make every effort to keep their professional relationship secret." They rode on some way before either spoke again. Bronwynn imagined being captured by this frowning slaver, and tried to relate that vision to the girls who served her. Every one of her attendants had experienced that, she thought to herself. No wonder there was such a bond of loyalty among them, a bond that sometimes made her feel shut out, even though she was the Princess and they were her slaves.
"Remember," Pelman said suddenly, "slaves aren't the only people who are in bondage." Bronwynn sat up in the saddle, surprised. She waited, but he said no more.
They pressed on, as the dawn turned into morning. They saw no more bands of raiders, but Pelman warned that their biggest danger now was a chance meeting with riders of Ognadzu. Bronwynn dozed, and at one point nearly fell from the horse. Pelman stopped then, and tied her to his back with strips of cloth from the horse's silken colors. It was perhaps an undignified way for a Princess to travel, but Bronwynn was too sleepy to .protest.
Between naps, the girl studied the passing countryside. Each hill they topped opened another valley to view, and another hill beyond. It would have been beautiful country in any other circumstance, but Bronwynn was tired of it. She longed for her own bed, and dreamed of it, waking suddenly to find herself still tied to the back of this curious stranger who seemed to know so much about everything. She felt him bend forward, and heard him talking; but though she strained to hear, she couldn't make out any of his words. It puzzled her, until she felt the horse surge forward with renewed energy, and she realized he had been speaking to it. For the first time it occurred to her how far and how fast their mount had come with so little rest. She had often bragged to the children of other noble families that the stables of the King bred the finest horseflesh in the world. The suspicion grew in her that the merchants in fact bred the best. Certainly this horse of Pezi's was the most marvelous she had ever ridden. But was the incredible effort entirely due to the horse? Or was this Pelman the player calling down the powers he said rode on the winds, and using them to buoy the horse up in its flight? When the beast began to flag, his energy fading, Pelman would bend to speak a word in his ear. Just a word, and the great-hearted animal would leap forward again, goaded not by pain but by his pride. The rhythm of its hoofbeats hypnotized her. Bronwynn slept again.
When she woke this time her bottom was numb. She shifted position to get some feeling back into it, and wished immediately that she hadn't. "I'm so sore I may never walk again!" she moaned. "When are we going to get there?" "So, you're awake again," Pelman observed. He patted her hand, then leaned forward to dip his hand into the bag that hung from the saddle. He pulled out a piece of dried meat and passed it over his shoulder. She pulled her hand free from the wrappings that tied her to him, and took it.
"What's this?" she grumbled.
"Food. I thought you might be hungry." She sniffed at it, and made a face he didn't see. "I'd rather die," she said crossly, and tossed it into the bushes.
"Your choice." Pelman shrugged. Pulling more meat from the bag, he began to chew. An hour later, when she announced she had changed her mind, he wordlessly passed her another piece.
Long after Bronwynn had given up hope of ever seeing Dorlyth Castle, they crested a small hill and Pelman pointed. It was not much of a keep, just two rather plain towers surrounded by a rough stone wall, standing on an uninviting escarpment of rock. But Bronwynn was exhausted. It didn't matter what the castle looked like; to her it was beautiful. Pelman rode slowly down into the small field that stretched to its base, watching with interest a tall young man who was chopping wood nearby. Rather than using an axe, the lad chopped with a greatsword, the heavy, five-foot-long blade that was the favorite weapon of the Maris. It was so long and hard to manage that most flat-landers had long since moved to shorter swords, but in the hands of a large man it could be a formidable weapon. And this man, young as he was, was certainly large enough. He did not look like most Maris-his hair was not blond, though it was bushy, and his legs were long and straight rather than squat. He was so intent on his work he didn't see them until they were but twenty yards away. Startled by their sudden appearance, he leapt atop the woodpile and turned the sword into full wheel around his head. Then his jaw dropped open and he stared in shock. He had recognized the rider.
"P-p-Pelman! P-p-powershaper!" he stuttered. Without another word, he dropped the sword and vaulted up the hill toward the gate of the keep and disappeared inside.
"Some welcome," Bronwynn sniffed, and Pelman laughed. He patted the horse's side and untied the cloths that had held the girl to him. "I hate this," she murmured as he lowered her to the ground, and her groan told him that she'd had good reason to dread. He felt it too, as soon as he slung himself out of the broad saddle and down. He walked a few tentative steps, then came back to take the head of their stolen steed between his two hands.
"I don't know what Pezi called you, but to me you are Minaliss, the steel-shouldered one-and a very fine friend." Bronwynn didn't hear him, for she was bending and stretching and prancing around, doing all she could to get life back into her legs. Pelman took the horse by the reins, offered his hand to the lady, and said grandly, "Shall we walk the rest of the way?" She half smiled, the best she could manage under the circumstances, and took his hand. Arm in arm, they strolled together into Dorlyth Castle and safety.
Visitors to Flayh's mansion on the southern plain of Lamath often told him he lived like a King. This was a mistake, for Flayh considered that he lived better than a King. He lived like a merchant, thank you, and in Flayh's mind a merchant outranked a King by a large margin. Those who visited his main dining room could scarcely help being impressed. Great chandeliers hung the length of the hall, each one illuminated by a circle Of twelve oil-burning lamps. The pieces of cut crystal that dangled below the lamps directed flashes of sparkling light to all corners of the room, and the gentle breeze that blew through open windows at either end of the hall kept them turning and shimmering throughout the course of the evening meal.
As always, the tables were heavily laden with fruits, nuts, vegetables of every kind, and exotic candies from faraway islands. There were colorful beverages in still more colorful decanters, and piles and piles of steaming meats of every sort, which filled the room with an aroma that was, to Pezi, quite heavenly. As he finished off the last of a venison steak, his belt unbuckled out of sight under the table, he was already dreaming of what culinary delights awaited him in his evening snack. Pezi felt the people of Lamath were the on
ly people who truly recognized the finer things in life: beef, pork, venison, etc. He loved the time he spent at his uncle's- most of it, anyway. In fact, Pezi believed that except for one thing, Flayh's residence was the most wonderful place on earth. The exception, of course, was Flayh.
At this very moment Flayh was coming in the side door, and Pezi almost groaned aloud when he saw his uncle was headed straight for him. He dutifully pasted a smile across his broad, greasy face. 'Good evening, uncle-" 'I want to see your slaves," Flayh said flatly. 'But-you never inspect slaves-" 'I'm inspecting these," Flayh snapped. 'They're-they're in the dungeon, where I normally-" "You're coming too." "Why, yes sir, of course, sir-" Pezi began to send messages to his body to get up, but Pezi was bigger than most men and it took a little longer for his legs to get the word. "I-I wonder-do you not trust me?" he said.
Flayh sneered at him. "Trust you? Of course I trust you, nephew. I trust you as far as I could throw you." Since Flayh was only a little over five feet tall, and weighed only one hundred thirty, Pezi did not consider this testimonial particularly encouraging. "Get up!" Flayh demanded.
Pezi was trying, but halfway to his feet he had remembered his belt was unbuckled, and he was now trying to make some inconspicuous adjustments under the table. Some ladies on the far side of the room had noticed and were giggling and whispering together. He smiled wanly at them, and stood. His uncle was already almost out the door.
Below the dining hall was a gigantic kitchen. Below that was a dungeon. Flayh had felt this a very efficient arrangement. He had cut slits in the stone floor of the kitchen, and instructed his cooks not to pick up food scraps or take much concern for the appearance of their work place. At the end of the day they would simply sweep the scraps into the floor slits, and what fell through to the slaves below was what they ate. Some days some slaves were lucky, some days others were. But no one was lucky enough. Then the kitchen would be mopped down, and buckets of dirty water sloshed across the floor. The slave who knew enough to stand under a slit at the right moment got the only thing approaching a bath that was to be had in the slave quarters. Often new slaves, unlucky enough to fail in the scramble for scraps, would cry out through the floor for food. Or. they would be too stupid or too proud to stand openmouthed below the floor slits while the floor was being washed, and would plead for a drink of water. Flayh had instructed his guards to beat these new slaves until they learned not to speak to the cooks. If a baker burned several loaves of bread, or a cook burned a roast, they would often blame it on a noisy slave, and that slave, guilty or not, would suffer for it. Most of the slaves learned quickly. Flayh's house might be a paradise for invited guests-for the slaves, it was little short of a hell.
To this dungeon Flayh now headed, keeping his own quiet counsel as his fat nephew struggled to keep up with him. It was as they were descending a spiraling stone staircase in the darkness that Pezi observed a curious thing-his uncle seemed to glow with a weird, blue phosphorescence, and he left a trail of glowing dust wherever he stepped. Though Pezi felt little rapport with his uncle, and no eagerness for conversation, his curiosity overcame him.
"Uncle, you're glowing!" "I'd advise you to mind your own business." Then Flayh laughed bitterly. "Had you minded your business, the plan would not be in such jeopardy." "What plan?" "Mind your own business!" Flayh screamed, and Pezi jammed his jaws tight, resolving to say nothing save in answer to a question.
At the bottom of the staircase was a long dark corridor, low-ceilinged, lighted by nickering torches placed intermittently along the walls. "Guards!" Flayh called, and at the sound of that distinctive voice, completely unexpected in this dank, foul quarter, there was a great clatter of martial-sounding activity.
They turned a corner at the end of the hall, and a group of guards stood at attention. They were all unkempt, smelly denizens of the dungeon, made so by the cruel and callous nature of their assignment. Flayh looked with disgust at their blue-and-lime uniforms, caked with mud and the grease from a dozen dinners, and snorted. "Don't you ever clean yourselves?" The leader of the detail cleared his throat and spoke nervously. "Had we known you were coming-I mean, we didn't expect-" "Always expect me, keeper," Flayh said, yelling in the man's face. "This is my castle, my dungeon, and I expect my fighting men to reflect my personality! Always expect me, or you may expect to find yourself the slave rather than the slavekeeper. Understood?" "Yes, sir!" the keeper snapped, and saluted. "I may have need of you on the battlefield someday," Flayh continued more quietly. "I don't want you to smell so badly that other soldiers won't stand beside you in line! Open that door." The keeper rushed to comply. The door flew open, and the stench flew out. Pezi gagged, but Flayh seemed almost pleased by it. He expected the guards to behave like soldiers. His slaves, however, ought by simple reason to smell like pigs. It helped to cement into their heads the true nature of their condition, and prepared them for sale.
He stalked to the middle of the large room, then put his hands on his hips and looked around. "Torch!" he called, and a guard raced in with a blazing torch that shed some light on these miserable subjects most unused to it. Flayh scanned the groups of slaves as they huddled in various comers. There was no feeling here of Pelman's presence. "Take it around, put it in the face of each one." The guard did as he was instructed. The last slave was finally viewed, and Flayh slowly turned to look at Pezi. The fat merchant was sure he was shedding a pound every passing second. His fear was so great that he was sweating like a horse after a hard ride. "Bring the torch over here," Flayh murmured to the guard, "and hold it up to this fat fool's face." The guard, puzzled but obedient, came quickly to Pezi's side. The fat merchant feared he was about to swallow his tongue whole. It felt like a dry wool sock rolled in the back of his throat.
Flayh gazed at him coldly, then spoke. "Where is he?" he asked.
"Where's who? Ooooff!" Pezi grunted, as Flayh buried a fist in his gut.
"Where, Pezi?" "Where is who, tell me who you-" This time his uncle slapped him. The look on Flayh's face convinced Pezi that he had better start explaining. He began with a confession. "All right, you mean Pelman." "I'm glad to see you're not completely without sense. Tell me about Pelman." "He-he got away." "Oh, really? Why, I never would have guessed. How on earth did he manage that?" "He-it was he who confused the beast-convinced him to release the girl-started the riot in the pass that led to their escape." "Their escape is it now? And did you follow them?" "I-I had no chance! I was risking my life as it was, trying to save the caravan!" "I would have given ten caravans joyfully to the dragon to have that girl and Pelman here, in this dungeon! That was the purpose of this whole enterprise, you fat swine!" Flayh punctuated this last with another backhanded slap. Pezi rubbed his jaw reflectively, watching Flayh's hands, hoping to guess where and when they might strike again. "You've failed me, Pezi. Oh, you've done so before. But never like this. Never to this degree." Pezi's face grew very, very pale, though in the torchlight the change could not be seen. "Shall I just have these guards strip you, and toss you into the corner over there?" "Oh, uncle, please-no-" Pezi found no difficulty in bending both knees and draping himself around his uncle's feet. "Please, don't do that!" "I could have them cut your tongue out for lying to me. How would that be?" "No. Oh, please-" "It would be a fitting punishment, wouldn't it?" "Oh, please-" "Wouldn't it?" "Yes, I guess. Oh, please-" Pezi babbled incoherently, the horror of his situation growing clearer with every sentence Flayh spoke.
"Yes, you say? Then I should do it? Guard, a poniard." Immediately Flayh had a knife in his hand; with the other hand gripping Pezi's hair, he pulled the fat man's head up to place the point on Pezi's lips.
"No! Please!" That seemed to be enough. Flayh was a cruel man, a mean man. But he was not wasteful. He would misuse Pezi in whatever way necessary to insure his loyalty, but he needed Pezi's talents to accomplish his purpose, and that of the Council of Elders. "Get up," he growled. Pezi stood, trembling uncontrollably. "I want you to go to Lamath, Pezi. I want you to speak with th
e King of Lamath himself, and tell him that Talith of Chaomonous has accused him of stealing his daughter, and raises a great army against him. Tell him that the dragon is confused-and the pass is open. If he wishes to defend himself, he needs to make haste. Do you think that you can manage that, Pezi?" "Yes. Oh, yes. Oh, thank you, sir-" "Quiet." Pezi shut his mouth and waited, as Flayh went on. "Then you are to go to the High Priest of the Unified Dragonfaith. Tell him the King of Lamath has blasphemed the dragon and sets an army against the beast. The new High Priest is a young lad, and should be easy to manipulate. Tell him the King has moved at last to crush the Dragonfaith's power, and that he must do all he can to weaken the army's morale, or his position will be forfeit. Is that clear?" "Yes, sir," Pezi sniveled.
"I want you on your way to Lamath tonight-no sleep, no midnight snack. Now Take those lazy cousins of yours with you. Now!" He shouted again, and Pezi bolted from the room. Flayh looked around at the slaves who watched, amazed at this display, confused at the torrent of words completely unrelated to their situation. Flayh smiled at them humorlessly, and strode out of the room. Then the door clanked shut behind him, and they sat in darkness once again.
The Prophet Of Lamath Page 5