The Sage (9 page)

“The
sage is using his own shirt to choke him!” Yocote cried.

“By
all the stars, he is!” Kitishane stared.

Red
in the face, Culaehra nonetheless managed to seize the sage by the robe and
yank him up, then slam him down. Illbane held him too closely for the outlaw to
rise to his knees for better leverage, but he managed to yank the old man up,
then fall as heavily as he could. Illbane held on grimly while Culaehra turned
magenta, then purple, then finally went limp. Illbane shoved, pushing the inert
body off. Lua let out a cry and ran to him—then past him, to kneel by Culaehra.

Yocote
wasn't far behind her, but he stopped to help Illbane up—sparing a hate-filled
glance for the unconscious man. He forced himself to look back at the sage. “Are
you hurt, Illbane?”

“A
few bruises, perhaps, but I've many for them to join.” Illbane glanced keenly
at the gnome as he came up to his knees. “You are hoping I have killed him, are
you not?”

“Would
that be so bad?” the gnome returned.

“For
him to be dead? Yes, for my purposes. For you to
wish
him dead? A little
bad there, but nothing you can avoid. It would be far worse for you to pretend
you do not.”

“It
is no fault of his, I suppose, that Lua is once again in love with him.”

“No,
and no fault of hers, either, though it is a failing in her that she must seek
to remedy. We shall have to help her in that, Yocote.”

“Can
we?” The gnome's goggled face turned up to him, and Illbane knew his eyes were
wide behind the mask.

“In
some measure, we can,” Illbane assured him, “but only a little at a time. As to
Culaehra—no, I have not slain him. He will wish I had, though. Not yet, but
soon.”

Kitishane
had approached, and stood by, frowning. “Do you enjoy tormenting him thus?”

“No,”
Illbane said instantly. “I hate it, and despise him for making it necessary.
Lua we may heal with gentleness, but Culaehra only with the same measure of
cruelty that he metes out to others—for only thus will he come to know the
wrongness of what he does.”

“Will
he truly?” she asked.

“If
there is enough goodness buried within him, yes.” Illbane sighed. “But if there
is, I cannot see it—though there is one who can.”

“Who?”

“Rahani,”
Illbane answered.

Kitishane
stared, her face blank with incomprehension. So did Yocote.

Illbane
sighed again, reflecting that five hundred years seemed far too short a time
for a goddess to have been forgotten—but perhaps it was only her name that had
faded. He determined to ask them about their gods—but slowly, and subtly. Now
was certainly not the time, the more especially because Culaehra was hacking
and spitting, forcing himself slowly up. Lua reached out to him, but he struck
her hands away with a snarl. Yocote started forward, face blazing, but Illbane
withheld him, then went over to Culaehra, leaning on his staff, watching and
waiting. The big man glared up at him, rubbing his throat.

“It
will still work,” Illbane told him. “Say your name.”

Culaehra
spat a curse.

“Yes,
that is it. Rise now, rebellious one, and take up your burden once more.” Then
with chivvying and nagging and prodding with his staff, Illbane brought
Culaehra to his feet again, decked him with packs, and shoved him on his way.

Yocote
and Kitishane followed, faces glowing with delight at Culaehra's humiliation.
Lua followed in distress, moisture pooling where her mask did not quite fit her
nose.

Culaehra
slogged along, cursing under his breath—but in the core of him an old emotion
was coming to life again: fear. It was coming to life, and growing. Who could
have thought that a weak old man could outfight a warrior in the pride of his
youth!

But
then, this old man was anything but weak—not as strong as he by far, Culaehra
thought, but still far from weak. And he was skilled; the younger man tasted
bitterness at the thought, but had to admit it—the old man was amazingly
skilled. He would have thought him a wizard, but everything the old man had
done in fighting could be explained by knowledge—and a very hard staff.

He
was
old, though—a graybeard—and certainly could not be so fast as a man as
young as he. Even in fighting, the old man could not match him for speed of
movement. The outlaw felt a surge of satisfaction at the thought. True, the old
man's skill more than made up for his slowness—but all the skill in the world
could not make an old man run as fast as a young one! He could outrun him,
Culaehra decided, and should be able to do so easily, even if Illbane were a
wizard!

Culaehra
bided his time, waiting for his chance. The amulet that had fairly chilled him
to the bone last night, when he had struck at Illbane in his trance, was now
surprisingly still, only a weight at his throat. There was nothing wrong in
seeking to escape, then. Culaehra plodded along, letting his shoulders slump,
doing his best to appear defeated and docile—and watched for a clear run.

It
came when the sun was low in the sky at his left hand. The road rose up before
them; they climbed a small incline—and found themselves in the middle of a pine
forest. The trees stretched away to left and right, tall, dark, and serene—and
straight. There were few low branches, and no underbrush— only a carpet of
needles in long avenues.

Culaehra
dropped his packs and charged away into the wood.
Then
he gave a shout
of joy at his freedom. He dared not stop, though—only ran pell-mell through the
wood, turning and twisting around the great trunks. Behind him someone shouted,
but he kept running, his heart singing. He had bested the old man after all!

But
the old man wasn't even trying to follow him.

“You
must stop him, Illbane!” Yocote cried. “He will sneak up on us at night; he
will slit our throats!”

“Only
mine.” Illbane drew a circle in the dirt with the tip of his staff.

“Yes,
only your throat!” Kitishane cried. “Then he will beat the rest of us, and use
us for his pleasure! Can you not stop him, Illbane?”

“I
can, if you will be silent long enough for me to cast a spell.” Illbane set his
staff in the center of the circle and began to chant in a language that none of
them recognized, but that sent chills up their backs. After a few minutes he
lifted the staff, nodding with satisfaction. “That should serve. Come, young
ones—
now
we will follow.”

“As
you say.” Quickly, Kitishane strung her bow. “But for myself, if I go to hunt a
bear, I go armed.”

Lua
hung back, afraid, but Yocote took her arm, speaking gently. “Do not be afraid,
Lua. If the sage does not fear, neither should we.”

Reluctantly,
Lua came with him. As the gloom deepened under the trees, she took off her mask.
So did Yocote, and saw that her eyes were wide with fright.

As
for Culaehra, he lost the companions in a few minutes. He had better sense than
to slow down, but he did begin to caper and leap with delight, shouting with
victory. He didn't notice that the limbs of the trees were drooping lower, or
that their sap was beginning to run, thickening into resin—didn't notice until
a low branch blocked his way, thick with stickiness that gathered in a lump.
Culaehra didn't give it a thought, only ducked beneath it—but a gust made the
branch dip, and sudden pain ripped at his scalp. He bellowed in agony and
surprise, twisting about to find his hair thoroughly tangled in the lump of
resin. He stepped toward it to stop the pressure and the pain, then reached up
to try to break the branch—but it was green and limber; it bent but did not
break. He wrestled with it, cursing, then finally grasped his hair with both
hands and pulled. A few strands broke, but the tree held the others fast.

That
was how he was when the others came on him, wrestling with the tree, cursing at
the branch that would not break. “Enough!” Illbane commanded, and enforced it
with a swing of his staff. Culaehra left off wrestling and lunged at the sage
with a shout of fury. Illbane only stepped aside, then reached out with his
staff to tangle the outlaw's feet. Culaehra tripped and howled with pain as his
full weight swung from the lump of resin. A gnarled old fist swung to crack
into his jaw; dazed, he subsided, but heard Illbane saying in disgust, “What a
mess we have here! You have done a fine job of tangling your long hair in this
resin, oaf.”

“How
shall you loose him from it, Illbane?” Kitishane asked.

“Why
bother?” Yocote said sourly. “Let us leave him here to starve!”

Even
dazed, Culaehra managed a hoarse growl of anger.

“Oh,
no!” Lua cried. “That would be too cruel! Free him, sage, I beg you! There must
be a way!”

“The
simplest in the world,” Illbane told her, “one that he would have thought of
himself, if it had not been for his vanity.” He drew his knife, and Lua cried
out—but the sage only began to saw at Culaehra's hair. Realizing what he was
doing, the outlaw came out of his daze with a bellow of protest, but Illbane
only clouted him again, befuddling him. The knife hacked and ripped; a sinewy
black-clad arm wrapped around Culaehra's head. He struggled and fought, but
Illbane held him still as he cut through the last few strands, then let go.
Still struggling, Culaehra blundered away, tripped on the old man's foot, and
fell heavily to the ground.

“Up,
wolfs head!” Illbane's toe caught him in the stomach. “Vain fool, get up! You
have packs to carry!”

This
command, at least, Culaehra could disobey. He lay burrowing into the carpet of
needles, hating them, hating the pines. Were the very trees conspiring against
him, conspiring with the old wizard?

They
were, he realized—and shuddered.

Steel
fingers pinched his leg. Pain tore through him, sudden and more intense than
ever he had felt. Culaehra screamed and rolled onto his back, knife coming out
to defend—but the tip of the staff hovered over his face, and he didn't doubt
that the old tyrant would strike downward at the slightest excuse. He froze.

“Hurt?”
Illbane barked. “Yes, it did—but you can still walk. Up, and step back to the
road—or your leg will sear agony all through you, and you will not be able to
walk again until morning.” He waited, but Culaehra lay frozen, eyes locked on
the staff tip. Illbane shrugged. “I will not march again until dawn, and this
is as good a place to camp as any. Rise and walk back to the packs, or stay
here all night with fire in your leg—I care not.” He withdrew the staff and
bent down, fingers poised over Culaehra's lower leg. “Rise—or lie in agony.”

Culaehra
snatched his leg out of the way with a curse, but the old man followed closely
and rocked his head with a slap. Culaehra snarled in outrage, but those
horrible talons were poised over his leg again, and Illbane snapped, “Get up!”

Culaehra
rolled up to his knees, glaring pure hatred at the sage. Illbane only smiled,
straightening, staff in both hands before him. Growling low in his throat,
Culaehra climbed to his feet and went limping back toward the trail.

He
didn't realize just what the old man had done until they had pitched camp and
he went to dip up water in a bark bucket. Then he saw his reflection in the
dark pool.

His
proud locks were gone—his head was nothing but ragged stubble! He stared,
appalled, scarcely even recognizing himself. Then he threw back his head and
howled.

“Yes,
Culaehra.”

He
whipped about, staring.

The
old man stood there, his staff before him, nodding. “Yes.

You
are as much of a slave now as you had forced Lua and Yocote to be.”

With
a howl of dismay Culaehra surged upward, charging the old man.

That
demon-born staff tripped him again. He fell flat on his face, then rolled up to
his feet with blazing speed—but the fist cracked into his jaw and the world
went funny. Through the slipping and the sickness in the belly, the voice
echoed in his ears: “A slave, and only a slave, until you learn to be a man.
Now fill the bucket with water, slave, and take it back to the fire.”

His
vision cleared; Culaehra glared up at Illbane, but the sight of those flinten
features made his heart sink. He turned away and took up the bucket, dipped it
full, and went back toward the campfire with Illbane right behind him.

He
was
not
a slave! He would not let himself be! He was still a man, a
powerful man, and would prove it! There must be a way...

Then
he came in sight of the camp, saw Kitishane turning a spit, and knew how.

The
amulet lay cold at the base of his throat, but as the hours passed, Culaehra
became so used to its chill that he scarcely noticed it. From that time on he
watched his chance to catch Kitishane alone.

It
came the next evening, when Illbane set him to pitching camp with the gnomes,
and Kitishane had set off in search of game. Culaehra bided his time, gathering
wood for the fire, though his pulse quickened with the first excitement of the
hunt—and the amulet grew cold and colder at his throat. It grew colder still as
he took up the bucket and left the camp, seemingly seeking water—but actually
hunting Kitishane. The amulet grew colder still, a biting chill that shortened
his breath—but it was short anyway, with anticipation. The grim old man might
thrash him for it later, but he would have proved that he could still bend
others to his will—and would do so again and again whenever he wished, ignoring
the punishment.

As
soon as he was out of sight of the camp, he dropped the bucket and set off
through the trees, moving with the silence of a lifelong woodsman. He knew
which direction Kitishane had taken at first, and circled around the campsite,
being careful to keep a thick enough bulk of trees between himself and the
ominous old man until he found her tracks, small footprints in a patch of moist
earth where the wind had blown leaves aside to show the ground itself. He
followed in the direction her track pointed and soon found another such bare
patch with a footprint so delicate that it quickened his pulse. Of course, he
reminded himself, she had a bow. He must not forget that.