The Prophet Of Lamath

by Hughes, Robert Don

  "Bronwynn-" ', "Behind you." "Quiet-" "I'm here . . ." Her voice quavered slightly, but she was getting good at controlling it, even when suffocating in horror. The beast made no sound. Rosha listened.

  "Back up-" he whispered. "Slowly . . ." He listened some more. Sandals scraped sand on the stone floor behind him. He took a step back himself. Somewhere in front of him the beast growled low in its throat, and Rosha froze.

  "Still backing?" he asked, his voice cracking as he choked the words out.

  "Still backing," she whispered, and he could tell she was twenty feet behind him now. He waited, stiff and ready, but the beast still did not charge. Rosha had only glimpsed the bear briefly in the lamp's dying flare-up. It was surprisingly small. Rosha concentrated on how small the bear really was, for the darkness insisted that the animal was larger.

  "Have you reached that last comer?" he asked, wondering if a loud noise could frighten the bear away. At least the tension seemed to have stopped his stammering for the moment.

  "Not yet ... not yet ... not . . . yet," Bronwynn chanted as she backed into the blackness with her hands held behind her, fearing that another set of teeth might chomp down on them any minute.

  "Quiet!" he ordered, and she stopped her chant in time to hear the cavern bear snort. "Just tell me when you get there." Rosha began to feel dizzy, standing motionless in the pitch black. His fear was changing to anger, anger at Pelman for leaving them, anger at the bear for blocking their escape, and anger at Bronwynn for no reason at all. He entertained thoughts of springing savagely at the bear, hacking at it, biting if need be, crushing it in his grip. But he held onto his senses, and gripped his sword.

  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," Pelman 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 Pelman 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, Pelman 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 alt
er 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 Pelman's face. "Maximum cage. .Now!" The two guards lifted Pelman 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. There was nothing on his desk that needed attention-nothing that couldn't wait until after the war.

  By late afternoon the army of Lamath filled the King's Road like a mighty, south-flowing river. Northbound traffic simply had to clear off and wait until it passed. The Chaon column had been sighted attempting to pass Dragonsgate. General Asher hoped to arrive in time to help the Lord Dragon demolish the infidels.

  Chapter Twelve

  ADMON FAYE sat quietly in the former library, watching the square-cut slab that hid the cavern below. His drawn sword lay across his lap, and his hands played absently with a wickedly curved dagger. Two or three brothers had died before he received the information he needed, but others had proved more cooperative. It was a pity the dead had been so stubborn. The slaver had had no quarrel with them. He would seize the lad and the girl eventually, anyway. Why should these monks waste their lives attempting to prevent the inevitable? He had accepted, finally, that Pelman had escaped him. But he felt sure that he knew who the girl was, and she would be worth plenty, either to her father or to Ligne. If he could, he would capture the boy as well, and use him somehow to entrap Pelman. But if the lad resisted, the slaver resolved to kill him. One live prisoner would be difficult enough to smuggle out of this foreign place. Two could prove more than just a nuisance.

  They had to come up sometime, he told himself. Surely they weren't stupid enough to lose themselves down there. Suddenly there was a faint scrape, and Admon Faye gripped his weapons tightly and moved around to crouch behind the stone.

  The slab lifted out of place very slowly, but Admon Faye was patient. He hid himself behind the edge that acted as a hinge for the rest of the slab. There were muffled grunts and gasps, then he saw a hand with thin, tapered fingers-a woman.

  Bronwynn heaved the stone up, and it flipped onto its face as Admon Paye skipped out of its way. The girl's back was to him, and she didn't see him until he had grabbed her. His knife hand slipped nooselike around her neck as his sword arm thrust under her left arm and around to grip her waist. She screamed as he lifted her off the top rung of the ladder and spun her in the air. He whispered menacingly, "Where's the boy?" Bronwynn didn't answer. Her chest began to heave, and she whimpered instead. He crushed her against him harshly and demanded again, "Where's the boy?" "He's dead!" Bronwynn yelled back, and tears washed out onto her cheeks.

  "I don't believe you," the ugly murderer snarled into her ear. Then he craned his head around and bit her, hard, on the cheek.

  "It's true!" Bronwynn screamed, and she kicked back at his shins with all the energy remaining to her. She missed. He swung her through the air and tossed her sprawling against the empty book racks. Then he dropped to his knees and peered into the hole. There was no light at all, but he thrust his head inside and strained to hear the sounds of breathing. He couldn't. Not with the girl's loud sobs.

  He pointed his dagger at her and commanded, "You close your mouth!" "How can I?" she screamed back at him. "He's dead! He's dead!" "How is he dead?" the slaver demanded, vaulting the hole and thrusting his sword tip into her face.

  "A bear!" Bronwynn wailed. "Don't you see the blood?" She raised the hem of her robe for his inspection. It was wringing wet with red-black blood, and for two seconds Admon Faye believed her.

  That was time enough. The slaver heard rather than felt the blade-stroke that split the flesh of his back open. Fine hearing and trained reflexes kept it from being fatal, but Rosha had caught enough of the man to make the slaver drop his dagger. Bronwynn grabbed it and scrambled away on her hands and knees. Rosha leapt around between her and the killer, and deflected the wounded man's thrust easily. He didn't pause, but cut immediately under the slaver's blade and jabbed for the heart.

  Admon Faye wasn't that hurt. His sword was shorter than Rosha's, a Chaon sword, and he was quick and cagey. He slammed his blade down fast, knocking Rosha's point toward the floor, and the young warrior had to dance sideways, briefly turning his back on the slaver, to avoid a slice that surely would have gutted him.

  The elements of surprise and reflex response now exhausted, the swordsmen backed off and regarded one another. Admon Faye tried to force Rosha to circle far enough so that he could grab Bronwynn again, but the boy caught on, and indicated his refusal with two quick, capable slashes that drove Admon Faye back a step. Then the slaver recognized Rosha.

  "Rosha mod Dorlyth, is it?" he muttered coldly. "You're a boy. I have no quarrel with you." "B-but I have with you!" Rosha snapped back proudly.

  The slaver's repulsive face broke into a crooked grin. "What's wrong, lad? Pear chewing you?" "I am n-n-not afraid of you, Ad-m-mon Faye!" "Rosha, don't talk!" Bronwynn warned from behind him.

  "Don't talk? He can't talk!" Admon Faye chuckled. It was an attempt to draw Rosha into an exchange, true, but the slaver had not counted on the ferocity of the boy's response. With a flurry of strokes that came unbelievably fast, Rosha chased Admon Faye around the room, and Bronwynn was hard pressed to keep herself behind him. Admon Faye struggled to defend himself. When the boy finally slacked off, the slaver put an extra step between them. He resolved to say nothing more about the lad's stumbling tongue. He tried a different tack. "Give me the girl, swordsman, or I'll chase you into your tomb! I have no quarrel with you! Leave off, and I will make none!" "The d-door!" Rosha cried, and he jumped forward again, fighting with a skill unrealized because it had been untested. He fought not with his arms and legs and back alone, but with his eyes, with his ears, with his mind. He beat Admon Faye back to the far side of the room, freeing the doorway, and Bronwynn bolted outside.

  Admon Faye now felt the effects of that first deep cut. His back burned, and his strength was diminishing steadily. If he were to kill this boy, it would have to be by craft. And he would need to move soon or the girl would be away. He parried, then skillfully turned the boy's attack, driving Rosha back toward the open hole in the floor, herding him along with a fancy mixture of strokes. But as Rosha reached the edge of the pit he leapt nimbly backward, clearing it easily while his eyes never left the slaver's. Now Admon Faye jerked to one side and swooped his sword tip through the legs of the old Elder's stool. In the same motion he flipped it spinning straight for Rosha's face, and jumped across the yawning pit himself.

  Rosha never hesitated. He thrust his blade forward to impale the stool, then brought it crashing down into Admon Faye's chest. He caught the man in the midst of his jump, and the slaver's feet came out from under him. Then he dropped, bouncing off one edge of the pit and jackknifing as he plummeted through it into the black of the cavern. Rosha tossed sword and stool aside, and stooped to grab the ladder, jerking it swiftly up into the room. As he gripped the haft of his sword and jerked
it free from the stool, he heard Admon Faye groan.

  That was unfortunate, Rosha thought to himself. Evidently the slaver had survived the fall. But Bronwynn was outside yelling for him to come, and he couldn't stay. He dashed from the building and jumped into the saddle of the white pony Admon Faye had stolen from the army. Bronwynn was mounted on Minaliss, and the powerful horse snorted with excitement as they turned and rode swiftly in the direction of Lamath. He seemed to know he was going for his master.

  The cell Pelman occupied was nothing more than a cage. It was a cubicle five feet square with one open side. This was closed off by a grill of riveted iron strips. A man could sit or kneel or curl himself on the floor, but he could not stand up or stretch out. Pelman crouched in a comer, dozing. The guard assigned to watch him sat, pasty-faced with fear, on a stool facing the cage. He didn't like this at all. Imprisoning a prophet was never done in Lamath, even if he were of the Divisionist order. What with the army marching off to war and all, was this really a good tune to aggravate the Lord Dragon? "We will see your prisoner," someone said. When the guard recognized the speaker his ashen face turned whiter. Standing behind him was the entire council of advisors, along with the High Priest of the Dragonfaith himself! "It's all right," Naquin told the guard, but the fellow wouldn't be comforted. "Go-eat something," Naquin ordered, and the guard scurried off to obey him. The High Priest turned to examine the man who squatted in the cage, whose eyes by now were wide and watchful. "Now, Prophet-for so they tell me you claim to be- help me to understand all this." "I am addressing the High Priest of the Dragonfaith?" Pelman asked, without changing position.