The Sage (46 page)

The
nomads had not learned very much of the soldiers' words, but they had learned
that. The man grinned again, nodded, and trotted off.

Culaehra
plunged back into the crowd, looking for Vira and her women.

He
collected a few more cuts on the way, on the upper arms and lower thighs, where
the magical armor did not cover him.

He
dealt blow for blow, but could not take the time to choose his targets or aim
his strokes, and so did not know if he had given anything more than superficial
wounds. He found Vira and her warrior women by the gate, and Yusev with them.
There was also a nomad whom Culaehra did not know and thought he had never
seen, one whose robes were the deep yellow of saffron and whose eyes gleamed
with zeal.

“Name
Ronnar,” Yusev said by way of introduction. Ronnar raised both hands, open and
empty, in greeting.

“Me
Culaehra.” The warrior returned the gesture, then asked Yusev, in very broken
Darian, “Him know what do?”

Yusev
nodded. “Will talk soldiers.”

Culaehra
grinned and waved them on. “Up! Do!”

Up
they went, with the saffron-robed nomad in their midst— or he who had been a
nomad. Yocote had told them to find one of the People of the Wind who had
settled by the fort and learned the Gormaran language, to translate for the
Darians.

Culaehra's
officer-clad Darian stood tall upon the wall and shouted a Gormaran word. Vira
swerved, leading her charges toward him. Kitishane emerged from the crowd and
blended into their group, holding a captured battle-axe ready to ward off
blows—but none came, for the soldiers had all whipped about to stare at the “officer”
who stood on the parapet, shouting to them to surrender. They were at a loss,
then even more confused as the “officer” stepped down and disappeared among the
crowd. Soldiers began to shout questions, but no answers came—until Kitishane
and Vira led their group up to the parapet, and the saffron-robed nomad shouted
to them in their own language. The soldiers whipped about then, seeking.

Culaehra
knew what they were looking for—officers. One officer had inexplicably told
them to surrender, then disappeared. They had shouted for other officers to
explain, but none had answered—and one of their captured nomads, one of their
own slaves, now stood above them telling them that all other officers were
dead! They looked about them, searching, lost— for these were men who had been
trained to obey, and nothing more; they were soldiers who had never been taught
to think for themselves, had indeed been taught
not
to think, to leave
that to their officers.

Now
there were no officers.

The
Gormarani, unable to think of any other course of action—or not daring to
attempt one—began to throw down their axes and raise their hands in surrender.

The
nomads shouted with victory. Kitishane spoke to the saffron-robed man, and he
called down a translation: “Go to the long houses where you live! Sit on your
pallets! Wait there till our commanders tell you what to do!”

Numbly,
the soldiers turned to obey, trooping back to their barracks.

As
soon as they were away from the gate, Culaehra ran to the spot where Ataxeles
had fallen, Corotrovir ready to hold the shaman at bay when he regained
consciousness. He found the stair to the parapet easily enough—but he did not
find Ataxeles. He had come too late; his enemy had disappeared again.

The
interpreter learned more about Ataxeles simply by asking the soldiers. They
were eager to speak of him, even boastful.

“He
is a priest of Bolenkar,” Ronnar said. “He is a mighty sorcerer, not a shaman
only, and delights in the pain of his enemies.”

Yocote's
face darkened as he heard this. He gazed at the night outside the window of the
chief officer's dwelling. Its former owner lay in a shallow grave beyond the
cultivated land. The gnome turned back to Ronnar and asked, “Does he sacrifice
living people to Bolenkar, making sure they die slowly and painfully?”

“He
does.” Ronnar frowned. “How did you know of this, shaman?”

“Because
I know what a necromancer is, and this Ataxeles is one of them.” Yocote's face
worked as if he were about to spit. “His sacrifices do not work, of
course—Bolenkar has power of his own, but cannot give more than a small
fraction of it, since he is not an Ulin. Besides, he is not about to make any
of his minions more powerful than he must. But I suspect Ataxeles glories in
the illusion that sacrifices increase his power—or, if he has learned that they
do not, enjoys others' pain so much that he is eager to slay even more.”

“He
is truly evil, then,” Kitishane said, frowning.

“He
most certainly is,” Yocote said grimly. He turned back to Ronnar. “Are all the
priests of Bolenkar so bad, or is he remarkable?”

“He
is foremost among their priests,” Ronnar answered. “The soldiers call Bolenkar
the Scarlet One—”

“Ulahane's
title.” Culaehra remembered Illbane using the term.

“—so
they call Ataxeles the Scarlet Priest,” Ronnar finished.

“But
what was he doing here, at a minor outpost in the desert?” Culaehra asked.

“Seeking
victims for sacrifice,” Yocote answered, and Ronnar nodded, explaining.

Yusev's
face darkened; he translated for Yocote, whose face froze, his voice tightening
with anger. “The expedition we ambushed was not sent to squash rebellion—it was
sent to search for victims for Bolenkar's altar. If it found rebels to capture,
all well and good—but if it found only peaceable herders, they would have been
quite satisfactory in themselves.”

Yusev
said a string of syllables, very softly, but with great vehemence.

“What
does he say?” Kitishane demanded.

“Nothing
that I would care to translate,” Yocote replied.

Ronnar's
robes were saffron because the soldiers had forced the settled nomads to dye
their clothing, so that the Gormarani would know wild Darians from tame. The
settlement people were all for burning their garments and making new ones, but
Kitishane bade them not to—it could suit their purposes for Gormaran soldiers
to think they talked to captives when they really spoke to free people.

Without
exception, the settlement people wished to be free again. The soldiers had
turned cruel once their nomads were more or less captive—arrogant and
swaggering, beating any who disagreed with them, killing any who refused to
live by Gormaran law, and taking any woman who struck their fancy. The former
nomads were all glad to become nomads again. They packed up their belongings,
mounted the soldiers' horses, and rode off into the desert, leaving the
Gormarani without mounts and no food other than that which lay in their
storehouses or grew ripening in the fields.

“Let
them learn how to become desert dwellers,” Kitishane advised, and the nomads
answered with a cheer—but as they rode away, Kitishane looked back and saw a
few of the soldiers walking down the rows of growing plants. She pointed them
out to Culaehra and said, “I think those men were farmers once.”

Culaehra
nodded. “They will be again. Frankly, Kitishane, many of them did not look at
all unhappy at being left without officers.”

“And
without the need to go back to Gormaran.” Kitishane nodded. “We may have done
good where we meant to cause pain, Culaehra. Is that bad?”

The
warrior grinned. “I think not, beloved.”

She
looked up at him in surprise, then answered the look in his eyes with a shy
smile.

So
they rode back into the desert with their numbers tripled, for two separate
tribes had settled around the stronghold. Vira seemed somehow impressed with
Yusev; she rode by him, though warily, and began to teach him her words. In
return, he taught her his. In a matter of days all the northerners were
exchanging words with the People of the Wind and were well on their way to
working out a pidgin dialect encompassing both languages. The settlement
Darians, moreover, were teaching their limited Gormaran to any who wished to
learn it. Foremost among their students were Yusev and Yocote, of course, but
Culaehra and Kitishane were close behind, and Lua, surprisingly, seemed to soak
up both languages without even trying. Certainly she learned at a faster rate,
so quickly that she was chattering with the Darian women in a matter of days.
It was almost as if she felt so strongly about giving reassurance and
establishing ties, she wasn't about to let a little thing like language stand
in her way.

The
Darian women had been quite astonished by the gnomes at first—being desert
dwellers, they had scarcely heard of the underground people, let alone seen
them—but they quickly recovered from their surprise and wariness and were soon
including Lua in their conversational circle as if she were an old friend they had
not seen for a long while. Kitishane eyed her diminutive friend with envy, for
the Darian women were much more circumspect with her. She was, after all, one
of the war leaders, and seemed to them to have more in common with the men than
with themselves. Well, if her hunger for feminine companionship became too
intense, she thought, she could always ask Lua to bring her into the gossip.

It
was odd to think of a human turning to a gnome for help, but Kitishane was
growing accustomed to it.

They
fought with two other strongholds, overcoming the Gormarani by much the same
tactics—wherever Ataxeles had fled, it did not seem to be in the desert. They
marched away with more Darians augmenting their force, and by the time they
came out of the desert into fertile, cultivated land, their little army
numbered more than a thousand. The peasants in the fields looked up, saw their
approach, and ran.

They
bore word to their headmen, Kitishane knew, and the headmen would no doubt send
word to the soldiers. How long would it be before they faced a pitched battle?

But
before they did, they ran across a raiding party of Vanyar.

The
barbarians took one look at the mounted force that outnumbered theirs ten to
one and ran, their chariots sending dust high. The Darians howled with delight
and gave chase. Kitishane let them run half a mile before she passed word for
them to go more slowly. “We shall have no difficulty following these
charioteers, after all, and they may be leading us into an ambush.”

The
thought was sobering, and the People of the Wind slowed to travel with
wariness. At Kitishane's suggestion, Culaehra sent scouts ahead. Then the two
of them conferred with Yocote.

“We
must learn if these Vanyar recognize us,” the gnome said. “The ones we fought
were far to the north, after all. They might well be a different tribe and may
not even have heard of our victory.”

“A
point.” Culaehra nodded. “What warrior willingly tells of his defeats?”

“Perhaps
we can parley,” Kitishane said, though without much hope. “We may even be able
to pass them without bloodshed.”

“Anything
is possible.” But Yocote didn't seem terribly optimistic, either.

So,
they cautiously followed the raiding party back to the main host of their
tribe. As they came in sight, a huge mob of chariots came rumbling out to bar
their way, horses galloping, riders shouting—but there were no more of them
than in the allies' force, so they did not attack, but only took up position in
a long line, barring the way.

“Who
speaks their language?” Culaehra called.

No
one replied.

“Can
we not even talk to one another?” he cried in exasperation. “Yocote! Call for a
shaman!”

“I
shall try, but I do not hope for much in a band of warriors.” Nonetheless, the
gnome climbed upon a camel's back and called out to the Vanyar.

All
eyes turned to stare at him, for the Vanyar did not recognize a gnome,
especially wearing goggles and in bright sunshine—but one young man started
violently before calling out to the war chief. The leader replied, his tone
hard, and the young man turned his chariot, speeding away around the end of the
line.

“He
goes back to their main camp,” Yocote called down.

“He
seems to have recognized the shaman's tongue.” Culaehra frowned, not all that
certain he liked the development.

“Perhaps
he is one who began shaman's training but chose to be a warrior instead,”
Kitishane said, guessing. “I think he has gone to fetch a real shaman.”

“Certainly
there seems to be no sign of their attacking until he comes back,” Yocote
called down. “Let us wait, but with watchful eyes.”

Culaehra
agreed, calling out to the rest of his chiefs. They rested their spears on
their knees, waiting—but ready to fight at a moment's notice. Still, the Vanyar
did not advance, only worked to calm restless horses and equally restless young
men.

Then
the messenger came speeding back, raising his own private dust cloud, with a
gray-haired woman in his chariot. He swerved the chariot to a halt between the
two lines of warriors, and the woman climbed down. She stepped toward Yocote
with authority in every step, then stopped, raised both arms, and called out to
him.

Yusev
translated for the companions. “She says her name is Masana and that she is all
this tribe has for a shaman now that old Dwelig has died. She asks to know who
Yocote is and why he has brought his tribe here.”

Yocote
replied at some length. Again Yusev translated, only a few syllables behind the
gnome. “He says that we are a federation of many tribes, come to attack
Gormaran for revenge.”

“But
we do not seek vengeance!” Kitishane protested.

“We
do not,” Culaehra said, “but it is a reason the Vanyar can understand. Yocote
tells them that if they will let us pass, we will not harm them, for it is
Gormaran we quarrel with, not them—but if they do not let us pass, we must
fight.”