The Sage (7 page)

Kitishane
regarded Culaehra's unconscious bulk with disgust. “I would love to beat him as
he did the gnomes, Master Illbane, but I fear I would not stop until I was
exhausted—and by that time he might be dead.”

Low-voiced,
Illbane asked, “Do you care?”

Lua's
gaze snapped up to him, appalled, and Kitishane's eyes widened; she seemed
unsettled. “Care about him? No! But care that I not be a killer of people, yes!
I have slain rabbits and pheasants with my bow, slain deer, even slain a man
who sought to rape me—but I am no murderer!”

“No
killer of your own kind.” Illbane nodded, and though he still looked grim,
Kitishane sensed approval; it reassured her. “And, though we may not think of
this hulk as our kind, he is nonetheless human.” He prodded Culaehra with his
staff. “Up, son of infamy!”

Culaehra
sat bolt-upright, as if something had yanked him straight.
Then
his eyes
opened—and squinted with pain. He moaned and rubbed his jaw, then saw the
gnomes and the maiden watching him. Memory struck, and he swiveled his head to
look up at the tall old stranger.

“Yes,
I have beaten you, lump-face, and shall do so again if you seek to disobey me!
Up, now, and shoulder the pack!” He nodded at Culaehra's makeshift sack.

Kitishane
fought to keep her face impassive in spite of her surprise at the change in
Illbane, from the understanding protector to the tyrant—and at his choice of
insults. She surely wouldn't have called Culaehra “lump-face.” In fact, she
would have called him handsome—quite handsome, if he hadn't been such a brute.

“My
head hurts,” Culaehra grunted.

Illbane's
hand struck like a snake, rocking Culaehra's temple. With a roar the big man
surged up—but Illbane sidestepped, struck Culaehra's head as he blundered past,
then kicked his legs out from under him. “You had better learn something about
fighting, lumbering ox, before you try to strike me again!” Illbane dropped
down, one knee on Culaehra's spine, the other pinning his arm. Culaehra tried
to roll, then yelled as the bony knee dug into a nerve. He whipped about and
tried to roll from the other direction, then howled as the other knee dug in.
He lay frozen for a moment, and Illbane whipped an iron chain about his neck,
holding the two ends together as he chanted some words that seemed mere
nonsense syllables— but fire flashed from the two ends, and when it died, the
chain was seamless. Illbane shoved himself to his feet, stepping back.

Culaehra
howled from the heat of the links as Illbane dropped them. He shoved himself
up, pawing at the steel collar—then freezing as his hand found the small iron
ball at his throat.

“It
is an amulet,” Illbane told him sternly. “It is magic. If you so much as
think
of doing something wrong, it will grow cold, and the more you think
of wrong deeds, the colder it will grow. Think of right works, and it will grow
warm.”

Culaehra
roared, clasping the chain with both hands and pulling. The muscles of his arms
bulged, his face reddened—but the chain held.

“You
shall not break it, no matter how hard you try,” Illbane told him, “for it is
magic that holds it, not the strength of iron alone. It is the collar of a
slave, and a slave you are indeed! Now rise, and take up the pack!”

“I
am no man's slave!” Culaehra bellowed. “Especially yours!”

“Oh,
yes you are, as rightfully as you enslaved the gnome-woman!” Illbane kicked
Culaehra hard in the side. The big man yelled, but cut it off short, pressing
his hand to the hurt—and Illbane swung the staff against his buttocks.

Culaehra
clenched his teeth, keeping the shout down to a grunt, and Lua cried out in
protest. Kitishane agreed. “You do not need to cause him so much pain, Illbane!”

“If
he thought it right for him to hurt you, then he cannot deny that it is right
for me to hurt him!”

“Or,”
Yocote pointed out, “if he thinks it wrong for you to hurt him, then he must
admit that it was wrong for him to hurt us.”

“Never!”
Culaehra snapped, and Illbane struck again, leaning down to slap Culaehra's
head—but Culaehra saw the blow coming and, quick as a scorpion, rocked back to
catch the old man's wrist with a cry of vindication.

Illbane
planted a foot in his belly.

The
cry turned into strangling as Culaehra curled around the pain. Illbane stepped
back and spoke with contempt. “Yes, you cannot rise to your work if you cannot
breathe, can you? Very well, I will wait a few minutes.”

Lua
started to speak, but Illbane waved her to silence, and Kitishane laid a
sympathetic hand on her shoulder. She felt she should not watch a scene of such
brutality, but morbid fascination held her—and the creeping satisfaction of
seeing the bully being bullied.

Yocote
had no such scruples. He watched with shining eyes.

Culaehra
drew a long, shuddering gasp, and Illbane dug the butt of his staff under the
man's belly to jab. Culaehra howled and rolled away from the pain, then
scrambled to his feet, glaring in fury—but Illbane followed him every inch and
was waiting to clout him as he stood. Culaehra's head rocked; he straightened,
bringing up his hands to guard, but Illbane struck them aside with a sweep of
his staff, then slapped Culaehra, forehand and backhand, one cheek, then the
other. Culaehra struck out, but Illbane caught his arm, stepped sideways, and
twisted it up behind Culaehra's back. The big man gave a shout of pain, then
clamped his jaw. Sweat stood out on his brow.

“Understand,”
Illbane grated. “You have only one choice— obey me, or suffer pain at my hands
until you finally die.”

“I'll
kill you for this,” Culaehra ground out.

“Turn
those words around.” Illbane shoved and twisted, and Culaehra bellowed with
pain. Lua winced. Illbane lectured. “You have strength and swiftness, more than
I—but you are clumsy, and an ignorant fool when it comes to fighting. No, an
ignorant fool in all matters, or you would have known it was wrong to beat and
enslave those weaker than yourself! Well, you will learn it now, because I will
teach it to you, or you will die from my trying!”

“Everyone
does it,” Culaehra said between clenched teeth. “What's wrong about it?”

“Many
things, and if you weren't so determined to be ignorant, you'd know them! But
for the moment, this alone will do—that no matter how strong you are, there
will always be someone stronger! So if it is right for you to enslave those
weaker than you, then it is right for someone else to enslave you—and just now,
that someone is me! Now
pick up that packi”

He
gave one final twist and shoved the big man away from him. Culaehra stumbled,
but turned to glare at him, feet spread wide, shoulders hunched, arms up.
Illbane glared back, though, pure venom; his contempt and disgust and, yes,
hatred for all that Culaehra represented, daunted even the bully. He froze, his
glare glazing, the tiniest shred of uncertainty coming into his eyes.

Illbane
swung his staff high, then held it poised.

With
a snarl of defiance, Culaehra turned away and caught up the sack.

Lua
heaved a sigh of relief, but Yocote's breath hissed out in victory.

“The
other one, too!” The staff jabbed at a dark shape lying at the edge of the
clearing, then swung back up, ready to strike. Culaehra glared hatred at
Illbane, then slowly stepped over to pick up the pack—and froze in surprise.

“Lift
it up,” Illbane jibed, “or are you not so strong as an old man? I have walked
fifty miles with that load on my back! Come, are you so weak after all?”

“What
is in it?” Culaehra grunted.

“Smith's
tools. Now hoist it to your back, or your shoulders will know a heavier load!”

Red
with shame, Culaehra lifted the pack and slipped his arms through the straps.
Illbane nodded slowly, lowering the staff. Then he turned to the watching three
and said, “Go, now. You have done your part; you have witnessed his shame, and
thereby gained your revenge—or imposed justice.” He nodded to Lua. “Go where
you will—you are free.”

“But
the poor man!” Tears filled Lua's eyes. “How can I leave him, when he is so
degraded?”

“By
moving your feet!” Yocote cried. “Lua! He whipped you, he beat you, he degraded
you!”

“He
did,” she said, tears welling over, “and therefore I know how it feels. I
cannot leave him now!”

“You
are too good,” Yocote said in disgust, then raised his head in horrible
suspicion even as Illbane said, “No one can be too good,” and Kitishane
contradicted, “This is not goodness, Lua, but another form of evil, to be so
loyal to a man who has hurt you, and would again if he could!”

“Could
it be you are still in love with him?” Yocote burst out. “In love, after all he
did to you—all you saw him do to
me?
”

Lua
hung her head in shame.

“No,
there is nothing good in this,” Illbane said heavily, “though good might come
of it. I will not drive you away, gnome-maid, if you do not wish it.” He turned
to Yocote. “And you, gnome-man?”

Yocote
still stared at Lua in outrage and hurt, then turned away in disgust. “Oh, I am
as bad as she is—bound by some sick form of love to one who loves me not, and
who I know will bring me hurt by it! But I'll go where she goes anyway, old
man! I will come with you!”

“Oh,
Yocote!” Lua reached out toward him, but he twitched aside, turning away, his
face thunderous.

Illbane
lifted his gaze to Kitishane. “And you, maiden? Will you not go forth in freedom?”

“I
would rather go with you, in freedom,” Kitishane said slowly, “if you will have
me—and if you will teach me to fight as you do.”

Illbane
regarded her with a steady gaze for a few minutes, then said, “I may, or I may
not. Why do you wish to learn?”

“Why!”
Kitishane looked up in indignation. “Why, so that I will never again need to
fear a bully! Is there another reason?”

“Many,”
Illbane told her, “but that is better than most, though not so good as some.
Well, you may come with us, though I make no promises of teaching. Come, then!”

He
turned away. “And start marching, you!” His staff swung in a blur; Culaehra
yelped, then started off into the forest with Illbane close behind. Kitishane
and the two gnomes had to hurry to catch up.

They
marched all that day. During the morning, Culaehra balked frequently to match
glares with Illbane, but each time a lash from the old man's staff sent him on
his way again. Finally, near the middle of the day, he dropped the sack and
kicked at Illbane—but the old man was ready. Slower than Culaehra, he collected
a few more bruises, but for each, he struck the younger man three times, until
Culaehra raised his arms in surrender, took up the pack again, and stumbled
ahead, the very picture of baffled misery. Lua went to him, reaching up to
comfort, but he shrugged her off, and would have kicked her had not Illbane's
staff hissed down between them. Illbane blocked the kick with a shrewd rap on
the shin, then struck the thigh for punishment. Culaehra cursed and went hobbling
on, while Kitishane gathered in the trembling Lua, and Yocote glared daggers at
the human beast of burden, flexing his hands and clenching his fists in
impotent anger.

They
pitched camp after sunset, Culaehra and the gnomes dragging together a shelter
and kindling a campfire while Kitishane hunted and Illbane stood guard—over
Culaehra. As he watched he took up bits of wood and whittled, his huge knife
very much in evidence.

When
the wild pig had been shot and roasted, they ate with their knives, and the others
were surprised that Illbane let Culaehra keep his. As they ate, Illbane told
them of distant lands he had seen and the strange folk who lived in them. Their
eyes shone as they listened, all except Culaehra's. Then, when the fire was
banked and each person had rolled up in whatever cover they had, Illbane went
aside, sitting alone and brooding— though in clear sight of Culaehra, and not
so far from him that he could not leap beside him in seconds.

Yocote
looked up and saw the old man sitting alone, frowned at him for a few minutes,
then with sudden resolution threw off his covering of leaves and came slowly to
the stump where Illbane sat. He stood still for a while before the old man
turned to him, nodding. “Good evening, Yocote.”

“Good
evening, Illbane.” As if they had not been traveling together all day! The
gnome clenched and unclenched his hands, his face growing darker, eyes glowing
in the night.

“What
troubles you?” Illbane asked.

Yocote
stood poised a moment longer; then the words erupted. “You are a wizard, are
you not?”

Illbane
regarded him, a faint smile curving his moustache, and nodded gravely. “I can
work magic, yes—though I am more properly a shaman than a wizard, or was. I
have learned much besides shaman lore since then, and am now more a sage than a
mage.”

Yocote
frowned. “Mage? What sort of word is that?”

“A
made-up one,” Illbane told him. “The proper word is 'magus.' “

“What
is a 'magus'?”

“A
priest in the Land Between the Rivers. If you speak of more than one, call them
'magi.' They read the stars to foretell the future and the wills of their gods.”

“Do
they work magic?”

“Yes,
but not my sort. I began as a shaman, and my magic is built on that.”

The
gnome stood trembling, then burst out, “Could I be a shaman, too?”

Illbane
sat studying the little man for a time, then said slowly, “I cannot tell.
Certainly you could learn some magic, at least a few simple spells, and being a
gnome, you could probably learn more than most men.”

Yocote
hung his head. “I have very weak magical powers, even for a gnome.”

“Perhaps,”
Illbane allowed, “or perhaps your gifts are different from those of most
gnomes.”