The Sage (41 page)

“Why
not merely let them try to capture us?”

“Possible,”
Culaehra said judiciously, “but you might let your anger carry you away and
drop your bow in favor of the satisfaction of plunging your knife into their
bodies.”

“An
excellent idea! I know just where to plunge it!”

“Valiantly
said,” Culaehra approved, “but if you come that close to their axes, they might
cleave you—and I would be heartbroken if you lost your head.”

Kitishane
snarled at that, but her snarl faltered. “Devise a strategy, then, if you are
so keen for it.”

“I
shall set my brain to it.” Culaehra glanced at Yocote, and the gnome nodded.

The
four companions came to the crest of a hill and looked down into a long,
twisting valley. “There!” Kitishane cried, pointing.

“Be
still!” Yocote hissed.

“What,
do you fear they will hear me at this distance?”

“The
air is clear, and it is only a mile,” the gnome grumped. “Are there more than
fifty?”

Culaehra
looked down at him, surprised that he asked, then noticed anew the goggles
Yocote wore. He remembered that gnomes usually saw no farther than a dozen
yards underground, and turned back to count.

The
Vanyar were still singing their victory song—doubtless at the tops of their
voices, since the sound came to the companions' ears over the distance, though
very thinly. The tone was gloating, and Culaehra suspected the words spoke of
blood and maiming. They rode their chariots in an oblong with the captives
stumbling along in the center.

Culaehra
nodded. “Fifty-four, yes. Two men to a chariot.”

“Forget
the chariots; they will,” the gnome told him.

“Shall
we charge upon them now?” Kitishane asked, eyes glowing.

“Not
unless you wish us all to be slain,” Yocote replied, “and yourself and Lua used
as toys first.”

Kitishane's
head snapped up; she stared at him, appalled.

Culaehra
frowned. “I am sure I can kill ten of them, Yocote.”

“Yes,
and I can take another dozen with my magic, and the ladies can bring down a
dozen more with their bows, perhaps two—but that still leaves eight alive, and
after they bring you down, they shall slay me, and I do not need to tell you
that Kitishane and Lua cannot run as fast as a horse. If we wish to slay these
murderers, we shall have to do it by cunning as well as strength.”

“You
do not say we must let them ride!” Kitishane cried.

“Only
until darkness falls,” Yocote told them.

Lua
shuddered. “What will they do to the virgins then?”

“Little,
I think,” Yocote told her. “I hate to admit it, but there is a hierarchy of
hungers in a man, and I think the Vanyar will wish to feed and drink before
they play with their new toys— and being horsemen, they will picket and feed
their mounts before they do anything else. Even if they turn upon the women
before they dine, we will have time.”

“Time
for what?” Kitishane said, frowning darkly.

“I
shall tell you as we walk, or they will ride too far for us to catch,” Yocote
told her. He pointed. “They follow the river, but it curves around these hills.
If we stay with this ridge, we should hew to a straighter line, and move ahead
of them before sunset.”

Kitishane
looked, gauged distances, and nodded. “Their horses go at a walk. We should
outpace them, yes.”

“We
have already,” the gnome pointed out. “Let us march atop this ridge.”

“Not
atop,” Culaehra said, “or they will see us against the skyline. Let us walk a
little below.”

He
found a game trail along the side of the ridge, one that was screened by brush
but high on the hill. They followed the Vanyar, then began to pull ahead of
them, and as Yocote had estimated, they were well ahead as the sun set. They
watched as the Vanyar picketed their horses and began to curry them.

“If
you do not do something quickly, shaman, I shall fall upon them myself!”
Kitishane threatened.

“Even
so.” Yocote began to draw circles and lines in the dirt, muttering a rhyme. His
body tensed; sweat stood out on his brow.

In
the distance, something howled.

“What
was that?” Kitishane looked up in alarm.

“Not
a wolf.” Culaehra reached back to touch Corotrovir. “The note stretched too
long—but if it is a dog, it is a huge one.”

Another
howl sounded, still distant, but from a different direction.

The
Vanyar heard it, too, but more to the point, so did their horses. They began to
shift about, whickering with fear. The barbarians had to soothe their mounts.

Another
howl sounded from still a third direction, then another and another.

Finally,
Kitishane understood. “It is you who causes that noise, shaman!”

Yocote
nodded. “When I journeyed to the shaman's world, other shamans offered me the
loan of their totem-animals if I would lend mine in return—though I fail to see
why they would have much use for a badger.”

Culaehra
looked up in surprise, then turned away quickly to hide a smile and stifle a
laugh. Kitishane looked up in concern. “What makes you cough, warrior?”

“I
swallowed wrongly,” Culaehra wheezed, avoiding the black look Yocote cast at
him. “What totems have you borrowed, shaman?”

“Huge
and gaunt ones,” Yocote told him. “They will keep the Vanyar from taking their
ease, never fear. Now let us slip up nearer to them, so that we can slip up
closely indeed after full darkness falls.”

“That
will be too late for the virgins!” Lua cried.

“Oh,
no,” Yocote assured her. “Whether or not that howling disturbs the Vanyar, it
will frighten their horses sorely. They shall have no time for their
captives—you shall see.”

He
was right; the only attention the Vanyar paid to the women was to set them to
cooking an evening meal. After that, whenever one of the warriors approached a
woman with purpose, a howl sounded out across the valley, and the horses
neighed with fear and began to pull against their picket reins.

The
timing was no surprise; the howls were coming very frequently now, and from
many directions; they seemed to encircle the camp. Gradually, very gradually,
they were coming closer.

In
their hiding place on the hillside nearest the camp, Yocote nodded with satisfaction.
“They have no shaman with them, or he would have seen through my spell ere now.”

The
biggest Vanyar stepped up by the cook-fire, leaned back, and spread his hands
to the sky. He began to chant, and though they could not understand his words,
they caught the name “Bolenkar!” several times.

“What
does he, Yocote?” Kitishane asked nervously.

“He
prays,” the gnome said, tensing, “but he is no shaman.” He muttered a few words
in the shaman's tongue, accompanying them with a gesture, then nodded. “It
increases the force of malice a bit—Bolenkar must have given these barbarians
amulets to evoke his force—but it will impede me not at all. It will give his
warriors more heart, though.”

“Then
there will be the more for us to take from them.” Kitishane's lips skinned back
from her teeth. “When, Yocote?”

“When
the horses flee.”

“The
horses flee?” She turned to stare at him. “When will they do that?”

“In
a matter of minutes.” The shaman drew in the dirt again. “Lua and Kitishane,
crawl out to the sides and string your bows. Warrior, be ready to reap death!”

Culaehra
drew Corotrovir and felt its strength begin to sing through his veins.

Yocote
chanted, ending with a bark.

All
around the campsite the howls rose, hot with greed, and began to move inward,
coming faster and faster.

Then
the howlers broke from the brush, glowing with their own light.

They
glowed with their own light and were at least as high as a man's waist, but
they seemed far larger—lean and sleek hellhounds with fiery eyes and steel teeth,
long ears and jowls, legs like jointed stilts and huge feet studded with iron
claws. They fell upon the horses, howling with greed and anger.

The
horses screamed and reared, tossing their heads frantically till they broke
their tethers. Vanyar came running, calling to their horses—until they saw what
had frightened them. Then they stopped where they were, hauled out their axes,
and set themselves to fight.

A
huge hound launched itself at a Vanyar. The man swung his axe once, twice, but
the blade passed through the nightmare with no effect. He screamed in
superstitious terror just before the huge jaws engulfed his whole head. He
stumbled and fell.

“Now,
farmer!” Yocote snapped. “Reap your crop!”

Culaehra
ran forward swinging the great sword. It vibrated in the rush of air, seeming
almost to sing. He came upon the Vanyar warrior who struggled to free his head
from the hound's jaws, but wherever he moved, the beast moved with him.
Culaehra called up the memory of the murdered boys in the village and struck.
The Vanyar convulsed once and lay still. The hound leaped away, baying, and
launched itself at another Vanyar.

Culaehra
followed, slashing until his arms tired. All about him nightmare hounds were
bringing down Vanyar, frightening them into stumbling, though the hounds had no
substance. Culaehra slew and slew; it almost seemed as if Corotrovir had a life
of its own and hungered for Vanyar blood.

Not
all the Vanyar who fell still moved. Arrows jutted from throats and chests.
Culaehra had help enough.

He
needed it. The chieftain had somehow stayed alive; even more, he managed to
clamber onto a horse's back. Now he shouted commands that included Bolenkar's
name, and the nomads looked up, startled, staring at Culaehra. Then some ran to
catch horses—but the nearest turned on Culaehra, teeth bared in a snarl,
charging as he swung his axe.

Corotrovir
lopped the axehead from its handle. The Vanyar howled in frustration and
launched himself, hands reaching for Culaehra's neck. Corotrovir swung again,
Culaehra stepped aside, and the barbarian hurtled on past, dead.

But
other barbarians had reached their horses and clambered onto their backs with a
crudeness that told how strange this was to them. Nonetheless, they shouted
commands in their own tongue, and the horses sprang forward, galloping down on
Culaehra from every side. Two or three men toppled, arrows in their chests, but
their horses kept on. Nightmare hounds leaped past Culaehra on every side,
howling in anger and hunger, and horses shied, throwing Vanyar from their
backs, but three managed to fight their mounts down and keep them running—
through the hounds, straight toward Culaehra!

Now
it was steel against iron, sword against axe, and skill against skill. Culaehra
sprang to the side, putting one horseman between himself and the others. He
pivoted, swinging even as the Vanyar chopped downward. Corotrovir slit the
man's leather coat and bit into his chest, throwing the axe stroke wide ...

But
not quite wide enough. The side of the blade struck Culaehra's head. Pain
rocked him. He caught at the Vanyar, struggling to hold to consciousness, but
the whole world slipped around him, slipped and slammed up to strike him.
I
will
not
lose consciousness,
he ordered himself fiercely, and his
vision cleared—to see Kitishane standing over him, a gnome to each side of her,
and Vanyar lying dead before her with arrows transfixing them.

Culaehra
scrambled to his feet, caught her in his arm for one brief, hard kiss, then
turned to face the enemy, sword up in case one should rise—but the only men
still alive were dying quickly.

“I
cannot believe I have slain so many!” Lua cried, stricken—but she did not drop
her bow.

Instantly,
Yocote forgot his magic and turned to take her in his arms. She sobbed into his
shoulder as the hellhounds faded from sight.

Culaehra
looked up at a distant drumming and saw two riders galloping off down the
riverbed. He cursed. “Whatever horde spawned this band will know what happened
here!”

“Perhaps
that is just as well,” Kitishane said slowly.

“Why?
They will seek revenge!”

“Yes,
and the villagers will have to flee to the forest—but they have nothing left to
return to as it is, save their grandparents. And word will run through the
barbarian horde of a mighty warrior with an enchanted sword who leads a band of
nightmare hounds to hunt Vanyar and spear them with arrows.”

“Then
they will hunt
us!
How is this good?”

“Because
they will begin to fear,” Kitishane said simply, “and because they called upon
their god, but he did not save them.”

Culaehra
frowned after the fleeing barbarians, rolling the idea over in his mind.

As
the night quieted, sobbing came to their ears—the sobbing of terrified women
and the wailing of children.

Lua
broke away from Yocote on the instant and went to the nearest mother, holding
out her arms. “Do not fear! I am a gnome, not a goblin.”

“But...
but the hounds!” the woman stammered.

“They
came at the command of our shaman.” Lua gestured toward Yocote.

“Shaman?”
The woman stared. “A gnome shaman?”

“Rare,
I know,” Yocote said, frowning, “but it is true—I summoned the hounds, and have
banished them. My apologies for your fright, good woman, but our effort has
succeeded—not a one of you has been worse hurt than when you were taken from
your village.”

“Why—that
is true!” the woman said, wondering. “But you have captured us now! Where will
you take us?”

“Back
to your village.” Kitishane came up behind the gnomes. “We have freed you, not
captured you.”

“This
is her doing,” Yocote declared. “Kitishane was so angered by the Vanyar's
cruelty to your village that she led us to seek justice, and to free you. She
brought us all to you.”