The Sage (29 page)

Culaehra's
eyes narrowed. He slipped the pack from his back, holding it by its straps,
leaving one hand free for his sword. The brass-bound chest would make a decent
shield, and a better weapon.

Swiba's
eyes glinted with approval—and relief. “Formil! Take that pack he offers!”

Before
Formil could step forward to his doom, though, Illbane said, “You may not have
the packs until we see your god with our own eyes. If we must die on his altar,
we will view him first.”

Culaehra's
head whipped about; he stared at the old man, dumbfounded.

“As
you will,” Swiba grunted. “Your hands!”

“Our
hands we will keep free for climbing, thank you. We will bear the packs
ourselves, and you may hedge us about with as many spears as you like, but we
will walk to your god as free folk and of our own will, not as captives.”

The
men looked uncertain, but Swiba grunted, “As you will; every man has the right
to choose his own doom. Onward, then!” He gestured with his spear.

Illbane
turned and stalked ahead. The Chamoyards had to hurry to close ranks and march
before him. Others fell in beside the group, and Swiba brought up the rear with
half a dozen more, all with spears leveled and frowns on their faces. “I do not
know what trick you plan, graybeard,” Swiba called out, “but it will not work!”

Why,
then, was the mountaineer so nervous? Culaehra shouldered his pack again and
hurried after Illbane. He almost wished the robbers had managed to take the
gold, so he would have been free of the weight of it.

The
route to the god went through the Chamoyards' village, if you could call it
that—a collection of huts built of fallen branches and braided grass, as patched
and worn as their clothes. Some were clearly little more than false fronts over
cave mouths. The whole place stank of unburied garbage and open privies. At the
sight of strangers, mothers called to their children sharply, and the little
ones came running to hide indoors. They were scrawny and hollow-cheeked,
mothers and children alike, and quite fearful.

Kitishane
surveyed the scene with undisguised contempt. “Your god does not provide well
for his people, Swiba. Why do you follow him?”

“Because
he will tear us limb from limb if we do not!” Swiba snarled. “Walk!”

Kitishane
did, but caught up with Illbane and muttered, “Why does this Wauhanak demand
they sacrifice travelers to him? It means only that merchants will shun this
route, and there will be less plunder for himself and the Chamoyards!”

“Indeed
it does,” Illbane agreed, “and one more road to the north will be sealed. Why
did Bolenkar set the fuchan to guard his pass?”

Kitishane
stared. “Then this Wauhanak must also be a creature of Bolenkar!”

“You
reason well, and quickly,” Illbane approved.

Culaehra
had been close enough to hear the exchange. Frowning, he said, “Why did you not
shun this route, too, Ill—” He broke off, staring.

So
did Kitishane. “You knew! You knew what we would find!”

“Did
you mean us to be sacrificed?” Culaehra hissed, then answered himself. “No, of
course not. What is this, Illbane? Another test?”

“No,”
the sage said, “another task.”

But
Kitishane was frowning. “If you had inquired about the route, Lua would have
mentioned it when she told me of your day's doings. How did you know?”

Illbane's
eyes lost focus; he gazed into the distance, not seeing rocks and crags for a
moment. “I saw many things as I waited until I would be needed ... for this
mission, maiden— and there was one who helped me to remember what I saw.” He
shook off the mood, but turned to her with a smile and eyes bright with
desire—though she was sure she was not its object. “I know what Wauhanak is,
and who sent him. That is enough.”

“What
is he, then?” Culaehra asked.

“An
Ulharl,” Illbane replied.

Culaehra's
vitals went cold. An Ulharl! A misbegotten spawn of an Ulin upon a captive
human woman! And Illbane thought of it as a task? Surely it was certain death!

He
lowered his head and leaned against the weight of the gold, reminding himself
that he was a brave man and, now, a trained fighter. If Illbane thought he
could best an Ulharl, why then, he could.

But
he did not see how.

Up
they went, along an incline so steep that it left even the mountaineers short
of breath, and Illbane, Kitishane, and Culaehra panted till their throats were
hoarse. “Why would an Ulharl live atop so steep a slope?” the big warrior
panted.

“So
that... those who come ... will be ... weakened,” Illbane wheezed.

Culaehra's
stomach hollowed. The Ulharl had chosen shrewdly—and well.

But
Yocote frowned. “If an Ulharl is so unbeatably powerful, why would he concern
himself over such a strategy?”

Culaehra
looked up, astounded. The gnome was right!

Illbane
smiled. “Very good, Yocote—you have caught the flaw. Why indeed?”

“Because
these mountaineers may be sure their god is unbeatable,” Culaehra said, “but
Wauhanak is not!”

Illbane
nodded, his smile small but still, and Culaehra leaned against his load with
renewed vigor. The Ulharl could be beaten!

Which
was good to know, because there was his lair, a huge cave at the top of the
incline—but it was more of a hollow than a cave, the inside glittering with
inlaid gems around a great gilded chair, its seat as high as a man's shoulder.
As they approached, a huge form rose from behind the chair, moving around to
sit in it. Culaehra froze for a moment, staring, and fear clamored within him,
for the monster man was half again his height and almost as wide from shoulder
to shoulder as Culaehra was tall. Even his hips were four feet wide—but they
had to be, since the legs that met them were two feet thick. His arms were each
a foot across, and his chest was a vast and hard expanse under a mat of hair.
He stood cloaked in purple, the color of kings, the color of might—but the
cloak was gathered back at his shoulders to show his huge form, naked except
for a golden loincloth. He stood a moment, glaring down at the group who
advanced toward him. The mountaineers shrank back, cowering in fear, and
Culaehra had to fight hard to keep from doing the same.

But
Yocote was used to bracing himself against opposing height. He only smiled and
said softly, “Very impressive.”

His
words pricked the giant's spell; it deflated like a blown bladder. Culaehra
felt the fear diminish. Would the Ulharl really feel the need to overawe, if he
knew he was proof against all assault? Why, he had used the same trick himself
more than once!

And
with that memory, Culaehra recognized Wauhanak for what he was—a bully, only on
a larger scale than most. With that, the fear disappeared almost completely,
for Culaehra knew now that the Ulharl could indeed be beaten.

But
how? Bad enough he had so much physical strength. Worse, as the son of an
Ulin—however unwillingly—he had magic!

Wauhanak
stepped back and sat in the huge chair. Golden bands glittered on his arms,
thick rings on his fingers. His hair was a black crest held by another golden
band; his face was surly and glowering, with a thick nose, thick lips, heavy
chin, and heavy lids over small eyes.

The
Chamoyards gathered themselves again and prodded their “captives” on up the
slope. When they had come within ten yards, Wauhanak boomed, “Why have you
come, frail men?”

“W-W-With
offerings for y-y-you, mighty Wauhanak!” Swiba stammered. “Five travelers, and
all their goods!”

Wauhanak
glared at them, his huge nose twitching. “A rich offering indeed! I smell gold!”

The
Chamoyards stared at one another, then swung about to glare at the companions.
Culaehra loosed the straps and lowered his pack to the ground.

“Your
nose is sharp,” Illbane told the Ulharl, “but the gold is Agrapax's, not yours!”

“How
dare you speak so to a god!” Wauhanak thundered. “Down on your face, worm!
Down, all of you, and pray that I may let you live!”

The
Chamoyards crouched on the ground, moaning, but Culaehra stood all the
straighter, fingering his pack straps—which kept his hands near the hilts of
both sword and dagger.

“You
are no god.” Illbane spoke sternly. “You are an Ulharl, half Ulin and half
human! But Agrapax is fully Ulin, with vastly more power than a mere Ulharl!
Let us pass, or live in fear!”

Wauhanak
threw back his head and laughed, a great booming that echoed off the rock faces
and made the Chamoyards cringe in even greater terror than his anger wrought. “Fear,
of Agrapax?” Wauhanak jeered. “Why, that absentminded gelding will not even
notice your coming! I could eat you whole, and he would not care a bone!”

“Perhaps,”
Illbane returned evenly, “but every smith values gold, and he
will
notice that the metal is borne toward him. Dare you chance his wrath if you
steal from him, Ulharl?”

“I
am a god!” Wauhanak thundered in sudden rage. “You will address me as a god!
Down on your faces, worms, or know the full lash of my anger!”

“It
cannot be so strong a lash as all that,” Illbane returned evenly. “Strike,
charlatan—or bow!”

His
voice cracked like a whip on the last syllable, and Wauhanak roared in anger.
From the folds of his cloak he snatched a huge broadsword, as long as a man was
tall—but in the other hand he held a wand, with which he made a sweeping
gesture that included all the companions while he shouted a verse in an unknown
tongue. The rock cracked beneath them, and the companions cried out.

The
gnomes hopped aside, and Culaehra caught the straps of the pack, seeing a crack
arrowing toward him. He leaped, landed on the far side, and the crack went
past, yawning two feet wide. He started to pull on the straps, then heard
Kitishane cry out.

Whirling,
he dropped the straps and saw her clinging by clawed fingers to the edge of a
crevasse that had not been there before. Culaehra sprang to her aid and caught
her arm just as her hands began to tremble with the strain. He set his feet and
pulled her up, clasping her in his arms while she shuddered, sobbing with
relief. Another shock jolted their feet; they both looked around in a panic—and
saw the new fissure speeding straight toward Culaehra's pack. He shouted,
turning toward the gold—but the crack opened right beneath it and down it
tumbled, down into darkness. Culaehra stood aghast, frozen—until he heard a
splash far below, and knew he had failed in his trust.

He
turned on Wauhanak with a roar of anger, but his noise was swallowed in the
Ulharl's bellow as Wauhanak strode forth, sword swinging down at the biggest of
the companions. Culaehra was too angry to be frightened; he snatched up his own
sword and dagger and stepped out to meet the giant, Kitishane's wail ringing in
his ears.

But
Illbane, too, was shouting a verse and gesturing. The earth trembled again, the
cracks closing as quickly as they had opened. Then Yocote shouted syllables,
and huge shards of stone fell from the crags above, straight toward the head of
the Ulharl. But the giant must have understood the words, for he stepped aside
with only a brief glance upward as he shouted, “Chamoyards! Slay that vermin!
Rend that gnome, or I shall rend you!”

The
Chamoyards came out of their paralysis with a jolt and started for Yocote,
their spears lowered to center on him. The gnome pulled the limber rod from his
waist and chanted as he bent it double. The mountaineers' spears bent even as
the rod did, till they pointed back at their owners. The men dropped them with
curses and leaped back.

“Cowards
and fools!” Wauhanak roared. “Will you let a mannikin's tricks afright you?
Strike him—Ulahane!”

The
curse in the old tongue brought all eyes instantly to the Ulharl, then to
follow his stare. They saw the wand in his left hand drooping, bending back on
itself.

“You
struck better than you knew, my student,” Illbane called with a grin.

The
Ulharl dropped his sword and set both hands to the wand as he chanted; it began
to unbend—and Culaehra, seeing his chance, shouted and charged.

Wauhanak
heard and spun about, dropping the wand and catching up his sword barely in time
to deflect Culaehra's blow. The warrior sprang back, cursing himself for a fool
to have cried out and given warning—especially now that the huge blade was
circling through the air with a hum so low that he felt it in his bones and saw
the edge whirling toward him.

Kitishane,
kneeling, loosed an arrow.

It
struck the giant's shoulder; his swing went wide, the great sword clashing on
rock. With a bellow more of anger than of pain, he plucked the arrow out of his
flesh and hurled it at her. She leaped aside, but the Ulharl shouted a couplet,
and the arrow swerved to follow its mistress. She dropped flat to let it pass
over her, but it dipped and struck.

Lua
leaped and almost caught it out of the air—almost, but only batted it aside. It
pierced Kitishane's buttock, then fell off, for Lua had taken most of the
strength from its flight. Kitishane shouted in pain, then ground her teeth to
keep further shouts in—but Culaehra roared in rage to hear her cry, and ran
back, swinging his sword up at the Ulharl's belly.

Wauhanak
grinned, chanting a verse as he swept his palm up in a magical pass—but Illbane
chanted, too, his voice a counterpoint beneath the Ulharl's, and whatever
Wauhanak had intended to happen, did not. Culaehra's sword lanced into his
stomach.

It
bit into skin as tough as hardened leather, but stabbed through, for Wauhanak
grunted and doubled over, his eyes almost starting from his head. When Culaehra
pulled the sword back, its tip was coated with scarlet. The sight filled him
with blood lust; he leaped, slashing at the giant's face with a howl of
victory.