The Sage (52 page)

At
the corner, he flattened himself against the wall, then motioned to Yocote to
look. The gnome edged up, darting his head out for a quick peek. He looked up
at Culaehra and said, “None moves, warrior.”

“I
thank you, shaman.” Culaehra led the way again. This time, halfway down the
corridor, they found a stairway. Up they went, Kitishane to the rear, but with
Lua keeping one hand on her friend's shin to make sure she did not disappear
again.

As
they neared the top, they heard a sound like a distant storm. Then a voice as
deep as a quarry and as harsh as a rasp thundered, “How dare they retreat! Do
you value your neck, fool, that you come to tell me my own soldiers are
overborne?”

“My
lord, I must say what I see!” a human voice cried.

“Then
go back and see it again! Go back and rally them and throw them against this
human rabble! My magic shall strengthen you! Go! All of you, go and triumph,
even if you die in the attempt—for if you retreat, I shall slay you far more
painfully than the enemy!
Begone!”

Culaehra
looked back and locked glances with Kitishane. As clearly as words, they both
thought,
Bolenkar!

Culaehra
beckoned Yocote back, then stole out of the opening.

He
saw a great hall, thirty feet high and twice that across, hung with tapestries
and battle trophies, floored with rich carpets, and dominated by a huge gilded
chair, a throne half the height of the room. Before it paced a figure only a
few feet shorter than the chair, twelve feet at least, wearing a sword as long
as Culaehra was tall and a dagger as long as Corotrovir. He was bare-faced and
ugly, a face as craggy as a mountainside, with narrow eyes too small for so
huge a face, eyes drawn down in a perpetual scowl. He was burly and knobbed
with muscle, bandy-legged and splay-footed, clad only in a gilded breastplate
and kilt, with golden greaves, sandals, and gauntlets—but instead of a helmet,
he wore a crown. He paced the carpets, mouthing obscenities.

It
could be no one but Bolenkar. Badly as he had wanted to find this being,
Culaehra's heart quailed within him at the sight. How could he defeat one so
mighty?

Then
Corotrovir began to glow with a green light and, even here where there was no
wind, to vibrate in Culaehra's hand. He heard no sound, but there must have
been one too low to hear, for the giant whirled and saw him, then drew his
blade. “So you have stolen into my stronghold like the vermin you are, pawns of
Lomallin!” He eyed the green glow and sneered. “Do you think that puny stick
could hurt
me?”

Culaehra
felt power flowing from the sword into his very being, pushing the fear back,
holding it at bay. “Yes—for this is the sword Corotrovir, forged by Ohaern from
the Star Stone!”

For
an instant Bolenkar's face went slack with fear. Courage surged, and Culaehra
sprang forward with a wordless shout. He swung at Bolenkar's knee. The giant
roared with anger, yanking the leg high, then stamping down at Culaehra.
Dancing aside, Culaehra swung at the back of the giant's knee. Corotrovir bit,
and Bolenkar shouted with pain and fear as his knee buckled under him. He
swatted at Culaehra with his sword, but the blow was so clumsy that Culaehra
dodged it with ease, then leaped inside the swing to thrust at the joint
between breastplate and kilt.

A
huge fist came out of nowhere and slammed into his whole torso. Culaehra shot
up into the air, frantically holding onto Corotrovir. Bolenkar's shout of
satisfaction filled his ears, then the floor slammed against Culaehra's back,
driving the air out of him. The room started to darken, but he knew that losing
consciousness was death. Clinging to the light with the strength of fear, he
struggled to rise, waiting for the sword stroke that would sever his neck, or
the huge foot that would flatten his ribs...

It
did not come. As the darkness dissipated, just before that first huge,
shuddering gasp of returning breath, Culaehra heard the rumbling voice droning
syllables in a foreign tongue.

The
shaman's tongue! Or an even older magical language, older than humankind!
Culaehra tried to force himself to his feet, but his body would not obey his
will. Then a huge invisible hand seemed to grip him; force pressed in from
every side, imprisoning his lungs; he could not breathe. He opened his mouth to
gasp in air, but his mouth would not open. Fear clawed its way up to his gorge,
turning into panic.

A
high-pitched voice finally penetrated his ears, and he realized it had been
there for some time, floating above Bolenkar's sub-basso, chanting
incomprehensible syllables—Yocote's voice! The pressure began to ease, then
slackened abruptly. Culaehra's jaw dropped, the waiting gasp flooding his
lungs, and his body rolled up to its feet.

Bolenkar
roared with anger and turned to pound Yocote flat against the stones—but the
gnome hopped to the side, and the great fist came down on flat stone, down with
too much force; Bolenkar cried out in surprise and pain. The mere attempt was
enough to madden Culaehra, though; he clamped his teeth against a yell and
charged, Corotrovir swinging.

The
sword sang as it bit through the bronzen cuirass and into the Ulharl's side.
Culaehra yanked it free as Bolenkar turned, howling, his huge sword slashing at
Culaehra's midriff. The warrior dropped to one knee, swinging Corotrovir up to
parry; Bolenkar's blade glanced off and swung on by.

But
Culaehra froze for an instant, staring in horror at Corotrovir. Where the sword
had twice bitten through Bolenkar's flesh, his blood had eaten away the steel!
It was far deeper than a nick, almost half the width of the blade.

No
time to ponder—Bolenkar, still roaring, was swinging again. Culaehra leaped
back, but the Ulharl leaned forward even as he swung, and Culaehra raised
Corotrovir to deflect the six-foot blade. Sword met sword, exploding in a burst
of light. The force of the blow sent Culaehra reeling; he stumbled and fell,
but scuttled back, dazzled, unable to see, and hoping the vast roaring that
filled the chamber meant that Bolenkar, too, was blinded . . .

Then
the light faded and he saw the Ulharl hiking himself forward on knee and foot,
raising the huge sword in two hands.

Culaehra
swept Corotrovir up to guard—and saw that the blade was broken in half, broken
where the Ulharl's blood had eaten away the steel! He held up the remnant in
both hands, knowing it could not be enough. He struggled to regain his footing,
knowing he could not stand in time, knowing that huge down-sweeping blade would
slice him in half like a pear under a kitchen knife.

The
giant froze in mid-swing. Culaehra stared, unbelieving, then saw his companions
frozen in mid-movement, too—but saw also the tall, translucent figure, bearded
and robed, staff in hand, and the vast green form that towered behind it,
indistinct and wavering, not even clearly male or female, but seeming human,
greater than human ...

Take
this, too,
the ghost of Ohaern said in his mind.
I forged it when I
forged your sword, forged it first, to test the metal. Take and strike!

Then
he faded, the great green form behind him faded, and Culaehra, raising his left
hand, found a spear in it, a spear with a green-glowing head. Bolenkar was
striking, his vindictive roar shaking the hall. Culaehra dropped the half
sword, raised the spear with both hands, threw himself to his feet, and
charged.

Down
swept Bolenkar, bowing forward with the force of his blow, and up shot the
spear. The two came together with another explosion, greater this time, for red
sparks and green mingled to darken Culaehra's vision, darken the whole room.
Then a huge weight slammed down on top of him, crushing him beneath hard metal.
He struggled frantically, letting go of the spear, pushing and shoving, but
whatever had fallen on him was far too heavy ...

Then
it moved, at least one side of it, and Culaehra rolled toward light and life,
tears in his eyes. He rolled out and up, and nearly fell—but Kitishane was
there beside him, holding him up. He stared down, unbelieving, at the huge
corpse before him, and there could be no doubt it was dead, with that spear
shaft rising from its back, exactly where the heart would have been. Yes, he
had slain Bolenkar, Culaehra realized, dazed—but the Ulharl had helped in his
own death, for the vicious momentum of his final swing had thrown him onto the
spear, and his own weight had driven it home.

It
was a spear that was rapidly diminishing, though, as the Ulharl's blood ate it
away. The head was corroded almost to a scrap, and even as Culaehra watched,
the shaft broke and fell against the giant's bronze-armored back. Wood and
metal both rotted, hissing, vanishing into air, and the smoke of their passing
rose to fill the chamber with a foul, acrid stench.

“We
have won,” Culaehra whispered, unbelieving. “We have slain Bolenkar!”

“You
have slain him, you mean.” Yocote was beside him, insisting on honesty. “Well
done, O Hero!”

“Well
done, bravest of the brave!” Lua cried, tears filling her eyes—but she seized
Yocote's hand and would not let go.

“Yes,
brave indeed, and worthy of any reward.” Kitishane gazed up at him with awe.

Awe
he did not want, not from her. “I would be dead this minute if Ohaern had not
given me the spear.”

“Ohaern?”
Yocote frowned. “But when did he ... “ Then he realized the answer to the
question and his eyes went wide.

“His
ghost.” Culaehra nodded. “And a greater ghost behind him.”

“Lomallin,”
Yocote whispered.

“Why
not?” Kitishane asked, her face glowing up at his. “You did his work, after
all.”

Culaehra
looked down and saw with relief that the awe was gone from her eyes—but he saw
something else there, glowing, making her whole face vibrant and beautiful. He
froze, entranced, but those luscious lips moved and said, “We have not finished
that work, have we, my hero?”

Her
words brought him back to the world like a slap. Suddenly he became aware that
the roar of battle still rose from the windows. “No, we have not! We must stop
this warring before all are dead!”

“How?”
Yocote spread his hands. “We cannot carry so vast a form, and even my magic
cannot raise him long enough to bear him forth from this stronghold!”

“No—but
there is not a man of his who will not recognize
this
!” Bending,
Culaehra scooped up the huge sword—or the hilt, anyway; the weight of the full
blade nearly buckled his knees. Shifting down the blade, he straightened with a
grunt, balancing it on his shoulder. “Quickly, lead me to the wall! I cannot
bear it long!”

Yocote
muttered, gesturing with quick movements, and the sword lightened amazingly. “That
much, I can help bear.” He ran ahead toward an archway. “I feel fresh air
moving! Come, hero!”

“Do
not call me that!” Culaehra protested as he followed.

“You
shall have to grow accustomed to it,” Kitishane said, smiling up beside him.

It
was Lua who glanced back, then whipped off her cloak and ran to gather the
broken pieces of the sword, being careful not to touch the metal with her
hands. Then she settled her goggles back over her eyes and rushed to follow her
companions.

Up
they went, out onto the roof of the stronghold. Below them in the valley,
armies contended, and the carnage was great. Most of the monsters had been
slain or had fled, but those left fought alongside the soldiers, chewing up the
allies as badly as the allies slew and maimed them.

“We
cannot stop them if they do not look up to see us!” Kitishane cried, nearly in
despair. “How shall we do
that?”

“Call
out,” Yocote said simply. “Call long.” Then he began to gesture, chanting.

Culaehra
looked at him as if he were insane, but Lua reached up to touch his hand and
said, “Do as he asks.”

Culaehra
frowned down, but held the great sword aloft above his head and filled his
lungs. Then he called out “Oooooooooh!” as loudly and as long as he could.

Yocote
spread his hands, turned the palms up and lifted them slowly.

Incredibly,
the very stones of the fortress began to vibrate, echoing Culaehra's call. The
sound rolled out over the battlefields and struck the hillsides, rousing echoes
that poured back over the warring soldiers. In less than a minute the whole
valley was filled with Culaehra's cry.

Here
and there a soldier or a warrior glanced up, then leaped away from his opponent
and stared. Sometimes the opponent followed his glance, then whirled to gaze,
eyes wide; sometimes the opponent started after, but followed the pointing arm.
In only a few minutes all the fighters had stilled to stare at the big warrior
holding the sword that was as long as he was tall—and the soldiers, recognizing
it, cried out in despair, for they knew that Bolenkar would never have loosed
his hold on that sword, that the only way Culaehra could have come to lay hold
of it was if the Ulharl was dead.

“Tell
them to surrender,” Kitishane muttered.

“Surrender!”
Culaehra cried, his voice booming out over the valley. “Throw down your weapons
and plead for mercy—for be sure, you cannot win if your god is dead!”

A
moan began somewhere among the soldiers, then soared up the scale as it
gathered force, echoing and reechoing from thousands of throats into a keening
wail of despair. By hundreds, then by thousands, the Vanyar threw down their
arms and fell to their knees.

Here
and there, though, an officer raged, laying about him with his sword. “Fools!
Do you think Bolenkar's soul will not come hotfoot after those who desert him?
Take up your spears! Fight! Slay! Murder!”

The
Vanyar near them scrambled back to escape their wrath, but the officers
followed close, screaming and slashing. Here and there a soldier fell,
streaming blood. His fellows shouted in outrage, but dared not strike, so
intimidated were they. But they stepped aside as a corps of Vanyar warriors
barged in with angry shouts. A dozen warriors piled on top of each officer.
Axes rose and fell.