The Sage (42 page)

“But
the battle plan was yours!” Kitishane said quickly.

“I
thank you, I thank you all!” Tears brimmed in the woman's eyes. “But who is the
warrior who slew so many of our enemies?”

Culaehra
finished wiping his blade, sheathed it, and came up behind Kitishane.

“His
name is Culaehra,” Kitishane said, “and if it had not been for him, we would
all be dead—or worse. Tell the others—you are free! But we must go now, before
the Vanyar send more warriors.”

“Yes,
yes! We shall go!” The woman rose and went to tell her neighbors, pressing her
children close against her.

“Let
us catch a few of those horses if we can,” Culaehra told Kitishane. “The Vanyar
seem to have left their chariots, and these folk will travel faster if the
horses do their walking for them.”

Kitishane
nodded and went to try to make friends with the Vanyar's pets.

Yocote
nodded, and began to gesture, muttering. The horses calmed; those who had
strayed began to turn back toward the campsite.

Half
an hour later the horses left the camp, going back where they had come during
the day, with very inexpert, feminine hands on the reins. Kitishane and Lua
rode another chariot with them. Culaehra and Yocote stayed only long enough for
Corotrovir to chop apart the four chariots that had no horses; then they
boarded one last car and drove after the women.

The
old folk could scarcely believe their eyes when they saw their daughters and
grandchildren coming back. Glad cries rose from both sides, and women rushed
forward to embrace elders. The children ran in for their share of hugs and
reassurances. Then all turned to see the carnage wrought about them anew, and
tears flowed.

“It
is time to bury the dead,” Lua said, tears on her cheeks.

“Yes,
but quickly.” Kitishane frowned. “The Vanyar may not leave us an abundance of
time.”

Even
digging graves, Culaehra did not doff his armor; as Kitishane had said, the
Vanyar might be upon them sooner than they expected.

“Dig
only a few inches,” Yocote told him, “then leave the rest to me.”

“Save
your strength.” Lua touched his arm. “You shall need it, and magic over rock
and earth is such as all gnomes know.”

Yocote's
face darkened; he remembered that he had very little of such inborn magic.

“You
are a mighty shaman,” she assured him, “such as has never been among gnomekind.
Let me do what any other gnome may.”

The
gratitude that flashed from his eyes was intense, but gone almost as soon as it
was seen. The look on his face was vibrant, though.

Culaehra
did not understand, but he knew better than to argue with magicians. He lifted
a few inches of dirt in a line, six feet by three feet, again and again for the
number of bodies that lay in the village street. Then Lua chanted, making an
upward gesture with both hands, and dirt and stones began to pour out of the
ground, mounding up high along the lines Culaehra had drawn. In half an hour
the graves were ready, and Kitishane and Culaehra began the grim work of
bearing bodies to their final beds, carrying first the one ancient who lay
dead. Weeping, the women began to join in the work; sobbing, they buried
markers in the ground carved with pictures that told who was buried in each
grave. Then all the survivors stood about, their sobs filling the night.

Culaehra
looked up, frowning. “Have you no priest?”

“He
lies in that grave.” An old woman pointed. “Aged though he was, he stood in the
path of the Vanyar with his staff raised, praying to Ojun to stop them. Ojun
did not hear. How well would he guard these dead?”

“Ojun?”
Culaehra turned to Yocote. “Do you know of an Ojun?”

“He
was an Ulin who was slain in their war,” the shaman answered. “Illbane made me
memorize all their names, and who had died, and how.”

The
old woman stared. “Do you say our god is dead?”

“Dead,
but his spirit still may aid you,” Kitishane told her. “Still, he was an Ulin,
not a god. The only real God is the Creator.”

Puzzled
frowns surrounded her, and the old woman said, “You must explain this when we
are safe. For now, though, cannot one of you say a prayer?”

“That
is for the shaman.” Culaehra stepped back, deferring to Yocote.

The
gnome stared up at him, appalled—but Kitishane nodded agreement, and Lua stood
watching him, huge eyes glowing. Yocote locked gazes with her, then nodded and
stepped up before the circle of graves. He bowed his head a moment, summoning
magic, then raised his hands and intoned, “May all who lie here ascend to a
land of happiness and plenty. May they never want, never grow bored or
restless, but remain for all of eternity in bliss. Lomallin, we pray you—lead
these innocent victims to the Land of the Blessed, where they may bask in the
glory of the Creator, their souls singing with the joy of His presence.”

“May
it be so,” Lua replied.

“May
it be so,” the whole village chorused.

Yocote
lowered his hands, but still stood gazing out over the field of dead. At last
he said, “What is a lifetime, measured against eternity? And what matter the
pains of life, if they are balanced by joys? Those who have sought to do good
to one another in life, rejoice in the company of other good souls in death,
and all rejoice in the presence of the Creator, from whom all goodness flows.
May these dead, in their rapture in the Land of the Blessed, forget all pain
and misery they have known on earth. Lomallin, guide them to their Creator in
death, as you ever sought to do in their lives.”

“May
it be so,” Lua said.

“May
it be so,” they all chorused.

Yocote
turned away. “Come, let us give these dead the greatest gift that we may—which
is your own continued life. Show us where you may be safe in this wilderness.”

Slowly,
the women turned away.

“Take
the chariots,” Kitishane urged.

The
old woman shook her head. “Where we go, horses cannot follow.” They led the way
up a slope and in among trees.

“Go
with them,” Kitishane advised, and the gnomes turned to accompany the women.
Culaehra and Kitishane stayed to drive all the chariots together, then cut the
horses loose and drive them away before they kindled a blaze under the Vanyar
cars. They followed the women with a bonfire at their backs, and brushed away
all signs of footprints as they went.

The
old men advised, but it was one of the mature women who emerged as leader of
the village now. Her name was Alsa, but she turned frequently for advice to her
mother, Temla, the old woman who had asked about Lomallin. Yocote told her what
he knew; she asked for prayers to both Lomallin and the Creator, and for
ceremonies to honor them. Again Yocote told her what he knew, but stressed to
her that worship needed no set forms, only sincere words from the heart. He
told her, too, that the Creator needed no sacrifice of goods or lives, but only
of self-denial—refraining from cruelty or malice, and, more important, self-dedication
to trying to help others and increase their happiness. Temla taught Alsa, and
both of them taught the rest of the women.

While
Yocote taught religion, Culaehra taught staff-play, showing the women how they
might use scythes and spades and pitchforks as weapons. Kitishane and Lua
taught them archery, for they all knew the Vanyar would come back.

Return
they did, a thousand strong. Their chariots darkened the valley; the hoofbeats
of their horses filled the hills with thunder.

“Get
you down and hide you behind the largest ruin in the village,” Yocote told
Culaehra. “Kitishane, find archers to slay any who come near him! Culaehra,
when their shaman comes forth to battle me, let him cast one spell, then step
out and slay him. When he is dead, run back here, for the Vanyar will pursue.
Run up that ravine, and archers will slay them from the evergreens on the
slopes.”

Culaehra
did not stay to question. He went to hide.

The
Vanyar slowed to a halt beside the heap of ash that had once been chariots, recognizing
the iron hoops that had bound the wheels and the iron rods that had been axles.
Their anger was great, and they set up a deal of shouting and swearing in their
barbarous tongue. Finally, one of them stepped forth wearing a robe made of a
wolfs skin, with the head perched atop his own. His eyes were darkened with
soot; scarlet symbols adorned his cheeks. He drew a wand from his belt, faced
the hillside nearest the village and chanted. Points of light began to glitter
in the air, moving about, gathering into a swarm that was pointed at the
hillside.

An
owl swooped from the sky, an owl abroad in daylight, and struck into the center
of that glittering swarm like a hawk seizing a mouse. The points turned,
darted, pierced the bird—and it exploded, sending showers of darts everywhere.
Several struck the Vanyar shaman, who cursed.

Now
was the time. Culaehra leaped out, hoping that Yocote was readying his next
spell, and ran at the Vanyar, sword swinging. The warriors saw and shouted,
whipping their horses into a run. The shaman turned, stared, then began to
gesture and chant.

Culaehra
struck. The sword hummed as it bit, and the shaman screamed; then something
exploded inside him and he fell dead.

Culaehra
stared, not understanding. Then he heard the massed shout of fury, glanced up
to see the Vanyar charging down at him, remembered the plan, turned, and ran.

The
very earth exploded beneath the Vanyar's wheels. Gouts of dirt shot high into
the air. Chariot after chariot overturned; others slammed into the gaping holes
in the ground and jarred to a halt. Horses screamed, rearing to avoid the
blasting dirt and kicking over the chariots behind them. But a hundred chariots
swerved around the disaster and kept coming, converging on Culaehra as he
darted into the mouth of the ravine.

The
walls narrowed quickly. Chariot slammed into chariot; axles broke, oaken sides
cracked. Cursing, fifty Vanyar climbed from the wreckage and set off after
Culaehra, who darted far ahead, but the sun glittered off his bronzen armor,
showing him clearly. The Vanyar followed, roaring anger.

Arrows
sprang from the hillsides. Intent on their prey, the Vanyar failed to see them
until points pierced their throats and shafts sprang from their chests. The
survivors turned, roaring, to charge the hillside—and flights from the other
slope took them in the back. At least a dozen living men turned to flee, but
more shafts struck, and not one of them survived.

On
the plain, the earth was still exploding around and under the Vanyar. Finally,
a poor remnant of the host turned and ran, chariots rattling over the valley
and out along the riverbank.

On
the hillside Kitishane cried, “Enough!” and Yocote nodded, lowering his arms.

“Lomallin
has borrowed power from the Creator to win us this day,” he cried out to the
villagers. “Let all see that Lomallin has greater power than Bolenkar!” Then he
turned away—and tottered, nearly fell.

As
he slept, villagers moved among the Vanyar, slaying those too badly injured to
live and calling Culaehra to tend to those who might. He disarmed those who
still bore axes and fought one or two who were not yet badly hurt. He took a
few cuts on his arms where Agrapax's armor did not protect him, but disarmed
them all, then set those who could still walk to carry litters bearing those
too badly injured to bear their own weight. He sent them off along the
riverbank with dire warnings of the fate that would befall any servant of
Bolenkar's who came this way again. Then he turned to begin the long process of
dragging the dead into the ravine. A few chariots were still intact, a few
horses had not yet fled, so the task went more quickly than it might have.

When
Yocote woke the next day, the ravine was filled with Vanyar dead. He looked
down upon them and scowled. “We cannot have them lying unburied; it will bring
disease.” So again he chanted, and with a roar the sides of the ravine caved
in, burying the slain under ten feet of earth. When the dust had settled, the
astounded villagers found themselves staring down at sloping, raw hillsides
with a broad, flat field between.

“Sow
this field with gorse,” Yocote bade them, “and let no one build or farm there
for twenty years. Call it 'Culaehra's Reaping.' “

But
they did not—they called it “Yocote's Reach.”

At
last the companions assembled to resume their journey. Temla came to thank
them, with all the villagers behind her. “Be ready to run if the Vanyar come
again,” Kitishane advised her, “but I think they will not. Still, post sentries
on the hilltops for two years before you think yourselves once more safe.”

“Kitishane,
we will,” Temla promised, but Alsa came up with half a dozen grim-faced women
behind her, each bearing a staff in her hand and a Vanyar axe at her waist. “These
women have lost both husband and children,” Alsa explained. “There is nothing
for them here, no life to live. They wish to come with you and slay Vanyar.”

Yocote
and Culaehra were startled, but Lua only nodded slowly, understanding.
Kitishane recovered from her surprise and frowned. “You understand that the
journey will be hard, and that we will give you training in the use of arms
that will be harder still.”

“Anything!
We will endure all gladly!” the tallest woman said. “Only give us Vanyar to
kill!!” She was slender and hard-faced.

“Vira
is ... dedicated to the cause,” Alsa said, her voice low.

Yocote
stepped forward. “They will not always be Vanyar whom we fight. Bolenkar has
many agents, of many different nations, even different races, for some among
the elves and dwarfs and, aye, even the gnomes, have been suborned.”

“We
will fight any who have wrought this grief upon us!” Vira snapped. “Take us
with you, we pray!”