The Sage (43 page)

Kitishane
nodded slowly. “Illbane told us we must gather forces to throw against
Bolenkar's armies. You shall be the first. Come.”

They
found two more chariots, and the women rode three to a car. Off they went down
the river road. The companions turned to wave farewell to the villagers, who
sang an outsong, waving—but Vira and her women did not look back even once.

They
avoided the Vanyar horde by taking to the ridges, but found other hill tribes
beset by the invaders. They fought and slew these Vanyar squadrons, shamanry
against violence, sword against axes—and Vira and her women made sure there
were no survivors to carry tales back to the main horde. In every village a few
more farmers or herdsmen joined them, to learn fighting and take revenge for
the deaths of loved ones—and though the tale of their prowess did not run back
to the Vanyar horde, it ran through the hills, so that even in villages that
had not been attacked, there were young men and women who asked to go with
them. Their progress was slow, for they needed to pause daily for instruction
in fighting, and for practice—but they trended steadily southward, and as the
first hint of summer came, they found the great river, as Illbane had told them
they would. They traded with the riverfolk—Vanyar axes for small sailing boats,
then more axes for lessons in their use.

They
sailed southward with the current. Now and again river pirates would put out
from shore, paddling fast to catch them, but a few waterspouts beneath their
boats made most of them change their minds. A few righted their craft and came
on with renewed determination; they turned and fled in horror when a monstrous
creature with long and flailing arms emerged from the water. They could have
paddled right through it, of course—but they did not know that.

Some
of the village folk came out in peace and asked to join the company, for the
tale of the hero and his companions who fought against the Vanyar and all the
evils of the world was running before them. By the time they came to the river
junction, they led a fleet.

The
people who had built a city at the joining of the rivers sent their own fleet
out to demand tribute of those who wished to pass. Kitishane explained the
importance of their mission; Culaehra stood by, smiling brightly as he whetted
his sword, and the men and women in the other boats gradually drifted to
surround the tax ships, axes and scythes much in evidence. The tax collector
decided the companions' mission was too important for interference and bade
them go in peace. Yocote responded by offering to trade for food, and the
collector settled down to haggle. By the time they drifted into the eastbound
river, they had full cargoes of food—and a dozen recruits from the city.

They
crossed the inland sea, but there they disembarked and began to march again.
They had an army behind them, everyone laden with provisions—but when the grass
became sparse and the living trees gave way to dead, many of them began to have
second thoughts.

Then
even sparse grass ended, the last blasted trunk fell behind, and they found
themselves facing a land of baking heat, of naked rock and baked mud. The troop
drew up in a line to stare in dismay. Culaehra turned with a frown. “Bolenkar's
hold is far from here; it lies across this wasteland,” he said. “I will blame
no one who does not wish to risk his life in crossing this—but I do mean to go.
If you wish to come with me, step forward. If you do not, remain, and have a
camp ready to give us succor if we come back again.” He paused, looking from
one end of his little army to the other. At last he said, “Who comes?”

Everyone
stepped forward. Everyone came.

Culaehra
stood staring at them in disbelief . Finally he said, “Do you know what you do?
This is such a journey as may kill us all without ever sighting an enemy!”

“We
know,” Vira said. “Our lives have no purpose otherwise. At least let us die
with a chance of finding our enemy.”

Culaehra
looked up and down the line, noticing all over again the scars, the hardness in
the eyes. Vira and her villagers were not the only ones who had suffered from
people who had listened to Bolenkar's notion of good living through others'
pain. None had come who had any ties to keep them back. All had either had
loved ones torn from them by bandits, like Vira, or were outcasts, like
himself.

“They
are faithful, warrior,” Kitishane told him.

Culaehra
nodded. “So be it, then. There was a pond half a mile back. Did you all fill
your waterskins?”

Everyone
nodded.

“We
shall camp here and rest,” Culaehra told them, “for I do not trust this heat.
When the sun hides its face, we will march.”

When
the sun went down, night fell with a suddenness that surprised them. They
struck camp, drowned their cook-fires, and strode out into the desert a hundred
strong. Within the hour it was almost cool.

They
marched all that night, then camped during the day. Yocote came up to Culaehra
and said, “I sense no water, hidden or open. I have cast bones and read omens,
but I see no hint of moisture during our next march.”

Culaehra
nodded and turned to Kitishane. “Tell them all not to drink unless you command
it.”

Kitishane
stared. “Why me?”

“Because
left to myself, I would drink too frequently or too sparingly, but never what
is needed. You have the feel for it— you tally the water.”

They
marched again when night had fallen, and Kitishane called out three swallows
each hour, then called when the hour was up. When the night was darkest, when
the chill was almost uncomfortable, Vira let out a cry. The troop stopped;
Culaehra turned to see. She was pointing off into the distance. Culaehra looked
where she was pointing but could see nothing. He ran over to her. “What do you
see?”

“Blobs
of white approaching, and they seem to drift above the desert floor!”

“Ghosts!
Ghosts!” Scarcely a whisper, it ran through the ranks.

“Form
a circle, spears outward!” Culaehra barked. “Whatever it is, it shall find us
thorny!”

They
scurried to form up, taking heart merely from the action and the notion that
they were ready. When everyone was in place, though, they all turned to stare
into the darkness, waiting for some sight of the ghosts.

There
they came, bobbing white shapes high off the sand, even as Vira had said! But as
they came closer, Yocote cried, “They are not ghosts—they are men! But Heaven
alone knows what manner of beasts they ride!”

“Have
arrows nocked,” Kitishane called, “but do not draw or loose unless I bid you do
so. They may be friends.” But she did not sound very hopeful.

The
strangers were almost upon the little troop before the riders drew rein and the
northerners could see the shape of their mounts. They were tall, long-necked,
long-legged, gangly creatures whose backs rose in humps. The riders sat in saddles
strapped atop those humps, swathed in loose robes that would have been white if
they had not been so filled with sand. They wore cloth about their heads, held
in place with circlets of rope. They were sunburned and bearded. In the center
of the band the tall mounts wore small curtained huts instead of saddles.
Swords glittered in the hands of the men; there were no women or children in
sight.

The
two bands stared at one another in mutual hostility, each line bristling with
weapons—but each side also uncertain.

“They
cannot be enemies,” Kitishane finally said, “or they would have attacked.”

Culaehra
nodded, then stepped forward, transferring his sword to his left hand and
holding up his right. “Peace!”

“Culaehra!”
Kitishane gasped, then held her breath, for one of the riders nudged his beast
forward, transferring his sword to his left hand and holding up his right in
imitation. “Solam!”

“Could
that be their word for peace?” Lua asked.

“Likely
enough.” Culaehra kept his eyes on the rider's face, trying to look friendly. “What
do we do now, Kitishane?”

“We
try to talk with them,” Yocote answered. He stepped forward, holding up his
right palm, and called out a string of syllables his companions did not recognize.

A
man in the second rank of riders looked up in surprise, then moved his beast
forward beside the leader's. He called out a question in a foreign
language—foreign to his own people, too, judging from the looks of surprise
they gave him.

But
it was not terribly foreign to Yocote. There was gladness and relief in his
voice as he called back to the second rider; his friends started as they heard
him end with the name “Bolenkar.” The rider seemed startled, too, and replied
with considerable force and energy. The companions recognized the word “Bolenkar”
again.

Yocote
replied with a broad smile, then turned to his companions and said, “He is
their shaman. They, too, are enemies of Bolenkar. He has given me a proverb of
their people: “ 'The enemy of my enemy is my friend.' ”

“Why
then, we are most assuredly friends!” Culaehra said fervently. “What is our
friend's name, and how is it they have come riding upon us?”

Yocote
turned and spoke to the shaman. He replied at some length, and as he spoke,
Yocote's face became darker and darker. When the man was done, Yocote returned
a brief comment, then turned to his own people. “His name is Yusev, and he is
shaman of the Tribe of Dariad. They came upon us because they sighted us in the
distance, and it is their way to ride toward trouble, not to flee it.”

Culaehra
nodded vigorously. “A sound policy.”

“Yes,
so long as they do not make trouble where there was none.” Kitishane frowned. “But
what sent them riding across the desert in the darkness?”

Yocote
turned to ask, and the dialogue between himself and the riders' shaman went
more or less as follows, as he translated it for his friends:

Yocote:
“How is it you ride in the darkness?”

Yusev:
“Because in this merciless desert, it is too hot to ride in the day.”

Yocote:
“So I thought; it is what has sent us abroad by night. But why do you ride at
all?”

Yusev:
“To find pasture for our flocks. It is our way; we are nomads because the
pasturage is scarce. When our animals have eaten all the grass in one place, we
must go to another.”

Yocote:
“I am amazed that you can find grass at all in this wasteland.”

Yusev:
“We know where the grass grows and where water lies; this knowledge has been
given from parent to child for many generations. Now, though, many water holes
are drying up, and the palms about them die. The grass becomes brown and sere,
then turns to powder and blows away. The desert is spreading, even as it did in
the days of Dariad the Defender, and we who eke out a living at its edge must
needs go farther and farther to find pastures.”

Yocote:
“A sad tale, and certainly reason enough to travel. You ride very quickly.”

Yusev:
“We ride to escape the soldiers of Gormaran.”

Yocote:
“Gormaran! Do they chase you, then?”

Yusev:
“They hunt us. They have not yet found our trace, and we mean to see they do
not.”

Yocote:
“What have you done, that they should hunt you?”

Yusev:
“We exist. That is all the reason they need to hunt down all the Peoples of the
Wind, all the nomads like us. Bolenkar has sent his armies out to build
strongholds around each oasis, denying us water to sustain life and the
pasturage that grows by water. Thus we are driven to the desert's rim, where
the Gormarani can find us more easily. Those whom they catch, they slay. They mean
to exterminate all those of us who wander freely over the desert.”

Yocote:
“I can see that; free people are threats to those who would rule everybody. Do
they mean for none of your people to survive?”

Yusev:
“Some, if you can call it survival—or if you can call them still the People of
the Wind. Those who give up heart, those who weary of living in fear for the
lives of their spouses and children, are welcome to go to the forts to live—if
they swear allegiance to Gormaran and take up the worship of Bolenkar. Then the
soldiers give them food and allow them water to grow grass, so that they may
pasture their flocks. The women learn to grow food, like the farmers who
surround the eastern cities; the men are taken into Bolenkar's army. Little
Gormaranis are springing up all over the desert as the People No Longer of the
Wind build houses of mud brick around the strongholds and study to become city
dwellers.”

Yocote:
“Can they truly succeed in that?”

Yusev:
“How do you succeed in a living death? For certainly, it is death for the
People of the Wind to become rooted to one place. Oh, the body survives—but the
spirit dies, until they come to truly believe that Bolenkar is a god.”

When
Yocote was finished translating all of this for his companions, Culaehra
demanded, “Can they not beat off these soldiers? The legends say that the
People of Dariad were fearsome fighters, and surely these are the descendants
of those people!”

Yocote
translated the question, albeit a bit more diplomatically, and Yusev replied, “The
People of the Wind are still valiant fighters, and slay them each ten soldiers
or more before they die—but die they do, and more soldiers come marching in to
take the places of the slain. Bolenkar seems to have no end of soldiers. They
march into our land over the bodies of our dead in an endless stream. They
shall drown us by sheer numbers, no matter how badly they fight.”

“Surely
you do not believe that Bolenkar cannot be killed!” Culaehra cried in
indignation.

“Of
course not,” Yusev replied to the translation, in equal indignation. “We know
that only the Creator is God, and that the Ulin were people, very much like
ourselves—more powerful people, surely, and longer-lived, with inborn magic and
greater intelligence—but with passions and flaws of character very much like
ours, though perhaps those were greater, too.”