The Sage (2 page)

The
centaurs began to move. As they ran, they shrank even smaller in his vision,
until the whole army was only a roughening of a map showing mountains and
rivers that bordered a vast land to the south. Into that land flowed the
roughening that was the army of centaurs, like ripples in a pond driven before
a storm, moving at the speed of running horses, not the slower pace of walking
men. Southward those ripples sped until they struck a darker region, like
deeper water. The turbulence swelled, growing larger and larger, until it
resolved into clashing armies, then grew farther still, until Ohaern could see
the two sides for himself. The centaurs fought tanned men with eyes of flint,
men who fought from horse-drawn chariots with double-bitted axes and swords.

“The
Vanyar!” Ohaern recognized his old enemies. “They who took Ulahane for their
god!”

“And
now take his son Bolenkar,” Rahani said, her voice hard.

Ulahane
had bred up his own war-leaders by the expedient of raping human women, making
them swell almost to bursting, then die in the bearing of huge babies—half-human,
half-Ulin children: the Ulharl, eldest and most vicious of whom was Bolenkar.
First and most lonely of his kind, he both hated and revered his father—revered
him as any son will a strong and providing father; hated him for his cruelty
and for the malice of the other Ulin folk who despised Bolenkar for being a
hybrid. That anger and bitterness found its outlet now, in turning human
against human, army against army—and the revering of his father, the constant
craving for praise never given, found its outlet in continuing Ulahane's work
of trying to eliminate the younger races by inducing them to kill one another.
But Bolenkar had bade the Vanyar, too, to get as many babies as they could, and
the two forces that clashed were almost equal in size.

The
centaurs outfought the Vanyar, though, for chariots were no match for the
quickness and agility of their tough pony bodies. The charioteers fled, leaving
thousands dead and dying on the battlefield. Those survivors who managed to
find their ways home packed up their families and fled—those who found their
families still alive. They sent word, and families farther also packed and
fled, leaving behind a rearguard of Vanyar who fought, retreating and dying,
until their folk were all escaped or enslaved or dead. Then the survivors of
the rearguard turned and fled, too, while the centaurs took their tents and
their slaves and settled down to the task of learning to follow the great herds
that had been the source of Vanyar life, and the survivors of which were now
the core of the herds the Vanyar would tend, not follow.

For
the Vanyar were boiling out of the vast grasslands toward the west and
south—but not toward the east, for other tribes of centaurs were invading those
lands. They set upon people weaker than themselves, looting and slaying and
burning and enslaving; they attacked shouting the name of the god who led their
conquest: Bolenkar. Aghast, Ohaern watched the fall and sacking of the glorious
cities of the southern subcontinent and the slaughter of their people. Then the
Vanyar drove on, leaving the glorious cities deserted, to crumble back into
dust or be engulfed by the jungle.

They
grew smaller in Rahani's magic cloud-circle, became again only ripples in a
pond, ripples that stretched out toward...

“The
Land Between the Rivers!” Ohaern cried.

The
ripples engulfed that land in their flowing tide—a land in which Ohaern had
walked and fought, in which he had saved cities and made friends. Loss chilled
his soul as he realized they were dead now, those friends—long dead, and
probably their descendants, too.

Rahani
sensed his sudden desolation and wrapped him in her arms. “Peace, beloved. This
is not what has happened or even what must happen, but only what may.”

She
knew that was not the true cause of the chill that had touched Ohaern's soul,
and he knew she knew—but was grateful all the same. For the first time, he
began to understand how Rahani herself felt, dwelling apart from the other
Ulin—as she must, with so many of her race dead, and the few that remained sunken
into hermitage. He felt some shred of her desolation, her loneliness . . .

Enough
to make her console herself with a man of a lesser race?

He
embraced her fiercely, determined to console her indeed—but his gaze dwelled
still on the devastation before him. The rippling tide of Vanyar had engulfed
all of the Land Between the Rivers and onward, all around the shores of the
Middle Sea and even upward into the lands of the north and west, where Ohaern's
home had been. Dizziness claimed him for a moment, as he wondered if there was
still anything left of his tribe, his bloodline. With Rahani's aid, he had
watched his son grow, fall in love, father children, nurture them and their
mother—and, sadly, grow old and die. He had not had the heart to watch his grandchildren
long, but had reached down to them with help now and then—by Rahani's aid. It
had been many generations since he had watched his descendants, though, and
wondered if he had the courage to do so again.

But
it was so far to the west, his homeland! He had always thought of the Land
Between the Rivers as being to the south and east—but here it was, southerly,
yes, but very much to the west of the steppes overrun by the centaurs! Very far
west indeed, but the rippling tide of charioteers had flowed through the great
mountains to the south of the vast grasslands to engulf all the lands to their
west, stopped only by the western ocean. Everywhere, the teeming horde of the
Vanyar triumphed—and slaughtered, raped, and burned, plunging the world into
darkness and barbarism.

“Can
nothing stop Bolenkar's rampage?” Ohaern whispered.

“Of
course.” Rahani passed her hand between themselves and the cloud bank, and the
vision disappeared. “The events you have seen will take a century and more to
triumph, for they are only now beginning.”

“Even
now beginning! What will happen to the descendants of my son? To the
descendants of my friends, of Lucoyo and Dariad?”

“They
live, they still live—but many will be butchered by the onslaught of the
Vanyar, if this vision turns real.”

“It
must not! How may I stop these Vanyar?”

“Only
by stopping Bolenkar,” Rahani answered.

For
a moment, Ohaern was dismayed. “Stop Bolenkar? Stop an Ulharl, a creature half
human and half god?”

“You
know we are not gods, Ohaern,” she reproved.

“No,
but superhuman! It is no man we speak of felling, but a superman! Oh, he cannot
change his form, like a full-blooded Ulin, but his natural body is twelve feet
tall and four wide! He has the strength of twenty men and the brains of five,
and has been learning subterfuge and wily ways of cheating for half a
millennium!”

“As
you have been learning magic,” Rahani reminded him sternly, “more and more
every day. What, my love! Have you no faith in my teaching?”

That
restored Ohaern to calm and some measure of self-assurance. “Of course, it is
even as you say. With Rahani's wisdom, skill, and power to strengthen me, how
can I fail?”

“Too
easily,” she said tartly. “Remember caution, for Bolenkar is, as you have said,
ancient in evil and deception, and many times more powerful than any man. But
he can be killed.”

“Then
I shall slay him for you!”

Rahani
went misty-eyed and swayed close, reaching out to caress Ohaern's cheek. “I
fear not, my love—for, while your spirit-body has tarried here with me and
learned so much of magic and of wisdom, your mortal body has lain asleep in the
depths of the chilled cavern into which you went to seek me.”

Ohaern
stared, a veil lifting from his mind. Suddenly he remembered the tortuous path
up into the mountains, the twisting and harrowing journey deep into the bowels
of the earth, not overly reassured by the guidance of the taciturn dwarfs,
until at last he had found the cavern, its walls glittering with crystals of
ice, the bier laid out and waiting for him. He had lain down; the cold had made
him shiver, then penetrated to his very marrow; a curious feeling of warmth had
stolen over him, and he had lulled himself into a trance.

In
that trance, he had assumed the form of a bear and climbed the World Tree into
the shaman's land—but the Tree rose higher still, and he followed it to this
luxurious realm, where he took on human form again, and found Rahani waiting.
Every morning thereafter, he awoke lying next to her on cushions of silk,
beneath perfumed trees, beside a brook that filled the air with freshness, and
it was her caresses that wakened him ...

His
pulse quickened at the memory, so he put it firmly from him; there was work to
do, for Rahani and for his own humankind. “My body is dead, then?”

“Not
dead,” she corrected, “but sleeping very deeply—and aging very slowly, as men
judge time. Aged it has, though, and is now old. Its muscles are shrunken, its
skin wrinkled, and its hair and beard long and grizzled. You can no longer
fight for me by yourself, my beloved, for your body will not bear it.”

Distress
seized him. “Then how
can
I do what you ask of me? How can I confront
this monstrous Ulharl and slay him for you?”

“You
must find the fragment of Lomallin's spear that fell to Earth during his
ghost-battle with Ulahane's spirit, and forge it into a magical sword.”

“Well,
that I can do,” Ohaern allowed, “for was I not a smith before I was a shaman?
And was I not a warrior before both? Surely with a magical sword, I can slay
this terror, aged body or no!”

“Surely
you can
not!
” She swayed closer, body to body, sympathy filling her
eyes. “You do not know age, beloved, but I have seen it in too many men to
doubt it. Besides, the Star Stone was tainted by Ulahane's weapon, and that
taint will poison your mortal body. You will be too weak even with a magical
sword, but even more important, you will be too slow.” She pressed fingers over
his lips to stop his protest. “I know, you do not believe, for you were swift
as lightning when you dwelled on Earth—but trust me in this. You must place the
magical sword in the hands of a hero who
can
slay Bolenkar, for only
thus may you forestall the fall of darkness.”

“But
how shall I find this fragment of Lomallin's spear?” Ohaern cried. “It was no
mortal thing, but a weapon forged of the stuff of stars by mightier magic than
men have ever wielded!”

“You
will find it far to the north, where the ice never melts and a man must wear
the skins of animals to keep his body's warmth, or die. You will see the Star
Stone from afar, for it glows by its own light and casts dancing shadows into
the sky. You must forge it by magic—but the power that emanates from it is so
great that it will weaken your mortal body, as if the strength within you will
go out to it. However, it will be the most perfect work that ever you have
forged—and the most mighty.”

“But
where shall I find the hero?”

“I
shall lead him to you,” Rahani said, “and you to him by signs in the sky and in
the trees and the water—and you will think me a maddened goddess, for he will
be anything but a hero; he will seem the most corrupted and mean-spirited of
men. But there is greatness within him, and you must bring it out.”

“Just
as there is strength in a lump of iron ore?” Ohaern muttered.

“Even
so. You will have to forge him into a hero, even as you forge the Star Stone
into a sword. When you are done forging them both, you must direct them toward
Bolenkar and loose them to find his heart.”

“Can
I no longer be your champion, then?” Ohaern asked, still muttering.

“You
can and you will always be.” Her hand caressed his face, and her body churned
in slow and demanding rhythm against his. “You shall always be hero and
champion for my heart, as true as any steel and twice as pure—and when you have
forged both Star Stone and wolf's head into sword and hero, you shall come back
to me in the prime of your life, in fullness of youth and vigor—for no matter
the age of your body, your spirit will always be young.”

Then
she silenced any further protests with a kiss, and her fingers played upon him
as upon a harp while her body made clear its demands. In a few minutes his arms
came up about her, his fingers stroking, caressing, as if she were a living
tree that he must shape by love alone, and they sank together into the hill of
cushions beneath the perfumed tree, sealing themselves in faith to one another,
in both promise and prediction, and assurance of triumph.

Something
cold and wet stroked his cheek. Culaehra's eyes flew open; he shouted in anger
and lashed out. His fist struck something, and he sat up in time to see someone
small go flying backward into the leaves, something pale-colored flying from
his hand.

No,
her
hand, now that he looked—she wore a plain blouse and skirt, though with
borders of elaborate embroidery. Was that gold thread he saw? Then why not take
it? After all, she was plain enough—coming to her knees, pushing herself to her
feet one-handed, for the other was pressed to the side of her head, where his
fist had struck. Her eyes were huge, far larger than any woman's he had known,
but she squinted, as if the dim light under the trees were too much for her.
Her head was hairless, her hands and feet also huge; she was unshod—and as she
straightened, Culaehra saw that she was less than two feet tall. With a shock
of fear, Culaehra realized he had struck one of the Little People.

No,
wait—those huge eyes, slitted against daylight... this was no elf-woman, but a
gnome! His confidence returned somewhat— everyone knew that gnome-magic was no
match for that of the elves. It
was
magic, though—and no one could be
sure what the gnomes could and could not do.