The Sage

by Christopher Stasheff

  Then, surely, enough for revenge—all the more potent because, as Yocote's spells sped upward, Illbane would be falling upon him with his own vengeance. It probably would not be fatal, Culaehra thought, not judging by all Illbane's claims that he needed him for some nefarious purpose of his own—but it was likely to be very painful. Not that he minded a little pain, or that he could not endure a great deal of it, if he might gain victory thereby—but fighting Illbane had proved to be a guarantee of defeat, so what purpose was there in pain?

  With regret, Culaehra held up his hands and caught Yocote by the waist. Even so, the urge filled him to hurl the little man over the edge—but it faded under fear of Illbane by the time the gnome had unwound the rope. Culaehra sighed and lowered him to the ledge.

  Yocote looked up and slowly said, “Thank you, Culaehra.”

  The words surprised Culaehra—no one had thanked him since he was twelve, and he found out how much truth there was in their words! Old anger rose, and he snarled, “Did I have a choice?”

  “Several,” the gnome said, still slowly, “the least of which was to stand aside and let me step onto the ledge without aid, though I'll admit it was a huge relief to feel your hands about my waist.”

  “Yes, I could have done that,” Culaehra conceded, and wondered why he had not thought of it.

  Yocote studied him a moment longer, then turned back to the cliff face. “Now who comes?”

  It was Kitishane, and watching from below, Culaehra found that he had something left to enjoy in life. Clad in breeches though she was, the woman was still very pleasant to watch; her leggings were laced tight, and their form was very pleasing. He let his imagination wander until the sharp bite of the amulet made him rein it in—the amulet, and the dangerous closeness of Kitishane's feet as they stepped down the cliffside. Culaehra grinned and held up his hands to clasp her waist, but Kitishane snapped, “I'll land on my own two feet, thank you!”

  “As you wish.” Culaehra tried to sound nonchalant as he stepped aside.

  Kitishane dropped the last foot to the ground and stalked aside, red-faced. It was hard to stalk when you were only going two steps, but Kitishane managed it. As Culaehra raised his eyes again, she snapped, “Don't you dare watch!”

  “I have to catch her if she falls,” Culaehra pointed out. “How can I, if I do not watch?”

  Kitishane's face closed even more tightly, but she made no answer.

  Really, there wasn't much pleasure in watching the gnome descend. She wore so many underskirts now that no one could have seen the shape of her legs, only her feet—and Culaehra could not feel more than the faintest stirrings of desire in so small a female anyway, without it evoking memories that somehow still had the power to strike fear through him, even though he was a grown man and easily half again the size of the brute he had slain.

  He heard Lua's whimpering twenty feet above him, and somehow felt both exasperation and pity. Quickly, he concentrated on the exasperation, not liking the pity. Still, he reached up and caught her waist as she came within reach. She gave a start and cried out, letting go of the rope, then crying out again in fright.

  “Do not fear, little sister!” Kitishane leaped forward, holding out her arms, and Culaehra released the gnome into her hands with a grimace of distaste. Kitishane glared daggers at him, but Lua had not seen; she only clung to Kitishane, sobbing.

  “Yes, I know, it was a harrowing ordeal,” Kitishane soothed, “but you have come down to us without letting go of the rope, and Culaehra would have caught you if you had fallen.”

  That only made the little woman cry more loudly. Culaehra found room to feel indignant. Yocote watched her anxiously, so Culaehra was the only one glancing up when Illbane swung himself off the cliff's edge. His robe billowed about him so much that Culaehra could only catch an occasional glimpse of his legs, and they weren't anywhere nearly the sticks that he expected in a man of that age.

  Then it occurred to him to wonder who was holding the other end of the rope.

  He leaped forward, arms outstretched to catch. Kitishane noticed and glanced up, then said, “Never fear, hunter. He holds the rope securely.”

  Culaehra kept his arms spread, even though his heart ceased racing—and he cursed himself for a fool, to have worried for his enemy's safety. Why, if Illbane fell to his death, these other three would be his slaves again! If it weren't for Yocote's magic ...

  But Illbane swung down to a safe landing and acknowledged Culaehra's spread arms with a small bow. “I thank you, woodsman. I might indeed have missed my grip, and been slow to recite a flight spell.”

  So, Culaehra thought, I have been promoted from wolf's head to woodsman, have I? He wondered why.

  Then he wondered why Illbane had not merely pronounced the flight spell in the first place. Perhaps he really could not, perhaps it was all a lie .. .

  Looking up, Illbane pulled, and the loose end of the rope shot upward. He kept pulling, and it disappeared over the edge. Then Illbane gave a sharp tug, and the rope's end sprang loose from the top of the cliff. “Step aside!” the sage commanded. Culaehra stepped back quickly; so did Yocote and Kitishane. Even Lua finally managed to stifle her sobs enough to look— just in time to see the rope cascade down into a heap at their feet.

  “Coil it,” Illbane told Culaehra, “and we will go.”

  Culaehra heaved a sigh and bent to start coiling the rope.

  Kitishane found herself stealing glances at Culaehra as they marched along. She could scarcely believe he was the same man who had assaulted her several months before. Illbane's insistence on bathing had shown him to have a fair, clean complexion, and his hair was actually blond, not light brown. Perhaps it was the exercises, perhaps the lessons of humiliation and pain, but the big man's skin almost seemed to glow. The pudginess had melted away, revealing the hard muscle underneath. His face was leaner, and she noticed that his eyes were very large for a man, his nose straight, and the fullness of his lips sent strange shivers through her.

  But those shivers reminded Kitishane of the way he had attacked her before, and though he had shown no aggression toward anyone since Yocote had beaten him with magic, she knew he might well try “again. Whenever she paused to admire him, those memories rose, making her turn away with a shiver.

  For her part, Lua was noticing the changes in Yocote. He seemed different to her since he had defeated Culaehra— stronger, more confident. However, he also seemed to be darker, more silent; she missed the old cheerful jibes and sarcastic thrusts at Culaehra—not that they had ceased, but they became rare. He had grown in bulk, laying on even more muscle than gnomes usually built through their cleaving of rock. In the evening, when he took off his goggles, she began to notice that he was quite handsome.

  She found, to her surprise and delight, that she was no longer in love with Culaehra. It gave her a feeling of relief and freedom that amazed her—but she also felt the beginnings of such an obsession with Yocote. The gnome, though, seemed almost to shun her. Could it be that he misunderstood her compassion for Culaehra when he was hurt? But she felt compassion for everybody! In confusion, she was well on her way to misery again.

  Culaehra, for his part, found himself thinking more and more about the rules Illbane had so extolled, and he began to work at finding objections to them. Chief among them, he doubted that he truly would meet a man who was stronger than he, a bully for a bully. Four or five bullies together, yes—but one? He had never seen a man as big as he was, nor as strong, and Illbane's skill did not deter him, for if it was only skill, he could gain it himself someday. Magic, no—he was willing to accept that rule, at least: never pick a fight with a shaman, which meant never try to bully one. But he remembered that Illbane had said, “Unless you cannot avoid it,” and began to try to develop a strategy for fighting magicians. Strike fast, before they could pronounce a spell? But how would you come close enough for one quick strike to end the matter? He mulled it over in his mind.

  Illbane had begun to trust him
out of sight now, and one day, while Culaehra was out gathering firewood, he saw a big stranger coming toward him through the wood. He realized that he was about to test the question of a bully stronger than himself.

  The other man looked to be a little taller than Culaehra, with brown hair and a wide face with large eyes. He was dressed in woodsman's tunic, breeches, and boots, and was fleshy, with a soft look to him. Still, Culaehra knew from his own experience that a layer of fat could hide quite a deal of muscle, so he did not put much faith in it. He braced himself to dodge quickly, though, for the stranger carried a bow, and a quiver filled with arrows on his back.

  Sure enough, the stranger nocked an arrow, grinning. “Come along, fellow! I'm off to shoot deer, and could do with a slave to carry the carcass.”

  “Come along yourself!” Culaehra's heart sang at the prospect of a blameless fight. “I'm no slave, and certainly no friend to a man who shoots more than he can eat!”

  The arrow rose to point at his face. “Oh, but you are—or you're a dead man.”

  “Kill me, then,” Culaehra invited.

  The bowstring thrummed, and Culaehra whipped aside to his left. Sure enough, the arrow passed far to his right—the hunter had planned on his dodging that way. Then Culaehra dashed straight at the man and caught him with the next arrow not yet to the string. The hunter dropped his weapons just in time to block Culaehra's punch, but the impact of Culaehra's body sent him tumbling to the ground—with a fistful of Culaehra's tunic. It jerked Culaehra off his feet, but he slammed a fist into the hunter's belly as he fell. Sure enough, there was hard muscle under the fat, and not that much padding at that—but the man grunted, and his hold loosed just enough for Culaehra to strike his hand aside, then roll to his feet. The hunter came up as quickly as Culaehra did, though, rising in a crouch, arms spread to wrestle, a grin on his face.

  Culaehra struck hard at that grin, hard and fast.

  The stranger's arm flashed up to deflect the blow, then his own fist struck back at Culaehra's belly. Culaehra blocked it, then blocked the punch that came at his face right after it, but the third punch caught the other side of his face, and he leaped back, head ringing, shaking his head to clear it. A roar of delight echoed in his ears, and he saw a blur as the stranger followed up his advantage. Culaehra blocked and gave ground, turned and ducked just enough to take a punch meant for his belly on his arm—then tripped and fell backward over something hard. The stranger whooped with glee, leaping over the log and swinging a kick at the fallen man.

  Culaehra caught the ankle, pushing it up above him, and rolled. The stranger squalled as he fell. Still holding onto the foot, Culaehra struggled up, managing to push the hunter's leg from side to side as the man struck at him with kick after kick. Culaehra grinned and shoved it high—and the hunter caught him in the ribs with the other foot. Culaehra dropped the ankle with a breathless curse and tried to keep his guard up as his lungs clamored for air. The hunter leaped up, striking at Culaehra's face with three quick blows; Culaehra blocked two and rolled back in time to take most of the force out of the third. He retreated quickly, dancing backward, blocking punches— then suddenly ducked under the stranger's guard and slammed a fist into the stranger's gut. The hunter folded over with a grunt, keeping his guard up as he glared at Culaehra while he struggled for breath. Culaehra could sympathize; the fight had been going on long enough so that he was almost winded himself.

  But it went on longer, punch and counterpunch, kick and block, retreat and advance, till finally both men stood shivering with fatigue, glaring at one another with their guards low from sheer weariness, heaving great gasps and striving for enough energy to aim another punch.

  “We are too well matched!” Culaehra finally wheezed—but he kept his guard up.

  “True,” the stranger said, with massive reluctance. “If we fight on, we shall both lose, and neither win.”

  “Truce, then?” Culaehra held out an open hand, ready to clench it into a fist and strike if need be.

  “Truce,” the stranger agreed, showing an open hand in like manner.

  Culaehra stepped back and dropped his guard—ready to raise it again in an instant. “You are the strongest man I have ever fought, save one.”

  “One?” The stranger straightened, dropping his guard. “Do you mean to say there is a better fighter than I?”

  “Well, yes, but he is a wizard, so it is no matter.”

  “It is a great deal of matter!” the stranger said indignantly. “Can he best you without using his magic?”

  “Most of the time,” Culaehra admitted.

  “But for the rest? Oh, there is no trusting them, shamans, sorcerers, or sages! They are all alike, nothing but the bullies they so claim to despise, intimidating and enslaving all with their magic!”

  “It would surely seem so, by my experience,” Culaehra agreed.

  The hunter sat down on the grass. “Come, sit by me and tell me of it—sit, sit, for after fighting you, I am far too weary to stand!”

  “I, too,” Culaehra confessed. He sat down. “What has been your experience with the magic brotherhood, hunter?”

  “Only the shaman of my native village, woodsman, who had the audacity to lead them all into casting me out only because I did by force of arms what he did by force of magic! And the shaman of the village I went to, who invited me in, then sought to overawe me with his ceremonies, and when I would not kneel, led his people in casting me out. Thereupon I decided to hunt alone, and prey upon the weaker as they deserved.”

  “Aye, for being weaker!” Culaehra said with heartfelt indignation. “Is it not the way of the world? Is it not right that we do as the animals and the trees and the elements do?”

  “Surely it is! But tell me, what has been your experience with shamans?”

  “Much the same as yours.” Culaehra told him the story of his adolescence and outcasting, of being shunned by his own people until he had attained his full growth, then excoriated for responding by bullying them, and finally being cast out. That led to childhood reminiscences, and the occasional upstart lad who had gone against the way of lightness by trying to fight back.

  Culaehra was amazed to discover a man so like himself, whose opinion agreed with his on almost every point, and whose experiences had been so like his own—but he did not tell of the pivotal event of his childhood, that had begun his fellow villagers' fear of him. The hunter, as far as he could tell, had no such turning point to relate; he had merely grown as the biggest of his generation, and taken it as his right to beat those smaller, enjoying the heady sense of power it gave. Something about that struck a note of wrongness in Culaehra, but he ignored it, so glad was he to meet someone who would not condemn him for being what he was. He even unbent enough to tell of his encounters with Lua and Yocote—which set the hunter to guffawing with appreciation. Then he told of Kitishane's interference and his subjugation of her—or the subjugation that would have been, if Illbane had not interfered.

  “What right had he?” the hunter said indignantly—and with the heat of a man who has been deprived of a lurid tale. “She was your meat, not his! He did not even want to use her!”

  “Unfair indeed, and so I thought it,” Culaehra agreed. The anger and frustration woke in him all over again. “But he was not content merely to drive me off and free them.” He went on to tell of Illbane's subjugation of him, of the scores of humiliations the sage had heaped on him, of the hopeless fights and unavenged blows and insults—and as he told it, his anger built higher and higher.

  “The gall of the man,” the hunter cried, “to degrade a warrior so!” He wrapped his fist in the throat of Culaehra's tunic and yanked his head close. “He deserves death, woodsman! He deserves worse than death!” He let go, pushing the outlaw back. “Why do you suffer him?”

  “Because I have no choice,” Culaehra admitted, though the words were gall on his tongue.

  “You do now.” The stranger grinned at him. “There are two of us.”

  Cu
laehra stared back at him, then slowly smiled. For a second his heart soared at the thought of freedom—but he remembered Illbane's talk, and damped his spirits enough to say, “Perhaps I should not, though. I chafe under Illbane's rules, but I cannot deny that they make sense.”

  “Rules?” the stranger frowned. “What rules are these?”

  Culaehra explained the rules to him, which certainly did not take long.

  “And you obey him?” the hunter asked incredulously.

  “I begin to see the sense in them.” But with the hunter staring at him as if he were an idiot, Culaehra was no longer so sure.

  “It is an outrage!” The hunter leaped up and began pacing. “A strong man being bound by a wizard's rules? What right has he? What right?”

  “Illbane says that these rules are not of his making, really, but are those that bind all groups of people, for without them, such groups tear themselves apart.” But the words no longer sounded so true as they had when it had been only Illbane and himself talking, and the defeat by Yocote so recent.

  “Illbane says, Illbane says! You are a warrior! Who is this Illbane to say what you shall do or not do? Who is any man to tell a warrior what to do?” The hunter spun, finger stabbing out at Culaehra. “And who are you to obey him? Come, let us set this situation to rights!” He sat down by Culaehra again, his body tensed with eagerness. “I shall help you with it! I shall creep into your camp at night and hold the dotard down while you slay him!”

  Excitement flared in Culaehra, and he was amazed at the strength of his own longing, a desire for revenge so strong that it made him shake. Even so, he could imagine what Illbane would do to any who tried to kill him—especially if that “any” were Culaehra himself. “There is always a sentry posted . . .”

  “I shall wait until that sentry is you!”

  “He may not need his hands or his staff to work magic, only his mouth .. .”

  “I shall kneel ready to stifle him and hold his arms if he should waken, but he will not!”