The Sage (18 page)

But
it went on longer, punch and counterpunch, kick and block, retreat and advance,
till finally both men stood shivering with fatigue, glaring at one another with
their guards low from sheer weariness, heaving great gasps and striving for
enough energy to aim another punch.

“We
are too well matched!” Culaehra finally wheezed—but he kept his guard up.

“True,”
the stranger said, with massive reluctance. “If we fight on, we shall both
lose, and neither win.”

“Truce,
then?” Culaehra held out an open hand, ready to clench it into a fist and
strike if need be.

“Truce,”
the stranger agreed, showing an open hand in like manner.

Culaehra
stepped back and dropped his guard—ready to raise it again in an instant. “You
are the strongest man I have ever fought, save one.”

“One?”
The stranger straightened, dropping his guard. “Do you mean to say there is a
better fighter than I?”

“Well,
yes, but he is a wizard, so it is no matter.”

“It
is a great
deal
of matter!” the stranger said indignantly. “Can he best
you without using his magic?”

“Most
of the time,” Culaehra admitted.

“But
for the rest? Oh, there is no trusting them, shamans, sorcerers, or sages! They
are all alike, nothing but the bullies they so claim to despise, intimidating
and enslaving all with their magic!”

“It
would surely seem so, by my experience,” Culaehra agreed.

The
hunter sat down on the grass. “Come, sit by me and tell me of it—sit, sit, for
after fighting you, I am far too weary to stand!”

“I,
too,” Culaehra confessed. He sat down. “What has been your experience with the
magic brotherhood, hunter?”

“Only
the shaman of my native village, woodsman, who had the audacity to lead them
all into casting me out only because I did by force of arms what he did by
force of magic! And the shaman of the village I went to, who invited me in,
then sought to overawe me with his ceremonies, and when I would not kneel, led
his
people in casting me out. Thereupon I decided to hunt alone, and prey
upon the weaker as they deserved.”

“Aye,
for being weaker!” Culaehra said with heartfelt indignation. “Is it not the way
of the world? Is it not right that we do as the animals and the trees and the
elements do?”

“Surely
it is! But tell me, what has been
your
experience with shamans?”

“Much
the same as yours.” Culaehra told him the story of his adolescence and
outcasting, of being shunned by his own people until he had attained his full
growth, then excoriated for responding by bullying them, and finally being cast
out. That led to childhood reminiscences, and the occasional upstart lad who
had gone against the way of lightness by trying to fight back.

Culaehra
was amazed to discover a man so like himself, whose opinion agreed with his on
almost every point, and whose experiences had been so like his own—but he did
not tell of the pivotal event of his childhood, that had begun his fellow
villagers' fear of him. The hunter, as far as he could tell, had no such
turning point to relate; he had merely grown as the biggest of his generation,
and taken it as his right to beat those smaller, enjoying the heady sense of
power it gave. Something about that struck a note of wrongness in Culaehra, but
he ignored it, so glad was he to meet someone who would not condemn him for
being what he was. He even unbent enough to tell of his encounters with Lua and
Yocote—which set the hunter to guffawing with appreciation. Then he told of
Kitishane's interference and his subjugation of her—or the subjugation that
would have been, if Illbane had not interfered.

“What
right had he?” the hunter said indignantly—and with the heat of a man who has
been deprived of a lurid tale. “She was your meat, not his! He did not even
want to use her!”

“Unfair
indeed, and so I thought it,” Culaehra agreed. The anger and frustration woke
in him all over again. “But he was not content merely to drive me off and free
them.” He went on to tell of Illbane's subjugation of
him,
of the scores
of humiliations the sage had heaped on him, of the hopeless fights and
unavenged blows and insults—and as he told it, his anger built higher and
higher.

“The
gall of the man,” the hunter cried, “to degrade a warrior so!” He wrapped his
fist in the throat of Culaehra's tunic and yanked his head close. “He deserves
death, woodsman! He deserves worse than death!” He let go, pushing the outlaw
back. “Why do you suffer him?”

“Because
I have no choice,” Culaehra admitted, though the words were gall on his tongue.

“You
do now.” The stranger grinned at him. “There are two of us.”

Culaehra
stared back at him, then slowly smiled. For a second his heart soared at the
thought of freedom—but he remembered Illbane's talk, and damped his spirits
enough to say, “Perhaps I should not, though. I chafe under Illbane's rules,
but I cannot deny that they make sense.”

“Rules?”
the stranger frowned. “What rules are these?”

Culaehra
explained the rules to him, which certainly did not take long.

“And
you obey him?” the hunter asked incredulously.

“I
begin to see the sense in them.” But with the hunter staring at him as if he
were an idiot, Culaehra was no longer so sure.

“It
is an outrage!” The hunter leaped up and began pacing. “A strong man being
bound by a wizard's rules? What right has he? What right?”

“Illbane
says that these rules are not of his making, really, but are those that bind
all groups of people, for without them, such groups tear themselves apart.” But
the words no longer sounded so true as they had when it had been only Illbane
and himself talking, and the defeat by Yocote so recent.

“Illbane
says, Illbane says! You are a
warrior!
Who is this Illbane to say what
you shall do or not do? Who is
any
man to tell a warrior what to do?”
The hunter spun, finger stabbing out at Culaehra. “And who are you to obey him?
Come, let us set this situation to rights!” He sat down by Culaehra again, his
body tensed with eagerness. “I shall help you with it! I shall creep into your
camp at night and hold the dotard down while you slay him!”

Excitement
flared in Culaehra, and he was amazed at the strength of his own longing, a
desire for revenge so strong that it made him shake. Even so, he could imagine
what Illbane would do to any who tried to kill him—especially if that “any”
were Culaehra himself. “There is always a sentry posted . . .”

“I
shall wait until that sentry is you!”

“He
may not need his hands or his staff to work magic, only his mouth .. .”

“I
shall kneel ready to stifle him and hold his arms if he should waken, but he
will not!”

Culaehra
stared. “You mean to kill him, in his sleep?”

“How
else can you kill a wizard?” the hunter demanded impatiently. “If you let him
wake, he may work magic by the power of his mind alone, for all we know! Who
kens the ways of wizards, or how they work their magic? Of course we shall kill
him in his sleep!”

Even
to Culaehra, that sounded particularly vicious, certainly cowardly.

“It
is the only way to counter that huge and unfair advantage that the wizard has
over you!” the hunter exhorted. “Give him a chance to fight back, and you will
have no chance at all! Slay him in his sleep, for there is no other way! Slay
him in his sleep and be free!”

Cowardly
indeed, and terribly wrong—but so anxious was Culaehra to regain his freedom
that he felt himself attracted to the notion.

“Then
you and I shall enslave the gnomes and the woman again.” The stranger grinned.

The
thought of Kitishane in his arms sent the blood roaring through Culaehra's
head. To see if she really was as beautifully formed as the contours of her
leather breeches and tunic hinted ... to examine and admire those contours at
his leisure, taking as long as he wanted ...

Of
course, to take his time, to caress lingeringly, she would have to be willing
... well, he would find a way around that one.

“Will
you do it, and have the woman?” the hunter demanded.

“Yes!”
Culaehra leaped to his feet and clasped the hunter's forearm. “I should be
sentry in the three hours before dawn! Come then, and we shall do it!”

“Stout
fellow!” The hunter grinned, thumping him on the shoulder. “Go, then, and
gather your wood as you go! Tonight, whet your knife!”

“I
will! Come in the darkness before the dawn!”

“I
shall!” The hunter stooped to take up his bow and quiver. “Look for me in
darkness!”

“In
the darkness, then!” Culaehra punched his arm, then turned to go—and he glanced
back, ready to jump aside in case the hunter loosed an arrow at his back. But
the man only waved the first time Culaehra looked, and was gone into the
undergrowth the second time. Culaehra relaxed and set himself to gathering a
convincing stack of wood as he went. Really, the hunter was a fine fellow!

Culaehra
came swinging into the camp with an armload of sticks, whistling between his
teeth, amazed at how well he felt. Why, his heart had not sung like this since
the day he was cast out of his village!

Yocote
looked up from the small fire he had kindled, frowning. “What brings you in such
good spirits, Culaehra?”

“The
smell of autumn in the air, Yocote! The feeling of well-being it gives a man!”
The lies came easily again. He dropped the wood next to the gnome. It felt so
good to plan, to believe he could once again be free and be able to bully, to
plan on beatings or worse without that dratted amulet burning cold into his
throat...

Culaehra's
hand flew to his collar as he realized he had been planning to slay Illbane in
detail, and not once had the amulet even cooled his skin.

It
wasn't there.

For
a moment he groped frantically, thinking surely the chain must have broken, the
amulet fallen beneath his shirt—but no, it was gone, chain and all! Suddenly,
he remembered the hunter's hand gathering the cloth of the tunic at his throat,
hauling him near, then thrusting him away. “That snake! He stole my amulet!”

“What
snake?” Lua stared up at him wide-eyed.

“The
one who struck at me in the forest! The swine! The vulture! Steal from
me,
will he?” Culaehra turned about and charged back into the trees.

Kitishane
and the gnomes stared after him, dumbfounded, as Illbane came up beside them,
watching Culaehra go.

“Why
should he be angry if someone took the amulet?” Lua asked. “He has hated it so!”

“Yes,”
said Kitishane. “He claims it is the badge of subjugation!”

“As
indeed it is,” Illbane confirmed.

“Then
why would he be angry at having it stolen?”

“Because,”
Illbane said, “it is his.”

C
ulaehra
ran through the woods, cursing as he went. How dare the thief steal from him!
Worse, how dare he claim to be an ally and scheme with him to achieve his
fondest desire, all the time knowing it was only to distract him from the
theft! Thank heaven, Culaehra thought, that he had not tried to slay Illbane,
depending on the man's help!

It
was dark now, but moonlight filtered through the branches here and there.
Culaehra ran stumbling, back to the clearing where he had met the hunter.
Moonlight filled it; he cast about quickly for the stranger's trail, found it,
then plunged into the trees, searching.

As
he went he calmed a little, enough to remember the folly of making a huge
amount of noise when chasing quarry. He slowed a bit, placing his feet
carefully if quickly as he followed the hunter's trail. Oddly, it was quite
clear, as if the man had made no attempt at all to hide it.

There,
through the trees! The light of a campfire! Culaehra slowed, moving quietly,
but there was murder in his heart as he stepped into the clearing.

Not
quietly enough. The stranger turned from the fire, grinning as he stood. “So,
woodsman! You could not wait for me to come join you!”

“No
one could wait that long,” Culaehra retorted, “for you would never have come.”
He held out a palm. “My amulet, if you please.”

It
glinted at the stranger's throat. “Come and take it,” he taunted.

Culaehra
stalked close, then leaped, lashing out with a kick.

The
stranger dodged, snatching at Culaehra's leg but missing. He leaped forward
even as Culaehra landed, slamming a fist at his midriff, then a right at his
face, then a left at his belly again—but Culaehra had learned that was the
hunter's favorite combination by now, and blocked all three, then stepped in
with a quick uppercut. The stranger blocked and cracked a fist into Culaehra's
jaw. His head swam, and he grabbed at the stranger even as he turned away,
almost losing his balance—but hearing a heavy thud as the stranger hit the
ground. Then Culaehra stepped back, his balance almost restored, shaking his
head, clearing it—to see the stranger uncoiling from the ground fists first.
But it was too crude a movement. Culaehra sidestepped easily, slamming a blow
into the stranger's head as it passed. The hunter shouted in anger and lashed a
kick even as he hit the ground. It took Culaehra off guard, caught him in the
belly, and he doubled over in pain, backing away quickly. The stranger took a
minute coming to his feet, though, clearing his head, then came at Culaehra
hammer and tongs.

They
went at it again and again for what seemed like hours, deflecting most of each
other's blows but landing some, ducking and dodging and kicking and being
kicked, until finally they stood at arm's length, knees bent and shoulders
hunched, gasping for breath, exhausted and weaving.

“I
think you would have come to the camp after all,” Culaehra wheezed, “but not to
slay Illbane—to kill me!”