The Sage (6 page)

When
his body had stopped moving, even the slight rise and fall of breath, Kitishane
tore his swordbelt loose and turned away into the wood, appalled at what she
had done—but within her elation formed and grew. She was alive! Alive, and he
who had sought to slay her lay dead!

Ohaern
woke from sleep and lay taut, waiting to discover what had waked him.

An
owl hooted.

Ohaern's
eyes flicked from tree to tree till he found it—the huge white owl again! It
stared back at him, eyes glowing from the light of his fire, and hooted again,
demanding.

“As
you will, my love,” Ohaern muttered, and rolled to his feet. He buried his fire
quickly, shouldered his pack, caught up his staff, and went toward the owl. It
was off in a flurry of wings, but landed on another tree fifty feet away. When
Ohaern was only halfway to it, the bird flew on again.

It
was urgent, then. Was the hero-clay passing soon? Or facing a monster that
might slay him? Ohaern picked up his pace, hurrying as much as he could with
the weight of his pack and the awareness that he might have a long way to go.

The
owl perched and waited impatiently until he came near, then flew on.

Bone-weary,
Kitishane let her pack drop and began to gather kindling for a fire. She had
wandered through the wood for three days, not caring where she went so long as
it was away from her village and the horrible bloody thing she had left
behind—and surely they would hang her for its death, if they found her! While
the sun was up, she had glanced at the shadows frequently, making sure they
stayed before her in the morning, behind her in the afternoon. She had stopped
to pitch camp only when it was too dark to go any farther, slept lightly and
poorly, then waked and begun marching again before the sun was up. Now she was
about to pitch camp once more—when she smelled wood smoke! She went rigid,
heart bounding in panic. But she fought down her fear, strung her bow, and
crept silently through the darkened forest. They might be harmless travelers,
perhaps even women lost in the wood—but if they were not, she intended to
strike while she still could. She hastened toward the scent of smoke until she
began to hear voices. Then she slowed, creeping toward the sounds, and
crouched, watching the people through a screen of leaves—a big man and, by
Heaven, two gnomes!

“Be
done with that stew, Lua, and bring it!” the big man snarled.

“Yes,
master!” The gnome-maiden snatched the kettle off the fire—and dropped it with
a cry of pain. The stew went running out over the ground.

“You
clumsy get!” The man leaped up. The gnome-maiden turned to run, terrified, but
he caught her by the neck and yanked her off her feet, then began to strike her
with the other fist.

Kitishane
stared through the underbrush in outrage, then raised her bow.

“Let
her go, Culaehra!” The other gnome leaped up from the shadows and sprang at the
big man, clutching his belt and leaping up to strike at his face with a tiny
fist.

“Let
her go? As you please, Yocote!” Culaehra dropped Lua and seized Yocote by the
neck, pummeling him instead. Lua cried out in pain as she struck the ground,
but rose to strike small, ineffectual blows at Culaehra's legs.

“Let
them both go!” Kitishane cried in rage. She stepped from the underbrush,
drawing the arrow back to her cheek.

Culaehra
dropped Yocote indeed, turning to Kitishane in surprise, then slowly grinned. “Let
them go? Aye! You're more my size!” He stepped toward her, ignoring her arrow.

Kitishane
had seen the same sort of look on the young men who had tried to bear her down.
Without the slightest tremor of conscience, she loosed the arrow.

But
Culaehra leaped aside, and the dart flew past him into the trees. With a howl
of triumph, he sprang at Kitishane; there were no memories to bar him from a
woman full-grown.

No
time to draw another arrow, or space to fire it. Kitishane dropped her bow and
drew her sword, slashing at the big stranger. He hadn't expected it; he tried
to reverse direction, jumping aside, but the blade scored his arm and blood
welled. With a snarl of anger he drew his own blade and came at her.

He
had all the finesse of a bull in heat, which was nearly what he was. Kitishane
snapped her blade up to parry—but the sheer power of his stroke bore her back.
She retreated, parrying frantically, but Culaehra followed closely with
lumbering strokes that sent pain shooting up her arm. The lust in his eyes, the
greed in his grin, waked enough fear for her to try desperate measures. She
ducked under a blow and thrust, but the big man leaned aside, and her blade
ripped nothing more than his tunic. “Clawed cat!” he snapped. “You'll mend that
for me!”

“Only
for your funeral!” she spat, but his next stroke drove her back even farther;
she tripped on a log and fell. With a cry of victory he was on her—but the
gnome Yocote dove for his leg, wrapped both arms and legs about it, and bit.

Culaehra
howled, kicking violently, and the little man went flying—but Kitishane rolled
away and up, then threw herself into a lunge, sword tip aimed straight at the
big man's heart.

At
the last second he spun aside and seized her wrist. “Let go!” she raged, and
kicked at his groin. “Let go of me!”

He
blocked the kick with his thigh, then yanked hard on the wrist, pulling her up
against him. “Let go? Aye, when I've had my fill!”

Kitishane
swung her dagger at him left-handed. He dropped his sword, moving his head
aside enough so the dagger missed, then caught her left wrist, too, and twisted
both. Kitishane cried out in pain, dropping both sword and dagger—and the vile
man forced her wrists down behind her back, where he caught them both in one of
his huge paws even as he pressed his lips against hers, wet and wide.
Disgusted, she shoved him away—but he caught at her neckline, and she couldn't
strike his hand away, he was holding both of hers behind her back ...

“Hold!”
a deep voice bellowed, but Culaehra only snapped, “Be done with your tricks,
Yocote!” and yanked at the neckline, but the leather held, only pulling
Kitishane up close, into a stench of sweaty, unwashed body, and unclean
clothing ...

Something
cracked, and Culaehra howled, letting go of Kitishane as he swung about—to face
an old man in black robes, with short grizzled hair and beard. He also had a
long, hard staff that was swinging high to strike again.

Culaehra
stooped to catch up his sword, then lunged at the old man's midriff—but the
staff swung down, cracked again, and Culaehra dropped his blade with a yowl of
pain. He lashed out with a kick, and the old man stepped aside—but he stepped
too slowly, and the kick caught him on the hip. He grunted with pain even as
his staff moved in a blur, the butt coming up to catch Culaehra under the chin.
His head snapped back and he fell. Lua cried out in fright—Yocote flashed her a
glance filled with surprise and pain—but Culaehra rolled and came up in a
wrestler's crouch, shaking his head to clear it, growling, for all the world
like a bear.

Kitishane
finally realized she could do something again— and what chance had an old man
against a bear in the prime of his youth? She caught up her sword and stepped
toward Culaehra.

“No!”
the old man barked at her, even as he laid his staff aside. “He is mine to
fight—and with no more weapons than he has!” He, too, dropped into a wrestler's
stance, though it looked quite different from Culaehra's. He began to move
around the outlaw, east to west.

C
ulaehra
gave a gloating laugh and charged the old man, stooping to catch up his fallen
dagger on the way. Kitishane and Yocote shouted in alarm as he swung his arm
high, stabbing down—but the old man blocked his stroke. There was a brief
flurry of movement, swirling robes and flapping black sleeves— then Culaehra
shouted with pain as his dagger dropped on the ground. The old man released
him, almost throwing him back. For the first time a glimmer of fear showed in
Culaehra's eye—but it submerged quickly under anger, and he bellowed as he
charged the old man, arms outspread to grapple. The stranger stepped aside, but
again too slowly, and Culaehra caught him with one outstretched arm, sweeping
him into a bear hug. Kitishane heard the old man's ribs creak and cried out in
alarm, and Culaehra gave a gloating laugh. Then, suddenly, he was falling
backward, the old man falling with him, and the two of them seemed a single
churning mass until Culaehra gave a shout that verged on a scream, and the old
man shoved himself back to his feet, backing away, breathing hard—and waiting,
ready. Very ready. Culaehra pushed himself up, panting and clumsy, blood in his
eye, growling low in his throat. He advanced on the old man, but slowly now,
feet wide apart, almost waddling, arms uplifted, until only a yard separated
the two men. Then Culaehra lunged.

What
the old man did, Kitishane couldn't have said—but Culaehra went whirling
through the air to land heavily on his back. He scrabbled at the forest floor,
breathless, the wind knocked out of him, and finally managed to turn himself
over onto his stomach. Breath rasped in his throat at last, and he pushed
himself up again, feet spraddled, arms low and circling, head down, glowering
and gasping for breath.

The
old man stepped in, feinted with his left fist, swung low, and as Culaehra
tried to block, stepped in, smashing his right fist into Culaehra's jaw. The
big man straightened, his eyes glazing, then toppled and crashed into the
underbrush. Kitishane and the gnomes stood frozen, breathless, waiting—but
Culaehra lay still.

“Have
no fear,” the old man wheezed. “He will not ... rise again ... till he wakes.”
He moved toward his staff, but Yocote was there before him, dashing to pick it
up and present it to the old man in outstretched hands.

The
movement broke Kitishane's trance. “Thank you from the bottom of my heart,” she
said, breathless. “I cannot thank you enough—but why did you save me? You do
not know me at all!”

“I
have some reason of my own to punish this man,” the old man said, leaning
heavily on his staff now. His face was grim as he said, “He is my affair—so I
would prefer that he do no more harm.”

“It
is for all of us to thank you,” Yocote said.

Lua
nodded, eyes wide. “Yes, thank you for freeing me from this tyrant!”

“Tell
us who you are, that we may praise your name,” Yocote implored.

“Call
me Illbane,” the old man said. He took a deep breath, heaved a sigh, and rubbed
his side.

“Are
you hurt?” Kitishane was by him in an instant.

“Bruised,
nothing more,” Illbane assured her. “Cursed we are, that we must grow old! If I
had taken better care of this body, I could have whipped this cub in three
blows!”

“It
seems a miracle that you won at all!” Lua said, eyes wide.

Kitishane
agreed. “He is so huge, so strong!”

“Strength
and youth, he has,” Illbane agreed, “and the quickness and endurance that go
with it—but he has very little skill, and is so clumsy that I should have had
him half a dozen times before I finally did. Yes, and without his even touching
me, too!”

Kitishane
stared. “Is it true? Can people learn such fighting skill as this?”

“I
stand victor, in testimony to it,” Illbane said with irony. “Believe me, there
is greater skill than I have shown you today, far greater!”

“Teach
it to me!” Kitishane pleaded.

“To
you?” Illbane looked up at her, frowning. “No, for I must take this bear in
hand and make a man of him.”

“Bear?”
Yocote studied the unconscious Culaehra with a frown. “They say that bear cubs
are born without form, and that their mothers must give it to them by licking
them.”

Illbane
laughed. “Do they truly? What marvelous tales people have made up in these
centuries! I can see the source of it—the newborn cubs
do
look like
shapeless masses, and the mothers lick them to dry them and warm them.”

Kitishane
stared. What manner of man was this, who talked as if he had been midwife to a
bear and seen the new cubs at arm's length!

“And
will you, like a mother, give this bear form?” Yocote nudged Culaehra with his
toe.

“I
shall lick him into shape, yes—but not like a mother.” The old man lifted his
head to look around at the three. “You may go now—you are free. Or, if you wish
justice, you may wait until he wakes, this lump of clay, and beat him as he
beat you.”

Yocote's
eye gleamed as he looked at the supine form, but Lua shuddered.

Illbane
noticed. “What troubles you, gnome-maid?”

Startled
and frightened that he should talk to her, Lua stared up.

Illbane
saw; his voice became much more gentle. “Come, you need not fear to tell me. He
has wronged you, he has caused you pain. Why not take the chance to give him as
much agony as he has given you? I assure you, he will never retaliate!”

“But—it
is wrong!” Lua exclaimed. “To beat another, to hurt someone else for your own
pleasure—what a horrible notion!”

Illbane
nodded gravely. “I see that you are too gentle to seek revenge.” He turned to
Yocote. “What of you, gnome-man?”

But
Yocote's eyes were on Lua. “It is wrong, as she says,” he said slowly, “and
would serve no purpose. Besides, if I beat him when he were helpless, I should
be no better than he, and—” His lip curled. “—be sure, he is the most loathsome
of creatures! Would he have sought to fight me if I were three times his size,
as he is to me? I think not! A bully and a coward!”

“A
bully surely, but perhaps not a coward,” Illbane said slowly, “and if he would
run from one three times his size, it would be because he found nothing worth
the fight or the risk.” He turned to Kitishane. “What of you, maiden?”