He was still amazed when she did it. He sat back against a tree trunk, let her spoon hot broth into him, and set himself to healing ...
And to contemplating his revenge.
Ohaern woke shivering—but worse, he woke aching. Before he even moved, he ached in every limb. He lay absolutely still, afraid even to open his eyes for fear the effort would hurt.
Coward! he scolded himself. Churl and swine! He nerved himself to stir at least a little, at least his eyelids ...
Light seared through to his brain, and he narrowed his eyes to bare slits, telling himself the light was really dim, that it was only his five-hundred-year-old eyes to which it seemed a glare. When it had become bearable, he opened his eyes a little farther—and could have sworn he felt sand beneath the lids. Had his eyeballs gone dry in five centuries?
Fifty years, he told himself. Surely by his body's time it had only been fifty years, or less! But fifty years or fifty decades, he felt as if his body were iron that had rusted solid, and that he must break free again.
He opened his eyes farther, waited till the dazzle ceased, then opened them even more, and saw—a dazzle indeed! The flecks of ice that had coated the cavern when he was young had grown to sheets and columns now! He lay in a hall of ice, lighted by a foot-high flame from a crack in the rock at his feet. The reflections danced all about, refracting, reflecting, and surrounding him with light.
At least Rahani had given him a tomb worthy of a hero—but, no, say a bedchamber, not a tomb! For he had slept, not died— only slept, while human history flowed by. And it was time to waken.
Ohaern turned his head—slowly, slowly, and it felt as if he had to break through a layer of rust. There by his bier sat a small, round table of ebony, and on it, in a silver bowl, fruits of many shapes and colors. The mere sight repelled him, but he knew this body needed nourishment. He moved a hand—but it stayed still. Frowning in puzzlement, he willed it to move, looked down at it, lying over the gray blanket that covered his chest. Slowly, the hand moved, feeling heavy with the weight of centuries—but move it did, and Ohaern managed to hold it up as the arm moved behind the hand, farther and farther until the palm reached the table. There Ohaern let it rest, breathing heavily, feeling as if he had just moved the earth. Alarm stirred—how was he to forge a sword if he could scarcely move his hand? But before that alarm could take hold, a new one shoved it aside:
Blanket?
He had pulled no blanket over himself, had indeed lain down in only the cloak, tunic, and leggings that the villagers at the foot of the hills had given him. There had been no blanket, certainly not a gray one. He had a dreadful suspicion what the fabric was, but shoved the issue aside, telling himself that strength was more important. His weakness was only that of muscles wasted from inaction, he assured himself, and slack from lack of food. He knew he needed nourishment, so he took a yellow globe from the bowl on the table and hefted it, though it seemed as heavy as any boulder he had ever managed to lift, and brought it back to his mouth, a distance that seemed as wide as a river. He forced it to his lips, bit, and felt the juice seep over his tongue—but with almost no taste. What! Had his body forgotten how to register the sweetness of food?
But that sweetness coursed through him, spreading strength and warmth. He bit deeper and felt a fly-bite twinge, tasted something flat—and realized it was hair. He, who had always shaved his face clean, now felt his own hair in his mouth, for his beard and moustache had grown while his body slept—and he knew what the gray blanket over his breast was. Slowly, he forced the other hand up, over, then let it collapse onto his beard, feeling the chest labor beneath. His fingers twitched in the grizzled mass, feeling the texture—softer than it looked. He would have to cut it back to a manageable length—and his hair! How long had it grown? And what was he to cut it with?
Painfully, he turned his head, looking about the cavern. On the floor beside the ebony table lay a leather rucksack, and on top of it, a hammer, tongs, chisels, all the tools of a smith's trade—and shears! Well, he could trim his hair and beard, then—if he could move his hands.
That struck him as an excellent place to begin. Slowly, he began to squeeze the fruit as he ate it, feeling the strength flow into him. Then he began to flex his hands. It took an immense amount of effort, but at last they moved fairly easily, and with almost no pain. He rewarded himself with another piece of fruit—difficult, because his arm still moved like a bough in winter. Then he began to flex his arms, finally managing to touch his shoulders. From that, he went to working his upper arms, resting his hands on his breast. When he could do a reasonable imitation of a bird flying—though no bird ever flew so slowly!—he ate another piece of fruit, forcing himself, because he still had no appetite. Then he began to work his legs.
By the time he swung his feet to the floor, he had finished the fruit, and sweat beaded his forehead. He didn't try to stand, only turned over onto his stomach and put part of his weight on his legs, then leaned back on the bier, then back on his feet again until he could do it without feeling that his knees were about to buckle. At last he achieved the colossal feat of getting himself back up on the bier again, and was about to reach for another piece of fruit when he remembered that the bowl was empty. But it didn't matter, because he had already fallen asleep again.
The bowl was full again the next morning. His achievement for the day was standing, even walking a few steps—enough to discover that wood was laid for a fire, at the foot of his bier. He kindled a stick in the flame that jetted from the crack in the floor, then lit the fire. He warmed himself at its flames, glancing apprehensively at the ice about him as he did, but it never melted. Indeed, the warmth from the fire seemed to radiate only a few feet before it was swallowed up in the constant chill of the cavern. The heat helped him to begin bending and stretching, though.
By the end of the day the fruit bowl was empty again, and it was all he could do to climb back on his bier once more. As he drifted to sleep, the thought crossed his mind that fruit was all very well, but to rebuild muscle, he would need meat.
Rahani must have been watching his every movement and caring for him as much as she could from the spirit realm, without more outright magic. How else could he explain the piglet that wandered into the cave, or the fact that its mother never came after it? How else explain that his muscles grew from that meat to reasonable resemblance of their former strength, if not their bulk? How explain the partridge that flew in, or any of the other small animals that made up a virtual parade, until his limbs moved easily, though they still ached, and he had stitched together enough chewed skins to cover his loins?
One morning, he woke to find a new cloak and tunic lying on the ebony table. It was time to begin.
* * *
Culaehra may have put aside thoughts of rape, but he still enjoyed having someone to order about and to cuff if she didn't obey him quickly enough. He ordered her to fetch him some meat, and she asked, “How?” wide-eyed.
“Kill it, you little fool!” Culaehra roared, and gave her a slap.
She cowered back, gasping and shaking her head, almost a shudder. “No, master! A poor little squirrel? I never could!”
“It had better be more than a squirrel, or I'll beat you sore!”
And beat her he did, but kill she never would, only wept and wept as if her heart would break, so he beat her for that, too. Even when he killed a partridge himself, she wept as she plucked its feathers, and he had to beat her to make her gut and clean it. Did these gnomes know nothing of cooking meat? Well, this one learned, for he browbeat her into setting up a spit and roasting it for him. She would have burned it, too, if he hadn't told her when to stop. He could have done that himself, of course, but it gave him a singing elation to force someone else to do it.
After a few days he was healed well enough to begin his journey away from his village. “We go,” he told Lua. “Take the food and walk ahead of me.”
She gave him a huge-eyed, frightened glance, then wrapped up
the remainder of the meat and stumbled after him. He caught her up and shoved her ahead of him, giving her a slash with a leather thong every now and then, barking “Faster!” He could feel the strength returning in him, having someone to bully again.
So they went through the afternoon, Culaehra driving and snarling, Lua stumbling ahead of him, weeping and squinting, for her eyes hurt from the brightness of daylight. Inwardly, Culaehra exulted in her pain, and if something much deeper in him felt wrung out in agony, he ignored it.
That night, he glanced at her eyes glowing in the firelight, and took a savage delight in no longer seeing any vestige of love—only fear. But there was no hatred in that look, only a weary resignation, and that galled him.
In revenge for that, he pretended to close his eyes and regulated his breathing so that he seemed to be asleep, but watched through his eyelashes. They almost sealed themselves in real sleep, but at the last moment Lua stirred, then knelt up and began to creep away into the forest, stealthy as a stalking cat, silent as a gliding bird.
Culaehra leaped up and threw himself after her with a shout, caught her ankle and slapped her again and again, crying, “Desert me, would you! No one leaves me unless I wish it! Oh, you vile creature, you slime-coated rock-heart! Run away from me, would you? I'll see that you don't!” But he stopped the beating short of leaving her limping—after all, who would carry his burdens if she were lamed?
The next day, he tied a leather thong about her neck, and held the other end as he drove her before him with a switch. It felt good, but whenever he looked at her eyes, he grew angry all over again, for he still saw no hatred there—and, worse, no despair, only that same old resignation. It was almost as if she expected someone to rescue her!
That someone fell upon Culaehra at dinner that noon. A small body dropped from a tree to kick at his belly and stab at his eyes, shouting, “Run, Lua! Flee for your life!”
“Flee, and I'll whip you raw!” Culaehra thundered, angry and alarmed. He rolled away from the kicking fury, then snapped upright suddenly and caught the blasted creature by the neck, holding it at arm's length. It wriggled and squirmed, wind-milling tiny fists and kicking diminutive legs, trying to screech curses and threats, but only making a strangling noise through Culaehra's grip while its pale blue skin grew darker. Culaehra stared at it in amazement.
“Oh, Yocote!” Lua gasped in tones of mourning.
Culaehra grinned, suddenly understanding. He threw back his head and laughed loud and long. “So her swain has come to the rescue, eh? Much good may it do her! What could you rescue her from, mannikin? A squirrel?” And he laughed again.
“Do not shame him!” Lua pleaded. “O Master, please do not shame him!”
“Why not? He looks so amusing as he turns purple!” Culaehra gave the gnome a shake, grinning at him, then laughing yet again.
Yocote emitted a gargling noise, face contracting in fury. He raised his arms, hands moving and writhing in strange abstract gestures while his gargling turned into incomprehensible syllables. Culaehra laughed and laughed—until he realized the little gnome was working magic! Then he squeezed the creature's neck hard, cutting off talk, but it was too late—Yocote made fists in a gesture of finality, and the spell struck.
Something popped under Culaehra's nose with a bright light, loosing a puff of foul-smelling smoke. He was so startled that he nearly dropped the gnome—nearly. But he held on and forced a laugh. “Is that the best you can do? Oh, I fear your magic, little one! So vastly do I fear your magic!” And he dropped the little man indeed—but planted a foot on him, or on his skirts, rather; the gnome wore a robe that seemed too big for him, though his kicking had showed leggings and buskins beneath. What manner of race was this, Culaehra wondered, where the men wore robes and the women did not? Yocote looked so dispirited that Culaehra thought it best to rub it in. “You were better off fighting me with your fists than your spells, mannikin!” And to demonstrate how useless either was, he bent down and clouted the gnome.
Lua cried out, hands to her mouth and eyes wide, but the gnome only picked himself up off the ground, glaring. “It's true, my magic is weaker than that of most gnomes ...”
“And gnomes' magic is weak, compared to elves!”
“It's strong enough when it comes to things of the earth!” Yocote snapped.
Culaehra backhanded him so hard his head rocked. “Talk nicely when you talk at all, gnome—and don't speak unless I tell you to!”
Yocote shook his head and stared slit-eyed up at the bully. “I'll talk as I please, and as you don't, suet face!”
Culaehra stared a moment in surprise and outrage, then roared without words and waded in, kicking and punching. When the spasm of anger was spent and the gnome lay moaning on the ground, he spat, “Talk now, fool!”
Yocote groaned; Lua whimpered.
“Now!” Culaehra kicked him again.
“Noooo!” Yocote groaned.
“What!” Culaehra struck again.
Yocote managed to push out words. “Why did you ... do that? I talked .. . didn't I?”
Culaehra stared; then anger grew as he realized that in some way the gnome had managed to make a fool of him. He yanked the little man up by the scruff of the neck, gaining savage strength from Lua's whimpering. “None of your tricks, you lump of dough! You're a failure as a magus—and a failure as a man!”
Yocote's voice was thin, strangled by the weight of his body against the collar. “As a man ... perhaps ... but a success as a gnome!”
“Will nothing stop your prattling?” Culaehra dropped him, then caught him with his toe before he hit the ground. Not too hard, of course—he wanted another underling to bully, not a corpse. “I'll teach you to mind, and to speak only when you're spoken to!”
“You can't... teach what.. . you don't... know,” Yocote gasped.
“You'll learn it, then! And you'll learn it hard!”
“I'll speak when ... I wish, and .. . flee when ... I please!”
“Oh, will you, then?” Culaehra snarled. He drew his dagger and seized the little man. Lua screamed, but Culaehra only sliced a long thin strip from the gnome's robe and tied one end around his neck. “You'll not flee at all!” He yanked the gnome to his feet as if he were a puppet. “Now, pick up that pack!”
Yocote stood immobile, his face stone, and Culaehra began to worry that he might actually have to kill the little man, and what good would the gnome be to him then? But inspiration struck. “Came to rescue your maiden fair, did you? Well, you can rescue her from carrying the burden! Up with it, now, and off with you!”
Yocote stood immobile a moment longer, then slowly picked up the pack and slung it over one shoulder. He winced at the contact of the strap.
“Oh, Yocote!” Lua mourned.
“None of your whimpering!” Culaehra felt a savage exultation—he had made the gnome do his bidding. “Up, now, and off!”
Staggering under the load, Yocote moved away in the direction Culaehra pointed. Lua reached out in distress as he passed by, but he turned his face away from her, ashamed.
Ohaern knew he was as fit as he was ever going to be, staying by his fire in the chill of his tomb. He was astounded to feel a thrill of fear at the thought of going into the outside world, but he mastered it sternly, telling himself how ridiculous he was, for he knew the form of the world even after five centuries, had watched the ebb and flow of tribes and nations across its face. Still, he was going forth into uncertainty; sheer pain and death could meet him, whereas for five hundred years he had been safe in Rahani's bower.
Too soft, he told himself. You have lived in luxury and safety too long. It was time to learn to fight again. He loaded his tools into their pack, shouldered it—and was amazed at the weight. In his youth he would scarcely have noticed it!
Time to rebuild wasted muscle. Leaning against the weight of his pouch, he turned his back on the fire and the bier and went into the tunnel from which the little animals had come. Even now his bones creaked with t
he unaccustomed movement; the rust was gone, but his joints ached, his muscles pained him with every movement. He felt a surge of anger at the cruel joke Time had played him, a feeling of outrage at the stolen years, at having been robbed of the chance to grow old with dignity, to keep this wasted body in some echo of its former strength. But the surge crested and passed; he reminded himself that he had gained instead five hundred more years of youth, and what ancient would not willingly have traded slow aging for centuries of ecstasy, and gladly accepted this catapulting into old age?
Still, his body did not understand, and screamed at him for failing it.
Darkness closed around him, and he stifled a feeling of panic. He stopped, lowering his pack to the floor, and waited for his night sight to return. It did, even after five hundred years, and he saw faintly by the distant light of the jetting flame—saw two dark holes ten feet in front of him, branching off to either side. Who knew what other turns and branchings there might lie ahead? And surely there would be no light at all!
Chapter 3
It was a pretty problem, and Ohaern found his old limbs would no longer take the weight of standing still to decide. He lowered himself beside his pack, then sat contemplating the tunnels, puzzling out how to choose which led up to the earth's surface and which led downward into a farther and more tangled maze with— for all he knew—a fathomless pit of dark water at its end.
But as he gazed, a flutter of whiteness appeared within the tunnel. He stared; the fluttering grew, until a white bird flew out of the tunnel, a huge white owl. Ohaern stiffened, recognizing the bird for Rahani's messenger, even if the fowl itself did not—as surely it could not have, for it fluttered about in the passage, dashing itself from side to side, but not daring to go past Ohaern into the cavern beyond. Realizing that, Ohaern rose with a shout, rose slowly and with great effort, but shouting still, waving his hands in their long flapping sleeves. Alarmed, the bird turned and flew unerringly back into the passage from which it had come. A trace of fresh air that it recognized? Or an impulse from Rahani? Ohaern neither knew nor cared—he caught up his pack, swung it up to his shoulder, and staggered under its weight, but staggered into the tunnel, following the owl. The light dimmed and surely must have been gone, but still that ghostly flutter went on before Ohaern, as if it glowed of itself in the gloom. Hurrying as fast as his stiffened limbs would let him, he hobbled after, somehow managing to keep it in his sight. On and on he went, tripping over stones and bouncing off rocky walls, swearing and cracking his head on sudden dips in the ceiling, but forcing himself on and on, in a panic lest that white dancing flit from his sight.
The Sage Page 3
