The Sage (30 page)

But
the wound was slight in the Ulharl's great bulk. Wauhanak caught his breath and
straightened, rising beyond reach of the sword, and swung his left hand with a
roar of anger. The blow sent Culaehra spinning; he crashed against the rock
face, and the world went dark for a moment. Something dinned in his ears;
shouts came to him as if from a distance, dimly; tiny points of light moved and
winked out against that darkness, and kept on appearing even as he began to see
a blurred world again. He shook his head, trying to clear his sight, and felt a
stabbing pain in his side. He held very still, and the pain ebbed—but his
vision cleared, and he saw the Ulharl roaring as he swatted at Kitishane and
Lua with his great sword. They were far beyond his reach, though, stinging him
with arrows. His main concern, however, was Illbane; the rock was scorched in a
long arc between Illbane and Wauhanak, pitted as though eaten by huge moths
with iron jaws. As Culaehra watched, the air suddenly filled with a hundred
glittering points speeding toward Illbane—but the sage swung his staff, and
most of them disappeared. A few turned and shot back at the Ulharl. He shouted
a curse and waved; the points melted away only inches from his chest.

Kitishane
shot an arrow into that target.

Distracted
by the magic battle with Illbane, Wauhanak failed to see the dart until it
struck into his hide. He howled with pain and rage, leaping toward Kitishane,
huge sword whirling up—

Culaehra
shouted and charged in.

Kitishane
skipped back out of harm's way, but Wauhanak saw Culaehra running toward him
and turned his blow to slice at the warrior. Culaehra ducked under the swing;
it struck the cliff face, chopping out a rock the size of his head—a rock that
shot straight at Kitishane. Too late, she saw it coming and tried to dodge, but
it grazed her hip hard enough to swing her about and slam her against the wall.
Culaehra didn't see, saw nothing but the huge head hanging above him with the
gloating smile, the maw opening to send a laugh between great yellowed teeth
...

Culaehra
leaped and thrust with all his strength, straight into that great yawning
mouth.

Then
something struck him; the world went dark again, and pain shot through his
whole body. Dimly, he was aware that he was moving, flying ...

And
slammed into something hard. He must have lost consciousness for a minute, for
when next he could see, forcing himself upright, the giant was kneeling,
Culaehra's sword on the ground before him, blood gouting from his mouth, hands
flailing about to strike anything he could.

Beyond
the Ulharl's reach, Lua sent a dart speeding. Too small to notice, it stabbed
into Wauhanak's eye, stabbed deep. He snapped upright, rigid for a moment.
Then, like a tree chopped through, he leaned and began to fall, faster and
faster, until his body slammed full-length onto the rock before his cave,
jarring the whole mountainside. High above, a rock moved, slid, then fell; a
huge boulder crashed down to crush the giant's torso.

For
a moment the mountainside was still, everyone staring at the fallen Ulharl in
disbelief. Culaehra stared, too, breathing in hoarse gasps. Then, warily, he
stepped closer, and when he saw how deeply the boulder had struck, saw the
glaze in the one still-whole eye, he knew without any doubt that the monster
was dead. A grin he couldn't stop spread across his face, and he loosed a
bellow of joy. The Ulharl was dead, but the warrior was alive! His enemy had
tried to slay him, and lay slain himself!

Then
the Chamoyards began to moan. They sank to their knees, throwing back their
heads to wail. But Yocote turned away from them to run to Lua, who knelt with
her face in her hands, weeping.

Swiba
ran at Illbane, spear high, raving. “Our god! Vileness, evilness! You have
slain our god!”

Alarm
vibrated all through Culaehra. He ran at the mountaineer, to kick his legs out
from under him. The pain in Culaehra's chest struck through to him again,
staggering him as he brought Swiba down. The mountaineer fell hard, losing hold
of his spear and flailing about for it as Culaehra, ignoring his pain, set a
foot on Swiba's wrist. The man went limp, sobbing. “You have slain our god!
What shall we do now?”

“You
will become free men!” Illbane told him sternly. “Think, Swiba! If we were able
to slay him, could he have been a god?”

Swiba
stilled, the sobs catching in his throat.

“No,
no god at all!” Illbane said. “Even his Ulin father was not a god, but only a
sort of super-man! Even Ulahane the human-hater could be slain, and Lomallin's
ghost slew him, then even slew his ghost! Surely this, his shamed and degraded
half-human son, was even less!”

Swiba's
head snapped up. “What was he, then?”

“An
Ulharl, an Ulin's son begot upon a human woman by rape, by nightmare and
terror. Only a slavemaster, nothing more. He was a younger half brother of
Bolenkar, the heir to the human-hater, heir to his hate and his working of wickedness!
I doubt not that Bolenkar sent him here to terrorize you, to slay and mutilate
some of you until the others cowered in horror, vowing to obey—sent him here to
grind you into a life of depravity and degradation!”

The
other Chamoyards stared, awed by the revelation. Swiba stared, too, as he
climbed to his feet, but asked, “Why us? Surely we are too small a tribe,
dwelling in too remote a place, to be of importance to any of the great powers!”

“No
human being is of too little importance to one who has sworn to slay all the
younger races,” Illbane returned, “and your tribe lives astride one of the
routes to the north. Bolenkar wishes to keep us from that far land, and sent
Wauhanak here to use you as tools to block our way.”

“You?”
Swiba stared. “Wauhanak was sent to stop
you?”

“To
stop whoever wished to go north on our quest,” Illbane affirmed.

“A
god, sent to stop mere mortals?”

“You
see the need.” Illbane gestured at the fallen Ulharl. “You have also seen that
it was not enough.”

“You
are mighty indeed.” Swiba looked from one to another in awe. Lua looked up,
startled, then began to speak, but Illbane cut her off. “Even so. Yet we are
only human, as are you. What we can do, you may learn.”

“But
how shall we fare without our god?” one of the Chamoyards wailed, and another
cried, “Aye! What if the chamois come not, if the sheep all die? What if the
rains fail?”

Culaehra
frowned; even the pain in his side could not distract him from the
senselessness of their worries. “How is this? Did you think Wauhanak kept the
game within range of your spears, or kept the rain falling?”

“How
do we know that he did not?” Swiba returned. “He may have berated us, he may
have beaten us at his whim or taken' one of our women for his pleasure when the
urge came upon him—but he was always there as long as our grandfathers can
remember, and we always knew what he would say or do if we erred in our duty to
him!”

Kitishane
stared in outrage, but before she could speak, Illbane said sternly, “But he
did not control the weather or the crops. He gave you nothing and took
everything, especially your pride and your manliness. Do you wish certain
knowledge? Then be sure the rains will never fail here in the mountains, be
sure that if you catch the sheep and breed and rear them, they will always be
there. You are no worse off by his death, and greatly improved by your freedom.
Go now to keep all you catch, all you raise! Go, to learn to defend yourselves,
and to work out the confusion of choice!”

The
Chamoyards looked uncertain, but Swiba went back to join them, then led them
off down the mountainside. One by one they followed, glancing back uncertainly
at the companions.

When
the last of them disappeared around the curve of the path, Kitishane erupted. “The
cravens, the cowards! To fear him dead, when he could harm them no longer!”

“But
sister,” Lua pleaded, “they feared only to go without his direction and
protection!”

“Could
they not see that he guided them only to their own poverty and degradation?”
Kitishane raved. “Could they not see that they needed protection only from him?”

“No,”
Illbane told her. “He had taken that sight away from them.”

“Try
to understand it, Kitishane,” Lua pleaded. “People enslaved end by looking up
to their master, to justify their own shame—it is not that they are so lowly,
but that he is so high.” She lowered her gaze. “Believe me, I know.”

Kitishane
stared at her in shock, then whirled to glare at Culaehra. He met her gaze and
nodded slowly. “It is even as she says.” He nodded at Illbane. “I, too,
know—now.”

That
took some of the edge off Kitishane's wrath. She turned back to Lua with a
frown. The gnome-maid gave her a tremulous smile. “Remember, too, that these
men were born slaves, as their fathers were. To them, Wauhanak
was
the
order of all the world.”

“Blasphemy!
And a mortal wound to the soul!”

“Not
mortal—we recovered,” Lua said, sharing a quick glance with Culaehra. “They
will, too, though it will take them longer, since they were born to it.”

“They
will,” Illbane assured her, “though it will take many years. Not only will they
recover their independence—they will even come to rejoice in their freedom. But
it will take time, maiden—it will take time.”

Kitishane
frowned up at him, brooding, then turned away with a shudder. “Slaves or not,
they were lethal! I thought they would slay us sure!”

“What,
a handful of ragged wild men slay you, when you have just slain their god?”
Illbane turned to her, caught between amusement and annoyance. “Do you still
have so little faith in yourselves? You have slain an Ulharl!”

“Surely
that was a happy chance . . .”

“It
was not! It was muscle and quickness, inspiration and strong magic, sure aim
and shrewd fighting! It was all four of you working together against a giant
and a dozen armed men! I could lead you to another Ulharl, and you would win
again!”

“Oh,
do not!” Lua wailed.

Instantly,
Illbane softened. “Be of good heart, little one—I will not do so just yet.”

Culaehra
tried to ignore the chill raised by that “just yet” and said, “It was also
because you were with us to counter the Ulharl's magic. We could not have won
without you, Illbane.”

“Well,
no,” the sage admitted, “not just yet. Yocote had never seen which spells to
use against an Ulharl before, and the four of you might have been overawed if I
had not been here beside you. But your shaman gnome learns more magic every
day, and no Ulharl will ever afright you so much again by his mere presence. Be
warned, though, my students—Bolenkar is huger still, and far more fearsome than
any of his siblings, by the sheer intensity of his hatred and malice.”

“Why
do you tell us of Bolenkar?” Lua asked, her voice trembling.

“Why
did you shoot at Wauhanak?” Illbane returned.

“Oh,
I could not let him slay Culaehra!”

Yocote's
face turned to stone; he turned away.

“Oh,
do not be so, Yocote!” Lua cried. “Culaehra is one of our number, even as you
are, even as Kitishane is my sister! Should I not defend him, too?”

“Even
as he defends you?” The gnome turned back, and if his face was not warm, at
least it had come alive again.

Culaehra
forced a grin. “Why, shaman! Would you have her leave me to my fate?”

But
he winced as he said it, and Yocote frowned at him. “Why do you press your hand
to your side?”

“Stiff
muscles,” Culaehra grunted.

“Aye,
with the sweat pouring from your brow and your breath so light it would not
disturb a butterfly!” Yocote strode toward the warrior. “Lua, favor me by
lighting a fire and boiling water! Kitishane, take him down! He has cracked a
rib at the least, and perhaps broken it!”

“Can
you sit without making it worse?” Kitishane stepped up to take Culaehra's arm.

“Why
the devil should I?” he snapped, then winced again.

She
stared at him a moment, then sank to her knees, reaching up to him. “Come, sit
beside me, strong man!”

The
posture sent desire throbbing through Culaehra with a strength that startled
him.

“Please.”
Her voice was a caress, her arms beckoning.

Culaehra
almost screamed within his brain, reminding himself that she was only luring
him down to be healed, and for no other purpose. “You have no right to be so
alluring,” he snapped—but it came out as a groan, for he was trying to lower
himself to the ground.

Illbane
came up and planted his staff near. Culaehra grasped it to steady himself,
carefully unfolding his legs as he sat. Broken ends of bone grated against one
another, and he practically screamed with the pain, but managed to stifle it
into another groan.

“Be
brave, my friend,” Kitishane said, her voice gentle, sympathetic. “Yocote, does
he need to lie down?”

“No,
only to be low enough so that I can reach him.” The gnome stepped up beside the
warrior, probing his chest.

Culaehra
nearly screamed, then gasped, “What is this, gnome? Revenge?”

“Mercy,”
Yocote said dryly. “If I had wanted revenge, I would have let the Ulharl have
you. You are fortunate—there is only the one rib broken. Grit your teeth,
Culaehra—this will hurt like a demon for a moment, but after that, it will only
ache abominably.”

He
set himself, fingers on the broken rib. Then his hands moved, not very much,
but precisely, and enough to make Culaehra whinny with a suppressed scream. As
his voice quieted, Yocote's rose, reciting a long string of syllables that
seemed to have some sort of music buried in them, his fingers moving over the
broken bone. At last he stopped, stepping away and saying, “Sit very still this
while, Culaehra.” He turned away to the little fire and the pot that boiled
above it. “Thank you, Lua.”