The Sage (25 page)

“Indeed?”
King Oramore smiled thinly. “And how could my own faith, good or bad, doom or
save me?”

“Because
if you act in bad faith, you will tear your own spirit apart bit by bit until
you die a victim of your own excesses, and die in misery, no matter how much
wealth you have hoarded, no matter how much luxury you have bought!”

Oramore
frowned. “I like not this manner of speech.”

“Aye,
because you hear truth in it! Bad faith will also turn your peasants and serfs
against you, for they will never know whether or not they can trust your word!”

Oramore
tensed. “Do you insult my honor? Do you say I am not a man of my word?”

“Ask
Agrapax,” Culaehra snapped.

The
king glared at him, turning pale—but Illbane pressed the issue. “Surely you cannot
be a man of your word if you speak in bad faith—and if your peasants cannot
trust you, surely they will someday turn against you!”

Oramore
gave a bark of laughter. “The peasants? Those crawling feeble ones? What need I
fear from them?”

“Your
life, if you anger them so much that they march!” Culaehra barked. “Where do
you find the men who make up your army?”

The
king turned a stony gaze on him. “You do not know how to address your betters,
peasant.”

“I
do when I find them,” Culaehra retorted. “I will not acknowledge any man as my
better until he has proved it by his own body—and I will not acknowledge any
man as noble who steals bread from the mouths of his own people!”

“Seize
him!” Malconsay called to the guards. They started forward, but the king held up
a hand to forestall them.

“Let
it be as this arrogant clod says—let him meet me in personal combat.”

“My
king, no!” Malconsay cried in alarm.

But
Oramore would not be deterred. “Let him meet me in the courtyard with his
sword. And though he may not acknowledge me his better, his comrades will—when
they see his dead body.” He grinned with anticipation. “I enjoy slaying those
who are foolish enough to challenge me.”

Kitishane
looked up at Culaehra in alarm, but he only nodded with grim satisfaction. She
turned to Illbane, but he was gazing at Culaehra with pride and approval. In
desperation she turned to Lua. “Is no one sane here?”

“Men
never are.” The gnome trembled with agitation. “They must do manly things now,
and hack at one another till the end.” She turned to Yocote. “Can you do
nothing to stop them?”

“What,
me? Save the life of that monster who was so cruel to you?”

“That
is past! He would never do so now! Oh, Yocote, I beg—”

“Do
not.” He cut her off with a curt gesture. “The braggart has saved my life, and
I his—that is all that needs saying. I will save him if I can—and if he needs
it.”

The
soldiers marched them out into the courtyard, Kitishane hurrying alongside
Culaehra to cry, “Are you mad? A warrior, a woods-runner, to meet a king in
pitched battle? He will have armor and a shield! What will you have?”

“A
sword,” Culaehra returned, “and the skill Illbane taught me. Have you no
confidence in our training, Kitishane?”

“Well,
yes,” she said, “but not against armor!”

“I
am in the right, for once.” Culaehra smiled, fairly glowing. “It is a strange
feeling, Kitishane, but a very pleasant one.”

“Being
in the right will not shield you from a sword forged by a god!”

“Perhaps
it will.” Culaehra gave her a wild look, one that showed a man reading his
weird. “Surely the god who forged that sword is displeased with him. Perhaps he
shall make me the instrument of his punishment.”

“And
perhaps he doesn't care a pebble's worth! Agrapax never cared for anything but
his art, if the legends speak truly!”

“Then
let us hope that I am about to become a work of art.”

“What,
by being carved? Culaehra, come to your senses! Kneel to the king and beg his
forgiveness, and he may let you live!”

“Then
what of the peasants in the valley? What of their children?” Culaehra gave her
that weirded look again. “Will
they
live when winter comes and the cold
strikes through their threadbare cloaks, chilling them to the bone because they
are faint with hunger?”

“I
care nothing for the peasants!” Kitishane cried, though her heart wrenched
within her. “It is for you that I care!”

Culaehra
stopped so suddenly that the soldiers behind him collided with him. They
snarled, but he ignored them, his eyes boring into Kitishane's. “Do you? Do you
really care for me?”

She
stared at him, then dropped her gaze in confusion. “Of... of course I do,
Culaehra! We are comrades, we have fought side by side!”

“Is
that all?” he demanded with a strange intensity.

“What
more should there be?” she protested, still with lowered gaze.

“Yes,”
he said softly. “What should there be, indeed?”

She
looked up in alarm, but there was no hurt in his eyes, only a fervor, a
dedication that had never been there before.

The
soldier behind him snarled at him to move, and Culaehra glanced at the man in
irritation. “Yes, surely, let us go! For I must see to it that there should be
more, a great deal more, and thus I begin it!” He turned away and strode on
down the steps.

Kitishane
followed in a welter of confusion—but with a strange glow rising in her heart.

They
came out into the courtyard, and Illbane stepped up to counsel. “You will think
to use your sword two-handed for greater strength, but that would leave your
left side unguarded. Use your dagger in your left hand, and evade the cuts of
his broadsword. Do not fear, your own blade will cut quite well enough.”

Kitishane
thought the old man must have lost his wits. How could Culaehra's very ordinary
sword cut through the king's armor?

For
there he came, resplendent in a plumed metal cap, breastplate, gauntlets, kilt,
greaves, and shield that glowed with the luster of the finest bronze. To make
it worse, the sun came out at that moment, striking golden highlights from
it—but Illbane said, “I know that armor,” and reached out to touch the king's
breastplate with his staff.

The
metal screamed, and the king froze, eyes wide in horror. The scream grew
louder, and its pitch swooped down to a groan as the breastplate cracked from
neck to waist, then fell from the king, leaving him only a padded shirt for
protection. As the pieces fell they struck his greaves, and they, too,
shrieked, then groaned and split. Illbane touched the gauntlets with his staff
in a swift movement that took the king by surprise, and the gauntlets, too,
fell to pieces. At last the king turned with an angry shout, bringing up his
sword—but too late; the foot of Illbane's staff touched his helmet and it
cracked with a sound like thunder.

The
king reeled, and Malconsay shouted, “Seize him!”

The
soldiers started forward, but Illbane turned to them, his staff up and ready,
and they halted in uncertainty—so as the king's head cleared, he heard only
Malconsay's curses and saw Illbane leaning upon his staff, watching with
interest.

The
king cried in anguish, “Agrapax's gift! The enchanted armor that no sword could
pierce!” Now it was not the steward, but the king himself who roared at his
soldiers, “Slay me that upstart magus! No, seize him and hold him, that I may
flay him alive!”

The
soldiers still hesitated, and the king raved, “Do you dare disobey? Then it is
you I shall skin, while you live and scream! Seize him now, or die in anguish!”

The
soldiers started forward, but Illbane called out some ancient words as his
staff spun, and where its tip traced, fire sprang up. In seconds all the
companions were surrounded by a ring of flame. The soldiers shrank back,
moaning in awe.

Yocote
watched it all with shining eyes.

Malconsay
whipped a long wand from his robes and waved it in a circling sideways sweep as
he shouted a phrase in unintelligible syllables—and the ring of fire died.

Illbane
turned to him slowly, his eyes lighting, a small smile kindling in his beard. “So,
then. Not a councillor only, but a magus! Did you know that, king?”

Oramore
looked up at Malconsay in surprise, then sudden distrust. Quickly, the steward
said, “You need not fight this duel, my lord, not when you face a magus as well
as a warrior!”

“But
you have a magus beside you,” Illbane pointed out, “and though he has no staff
of power, yet he has a wand.” He nodded at Yocote. The gnome held up his hands,
waving and chanting, and the wand grew amazingly, thickening in Malconsay's
hand as it stretched out to twice its former length. The steward dropped it
with a curse.

“Now
your staff is as long as my teacher's,” Yocote said helpfully.

“But
you know it has lost its power, now that another magus has exerted his strength
over it!” Malconsay cried.

“Has
it really!” Yocote looked up at Illbane, and the sage nodded.

The
soldiers shrank back, moaning.

“Then
you have two magi,” the king said, watching Culaehra warily, “and I have none.”

“But
you have fifty guardsmen hard by,” the warrior replied.

The
king seemed to gain a little reassurance from the reminder.

“Your
men will avail you naught, king.” Illbane spoke as an equal in station. “If
they do attack, they shall force me only to use greater spells that shall
render them all unconscious. Let them stand aside, and go you to the duel you
have accepted.”

The
king eyed Culaehra, hesitating. The big man grinned and lifted his sword to
guard.

“What,
do you hold back?” Illbane chided. “Surely you are not afraid only because your
magical armor is gone and your guards can no longer leap to your defense!
Admittedly, my champion is half your age, a head taller, and has the strength
and speed of youth—but you claim that you are his better, for you are noble and
he is not! Surely your nobility alone will assure you victory! Go, king, and
prove your boast!”

“He
is
afraid!” Lua whispered to Kitishane, her eyes round with wonder—but her
whisper carried; the king heard it, and advanced on Culaehra with a snarl.

The
warrior grinned and raised both sword and dagger.

The
king swung a huge downward blow with his two-handed sword. Culaehra stepped
lightly aside, then lunged. The king pivoted, bringing his great sword up barely
in time, and Culaehra's blade glanced off it. Whatever else he might have been,
the king was no weakling; in fact, his arms, chest, and shoulders bulged with
muscle, and he handled the heavy sword as if it were weightless—which perhaps
it was, in his hands, for it had been crafted by the Wondersmith.

But
he was also gone to fat a little, carrying spare flesh around his middle. His
reflexes had slowed since his youth, and already his breath was rasping in his
throat as he swung the great sword like a scythe, coming up from below.
Culaehra sidestepped again, but the king's blade followed him as if he were a
magnet; he had to drop his dagger, taking his sword by both hands, to turn it
aside. Metal clashed, striking sparks, but Culaehra's sword did deflect the
king's. Culaehra's whole left arm went numb and he shook it frantically as he
gave ground, trying to regain feeling. The king gave a shout of satisfaction
and followed hard, the huge blade sweeping from side to side. Culaehra backed
and backed again, but the king caught the rhythm of his movements and leaped
farther forward; his sword tip traced a red line across the middle of
Culaehra's tunic. The big man shouted in anger, then remembered Illbane's
teaching: that anger only slowed a man and tempted him to foolish strokes. He
cooled his rage and gave ground again and again, but moved in a circle, then
stooped to snatch up his dagger again.

The
king shouted in anger and swung at Culaehra's head, but the blow was so low
that Culaehra leaped high, pulling up his feet, and the king slashed air
beneath him. The warrior landed lightly and kept giving ground, even though his
left arm was restored enough to bring up the dagger again. Sure enough, the
king's breath rasped harder and harder, then began to come in gasps; he cried
in bursts, “Hold ... still! Cow .. . ard!”

“Do
not, Culaehra!” Yocote called. “Why should you risk your skin when you have but
to keep retreating until he falls from exhaustion?”

The
king spun in a rage, slashing at the gnome, but Yocote leaped behind Illbane so
quickly that he disappeared before the blade could touch him, though his grin
seemed to linger after him for a moment.

Culaehra
saw his chance and lunged. Even with the distraction the king was almost quick
enough—he spun about, and his broadsword slashed the space where Culaehra had
been. The big man gritted his teeth against sudden pain in his leg, but felt a
savage delight as he saw the crimson blossom on the king's padded arm. The king
shouted in anger and pain and leaped forward, swinging again and again—but his
swings were off balance now, for one arm was weaker than the other, and
Culaehra, backing quickly, was able to choose the instant to strike down with
his blade, beating the king's sword to the earth for just long enough to slash
with his dagger, then leaping back as the king swung the magic sword up
one-handed even as he cried out in anguish, his left arm hanging limp at his
side.

His
guards shouted in anger and started forward, but Kitishane whirled to send half
a dozen arrows into their ranks, and though they glanced off boiled leather
armor, the soldiers slowed, uncertain. Lua lifted the little bow Kitishane had
made her and shot a dart into a soldier's cheek. He shouted and fell back just
as Yocote called out the last line of a spell, and serpents rose up from the
dust, hissing, tongues flickering, waiting for a bare leg onto which to fasten
fangs. The soldiers moaned in superstitious fear and held their ranks.