The Sage (23 page)

“But
he cannot bring back the Ulin!” Yocote exclaimed. “He cannot raise the dead!
... Can he?”

“No,
but it is yet possible for the few Ulin left to beget more of their own kind—if
Bolenkar can stimulate their interest in the project.” Illbane frowned, then
repeated, “If. It is far more likely for him to save out a few human women for
breeding stock, and persuade the male Ulin to make more Ulharls. Many more,” he
said darkly.

“And
there shall be no more humans, only Ulharls?” Culaehra cried. “No, Illbane! We
must not let that happen!”

“It
is for you to say,” Illbane said, locking gazes with him.

Culaehra
stared back at him, realizing the import of his words, and turned chill
inside—but he searched his heart, and found that his determination did not
lessen; it was no mere bravado. He would not surrender the world to Bolenkar
and his kind! “How can I stand against one so mighty?” he whispered.

“With
a magical sword in your hand, and a brave band of companions by your side,” the
sage told him.

“Where
shall I find a magical sword?”

“I
shall forge it for you, for I was a smith before I was a sage, or even a
shaman.”

Yocote
started, and stared at Illbane with sudden dread.

“But
I must have magical iron from which to forge that blade,” the sage said.

“The
Star Stone,” Yocote breathed.

“The
Star Stone?” Kitishane glanced from him to Illbane. “Is
that
the
fragment of Lomallin's spear that fell to earth in the north?”

“It
is,” Illbane said quietly.

“A
fragment of a god's spear!” Even Culaehra stared at the enormity of it. “By all
the heavens! That
would
be iron of power!”

“It
would indeed,” Illbane agreed.

“And
that is why Bolenkar set sentries to keep us from it!” Kitishane cried.

“The
fuchan?” Lua asked.

“The
fuchan,” Illbane confirmed, “and this ogre that you have just slain. It was one
of Ulahane's nastier pastimes, to see to the forceful begetting of such
monsters, to encourage their birth by magic, and to warp and distort them as
they grew. It is a depraved game that his son has learned, and still practices;
his magic is by no means equal to an Ulin's, but he can manage this much,
though I believe it stretches his powers to their limits. There is no race of
ogres; I would guess Bolenkar forced the begetting of this one by a giant upon
a human woman.”

“How
could a woman live through such a nightmare?” Kitishane cried in disgust.

“Most
likely she did not—but the embryo did, and Bolenkar kept it growing by magic,
birthed it by enchantment, then raised it with distorting spells and set it
upon our trail.”

“So
that is why it came upon us!” Culaehra cried. “It was set to hunt us!”

“And
found us,” Illbane agreed. “It will not be the last—but there are still lands
ahead where people dwell, and the hunters there may be more subtly disguised.”

“Not
monsters, you mean?” Kitishane asked.

“No,”
Illbane agreed. “We must look for his agents among people, my friends, and
among other races. They will set up obstacles to ensnare us, they will seek to
strike from hiding.”

They
traded glances filled with trepidation, and only Lua seemed to have noticed
that the sage had called them his friends.

“How
do you know all this, Illbane?” Culaehra frowned. “How do you know that this
fragment fell from Lomallin's spear?”

“Because
I saw it,” the sage answered.

“You
have visions?” Kitishane breathed, but Yocote stared at him in awe.

“I
do,” Illbane admitted.

“You
did not say that this was one of them, though,” Yocote pointed out.

Illbane
turned to him with the ghost of a smile. “No, I did not,” he agreed.

Two
days later they came to the edge of a lower pass and saw no more mountains
before them.

“Open
land!” Lua breathed. “I had almost forgotten the look of it!”

“Surely
not.” Yocote smiled as he came up beside her. “It is simply that we who were
reared underground have less need of such spaces, Lua.”

She
glanced at him, smiling, and he returned the smile, but the goggles hid any
other expression their faces might have held.

They
all came up along the ledge and stared out over the valley. The foothills
rolled away below them to a verdant plain cut into segments by three rivers,
one flowing from the mountains behind them, another from a distant range that
towered on the far side of the valley, and another that ran more or less down
its length. All three met in the distance to the east, and buildings clustered
at the junction, with a castle rising from a headland between the northern
stream and the eastward-flowing one. The valley floor was cut into a crazy
quilt of cultivated fields, in varying shades of tan now that the harvest was
in. Where fields intersected, collections of huts stood.

Perhaps
it was the chill, perhaps that the day was overcast, but Kitishane shivered. “I
like not the look of that castle, Illbane.”

“Neither
do I.” Culaehra scowled and hitched his pack a bit higher. “Let us go down and
discover why.”

He
started down the trail, but Yocote stopped him, holding up a hand against the
rogue's knee. “Hold, Culaehra, and think!

Could
this not be one of the traps that Illbane warned us against?”

The
warrior frowned down at him, but Illbane nodded as he came up. “It could
indeed, Yocote. That was well thought.”

“Yes,
it could,” Culaehra told him, “but Illbane said 'obstacles,' not 'traps.' Let
us go and overcome this one!”

He
pushed on past. Yocote looked up at Illbane in astonishment. The sage could
only shrug. “What can I say? He is right; I did say 'obstacles.' If we cannot
go around them, Yocote, we must go through them—and these mountains prevent us
from the roundward journey. Let us go.”

The
gnome sighed and followed the sage, who followed the impatient warrior rushing
to meet his war. The others advanced as well, without quite so much zest.

They
descended through two levels of foothills that day, then camped for the night.
The next morning, they gained the summit of the lowest hill and found
themselves looking down on a village.

It
was very poor. The thatch of the roofs was old, dark with streaks of rot, and
the daubed walls were cracked. The few trails of smoke rising were thin and
small. The village “green” was bare earth—packed hard now, under the boots of a
troop of soldiers who stood, pikes at guard, glaring at the cowering villagers
as if angered at thoughts of rebellion. A man on a tall horse waited in their
midst, wrapped in a fur cloak against the chill, watching as soldiers loaded
grain from each hut into a wagon and led pigs into another, which also held
coops into which they stuffed the chickens they took from trembling villagers.
Two cows stood by that wagon patiently; soldiers were driving a third to join
it. Another dragged a girl screaming from a hut; an older man cried out and
charged the soldier, but two more leaped forward and felled him with quick
blows.

“The
swine!” Kitishane cried, and turned to Illbane. “Can you not stop them?”

“Yes,
but it would mean a war,” the sage told her. “Have we time to fight it?”

The
soldier shoved the girl up and into the wagon with the pigs, then tied her
wrists to the side; her screams slackened into sobs. The man in the fur cloak
gestured, and the teamsters whipped their teams into motion. The wagons pulled
out of the village green, soldiers falling into place before and behind. They
moved out along the town's one road, which led to the hill where stood the
castle.

As
they went, light winked off a golden band around the temples of the man in the
cloak.

“A
crown!” Yocote hissed. “He is a king!”

“If
you must needs call him so,” Illbane said, with scorn. “In the cities of the
south, they would scarcely call him a royal steward—certainly not a governor,
when he rules only a few barbarian tribes. Belike they would call him a
chieftain and let it go at that.”

Culaehra
frowned. “Be that as it may, in this northern country and among
us
barbarians, he is a king!”

“Yes,
and the land over which he holds sway is vast enough to merit the title,”
Illbane admitted, “though the number of people is not—and here, in the marches
of the civilized world, he and his army are all that stand between civilization
and the wild peoples of the wasteland.”

“King
or not, he is a villain!” Kitishane fumed. “How dare he take a maiden against
her will! And look at the size of that heap of grain! He can scarcely have left
the folk of that hamlet enough food to survive the winter!” She turned on
Culaehra. “Can you do nothing to stop them?”

“Yes,
but not by a direct attack.” The big man stood hard-faced and spoke through
thin lips. “There are forty of them to our four, and all heavily armed into the
bargain.”

“Then
how
can
we save her?”

“Let
us search for information before he answers that,” Yocote said. “The soldiers
will be far along the road by the time we come to the village. Let us seek, my
companions.” He started off down the hillside path, not waiting for the rest of
them.

They
fell in quickly enough. Lua glanced back, then looked again in surprise. “Why
do you smile, Illbane? Surely it is a horrifying sight!”

“Yes,
but 'companion' is a good word,” the sage replied. “Let us see what the
villagers can tell us, Lua.”

The
people told them a great deal by hiding at first sight of them. As they came
into the circle of beaten earth at the center of the cluster of huts, Culaehra
glanced around, frowning in puzzlement. “Why do they flee, Illbane? We are only
four!”

“Four,
but armed, and strangers,” the sage replied, “and gnomes by daylight are never
seen; who knows what magic they might work? You must earn their trust,
Culaehra—at least, enough to hear their tale.”

“Let
me.” Kitishane touched his arm, and he stared down in surprise, but she had
already turned away and was calling out to the silent huts, “Ho, good folk! We
are strangers, angered by the events we have just seen transpire here! Come
out, and tell us if there is more to it than there appears!”

The
village still stood silent.

“Oh,
come!” Lua cried, and whipped off her goggles, squinting painfully even under
the overcast. “I shall not hurt you, nor shall any of my companions! Yocote,
unmask!”

Reluctantly,
Yocote took off his goggles and stood squinting.

“See!
We have rendered ourselves nearly blind to show our faith!” Lua cried to the
silent huts. “Our archer has unstrung her bow, our sage waits to hear and
advise! Oh, come, and tell us what has happened here!”

The
distress in her voice must have touched a heart, for an older woman stepped out
of a hut. “My daughter has been taken to satisfy the king's lust. What else
matters?”

“Nothing,”
Kitishane said instantly, “but it might—”

“Revenge!”
Culaehra said, his eyes smoldering.

The
woman stared. So did Culaehra's companions. Then the woman spoke, her voice
hushed and awed. “How can you have revenge upon a king?”

“He
is as human as any other man,” Culaehra replied, “and can be slain or punished
just as easily.”

“Will
that save my daughter?” The woman's eyes brimmed over. With a cry of distress,
Lua ran to her, arms open. The woman recoiled in surprise, stared—then opened
her arms, too, dropping to her knees to embrace the gnome, sobs racking her
body.

Culaehra
looked around and saw faces at every doorway— wary, frightened, but watching,
and here and there the fire of anger in an eye. He turned back to Kitishane. “If
not revenge, what?”

“An
ending,” she said slowly, studying his face. “Perhaps we can prevent his doing
such a thing again.”

“Is
that all?” Culaehra cried in exasperation. “A quick death? Is he not to suffer
for all the suffering he has imposed?”

“There
are other walls than death,” Kitishane said, still studying him as if puzzled. “For
a man who has wielded power, prison would be punishment indeed—but we must be
sure he merits such treatment.”

Culaehra
turned away with an oath of disgust, but Kitishane called to the villagers, “We
may find some means of action, good folk, but we must know more about your king
before we go against him. Come out, and tell us of him.” Slowly, they came.

What
more do you need to know?” a man asked. His weather-beaten face could have been
anywhere between thirty and fifty years in age; his shoulders were thick and
broad as a beam, his hands callused to a horny hardness, his tunic and hose
patched and ragged. “He has taken our food—all the produce we have labored the
year to grow, and taken, too, the meat animals we raised from calves and
piglets.”

“Has
he left you nothing?” Kitishane asked.

The
man shrugged. “Enough to keep us alive till spring, if we eat sparingly.”

“Very
sparingly,” a woman said, her face hard.

“That
brings illness,” Illbane said. “How many of you die every winter?”

They
looked up at him in surprise, and here and there someone shivered. “It is the
dying season,” the man said simply.

“Has
he always been so hard and grasping, this king of yours?” Kitishane asked.

“Not
always,” one old man rasped, and the people stepped aside so that he could come
to Kitishane. He hobbled up, leaning on a staff.

“How
did he begin, then?” she asked.

“When
his father died and he became the King of the Northern Marches in the old man's
stead, he told us all he would work for our good, and we rejoiced, though some
of the older folk said they would wait and see, for they had heard his father
speak so when he was young. But King Oramore began well, seeking for ways to
protect us.”