The Prophet Of Lamath

by Hughes, Robert Don

  They had completed the tour and turned to ride back to the landowner's modest palace when a shout went up from among the entourage. Panicked riders spurred their horses around those who led the group, and raced one another to the main gate. Pelman turned in his saddle to look backward.

  Rosha saw the blood drain from the Prophet's face, and watched as he dug his heel into the flank of Minaliss and jerked forward. There was no mistaking the fear in Pelman's eyes. Rosha shouted to Bronwynn to ride as he whipped his own mount into action, then he too swiveled his head to peer up into the black sky behind him.

  A dark, living presence as tall as the heavens stalked the earth behind them. It was as if the giant clouds, black with rage, had chosen to chase them down, and now leapt from point to point along the ground on a single colossal whirling leg. Each place that funnelshaped foot touched down, trees and fences were torn asunder. Yet the presence within the wind took no interest in these inanimate playthings, tracking instead the tiny creations that fled its charge on horseback. Rosha whipped his horse again, his blood pounding as he urged his mount to an ever faster pace. When he glanced back again the tornado had hopped a mile to the south, leaving a once proud silo littered along the ground behind. Then it was again pursuing them, and Rosha saw clearly that he would never outrun it. Yet he raced onward past Pelman, who sat astride a strangely calm Minaliss, facing into the oncoming cloud.

  "You'll be killed!" Rosha screamed, the thought so clear and the need so immediate his lips would permit no stutter. Then he was past, his horse flying forward so quickly that he feared to try to stop it. Instead he dropped down to cling to the horse's neck, and clinched the beast's flanks between his knees with all the strength left to him in the wake of his fear. The wind roared in his ears, and he realized his scream could not have been heard. He'd seen enough in that brief glimpse to know that Pelman's face was still as white as ground flour- the fear still clutched him. Why, then, did he stand his ground? Bronwynn loomed up before Rosha, and he saw she too had turned her horse back toward the wind. As he passed her, Rosha leaned out to reach for her reins to turn her, but his reach fell short and he was forced at last to tighten up on his own steed to try to turn her slowly. Over the roar, he heard Bronwynn shouting at him.

  "Look, Rosha! Look!" But Rosha could not look until he had controlled his mount and turned her around. Still trembling, he cast a quick glance up at the black funnel, then sat up straight to search the horizon l for it. He didn't see it. The whirling wind was gone.

  Reality returned slowly. The world gradually came back into focus. Rosha shook his head to clear it, and realized that speech was audible once more. Bronwynn was shouting in his ear.

  "Did you see him? Did you see? He stood his ground in the face of the storm and the winds divided around him! Rosha, Pelman destroyed the storm!" As she shouted she rode toward that figure on horseback who still stood quietly in the roadway. Rosha patted his horse, and thanked her quietly as he had seen Pelman do, and urged her back toward the mounted Prophet.

  "You've done it, Pelman!" Bronwynn shouted as she reached him. "You've controlled the storm." Rosha reined his horse in to face the Prophet, and murmured, "Are y-y-you all right?" Pelman looked up, his face still ashen. "Yes." "You've controlled the whirlwind!" Bronwynn repeated loudly. Rosha noticed Pelman was shaking.

  "No ... not I," the Prophet said. His voice was somewhere between his lungs and his throat. "The Power . . ." He struggled to get it out.

  "Yes, but you mediated the Power," Bronwynn began.

  Abruptly the Prophet's voice returned, and he cut her off. "No!" Pelman's eyes were sharp again, Rosha noted with relief, and the Prophet's attention came again into the present. "I did not mediate it," Pelman explained. "I stood in the wind's pathway expecting to lose myself inside it. I raised no hand against it. The Power destroyed the wind, Bronwynn. For its own reasons the Power has preserved me." Bronwynn stared at him in awe. The religious sense within her, stifled in her childhood, experienced a renascence of life. Bronwynn was becoming a believer.

  Rosha sat idly in his saddle, waiting for some indication of what to do next. His father's best friend-and his own teacher-had just survived certain death in the face of cyclone winds. He felt no sense of awe. He only felt an urgency to move on to the safety of the manor. This storm had passed them by. There was no certainty -.the next would.

  Chapter Ten

  ADMON FAYE was not so foolish as to ride his chartered craft all the way into the harbor of Lamath. The river between the capital and the sea was lined with little fishing villages, and each village had its own businesses that catered to the needs of the sailor. Some miles east of the city Admon Faye paid the pilot the last of his fare, and asked to be put ashore. He made his way into one of these establishments, a dark little beer hall filled with the smells of brew and spices. His eyes adjusted quickly to the dim interior-indeed, he preferred the darkness to the day-and he quickly found an empty booth to occupy. His face discouraged any who might offer to keep him company. He sipped his brew in silence-and listened. After a time he had a fair idea of where the information he needed could be purchased, and he joined himself to a pair of drunken sailors.

  They were rowdy men, that was clear to all. But they were daylight dwellers, and they lacked guile. After their initial shock at the incongruous smile on this stranger's hideous face, they shared with him all he needed to know-and more.

  "Any unusual doings?" he asked, his voice taking on that peculiar edge common to Lamath, and especially to Lamathian sailors.

  "They're all unusual in these times," the blond sailor grunted, gazing stupidly into his beer. "No peace for a sailing man. They all want to make you navy." "Navy, yes," the other man agreed, drunkenly stabbing a finger into the air for emphasis. "This war, it is. Always the wars. Do I look like a fighter?" he asked, grabbing his tunic and looking imploringly at the ugly stranger. The blond found something hilarious in this, and convulsed onto the bar top in a spasm of giggling.

  "I mean the supernatural." Admon Faye went on grinding his teeth behind his phony smile.

  "You mean religion?" "That, or magic." "Quit there!" the dark-haired sailor yelled at his drunken friend, and he shoved him off the bar and onto the floor. "What was that? Magic?" "Magic," Admon Faye repeated, his cold eyes meeting the sailor's firmly.

  "Where you from?" the sailor muttered.

  "Does it matter?" Admon Faye asked quietly, shoving several pieces of gold into the sailor's hand without any audible clink. The seaman's grip tightened around the coins, and he shook his head slowly from side to side.

  "Any magic then, my friend?" the slave trader asked, eyebrows raised inquiringly.

  "No magic in Lamath," the sailor whispered. "You show by that you don't belong, despite your accent. But there is religion, now, and plenty of it, and wonders worked regular these days." "Where?" "Seventy miles east of the capital, about. Ask after the Priestess, they'll all know where. Though why you should want to go . . ." He didn't finish his sentence, for there was no one to finish it to. In three long strides Admon Faye was out the door and gone.

  He searched throughout the village for a horse, but found none available. He walked the two miles to the next village only to find the same result.

  "All the horses are gone for the army," one man told him. "If you want one, you'll have to join the army, too." The slaver scoffed at that, and walked another three miles toward the capital. When he discovered the man had spoken the truth, he didn't hesitate. Late that afternoon, Admon Faye, resplendent in newly woven Lamathian blue, sat astride a pretty white pony that had been issued to him by the Department of Defense and Expansion. Still later, the new uniform was stuffed into his handbag, and pony and rider rode swiftly through the night. For the first time in many days, Admon Faye felt at home.

  From the walls of Chaomonous, the column looked like a golden snake that slithered ever northward to Lamath and to war. It was not as large as Talith had hoped, but forty-seven thousand was still a
mighty fighting force, and the King would not allow this small disappointment to rob him of his sense of achievement. He rode now at the head of the column, but he frequently checked behind to see that his litter was keeping up. He wasn't about to let this conquering-hero business deprive him of the simple human comforts.

  With him rode Generals Joss and Rolan-Keshi, the latter still chafing at being robbed of the command, the former wishing he had a late report on events inside the palace. Also traveling with them was young Tahli-Damen, dressed in his usual purple and red-he was the only man in the column not clothed in the colors of the King. He felt very out of place in this company.

  Jagd had carefully outlined for Tahli-Damen the plan laid for Talith's betrayal, and had assured him that success in this enterprise would thrust Tahli-Damen into the highest echelon of merchant leadership. There was only one problem to all this, Tahli-Damen reflected. He would feel very fortunate if he survived.

  On the walls of the Crown Palace of Chaomonous, other orders were being issued-orders every bit as treacherous as those Tahli-Damen labored to hide. Kherda clung to a stone abutment and watched in amazement as the column wound farther and farther north, passing around a stand of mountains and out of sight. He was trembling again, but no longer from fear. Now he shook with excitement. The day had come! He had succeeded in dispatching Talith to war without his plot being uncovered. He heard Ligne clicking off orders behind him, but he paid no attention. His job was done. Now he could rest.

  He felt no elation as he heard the clatter of metalshod feet on the cobblestones below him and in the hallways within. He felt no remorse as he heard shouts of alarm and cries of distress and pain. He had orchestrated. this takeover of Talith's palace-now he listened as someone else conducted it, knowing in advance when new sounds would be added, listening for and hearing new clashes begin on cue. He clung to the cool stone, leaning his cheek against it and waiting for word that the coup had been successful, and that Ligne was in control of the palace.

  Ligne stalked through the halls, her eyes flashing a warning to anyone who might accost her. For months she had been the Queen in effect-now she was the Queen in fact, and well known to each of the combatants who struggled in the corridor. No one bothered her as she pushed with purposeful stride past friend and foe alike. Bodies fell to her right and left, and there were cries of disbelief and screams of horror on every side, but she paid them no mind as she glided, pantherlike, to the door of her rival's apartment, and slammed it open.

  "Welcome, Ligne dear. I was expecting you." Latithia's tone was light and trivial, as if the noise of the battle beyond the wall had nothing to do with her. Ligne glanced around at the carnage to assure herself that her forces were firmly in charge, then stepped into the room and closed the door behind her.

  "You were expecting me? Really?" She smiled sweetly, taking her cue from Latithia.

  "Of course I was." Latithia smiled back. "Won't you have some tea?" The deposed Queen poured Ligne a cup of the steaming liquid, and set it on the table. Ligne slipped into the offered chair, and fingered the rim of the cup.

  "You surprise me, Latithia. I had expected tears, or pleas-you seem determined to take the fun out of this for me." "I'm so pleased to have disappointed you," Latithia replied brightly. "I have always felt it becomes a lady of position to be able to cope with the inevitable." "And my victory was inevitable," Ligne gloated. "No. My husband's defeat was." Latithia rose gracefully, carrying her teacup in both hands. "Anyone could have overthrown him. He was a rotting apple, ripe for the plucking." "You speak of him in the past tense, dear. Have you already consigned him to the grave?" "Hmm?" Latithia asked, sipping her tea. "Oh no.

  Not him. Myself." "You wrong me," Ligne protested unconvincingly. "I have no interest in taking your life." "Yet." Latithia smiled. "That would be a bit much right now, wouldn't it? After all, you'll need to convince the peasants that your cause is Just, and that your rule will be fair. Once your reign, is secure, there will be plenty of time to behead the old Queen-" Latithia stopped, and pointed to Ligne's cup. "You haven't touched your tea." "I don't intend to," Ligne snorted.

  Latithia paused for a moment. She seemed to be listening at last to the clash of arms in the hallway. The noise was receding, as Ligne's trained insurgents swept away the last resistance of Talith's paltry guard. Just that morning, the King had reversed Joss' order to station more men in the palace. With difficulty, Latithia refocused her eyes on Ligne, and murmured, "Pity-I had hoped to take you with me." Then she clutched her stomach, squinting at the sudden pain, and toppled to the parquet floor.

  Poison. Ligne pushed her own cup away with one finger, and softly chided, "I wish you hadn't done that. I was going to have such fun with you." Then she left the room as swiftly as she had come, ignoring the dying woman's groans.

  She climbed to the battlements where Kherda waited, and announced, "It's done." Kherda turned to look at her. The woman's face was flushed, as if she'd come fresh from the bed of her lover.

  Kherda nodded. He felt no different, now that the thing was done. The sky had not fallen. The ground had not opened up to swallow him. He had betrayed and overthrown his own King-yet he survived. He made his way to the reassuring confines of his familiar apartments. As the golden city fell, the man who had planned its conquest enjoyed the soundest sleep he had known in months.

  Pelman had planned to make a public announcement of his prophethood. That was the common practice, and he felt this continuity with Lamathian tradition might help to soften the blow of his unorthodox teachings. The experience of the whirlwind, however, made any public announcement unnecessary. Those who had witnessed it from the manor departed in every direction the moment the storm abated, and there was only one subject on their lips. A new Prophet had come to Lamath.

  Everywhere the announcement was made it met the same response: "What will the Priestess say to this?" Within days, the news had made its way to Serphila, searching out new ears the way tree roots search for water-in order to continue to live. By the time the tale was told in the village, the story had grown like spring grass after the rain.

  "A Prophet has come to Lamath! He wears no symbol, and they say he is a Divisionist, but he has power over nature and can bend the world to his will. He cut a tornado in half with a snap of his fingers! He laughed and stars fell from the sky. He cannot pass a burial place without bodies rising to follow him! No, I'm not lying! It means that the Lord Dragon knows Chaomonous threatens us, and has sent us a Prophet as a sign!" Those closest to Serphimera could scarcely contain themselves when they heard the news. It was not that they believed it. Instinctively they feared it. But the Priestess certainly needed to hear. They raced one another to tell her, and found her tending the garden that had sprouted in the field surrounding the crater made by the dragon.

  "Stay off the peas," she shouted to them as they picked their way toward her.

  "A Prophet has come to Lamath!" one shouted and the others chimed in with their echoes. Serphimera absorbed the news with little more reaction than a blink of the eyes, and held up her hands for silence.

  "The Lord Dragon's garden is not the place for such a tale. Let's make our way to the chapel." There was much excitement and noise in the chapel that afternoon. The Priestess had a vision of a Prophet in blue being torn in two by the dragon. They were powerful things, Serphimera's visions. Usually they came true.

  Pelman was speaking quietly to Bronwynn and Rosha, explaining a passage of extreme complexity, when someone cleared his throat beyond the entry hole.

  "Yes, my father?" Pelman called through the wall. He had heard that sound many times before, usually when his teacher had wished to call him back from vague speculations to the realities of the lesson at hand.

  This summons proved to have some of that same quality, as Pelman discovered after he made the transit on his stomach and stood beside the toothless little man. "I hate to disturb your study again," the Elder began, but his sardonic smile belied his words. "However, ther
e is a matter I felt you needed to be aware of. Your fame has reached the ears of the Priestess of the dragon. The lady is on the way here, it appears, and I was wondering. Do you think you could meet her somewhere along the way? It would do none of us any good if she were to discover exactly where you stay." The old man loved Pelman and he supported the new Prophet's mission with the utmost enthusiasm. But he also loved the other brothers. Was it fair, he wondered, to penalize them and stifle their spiritual progress for this one, when there was no need even to involve them? Pelman nodded curtly. While it was too late to keep this place hidden, he too saw wisdom in disassociating himself from the monastery. " "Rosha! Bronwynn! Come quickly." As the two young people slid noisily out of the chamber, Pelman turned to the Elder and put his hands on the man's shoulders. "You know that you may store your library here if you wish . . ." "What?" the little man said, his head jerking. "Why should the bears want to read my books? I certainly wouldn't be reading them down here!" Then the baldheaded scholar joined himself to Rosha as they all walked back to the ladder. The lad was the only one who had the good sense to carry a sword into this cavern.

  Central Lamath was dotted with small farming communities, where life was slow and travel infrequent. How then did news travel so quickly? Without aid of crier or public proclamation, everyone seemed to know everything that was going on anywhere locally. Before Pelman knew, before Serphimera knew, the locals had calculated exactly where their meeting would take place, and began to gather there to wait for the event.